"Come on down,
To Cleveland town everyone,
Come and look,
at both of our buildings ...
Here's the place,
Where there used to be industry ...
We lead the nation in drifters."-Hastily Made Cleveland Tourism Video
During doldrums in the ugly, grey, sunless Ohio winter, one of my favorite things to do is absolutely nothing. I minimize my level of exertion, lounge on the couch for hours, and (most importantly) I plan ahead. A fresh sack of weed, stock piled shows or movies on DVR, double XP on COD, or a previously recorded game to enjoy commercial free at my leisure. Like Orthodox Jews on the Sabbath, no form of 'work' will be done what so ever. Showering is optional and cooking is definitely out, so a variety of delivery menus are a must. Walking down stairs to answer the door is a hassle but acceptable, considering I get the instant gratification of arty clogging take-out swill.
One such day I was doing my usual thing, getting caught up on Conan--surfing the web during weak monolog--when I stumbled upon something too good to be true. Ryan Adams had announced a tour in support of his latest album Ashes and Fire. Most of the gigs were at small venues and had the added appeal of very limited seating. Even more enticing, his first stops were in Ohio. He'd posted a link on his Twitter feed offering discounted tiks to the Cleveland show at the Ohio Theater and I knew instantly I had to be there.
The man has been a God send to me for reasons I won't get into right now (see future posts). Let's just say his music helped me through a very tough time in my life, like all of his die hard fans. There's just something about his words that are therapeutic when you're in a bad way. Prodominatley sad lyrics, dealing with nice and fluffy topics like heartbreak, drug addiction, and suicide. Bob Dylan-esq character development but often darker, and like all great artists he speaks from real-live experience. When you're sad and obsessing over personal struggles it's always encouraging to know someone's had it way worse and made it through. My burdens always seem to lighten with each song.
Of course not all of his music is sad. A lot of it is actually very up beat, full of vigor ... happy even! But for whatever reason his reputation is predicated on the depressing stuff, and the fact he's been labeled temperamental by the media only perpetuates the 'downer' myth. That's not to say he shies away from the typecast. At the show he greeted us with a wave and asked if everyone was ready to get bummed out, which pretty much sums up what people expect from his shows. His stage banter is also the stuff of legend. He's never afraid to be himself, much to the detriment of the crowd at times. He has no problem calling people out for staring into their LCD phone screens
instead of watching the performance, or refusing to play shouted-out requests. People go as far to lecture you about it when you say you're a first timer.
Despite my friends warnings and the bullshit Rolling Stone feeds us I bought a ticket and planned my excursion. Now I know what your thinking. Drive to Cleveland for a few days in the middle of January? Some road trip, but the man had been on my short-list to see for a long time. I couldn't pass it up. Sometimes he falls off the map for years on end so you have to jump at any opportunity. I figured while I was there I might as well check out the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame too. Hell, I'd make a weekend out of it. A solo vacation. It's certainly wasn't Vegas, but the saying goes 'buy the ticket, take the ride' even if you have to get off in Cleveland.
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One double bed, a ten channel tube TV, modest desk and a bathroom so small I had to put one leg in the shower to sit
comfortably on the commode.When it comes to hotels you usually get what you pay for, and The Downtown Comfort Inn was no exception. I laid on the bed, kicked off my shoes and tried not to think about how many prostitutes had spread their spunk onto the sheets. At least it didn't smell like whore and I was walking distance from the venue. In hind sight I wished I'd talked someone into going with me. Sitting alone in a hotel room and staring into a wall size mirror can start to make you go crazy. Within minutes you start picking apart every physical anomaly on your face and body, until only shreds of self-esteem remain. I smoked a bowl and tried not to dwell on it.
After a catnap I went out for pizza at a bar down the street and made nice with two suits in town from Boston. They were pleasant enough, and we talked safe topics at first (music/sports) but over many, many beers the conversation gravitated towards my writing. At first they seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, but after a few minutes I could tell they were just waiting for their turn to talk. The dull lifeless expression in their eyes let me know my words weren't sinking in at all. People my age who make three times as much money as me always come off a bit smug. Please keep your life coaching strategies to yourself bro. That cure all business model you're both hyping isn't going to work for something creative, but thanks anyway. I can't blame them for trying to help. I guess I kind of do look like a bum in comparison to them, and their facey designer labels.
"Oh he's just a poor, destitute bartender," I pictured them saying to one another while I was taking a leak. "Another starving artist type. Let's help him out. He's vacationing in Cleveland for Christ sake. His life must suck!" I made sure to pay my tab as soon as I got back just in case a similar conversation had actually happened in my absence.
Maybe I'm just jealous. Financial stability, health insurance, six figure bonuses, big house full of kids?... Sounds pretty damn good, but would I turn into a faceless cubical clone like them? Would I spend more time in airports than with friends and family? Would I keel over at forty-seven, over worked, over stressed and under sexed? Well, it couldn't be any worse than bartending ... right? I suppressed any other deep thoughts with a mouthful of beer and another top-10 play from the television.
Early the next morning I awoke to a runny nose and biting cold. I'd forgotten to close the vent to my window after the bar. Cursing myself, I walked around slowly feeling for obstacles like a blind man. Once my eyes adjusted to the low light I closed the vent and looked around the room. They couldn't even give me a goddam coffee maker? I put on sweat pants and walked to the lobby for my complementary pastry and hot beverage. Back in my room the steam rose from the cup in plums until it was cool enough to drink. The heater kicked into high gear and I went to the bathroom for a shower. Taking my time, I let the hot water warm me until it ran cold. There was no rush. The Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame didn't open for another two hours.
The Hall was impressive from the very start. A five story glass and steel pyramid parked on the shore of Lake Eire. It looked like something out of an architecture text book; the Post Modern chapter. Quite a contrast to the more traditional looking Cleveland Brown Stadium flanked behind it. Admission is pretty steep at twenty-two bucks but well worth it. The main entryway is dominated by various stage props from bands and their famous tours. Most notably was a portion of the wall from Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' complete with creepy blue professor puppet lungeing over the top.
Following the small flow of people I found the real museum on the bottom floor. Countless guitars from ever player who ever mattered in the slightest, including Les Paul's original prototype for the solid body guitar. Stage get-ups from Mic Jagger, James Brown, George Clinton, David Bowie and Michale Jackson. The Sargent Pepper uniforms, Lennon's Piano, Ringo's drums, Paul's lyric book. Janis Joplin's '65 convertible Porsche with an original psychedelic paint job. Jim Morrison's diploma from UCLA. Jimi Hendrix's childhood refrigerator art. Even macabre paraphernalia ... like Kurt Cobain's death certificate.
Ever artifact's plaque had a healthy paragraph and each wing had multiple videos. Together they were weaving a decisive and complete narrative for the art form. The first ten minute documentary I watched about Sun Records was just the tip of the ice berg. Soon I realized the two and half hours I'd deposited in the parking meter would never be enough at the pace I was going. Plus I had a show to see, and a buzz to catch. If anyone really wanted to do The Hall justice, an entire day was needed. I sped through the rest pausing at the Rolling Stone exhibit to read an open letter to the magazine from Charles Manson. It made Hunter Thompson's correspondence displayed next to it seem tame. Later I saw that even Ryan Adams had an acoustic guitar (covered in Star Wars stickers) displayed. I took it as a sign, and made it out to my car with three minutes left on the meter.
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A few hours later I was walking to the Historic Ohio Theater on Euclid Ave with a decent shine going. Four beers, a shot or two of whiskey, and a joint would be a good enough base. The city looked, felt, and smelled just about how I thought it would. Cold, tough, gritty, downtrodden; Cleveland has definitely seen better days. Somehow the people still have immense pride in themselves and their city, even if they take cheap shots at it whenever possible. The night before I'd asked the bartender where all the action was down town and he just shrugged.
"You're looking at it man," he'd said. "The only time people are ever down town really is for a Browns game and even then people are pissed because we've probably lost." At the time I wanted to press him, ask why he sticks around, if it’s so dull, but decided against it.
The mid-sized lobby of the theatre was set up with a bar at the rear, which forced all kinds of interesting people to mingle and inhabit the same space. Thirty-somethings with white collars and pressed cardigans. Lots of college aged girls holding hands with their boyfriends. Some washed-up Phish Heads bragging about how many Cardinals bootlegs they had, and which album got them hip to Ryan Adams. I walked to the bar before the 'I liked him before you' pissing contests started. Suddenly I realized how odd and alone I looked without anyone to talk to. Just in case people were starting to stare, I took out my notepad, scribbled some rantings and tried to look official. Just a journalist on assignment. Not some half drunk friendless creep.
I was getting anxious after a few LaBatt's and decided to head to my seat. I sat down and looked around wide-eyed with wonder like a child seeing shapes in the clouds. Beautiful ornate red and teal ceilings, with gold leaf molding. Victorian style opera boxes. The acoustics were so good I felt like I was hearing everyone's conversation all at once. Before I could take it all in the lights dimmed and the two-story velvet curtains parted to reveal a very modest stage divided into three stations. The first a piano with bench. The second a chair next to two vintage Buck Owens' acoustics (red, white, blue striped) and a standing mic stand.
He came out in a black leather jacket, a grungy Danzig tee and holey jeans. The tangled mess of reddish-brown hair that hung into his eyes was longer then I'd thought it'd be, nearly reaching his shoulders. Typical struggling musician looking, even if he's sold thousands and thousands of records. He smirked, waved to the crowd, said a few words, and got down to the business of tuning up. He had a sound man but no guitar tech, so there was a lot of down time in-between songs, which he filled with his mentioned trade mark banter. Lucky for everyone (I guess?) it was never aggressive, more playful and lighthearted. The mood seemed to encourage crowd interaction. The only ribbing he did was good-natured. After Firecracker he took awhile to take off his harmonica harness, and to get the piano mic just the way he wanted. Someone called out 'why don't you have a tech?'
"Well I think I'm doing just fine by myself, right guys?" he asked. We responded with a wave of cheers. "Thanks for having me," he added.
"Thanks for coming to Cleveland," someone else yelled with conviction from the balcony.
Of the whole trip, that was the moment that stuck out most. No question his music, and the completely solo performance were great, but that man's statement said it all. In an instant it taught me more about the city and it's people than I could have ever been told. Sure Cleveland can be lame ... suck even, I'm sure. Some people call it the new Detroit, which has been consider the asscrack of America for a long time now. But people still live here. People are still from here, and proud of it. These same people enjoy fine drink, good music, just like the rest of us, and they just might appreciate both more, once they come around, since not much else is going on.
"You're welcome," he said and continued the show.
For the rest of the evening he took his time bouncing around between the three stations, and he played everything I wanted to hear, including most of the new record, English Girls Approximately, Wonderwall, Winding Wheel, Rescue Blues and Crossed Out Name. He did his customary little diddys about Mr. Cat and 'mommy' (wife Mandy Moore), and closed with arguably his saddest song ever Come Pick Me Up, much to everyone's depressed delight. It was a very unique show. He was the only person performing for the full ninety minutes and other then his music, it was quiet as a grave. Every note, and vocal resonance could be stretched to the max with little or no interference from the audience. The room itself became an instrument, built to amply and increase the intensity. I had a tickle up and down my spine from start to finish. It wasn't just another show; it'd been an musically inspired experience I'd enjoyed alone yet simultaneously shared with a few hundred like-minded strangers.
On the drive home the next morning I thought about my weekend, The Hall of Fame and the unique talent that Ryan Adams really is. He can write the saddest fucking songs you've ever heard, and crack jokes about them just before singing each with such heart wrenching sincerity that it almost makes you want to cry. He hand picks the perfect venues, is always determined to get everything done just right with his sound, but won't bother to comb his hair. A Heavy Metal fan who writes love songs. A walking contradiction ... or just plain human.
I can't help but feel a little bit sorry for him (other then the piles of cash). There's no doubt that when he sings his songs, on some level he relives the periods of his life that produced them. Periods of his life he'd probably like to forget. His pain picked on strings, and pounded out on keys for our entertainment, but more importantly our remedy; helping us carry on through personal struggle. I only hope the medicine works both ways.
-J.R.
