On a recent Saturday, my neighbor Matt, a medical physicist by trade and a fellow lawn & gardener at heart, hopped into the van with me for a show I had in the western piney hills of Georgia later that night. Matt had no idea what he was getting into, but I think he still likes me even after seeing what an “exciting” life I lead as a touring, albeit mostly unemployed musician neighbor.

Before pulling away, I entered our destination address (believe it or not there are two “Butts Mill Roads” to choose from in Georgia) into “Genevieve” (see previous post), and away we went through Chattanooga, Atlanta and on down I-85. Just outside of the big concrete city, we stopped for gas and a Dunkin Donut. Not 10 minutes later, I peered ahead and saw a horde of red taillights on the interstate ahead, so I quickly exited and put my faith in Genevieve to extricate us from the looming nowhere goings. I had second thoughts more than twice as we careened down two-lane highways, but she absolutely and authoritatively rejoined us to the interstate just past the traffic woes. I was not only proud of Me Lady, but giddy that we were spared those miles of stop-and-go traffic thanks to her calm, collected, well-informed reasoning. I think Matt was more than a little impressed with Genevieve, and whereas before he was hesitant to purchase one of these devices, he now foresees as a dandy investment. That was Matt’s first convincing experience. His second was another 45 minutes down the road.

In the final stretch down pseudo-paved roads, Genevieve called out “Arriving at destination.” I laughed incredulously. It was pitch black, I could see nothing except the halo glow of dashboard lights, and I was absolutely certain I had initially entered the wrong address since there was nothing at all resembling a restaurant (the venue) out here in this Georgia farm country. I’m not a genius, but I know the middle of nowhere when I can’t see it. I remained highly skeptical up until the very moment I turned into the supposed driveway not 50 yards from the building itself. Genevieve 3, Eric zilch.

Since Matt inquired, I told him that each show is different in that I never know what to expect upon arrival. I don’t know if he expected a fine arts theatre replete with lush, red velvet seating and gray-whiskered ushers, but what he witnessed was slightly different. I was to play a short set that night at a homecoming banquet for a small, private school. While the handsomely dressed ate amid the clinking of glass and utensils in the restaurant, myself and the school principal (i.e. the sound man), a nice gentleman and very adept sound tech, sound-checked in a separate, adjacent building down the path. Since I could see next to nothing in the darkness, I gathered that this building might have been a converted horse stable. But it worked fine. I wish I could have seen the place in the daylight. All in all, I really enjoyed myself and the chance to meet the person responsible for bringing me in – a well-spoken high-schooler mature well beyond her years. I’m certain I played far too long for some of the high school audience members who were quite obviously bored by my antics, the glazed faces and the glow of texting phones being a dead giveaway.

We loaded the van and were on the road by 10pm. Matt was kind enough to take the wheel an hour or two later and, listening to Louis L’Amour books on tape, drove the remaining three hours home. I failed him as a navigator (I fell asleep in the passenger seat), but, again, that’s what Genevieve is for.