next morning we have most of the day to take in the rare glorious sunshine of norway’s glistening fiord here. i try and let the amount of sleep needed soak up my room before emerging.

at the water front i buy a sandwich from a mexican feller.

we inquire about the gigantic russian crabs that have invaded the norwegian coastline. they have taken over. they have no enemies, except for us, and that can’t quell their growing numbers. they loom.

back at the hotel, we wait for our airport ride just lulling there in our band mob. below our mezzanine balcony where we slouch, the lobby is clotted with its usual chaos as we hover sleepily above it. dave cloud walks by with extraordinary piano player tony from nashville, and there’s mention of kurt wagner being in the house. maybe sound checking now one flight up in the ball room we played in. i scoot up there for a quick hello.

i fling through the closed doors and there is no kurt there. just a bespectacled middle ager up on stage with a high voice and scowl. it looks like what i think loudon wainwright would look like and sounds exactly like. i stand there startled having heard that voice since 1976. those brilliant songs of his. his tortured attack. the anguish embedded in his humor. there i was in that big empty room, way too well lit, and only the 4 of us. loudon, me, the sound man (now on the board kent used) and a manager-ish american-ish looking dude who walks by me at the sound board sizing me up with a kind of perplexed snarl. i look at him. he at me. we say nothing, like two time travelers floating through regions of residency with a slightly familiar glint of the other going the opposite way, wanting to say something, but then, not really.

- — – -

last summer at this time i was flying from denmark to canada between festivals during a series of coincidences. my set that night was coupled with martha wainwright, louden’s daughter. i met her years ago for 5 minutes our friend nick hill’s in booklyn. now we shared the plane back to montreal and talked. the funny thing was that i had bought a copy of uncut magazine in denmark because i noticed everyone in it that had a full page photo spread was someone who i knew well. i was in there too talking about nick cave’s “red right hand”. of course warren ellis was over in there. elsewhere was steve wynn and peter buck, and isobel campbell with mark lanagan. the only full page i had no connection with was an article on loudon wainwright featured on the back page from 1976. the uncut ju ju was complete when i tore out that page and handed it over to martha. she smiled clutching it. said it was the year she was born. she also spoke of the passing of her mother earlier that year, kate mcgarrigle, and could feel her burden of such loss. her set the night before was so stunningly good.

- – - –  -

a couple of weeks ago i sat next to a stranger on the plane back from new orleans who mentioned he was a manager for j.j. cale, and that john lee looker was his best man when he married, so we had a lot to talk about.( i was invited by billy o’connell to be a guest in his class at the music college there, explaining to the students how to exist in the sonic kingdom.)

we have stayed in touch since then, me flirting with the possibility of getting some management from his office due to the divinity of proximity, or coincidence. he sent me an email the other day explaining the restriction of available management, but suggested a manager that may be interested in taking me on. and that was all i remembered about the email, as i was in a rush to make the plane here, except that there was some mention of loudon wainwright. i couldn’t remember this detail at the time when i was face to face with the man, but that manager looking fellow walked by giving me one of those long faces of discomfort activated by a stranger invading their sound-check sovereignty. then i turned back into the headlights of loudon and tried to soak up as much of that moment as any stunned deer could. he kind of reminded me of danny stuart.

-  — -

about then loudon finally spouted: “ excuse me, are you here on behalf of any official festival business ?”

busted.

“was.” i offered. “last night. right here.”

then he mentioned how much it means to him to be alone during sound check and i could see the jet lag sizzle his face within the preposterous position of reaching our age and still putting up with such a thing as a sound check.

“i understand.” i closed,  and left the way i came.

“good” he said, instead of thanks, while the jet lag sizzled.

— – -

i rejoined my band. they looked at me like i was confused. then our ride came and we shot for the airport. that night i looked up the email from that manger i met on the plane and re-read it: it mentions that he once managed loudon till he fired him, though still good friends, and mentioned his new manager is someone who might be interested in working with me. said we should get together and see. eye to eye.

maybe we already did. by the sound board.

the end