The Artist's Life

Since returning home from Mule Train MMIV— the tour I embarked upon with my band, The Commonwealth, in early 2004 aboard the Amtrak Crescent—trains both here and abroad have taken a serious beating.

First the commuter-train bombings in Madrid, which (a) killed 191 passengers, and (b) offered a superfluous reminder of the strange and threatening world in which we live. And more recently, an Amtrak train heading from New Orleans to Chicago derailed in Mississippi, critically injuring 15 and killing one. But don’t give up on trains. They played an integral part in the building of our nation and wait patiently in iron stables to carry you wherever you feel like going.

My own journey proved long and difficult and altogether worthwhile. Amtrak was fantastic. The porters, conductors, engineers—the entire crew of the Crescent—were supportive of our trek. My label, Sugar Hill, embraced the idea and did all it could to make things happen. Rick Cady, my booking agent, did a magnificent job putting together a run of 15 cities. The rest, however, was up to us.

Well, the Amtrack Crescent is a Northbound Train
The Number 20. It runs faithfully from New Orleans to New York City, while the Number 19 starts in New York and heads south. Like a word problem from high-school algebra, they pass one another somewhere en route and we actually get to see them both stop in Birmingham at the same station. We’re told this is rare.

So, I Bought the Cheapest Ticket and Carried My Clothes
I’d never traveled first class on anything, and I can assure you that first class on a train does not disappoint. Engineered for the most efficient use of space, the sleeping car resembles the inside of a VW microbus. We regrettably had to downgrade to coach later in the trip, but we were all glad to be back in the Viewline Standard Sleeper for our return trip from New York to Birmingham. Meals are included as well, and we’re not talking camp food. There’s beer and a smoking lounge. A smoking lounge.

And the Blood Beneath My Eyes From a Broken Nose
My mantra for The Commonwealth has always been “one song, one show at a time.” People are forking out their hard-earned cash to come see us play, the least we can do is quit bitching and give them everything we have. Human beings need goals, and on this trip the goal is to rock every stop between New Orleans and New York City, one song and one city at a time. I should also add that during my long career I have generally gained fans in the same way I lose them: one at a time.

When Life Goes Wrong This Train Rolls On
And us along with it. The band, our crew—the Crescent, its crew. You wouldn’t believe the number of people before the tour who emailed to say, “I can’t believe you’re not stopping here because we’re on the line” or “I can’t believe you’re not stopping there because it’s such a nice station.” There may be two trains (running in opposite directions) but there’s only one chance to catch your train.

If it departs from Charlottesville at 6:30 in the morning after you rock ’n’ rolled pretty hard the previous night (because your hometown mayor hauled your father and half your former high school teachers over the mountain for the show, making you so nervous you got piss drunk), you still have to wake up and catch your train. This is not a commuter train. This is a real train, with an engine and crew. It’s been running since 1891, back when it was called the Southern Crescent. The train is its own living and breathing thing. Get on board and you’ll see. Oh, and quit Monday-morning quarterbacking the tour itinerary. Try and put a rock ’n’ roll band on a train schedule and see how you do.

Listen to me, the tour just started and I’m already cranky.

So I Crossed into Georgia & into Eastern Time
Did you know that the railroads created time zones? There weren’t any in America before the train. But from Georgia to New York, we were in the time zone of my youth, Eastern. Or as I like to call it, GT: God’s Time. Exodus, 6am EDT.

When Life Goes Wrong It Just Goes On and On
Especially at this point of the tour—after I had acquired the vicious head cold, bruised ribs and the ever-present road hangover.

You know, I’m not the biggest or toughest guy around. But when I was working on our farm, my dad would hire the football team to come help us bail hay, and I could outwork them all. We still used square bales then and it would take two-to-three weeks to put up two-to-three thousand. Each bale was handled and stacked after it came flying full force out of the kick baler, which could shoot a bale of hay weighing 50 to 70 pounds approximately 30 feet.

The trick to stacking hay is not strength but leverage and endurance. Same goes for touring. And it’s not for everybody. But with rock ’n’ roll, somehow I’m always ready. I feel lucky to have heard my calling.

At a Stop in Charlotte Found a Hog’s Leg Joint
Seemed Like Forever Until We Reached High Point
Charlotte is a strange place. Back in the ’80s, all the talk revolved around the question, “What’s going to be the new city of the new, new South?” Birmingham? Atlanta? Charlotte? Well, I guess Coca-Cola, CNN and a president from the state of Georgia put Atlanta over the top, although Charlotte got the banking centers and eventually a pro football team of its own. (The Carolina Panthers played in the Super Bowl while we were in Charlotte, and it was a good game. I heard some sort of brouhaha about the half-time show and saw Janet Jackson’s bewildered mug on the cover of every newspaper for the next week-and-a-half, so I’m assuming she really knocked ’em dead.)

I used to give Charlotte grief for (a) trying to be Atlanta, and (b) lacking a river. However, a good friend of mine named David Childers informed me that Charlotte did indeed have a river so I reluctantly awarded it some points. A sell-out crowd at our show that night convinced me I’d been too harsh. So, in case you were wondering, Charlotte’s officially back in my good graces.

Incidentally, this was the only stop where the band and crew “went to the sinners” (i.e. visited the mall and a steak house). We could do that anywhere, of course. But guess what? We had a great time. Chalk one up for progress—Charlotte’s and mine.

Now Lynchburg to Danville is a Ghost Filled Rail
If You Listen You Can Hear the Engineer’s Wife Wail
“The Wreck of the ole ’97.” Now that’s a train song.

And we passed by where it took place. My sister lived (and died) in Lynchburg, Va. I spent many days and nights and months there. I really thought it best to pass through, especially since it was late and the sidewalks were more than likely rolled up already.

Funny story involving the Crescent, my family and Lynchburg: My cousin and his father were traveling on the Crescent headed north for D.C. and my Uncle asked the conductor at one point if they had passed Lynchburg.

“LYNCHBURG!?” the conductor responded, yanking the emergency- brake handle located in every car. “You’ve just missed it!” (Keep in mind it takes about a mile-and-a-half to stop a train, almost as much effort as it takes to get it going.) “LYNCHBURG! GET OFF!”

“Oh no,” my Uncle Roger said, “I didn’t want to get off. I just have some family there, that’s all.”

When life goes wrong it just goes on and on.

Better Say “Manassas” if You Say “Bull Run”
‘Cause in Va. You Won’t Get Along With Anyone
Some civil war battles had different names depending on which newspaper (Northern or Southern) covered them. “Shiloh” in the South was referred to as “Pittsburgh Landing” in the North. “Sharpsburg” in the South, “Anteitam” in the North. Hence “Manassas” in the South and “Bull Run” in the North. “Gettysburg” was “Gettysburg” and they were all stupid wastes of life, time and energy. So you’ll get no fight from me.

Somewhere Between Right and Wrong
Somehow I Manage to Keep Moving On
America looks grand, even from inside this train plowing stubbornly through everyone’s backyard. The shows north of the Mason-Dixon were fun and the crowds enthusiastic. I was finding an America I could stand behind. As long as it was standing in front of me.

It Takes So Much Effort to Move this Train
Why Does Everything Around Me Have to Look the Same
I tried to take a picture every 10 minutes on our ride from New York down to Baltimore. On a fast moving train, it does all look the same. But I know it’s not. I was surprised people in the “BOSWASH” corridor took some offense to those lines, but let me explain. The tidewater area I lived in for a time was all swamp grass, tidal rivers, rednecks, Native Americans and back roads perfect for cruising with the radio blasting. The lines aren’t written out of ignorance or inexperience. Once upon a time, the landscape from D.C. to New Jersey looked identical. And I’m sure it still is in some parts. Thank God.

The band, crew and I had a great time in all those cities and met some great people. Baltimore: a Northern city with Southern charm. Philadelphia: a city of neighborhoods. New York: THE city. I shall return to them all, and hopefully soon.

When Life Goes Wrong It Just Goes On and On
When Life Goes Wrong, It Just Drags On
So here we are in April and I’ve been home for a month trying to write songs for the next record. It’s not coming to me yet but it will. My wife’s father isn’t well. My parents aren’t spring chickens anymore either. Someone ran a stop sign and totaled our car, and in the days that followed I answered the phone every five minutes to some ambulance chaser checking up on “our health” following the accident. Our bathtub is falling through the floor and I have a colonoscopy tomorrow (my sister died of colon cancer at my age). The war in Iraq is out of control, the 9/11 Commission is doing nothing but blaming each other for something no one could control, we have a Republican president who spends like a Democrat and taxes are due tomorrow.

Makes me want to get on a train and ride somewhere. Anywhere.

—Scott Miller, April 14, 2004