Kevin Bronson on September 29th, 2009

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[The next-to-last installment of Jonneine Zapata’s journal …]

Sept. 22, New York City

Lord have mercy on our poor little souls – there’s just no parking the van in the city! We’re in a speculative spot right in front of the club (Bowery Ballroom), but technically you can’t park there until 7 p.m. It’s 5 p.m. Draw straws? And that person can wait on the curb (in beautiful New York City where everyone has 3,000 friends apiece) and watch so we don’t get a ticket (which none of us can afford)? Not on Tal’s (Soulsavers driver) watch. Orange cones incoming, and not more than 10 minutes later, I’m sitting at my favorite macrobiotic restaurant (Suen) on 13th and University. And no ticket. I loved the South tremendously, but a band can not live on saturated fat alone.

The actual gig flies by, it’s greatly attended and all this juicy stuff was going on … Except: I’m basically working the merch (at every show) until the very end of the night, while my band is drinking and carrying on in style. I’m whupped and it’s time to gather up the kiddies (always start this process a half hour earlier than you think you need to) and get to our crash pad. Because here’s the deal: After the club clears out, we have to first raid “Soulsavers Café,” load into the van, re-load into the crash pad and park the van in a secure spot (wherever in the world that might be). This feels like it takes a lifetime every night, even though we are perfectly organized by this juncture of the tour. So it’s 3 a.m., five band members in an 8-by-10 room. Very nice place, though, right down the street from the club, tucked under the Williamsburg Bridge. The living room looks a big giant bubble bed. We’re staying with Mendel’s high school prom date. That (prom) night just saved us $500 in hotels, at least, or saved us from a night’s sleep in the van. At 4 a.m., Bianca is still texting me “come to Avenue B.” At 6 a.m., “Are you coming out?” But by this time, the band has already been serenaded to sleep by a coy and mostly tipsy Angie Mattson.

I’m up at 8 a.m. and on the J train to Wall Street. I see a well-dressed man with handsome posture walking an extraordinarily fancy breed of dog. He’s probably got fancy fingernails too. Marble cake from the street vendor – OK, why not? But first, let’s catch up with Jiggs (he’s East Indian, if you need to know), the doorman at the Millenium Hilton Hotel across the street (West view) of the Twin Towers construction site. Jiggs tells me 1,500 windows of the hotel were blown out on 9/11 and the awning we were standing under flew into the lobby and so on. He would have been at work when the planes hit, but his shift was changed just prior to 9/11 and was not scheduled to come in until 3:30. He then sent me St. Paul’s Chapel (which is now more a tribute center for 9/11). Surrounding George Washington’s pew, tributes from all over the world were admired and respected by locals and tourists, including me. Can’t take any more grief, or maybe I can. … From the store front window I see New York Times Book Review, best book of the year , “The Forever War,” by Dexter Filkins. I choose this over “Mary, Queen of Scots” (that thing is just too big!). … I gotta get to the park before I lose my last hair. Done! It’s The Boss’s birthday and we ride out of the city with a three-song spin – “The River,” “My Hometown” and “Out in the Street.” Bruuuuuce!

Sept. 23, Boston

Open the set by saying “just another band out of Boston?” Maybe not.”  In Texas, I had spurs that jingle-jangle-jingled, but this is a whole other kind of working man’s town, and Lanegan’s crowd is filled with ’em. … It can be a tough sell, but if you go over , you’re golden. And as usual, we can always depend on the tatted up house crew to load up on CDs. … Although we’re really grateful to Ana for putting us up (she was a fantastic host!), it all comes down to the jackhammering at 7 a.m. Are you kidding me? … And that was Boston.