On the road again

This time, direction…home.  My dog’s waiting for me.  My life’s waiting for me.  I’ll be in the car for a very long time today.  Feel free to keep me company, everyone.

By the way, did I mention it was 65 down here in Tennessee yesterday, and I was running around in a tshirt?  Too hot for even the track jacket.

Shaving

I will admit this upfront: I am usually not clean shaven.  As I was saying to someone the other night, I’ve got an excuse ’cause I’m gay.  We, as gay women, are expected to rebel against the male construct of the female norm, to the point where we are readily mistaken for the French.  But that’s not the reason.

I’m just feckin’ lazy.

But there is something about being on the road with Buckets that propels me to shave.  Maybe it’s being the lone woman in a group of four boys, exerting my femininity in some small way (although it’s not like this makes a difference to anyone in the audience, what with my short messy hair, the fact that I’m a horn player, and the tshirt, jeans and high-tops that I wear on stage).  Or maybe it’s that I’ve got a tub longer than three and a half feet that my long legs can actually stretch all the way out in.

Whatever the reason might be, I always pack a couple razors in my bag.  The bad thing about shaving it that it exposes all the bruises on my legs.  I’m more delicate than I like to let on.  Sitting in one position in the car will spring up a few, one near my achilles heel on my right leg where my ankle’s been flexed all day over the gas and break.  Another on the side of my knee on my left leg, which I tend to rest against the car door.  And then there are the djembe bruses, a nice semi-circle on my right thigh from holding the drum while I play.  As I shave, each of these are in turn exposed.  I can never hope for smooth, unbruised limbs.  Too much sickness.  To much delicateness.

But sometimes, in order to feel better about myself or what I’m doing right then, to feel like me, to feel comfortable, the bruises have to be exposed.

In any case, reason and result aside, I’d like to apologize this time to the housekeeping staff of the Quality Inn in Abingdon, Virginia.

Surfing

Yesterday I spent a couple hours before the show down at the Jersey shore.  I love the Atlantic Ocean, almost more than anything else in the world.  Unlike the calm, pristine blue of the Pacific, the Atlantic is cold.  Wild.  Rocky.  Grey.  It’s more interesting, has more character in my opinion.  It was only in the mid-40s yesterday in Long Branch, but I still sat on a bench reading a book and looking out at the water.  I didn’t care about a little cold.

And neither did the surfers.

Six surfers were out there in what must have been the frigid water, full wet suits, catching the waves.  I realized this might have been the first time I’ve ever actually seen surfers.  I find myself on the ocean most often in the winter or fall, where there tends to be a void of wave catchers.  I sat and I watched them, prostrate on their boards, waiting for a wave to come along that was big enough and strong enough for them to stand, and ride it a few feet back to the shore.  The waves weren’t big at all.  I chuckled as I thought to myself what someone from Hawaii would say if someone said “let’s go surfing here!” It’d be paramount to someone whose grown up in the Rockies skiing in Minnesota.  Sure, it exists, but the rides are shorter, and there are two kinds of people who ski in the midwest–those who don’t know better, or those that are so passionate and devoted to their sport that they don’t care how long the ride is; just the fact that they can do it is worth it.

I don’t know what category those six dudes fell into–but I admired them.  The tenacity.  The five second ride with an inevitable head dump into the cold water, followed inevitably by them once again lying on the board and paddling back out, looking for the next wave.  They could quit.  Finally admit the water was too cold.  Or that early spring surfing on the Jersey Shore wasn’t necessarily prime conditions.  But maybe that was their spot.  Maybe they know that in the summer, come warmer times, that stretch of beach was the only waves, the only ebbs and flows they ever wanted.  So their devotion to Long Branch, at the corner of Ocean Street and Brighton Avenue, is what they stuck by, day in and day out.

I’ve never had any desire to be a surfer.

But after watching those dudes yesterday, I realized I’m not all that different.

Craniac the Maniac

I was driving through Pennsylvania on Friday, and stopped at a gas station with a Subway, which is rapidly becoming my favorite road food because a) since it’s cold I can snack on a sandwich while I drive and b) you have to stand in line with other customers, and sometimes you hit a gem of a local.

I hit a gem of a local.

His name is Doug, and it sounded like he was in that Subway everyday.  In the span of a few short minutes, I learned that he was currently suffering from pneumonia, as was his son.  One of the Subway workers asked him who his doctor was again, and in all seriousness he said, “Well, I go to Craniac the Maniac, up in Mt. Carmel?”

“Oh, yes,” said the woman.

I’m sorry, any town where the local doctor is called “Craniac the Maniac” is a place I wish I had time to stop by.  Doug also spouted a couple other gems while I was there:

[to the customer in front of him] “Dude, make up your mind!  I know chicks who decide faster than you!”

“I love my space heater so much, I wish I could shove it up my ass and keep it there all year.”

I was having such a good time, they gave me a buck off my sandwich.

Dear Eatonton Sheraton

If you want to conserve energy in your hotel, you should probably have a sleep timer function built into your TVs.  That is all.

Dad’s turn

My alarm went off at 5.15 am this morning so I could shower, throw shit in the car, and start driving to New Jersey.  I’m on tour with Buckets again–Jersey, Virginia, and Tennessee in the lineup this time.  I had dinner with my parents last night and my mom told me to call her when I stopped for gas or food or whatever.  She didn’t want to call me, in case I was in traffic (which, along this corridor, is really only for about an hour and a half around Chicago).  I tried to call her at lunch but she didn’t answer.  I got a text mid-afternoon to call her when I stopped next.  I just figured she was checking in.

She wasn’t.

Turns out my Dad had a heart attack this morning.  A mild one, the doctors think, but they still put in a stent and when I talked to her he was having another procedure done, and was still in ICU.

If there’s one thing my family knows our way around, it’s heart attacks.  She didn’t tell me to come home, so I just kept driving east.  But, again, I find myself away from home and missing something that I probably should be around for (although this one is not as fun as my sister’s 21st birthday).  It’s not like I can do anything for any of them, but I could be there.

My mom decided she should probably exchange her tickets to the theatre tonight for another night.

FREE TICKETS to Buckets and Tap Shoes at FIRST AVE Saturday!

Hey all,

I’ve got TEN free tickets to Buckets and Tap Shoes at First Ave (yes, the club Prince made famous) this Saturday night.  Here’s the repost about the show.  First come first serve.  Hurry!

Allegra

———-
Hello Cherubic Chums,

We’re only DAYS away from Dec 15th, 2007…

The 3rd Annual “BUCKETS and TAP SHOES, HOLIDAY BASH 2007! ”
FIRST AVENUE MAINROOM, this SATURDAY DECEMBER 15th.
Doors 7pm, Show 8pm
ONLY $10

After another year of travel and performances in theaters around the US
including 2 recent successful sold-out performances at the 2800-seat New York
City Center’s annual Fall For Dance Festival, “Buckets and Tap Shoes” returns
to the First Avenue Mainroom, Saturday December 15th, 2007.

“BUCKETS AND TAP SHOES” was originally conceived and developed in the streets
of downtown Minneapolis. It’s premiere at the 2004 MN Fringe Festival was a
huge success earning them “Best of Fringe 2004” and Minneapolis City
Pages “Best Dance Performance 2005”.
“B&TS” had the highest ticket sales at the 2007 MN Fringe Festival, and was
remounted as part of the Fringe Invitational in downtown St. Paul last
September.
“B&TS” also had a 2-page feature article in the 80th Anniversary Issue of
Dance Magazine, Sept. 2007.

“Buckets and Tap Shoes, HOLIDAY BASH 2007!” includes the multi-talented
bucket-drumming, tap dancing brothers Rick Ausland and Andy Ausland with
bassist Dan Ristrom (son of jazz guitarist Ruben Ristrom and Vocalist Diane
Ristrom), Aaron Wiener on trumpet, saxophonist and MN Fringe legend Ms.
Allegra Lingo.

“B&TS” creates music and magic with tap shoes and 5-gallon paint buckets, as
well as traditional musical instruments including guitar, electric bass and
all types of drums. The show will feature local percussionists, dancers and
some very special surprise guests.

Tickets are only $10 and are available at the 1st Avenue box office,
local 1st Avenue record store ticket outlets and through
Ticketmaster (651) 989-5151.

For more information visit
http://www.first-avenue.com and http://www.myspace.com/bucketsandtapshoes

3rd Annual “Buckets and Tap Shoes, Holiday Bash 2007!”
Saturday December 15th, 2007.

Doors 7:00pm, “B&TS” Show 8:00pm, Saturday Night Dance party 10:00pm – Close
(under 18 will be admitted if accompanied by parent or guardian with ID)

First Avenue
701 – 1st Avenue North
Down Town Minneapolis
(612) 338-8388

The Girl on the Plane

We flew from Minneapolis to Seattle last night. I had thought it would be an empty flight; midweek, leaving at 9.45 pm. I was wrong. The 757 was full–49 rows, three seats on either side. We were seated in row 39, and I forwent sitting with the rest of the band and an aisle seat to see how far I could move up in the plane. For some reason, my flight anxiety seems to be less the further up I sit, maybe because I can stay in firm denial about how big the contraption really is. I was moved up 17 rows, and with a window seat.

And I sat next to a small child.

To most people, this would be their worst nightmare. A long night flight next to a kid. But not me. Some of the best flights I’ve had have been next to kids, one particular one standing out was a flight to Amsterdam next to a Croatian family with an infant and toddler, whose asylum from the wars in the early-mid 90s had run out, and were emigrating back home. The toddler and I sat there playing peek-a-boo and other games all the way across the Atlantic. I think I even forgot to watch the movies.

But that was before the fear that grips me when I fly had really sunk in. Now, the presence of a child makes me be brave (and so does my Xanax), because I don’t want to show my nerves to a kid in case they’re nervous.

I shouldn’t have been worried. This kid was a pro. She spent the half-hour before we taxied out to the runway telling me how much she loved to fly at night–going really fast and then…zooooooooom into the air. Looking at the lights of the towns way down below. Seeing the lights move if they’re cars on the highways. The nose tipping down and zoooooooooom back to the ground.

The pilot came on to tell us that, since there were so many storms over the area between Minneapolis and Seattle, the first 45 minutes were going to be rocky, and probably the last hour. I sighed deeply, which is about the biggest outpouring of emotion I have whilst drugged, and glanced at the kid, now perusing my Kakuro puzzles trying to figure out how they worked, wondering if this would shake her. Nope. She grinned and said “I like it when it’s bumpy. It’s like a roller-coaster.”

And then the pilot flipped on the “Fasten Seatbelt” light as we were about to taxi away from the gate, and with some odd Pavlovian response, the moment the accompanying ding sounded, the kid fell fast asleep. On my arm. I looked at her, wondering if I should move her, wondering if her Grandma (sitting on the other side of her) would wake her up and scold her. But I didn’t more her, and her Grandma didn’t say anything.

We flew to Seattle, zooming up in the air, rocking like a roller coaster, over towns and moving lights of cars on highways. And the kid stayed nestled around my arm, missing all of her favorite parts of flying.

Usually I have to be brave for the kid sitting next to me. This time, I had no choice but to enjoy it for her.

All The Things I Miss

We just finished a show in Okoboji, Iowa.  A funny little resort town in the middle of cornfields.  They loved us.  Over 200 people in a 288 seat house (they must have been children of the corn.  ’cause I didn’t really see many houses around here).  They followed our rider to the last request for three white towels a person, and vegan organic food (I’m so craving a steak right now).  After the show, they had a table set up with five chairs in the lobby, a stack of the promo postcards for the show, and silver sharpies for us to sign for all of the people waiting to talk to us.  We even hooked up two buckets to a fog machine (don’t ask.  But it was frickin’ sweet).

But right now, I don’t want to be in this absolutely amazing hotel room, right on the lake with a balcony and chair, free wireless internet access, and a mess of stars in the huge Iowa sky.

I want to be at a bar with my sister, because it’s her 21st birthday and I’m missing it.

I love being in a show that travels everywhere.  I love that two weekends ago I was in Michigan for a friend’s wedding, last weekend we were playing in Manhattan, this weekend we’re in Iowa, and Tuesday we leave for Seattle.  I am seeing so much.  Not just the country, but slices of life that aren’t mine.  I’ll never forget the kids at an elementary school in Grundy, Virginia begging us to play “Rocky Top” (which we didn’t know, but we sure as hell will learn it before we head back to that part of the country in March).  Or the New River Gorge in West Virginia.  Or the look of the sunrise over the red rocks in Sedona, Arizona.  Or our appaled faces as we hear Brian rattle off the “History of Tap Dancing” in California.  Or flying in a nine-seater plane through a blizzard over the Cascade Mountains between Portland, Oregon and Klamath Falls.  The feeling of a sold-out show in front of 2800 people.  Staying up all night in Brooklyn meandering from bar to bar because, really, there’s no point in going to sleep when you have to catch a cab before bar close.

But I will forget the look on my sister’s face when she ordered her first legal drink (and, trust me, this is a moment she’s been waiting for for a long time)–because I wasn’t there to see it in the first place.  There are many days when I miss my friends, my routines.  Nights are hard; I’ve never been one that sleeps well on my own.

I love what I do.  Since I’ll never pass beyond the second stage of Kohlberg’s stages of moral development, everything I do is to please people.  And that’s what I do each time I go on stage (well, with Buckets.  With I Hate Kenny G usually I just make ’em cry).  I have grown so much as a musician in the last year.  A year ago I was a classically trained musician who could sight read the shit out of anything, play anything that happened to be in front of me.  Now each day my ear gets better, I hear horn lines in my head, I don’t have to guess so much to find the right keys to play.  I will stop short of calling myself a jazz musician, because I’m not quite there yet.  Maybe I feel this way because, when I went to college, I purposefully didn’t study music because it was my stress reliever and I didn’t want it to be my job.

Oops.

There’s a fine balance between doing what you need to do in order to do what you love, and giving up what you don’t want to give up in order to do what you love.  I’m treading that line right now.  And I’m not quite sure what side of that line I’m falling on.

Happy Birthday, Boogster.  I wish I was there with you.

Oh HELL YES.

Guess which group just got a mini review in the New York Times?  If I’m writing this, it must be Buckets and Tap Shoes!

You can count on each Fall for Dance program ending with an upbeat raise-the-roof show, and Saturday night did not disappoint. After the slick but unmemorable Tango Connection came Buckets & Tap Shoes, a little-known and utterly brilliant group from Minneapolis headed by the brothers Rick and Andy Ausland. Skinny and pony-tailed, with baggy torn pants and deadpan expressions (except when they are shouting excitedly), they are virtuoso percussive players on, yes, buckets, and extraordinary tap dancers, as capable of channeling hip-hop as Astaire-like suavity.