by: Natalie Merchant (pg 24-26)
A bit of background: the brainchild of Canadian artist Sarah McLachlan, the Lilith Fair is a North American summer festival, now in its second year, which features an all-women bill of singers and songwriters. Sixty five performers will be appearing, and Sarah asked me to share a more permanent position on the bill. My band and I'll play 52 of the dates.
Checking into the hotel this morning after an all-night drive, I notice that there are two young men in the lobby wearing floor-length black satin capes, standing beside another gentleman in Medieval chemise and leather trousers tucked into laced leather thigh boots with a faux gem-encrusted sabre at his hip. They are accompanied by two young women, one appearing to be masquerading as a gypsy hobbit fortune teller, the other a teenage witch with paper-white skin, her black eye-shadow and lipstick all the starker in contrast. The front desk clerk leans toward me and whispers, "There's some kind of Satanist, magician, wicca cult convention in the hotel for the weekend." I plan to investigate.
With a small amount of prying I gather that the convention is actually a meeting of cyber-freaks, master game players and inventors, a few Trekkies and, yes, witches. Without a convention badge I risk infiltrating the wing of the hotel set aside for the conventioneers. The war games are in full swing as I enter the main ballroom. Three men impersonating Che Guevara are instructing a large table of boys in the art of intergalactic trench warfare, while on the floor there is a home-made prototype of a Dungeons & Dragons-style game in progress. I'm spooked by adult men in paramilitary attire who play fantasy games. I decide to focus my investigative skills upon a more urgent matter: how to find a vegetarian restaurant.
Every day Lilith hosts a press conference and a modest ceremony during which a sizeable cheque is presented to a battered-women's shelter in the community. One dollar from every ticket is given in this fashion and, because our audience over three separate nights in Detroit equals 42,000 people, we have a substantial donation today. The executive directors of these under-staffed, under-funded and overflowing shelters are blown away by the size of these unsolicited donations, their gratitude often reducing the artists to tears.
Sinead O'Connor has been balancing three different tours while visiting the States (the Lilith Fair, The Fleadh and a double bill with The Chieftains). One of the most chilling sounds I've ever heard is Sinead crying, "Fire... Fire in Babylon..." through a massive wall of speakers in the Rose Bowl Stadium in Pasadena to 35,000 people. It feels as if the San Andreas Fault will open wide and the Sierra Madres tumble inside.
I'm excited that N'Dea Davenport has joined the Fair. We became friends three years ago after we had both left our bands (10,000 Maniacs and The Brand New Heavies). It's a particular pleasure to have her on-stage singing a duet of Break Your Heart in my set.
I am astounded to discover that Me'shell Ndegeocello and I are the same size. From her photographs, the strength of her voice and the ease with which she slaps a bass around, I was convinced she would tower over me. But I find Me'shell to be a sweet and soft-spoken woman off-stage and an intense performer. I've even been moved to surprise her by dancing into her set.
I don't want to watch Spinal Tap on the tour bus again.
Morcheeba's last show on the tour. Skye, their chanteuse, has such a sultry yet playful vibe on-stage. All the boys in her band have brushcuts, are sharp-looking and very English, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer on-stage. I visit their trailer to say goodbye to Skye and her two beautiful children. It's quite sad whenever a band leaves.
I wonder what my dog is doing now at home, and if my gladioli have bloomed.
Our hotel is a study in planned obsolescent architecture, which resembles a concrete and steel bunker rather than the low-rent, family vacation destination it is. Military hardware circles the skies over the small strip of beach visible below my tenth-storey balcony; I count 15 jet fighters and five helicopters heading out to sea for morning maneuvers. I also spy two aircraft carriers on the horizon. It amazes me that the sunbathers and boogie boarders carpeting the beach below seem oblivious to the sinister presence above. Midday midsummer sun, no clouds, no escape. I'll burn instantly. It's too tempting for a land-locked tourist to resist the lure of the Atlantic coast and, in spite of the Apache helicopters and the UV rays, I'll descend from this concrete tower before long.
Sarah and I crash The Indigo Girls' set to spray the audience with Super Soaker squirt guns; no ordinary playthings, these are dangerous toys. Mine packs a full gallon of water and sprays 30 feet. The audience appreciates the soaking - the heatwave has brought temperatures in excess of 100 degrees to the South. My Patty Hearst fantasies have a useful purpose after all. [webmaster note: given Natalie's description, she is thinking of a different show because the Indigo Girls were not at the Raleigh show]
My friend Stanton is a research librarian involved in a scriptwriting project about Walt Whitman. Stan is from my hometown and I only see him when I'm on tour. After meeting in my dressing room, Stan ventures out to watch the show. Unfortunately there is torrential rain, but more unfortunately Stan opens his umbrella, unaware that they are forbidden in or around the amphitheater. Confronted by a security guard threatening to confiscate the offending article, Stan flips and ends up in handcuffs under the watchful eyes of four Georgia State Troopers. He's in court Monday. A librarian with an umbrella a public menace?
Even the most unlikely bill seems to work here because everyone is honestly giving of themselves. Watching all the women, I recognize the same passion in Queen Latifah's freestyle and Lucinda Williams' singing or Bonnie Raitt's slide guitar playing.
Walk out the hotel's revolving doors and take a 360 degree scan of the surrounding parking lot. I find myself in that familiar modern landscape that is quickly transforming everywhere into nowhere. I measure distances by neon franchise signs - Arby's, Hojo's, 7-Eleven, Exxon, Wendy's, Bob Evans, Ponderosa, Texaco, Holiday Inn, Sears, Walmart, KMart... Only the palm trees tell me that I'm in Florida. This suburban sprawl is meant to be navigated by car. As a pedestrian I make a curious sight, obviously provided for the diversion of motorists who move past me in columns eight cars wide. Cat-calls are tossed out of battered pick-up windows, and I feel vulnerable to abduction scenarios but convince myself that I've seen too much sensationalist TV on tour, too many cop shows and unsolved mysteries. More catcalls and a truck slowing down to check me out. I walk with more purpose towards nothing. Distract myself with calculating the square acreage of topsoil, dead underneath black-top roads and parking lots nationwide. I suddenly miss the Utopian atmosphere of the Lilith Fair backstage area.
Try to save two self-proclaimed fairies from being arrested for indecent exposure. Detained backstage, the girl fairy has a pair of white organdie wings on her back, painted sunflowers on her breasts and an ivy vine wrapped around her torso, her hair being long enough to obscure her nakedness. Her friend just wears a simple cloth wrapped around his waist - far from indecent. They tell me that they have come to spread their fairy love, but have obviously offended someone. Sadly, my attempts to free them are thwarted. Maybe Tori Amos could have done better.
In the diva tradition, Erykah Badu is a vision in head-dress, exotic gowns and heavy silver bracelets as she lights her candles and offers soulful incantations to conjure up her ancestors, Josephine Baker, Billie Holiday, Diana Ross and Chaka Khan. Her show is seamless, backing vocalists and band never failing out of step. I'm learning from every artist, and from Erykah the lesson is in poise and the power of a statuesque presence.
Bonnie Raitt gives hell to a journalist in a way that I would never dare. It gives me a vicarious thrill. The question offered to us in the press conference is, "Tell us, what sort of things do you girls talk about backstage? Guys? Make-up? Do you swap clothes? What's it really like?" Bonnie responds with something like, "Do you honestly think that is all women are about gossip, shopping and fingernail polish? We discuss our work, our families, our hopes and fears for our country and our society among many other topics."