The road from Raleigh to Johnson City
goes through some of the most beautiful mountains on earth, and as
overworked and underslept as I've been I wasn't about to NOT go
hiking. Now I had a few parameters: A. I had to actually make it to
Johnson City, and B. I had to be somewhere that I could call in to a
production meeting at 4. These both seemed like realistic goals when
I set out. Suze the GPS with a charming speech impediment (rural
juror) found a State Park right on the border, so I pulled off in
search of adventure. Or at least trees. Mostly trees. It was around
halfway up the gravel road up mountain that I remembered that my
front tires are mostly bald, but unlike my Dad they're in dire need
of replacing. As the road steepened up to a 45 degree angle I
realized that this was probably a bad idea. Could AAA find me on the
mountain? Do I know how to change a tire well enough that I could do
it myself at a 45 degree angle? But there wasn't exactly room to turn
around, and I sure as hell wasn't going to back down the mountain, so
upwards! This is Pen Pen going and chasing waterfalls despite Lisa
“Left Eye” Lopez's timeless advice to the contrary.
I made it to the top where it suddenly
became paved again with tires successfully unpunctured and set off on
the trail. The trail had a distinct educational bent to it with
little plaques explaining the different types of trees in language a
6 year old could understand. As a permanent 12 year old, I was having
none of it and set off on a random path. This seemed like a good idea
at the time. Another path off another path off another path and
suddenly it occurred to me that I'm in the mountains on the border of
North Carolina and Tennessee with no cell phone reception and no-one
knows where I am. I don't even know where I am. Most traveling
musicians get their kicks by sleeping indiscriminately with anything
with legs and ingesting all manners of exciting chemicals. I get my
kicks by getting lost on educational mountain trails with a gimpy
lung and no ability to call for help. Then I realized it was 3:30 and
I still had that production meeting in 30 minutes. This is Pen Pen
sticking instead to the rivers and streams that he's used to.
So I turned around, having successfully
found 0 waterfalls. I'd been hiking for an hour or so, so getting
back to the parking lot (where there was intermittent cell reception)
when I had no idea where I was or how to get back seemed like a
realistic goal. I knew I'd been going down mostly and sort of
leftish, so I turned around and headed upish and leftish again. Next
time I'm leaving breadcrumbs. Walking as fast as Chester the gimpy
lung would carry me, checking my phone every 30 feet. One bar? Could
I just stop here and call in? Nope, back to no bars in a blink. On we
go. Despite my navigation techniques being at best “haphazard”
around 3:57 I spied the asphalt of the parking lot. Never have I been
so happy to see where someone had paved paradise and put up a parking
lot. This is Pen Pen pretty sure if you're able to get a horse up
this mountain, you should be allowed to take him on the trail. Also,
your policy on bikes and horses is duly noted. What's your policy on
Jews and Penguins?
The show in Johnson City was fun as
always. Karla played with me again, and we made plans to tour
together in the fall. I'm really starting to love Johnson City. I'm
not sure I could ever live there, but I could definitely spend a few
weeks at a stretch. And then I got the e-mail about my show in
Nashville: I'd be playing with Tommy “867-5309” Tutone. Because
of course. This is Pen Pen standing next to a burned down house with
a can full of gas and a handful of matches; still wasn't found out.
So the next day I make it to Nashville
amused and unsure of what to expect. I've never played Nashville
before. I've never been to Nashville before. And I'm playing a
songwriter's showcase. AFTER Tommy Tutone. 8 other performers who
ranged from “good” to “daaaaaaaaamn.” I'd be lying if I said
I wasn't at least a little intimidated. Tommy gets up. He's playing a
borrowed guitar in a bar that holds maybe 50 people at most. In his
defense it is pretty well packed to capacity. He plays through a set
of new songs. “Are you going to play Jenny?” The host shouts.
“You got 200 bucks?” He shoots back. There's that awkward moment
when you realize he's serious. Of course he's serious. “867-5309”
may not be a “great song” like “Imagine” or something but it
is undeniably immortal. He plays it. It's actually pretty great in
this truly surreal way. It's rough. A little sloppier than I'd
expect. He must have played that song 2,000 times at least. Stray
strings hit during the iconic opening lick. Mumbled lyrics. I was
expecting impersonal, bored, and apathetic. This was enthrallingly
human; surprisingly passionate. This is Pen Pen paying homage to
Cursive's 2
nd best album which is disappointingly devoid
of songs about random girls' phone-numbers, though it does have
“So-So Gigolo” which is similar kind of.
So immediately after Tommy friggin
Tutone plays “867-5309” I step up and launch into “The
Glamorous Life.” So that's a thing I've done now. Why not? I play
my set backed up by the brilliantly be-mustached Trevor Silva on
drums and the response was really encouraging. Halfway through the
set he comments “so are you like really into the Living End or
something? Your songs remind me of them a lot.” Yeah, actually.
Though I'd never consider them an influence. But I do own and
religiously listen to their records, so sure! I'll take it! Tommy
talks to me after the set with some kind words. “You're a great
performer.” he says. “It's not country, but there's no category
for your personal artistic vision, so I guess it fits here as well as
anywhere.” We get to talking a little bit and I begin to realize
this is a man who 30 some-odd years ago captured something oddly
deep. He's spent the past 30 years trying and trying and failing and
failing to bottle lightning twice, and is honestly unsure he ever had
it to begin with. “That guy on stage? That's not the same guy
talking to you now,” he tells me. “I don't know who that guy is.”
Later on stage after a night of fawning
praise from a bunch of musicians young enough to have never lived in
a world without “867-5309” he comments “It's weird that you all
think I'm some sort of artist.” I'd spent the day laughing a bit at
the thought of playing with the “867-5309 guy.” Tommy Tutone
isn't the sort of person anyone's a fan of. His song isn't really
something you can have an opinion of any more than oxygen. It's a
fact of the world. It exists. That's it. As such he's an icon in a
weird way. But the idea of Tommy Tutone The One Hit Wonder is very
different than the shy awkward white-haired balding guy playing to 50
people on a Wednesday in Nashville. That guy is human, still confused
as to where he's been and how he got there. Still trying to get back.
But doubtful that he ever can. This is Pen Pen writing a name and
number on the wall, thus beginning the cycle anew.
This is a song Tommy Tutone wrote one
time. He never wrote anything like it again. But he's still trying
to.
