I left Tucson around 8 in the morning. I am sure I overpacked. I will not need three pairs of jeans, one with holes for the knees, and four dresses, all French-made. I am hitching a ride with a band from my hometown. I've never met them. The singer, when I ask him what their setup is like, says it's 'normal rock: two guitars, bass, drums, a couple of keyboards". Normal rock? I suppose there'll be a lot of different, contradictory versions of normal rock in Austin in the next few days, and a lot of normal people thinking that what they do and how they do it is 'normal'. I know what I do and how I do it is nothing but normal. Guitar, bass, drums, voice. Some strings sometimes. I sing in French. Texas, here I come!
We're four hours eastward already, riding the white 2001 fifteen passenger van, and its hitched burgundy trailer, across the state lines, briefly through New Mexico, and into Texas. Austin!? Austin is to Texas what Tucson is to Arizona! A liberal haven in a conservative state. Maybe Austin and Tucson should twin-city it, create a corridor of hope along the I-10. Ah, that stretch of highway! Trucks stops after truck stops, attempting to differentiate themselves from the one down the road by some gimmicky name-playing, oddities on display: the "white tigers" stop, the "Thing!!" stop, the "Look! I am a fake western town!" mirage, concrete dinosaurs yard.... I love the I-10!
Back in the van, I realize it's been two hours since we left Tucson and I haven't looked out of the van yet! Engrossed in reading Bill Carter's "Fools Rush In", a book about the life-changing, war-stopping power of music and love, I have settled in my corner of the van. The light guy, with whom I share the very back of the van, is eating blueberry pop tarts. One of the girlfriends is pulling out bagels and cream cheese. Earlier, just as we were leaving town, the first thing to come out of the bags were weed brownies. I passed but the other nine all dipped in, throwing the wrappers away at the next stop. We are crossing into Texas, where, notoriously, you can get stopped and searched and no trouble for a whiff of pot on you. I passed the brownies, without explaining my pot policy of refusing to be a part of a trade that kills more people than any other food-related trade I know of. But maybe pot brownies are what it takes to be a normal rock band.
All ten of us are huddled in our own little entertainment bubbles. Phones, dvd players, converters, sleep. It's another 8 hours to Austin. I am starting to get hungry but I also overpacked on the food side of things. My stuff needs a microwave and a spoon, healthy road trip food I bought last night. Instant brown rice, ready-made Indian food, yerba mate leaves I used with my own French press.
What am I expecting from this trip? Yesterday morning, I came close to canceling it. What's the point of going to SXSW? Will I even be able to meet anyone who can help me? What sort of help do I need? How much money will I lose this time around? Will anyone come to my three showcases?
The van rattles. We blew a tire, just off Van Horn. The girls stand off the highway, watching the guys crawl under the wounded whale. We're a thousand pounds overweight, says someone. We roll into Austin at 3am and there's not a position I haven't tried on that rear bench!