THE STORY BEHIND THE TOUR OF IRAQ (April 13-27)
April 30, 2009
PREFACE
I’m from New York City, the daughter of an artist and a musician. A year ago I’d had no experience with the military, and knew no one personally who was serving.
Then I met Lt. Colonel Scott Rainey. Scott found me in Austin, Texas playing at a music conference, and convinced me that I was needed was in front of the troops. It was just one of those things: I trusted him instantly with my life, and knew within days we’d be friends forever. Scott is a teddy bear and an intellectual rolled into one, but above all else he is an Army man – stoic, hardworking and trust-worthy to the core.
Last October, Scott came with me for my first tour of American Military Bases in Iraq. It was an experience that made me fall in love with music again, with its connective power. I got more out of meeting the troops than they did with me, and was humbled by how accepting and grateful they were.
A wonderful band of guys stepped in at the last minute to go with me. Eric Lindberg played electric guitar, resembling Fozzy Bear with his out-of-control `fro. Bryan Bisordi was our cerebral jazz-drummer with long curly brown hair. Our bass player was Mark Stewart, a quiet guy who studies Bach in his spare time. They wore black and white suits like the dudes in Reservoir Dogs, and I wore my usual retro-inspired concoction from whatever thrift store I’d dug through. We stood out like a bunch of zoo creatures, but never once felt unloved. It made us mildly uncomfortable to be thanked so profusely by the troops when they were the ones doing all the work for months on-end.
Out of that tour came the recording Live From Iraq. Scott’s deployment as Chief of Programs in Iraq was nearly up, and we knew we had to get one more tour in before he left. So – armed with a few thousand of the Live CDs for giveaways – we got ready to head for the sand and heat and T-walls once more.
At the last minute a little more magic happened. Susan Cohn Rockefeller, an award-winning documentary filmmaker, got wind of the project through Bryan, who was teaching her son drum lessons. We had the opportunity of a lifetime: showing people back home a different side of these deployed men and women. Sue would send two videographers with us to document the tour.
Music brings people out of their shell. Precisely because I’m not a famous pop star like Jessica Simpson, because I’m not a news reporter looking to sell a story, because I’m not from the military myself so have no interest in a sanitized Public Service Announcement –because of this I have the chance to see the troops simply being human beings. Wherever they serve – whether it’s Afghanistan, Iraq, or responding to an emergency at home like Hurricane Katrina– the troops will have the same need to put it down for a night and listen to some songs. This story belongs to them.
Monday April 13, 2009
Lessons in contrast: priceless. I live in Greenwich Village in Manhattan. My morning starts with a workout at a posh yoga/Pilates studio called Physique 57. During one of the push-up plank moves, I look over to see an exceptionally beautiful woman sweating with the rest of us, and realize it is the supermodel Christie Turlington. (Working out next to Calvin Klein’s face-of-choice really does test your self-acceptance.)
Next, I head up to Susan Rockefeller’s house on the Upper East Side. Sue is producing and directing the documentary on my upcoming tour to visit the troops. She recently ran into Nile Rogers at the Four Seasons and got him interested in our documentary, so he’s meeting us today for lunch. Nile is a legendary producer in the music business, working with everyone from Diana Ross to David Bowie and Eric Clapton. He even did Madonna’s Like A Virgin album, which I remember roller-skating to when I was just starting to buy my own music. After September 11th in 2001, he gathered 200 celebrities to sing his song “We Are Family” in a music video directed by Spike Lee. Nile runs a non-profit with his partner Nancy Hunt called We Are Family Foundation, dedicated to teaching global coalition and collaboration. They’ve expressed interest in acting as our film’s non-profit sponsor.
This is all going through my head as I round the corner at Lexington. Standing outside Sue’s townhouse, there is a man wearing glasses with a salt and pepper beard and a lot of equipment bags. I’ve only seen him through Skype since he lives in LA, but I know right away it’s Rob VanAlkemade, one of two camera-people who will be coming on the trip to Iraq. He’s got a slightly gruff but sweet adventurer look to him, like he could fit in anywhere or become invisible at a moment’s notice. Rob shot the Burning Man documentary, and some gorgeous films on Guatemala and India. He seems refreshingly no-bullshit, standing on a street corner where most residents are unreasonably obsessed with appearances.
Inside Sue’s townhouse, sitting under a Picasso, Nile and I chat about his father, who was in the military and was blinded in combat and with whom he is very close. Nile and I get along well; I believe him when he says Music has saved his life. We eat a light lunch of avocado salad and fresh fruit, and then I jump in a cab with Rob headed for downtown, to a clothing company called Edun.
Edun was started by Bono’s wife Ali Hewson, with a mission to drive sustainable employment in developing economies. The clothes are all made from Organic Cotton and assembled at fair labor plants throughout Africa. Sue has set up a meeting for me at their Tribeca offices to get outfitted for the tour. I didn’t exactly have to be dragged there. Everyone who knows me knows my closets are absolutely overstuffed with possibilities. One of my first words in life was “shoes.” Ana, Edun’s laid-back, completely unpretentious company rep, helps me pick out about 10 items off the rack, including a sold-out black cotton scarf printed with Rilke poems that Bono’s been photographed wearing. I warn her that the clothes will get dusty and dirty perhaps beyond all laundering capabilities, but Ana remains cheerful. (Secretly I’m hoping she says I get to keep them later.)
With a full shopping bag under my arm, I head back to my apartment to begin packing. There is still so much I need to do. I call my mother in a panic: MOM! How will I ever get it done? Her voicemail picks up. Piles of clothes are scattered all over my tiny apartment. I pull out my Gibson to learn the last few cover songs for band rehearsal tonight.
At 10 pm, the band meets at a grimy warehouse-style space in Chelsea. I’ve forgotten my microphone, and try not to imagine all the ashtray-licking punk rockers that have spit into the fishy-smelling mic the rehearsal space provides. No matter: we have so many songs to get through, there’s no time to inwardly retch.
Usually on tour I sing my own originals almost exclusively. But in the case of going to play for the troops, I want to have as many covers of classic American songs as I can, as a way we can instantly relate and get along. If the whole point is to bring them a slice of home, I want to give them what they already know and love. We’ve opted for Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Tuesday’s Gone,” Allman Brothers “Melissa,” Jimi Hendrix “Voodoo Child,” Muddy Waters “Forty Days and Forty Nights,” Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m On Fire,” Elvis’ “That’s All Right Mama,” and the classic “House of the Rising Sun.” Songs not making the cut (only in the interest of time) are Curtis Mayfield’s “People Get Ready,” Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower,” and Blind Faith’ “Can’t Find My Way Home.”
We rehearse until 1 am, going over my originals as well, including “Meridian,” “Where the Pavement Ends,” and the Hurricane Katrina-inspired “Helen’s Requiem,” as well as a new song I wrote only a few days ago when listening to a Bo Diddley beat – called “Soundtrack.”
Home from rehearsal, exhausted and mildly stressed by the state of my apartment and the amount still to be done, I toss and turn in bed for several hours, constantly waking up to add new things on the “To Do” list by my bed.
Tuesday April 14, 2009
Nara Garber, our camerawoman, and Rob and I meet at Sue’s house for one final meeting. Sue won’t be able to go on the trip, and she wants to make sure we are all on the same page as far as what themes to cover in the documentary.
Nara and I already met last week. I liked her instantly. She’s just finishing up a documentary called Flat Daddy about cardboard cutouts military families can have made in the likeness of a deployed-family member. It’s mostly for the kids, who take their daddy to show-and-tell or perch him in the bleachers at soccer games.
When I first discussed the idea of the documentary with Sue and Nara, we all agreed that our treatment of the troops had to be fair and un-biased. We could give people at home a human side of those serving that we simply don’t get to see on CNN. Politics would play no part in this portrayal. As a musician I often got open door access into their lives, and I have to respect that trust. When people are moved by music, they often confide in you. They tell you what it feels like to be a normal human being with emotions doing this steely, extraordinary job. They feel elation, despair, fear, boredom, and frustration. I wanted to give them one night off, to forget where they were during the concert and return to familiar ground.
I was delighted to find out that Sue and Nara were on exactly the same page. Nara jumped up and said “Oh I’m so happy you said that!” She’d just spent all these months getting close to military families and felt a tremendous loyalty to be fair and balanced, as in the real fair and balanced.
So it was agreed. No puff piece for Nell Bryden. No political diatribes on why this or that happened, or where we should go from here. No Public Service Announcements for the military saying everything is sugarcoated either. Real people responding to real people: that’s what we hoped to see.
I’m worried about one last thing: what about all the cover tunes that we’re doing? They are an essential part for the troops’ reaction, but will be too expensive to license for film use. Sue and Nara and Rob all say I should do my show the way I do it. Don’t worry about the cameras. I realize they’re right. I also suddenly realize I’m getting a little nervous about having cameras around me 24/7. I tend to hate all footage I’ve ever seen of myself, and usually cringe when I see myself on You Tube. Whatever. Again, this is not about me. Sometimes I need the reminder.
That night I go to a kickboxing class at my gym, and then take the subway for a goodbye-dinner with my Dad, stepmother Betsy and 17-year old brother Dee. My dog Max is staying with them, and he’s very old and tired at 13. Each time I leave him now I feel a lump in my throat.
Wednesday April 15, 2009
At 2:45 pm, a car service arrives to take me to the airport. I haul my overstuffed suitcase down the treacherous four flights of stairs in my pre-war tenement building (read: no elevator). Next is my huge guitar flight case, big enough for an 8-year old child. I’m also bringing my Martin acoustic guitar, in case we can take any Blackhawks out to the smaller patrol bases. The car service guy watches dubiously while I show him my system for fitting everything in the trunk and back seat.
Most of the band is already at JFK airport when I arrive, and Rob has managed to sweet-talk Marie, the counter worker at United, into upgrading us all to Economy Plus. There is some confusion that we may miss our connection in Washington DC Dulles because of weather, so Marie looks into standby options but then decides we’ll be okay as we are. Unfortunately, Rob’s ticket doesn’t get changed back, and he nearly gets bumped from the plane when he finds someone else sitting in his seat.
Our first tour drama out of the way, Nara and I share a bottle of Pinot Noir in the next airport, well aware that it will be our last for the next 12 days. We’re headed into dry countries, and the rules on the American bases are strictly enforced. I call my mother, already missing our daily conversations, then check on Max one last time.
Eye pillow on, earplugs in, I finally conk out on the flight to Kuwait, catching up on sleep during the 13 hour flight. It’s already been a hectic week, and the tour hasn’t even started.
Thursday April 16, 2009
We land in Kuwait at 6 pm, and feel instantly like foreigners in a foreign land. I steer the band to the visa counter, where we take a number much like you would at a New York deli. In the background, a man sings from the top balcony, his call to prayer ringing out into the already echo-y airport. Everywhere there is bustling and people scattered all over the ground in groups. I feel self-conscious and conspicuous. To make matters worse, the metal button on my jeans broke as soon as I walked off the plane, so I have to keep pulling my shirt down to cover myself. That’s what you want in a Muslim country. I’ve brought only one pair with me. I hurriedly find an ATM for some Kuwaiti Dinar, which is currently kicking our dollar’s pants. The irony of the pun is small consolation.
Somehow we stumble downstairs to baggage claim, although no readable signs appear anywhere to indicate any such location until we are already there. All the gear arrives, but it looks like someone has played baseball with my Martin guitar, or perhaps mistaken the Fragile stickers for targets. The whole top of the case is cracked wide open. Still bleary from the plane, the band straggles together with our bags and instruments. Men in blue worker jumpsuits aggressively load our bags on their carts despite our efforts to make them stop, then insist we tip them. (Memories of windshield wipers at NYC intersections in the 1980’s.)
Finally we spot Contee from Armed Forces Entertainment waiting to pick us up. Everyone’s psyched to see him again. Contee ran the Kuwait-leg of security for us our first time over here, in October 2008. He is a fun, not-easily-ruffled guy.
Our convoy (security detail, two large Escalades, and a pickup truck full of our gear) drives to Camp Arifjan. It’s the same military base where we started our last tour. We arrive around nine, too late to take my jeans to the tailor. Dinner ended an hour ago, but we’re all grossed out by plane food anyway.
Nothing to do but settle in and get a good night’s sleep. We each have our own rooms, a privilege none of us takes for granted now. Our first tour through Iraq the boys had to sleep together in a tent that housed the K9 unit at Mamadiyah: it was literally a dog kennel. They slept on cots with no blankets or pillows, shivering in the 40º Air Conditioning, and Colonel Rainey slept with them. Now we appreciate the hard-standing building with built-in plumbing while it lasts. I fall asleep reading an article by David Sedaris in the New Yorker.
Friday April 17, 2009
In the morning I set my alarm for six to workout in the gym. I do bicep curls and squats while some huge Army guys spot each other with heavy weights. Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” comes on the stereo. I nearly laugh out loud. Mid-pushup, I look up to see a scruffy guy with a big `fro ambling by looking entirely out of place. It’s Eric, our guitar player.
Back in the women’s latrine I go to shower and remember I haven’t packed a towel. A sweet young nurse named Julie on an all-night shift offers to lend me hers. She says to leave it hanging when I’m done. No one will take it.
In the shower, Kid Rock randomly pops into my head. Scott told me he came to spend last Christmas with the troops. I totally respect that. Nile Rogers says he’s a good friend. Within seconds “Sweet Home Alabama (All Summer Long)” comes on the radio. I take it as a sign that I am in the right place.
I get dressed and head to the PX for some supplies: an Internet card, a towel, protein bars (you never know when you’ll miss chow; it’s not like NYC where you get anything at anytime), and superglue – which Rob has ingeniously suggested for fixing my button. Rob’s already becoming our ready-man, wearing a fishing vest with 27 pockets full of bits and doo-dads like Neosporin and extra pens.
I use my Internet card for 20 minutes to book some flights for an upcoming tour of Ireland and the UK. It’s hard to focus, hard to imagine myself anywhere but this drab concrete military base that feels so far from home.
After a presentation by the Commanding Officer of the Area Support Group for Kuwait, we load up into the Escalades and Contee leads our convoy to the location of our first show, about an hour and a half from Arifjan. Drivers in Kuwait are crazy. Traffic laws seem to be more like suggestions. An absolute bag-of-bolts car, doors dragging on the highway, passes from the slow lane at 90 mph. Contee barely raises an eyebrow.
We arrive in a cloud of dust at Ali Al Salem. Finally we get to see Scott! Colonel Rainey – aka Colonel Fun – is waiting for us. I bounce out of the SUV to give my old friend a hug. He and I have stayed in touch since our last tour, but email is no substitute for the real thing. He tells me his replacement has already moved into his office, and he’s packed all his possessions from Baghdad into two Army duffle bags. In two weeks he flies back to his family in Pennsylvania. This tour is our last hoorah.
We’re happy to see Don too, one of two sound engineers from Coaxial from our last tour. He works harder than any soundman I’ve come across in the States, loading and unloading the gear from the pallets, setting everything up, never complaining. Don is Filipino, with a long black ponytail, and calls me “Ma’am” no matter how much I ask him to call me Nell.
We’ve brought James Deering, an engineer from BB King’s in New York, to do sound for the tour. James works at. His uniform of choice is an old Army vest with a Grateful Dead patch. He’s in his early twenties and has never left the country before. When he hears Don and Karim will be helping him with the gear, he breathes a loud sigh of relief. There’s no way one person could be responsible for 3,500 pounds, which is how much we’re carrying with us once you add up the monitors, PA, amplifiers, and speakers. James, with his scruffy blond beard, long blond ponytail, and nose-ring, tells us an old joke: “What’s the difference between God and a soundman? God doesn’t think he’s a soundman, but a soundman….”
Ali Al Salem is a military airport, with people constantly coming and going. We meet people on their way home, on their way to Afghanistan, and on their way to Iraq. There’s a bunch of Australians who say, “Betcha never saw so many sober Ozzies before!” Four Romanians play basketball in the courts near the stage. We set up for sound check, and then I start introducing myself to the stragglers sitting around on the bleachers.
In the next T-wall over, they are giving camel rides in a dusty dirt pit. People are lined up to try it, and rather than pull my VIP status to cut the line and bounce up and down on what looks like an angry creature (can you say ‘sports bra’?) I hand out CDs to the people waiting and then hurry off for dinner at the DFAC (an acronym for the cafeteria; the military absolutely loves acronyms).
We’ve been running around so much, it’s now showtime and we don’t have a set list. Military time and Nell time are famously unrelated. Ten minutes into our start time, I’m still in the trailer hiking up my skirt and scrawling out a set list with the band hopping around putting their suit and ties on. Even though we’ve had several rehearsals in NYC to prepare all the covers, I still don’t feel like I know all the lyrics confidently yet. I grab for my folder of cheat sheets, forgetting the wind and outdoor stage.
Outside, the mosquitoes are swarming like an orchestra of high-pitched alarms. They love me in normal times and these are not normal times. One guy lends me his Off spray. I promise to dedicate a song to him. Sufficiently doused, we jump onstage a full half-hour late (considered early at most rock venues). I even manage to slap a mosquito to his doom during the verse of one song.
For the most part I enjoy myself during the concert, but I still get a panicked feeling as I watch my cheat lyrics flutter away in the wind. Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child” goes over well. That’s going to be a fun one to have in our arsenal. We try out my new song “Soundtrack.” I forget most of the words but nobody knows what they’re supposed to be anyway.
At one point there’s a problem with Eric’s pedals and he needs me to buy some time with the audience. I say the first thing I can think of – always a bad idea – a dirty joke from the David Sedaris article I just read in the New Yorker. (What do you call nuts on a wall? Walnuts. What do you call nuts on your boobs? Chestnuts. What do you call nuts on your chin? Never mind the punch line. My father is reading this.) I cringe as I say it… Can’t believe I’m blurting out this bad joke! The audience finishes it for me – they already know the punch line. In the autograph line after the show a soldier says, “Ma’am I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds, but I don’t think you should be telling jokes like that onstage.” When you’ve been told by a soldier to tone down the dirty talk, you know you’ve got a problem!
The best part of playing for the troops is the autograph line after the show, because it’s when you get to actually talk to people. Tonight I meet a young guy who said he went home for the birth of his first child a week ago. He’s apparently lucky to get leave. Most guys watch their children being born via Skype. Another gentleman I talk to is stationed in Afghanistan right on the Pakistani border. You can tell he is haunted by what’s going on there. Someone else fakes having a camera for a hug. I don’t realize it until there’s no camera for us to smile at.
People wait patiently in line for nearly three hours. The mosquitoes delight in their good fortune. By one am, I’ve signed the last CD. We load up and prepare to drive back to Arifjan. Contee is frustrated and I can’t quite figure out why, until I hear that we have a 4 am “bag roll” to turn around and come all the way back here for our flight.
Frankie and Rabbit, our security detail, lead the way. Our convoy drives into the desert night.
Saturday April 18, 2009
When we meet in the morning it is still dark. Even at 4 am there’s a man studying for his Colonel’s exam at a table in the lobby. He comes out to meet us and I sign a CD for him, wishing him well on his test.
Our Ford Expeditions speed down the dark desert highway, the sky slowly lightening like a dimmer switch. No sun is visible; there is no dramatic change. Daylight simply creeps in until it is undeniable.
About an hour after sunrise we arrive at LSA airport and meet up with Scott again. We get our individual body armor (IBA) and Kevlar (helmets) and check into the airport hanger. We’re VIP and traveling with a Colonel, so we get to go to the DFAC for to-go containers of breakfast. The troops have to stay in the hanger and can only leave for quick trips to the Porta-Johns. CSI: Miami plays on flat-screens around the room. After several hours of hanging around, we load onto a tourist bus that will drive us out to the airfield. Miss Donna, our spunky bus driver, has worked for Halliburton for the last 20 years. She’s quite a character, barking out, “I’m from Texas. If y’all don’t like that, get off my bus now!”
We file into the back of a C130 plane bound for Iraq. I buckle myself into red mesh bench seat, still wearing my heavy body armor. The roar of the engines is so loud my ears ring even with earplugs. On takeoff, Scott’s water bottle folds up and crushes in his hand from the pressure. Some of the contractors look like they’re about to hurl. The ceiling lets down a torrent of what appears to be water. No one is quite sure. Scott leans over to tell me when it stops leaking is when you need to be worried – just in case it’s part of the fuel line. He’s only half kidding.
We land at Tallil, our first stop in Iraq, in a swooping combat landing that makes me truly regret my choice of breakfast. Peeling off my IBA in the 90º heat, I realize my morning’s shower has become completely irrelevant.
Our civilian contact Terry drives us over to the BBQ at the outdoor stage where we will play tonight. This morning, Camp Tallil held a remote Boston Marathon, meaning the times will officially count towards the real marathon on Monday. They started at 5 am that morning. One guy from the Air Force finished in 2 hours and 56 minutes. My legs hurt just watching them as they sit around in plastic chairs eating cake and Bar-B-Que. I do my best to convince them to come back to the show later, assuming they will stay lying down once they make it back to their bunks.
I’ve got my own bathroom in my trailer – an incredible show of VIP treatment. Feeling spoiled, I walk out to the waiting van outside my T-walls. A very cool looking tough-guy in shades and civilian clothes walks up to us. Our escort Terry gets a bit flustered and says he’s with the State Dept’s Special Ops, wondering what he wants. I introduce myself and invite him to the show. He says his name is Shadow and that his buddy Apple’s birthday is today – would I sign him a CD? Apple is also ridiculously attractive. What is it with these State Dept guys?
Scott has a surprise in store for us this afternoon. We’re going to see the Ziggurat of the Ancient city of Ur, a temple dating from 2113 B.C. in the oldest known city. It is the home of the Prophet Abraham – that’s THE Abraham, the one prophet all Jews, Muslims and Christians agree on. He is the patriarch of all monotheist religions.
At the start of Operation Iraqi Freedom, the outside wire of the American camp was moved to include the Ziggurat when insurgents fired mortars non-stop from the temple, knowing we’d never shoot back at such a landmark. Next week, the Ziggurat is being returned to the Iraqi Nationals. We are the last Westerners from the camp to see it before the turnover.
Memories of high school Social Studies come flooding back. Once the heart of fertile Mesopotamia, the Ziggurat is now surrounded by barren, imposing desert. The Euphrates River in the 4000 years since has moved 15 km away to Nassriyah, the 4th largest city in Iraq. (Some of you may remember Jessica Lynch; she was rescued from Nassriyah). Life follows water, and now the temple stands lonely and dusty.
It’s utterly surreal walking around this untouched, raw land. We are literally alone except for one small souvenir shack with a spray painted sign of “Suvinirs” misspelled. Our private tour guide Daif, a friend of Scott’s, is the grandson of one of the original Iraqi excavators.
The Ziggurat is tall and imposing, reminding me of Aztec and Incan pyramids with their vertigo-inspiring front steps. But the real treat is walking over to the remains of Abraham’s palace. It has 27 rooms, 5 courtyards, 3 stairs – even a stack of corner shelves that date back to 4000 BC (try getting that out of your IKEA bookcase).
All around us ancient pottery shards litter the ground, casually strewn and untouched. I’m becoming paranoid about walking over national treasures. We see the oldest known standing archway, and the remains of the drainage pipes built following the “Great Flood” in 2900 BC that is the story of Noah. We climb on the top of the walls following the maze of little rooms, free from signs that might say “Watch Your Step” or barricades that would read “Keep Away.” I’m literally walking on the foundations of civilization.
The sun beats down mercilessly. I’m beginning to feel the effects of the heat. Drinking water until I fear I will pop, we drive back for a quick sound-check and then dinner.
The concert tonight is outdoors at the Adder Commons, with bleachers set up next to the basketball courts. The audience is appreciative but clearly exhausted from the Marathon. I’m surprised how many people actually turn up, about 250. To my left there is an ambulance crew sitting on the back of their open truck like a tailgate party. Halfway through the set a group of fun and rowdy girls start waving what look like glow sticks. We play my song “Meridian” about a small town in California on the Sacramento River. Scott says this is his favorite song and wondered why we hadn’t included it at our show in Kuwait. We’d been so focused on the covers I’d forgotten it!
After the show, runners wait patiently in line. I’m amazed with their fortitude. One girl named Melissa ran her first marathon today, and is still standing. Another is a Dad who finished today and whose son is running the Boston one on Monday. We sign autographs until the last person leaves, about 2 and a half hours later.
Sunday April 19, 2009
In the morning we hear our Blackhawk flight to the small patrol base COP Blackhawk has been diverted for another mission. Our itinerary is cancelled. Scott and I workout in the Air Force gym; he watches basketball from the elliptical while I do as many squats as I can stand. I must stick out in my tangerine and pink striped yoga top, but tuck myself into a corner and keep quiet. It’s not even 9:30 and I’ve already had two 32-oz bottles of water. The dry heat is oppressive.
Without a scheduled itinerary, we go off to meet some of the troops on the base, starting at the Air Force Control Tower. It’s a quiet day for air traffic, the dust layered heavily along the length of the horizon. Visibility is extremely low.
Next we drive to the Air Force Fire Department. I’m invited to try on their incredibly hot, moonwalker-looking silver suits with giant boots, and then operate the hugely pressured hose on the fire truck. With a whole new respect for these firemen and the incredibly hot HAZMAT suit they have to wear, I walk back to the grill where they are preparing a brisket for their weekly Sunday BBQ. Scott and Eric play hoops with the guys, and I walk around signing CDs. One of the firemen asks about the song “Meridian” on Live From Iraq. It turns out he is from the next town over, and knows all about Meridian, population about 150, with only one unnamed restaurant/bar.
The guys invite us to their bonfire tonight. A fireman named Justin says he missed the show last night, and asks us to play around the campfire with acoustic guitars. It’s a done deal. We’ll meet them back here later.
Next up is a visit to the Hospital. We meet two groggy patients in bed, and a nurse named Joy with “GI Joy” tattooed across her chest. One of Scott’s oldest friends is a doctor stationed here, still wearing the ID of Cindy Sheehan’s son, who died in his arms. (Cindy Sheehan, you will recall, has been one of the most outspoken critics of the Iraq War.)
We stop at the Air Force Recreation Center, and meet lovely Cheryl, on her 5th deployment, now in charge of entertainment for the troops on base. She does a wonderful, candid interview with Rob for the documentary, talking about her favorite song memory, a story of when she ran away from home. Her grandmother took her in and played “Old Time Rock `n Roll,” and they danced together.
An Air Force Colonel and I start talking. He tells me he thinks the real heroes are the military families left at home, since the troops get plenty of love and support while their families are left to survive in relative anonymity. He has as son who was deployed in Iraq and came back “different,” in his own words.
The band heads back to rest in their trailers, and I go to the PX to load up on supplies for tonight’s bonfire. I’m thinking S’mores, but it turns out there are no marshmallows on the bases because they melt in shipping. I buy 5 boxes of graham crackers and 36 Hershey bars anyway.
Dinner is refreshingly not at the DFAC. There is one little Italian restaurant and hookah bar on base named “6 Pazzi.” After a mediocre meal of salmon and couscous that tastes deceivingly amazing, we smoke from the watermelon, apple and strawberry hookahs. Reggae tone house music blares through the speakers. I sing Happy Birthday to two different tables of celebrating troops. Veronica and Terry surprise Scott with a big going-away cake, dedicated in frilly icing “To Colonel Rainey, aka Colonel Fun.” Scott insists the other tables take the extra pieces.
Now it’s 7:30. Time to head back to the bonfire. The guys are over at the volleyball court when we arrive. I enjoy my own Top Gun moment. Then the game ends and we head over to the fire pit. Turns out the Fire Department Chief’s mother sends care packages of marshmallows. After eating some of the most perfectly made S’mores ever (thank you David), we gather around a few benches with the campfire silhouetting our backs.
One of the firemen, a wholesome kid named Danny Roberts, starts singing with a husky and gorgeous voice that could easily win American Idol. He plays Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man,” then a Nirvana song, and finally a Tenacious D song with such dirty lyrics even I blush. Someone else sings a Texarkana country song. Eric and I do “Meridian” of course, and Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” (it is the fire department, after all), as well as Janis Joplin’s version of “Me and Bobby McGee.” After awhile, I hand the bench back over to Danny, and Eric continues to jam with them. I sign CDs and talk myself out of eating more S’mores. It feels like a family reunion, and I’ve only just met these guys today.
With the last embers glowing, we leave our bonfire crew, having gotten word that we’ll be stuck on base tomorrow as well – no flights out. There’s talk of doing an encore band performance tomorrow night at the Big Top on Bedrock, the Air Force side of the base. I promise to keep the guys posted. Our van rattles over the gravel on our way back to our rooms. Night has gotten chilly in the desert. I turn the Air Conditioner in my trailer to heat mode.
Monday April 20, 2009
No flights today, either. I’m totally bummed, because a girl from Wellesley College (my alma mater) wrote from our intended stop tonight to say she was serving there. I was looking forward to her giving us the tour of Delta. Nothing we can do now. We’ll play an encore performance at Tallil, this time at the Big Top on the Air Force side of the base.
Scott and I walk to the gym for a workout, but get caught up in a fascinating conversation about the book he is reading and never make it inside. In “Hot, Flat, and Crowded,” New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman argues that oil will never be cheap again, and American innovation in energy production has fallen far short of the inspiring global example we like to think of ourselves as. The last big innovation in energy production was nuclear power, which happened half a century ago. “Do you know any industry in this country whose last major breakthrough was in 1955?” Friedman asks. According to the book, US pet food companies spent more on R&D last year than US utilities did.
Scott agrees that Green Power will be the operative diplomatic tool of the 21st century. There is a story of a Marine Corps general in Iraq who requested solar panels to power his bases. Asked why, he explained that he wanted to win his region by “out-greening Al Qaeda.” Instead of trucking in gas from Kuwait at $20 a gallon — money that fuels oppressive petro-dictatorships — in convoys that are vulnerable to roadside bombs, why not beat the insurgents by taking away their targets and their funding?
Scott hopes America will become the inspiring global leader in the Green Energy Revolution. The EPA has only just made an historic official statement that what we do and how we live has a direct impact on the environment. It seems so obvious, but at least now we have a starting point – now the American government will have to do something about it. If we don’t act aggressively environmental now, irreversible changes to our ecosystem will become a scenario only about 10 years out, especially with China and India’s newly voracious appetites for oil.
I’m riveted listening to Scott speak so passionately, drinking cup after cup of coffee, consuming unhealthy levels of Coffeemate milk substitute. Before we know it, our window for working out has passed and it’s time to start the day.
Meanwhile, Nara and Rob film the Iraqi Firefighters training in the desert range. Without cell phones it’s difficult to find our dear videographers after they are finished. When we drive by the range is empty except for some smoldering targets. They are nowhere to be found at the Fire Department lot. Our van drives around in circles looking for them. I’d forgotten what it was like not to have access to constant communication.
The band and I stop for lunch at the base’s new DFAC, a huge and sterile-feeling cafeteria on the other side of camp. Luckily every DFAC has a salad bar and some “healthy” grilled chicken or fish. The broccoli may be cooked until it resembles baby food, but at least it’s there. Even Nara (who’s vegan) has been able to find some workable options. The guys, however, continue to load fried chicken and steak on their plates.
Scott has a funny habit that has stayed with him his entire deployment: after every lunch and dinner he pushes his tray away, rubs his hands together with a look of glee and walks off to the ubiquitous Baskin Robbins counter, coming back with a paper cup of Jamocha Almond Fudge. He insists the flavor never gets old. When you watch how happy he is eating it you know it’s true. His blue eyes twinkle and the Colonel becomes a little boy. For having a twice-daily ice cream habit, Scott’s in surprisingly good shape, says he has actually lost 35 pounds on this deployment. He calls it the Jamocha Almond Fudge Diet. I hate him.
Finally Nara and Rob are found, and we reconvene at our next stop: the MRAP mechanical facility. The MRAP – standing for Mine Resistant Ambush Protected – is the rock star of this war, a tank-like vehicle that has replaced the Humvee in response to Improvised Explosive Devices, or IEDs. We get a tour from the friendly civilian mechanics. They are unsung heroes in their own right, here for years at a time supporting the troops by keeping these million dollar MRAPs humming.
Tucked away in a corner of the hanger is a guitar amp and set of drums. Turns out they love music and play whenever they can. I befriend a nice guy named Derek, who takes us for a drive in the RG33 model, a giant 10-seater. Derek lets me take the wheel for a good twenty minutes, and I marvel at the feel of the brakes (tight) and accelerator (very loose, pedal to the metal to get it to start). To give you some perspective, an 18-wheeler truck weighs 80,000 pounds; this MRAP weighs 73,500. It looks like something out of the movie Mad Max. I tool around the camp perimeter. Not much of a turn radius on these things.
The band is tired and wants some rest, so while they go off to play Bach in their trailers, I head to some more “meet and greets” with Scott. First is an office full of people watching old Bob Saget reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos. I sign CDs and invite them to our Big Top show.
Next we hit the operations control room for the base, but are much later to arrive than they were expecting (I guess I played around in that MRAP a bit too long!) They’ve only got 15 minutes before a major operations task gets under way, so I speed through the crowd like a politician, shaking hands and signing souvenirs. Scott follows me around with the box of CDs. It’s teamwork, and we get to everyone right before their big commanding officer walks into the room.
Finally, after what seems like the 800th meal of grilled chicken and salad at the DFAC, I sound-check with the band and then rush back to my trailer to change for the show. I’ve only got fifteen minutes to get pretty, a tall order after a day of playing in the sand and dirt. I’m tossing shirts and skirts in the air, my suitcase looking like it detonated out into the room. Deciding on a vintage blue sequin top with a turquoise Indian scarf and black mini skirt, I wipe the dust off my poor black patent leather heels and scribble out a set list for the band as my hair sets in curlers. The van honks outside my T-wall to take me back to the venue. But I’m not ready!
When we arrive, there’s a nice crowd waiting for us. All the Fire Department guys have commandeered the front row, and the MRAP mechanics are getting rowdy in the back. It’s going to be a fun show, I can tell. We do “Got My Mojo Working” to a bluegrass beat, and two MRAP mechanics, one of them named Paw Paw, dance around on stage like the Scarecrow in Wizard of Oz. They happily sing the call and response part of the song. Everyone in the audience laughs, clapping along.
Halfway through the set I invite Danny Roberts up to sing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Tuesday’s Gone.” It’s his first time in front of a band, and he kills it. We trade off verses. When he forgets a line I whisper it in his ear and he blushes. It’s so cute. His buddies start to make fun of him.
The highlight is when the entire Fire Department clamors onstage. I have them sing Nile’s song “We Are Family,” changing the lyrics to “We Are Family; I got all my buddies with me!” The guys are totally into the spirit of it. I’m laughing so hard I barely make it through the verses.
We end with my song “Second Time Around.” Bryan plays a drum solo in the middle of the song that reverberates the walls of the Big Top. The audience jumps to its feet, insisting on an encore, and we leave them with a totally rocking version of “Voodoo Child,” Eric wailing to new heights on his Telecaster.
Toweling off after the show, the band and I stick around signing CDs until the janitor starts rolling his eyes, long after closing time. A young guy named Tory has brought his guitar and plays a song he wrote the morning his camp was hit by a mortar. Sure that he was facing death, white light in front of him, he said the lyrics of the song kept running through his head like a prayer.
Tuesday April 21, 2009
Finally! We’ve got flight clearance to get to our next base to see the Marines at Al Asad. We’re flying on another C130 plane, but this time the pilot invites me up to the cockpit. He’s a cute guy named Ryan who tells me about his plans to woo Jennifer Aniston after his deployment is over. I jokingly tell him it looks pretty easy what he’s doing. When he says, “You think you could do better?” I assume he’s kidding. But halfway through the flight, before I can believe it, the co-pilot has given up his seat and I’m next to Ryan.
I look through the hologram that shows the horizon line, altitude and speed, a clear piece of glass that let’s you see the real view in front of you as well. It’s the best video game ever! Ryan gives me the run-down: keep the little circle (us) inside the big circle (the destination), and keep the horizon dot in the center of both. It should look like a boob, he points out. I’m still laughing as he shuts off the automatic pilot and then… I’m flying the plane! I’m flying the plane! Nara gets an absolutely priceless photo of the flight engineer, eyes big as saucers when I pull the plane up in an inadvertent climb.
After I’ve agreed to help Ryan with his Jennifer Aniston ambitions however I can, he takes the controls back and lands the plane with ease. Still giddy, I meet Scott and the guys out on the tarmac standing in the hot roar of the jet engines, wearing their body armor. “I flew the plane!” I say, “I flew the plane!” “I think I knew that,” Bryan says, looking green.
We’re met by Captain Daniels and his assistant Cory, who only left Georgia a week ago, as well as Greg Schoolcroft, our Navy contact on the base. Al Asad is mostly Marines, a huge camp of 20,000 in the Western Province of Iraq. We’re staying at the Lion’s Den, VIP accommodations. Nara and I share a room reserved as “Nell Bryden Females.” I’m embarrassed to say I got a Queens-size bed. The room’s decorum would be the equivalent of a cheap motel in the States, but on Al Asad it’s as good as you get. I feel guilty, but not enough to refuse the room.
After a quick meet-and-greet with some Marines in the office of our civilian contact Harriet (including one man whose biceps silence everyone in the room), we head to the base’s main cafeteria, affectionately known as the Wal-Mart DFAC. We’re led with our trays to a big separate table marked “VIP.” The table is so wide it hinders conversation.
Lunch ends and we clamor back in the tourist van to visit a Navy installation on the far perimeter of the base. It’s hot and unsheltered save for some camouflage netting hung between the trailers and tents for artificial shade. The gravel radiates waves of heat. Some crazy spy-like radar fries Nara and Rob’s cameras so they lose the ability to focus. I feel the sun turning my skin pink. We meet a bunch of Marines who look like this is nothing for them. “Try August,” they say with a smile. I take a break to sit in the Air Conditioned operations trailer for a minute, which feels like the control room of a submarine. On a white wallboard by the door someone has drawn a cartoon of Peter Griffin’s face from Family Guy.
At this point the band goes back to rest at Lion’s Den, but Scott and I head to the North Mall to invite more Marines to the show tomorrow. I walk up to all the tables and introduce myself. It feels a bit like being a cold-calling salesman, even though I genuinely want to meet as many troops as possible. Everyone is very friendly and grateful for the gift of the CD, even though I’m interrupting their meal of KFC. Only one guy is so comatose and hostilely uninterested that I feel really insecure. Shaken, I head back to my room for a moment by myself. I suddenly realize I’ve been spending an awful lot of time around people. I might need a half-hour break.
Mark, Nara and Rob are filming an interview in my room, so I go to the only place I know no one will follow me: the toilet. As soon as I close the stall door, tears well up in my eyes. I am not by nature a crier. Nothing is really wrong for me to be crying about. But this wave of something non-specific rushes over me, the sheer intensity of having all these people open their hearts on this trip. It’s almost like the one guy who was unresponsive finally made me see all the people that had responded. The magnitude of it rises like a lump in my throat.
Several deep breaths later, I’m back in action. After dinner, we get a driving tour of the Ridge Road around the high perimeter of the camp, the burned-out remains of Saddam’s MIG’s scattered along the fence. There’s a glorious view overlooking the Wadi, or swampland. We drive on bumpy off-roads past a date farm. The sunset warms the sky like a gauzy peach veil.
That night while swatting mosquitoes on the front steps of the Lion’s Den, Scott, Eric and I have a heart-to-heart about finding authenticity and quality in our interactions. The cameras have made everyone, myself included, a bit self-conscious. I’ve been so “Go Go Go!” that our meet-and-greets have been about quantity, not always quality. All I really get to say is the same initial things like “Thank you so much for being here… Where are you from? How long are you deployed for?” As fun as a drive along the Ridge Line is, we came here to meet Marines, not be tourists. Tactical and logistical tours are interesting but it’s ultimately about making a human connection. Eric suggests changing up the questions, asking what music they like. I want to find out more about their families at home. I put out a little prayer that we get to make some real, lasting friendships.
My wish is about to come true.
Wednesday April 22, 2009
In the morning, we load our trays with breakfast at a smaller DFAC, and Captain Daniels starts herding us into a separate VIP room. I put my foot down. I don’t want to be separated from the troops any longer. Two of the Military Police (known as MPs) assigned as our security join me in the main room where I can sit away from our conspicuous group and have an actual conversation with some Marines. One of the MPs is named Shon, a beefy Irish American from Florida with the shortest crew cut possible and pale blue eyes. Initially he strikes me as guarded, but once he and I start talking he opens up, telling me about his family and his little son Braedon. I like him immensely.
The band goes off to sound check, and only Rob and Scott come with me for some more intimate meet-and-greets with Marines. It had felt a little like we were descending on the troops before, a big entourage including two videographers and three handlers. I want to keep things more chill. Shon introduces me to the three other MPs assigned to us: Andrew, James and Sean, three young cutie-pies also from Florida. I ask them to take me to meet their friends, and they lead the way to a unit called QRF.
When I arrive, Marines are sitting around under the camouflage netting wearing their body armor, playing chess. They are extremely friendly, and within two minutes one of them has proposed marriage to me using a chocolate muffin as an engagement gift. Brandon, who has a Purple Heart, tells me he was involuntarily recalled for his current deployment. He introduces me to the other Marine in the unit who was recalled. “I’m not going to lie to you,” the guy says. “I’m pissed.” I also meet Chris McGuire, a sweet 19-year old kid with a swagger in his body armor. His buddies brag about his guitar-talents, and I insist that he get onstage with us later. Unfortunately it looks like the unit will be working a convoy during our show tonight, although it’s clear Chris would love to.
I don’t want to leave the guys of QRF, but we’re due to visit the Medical Evacuation guys, called the Dusty Vacs. It’s pretty quiet there and I’m not ready to head back to my room yet so I ask Shon to take us to another Marine outpost, somewhere else that is the true local color of the base. They turn off at Rock Ridge and introduce me to the guys of a unit called Beirut, who are about to go on a routine convoy mission and are all fired up that they aren’t in Afghanistan where “they are needed.” Several of them tell me they are bored and frustrated. I meet one sweet-looking guy with a shy smile who says his name is AJ.
As I’m signing CDs, I prod the guys into talking about music, and manage to coerce two of them into demonstrating a ridiculous dance called the “Stanky Leg,” which apparently involves shaking one leg in the air while schooching your butt back and forth. I practically beg them to come up on stage tonight. “If we aren’t working,” they say, “Game on. We’re there.”
As we’re driving over to the theater for sound check, I get the sense that most of the Marines here are fractured into little isolated units. This is a huge base – 20,000 people. Whereas at one stage in the war troops were deployed in mostly smaller camps, now that Americans are handing the controls back to the Iraqi Nationals the troops are moving back into these huge flagship bases like Al Asad.
Saddam built the theater we are playing in tonight. My first tour in Iraq Scott took us to see the palace in Baghdad, and I was struck with how gaudy and poorly made it was, like the materials were for a cheap vacation condo in Florida. Here at this theater there are also some seriously questionable engineering choices. The stairs are unevenly spaced, so you are liable to trip. The seats in the auditorium slope down as you move back, so the unlucky people in the back have no view of the stage. The ceiling is carved in plateaus that suggest exactly the opposite of the physics of sound motion. Still, our soundman James is very happy to finally have a room that he can control as opposed to the madness of helicopters, generators or echo-filled tents we’ve had so far. Nara takes an adorable photo of one of the MPs during sound check resting his chin on his gun watching me with puppy dog eyes.
On the way back to the Lion’s Den, we run into some Navy people at the end of their deployment on their way home in two days. Some of the guys are in a band called “Outta Here.” They’ve written a song for their going-away. Could they play it tonight? I tell them I will call out for them in the middle of the set.
We’ve got one more plan in place for shaking it up. Cory Stephens, the kid that’s been shuttling us back and forth, has just arrived from Georgia one week earlier on his first deployment. He keeps doing these spot-on Michael Jackson dance moves, balancing on point and everything. Bryan downloads the lyrics to “Billie Jean,” and we give Cory a heads-up that he will be pulled onstage.
DFAC, shower, hair curlers, and then it’s Showtime! I dance around the big stage in my heels, happy to have room to spread out. The crowd laughs as Dave, a sweet officer I met in the cafeteria, mumbles “Got My Mojo Working” into the mic. We turn the stage over to the guys of Outta Here and they rock out for a song. Cory comes onstage, and even though I butcher the words of “Billie Jean” he charms the crowd with his smoothness. He’s instantly nicknamed MJ, which he’ll be stuck with for the rest of his deployment. The audience cheers loudly for my songs, especially “Meridian” and “Tonight,” which is nice. Somehow I thought they’d appreciate the covers more since they knew them, but the opposite seems to be true.
After the show, the line for autographs stretches from the stage to the lobby outside. People wait three and a half hours to talk to us. One of the soldiers laughingly tells us when the audience called out “Free Bird!” she didn’t get that they were requesting the Lynyrd Skynryd song. She thought we were giving out rotisserie chickens in the lobby! A guy takes a picture with me holding a stuffed Pooh Bear. He says his wife’s nickname is Pooh. He sends her photos of the Bear to show he’s thinking of her. The Outta Here guys stop by – the drummer says it was his first show playing in front of a crowd. AJ from Beirut is at the end of the line, waiting patiently to present me with a signed tee shirt from the unit, most of whom couldn’t make it. Some guy hugs me and remarks on my Chanel No. 5: “I’d forgotten how a woman smells.” A comment like that would sound so creepy in New York; here it just seems kind of sweet.
After the exhilaration of the show, we realize we have to say goodbye to our MPs. We’ll be flying out in the morning. It’s the same frustrating feeling: as soon as we make a real connection, it’s time to move on. At least Shon, Andrew, James and Sean will drive us to the airport. We can have our goodbyes then.
6:45 am “bag-roll,” and Nara and I stay up until three talking. Not the smartest decision. My body already hurts from lack of sleep.
Thursday April 23, 2009
Mother Nature has a mind of her own, especially in the Iraqi desert. When I wake up there is an orange glow outside the windows. A sandstorm is rising.
We drive out to the airfield, and wait. And wait, and wait. Sand whips by in windy bursts against the orange sky. The MPs, the band, Scott and I are all hanging out laughing and talking. We hardly notice three hours go by. Nara gets photos of Mark and Eric nearly dropping Bryan on his head. Then she lines up three of the MPs, Andrew James and Sean, and gets them to pose like Charlie’s Angels. She captures an absolutely priceless moment as Andrew makes a ridiculous smooch face like a fish puckered up.
Shon talks to me about Katrina and shows me the pictures he took when responding there. It’s devastating to see New Orleans looking like a Third World country. I’m incredibly grateful to get a first-hand account of the situation. The Marines were mobilized and ready to move in right after the storm, but the local and state governments apparently wouldn’t ask for federal help. Marines had to stand on the sideline and wait to be invited in, four days after the hurricane hit.
Shon’s also got some pictures of beautiful desert flowers he came across in Iraq. After miles of desolate brown sand and dirt, not a tree or bush in sight, he finds these random, vivid spring wildflowers. Also on his laptop he’s got lots of photos of his young son Braedon – on a Harley Davidson, dressed up for Halloween, having his first Easter Egg Hunt. I ooh and ahh.
Hanging out on the tailgate of their pickup, I forget how it comes up but one of the guys declares proudly, “I’m a right-wing Republican.” Another chimes in with, “I think Sarah Palin should have been president.” “Good Lord!” I hear myself saying. “That’s a terrible idea!” He looks at me genuinely confused. “Why don’t you like Sarah Palin?” This is not a conversation we should have. Back home, everything’s divided into Red States and Blue States. Out here, that doesn’t apply. “This is exactly why we don’t talk politics,” I say. They agree. We move on.
Morning has turned into afternoon on the airfield, and the dust and wind keep swirling. Scott gives me that look. We’re not flying to Ramadi today.
Okay, Plan B! How can we set up an Encore Performance here at Al Asad? The MPs tell me the best place on the base would be the White Elephant – the Recreation building with free phones for calling the States and the fastest Internet connection on camp. We stand a good chance of getting a walk-by crowd. I stop by to check the room with James. It’s bigger than we expect, quite wide with a low ceiling. It’s got the air of a Polish Social Club in Brooklyn, like there should have been an ageing polka band playing in the corner and a table of soft drinks served in Styrofoam cups. This is gonna be fun.
Back at the Lion’s Den, I’m able to check my email for the first time in a week. There’s a message for me from AJ, and I write him back to say we’ll be here another night. I’ve also got a bunch of “thank you’s” from people we met earlier in the tour. It’s energizing to read their responses.
To insure we get as good a crowd as possible tonight, Scott suggests trotting out the “the zoo creature.” He means getting me all dolled up and then taking me to the DFAC. It became a regular occurrence on our last tour: I’d walk up to all the tables and introduce myself. Hey, if you’re going to cause a scene – and believe me, being the only woman on base wearing heels and a sparkly dress will do that – you might as well use it to your advantage.
You can hear the whiplash when we walk into the cafeteria. I swear, every woman should experience this feeling in her lifetime. I’m like Miss America on a cart and they’re wheeling me past the salad bar. My head is swelling by the minute.
After I’ve introduced myself to about thirty tables, it’s time to meet the band for sound check at the White Elephant. Scott and Shon walk me over to the building. Outside the winds are like a hair-dryer on high blowing in my face. I cover my mouth with my cardigan, but sand and dust seep into my eyes. By the time we arrive my hair looks like I’ve been skydiving.
We scribble out a set list. A contractor named Tim tells us he has a harmonica in the key of C. “I’m good,” he says. “Want me to show you?” “No, I believe you,” I tell him. He agrees to join us for Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire.” It’s now past seven. Doors open. People start pouring into the room.
The band warms the crowd up with a few songs before Scott introduces me. “The first thing she asked when the sandstorm grounded us this morning,” he says, “is where are we going to play tonight?” I look out to a room of smiling, familiar faces. All the guys of QRF are here. AJ is here. Many people from last night came out again, and brought their friends with them.
We change the set up, throwing in Muddy Waters’ “Forty Day and Forty Nights” in honor of being in the sandiest desert ever: “Forty Days and Forty Nights since I sat right down and cried; Keep raining all day long but the river’s running dry.” We play the Allman Brothers’ “Sweet Melissa,” and my song “From Midnight On.” I introduce “Helen’s Requiem” as inspired by a woman who died in Katrina, knowing a lot of the Marines here responded to the hurricane.
Then I ask for volunteers for “Mojo.” A kid named Jeff gets pushed onstage by his buddies. He shakes his limbs like a scarecrow, bumping his butt around singing “Got My Mojo working,” completely out of time. I keep cracking up. There’s something about having a guy in uniform onstage holding a big rifle that’s hysterically surreal. I get him to play air guitar on his weapon. Jeff is a big hit with the audience.
People are bobbing their heads throughout the set, really getting into the music, and it feeds me energy. The whole audience actually jumps to their feet several times. I’m having such a blast. Chris McGuire and James Koch come up to do their song. The pickup in Chris’ guitar shorts out – desert sand and electronics don’t get along – so I lend him my 1946 Gibson. “Treat her right,” I say.
Chris and James stay onstage after their song, and I call the rest of the QRF guys to join us. The MPs help me pull them all onstage. There’s about twenty-five Marines in full uniform with their guns poking out of their sides, hugging like a chorus line and kicking like the Rockettes, being totally silly. “We Are Family; I got all my buddies with me!”
Bryan does an amazing drum solo in “Second Time Around.” I swear he becomes Animal from the Muppets. Then we launch into our encore, “Voodoo Child.” The band is unstoppable tonight. Eric and I start jumping in unison up and down. The crowd goes wild. Eric throws me a big grin.
In the autograph line, a young guy tells me I was his first concert. Ever. There’s a shy older gentleman who says he used to play trumpet. This made him want to pick it up again. Mr. Pooh Bear from last night is back. He looks vulnerable without his Bear, says he was having a tough day but saw me in the DFAC telling people about the encore show.
The line lasts for a good three hours. Shon and Andrew hand me CDs to sign and affectionately act as my bodyguards. AJ waits in line again, but by the time I see him I’m nearly cross-eyed with exhaustion. Scott ushers the last few stragglers away, and the band and I limp out into the sandstorm.
What an incredible night it was! I smoke a cigar on the steps of the Lion’s Den with the MPs, but the mosquitoes and dust ruin the contemplative moment. It’s time for bed anyway.
But instead I stay up late, writing notes in a journal to help me remember everyone I’ve met. The days are blurring into each other. Names and events come out in a jumbled stream of consciousness. Once I start I can’t stop. Finally at three I turn out the light.
Friday April 24, 2009
Alarm at five. Shower and pack. I’m nearly rolling my bags out the door when Scott pops his head in. Sit tight, he says. Visibility is poor at the airfield. It’s touch and go whether we are headed to Ramadi.
I should go back to sleep. The band hasn’t gotten up yet. My voice is starting to feel oddly thick and low. I keep trying to clear out a layer of what feels like dust from the back of my throat. That cigar in the sandstorm was probably a bad idea. Two hours of sleep doesn’t help.
After breakfast I check my email. There’s a lovely note from AJ:
“Seeing the news from the states constantly makes me question why I do what I do on a daily basis. Why do I risk my life to protect the freedoms that people take for granted? Then people like you come along. I see the promise that America was founded on and I once again realize why I put on the uniform everyday. It’s not about the masses; it’s about individuals like you that make us want to protect freedom. When you told the background story of the Katrina song [Helen’s Requiem] it meant so much more to me. I responded to Katrina and did search and rescue for a little over a month. We found everything from people trapped, to animals, to unfortunately bodies. Memories I will always carry with me.” –AJ
Wow. It’s suddenly worth the no-sleep, the go-go-go, hectic schedule. Music’s given me a free pass to meeting people I wouldn’t otherwise. You never know who your next friend will be.
Scott joins me in the lounge of the Lion’s Den for a powwow. Back to the task at hand: getting to Camp Ramadi. If word comes that we can’t fly, would we be willing to do ground transport there? I can’t speak for the rest of the band, but I’m willing. Scott looks into how long it would take us to get there. The answer, as he finds out later, would be ten hours by ground transport with all the checkpoints. A helicopter flight would have us there in a mere 40 minutes.
Just then, the call comes: get to the airfield now. Visibility has cleared enough for us to fly. We tumble into the van and bounce out to the air control tower. I sign CDs for the MPs to send their wives and girlfriends back at home, and am still waving goodbye as I jump onto the open back of the CH53 Marine helicopter. Shon, Andrew, James and Sean recede in the distance as we lift into the air. My voice has turned to gravel. I feel heavy and lethargic. The idea of a nap sounds better than performing. But it’s our last show. I want it to be good.
We were supposed to be at Camp Ramadi last night. If our itinerary had been uninterrupted by the sandstorm, we’d actually be heading today to a tiny outpost on the Syrian border called Korean Village. One of the most isolated bases in Iraq, KV houses only about 250 Marines total, and is two and a half hours by plane into the Western Desert. Talk about needing entertainment! But flying all that way in this visibility is not happening.
I’m starting to worry about being able to sing. Despite drinking so much water I chronically have to find a Porta-John, the dry feeling worsens. Scott gives me a look. You better stop talking and save it for tonight.
Visibility is worse at Ramadi. We stumble off the helicopter still wearing our body armor and helmets, and pile into a waiting tourist van. Our contact here is a friendly man named Mark who saw us at our first show on the first tour, Camp Buehring in Kuwait. What a nice bookend.
Scott stays back on the airfield, gesturing at the other helicopter. Something is up. He walks back to the van, looking tired and stressed. “Guess what, boys and girls. Your gear never got loaded on the other bird. It’s back at Al Asad.”
Everyone groans. What do we do now? James goes off to check out other backline options: there’s word the chapel band has some amps and an old drum kit. We’ll do a karaoke jam if we have to. It’s been too long to get to Ramadi to not play now!
James and Don and Kamir set up the stage. As soon as they have assembled the chapel band’s gear, a flight arrives with our pallet of instruments. They patiently strike down the stage and start over. We’re now hours behind schedule.
Meanwhile, I’m lost in a maze of T-walls, those concrete barriers shaped like an upside-down T that protect from mortar attacks. The ubiquitous grey shape surrounds everything at Ramadi, from trailers and Porta-Johns, to parking lots and walkways. It’s easy to get disoriented. The band starts quoting Spinal Tap, emerging from the maze backstage with “Hello Cleveland!”
Ramadi was very different in 2004-2005, when troops were dying every day. Something about the place still doesn’t feel right. A reddish dust covers everything. The trailers have this scorched look to them though they haven’t been burned. I go to take a nap. I’ve got a small twin bed with a wool Army blanket. It’s stuffy in the room and my throat feels like it’s closing up. I turn the air conditioner on and a cloud of dust blows into the room.
I sleep for about an hour, dreaming violent and unsettled dreams. A knock at the door wakes me. Sound check.
I croak out only a few verses onstage and walk back through the T-walls to change for the set. I’ve never had to do a show with as little voice as I have now, but there’s no way I’m canceling. I plug in my curlers and lay out a black and white polka dot dress with a red belt.
Bryan and James have the room adjacent to mine. We’re sharing a bathroom. The toilet keeps running in a continual flush. I hate to see all that water wasted, so I lift up the back lid and jiggle the plastic piece that seems to be causing the problem. Suddenly the part breaks off in my hand! A huge geiser of water explodes in my face, drenching my hair and clothes. I frantically try to reattach the piece, but only manage to further douse myself in toilet water. The bathroom floor starts flooding.
I’m laughing and screaming for help at the same time. Bryan comes in and plugs the open geiser with his finger, getting soaked in the process. “You may want to stand back,” he calmly says. “The pressure is building.” Nara sees our trailer door fling open and I stumble out with mascara streaming down my face. “Is anybody out there? The toilet’s exploded!” Five minutes later with two inches of standing water on the floor, Bryan manages to reattach the stupid little plastic piece. I look in the mirror. Ten minutes to show time. I look like a dog that just got thrown in the pool.
At this point, drying my hair and realizing I screamed the last of my voice away, I abandon the idea that our last show will be our best. I just want to get through it. My makeup bag is soaked. I’m pouring water out of my eye shadows. Ready as I’ll ever be, I trudge my high heels through the gravel to the waiting van. Scott smiles sympathetically at my flat hair. “I heard you had an incident,” he says.
From the start, it’s an anticlimactic, difficult concert. My voice won’t do what I tell it to. The band looks dejected and low-energy, like they’re playing in slow motion. The audience seems subdued. I tell the story of how the toilet exploded in my face. Only a few people laugh. During “Mojo,” a group of Marines volunteer their Major to sing with me. He simply stands onstage looking pissed off. When I try to get him to dance, he tells me he’s married. I cut the set short because I’m losing steam.
In the autograph line after the concert people are enthusiastic and friendly. The Major has now been nicknamed “Major Mojo,” and the Marines are all teasing him. He turns out to be a nice guy. We meet a bunch of the Washington National Guard. There are a couple of civilian men and women specializing in forensics. All in all it’s a grateful crowd. I’m just exhausted and ready to wash the toilet water out of my hair.
The van ride back to our trailers is silent. Everyone seems disappointed. It was Scott’s last show as Chief of Programs in Iraq, and I feel like I’ve failed him. The tour is suddenly over, and we didn’t end on a high. Back in the room, the bathroom’s been mopped up. Bryan and I have a post-mortem discussion about the gig. It’s over now. Time to sleep.
Saturday April 25, 2009
Nara (bless her) makes an early-morning run to the Green Bean Coffee stand. Honestly if she hadn’t handed me a huge cup, I don’t think I could have been coerced out of bed. She says I woke her up three times in the middle of the night, continuing my conversations with troops in the autograph line. “Thank you so much for everything you do; it’s nice to meet you,” I kept saying.
My voice is still raw, but we’re on our way home now. The first ride is a Chinook helicopter from Ramadi back to Al Asad. I try to be cool and not stare at the crew in their cute jumpsuits. At Al Asad we switch to our fixed-wing aircraft, a C130 plane again. We’re flying to Kuwait International Airport. But on takeoff there’s a mechanical failure. The pilot decides to shut down the problem engine and turn us around. We land back at Al Asad. Two fire trucks race out onto the runway to the plane. I wonder what the band in back are thinking. At least I can hear what’s going on over the pilot’s headphones.
After a couple of hours at the airport hanger, we board a new plane to Kuwait. The second flight is uneventful. Contee picks us up at the airport. “You look beat up,” he tells me. I look down at myself. My topsiders are caked in dust.
Don and Karim are taking the gear back to Coaxial. We hug them goodbye, and climb into the Escalades headed for Arifjan once more. I take a shower, watching the dirt run off me in brown rivers. Two women talk in the latrine, comparing notes about which facial is best on base. “Zone 6 for sure, not Zone 2.” It’s depressing. Arifjan frankly feels like Camp Cupcake after a week in Iraq. College-age kids run down the halls giggling like it’s a dormitory.
After dinner, everyone does a load of laundry. I check my emails until late, battling a slow Internet connection. Shon and Andrew have both written. Facebook requests are piling up from troops we met this week. A lieutenant from Korean Village had written earlier in the week, and I send him an apology for us not making it there. He emails back:
“Thanks for writing. We were bummed you couldn’t come out here too. The Navy Construction Battalion enlarged the stage to make sure you guys had room to rock, and my Marines had acquired some chow and a grill to have a cook out during your show. I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty, I just want you to know that your efforts to come out here had a positive effect on the whole camp. Even if you couldn’t make it, just knowing you were willing to was a boost to morale. In fact, we had the cookout anyways! Semper Fi.”
There’s an email from Chris McGuire’s mom that makes me cry.
“I want to thank you for entertaining the Marines at Al Asad on 4/23/2009. My son called before and after the second concert you performed. He was so excited to be asked to be on stage with you! It made me so happy to hear the excitement and joy in his voice. I am so proud of him and am very thankful for people like yourself who take the time and effort to help keep the morale of our troops up.”
I write her back:
“Chris is a WONDERFUL guy and having him onstage with us was a pleasure. You’ve done a wonderful job raising a kid who is clearly becoming an inspiring and dependable man. It is so encouraging to think that when he and all of his friends come back safely and re-integrate into our society they will bring their strong work ethic with them. This is what will keep our country together. Your son Chris sticks out in my mind because of his kind and funny and sweet soul, but there are so many good people I’ve met this last week. I hope you know what great company he’s in. We are lucky to have him representing us out there in the world. I’m sure you’re very proud.”
I put on clean pajamas and fall asleep right away in the comfortable bed. I don’t set my alarm. Tomorrow we can sleep in.
Sunday April 26, 2009
Last day. I wake up and go to the gym. It’s hot, and the humidity from the nearby Persian Gulf makes it worse.
At lunch, Scott appears in civilian clothes. It’s a shock to see him wearing a red tee-shirt and shorts. His Army uniform is such a part of who he is. I know he’s excited to see his family again – he misses his seven children and wife terribly – but he’s brooding about the end of his deployment. I get him some Jamocha Almond Fudge. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he says.
Nara and I finish up my interview for the documentary. While we’re filming, Scott overhears a soldier in the parking lot saying, “I think I saw her at Cropper.” It’s a New Jersey National Guardsman named Christian who we met in October at the Detention Center where Saddam was held on trial. Several of the songs on Live From Iraq were recorded in the chapel. Christian’s headed home, but a female soldier named Anne offers to take CDs back with her to giveaway.
Scott sits with me while I sign a box of 130 CDs to the Korean Village Marines, and another to Cropper. We’ve got one box left which will go to Walter Reed.
It’s already evening. The band and I join Scott for our last DFAC meal together. I look around at the group I got to hang out with this week – Eric, Mark, Bryan, James, Rob and Nara. I’m pretty lucky.
We walk back to our rooms and pack up the last of our things. Contee meets us at eight. I hate goodbyes. We drive away in the dark, our convoy of Escalades, watching Scott wave in the red tail lights.
Already I’m resenting reintegration into society.
Kuwait International Airport is as busy as a refugee camp, with people squatting everywhere, babies and children crying. The men in blue worker suits descend on us again for our bags. In line at the security gate, about fifteen people pass us, ducking under the rope. There appears to be no rhyme or reason until one gets caught by the guard and is sent to the back of the line. The arrival and departure gates are in same crowded hallway. There’s a packed glass smoking pod, its door continually opening out with a billow into the terminal. I get separated from the band at the third security post, because I’m buying dates and figs in duty free.
We sit in the little quarantined room for passengers flying to Washington. The other Americans look tired and subdued, except for one guy with murder in his eyes yelling at security as they confiscate something from his bag. I’m suddenly overcome with wanting to be home. Of the whole trip, I feel the most foreign now.
The plane finally boards. Eye pillow on, ear plugs in, I tuck into my window seat. A couple of hours later I startle myself awake, hearing my voice say “thank you so much; it’s nice to meet you.” I guess Nara’s right; I talk in my sleep. I’m too tired to care whether the guy next to me noticed.
We land at six AM in Washington at Dulles Airport. Eric’s Converse sneakers and old baseball cap no longer stick out. Rob leaves us to fly back to Los Angeles. He walks away carrying his equipment bags, still wearing the fishing vest with twenty-seven pockets. I’ll miss him.
By 9:30 AM, we’re outside LaGuardia Airport in New York. Bryan and Mark have to go to work today. I take a taxi to the Village. The Manhattan skyline glitters a Welcome Home.
Epilogue
Spring arrived while we were away. The trees have sprouted their leaves in fresh shades of green. People walk around pushing baby strollers and carrying bouquets of flowers. Every corner deli has lilacs on special for $7. The cool breezes, puffy white clouds, and bright colors feel almost hedonistic. It’s like the Magical Mystery Tour after all that drab desert.
Nara writes to say it’s so green it hurts her eyes. She also sheds some light on why our audience may have been subdued at Ramadi. The day before we arrived, a suicide bomber blew herself up only ten miles away, killing troops and Iraqi police. It puts an immediate perspective on the night.
I bustle around my apartment, catching the pulse of the city like a virus. I’m afraid to sit down, to try to sum it up and move on. The next connection lies around the corner, and yet it feels sort of disloyal to the troops to move on. How can I enjoy this beautiful spring day when I know the MPs are working 24-hour shifts in hot sandy winds?
There’s an overwhelming sense of life happening all around me: a chorus of honking horns, construction clanging in the background, people going about their day ignoring me and not staring curiously. After being treated like Venus on the Half Shell by the troops, I’m back in the capital of beautiful women. Christy Turlington is in my exercise class again. Part of me loves the feeling of anonymity after being so visible for the last two weeks.
I can’t say I saw Iraq. We were only on American military bases, and no doubt got the sanitized version of the camps because we were VIP guests. But I’m lucky. I saw something people at home rarely get to see. Troops just hanging out. Kicking their legs like a chorus line. Singing around a bonfire. Proudly showing off pictures of their kids. Posing for silly Charlie’s Angels photos. Waiting patiently in line to thank us when they were the ones we’d come for.
