After that long day, in which we had covered over 600 miles of mostly back roads, and spent fourteen hours on the bikes, traveling through so much southern Americana, I made a journal note:



And about those who bewail the loss of “regionalism” in America. Whether or not it’s worth regretting, it’s definitely still there — if those armchair anthropologists would get off the interstate! Away from the… More cities and beltways, away from the suits and logos and trailer-trash TV talk shows, there are still a million pockets of “Americana” out there, small town gas stations and diners where you will meet hillbillies, aristocratic southerners, weathered ranchers, overalled farmers, solitary fishermen, burly loggers, apple-cheeked grandmothers, and friendly, decent folks. And a million landscapes, from snowy mountains and starkly majestic deserts to white picket fences and maple trees on Main Street.

Consider Roy’s Motel on Route 66 in Amboy, California, the Queen’s Kitchen in Fairview, Oklahoma, the Wheatleigh Inn in Lenox, Massachusetts, the Hammond Family Restaurant in Madison, Indiana, the Cowboy Café in Tilden, Texas, and “La Maison de Saucisse de Lac Artur,” in Louisiana’s Cajun country. All part of the Great American Theme Park.

…

By 2004, our San Antonio audience had grown from a couple of hundred people at Randy’s Rodeo to 11,288 happy fans at the Cellular Telephone Network Amphitheater. For myself, I had a simply magic show, and even by the intermission, I was making a journal note.



Best show yet for me, so far. Strong, solid, smooth, and “effortless” (relatively, of course.)

Happy audience too.

Magic word — love to see people who are “delighted.”



The next day I completed that review.



Last night continued great, by the way, solo and rest of second set best yet, for me.

Now can I go home?



It is a harsh fact of a musician’s life on the road that out of a tour of fifty or sixty shows, only a handful will be “magic.” A sublime performance is as rare and mysterious as an astrologer’s planetary confluence, and far less predictable. A set of separate elements in motion must coincide at exactly the same time and place, and like the magic which is supposed to result from planetary confluence and sublime performance, it cannot be summoned on demand. Like, say between 7:30 and 11:00 on June 25, 2004, at the Cellular Telephone Network Amphitheater in San Antonio.

…

That night, even when I sat down at the practice kit for my seven o’clock warmup, I could feel it — what baseball pitchers call their “stuff.” Hands and feet worked smoothly together like they wanted to, sticks and beaters struck clean and true, and everything I played flowed out with controlled fire.

I had my stuff, and the stars and planets must have been aligned, too. The show poured out of us like a force of nature, sweeping out in waves from the stage and the lights and the speaker cabinets, ebbing and flowing over a cheering, smiling, delighted crowd. We were all locked together in a long, timeless moment of sublime pleasure, and as song after song played out into the ether, I felt energized and ever more determined to make this the one.

…

One unforgettable sight that night at Red Rocks was a row of handicapped fans in wheelchairs up on the stage-right side. They sang along with “Roll the Bones,” “Why are we here?,” laughing wildly with their hands out to their sides, then pointing down at their wheelchairs, “Because we’re here!”

That was a strange and beautiful response to the song — and to us — and an apt interpretation of those words. My smile of appreciation for their spirit was bittersweet.

Once again, it was simply a magical show, and would remain in my memory as one of the best nights of the tour. I was glad photographer Andrew was there, too, for he captured some memorable images — including the one that graces the cover of this book. Less