Troubadour

better days

TROUBADOUR

Nine years of workin' the B-rooms
An agent who don't give a damn
The 2 a.m. chicks, 4 a.m. fix
The 6 a.m. poached eggs and ham
The drive from Nanaimo to Duncan
Worry-lines creasin' my brow
Sick to my gut I ask myself what
In hell am I gonna do now

I don't even know if they were B-rooms. That's what my
agent called them. I called them toilets, because that's what
they smelled like. I worked up and down Vancouver Island
in all kinds of bars, lounges. Some where they listened, some
where they didn't. Most places had a dozen or so regulars,
which is a nice way of saying alcoholics. The kind of folks who,
five minutes after you rocked out on Hey Goodlookin' would
stagger up to the stage and say, "Hey, buddy, could you play
Hey Goodlookin' for me?" It took about that long for the echo
of your performance to reach their brain. They'd buy you a drink.
I always said rum & coke, and had a deal with the bartender
where he'd save the rum and give me the drink money later.

I could've been a contender
I had the songs and the voice
But I stepped on the toes of a couple of those
Who could've offered a choice
I never could bide by the system
The gig it seemed rigged from the start
Every dollar you make is a dollar they take
And they tell you to sing from the heart

I was going pretty good there for a while. Playing six
nights, even putting on Sunday night concerts in smaller
places where folks were willing to pay a higher pop for a
show. I lugged my own sound system around. My agent
would ask me every week if I'd learned how to use that
Rhythm Ace yet, but I didn't want to use that metronomic
gadgetry. Stubborn, I suppose. Of course, the agent got
his cut no matter what. Seemed like just when I had the
rent together, I needed to get the car fixed or something
went wrong with the P.A. or a friend was selling his guitar
and I had to have it.

I quit on a cold Sunday morning
Packed my suitcase and P.A.
Broke the hinge on the door of Room 234
Spit gravel as I drove away
Threw the room-key out of the window
Lit a joint on the Malahat route
Inhaled to the core, drove ten miles before
I let any of it back out

I did quit the business on a bitterly cold Sunday morning
in Duncan, after finishing out at a hotel there that went by
a rude nickname. They had a guy playing in the pub and
me in the lounge. Late on Saturday night, around 2:00 a.m.,
we both had to find the hotel manager in order to get paid.
He was drunk, upstairs somewhere putting a move on a
hotel guest. We finally got him downstairs into his office,
and he told us he'd give us half of what we were due. He
said we both let him down. I told him I was going to separate
his head from his neck if he didn't pay me right now, and he
got my drift. The other guy? The manager asked him if he'd
perform a certain sexual favour to make up for his lacklustre
performance in the lounge. We both grabbed the guy and
flipped open the cashbox, taking what was owed. We split.
I'd already loaded my car with all my stuff, and I spun out
of there knowing I was done, kaput.

A broken E-string on a guitar
Didn't we shake, sugaree
Think of my boy in Sointula
Wonder if he thinks of me
What's it for, why do we do it
What is the scene comin' to
Ain't got a cent, don't know where it went
And the rent is a week overdue

It's true, you know, you can go out on the road for two
weeks, come home somehow without enough money for
the rent. There is a kind of loneliness to living in hotel rooms
that gets expensive. People make mistakes out of loneliness.
You abuse your body some, and you definitely run your soul
down to empty at times. When I got home, I got sick. It was
bronchial pneumonia. Anti-biotics didn't help, so I eventually
went on a lemon juice and cayenne pepper fast. Musicians
don't have medical plans, so you need to find help somehow.
My friend Annie from the racetrack used to come by and visit
after the horseraces were done for the night at the track nearby.
It got so she'd place some bets for me, too. Won $240 once on
a quinella. When I was all done the fast, Annie made me garlic
soup. I think she saved my life that time with that awful soup.
Didn't we shake, sugaree? That's a straight borrow of a line in
a Freddie Neil song I used to sing in those days.

Adios to all the toilets
The people who don't give a damn
The 2 a.m. chicks, the 4 a.m. fix
The 6 a.m. poached eggs and ham
Drivin' the pass south of Duncan
Worry lines deep in my brow
Lighting a butt, I ask myself what
In hell am I gonna do now

It took me a while, but eventually I realized it was the business
that I was allergic to, not the music. A little over two years ago
now, I started playing again, writing again. On my own terms,
for people who love music enough to listen to it. Sometimes, I
break into a song on the radio show, live on the air. That's fun.

DL