Past the security line a Chauffeur held up a sign that said, “Galbraith, Delaney, Kim.” He looked like a Chauffeur: black suit, black tie, white shirt and black Greek fisherman-like cap.
Sizing us up, he asked, “Which one of you is Kim?” I knew what he wanted. He was Korean and he was intrigued that one of us wasn’t Korean and he wanted to know why. This was not unusual. My whole life Koreans have been interested me, the Great White Non-Korean.
Even though he hadn’t asked, I replied, “I’m adopted, my parents are Korean.” It was a lie, but I’d learned that it evoked no response and sometimes looks of pity. Pity was good. Telling people the truth - I’ve got a weird Scottish name or another lie – I am Korean sometimes led to a challenge.
The elevator led to the parking garage. We didn’t check luggage, stuffing our guitars and one carry-on containing our suits and various guitar and drum accessories into the overhead compartments. The Chauffeur pushed the down button and said, “I picked up the singer yesterday. “ We assumed he was talking about the singer of the Counting Crows. And we assumed that he assumed we were part of the Counting Crows. We said nothing. He continued, “He’s kind of…” his voice trailed off. His outstretched hands replaced his words, pantomiming a very large stomach or a very pregnant woman. One us of yelled, “Fat? He’s fat?” Ignoring the answer to his charades, he continued, “He was with a very pretty woman. How does he get women?” Befuddled, he shook his head and pondered the injustice. We laughed. Lev added to his disbelief: “He arrived a day early to scout out the chicks in Phoenix.” He shook his head, not knowing whether to believe us.
The limousine was a Ford 350 passenger van. Another man joined us, possible a roadie for the Counting Crows.
On the drive to the Hyatt Scottsdale, I looked out the window at the treeless terrain. Everything was brown: strip malls, stucco houses, signs, landscaping, everything. I thought of the old Saturday Night Live skit that sold nothing but scotch tape. People would come in asking for recording tape and the clerk would say, “Nope, just the sticky kind.” For some reason, it stuck with. Somewhere in in Phoenix/Tucson there was a paint store that sold nothing but brown paint. And they were making a fortune.
A preoccupied woman from the New York City production crew met us in the lobby of the Scottsdale Hyatt. She said another van would pick us up in 2 hours to go to the other hotel where we were playing. We checked in, went to our rooms, met poolside to sample southwestern faire and met back in front of the hotel to go to the show.
A new van driver helped load our guitars. We got in the van and he said, “You guys in the band? I used to play in the 60s.” Great. I was thinking about the girth of the Counting Crows singer’s stomach.
To be continued...
(Image: Christmas '10. Michigan)
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