sab

and on down the road just a little bit from Manhattan, a hundred years back down the road...

1988, the first year I can really remember. the year I was twelve, the year I left elementary school for middle school, the year I went to camp the first time, the year I fell in love the first time (where have you gone, DR, a nation turns its lonely eyes...). The year I slept over at SKL's this one time and she made me a tape of this tape her mother'd bought her, Storms. Nanci Griffith's first foray into horrible synth-pop, but I didn't know that, then. raised on Depeche Mode, Erasure, Echo and the Bunnymen, the Lightning Seeds, Modern English -- this sounded about right, to me. and it was so DEEP, so profound, "it's a hard life wherever you go," "you made this love a teardrop waiting to fall," where are you going, my brave companion of the road...?

I like to look back and say Nanci Griffith was the first musician I realized I liked all by myself. as opposed to TMBG, that Karen Silverman used to play in our bunk. Or Depeche Mode, that Lauren Seidman used to teach me what "angst" meant. or my mom, dancing through the house to Harry Belafonte's Live at Carnegie Hall. that's right, the woman is, smarter... Nanci was mine.

we grow up with music. I grew up with music, incorrigible.

one year, home from boarding school for a mod break with Ri and Jodi, gone to see Nanci Griffith, live at Carnegie Hall. 7th row seats, it was the Other Voices, Other Rooms tour, Emmylou Harris and Odetta and John Prine singing harmony, rocking out, doing duets. It was 1992. I was sixteen. Ron and JB and Alex were teaching me how to drive stick, and Jason didn't hate me yet. I was in my brown sundress, the one I'm wearing in my driver's license picture, one I bought in Boston on my parents' credit card some weekend. I loved that brown dress.

the concert was over but we were riding high, three little girls right out of their training bras, gone to the Russian Tea Room next door and pretending culture shock when they explained how to stir in our blackberry jam.

I had this necklace. chinese character "Fu," I can't find a good version to upload. Means "good fortune." Got it for my Bat Mitzvah from someone I didn't really know, if pressed now I wouldn't be able to tell you who. Some second cousin of my mother's -- Wendy? maybe? funny I can't remember, because it was my prized possession, my signature, I wore it every day, never took it off from the day I got it.

So Ri and Jodi are stirring their jam in their tea and we've got a booth near the front, near those double gold doors that go off somewhere, into some chasm of the Russian Tea Room we weren't cool enough to go.

Bill Murray comes in, pushes through the gold doors. So does Julie Gold, the woman who wrote From a Distance for Nanci, later for Bette Midler. Odetta goes in, a flock of Norweigan sound techs, Nanci Griffith's father.

and I'm twitching, because I'm born into this culture of obsession, of fandom, I bite down hard. I latch on. I don't let go.

I left Ri and Jodi with their tea, went outside to pace the long block between Carnegie Hall and the Russian Tea Room. nighttime. Chilly. I take off the Foo necklace, brand it into my sweaty fist. Pace. something's happening.

limo pulls up.

Nanci gets out, flanked. panic.

I'm sixteen. I'm too old for this wide-eyed shit. old enough to know better, but young enough to know. I accost her. the bodyguards hover. I hold out my hand. I don't know what I'm doing. "I want you to have this," I say. "it's my prized possession. I wanted to thank you for your music."

I wanted to thank her for 1988, for me becoming a person. for the first time I went to camp, the first time I fell in love. The first music I knew I wanted, just for me. She smiled. "I'll treasure this," she said, taking the necklace, her Texan twang. I wanted it back. I smiled too.

I hugged her. She hugged me. The bodyguards looked away a little, they were used to this.

she went inside.

I paced some more. I went inside.

smiled at Ri and Jodi, pushed past them. to the back, up the stairs, through the curtain, to the bathroom.

washed my face. Twice. panic.

two women, in dresses like mine. lipstick. giggling. "You're at the party through the gold doors," I said. it wasn't a question. "I want to go."

they sized me up. "So go," they said. lipstick. purses snapping, stockings straightened. they smiled. They left.

panic. Through the curtains, red velvet curtains, upstairs.

ELEKTRA RECORDING ARTISTS WELCOME NANCI GRIFFITH banners, napkins, the Norweigans at the bar bought me a beer. caught in a whirlwind, I found Gary Gerschoff, because he was Jewish and looked like me. He was the photographer. He sent me into the bathroom to find Nanci. Had me follow him while he snapped pictures. Emmylou Harris. Odetta. Bill Murray, in a Nanci Griffith baseball cap. Nanci Griffith, smoking a cigarette. I smiled. they all smiled. The Norweigans bought me another beer. panic. I stayed an hour.

Ri and Jodi were gone, it was well past midnight. Ri, with her small and smudgy hands, Ri, covered with duct tape and paint had left me a message in sidewalk chalk: "we went home." I found the subway, went to her house on the upper east side. they'd made toast. we had cereal. I trembled. they listened. they waited for me. I told them my story.

the next day Gary Gerschoff's pictures showed up in the Times. I still have them. I remember those pictures.

So I'm in New York now, a decade later. A decade more grown up, a grownup, Nanci is too.

she just released her latest, Clock Without Hands. I don't know if it's good. I can't tell. It's Nanci. my Nanci. Storms wasn't good either, they tell me.

I'm listening to One Fair Summer Evening now, reciting the set patter like lyrics, singing in that Texan drawl.

"Working in Corners" has always been my favorite song, always, since 1988 when I became a person.

well it's a southern road, west of New Orleans
and I'm fighting off a cold from these winter hours.
Houston, she's just around the corner
Hey I think I'll stop off here in Lafayette lord and have me another round...

cause I've been working in corners all alone at night
Pulling down whiskey, keeping my eyes away from the lights
I've never been a fool, but I will gamble foolishly
Oh I never let go of love till I lost it in my dreams

And I'm stronger now, there was a man in my hometown
Sang so pretty I'm glad he turned my head around
But I've forgotten how to play a one-night stand
Lord I didn't have a word to say just holding a stranger's hand

cause I've been working in corners all alone at night
Pulling down whiskey, keeping my eyes away from the lights
I've never been a fool, but I will gamble foolishly
Oh I never let go of love till I lost it in my dreams

And these city streets at five in the morning
Would've stopped to phone you but I'm almost home
At my back door, there's a porch light that's shining
and I just don't mind living here by myself if I leave it on...

So I'm having a Nanci Griffith renaissance, maybe because I've come around again, spitting distance from Carnegie Hall for the first time in years. How do you get to Carnegie Hall? practice, practice, practice.

"and I've gone crazy on this road with all of this traveling alone, but the asphalt is burning and I...the New England spring's been good to me, there's been a warmth to lend and good lines to ring but now I miss my native tongue, 'cause New York City sorta brings out the stupids in me...

So I'm back. And it's a buss on the cheek from all my old lovers again.