The Folk Following
"Remember when
it was exciting to go to New York to play?" Paul says, wistfully, to Jaccodine.
"We were like, 'Oh, it's so cool, we're playing in New York.' "
It is noon and still
raining. Hard. The virgin thrill of gigging in Manhattan has long since worn off. What's
exciting to Paul now is the thought of drawing bigger crowds, increasing publicity. After
so many years of crisscrossing the country alone in his Honda Civic, playing to rooms
whose audiences numbered in the single digits, it's about time.
Probably that the
sacrifices he was making by living on the road - including a normal personal life and,
ultimately, his marriage - would eventually bring about some measure of national
recognition and monetary success. To an extent, he has attained both - but they've been
equally slow to arrive.
"When I went out
on the road for the first time, when I was 27, 28, there were 15 people a night, and now
in all of those places there are 150 people," says Paul, who has, more than once,
filled the 850-seat Somerville Theater to capacity.
He is momentarily
quiet before hammering home the result of just such a digression: "I played to eight
people in Carson City, Nevada, last week."
It is two o'clock.
Ralph Jaccodine accidentally aims the car the wrong way down a one-way Manhattan street
before shrieking horns prompt a U-turn. He heads toward the SESAC offices on West 54th
Street. In July and August, the interview Paul's doing here will air on an in-flight
channel on thousands of United Airlines jets - not to mention on Air Force One.
I don't know how many
people will actually listen to the channel, but the good thing is that the in-flight
magazine will have my photograph, and that'll be good publicity," Paul says.
So, will having his
voice broadcast into the ears of millions of air travelers make him an honorary member of
the famed mile-high club?
"I doubt it. But
I jerked off in an airplane once," Paul jokes. "What is that club called?"
"The loser
club," answers Jaccodine.
Sound check is at 5
o'clock. Tucked away beneath the Time Cafe on Lafayette Street, the Fez is buzzing with
pre-show energy. But it's not for Paul's show. Before he takes the stage at 10, there's a
drag performance from Kiki and Herb on tap. The evening's waiters and busboys, an
attractive and flamboyant group of young men, clearly gravitate more toward Kiki's side of
the spectrum. They obviously want little to do with Paul and his guitar.
"I have such a
fucking headache," moans one waiter as Paul airs out "Sweet Mistakes," a
recent addition to his repertoire. The soundman makes adjustments as Paul changes a
string.
Paul's trademark high
tenor echoes in the empty club. He is known equally for this voice and his lyrics - story
songs, many of them are called, describe with nuanced details people and places, love lost
and found. His recordings have won awards and critical praise, but it is his live
performances that has drawn most of his fans. They drive for miles to hear him weave tales
with words and notes.
"There's a weird
smell in here, isn't there?" Paul wonders aloud. "A combination of vomit and
cleaning products." The smell isn't much better in the dressing room, where he sets
up camp after sound check. The rain hasn't let up, and the ceiling is leaking. On a metal
coffee table, Paul is ironing the wrinkled blue shirt he plans to wear for the show.
