Over the course of the evening Phillips debuted a handful of new songs from A Boot And A Shoe, and certain lyrics from this first-ever airing began to rise and form a cloud that reflected a relationship in crisis if not torn asunder. It wasn’t a case of pouring one’s heart out; Phillips’ style, as she says, is to leave room for the listener. What was exposed was more a glimpse into a neighbor’s window just before the blinds are closed. Was it a dream, a memory, a projection, or real life right here today?
Midway through the Largo set, a friend leaned over and asked the question that was going through my mind as well: “She’s still with T Bone, right?” By the end of the set, no matter how impressionistic her words, I couldn’t help but sense that they could not merely be imagined, dreamt or distantly remembered. They were sung as they were felt.
Upon repeated listening to A Boot And A Shoe, that impression only grows, though it remains an impression, not a conclusion, because Phillips is a gifted songwriter who understands metaphor, who knows where to place the camera, and who shoots in black and white specifically to capture the grey.
“I’ve been so fortunate in my life,” says Phillips cautiously. “I’ve had so much love that maybe it’s like, I’m out. I’ve cashed in; or cashed out. I’ve known T Bone for a long, long time, and I will always love T Bone, always have a deep connection with him. And we’ve had an interesting time. We’ve worn a lot of hats for each other. They’re all pretty, but right now, it’s too complicated to really evena” She tails off. “I’ve left the hat on him of longtime producer. And if I’m going to wear a hat for him, it’s one of his greatest fans as an artist.aI’m on my own, my separate path in a very friendly, happy way. I have no idea what’s next.”
If there’s a recurring theme in our conversation, it’s not knowing what’s next. Not that we ever do, of course, but there are moments in one’s life, often in times of crisis and change, when we are hyperconscious of our inability to know our future, our fate. Then again, it’s often in the wake of those same moments when we reflect the foresight of our own intuition.
“That’s the funny thing about songwriting, the addictive thing about songwriting,” Phillips says, “even on this record, a lot of what I didn’t know, as a songwriter, I did. My ear was to the ground and I could hear it. I knew it before I knew it.”
By way of explanation, she again turns to literature, this time citing Jean Giono’s The Horseman On The Roof as haunting her during the writing of A Boot And A Shoe. “It’s about this guy up on the roof by himself,” she explains, “during a plague, alienated and afraid, but having the most wonderful conversations with himself.” What’s amazing about Phillips is how her inner monologue has evolved into an intense desire to go out and sing these songs, after nearly ten years off the road, when curling up in a ball would seem a completely legitimate option.
“You know that song on this record that says, ‘Now that it’s broken, let’s open the world’? That’s exactly how I feel. Not that I’ve ever been career- or goal-oriented, but even less so now. I need to go out and sing these songs because so much has changed in my life, so much has been completely smashed thataI’m amazed I’m still singing.
“This is corny but I feel a calling. I feel compelled to go out and be a torch singer. I feel like life has sort of made me a torch singer at this point. It’s funny and it’s sad and desperate and it’s human — I guess all the things I like about music that I don’t hear all the time. So I’m hoping that there’s somebody out there that wants to hear the same thing. There just doesn’t seem to be enough noise or humanity in music anymore.”
She offers a quote from Jack Kerouac that captures this sense of calling, or what in his case some termed existential despair: “Go moan for man.” Hell of a name for a tour. “It’s that kind of thing,” she continues, “where you’re compelled to do this really painful thing. Why? I don’t know, because we all have pain.
“I don’t know why I just think I’m supposed to do this. I don’t want to get grandiose because I don’t believe it’s that. Maybe it’s just the best I can do; finally, I would hope, having the courage to work with what I have as opposed to trying to be something I’m not.”
At the Largo show, one of the album’s most poignant songs, “One Day Late”, which revolves around the line “Help is coming, one day late,” elicited a laugh. “That’s a good thing,” she says. “I never thought it was funny, it was just too painfully true.” There were also several silences that might be perceived as awkward during the show, but if anything, Phillips seemed to draw strength from them. “I realize that I’ve come a long way. Not necessarily more polished, but more who I am, more present. More honest.”
She’s also undaunted at the prospect of bringing two albums’ worth of new music to an audience that hasn’t heard from her in years. “I feel like I’m starting over again, because I’ve been away so long. Nobody knew about Fan Dance, relatively, they really didn’t. But I love that. I don’t mind. I’ve always loved opening for people because it’s somebody else’s audience and you have to win them over. I think it’s harder to deal with people’s expectations. I’d have a harder time in Bono’s shoes, making the grand gesture. I’m really not interested in cooking up some kind of big thing, I’m interested in pushing forward and seeing where being uncomfortable gets me.
“I guess because the end to me is not a career, I don’t mind breaking it open. If I go out, don’t sell any records and fall on my face, I feel that I’m going to know something that I didn’t know before that. That’s really selfish I guess. Now my record company will know my ulterior motive. I want my life to be animated and full of perspective and interesting things. I want to know more about other people, myself, and I want more metaphors.”
Erik Flannigan now lives in Los Angeles. He had the marinated halibut special with mango salsa.
