the adventures of pen pen: Adventure #71 and #72: Johnson City and Nashville, TN

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.