The Humorless Ladies of Border Control by Franz Nicolay Read Free Book Online Page B

inside—and are not optimized for hard travel. I have a spreadsheet of accordion repairmen around the world, lonely grouches in their sixties with garage workshops an hour out of town: the sad old men of accordion repair. Between these pilgrimages I do my best with superglue, duct tape, needle-nose pliers, and a soldering iron.
    I pick up the guitar and start playing and singing. The same song each night for the whole tour, usually—that way I’ve got a constant. The sound guy will get the idea and start turning the channels up. If he hasn’t already decided he hates me from the moment I pull out the accordion or banjo, I can move through the other instruments. When we’re both satisfied, I pack up the instruments and re-coil the cables so the opening acts can have the stage.
    Now is my downtime. I’ve usually got about three hours. Sometimes they’ve made dinner for me—as cheaply and easilyas possible, but free food is free food. In Scotland it’s often chili. In England, pasta. In Germany, what we simply call “vegan slop” over rice. (In America you won’t get fed. Pizza if you’re lucky.) Anything you can stick in a big pot, turn on a flame, and feed two to ten people.
    Otherwise, I head out and wander around the neighborhood. It’s my last chance for some peace and quiet. Sushi or noodle soup and some hot sake is the ideal preshow dinner: filling but not sleep-inducing, with a little warmth. Mexican or Indian food is absolutely off-limits—too heavy (the only time I’ve vomited onstage, a burrito was the culprit). If I’m overseas, my phone’s on airplane mode, so I can spend some time with a book. Treat yourself.
    If I time it right, I’m back at the club about an hour before set time. I’ve missed the first opening act or two. There are a decent number of people milling around. Mostly people won’t buy merch until after the show—who wants to carry around an LP for another two hours?—but I go lurk by the merch table for a few minutes anyway. Now it’s time to get dressed.
    Country star Porter Wagoner was once asked why he wore sequined Nudie suits. “I don’t know what business you’re in, but I’m in show business,” he replied. I’ve always dressed up for shows. They’re a special occasion, and you dress up for a special occasion. And it’s a way of making the psychological break between the daylight introvert and the effusive nighttime persona, a way of getting in character. Like Superman putting on the cape. For this tour, I’d brought just one black suit with a white French-cuffed shirt, which I wore with an open collar and a maroon pocket square. I had a pair of pewter cufflinks with the head of a Spanish conquistador on them. They had belonged tomy great-grandfather, a clotheshorse in his time. I had a round black-brimmed hat and a pair of $30 black shoes from Target I wore until they fell apart. With luck, there is a back room or a kitchen or at least a storage closet to change in. Without luck, the men’s room. Maria has a couple of dresses (they pack smaller than suits) and a pair of short heels, and she puts on bright red lipstick and liquid eyeliner.
    Now it’s showtime. There are usually a decent number of people in the room, not a lot, but maybe the promoter won’t lose money. They’re young, mostly. Outside of the UK, people over forty don’t really go to bars to see live music. The young men tend to wear black cutoff shorts, a black band T-shirt with white print, slip-on skater shoes, a scruffy beard, and earlobe plugs. The women are usually in tight black jeans, Converse, black tank tops, Bettie Page black bobs and bangs or bleached and chopped and dyed hair. Neither, for some reason, wear socks. Everyone has a can of cheap beer. Some of them sit cross-legged on the sides of the floor, most stand. Sometimes they clap in time.
    â€œHello,” I say,