“Where’s my passport? Don’t forget to loosen the guitars strings and pad the headstock with socks before the flight. I’ll have to put the preamp in my suitcase then. Don’t forget to take the preamp from the suitcase before leaving it at the hotel tonight before the gig! Do I have a spare battery for the pre-amp? Does the cab to the airport really cost 40 Euro? Is this guy ripping me off? Don’t forget to switch on my phone when I land so Dorian can text me the address of the club. Did I remember to enter into my spreadsheet the CDs I sold last night at 2AM? Did I backup the spreadsheet recently? Forgot to tell the agent I took his percentage from the promoter in Madrid. Wire him 50 Euro. Maybe Dorian will do it for me? Does my throat feel worse today than it did yesterday? I wonder if Dorian will remember to bring the CDs to the club? Does my phone have enough battery power to make it to the rental car? Do I land in the same terminal as the Avis counter? Will my GPS take me to the correct Rue de Champs? There is probably more than one in Paris. Will my guitar fit in the trunk of the tiny rental car? Is my Dop Kit still in the hotel bathroom? Don’t forget the tax forms for Belgium! How long will it take me to drive to the club? It’ll be rush hour…didn’t think of that. Isn’t tonight an early set time? Don’t forget the preamp! I need to buy razors. Remember to email Christin and ask for directions to the club in Berlin. How will I get back to the airport next morning? Is the club in Berlin close to the airport? Do I have a hotel in Berlin or can I stay with Christin? Forgot to buy my train ticket from Berlin to Hannover! Need a Wifi connection to do that. What songs will I record in Hannover? I should definitely change strings and tweak the saddle before the show tonight; can’t stand that fret buzz anymore. Do I have enough cash to get by before I get paid tonight, or will I need to break some traveler’s checks? Where’s my wallet? Where are the Euro I took out of my wallet because they didn’t fit? I haven’t seen my driver’s license for weeks. Did I even bring it? I desperately need to do laundry. Where do I play tomorrow? Is this the key to the last rental car?? No, just my house keys. Maybe I should put them in my suitcase. Don’t forget to get a receipt for the cab ride. Do I leave the car at Dorian’s or at the club? If I leave it at the club do I have to lug all my stuff on the train, including the suitcase and the boxes of CDs? Maybe he’ll forget them anyway. How late do the trains run in Paris?”
Sometimes my mind goes so fast that I can think all these thoughts in about 30 seconds, as I did in the cab to the Madrid airport. For all the tour stories I type, the most difficult parts are the most difficult to describe, like the constant worrying that is necessary to get from point A to point B on time with everything intact. There are so many details required to make just one day run smoothly that I can never keep them in my mind at one time, and once in a while I inevitably leave my guitar 500 KM away at last night’s venue, leave my passport under the hood of a Xerox machine, travel to the wrong city of the same name, book an expensive flight on the right date in the wrong month, physically misplace 1000 Euro in cash that I owe to someone else, or miss a train that causes me to miss a plane that causes me to miss a gig. Having experienced all these things and more over the years, these incessant thoughts bear down on me harder with each tour.
So when I arrived at the club in Paris and met up with my friends Dorian and Mary Lou who were promoting my French shows, I was a nut case. I was still on the verge of illness and basically running on adrenalin, feeling every bit of tour stress. I hadn’t seen Dorian in a year, but I could barely have a conversation with him over a pastice because my mind was racing so fast. But once again, all the stress and adrenalin somehow channeled into my playing, and my songs were like little release valves, each one relieving more pressure. The crowd was silent when I played, and then zealous with warm applause. By the end of the set I felt alive again. My old friend Eamonn Vitt had showed up at the show, and we went with Dorian and Mary Lou across the street for a tasty Moroccan dinner. Eamonn and I caught up on some gossip and Eamonn spoke sophomoric French to Dorian and Mary Lou with comic enthusiasm. Music and friends had changed a bad day into a great evening once again.
After 10+ restful hours of sleep at Dorian’s, I was on the road again. A new rental car, new countries, new venues, new folks to meet, new shows to play, new adventures to be had. In fact, that very night at the club in Luxembourg, I came across what is, at least in my line of work, one of the rarest and most valuable artifacts: a working laundry machine! Wearing clean clothes put me in such a good mood that I told the crowd that it was a very special night: they were getting the clean Geoff Farina, a rarity in Europe, and I told them they were welcome to smell me after the show (for a small fee of course). They all laughed at my dumb jokes and I played a smooth, laid back set. It was my 19th show in 20 days, and the songs had melted into one long epic. The old John Hurt and Elizabeth Cotton songs flowed seamlessly into my own.
I woke up the next morning feeling even more rested, and I felt for the first time I could beat the ensuing sickness if I could keep sleeping and eating well. “Hardcore OJ and veggies,” I thought. “That’ll do it.” It also occurred to me that I was supposed to teach a class in Belgium one day on this leg of the tour, and as I checked my itinerary I realized it was TODAY!! Fortunately everyone in Belgium drives like my Grandma, so I sped 200KM to Hasselt and arrived with 5 minutes to spare. I got on stage in front of 30 college kids, talked about my career, my songwriting and guitar inspirations, and also about the business and logistical sides of being a touring musician. “Who’s this grey-haired relic talking about Buddy Guy and D. Boone?” they seemed to be thinking, in Flemish of course. I had thought this was going to be a talking gig, so when they asked me to play some songs cold, I could barely pick the guitar. I stumbled through a few tunes with some embarrassment. “Warm up before you play. That’s the best advice I can give you,” I tried to joke. But they did seemed to warm up to me after some Q&A, and before I knew it I was off to Liege for my first Belgian show.
Liege began a string of what were certainly the best shows on the tour, if not some of the best solo shows of my career. A unique musician who looked much like Freddie Mercury (complete with cheesy moustache), and who goes by the moniker V/O, kicked off the show in Liege. V/O played guitar and sang, and every melodic turn went in some unexpected direction. Some of his music reminded me of Andrew Hill or Henry Threadgill in the sense that any part of it could go in any direction at any time; his vocal melody would morph into a driving bassline as the low strings of his guitar would sing a strange, enchanting melody. V/O took my mind off of all the long days that had passed, and made me desire nothing more than to get on stage and pick the hell out of my guitar, which I proceeded to do with great fervor. The stage sound was perfect, music poured out, and the best part was the reaction from the crowd. “Farina,” someone screamed in broken English, “We love you!” I love you too Liege! After the show a young woman thanked me for my “great modesty,” another guy told me that I was “wise,” and yet another that I was “a kind of hero in Liege.” Man, I felt like the mayor of Liege!
In Bremen at least 100 folks were absolutely silent when I picked duets with the trains passing a few yards away outside the club, Fahey style. Folks seemed to love every minute of the show, and gave me many props and bought me drinks afterwards. In Diksmuide at the wonderful 4AD, I played for my good friends Jeff, Sara, and Greet and at least 100 others. The stage sound was pristine, and people treated me like a king! In Liepzig when my preamp battery finally died, (I had forgotten to buy a spare of course), I howled out 3 or 4 tunes juke-joint style, totally acoustic, and played encore after encore for the packed room until I ran out of songs. In Antwerpen I played at Roma, a gorgeous Art Nouveau theater that was built in the 20s and recently restored by local volunteers. The stage sound was once again perfect, the place was completely packed, and I laid it down with authority. Folks were cheering before I even played a song! “You haven’t heard anything yet. What if I suck?” I also had the pleasure of sharing the stage with Jason Merritt (aka Whip) who played his Blind Willie Johnson-inspired tunes to great acclaim. The next day I barely made it to Orleans in time after spending 8 hours driving through Paris traffic, but the locals seemed to dig my performance even though most had clearly never heard my music. I completed the circle as I returned to Paris and played at La Bellevilloise, where I managed to win over a dinner crowed of at least 150, with plenty of time after the show to relax over mojitos with Dorian and his girlfriend Karima.
The only blemish on the Northern itinerary had been Cologne, which at first seemed like it would be a good night. The club was beautiful, the promoter and sound engineer were friendly and helpful, and every seat was filled by set time. But for some reason I completely dropped the ball and stumbled through the entire set. The music sounded labored and strained, and the reaction from the house was polite at best. After a few songs I turned to my usual strategies to try and turn things around: I told a story to try to get a cheap laugh, and I played a few rudimentary songs that almost always sound good, but this night nothing seemed to be working. Cologne reminded me that no matter how much I practice, no matter how much I try to control my sound, and no matter how good things seem to be going, performing is always a crap shoot.
But on a rare day off in Paris near the end of the tour, I felt great. Most of the shows had been absolutely wonderful, the tour was in the black, I had caught up with old friends and made some new ones, and most importantly I had played the hell out of my songs for a month. I even managed to avoid getting sick, thanks to Dorian and Karima, who fed me healthy meals of elaborate salads and freshly-squeezed OJ.
And it’s a good thing, because the last three days of the tour required all the constitution I could muster. I had left the rental car at CDG airport near Paris, and the logistics were to be as follows: Take a train from Dorian’s apartment to Orly Airport. Take an Easyjet flight to Shoenfeld airport in Berlin. Take a train from Shoenfeld to the club that is apparently located right under the train station. Pick up train ticket to Hannover from Mark at the show. The next day, take the train to Hannover. Take another train to the studio. Record, eat, sleep. Train to Hannover airport. Fly from Hannover to Zurich, and from Zurich to Boston. Kiss my wife, sleep for 3 days.
Like many plans it looked good on paper, but in reality it required the best possible circumstances to go smoothly: Promoters know actual trains schedules, trains run the same every day, train tickets can be bought in cash at the station, I can interpret train and bus schedules in other languages, “right under the train station” in German actually means under the train station, etc. These are assumptions I usually don’t like to make, but I did in this case because I did not have a cost-effective alternative that would allow me to play in Paris one day, Berlin the next, record in Hannover the next, and fly home from Zurich the next.
So actual turn of events unfolded as follows: Lug all my stuff 1KM from Dorian’s apartment to the station. Realize it’s Sunday and trains are running irregularly. Take a different train to the center of Paris. Lug my stuff .5KM to another train line, wait for 45 minutes, take another train to yet another station. Take shuttle from the station to Orly. Wait in line for hours, fly to Shoenfeld. Lug my stuff .5KM to the nearest train station, which is under construction, and at which busses have replaced trains. Try to interpret bus schedule from signs written in German and attendants who don’t speak English. Buy the wrong bus ticket, get on the right bus. Explain to another attendant who doesn’t speak English why I have the wrong ticket, narrowly avoid getting kicked off bus. Lug my stuff .5KM to another train station. Take train to center of Berlin, take another train one stop to club. Lug my stuff in circles for city blocks looking for the club that is supposed to be “right under the station.” Meet the promoter Christin for the first time who turns out to be a total sweetheart. Play a great show with my buddy Fabian from Brokof. Mark forgets to bring to the show the ticket he bought me to Hannover, must retrieve next morning. Take an expensive cab to Christin’s apartment after show. (Christine arrives 10 minutes later. Why didn’t I just travel with her?)
Next morning: wait impatiently for Christin retrieve ticket to Hannover from Mark’s apartment. Lug my stuff 4 blocks to bus stop. Take bus to other bus stop. Take other bus to train station. Consume fresh tofu, vegetables, and green tea in train station. (I love Berlin!) Take three-hour train to Hanover. Inadvertently get on car #10, sit down and relax, as attendant tells me my seat is actually in car #2. Lug all my stuff through 8 crowded cars after arguing with attendant. Arrive in Hannover, call Johannes at studio in desperation. “Can you PLEASE come and get me?” I beg. “I just can’t get on another bus or train!” Wait for Johannes to pick me up in borrowed pizza delivery wagon and drive me to studio. Meet Maxi Priest at studio. Record 5 songs, eat great meal cooked by Johannes, talk about recording into the night. Try to sleep but wake up in a panic every couple ours after dreaming that I missed my flight.
Next morning: Convince Johannes to walk me to the train station, despite his insistence that the airport is on the same line as the studio. Lug my stuff .5KM through the rain to the station with Johanne’s help. Realize that the ticket machine doesn’t take cash, and that the airport is actually on a different line. Get on train to center of Hannover without ticket, stand in line to buy another ticket for another train after deliberation on which line actually goes to the airport. Say goodbye to Johannes who turned out to be a great engineer and a wonderful host. Take train to airport. Fly Hannover > Zurich, Zurich > Boston. Sleep 5 hours and awake to jackhammering outside my window at 7AM. Sleep on the floor of my studio for 2 nights to avoid said jackhammering.
Home sweet home.
