Hi, Fender. Your Dad, right? This story makes me smile. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

We were somewhere around Barstow…

That’s our joke. No matter where we ended up, and how many shoes we had left on our feet, and how dehydrated we were or how scratched up from the night, we’d end up at a diner. Some days there’d be others with us in the booth, but most days it was only your Dad and me remaining, the rest lost to a stranger’s hotel room, or better decisions like sleep. Deacon never slept, but he also never ended up on the outskirts of Barstow. 

The waitress would fill our coffee mugs marked with Shiner’s Diner or Hank’s Fill ‘Er Up, take one look at our weathered faces, and leave the pot on the table. When she came back with water she’d ask how our night went. 

Without missing a beat, we’d look at each other with smirks and say, “We were somewhere around Barstow…”

Some servers got it. Most didn’t. We didn’t care. Do you know that fugue state you reach after a night out with no sleep while a cocktail of gin and dope finishes swimming through your bloodstream? I don’t think you do if you’re still the sweet boy I remember. But we all grow up, evolve, change. We never stop changing either. Your Dad’s nodding at that, even though he’s the same stubborn asshole I met almost forty years ago. 

Okay. Let’s focus, Mary.

I met your father on their Nowhere is Everywhere tour in ‘89. You know the album cover. That pink tongue stuck between the devil horns of the rock and roll sign. Do you know that’s Mick Jagger’s tongue? He was in the studio when they were recording, another one of Deacon’s connections, and they were spitballing album covers. Larry joked to Mick, “Let us borrow your tongue,” meaning their logo. What does Mick do? He sticks his tongue out as far as it can go and snaps a photo of it. One take. Says that one’s on the house. Mick and Keith were on the outs at the time, both doing solo projects. Steel Wheels was in ‘89 so maybe they were recording it or about to. Doesn’t matter. Wiry guy, Mick. The word sinewy never made sense until I met him.

How do I describe my early relationship with Spin Cycle and your father? I’ll say this. I evolved from Penny Lane to Patti Scialfa. 

What’s the Boss say? You can’t light a fire without a spark? You know what our spark was? You’d guess music, and you wouldn’t be wrong. Music was the ember. The warm coals that never went out, still to this day. When the Big Bang happened, the components of the song of our life were created. The notes, the lyrics, the tempo, the harmonies. All scattered around the galaxies, waiting to connect the dots. The spark that connected them? 

Home.

Michigan. 

Upbringing. 

Two kids growing up without much, but grinding all the same. Your dad was pouring concrete and building cinder block basements during the day, and going to band practice at night. Grinding our way to a show in Cleveland. Those were my groupie days, but hey, you’ve gotta start somewhere. I graduated high school on a Wednesday in early June and was on the road to Cleveland Wednesday night. It’s a quick shot to Cleveland, loop around Lake Erie, the spookiest of the Great Lakes (your Dad chuckled; I’ve still got it!), under three hours and under two and a half if you were driving like my friend Heather, a bat out of a hell high on anticipation. 

We showed up at Peabody’s during Funk Police’s set. They wanted to be the Red Hot Chili Peppers, only the spiciest song they offered tasted like ketchup. Cute lead singer, though. Guy named Tarot or Taron. British guy acting American. It never made sense to me, but they were loud, which was enough for most people. Got the crowd going for Spin Cycle.

Peabody’s held a thousand people when they ignored fire safety laws. Heather and I grabbed drinks and found a spot at the side of the stage. Standing room only was made for me. Can’t recall a concert I’ve ever sat at. A festival, but that’s a different thing, an event, an excuse to roll out the blankets and have a picnic. We danced to Funk Police, screaming things neither of us heard but still understood.

During the last song, I saw this man in ripped jeans and a white shirt with red sleeves and collar. In slanted red letters, it says “High on Stress”. He was smoking a cigarette and poking his head out from behind the stage, checking on the crowd. He saw me and Heather, and paused on us. 

His hair was long back then. To his shoulders and waved into curls and, well, pretty much exactly like your hair was in your high school graduation photo. You had more facial hair though. He was clean shaven. A baby tapping his foot to music so loud my ears hurt. A baby who nodded to both of us, stubbed his cigarette on the concrete, and disappeared behind the stage curtain. 

I screamed to Heather that we just met Brett Carradine.

“I want drugs,” was her screechy response. 

Some groupies last longer than others. 

It helps when you can sing and play an instrument. I grew up singing in our church. Could always sing and loved music. Played piano, shook a mean tambourine. Never thought I’d put it to use. 

I know you’ve seen hundreds of Spin Cycle shows by this point. You know what you’re getting. It’s hard to describe the first time seeing them live, and in a smaller venue with everyone collectively realizing you were seeing the next big thing before it became the next big thing. That’s your “This one goes to 11” experience. That was every Spin Cycle show for me. Even when things got ugly later. 

After the show, we weasled our way backstage mostly by being pretty women in shredded jeans and belly shirts. Did I own bras back then? Sure. Did I wear them?

I’ll spare many details, but I will say, and I say this because it says more about his heart and soul than anything: your Dad is a great kisser. He’s gentle and caring and focused on the moment, not preoccupied with everything else going on. You might think I’m crazy, but you should be proud to have a father who cared. I couldn’t imagine my dad giving me a hug, not to mention kissing my mother.

Your dad could kiss, and he could give great hugs.

We didn’t kiss that first night though. No, Brett! We didn’t. You like to think we did because it fits better into your storybook. You were closer to kissing Heather than you were me. Yes! Yes you were. 

He’s full of shit. He asked me to tell a story and now he won’t shut up.