Another Mickey (eBook)

Prologue
Pinner

The clatter of the commuter train abated as it emerged from the tube into a sunny suburban London morning. I had hopped the Metropolitan at the Baker Street Station and was on my way to Pinner to find my childhood home. I knew it would still be there, my brother Bob had located it the summer before. The tracks and overhead electrical lines looked amazingly familiar as we passed through the Wembley Station and other vaguely recognizable stops. I stepped off at Pinner Station, and after a brief orientation recognized my location at the foot of Pinner Village. A right turn, a stroll through the village, and another right turn soon had me staring up at the two-story Tudor home at 114 Waxwell Lane, Pinner, Middlesex, England. It was bigger than I remembered.

There were a couple of cars parked in the driveway and I was tempted to knock on the door and ask to take a look around. Then I noticed a for sale sign on the empty house next door. I thought it better to pose as a potential buyer for that house, so I opened the gate and entered the back yard. I recalled being there one crisp, fall evening, in my fifth year, looking at a stuffed human figure on a pile of sticks and grass. “What’s happening?” I asked my childhood friend Christopher, whose house it was. “That’s Guy Fawkes” he replied, not answering my question, as the pile and Guy went up in flames, and the small crowd of people cheered and drank. I peered into the backyard of our old house and spotted the remains of the foundations of two sheds my brother and I used as playhouses. Everything looked exactly as I had remembered, it was most surreal. Some of my earliest memories of life were from that very spot. I paused and soaked it all in before turning back toward the village, having accomplished the day’s pilgrimage.

I strolled back into the center of Pinner, a medieval Saxon village that had been subsumed into “Metroland” by the post-war London boom. It had been connected to London in 1885 by the Metropolitan railway, the first commuter rail line in human history. The main street was a beehive of activity around the small shops and restaurants. I slipped into a five-and-dime and took a seat at the lunch counter. I asked my waitress if the building next door used to be a movie theater. She said no, the theater was a bit further up the block, where the grocery store was now located. I remembered spending a lot of time in that theater, in awe of the huge images and sounds. I recalled a movie about a pilot who lost his legs in a crash, then became a war hero using two metal appendages. There was another one about a circus, where a trapeze artist defiantly worked without a net, fell to the ground, then had to work his way back into the ring. I guess I’ve always had an affinity for those who struggle to overcome adversity.

I finished my fish and chips and headed back to the station, hopped on the inbound Metropolitan, took it to Baker Street Station (yeah, I did take a look at 221B), grabbed the District to the Circle and made my way back to my hotel in Earl’s Court. It was the fall of 1991, and I was on a break from touring with my ex-wife Pat Mears’ band around the Netherlands, Germany, and Norway. I’d always had great memories of London from my childhood, one of which was riding the train into the city and going to Saturday matinees. This sojourn found me totally swept up in the unbelievable energy of one of the world’s truly great cities. I was short on funds, but I didn’t regret not having admission fees to the tourist traps. The whole city is a museum and amusement park rolled into one. I spent a few days checking out the Tower Bridge, Parliament and Big Ben, Westminster Abby, and other freebies. My cousin Jana had moved there with her husband years prior, so I called her up and invited myself to dinner. She lived just a few blocks from Abby Road. I took the bus across town (the tube is great, but the busses give you more experience of the city) and found my way to the Abby Road studios. It had deservedly become a shrine, surrounded by a wall adorned with messages of hope and gratitude. There didn’t appear to be much going on that day save some construction workers doing some refurbishing. I couldn’t believe there wasn’t some entrepreneurial soul with a Polaroid who, for a couple of quid, would take my picture as I strolled barefoot across the crosswalk. I had a great visit with Jana (who had dropped her southeast Texas drawl for a British accent) and her lovely children, then headed back to Earl’s Court. The next day found me on the train to Harwich, aboard a ferry to the Hoek of Holland, and on another train to Eindhoven, Netherlands.

Pat and I had separated a year earlier, but remained amicable. She had charted a single in Holland called “Looking for You” and was touring on the heels of that success. Her guitar player had bailed out at the last minute so she had called me with a plea to step in. She needed an electric lead man, and though I had dabbled a bit with electric guitar, it certainly wasn’t my forte. I think she mainly needed someone who she felt was reliable and dependable. The shows were good, but the reviews of the band were generally bad. Nevertheless, it was an exhilarating experience for me. I became good friends with the bandmates, including Pat’s boyfriend Marc, who played bass. Marc and our road manager Doort were fairly knowledgeable about the history of Holland and Europe in general. As we traveled around, they would point out Roman bridges and other historical sites. I’d been set up with an apartment near the “centro” of Eindhoven. It was a revelation living, for a few weeks, the European lifestyle—the trains, the walking, the sidewalk cafes, and coffee houses (by that time in my life it was for the coffee). But I realized that there was a huge gap in my knowledge of Europe’s history from the Renaissance till World War I. How did these nations come into being? I made a commitment to brush up on that when I returned home to Austin.

We played a circuit that accommodated many acts from Texas and the U.S. We ran into Lonnie Mack and Al Escovedo, and saw other familiar names on the club calendars, like the Fabulous Thunderbirds. One calendar that quickly got our attention was at the Milkweg in Amsterdam. Lo and behold, Townes Van Zandt was scheduled to be there the week after we played, and his gig was on one of our days off. I planned on making a day of it in Amsterdam, then popping in on Townes at the club around sound check time.

The morning of the gig I grabbed the train in Eindhoven for the ninety-minute trip to Amsterdam. I got off and strolled up the Dam, encountering one of the few pan-handlers I had seen since I’d been in Europe. A lot of what I intended to see was within walking distance, including Anne Frank’s house. I checked that out, then took the trolley over to the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum. The Amsterdam History Museum was particularly cool, with an informative map that lit up different stages of its growth, showing the construction of the perimeter canals as it expanded. I was a little short of cash, but I had a Master Card with me with a little available credit. I didn’t think I could get a cash advance, but the bank at the train station, amazingly, let go of a hundred and eighty-five dollars. I wandered around the shops and streets for the rest of the afternoon then found my way to the Milkweg.

Townes was surprised and pleased to see me. He was sitting in the front part of the club where the actual coffeehouse was (the Milkweg is supposedly the first in the Netherlands to serve pot). He was preparing to do an interview with a film crew (who would document the gig that night), so he invited me to meet him at his hotel in an hour. I found a little restaurant nearby and ate, then made my way to his hotel.

When I got to his room Townes, accompanied by his wife Jeanene, was in the best of spirits, exuding his southern gentlemanly charm, shot through with charisma and humor. He was sipping a little vodka, but I’d seen him at this stasis before, and knew his Dutch fans were in store for a great show. We caught up and shared some touring stories. I told him of my good fortune at the bank to which he responded “You need money? Jeanene, give Mickey two hundred guilders.” Jeanene popped a roll out of her handbag and cheerfully peeled off the requisite bills. Money never really meant much to Townes except maybe as an instrument to demonstrate how generous and selfless he was. I told him that Pat and Marc were driving up from Eindhoven bringing my Washburn Harvest acoustic guitar with them. Would he like for me to sit in on a few tunes? He acquiesced. We reminisced for a little while longer, then hopped in a cab for the club.

The joint was already buzzing when we got there, so we slipped through the coffee shop to the backstage. Pat and Marc showed up with my guitar. I think, in my heart, that I wanted Townes to have me just do the show with him, but he suggested I come up during his second set. He headed for the stage and just as I’d anticipated, he was on the money from the start of his set. I watched as my friend precisely and effectively delivered his songs that were so full of passion, vision, and insight. The crowd lapped it up.

He wrapped up his first set and came backstage. He politely received the well-wishers and admirers, making each one feel that they were somehow special and unique. We didn’t discuss much about what we would play, but I was a little disappointed that he’d already done some of what I considered our best stuff. Nevertheless, I was getting loose and pumped for whatever might occur. Townes started the second set, and after a few songs called me up. “How...