Show Time
Kiki and Herb's
performance runs long. By the time they scurry off the stage at 9:30pm, bits of feather
trailing from Kiki's pink feathered boa, Paul has given up hope of warming up in the
shared dressing room and is sitting backstage, surrounded by empty beer kegs and cartons
of melons.
He has to fight to
hear himself over the whine and thunk of a generator. Waiters and busboys turn sideways to
squeeze past him. He doesn't look up.
Paul seems
comfortable there amid the fruit and frenzy. These are the people and places he writes
about. Most often, it is real life that finds its way into his music.
"I write songs
about people that I bump into along the way," he says. "I just go around and I
treat myself like an antenna and listen to people and what they have to say about
themselves, and then try to get it into a song if I can."
Show time. It's one
of those nights when everything clicks: the voice, the music, the vibe. The audience is
adoring, and Paul is adoring them right back, opening the concert with the masterful
"Maria's Beautiful Mess," a song that, at the end of the night, his fans will
convince him to play a second time.
It's a packed house,
filled with young yuppies and older hippies, many of whom seem to know every word to every
song - and who aren't shy about singing along, even before Paul invites them to.
Ralph Jaccodine is
holding court in a booth at the back of the room, selling CDs as the show blazes on.
Though he also manages the local band The Push Stars, he's known Paul longer. He knows him
better, too - the musician is even godfather to one of Jaccodine's two young children -
and Paul's good nights are Jaccodine's good nights as well.
"We both kind of
put our lives on the line for this," Paul will say later. "It's not exactly
paying off in a grand financial way, but I think we're going to be fine."
At 10:20, Paul
unplugs his guitar and makes his way into the center of the club, where he sings without a
microphone, his voice magnified by pure adrenaline, joy etched on his face. There's the
money and then there's this, the other payoff - to be loved by a crowd, to play a perfect
song, to turn a quiet space into a room that's alive with music.
At 2:15am, FDR Drive
is nearly empty. Paul's next destination: Kingston, N.Y,. for an 8am "Acoustic
Breakfast" show.
He's on a post-gig
high, recapping the night's events with Jaccodine, who's fighting sleep in the back seat.
They've just spent the last hour and a half huddled around drinks with a posse of media
types, including MTV VJ Dave Holmes, who attended the show at Jaccodine's invitation.
"I thought the
energy was amazing," Paul croaks. He's barely slept in days, and this show - more
than two hours long - has knocked his voice over the edge. "Next year is just going
to be fucking nuts. I think what will happen - because all the shows I'm doing now are
just going so great - is that the impact of these shows is going to bring in a bunch of
new people, and then..."
"You shouldn't
be talking," Jaccodine interrupts. "Your voice is shot."
"I'm drinking
water," Paul insists. "I say a sentence, then I drink. Watch - just like
that." He squeezes the bottle and shakes his head. "Nothing's going to save me
for tomorrow morning, man. I might as well be Tom Waits. I'm not going to sleep. I've been
up 'till six o'clock every night this week - why should tonight be any different? I might
as well just stay up until the fucking show, and then play." Then again, he has to be
onstage at 8am, and in his years on the road, Paul has learned the hard way that early
morning sets, especially those that come on the heels of nights like these are painful. He
rethinks his options.
"Do you know how
long I'm playing tomorrow?" he asks.
"About a half
hour," responds Jaccodine.
"Thank
God," Paul breathes, sipping water. "I can fake anything for half an hour."
The New York State
Thruway is still wet at 3am, and the spray thrown from the tires of the few other cars is
nearly blinding, but Paul presses on unfazed. There is a hotel room waiting for him in
Kingston, before he performs at 8.
But on Paul's mind
now is the show he just finished. "I made $2,000 tonight," he grins, tapping the
wheel. There is no music. Paul's stereo was stolen out of his car months ago. Now, when he
goes on the road, he spends most of his time thinking - about writing, about business
ideas. He doesn't sing.
"Oh, shit,"
Paul announces, as blue lights whirl in the rearview mirror.
The state trooper is
humorless at 3am.
"Do you know why
I pulled you over?" he asks, "You were going 76 in a 55, and it's raining."
Within minutes, Paul
is back on the road. The ticket - one of several he receives each year, an occupational
hazard - is half crumpled on the dashboard.
"I made $1800
tonight," he says.
