Authors: Shawn Colvin

Diamond in the Rough (26 page)

BOOK: Diamond in the Rough

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Ruh-roh. Suddenly I was wide awake. Something told me I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, but strangely enough that’s almost exactly where I was. I wasn’t far from Kansas, and Kansas wasn’t far from South Dakota, so these would be “my people,” wouldn’t they? I looked around, and I wasn’t so sure. I saw fencing—stalls. I knew what that meant, but I asked anyway. “Are there cows in there?” My driver answered, “Yes, ma’am, this is an agricultural show! That’s where we keep the livestock!” He turned to give me a dazzling, friendly smile. “And,” he continued, “the people who pay to see the cows get to see you for
free
!”

I sat bolt upright. I had my work cut out for me. The tractor-pull site and the concert grounds were one and the same. Fortunately, the tractor pull wasn’t until the following night. I said a silent prayer of thanks for my days with the Dixie Diesels and the Buddy Miller Band. I had a feeling that some Merle Haggard was going to come in handy once again. I sat backstage, across from a shack where one could see a calf get born—
all day
—and brushed up on my country chops. But when I went to face the music, literally, I couldn’t have been more surprised. There were people in Columbia, Missouri, who had braved the livestock show just to come see
me.
Hell, they might even have paid to see the cows without knowing it. I’ve seen this again and again—some of the gigs that I’d swear were going to be duds have turned out great.

Like the first time I played Salt Lake City. I mean, I just assumed that the whole town was Mormon and that either they’d not come at all or they’d be really subdued. No. Those people were
nuts.
I had a gig in Copper Mountain, Colorado, just a few weeks ago that was set up in a tent at the bottom of the mountain. The tent was cavernous. It was a free show for people who had done a long hike that day to raise money for MS. I assumed that no one would listen, because all of them would be (a) tired, and/or (b) interested in only the free food and drink. Also that the sound would be crummy. Wrong. They were perfect, and the sound was lovely. In Paris a few years ago, I played in a tiny church where I drew two hundred people. I had my guard up for that one, too. But you’ve never seen so many nice French people together in one place. And they were
fans.
Calling out for even my lesser-known numbers: “‘Tuff Keed’! ‘Tuff Keed’!”

There was a time when I would go on tour all alone. It started when I was with Simon. If he was working with Richard, I’d just go out by myself. There was something about knowing that somewhere someone who loved me was keeping track of my comings and goings, and even in a state of constant motion I felt grounded. Then I married Mario and had Callie, and for the first four years of her life the two of them traveled with me much of the time. After Callie started school, I cut my touring back as much as possible for the school year and took her with me during the big summer tours. But around 2004 I hit a wall.

I was having a really bad day. I was in Minneapolis and wanted to quit my job. Being on the road was really taxing me; I felt trapped and burned out, exhausted, used up. I had to go and play outdoors at the Minnesota State Fair, a place where you can get anything you want fried on a stick. At outdoor gigs there were usually dogs, kids, hula hoops, hacky sacks, and without a doubt beer, beer, and more beer. I made calls to friends to center myself, I cried, I smoked, I ruminated. I felt angry at everything and at no one in particular. What in the name of God was I doing at the Minnesota State Fair? Who did they think I was—Garrison Keillor? No, it was just me, doing my job. I walked out onstage to do my set, prepared for the worst—a flat performance, a noisy audience. And then this thing happened:

It was like the channels of purity and musicality and dynamics just completely opened up. It had something to do with being bled out. This has happened to me before when I’ve been very broken down. It’s as though there’s some kind of artifice that comes along with coping well—one has to have some defenses up in order to function—and it’s as though this artifice collapses temporarily.

When I have a performance like that, it’s as if I can’t miss. The playing—it’s a miraculous, effortless thing. My fingers just seem to float and glide on the strings. It’s like having sex with the instrument, and it’s good sex. The coupling is perfect, the timing is perfect, the instrument is speaking to me and answering me, and I’m having a deep, connected, meaningful moment linking my voice and my words and my instrument. And emotionally charged—in an effortless way. Then the audience comes into play, and we’re all part of this incredibly intimate experience. They become just as important an element, because I feel that they’re feeling what I am. That’s what happened at the Minnesota State Fair that afternoon.

For twelve years I’ve toured with my daughter, in some way, shape, or form every year. We’ve been on countless tour buses and visited too many zoos to name. I nursed her before and after shows, slept with her in a one-person bunk on the bus, swam with her in Bora-Bora, looked for Madeline in Paris but found her in London in Hyde Park with Miss Clavel and Pepito (for the uninitiated, Madeline is a little girl in a series of books by Ludwig Bemelmans). We have had several nannies: Monique turned Callie on to Queen and Hüsker Dü; Cynthia saw us through the divorce. On the road Callie made scrapbooks and videos with Jessica, and Vanessa taught her to straighten her hair and use makeup. We know every inch of Disneyland and the shortest route to the Central Park carousel, which she referred to as “sail ponies.” Most of all, being a working mother, I have missed her when I’ve had to be away.

She calls. She’s sick. I’m on the road. It’s not serious, just a slight fever and a sore throat and a cough, but enough to keep her home from school. The nanny or my mother will have to take care of her, because her father has to go to work. She’ll need to be taken to the doctor for a throat culture, because she always gets strep. I’m not there. I hated being sick as a kid and I needed my mother. I’m not there. She needs me. I’m at work, but I don’t come home at five; I won’t be home for another two weeks. She’s sick. There’s nothing I can do.

I’m not always performing by myself anymore. Recently I’ve had the pleasure of being part of a group again, Three Girls and Their Buddy, along with my friends Patty Griffin, Emmylou Harris, and my dear old bandmate Buddy Miller. As the years go by, I find that I treasure company on the road more than ever, and the musical brilliance of my cohorts here is off the charts.

Me with Patty Griffin, Buddy Miller, and Emmylou Harris—Three Girls and Their Buddy—2008

(Photograph courtesy of Michael Wilson)

Music heals me, answers my questions, soothes my agony, fires my ambition, creates and intensifies my joy. I was born loving music and, I believe, born to be a conduit for it. It is as though I always could and still can find an emotional solution or a reprieve or a response from learning and singing songs. Shortly after 9/11, I was asked to be part of a television special honoring the songs of Broadway, and I knew I had to try to sing something that spoke to the tragedy. I found it in one of my parents’ old sound tracks that I grew up listening to, a song called “Try to Remember” from
The Fantasticks:

Try to remember the kind of September

When life was slow and oh, so mellow.

Try to remember the kind of September

When grass was green and grain was yellow.

Try to remember the kind of September

When you were a tender and callow fellow.

Try to remember, and if you remember

Then follow.

Hearing my own singing and playing coming back to me still grounds me more than anything else. It doesn’t matter if I’m in front of five people or five thousand. When I sing and play, I’m home.

Home

(Photograph © by Annaliese Moyer, stagerightphoto.com)

Epilogue

On a final note, let me mention again that always, whether times are good or bad or happy or sad, the most important thing is what I wore.

Age birth to sixth grade—Clothes my mother sewed. Red corduroy jumpers, et cetera.

Age seventh grade to college—Clothes I sewed. Peasant skirts, et cetera.

Carnegie Hall—I honestly don’t remember when it was or who was there, but I wore Comme des Garçons from the fall/winter velvet and boiled-wool collection.

Steady On
photo shoot—Old orange flight suit bought from Banana Republic when they still sold things like that. Jeans.

Fat City
photo shoot—Jean Paul Gaultier, Frye boots.

Cover Girl
photo shoot—Comme des Garçons.

A Few Small Repairs
photo shoot—Nothing in particular and everything in between, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because there’s a painting on the cover.

Whole New You
photo shoot—Papier-mâché mouse ears that no one found funny except me.

First Grammy Awards—Pleated black skirt, Thierry Mugler chiffon shirt, Stephane Kélian boots. My friend Ellen called them “the boot of the season.”

Big-win Grammy Awards—Jean Paul Gaultier dress, Ann Demeulemeester shoes.

Last Grammy Awards—Zac Posen dress, YSL necklace, Ann Demeulemeester boots.

Oprah—Marni jacket, jeans.

Johnny Carson—Vivienne Westwood.

Meeting James Taylor—Vintage fifties silk dress.

Meeting Joni Mitchell—Betsey Johnson caramel polka-dot silk slip dress.

Meeting Bill Clinton—Comme des Garçons, plaid boiled-wool men’s shirt, Kangol hat, engineer boots.

First wedding—Lo New York crocheted dress.

Second wedding—Oh, my God, I have no idea.

Giving birth—Pratesi robe and a pair of my sister’s socks.

Entire last year of my second marriage—CP Shades (i.e., fat and frumpy).

First date with ex—White long-sleeved waffle shirt, Girbaud black pants, dog-tag necklaces.

Morning of dumping—Muslin nightshirt from Mexico, egg on face.

The Last Date—Giambattista Valli shell, G-Star Raw green cargo pants, ballet flats.

Six hours in the loony bin—Robe I stole from a Four Seasons hotel in Kona (minus the tie belt—suicide risk).

Grand Canyon raft trip—Lululemon board shorts, Mion water sandals, Helly Hansen rain gear, North Face backpack, Brookstone battery-operated mini-fan, John Derian cotton sheet.

Horsey camp with Callie—AG “Kiss” jeans, Durango boots, Free People tank.

On the bus—Lucky Brand sweatpants and sweatshirt, Dansko Mary Janes.

Uniform, winter 2009—Marni dress, Marni boots, Wolford tights, Kangol hat.

And this is a remake of the song “I’ve Been Everywhere, Man” that I co-wrote with Beverly D’Angelo.

“I’ve Worn Everything, Man”

I was haulin’ my ass down the busy Manhattan street

When I got to Bergdorf Goodman’s with a pair of sore and tired feet.

I’d worked my way down Madison, been to Etro and Calypso, too,

When a salesgirl walked up and she asked me, “Miss, can I help you?”

She said, “You look to be a fashion-forward kind of girl.”

I said, “Listen, I’ve tried on everything in this here world.”

I’ve worn everything, man,