From the Memoir: "Courage" (Patreon)

As I dip my toe back into touring I'm reminded of the *other* time I felt like I was starting over, which was not too long after Dave Carter died. 2023 and 2002 seem to be braiding together in my head a bit so I thought I'd honor that connection and share with you a rough draft of a chapter I call "Courage."

I have told this story on stage -- an abbreviated version, at least -- but here's the whole cannoli, as they say. I dedicate this to anyone who is grieving and/or starting over for any reason whatsoever. I'm here, your living proof: It's going to be okay.

Thank you for your support, as always. It is a privilege to share with you these bits and pieces I've been working on and living through.

xotg

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COURAGE

I’d been rehearsing my four-song set for weeks, spending long hours at home on the green Goodwill couch crouched over marked-up copies of the red and blue coil-bound songbooks Dave and I had made to sell at our shows. The songbooks contained the chords and lyrics to all the songs on our two most popular albums. Never expected to need them but I was grateful to have them now, because I could not have transcribed the chords on my own. I didn’t have the ear for it, not yet.

I considered it imperative to perform the songs exactly the way Dave had intended. Cover versions riddled with lyrical errors and chord substitutions were already proliferating around festival campfires and tribute sets at the hands of well-intentioned hobbyists and professionals alike, and this I could not, and would not, abide.

What I knew about my mission going forward was this: it was up to me uphold the standard. To treat the songs less like folk music and more like classical music, which is how they were conceived, after all. In the same way that a chamber player would never wing it on a Brandenburg Concerto, it seemed to Dave and me that neither should a folksinger freestyle his or her way through a Dave Carter song. Attention must be paid.

I’d seen what happened when someone strayed from the score. A couple years prior, a friend and fellow touring songwriter covered one of Dave’s songs. His recording was heartfelt and accurate, with all the proper chords and lyrics exactly where they ought to be, with one change: he added a rhythm section. And when Dave heard the preliminary rough mix, he freaked. Utterly distressed by the presence of a snare drum on his song, Dave phoned our friend in the studio and demanded that he stop production until Dave could be on hand to supervise. And with that, Dave grabbed his coat and flew out the door, muttering, “There shouldn’t be any drums on my song. There shouldn't be any drums...”

I felt a little embarrassed on Dave’s behalf. Wasn’t the goal to have other people sing the songs? Didn’t our friend get the lyrics and chords just right? — and yet, I understood. Dave’s songwriting process was a mix of dream mining and craft. He labored so intensely over every syllable and metaphor. There were no stray notes. There were no extra sounds. Dave’s vision was precise, and his craft, deliberate, thoughtful, and exacting. I myself had been guilty of occasionally adding “so” or “and” to the lyrics during a performance because it made some of the wordier lines easier to sing, but I always got a little talking-to about it afterward. A gentle talking-to, because Dave was careful with me. But a talking-to all the same.

So I studied the pages of our songbooks, transcribed by Dave himself, to memorize the chords for the four songs I planned to play in Cambridge. And then I studied Dave in memory. Years of hawk-like observation left me with mental movies of Dave so vivid and so intimate that months after his death, I could still learn by imitating him. How he strummed. How the fingers of his left hand moved up and down the neck, and his elbows and shoulders rose and fell like bellows, ushering the notes from the guitar. Though the songbooks were accurate, I could not have learned “Gentle Soldier of My Soul” or “The Mountain” without the memory of his body showing me how to bring the songs to life.

* * *

With my bank account still fat from the landslide of merchandise sales at the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival immediately following Dave’s death, I bought myself a first class ticket from Portland to Boston for my very first solo set. It seemed important to treat myself well. To be comfortable. To act as if I had arrived, even though, as I’d soon find out, the journey would not be so easily bought, or won.

As the plane lifted above the clouds, I thought about how lucky I was to be part of this all-woman four-act show. I dreamed of camaraderie, of a sisterhood of strong female performers surrounding me, welcoming me in. As a duo, Dave and I had been self-contained and somewhat exclusionary. I felt eager to become part of a broader family of performers. I anticipated gathering strength from their strength, and inspiration from their artistry. Reminded myself that I was earning real money for this appearance, too; that someone, somewhere, believed that just three months after Dave’s death, I was ready.

I can’t tell you how deeply I wanted that to be true.

* * *

October, 2002. A Saturday night at the Sanders Theater, Cambridge, Mass. For all my dreams of camaraderie and sisterhood, it took but one step into the backstage area to remind me of the cold truth: I didn’t know those girls at all, and they didn’t know me beyond the one thing everybody knew about me right then: that I had lost my partner.

Backstage was a big communal space with long tables, folding chairs, white linoleum, fluorescent lights. I sipped a little tea from a paper cup, picked a few grapes from a fruit tray, ate a cracker, and opened my guitar case. While the other girls hugged and caught up and did girly things in mirrors, I curled myself over my instrument and ran through my set as privately as a person could without a proper dressing room.

They might’ve hugged me. They might’ve called me brave for flying all the way across the country for the show. I might’ve admitted to someone I was nervous. But what I really remember is the distance between us. Like looking through a long, warped tunnel at the rest of them and understanding, quite suddenly, how difficult the threshold of loneliness and loss would be for me to cross. The sounds in that memory are muffled. The light in that memory burns my eyes. My own heart rattled like a hive of angry bees inside my chest. I felt so fitful, so untethered, so unheld. There was nothing to do but bend low, tune my ear to the bell-like tones coming off the strings, and dream of disappearing into the black hole of my guitar.

All I really had to do was make it through this first show. Getting through the first show meant I could get on to the next. Not that I had a “next.” My agency had wiped my calendar clean when Dave died and had not yet booked anything new for me because nobody was sure when I’d be ready again. Cambridge was a test, then, and I was eager to prove myself, to uphold my promise of carrying Dave’s songs forward with grace and integrity. But as the other girls began warming up, I grew insecure. Their confident voices. Their sturdy strumming. Even their colorful outfits. I had lost almost twenty pounds since Dave’s death, and my black slacks hung off of me. The burgundy dress shirt from my Joan Baez shows was suddenly, glaringly, just — boring.

The emcee nodded at me and I downed the last swig of my now lukewarm tea.

I summoned the spirit of Dave.

The lights went up, and we all got quiet, and then the emcee said my name.

* * *

What I remember from that first performance is a black stage, a white spot, and a crowd not predisposed to love me.

It was the applause. Let’s call it … courteous. Guarded. Tentative. If it were weather, that applause would’ve been a drizzle, when what I — and any performer — really look for is a full-on deluge, something that sends the needle of our internal applause meters well into the red. But the needle barely twitched for me. The applause was so tame it fizzled out before I reached center stage. I didn’t know how to handle that. I was coming off a 10 minute standing ovation at Falcon Ridge. Ten thousand people crying, clapping, and whooping. Did I think it was going to be like that everywhere?

Maybe I forgot I was going to have to earn their love.

It’s possible I didn’t realize till this moment that I was, essentially, starting over. That I could not expect to ride the wave of “we” now that half of we was gone.

I found this so sad, and so very sobering.

I was on my own.

Of all the performers on the bill — Christine Lavin, Julie Gold, Nerissa & Katryna Nields, and me — I was the least known. As such, the audience reaction could be considered appropriate. New kid, I told myself. It’s like being an opener. Surprise them! But then it occurred to me that perhaps my presence was a damper on an otherwise fun night. I mean, you had Christine Lavin with the battery-lit batons, and the Nields girls with their sister harmonies, and what did I have to offer, really, that could compete with that? I didn’t have a show. I didn’t have a thing. I had four songs and a sad story.

You toured with Joan fuckin Baez, I told myself. That’s not nothing. But the weak applause damaged what thin shred of resolve I had.

I fastened Dave’s guitar strap to my guitar and pulled it up and over my shoulder. I secured my capo into position at the third fret.

I heard Anne Robinson in my head whispering, “Weakest link.”

* * *

The plan was to start with “Ordinary Town,” which was the first song on our DRUM HAT BUDDHA CD. It was upbeat, punchy, and I’d get to say “kick-ass Walmart tie” right out of the gate. People might recognize it from folk radio, because it received quite a bit of airplay. The guitar part could be tricky on one section of the choruses but otherwise, it was a pretty straightforward song. I was already comfortable with the vocals because in the duo, this had been one I sang, so: a fine plan, in theory.

Couple of ways you can start a show. In folk music, it’s popular to chit-chat with the audience for a moment, say hello and see how everybody’s doing, and then give them some background on the first song. This approach has a feeling of settling, of buckling in. The other option is to be a bit more rock-star about it and jump right into the music as the welcoming applause is dying down. This gives the show a feeling of excitement and momentum, like you’ve just stepped on to a moving walkway of sound and are being swept away.

I didn’t have any applause to ride, and I wasn’t interested in chatting so much as proving myself, so I opted for rock star and punched the first chord with confidence, like I knew what was what. Except that in my haste to show off, my fingerpick missed the bass string. I wasn’t pleased but I thought I could salvage it, so I hit the next chord and the bass string rang out just fine but I missed the melody string. Then, I was as startled as anyone when just as I strummed the third chord, the fingers on my left hand spasmed and slipped off the guitar entirely.

I stopped the song. Apologized into the mic. I made a few nervous nonsense moves and pretended to adjust the capo, as if that were the problem. I drew my pick across all the strings to test my starting chord again, to make sure all the notes were still in there. They were. Wiped the fingers of my left hand on my black slacks and re-anchored my first chord. My fingers began to shake and go blurry as my eyes teared up. I forced a smile but didn’t look up. It sounded like nobody but me was breathing.

I didn’t have any tools for managing my nerves, nor did I have a way of relaxing the impossibly high standards I’d set for my own performance that first night. I imagined Dave was watching from the rafters, and likely wincing. I felt the audience tensing. I hadn’t yet learned that audiences could be forgiving. I didn’t understand that imperfection was allowed, even welcome; that it was the very hallmark of humanity and vulnerability. That mistakes could be quite endearing. And that at the end of the day, it was only music.

It would be years till I fully understood any of this, till I had the wisdom and confidence and good humor to turn such moments into bonding experiences rather than opportunities for self-flagellation. But the night and I were young. I only saw mistakes. Unforgivable mistakes.

Second try. I got through the first few chords and sang the first line. “Common cool, he was a proud young fool in a kick-ass Wal-mart tie.” But then, something came out of my face and it was not the right lyric and my hands had started sweating so badly I could feel my pick slipping out of my grasp and I was forced to stop again.

“Shit!” I said, right into the mic, this time to an unsettling murmur and the sound of people — not my people — shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

I can’t do this, I thought.

I looked over at the side of the stage. The heads of my fellow performers were stacked like some kind of cheerleader totem pole just behind the curtain. Such concern in their eyes. Only Katryna was smiling, with her hands clasped in front of her chest. Praying. And with good reason.

I can’t do this. I thought. But I have to.

I started the song a third time and, with a quivering, goat-like voice and trembling hands, somehow made it through. The rest of the set was a blur. As the last chord of the fourth song rang out and I delivered the final, heartfelt “hey-ya,” the audience released what sounded to me like a collective sigh of relief. Then there was a pause before anyone clapped. This can happen when an audience is deeply moved, but that wasn’t the case here. As I knelt down to collect my tuner and cable, some compassionate soul started clapping loudly, and even let out a little woot. Others eventually joined in. I shuffled off the stage with my head down.

I finished, just like I said I would. I made it through.

But I had failed.

* * *

I didn’t look at the other performers when I got backstage. I was too ashamed. And no one spoke to me. It was the single most awkward, humiliating performance of my lifetime and it happened in front of 200 people and several artists I admired. But that wasn’t what bothered me the most. I was devastated because I felt I had let Dave down. All I could think as I crossed backstage was, I’m sorry, Baby. I’m so sorry.

Still shaking, I heaped my gear onto a table and began packing up quietly as the emcee launched into the next introduction and the Nields sisters prepared to take the stage. Briefly, the blonde one, Nerissa — the one Dave always believed was a shaman — touched my arm and looked into my eyes with that closed-mouth half-smile that I still don’t know how to read. As she let go and walked out toward the roaring applause, hot tears flooded my eyes. I turned back toward my gear and began to cry.

I wanted to go to my hotel. I wanted to go home. But the rule is, you stay for the show. You listen to the other performers. Afterward, you hang out by the merchandise table and talk to people. Sign CDs. Pose for photos, some with fans, or with the other artists, or a big group shot with the promoter. And when the audience clears out, that’s when you get paid.

It was going to be a long night.

I retreated to the restroom as the Nields began to sing. There, I collected myself. Sort of. I fixed my eyeliner. I blew my nose. I applied more concealer and another coat of mascara. I guess you could say I collected my face; the assaults to my well-being were another story. I never had good skills that way, never really had a loving “inner parent” to comfort me when I was broken. I was good at making excuses for myself, defensive to a fault, and morbidly self-critical. But following that performance, shame and sorrow turned to anger. Anger that I had to do this alone. Anger at the daunting prospect of starting over. Anger that I hadn’t rehearsed more, and that carrying out the mission I’d set for myself was going to be more work than I’d imagined. And anger at Dave, for leaving me.

The Nields sisters were still singing and I was loosening the strings of my guitar when someone came up and tapped me on the back of the arm. I turned around to find a tiny, wiry-haired brunette smiling at me.

“Hey Tracy,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Julie. Julie Gold.”

My mouth opened but nothing came out. After a beat, I set my guitar down and took her hand.

“J-julie,” I said. “Oh my god. It’s so nice to meet you. What an honor!”

Julie has written dozens of beautiful songs but is best known for “From a Distance,” which was a mega-hit for Bette Midler in the early nineties.

Our hands dropped and we stood, looking at one another for a moment. I was about to apologize for my lousy set but stopped myself, looked at my shoes instead. I didn’t know what to say. She already knew the score. And I don’t know how, exactly, but I could tell she wasn’t judging me. There was a kind of grace in the silence between us.

“How ya doing?” she asked, ducking a bit to catch my eye. She said it soft, with a family-like intimacy. Her hazel-brown eyes found mine, offered tenderness.

“I’ve had better lifetimes,” I said, shifting my weight, trying to make a joke, but what was supposed to come out light just sounded sad. And true.

“Well,” she said, sounding perky. “I have something for you.”

She reached for my hand and opened it, palm up. Then she took some little thing out of her pocket, pressed it into my palm, and wrapped my fingers around it before I got a chance to see what it was. I could feel it, though. It was burning hot.

She held my closed hand with both of her own.

“I carried this with me for five years, all throughout my struggle with cancer,” she said. “I’m cancer free, thank God, but this helped get me through. I think you should have it. I think maybe you could use it now.”

She removed her hands from mine and I unfolded my fingers slowly, like the petals of a low daisy opening. We looked down into the flower-heart of my palm together.

Amid the tiny, shining rivulets of sweat gathering in the creases of my hand sat a small, dark grey, oval stone. Stamped into the stone was one word:

“Courage.”

I closed my hand around the stone and sucked back my tears. Julie wrapped her hands around my hand once more, and made me a promise I would replay for years to come, through the darkest hours of my grief and recovery.

She said, “You’re gonna be okay.”

* * *

The Nields bounced through the backstage curtain, smiling and breathless from their set, and the emcee threw his arm around Julie and asked her how she’d like to be introduced. As they walked away, I finished prepping my guitar for the morning flight home, closed the case, set it aside. I stood along the end-curtains and watched Julie sing at the piano. Full-throated. With abandon. The light on her just so. She sang her heart out, and when she got to her hit, I hummed a little harmony and noticed I wasn’t angry anymore, or fitful, or full of self-loathing. My tears had dried. My body felt at ease.

I had failed.

But I had also been seen.

I fingered the stone in my pocket.

I considered the possibility that perhaps I’d gotten what I’d come for after all.

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