A lucky dad savors 22 days on the road with his 22-year-old gigging daughter

The Preface(s)

Yes, there are three, for a variety of reasons including COVID-19. But feel free to click the conversational audio version below to listen to the how this came about and what you’re about to read.

Preface 1 (written in late 2019)

            I was initially excited for her when my soon-to-be college graduate told me she wanted to drive across the country after graduation, playing gigs to support her four-song EP “Dust” and seeing the country before eventually meeting up with a friend in northern California.

I was reflective, wondering why I didn’t do something similar.

I was perhaps a little jealous too, wishing I still could.

But then I was a little scared for her safety and began wondering about logistics.

Her 2004 Camry, “Clancy,” with 294,000 miles and a leaky gas tank, surely wouldn’t make it, or at least her mother and I wouldn’t let her try it.

She was also traveling to Spain in a few months to teach English for nine months, so buying a new car didn’t make a lot of sense either.

And then…

The brilliant idea!

What if I go too?

I could keep her safe.

I could drive the family van and then drive back solo. Or I could rent a car and fly back.

We did a 13-day road trip a few years back and had a blast (petty sure she’d say the same!)

Brilliant idea, right?

Perhaps not.

I excitedly pitched it to her while she was still at school, getting ready to graduate.

I’m surprised I don’t remember exactly the exchange or even whether it was a phone call or text, but I remember it wasn’t a, “great idea dad, that’d be awesome!”  

I think she said something like “I’ll think about it.”

In daughter-dad speak, that’s a “no,” by the way.

I took it as a no and didn’t mention it again.

But it stung.

Fast forward a few weeks and out of the blue I hear from Kirsti, and she said she wants me to go with her. I’m sure it might have been more out of transportation convenience and money concerns than a true desire to have 52-year-old Dad around, but I was fine with that.

I was actually elated.

Fine doesn’t do it justice.

The days that followed were a frenzy of lining up Airbnbs, planning daily drives and Kirsti trying to book gigs.

She basically planned the entire route and we both booked Airbnbs.

What follows in these pages are some amazing highs we enjoyed. The simple beauty of this huge country, the kindness of people from all walks of life, the unmatched power of music as a social medium and a tightening bond with a daughter that any dad would die for – and I got to experience.

There were some lows too; after all it was 22 days and 5,000 miles. But the highs far outweighed those.   

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Preface 2 (written June 2020)

It’s been really hard to sit down and write this book these days. I have several chapters done, but I’m struggling with the order. I’m struggling because I want it to be GOOD – no GREAT, and a respected successful author and friend said a trip story doesn’t really have a large audience appeal. He said it needs to essentially have a “subtext,” essentially somebody to root for.

It can’t just be a chronological journey, he said.

And he’s probably right.

So, who do you root for when a dad is lucky enough to be allowed to go on a 22-day trip across the country as his daughter sings in various restaurants and pubs in places like Dallas, D.C. and Nashville?

Well, you probably root for the daughter, right? Who would want to do this trip with an almost 52-year-old, goofy tag-along dad. So, you root for her to survive it essentially.

But you have to be able to root for the dad too, or maybe not root for, but share in his feelings of pride, awe – and at times sadness and helplessness.

Going over pictures and videos of the dinners, the views, the curve of the earth and the gigs brought it all back as I prepared to write this.

But it’s also been hard to write this because my daughter isn’t feeling great these days and times are so insanely different – and never to be “normal” again.

We’re in the midst of a COVID-19 pandemic.

She was ripped from Spain, where she was living, literally minutes before the lockdown began there in March and has been living in her cozy attic bedroom for a couple months now.

She did some Facebook live performances early on, but hasn’t in a while.

She’s sad.

Sadness, depression, anxiety – call it whatever, but it resides in both sides of my family.

So, it’s tough sitting down to try to write about that insanely fun 22-day 5,000-mile trek that brought so much happiness, while seeing her battle away and seeing the world disintegrate from a deadly new virus and deadly leadership.

But I’m doing it.

And I’m going to give you someone to root for.

Me.

I want you to root for me to understand the meaning of this trip.

I want you to root for me to be able to make sense about how to do what’s best in life for her, and her sister too.

Through the photos and notes and recorded chats on the 8-hour drives, and the music and pubs and Airbnb hosts and Uber drivers, and the drunken raw conversations about sadness and happiness, and the views and hugs and side-by-side TV watching, I want you to get a painted image of this trip and its meaning.

I’m starting the book, not at the beginning, but at what I considered the pinnacle-proud pop moment of the trip in Clarksdale, Mississippi, where Kirsti poured her soul into two unplanned original songs in a historic blues club, and she killed it!

From there, I’ll offer chronological details of the 16-city trip – but while weaving in other epic moments and trip events, like the process of selling the family van on Craigslist in Oakland (another reason to root for me, by the way. Trust me!).

The trip had it all, from encounters with former students and high school friends, to a moth attack in Albuquerque.

And I hope, that by me working hard to finish this book this summer, by talking to Kirsti about the magical times among the miles and miles, that the load of the uncertainty about pandemic and racial unrest and returning to Spain to teach can all lighten a bit.

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Preface 3 – June 2022

It has now been three years since that trip of a lifetime and good ole Facebook has been sending me daily reminders about where we were three years ago. I just watched a video of Kirsti singing “Who Will Save Your Soul” by Jewel in a biker bar in Amarillo, Texas. Almost every day it seems like I’m getting a new memory from this trip that sadly is fading a little bit.

Since I last opened this WORD doc. file, I self-published another book of student work called “COVID Chronicles: College Students Navigate Pandemic Life.”

Writing about my pre-COVID travels with Kirsti got shelved, again, after reading some raw, powerful, emotional blogs from my Fall 2020 Media Writing class – conducted exclusively on Zoom – that saw them literally pouring their souls onto their laptop screens detailing their fear, depression, anxiety – and at times humor and thankfulness.

I scurried to publish it as quickly as possible, believing strongly that their messages needed to be viewed by more eyes than just mine and those of their classmates. They loved the idea and it gave them a glimmer of something positive coming from something so scary and awful that upended their lives.

It cost more than it should and sold less than I had hoped, but I’m really glad I did it for them, and perhaps when the next unfathomable pandemic strikes, hopefully long after I’m gone, it’ll be a history book best seller and my kids or their kids will reap the rewards.

I tell you this because I’m trying to explain why you’re reading a third preface.

I’m starting again and thanks to my first sabbatical after 17 years of teaching, if you are reading this, I finally finished it! Also, if you’re reading this, you’re doing so because you found it through social media, or through local news stories.

After two self-published books (“Blow by Blow: A Quarter Century of Voices From My Notebook” was published in 2013), I realized I HATE self-promotion and marketing. I’m not good at it either and honestly I feel badgered when I see others doing it, which doesn’t help my sales.

So this book is free. I mean, I’d love it if after people read it, they feel it was worth something and they slip me a little something via the site, but I didn’t want the self-publishing stress (torture) again.

As I finish this third and final preface, it’s the end of 2024. New Year’s Eve. Kirsti, her husband Miguel and my other daughter Sarah were all home for a week at Christmas and we got to do all things winter including sledding, skiing, pond skating and snowman-making – in that order. It was great having them home.

Life is good, and looking back at this trip of a lifetime only makes it better. Now, for the dedication to Sarah, pictured below on a recent trip to Spain.

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Dedicated to Sarah

I’m dedicating this book to my daughter, Sarah.

“Why Sarah?” you’re probably thinking. “This is about Kirsti, the singer, right?”

It is about Kirsti, and me, and 22-days and 5,000 miles of driving, singing, laughing sharing and dreaming.

And that’s why I’m dedicating this to Sarah.

I thought about how hard it might be to smile when Kirsti and I share stories about that experience.

And she does it graciously.

But people undoubtedly compare and question whether Sarah feels slighted. I wonder about it too.

I love Sarah the same as Kirsti, but we connect differently and we both know it.

This book is all about sharing music, stories, life experiences and lots of laughs between a proud dad and a tolerant 22-year-old.

Kirsti and I both like road trips, baseball and similar music.

Sarah HATES being in the car for more than 10 minutes and as a toddler would ask “are we there yet?” literally before we got to the end of our street.

Her attention span is far too short for baseball, too, learned from perhaps one too many Red Sox games as a kid.

And her musical tastes trend more toward dance and pop, like her mother, though she surprises me at times and loves “Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones.

Sarah gets our differences, and admittedly didn’t want to go on such a trip, though I bet it was still probably hard for her to see us set off for more than three weeks. 

But I need her to know that connecting differently isn’t better or worse, it’s just different.

I need her to know how insanely proud I am of her for her lead roles in plays, her grace and poise dancing or acting on the stage where she craves the center spot and excels when given it. I’m proud of her grades and her work ethic and how she is a money saver and landed two career-type jobs with major skin care companies immediately after she graduated.

I need her to know how much I love to laugh with her, and when she cracks up my buddies with her quick sarcasm, she reminds me of me – always seeking that laugh.

And I love that.

She needs to know she’s not my ‘youngest daughter,’ or the ‘second one,’ just my daughter.

In my world, she’s an equal to her older sister in every way. Always will be.

Her eyes tell me sometimes she doesn’t believe that, though, and it makes me sad.

Hopefully these words help with that.

And our post-graduation trip to the Bahamas, her chosen graduation gift that involved very little driving, was epic and I think she’d agree.

We stayed in the same oceanside place where the Beatles stayed when they filmed “Help” in 1965. At least that’s what our cab driver said. She made a hilarious TikTok of us trying to bust open a coconut. She sang an Amy Winehouse tune at a karaoke bar and we basked in the aqua water in our own little cove, both grooving to a tune that became our island trip theme song; “I’m Still in Love,” by Sean Paul and Sasha. 

And unlike the trip with Kirsti, with Sarah we each brought a friend, father and daughter duo Bob and Hannah Bishop. We did a cruise together a few years back and had a blast.

I hope it’s clear as you read this, that I live for these kids.

Always have.

Always will.

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Chapter 1 – The highlight

(June 2, 2019 Clarksdale, Mississippi) As we walked into the tired old structure in the true “home of the blues,” on June 2, 2019, we were immediately met by a red neon glow, a different odor and a long-haired middle-aged woman saying “seven dollars please.”

There weren’t more than five or six people in “Red’s Lounge,” but the music sounded good and we were told by our Airbnb host that it was a must stop, especially on a midweek night when not many of the other historic Clarksdale, Mississippi juke joints were even open.

Plus, the music we were hearing from a guy we’d later learn was Mark “Muleman” Massey, was enough of a beacon to kick down the $14 and head in.

I had no idea that the next few hours would prove to be the most memorable of the 22-day-5,000-mile cross-country adventure with my 22-year-old daughter, Kirsti.

As a 52-year-writer, places like Red’s attract me like a moth to light. There were a handful of tables with mismatched chairs. The bar was tiny and a hand-drawn sign on a scrap piece of cardboard behind it announced the beer choices.

A huge man with a gentle smile was tending it, but above him was a not so inviting sign that said NO RECORDING, which would later prove tough for me to adhere to.

I looked up and noticed the ceiling was in rough shape, with plastic covering some of it, maybe from a leaky roof?

The floor in the men’s room sagged hard to the right, and the toilet ran constantly as a result.

The walls of Red’s were plastered with posters and signs and birthday well wishes – and I bet they’d all been there for years.

Counters and shelves that lined the probably 1,000-square-foot space were stacked with papers and containers and pretty much anything you can think of – all drowning in red neon.

It was perfect.

After we sat down with our beers, I loved watching the first reactions of others stepping into this other world as the night went on. They, like us, did a double-take and then found a seat and were soon inescapably caught up in the blues.

What made it even more interesting was in the corner, in a white reclining chair in front a huge TV playing the NBA finals, was Red Paden, the owner.

Red, I would later learn, knew Ike Turner, Big Jack Johnson and others from the area who would go on to make it big in the music world. He’s a local icon who still provides nightly blues music in this sleepy cotton town known as the site of legend Robert Johnson’s deal with the devil.

But on this night, despite the Muleman bellowing out soulful originals literally 15 feet away, Red was mostly fixated on that screen. He’d occasionally go from reclining to sitting, but the glare stayed on the TV.  He’d sometimes answer his cell phone – other times he would let it ring and ring – providing another instrument for Massey.

He did banter back and forth with Massey at times, with Massey jokingly asking Red how long Red has been “pimping?” – to which Red responded, “since I was 9-months old,” to a chorus of laughs.

As the night progressed and as Muleman poured his soul into tunes like “She’s Not Mine Anymore,” about a girl-stealing neighbor, the place began to fill up, including with musicians we had just seen at Levon’s down the street.

At Levon’s, we dined on fried catfish and drank bloody marys and got into a nice blues groove from hearing this Janis Joplin-esque performer Bear Ryanand her band blaze through tunes with the lead guitar player (I would later come to know as Emanuele Pistucchia from Austin, Texas by way of Italy) and her dueling to elevate the intensity level.

They were followed at Levon’s by this energetic teenager who would start his set – just him and a guitar – with a ripping version of Hendrix’s “Hey Joe.”

So yeah, we were already in music mode.

There were 20-somethings in Red’s that night, and 70-somethings. Regulars waltzed in and greeted the big bartender and mingled with others they obviously knew. Someone pointed out an unassuming girl with long hair and high-top sneakers in the back of the room and said she was an amazing bass player, but we didn’t get to hear her play.

Another guy came in and sat at the drum kit and played a tune with Massey.   

Paul Woodland, from England, was there with his wife and two friends, one of whom I’d later learn is a country music journalist. Woodland would play a really neat role in our night later on and we learned that he and the reporter, Jamie Gardam, essentially travel the world chasing good music.

By 10 or so, the place was popping, but we were pretty cooked having driven several hours earlier that day from Nashville and we faced another big drive to Dallas for another Kirsti gig the next day. Muleman was taking a break, so it was the perfect time head out.

Because Kirsti plays music for money and certainly loves tips when people appreciate what she does, I always tip performers. When we were walking by Massey and his Grammy winning keyboard player Billy Earheart, I threw $10 in his tip jar. He was happy, thanked me and offered me a signed CD as additional thanks.

I thanked him and we told him we loved the night and loved Red’s and loved his music.

He followed us outside to get some air and we continued to chat – and that’s when he asked me if I had ever tried corn liquor.

Perfect, right?

As we walked toward his car, a teenager pulled up on a bike and recognizing Massey said “hey, you’re the Muleman.”

Massey smiled at the recognition.

After the kid rode off, Massey pulled a mason jar out of his trunk. I’ve had moonshine from upstate New York distilleries, but there’s something perfect about being in the south and having local people offer you a sip of their work.

I had a slug.

So did Kirsti.

We liked it! It didn’t make us breathe fire or choke. It was actually pretty smooth (that night anyway! See Dallas…)

We continued chatting and Massey asked about us. We told him we were on this cool, cross-country daughter-father trip and that she was playing at a handful of places along the way.

“You play the guitar?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she replied a little sheepishly.

“You should go back in and play a couple songs,” he said almost instantly.

I was sure she’d say no.

Despite playing in front of people well over 100 times in the past seven years, she’s actually pretty shy. She tells me that a lot. It’s tough for her every gig, but the applause – especially for tunes she wrote — is her reward. And once she gets over the nerves, she tells me she really enjoys herself doing what she has done since she began performing as a little kid in the grade school talent show.

I was really hoping she’d say yes, but wasn’t going to push.

I think she said “I guess” or “ok” or something like that.

We went back in, I headed back to my table – over toward Red – and watched her take Massey’s guitar, sit on a stool with her now bathing in that red neon as everyone looked on.

Oh yes, the mason jar of moonshine was now in the side pocket of my cargo shorts, a gift from Massey. Not sure if anyone noticed, but I didn’t really care because my daughter was about to play in a historic Mississippi juke joint in front of people who know and love music. No one was there for the ambiance or drinks; they come to Red’s for MUSIC and my daughter was about to give them some.

Massey introduced her. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something to the effect of her being a long way from home on a road trip with her dad.

People welcomed her with nice applause.

I was climbing out of my skin.

She started the soulful fingerpicking notes of “Cloudy,” one of several songs she wrote while studying in Spain, the result of a young man ripping her heart from her chest.

“You weren’t what I thought you’d be, you weren’t what I thought at all,” she softly snarled.

“You weren’t what I thought you’d be, that’s why I took the fall.”

“You were so soft and sweet, swept me off my feet, and I turn around and you run just like a thief.”

People hooted and whistled in approval and encouragement mid-song as she conveyed a mix of Norah Jones and Amy Winehouse – my analogy, not hers.

Through a monstrous smile, I snapped pictures, trying to capture it without breaking the no video rule. God, I wish I could have recorded it!

Seconds earlier, I had asked the bartender if I could.

“It’s my daughter,” I pleaded.

But he said no, so I didn’t push it.

I was frantically trying to soak in the moment and also preserve the moment forever.

I looked around the room to see reactions.

People were into it!

Then I looked at Red – and this made my night.

He had turned away from the game and was grooving to her tune. He would watch her play “Cloudy” and stay fixated on her when she followed it with “Black Mood,” another sad one about having returned to Burlington, Vermont and missing Spain.

Red was literally bobbing his head. 

Gardam, the ThinkCountryMusic.com reporter, noticed Red bopping to her too.

“I definitely saw it was the only time Red looked away from the basketball on the TV when she sang,” he wrote in a follow-up email.

He elaborated in a later phone interview.

“He’s sort of a figure out of a storybook,” he said of Red Paden. “You’ve got these three guys playing, and then you’ve got this girl that gets up on stage with a really nice voice, a sort of singer songwriter doing some creative things with lyrics and stuff and it was really fresh. To hear her sing, it isn’t what you’d expect in this bar at all.”

When she finished, people gave her a huge round of applause. She smiled, thanked them, thanked Massey and headed back to our table.

She killed it.

Pistucchia, the lightning-fast guitarist we had just seen at Levon’s with his side band called Red on Yellow, almost instantly followed Kirsti on Instagram, which meant a lot to her because of his talent level. Months later, in a phone chat, he talked about her voice and how she’d be great in Austin, Texas, where he lives. He even offered for her to open for his touring country band, Creed Fisher, which has opened for Toby Keith among others.

“They’d love her stuff down here,” he said through a thick Italian accent.

But he also talked about Red’s and how cool that night was for him.  

“Red’s is a really difficult place to show your music, because basically the audience there wants to hear something really good,” he said. “And she did great. My singer (Bear Ryan) said ‘this girl is so talented. She’s so good.’”

He also said the moonshine coupled with an unplanned performance at such an iconic old juke joint was “definitely a blues story – perfect for a book.”

A few minutes after she performed that night, we both exhaled, finished our beer and started walking out, and that’s when the Brit, Paul Woodland, came into our story. Woodland had taken this great picture of neon-red Kirsti from the other side of the room and chased us down to see if we wanted it. It was a perfect capper to the already epic night. He airdropped it to me and I told him I was likely writing about this and got his email address.

I later learned he’d been on a road trip starting and ending in Nashville for CMA Fest. But what he wrote at the end of the email made me smile, whether it was true or not.

“Fantastic trip, a highlight of which was getting to see Kirsti play a random set at Red’s Lounge and to see Red’s reaction. Perfect!”

After thanking him for the picture that night, we walked back to the Airbnb, really amazed at what had just happened.

And what made it so special, was that 24-hours earlier in Nashville, I watched her cry after a gig went horribly wrong, through no fault of hers.

See Nashville.