“You’ve gotta go to Asheville!”

This sentence was parroted by just about everyone we encountered during our first southern trip. No matter what city we were in, the question “Where are you headed next?” came up. Before we could open our mouths, shouts of “Go to ASHEVILLE!” drowned out any response. Leaving Atlanta, we were excited to see for ourselves.

It was described as an idyllic slice of nature essentially untouched by the hustle and bustle of big business. That certainly was true; there were no skyscrapers or obnoxious chain stores to blight the cozy mom-and-pop shops dotting the landscape. It had the feel of a town where you’d be drawn and quartered if you dared even suggest that Starbucks has good coffee.

The outdoor lifestyle is a huge draw, and residents clearly revel in it. You don’t need the hyper-observant eye of Sherlock Holmes to figure that out, either -- every person that lived there had a walking stick. Every. Single. One. Whether traversing a parking lot or other completely flat surface, they sensibly had that extra bit of support. Some folks were even ‘grounding’, which apparently involves walking barefoot to forge a closer connection with the earth, and a further connection from me.

Asheville was humble to the point we couldn’t tell if buildings were intentionally minimalist, or derelict. Put another way, it was tough to discern whether the town was rustic or rusty. Even the people had that ambiguous quality where we couldn’t tell if they were hipster or homeless; the line between the two is razor thin. If you’re unconvinced, read the description below. If you can make an immediate, accurate assessment to whether or not the description fits hipster or homeless, you win.

-Male, 30’s

- Unkempt hair hangs in twists and tangles beneath a wool cap. A half-ass attempt at dreads, the locks of his mane look like turds that fell on a barber shop floor and collected a mishmash of loose hair. The beard, redolent of a dusty old witches broom, curls out in all directions as if trying to escape his grubby face.

-A begrimed flannel sags loosely from bony shoulders. Against all odds, pit stains stand defiantly out against the tartan pattern. It’s clear he owned the shirt for years but washed it twice.

-Pants are a filthy, threadbare mess. The kind you know would stand up straight after they’ve been taken off.  Adorned with dark stains and mystery splotches, they resemble something between a Pollock painting and a Rorschach test.

-Mangled boots appear to have been picked off a corpse that stepped on a landmine. They’re the kind of boots you smell before you see.

Onward and downward

We cruised Ashevilles main drag and absolutely could not find the venue. In step with the adversarial vibe towards technology, GPS didn’t work. We could only surmise that nature enthusiasts sniff at the lowbrow concept of satellite mapped precision, preferring celestial navigation instead. When we finally arrived at the venue, we were convinced we had the wrong place - probably due to a miscalculation of the sun's sextant altitude and curvature.

The place was constructed in the most slapdash assemblage of components; basically the architectural equivalent of Sid’s mutant doll collection from Toy Story. It was 1 part impound lot, 2 parts thrift shop, 1 part speakeasy and 3 parts mental asylum.

As we got in, we discovered the show was a music/poetry/comedy open mic - which basically means no one was there for comedy.

Strange encounter ...

Chatting people up before shows is usually enjoyable - you make new connections, share stories, and typically discover you have a lot in common. Most performers are friendly, supportive, and are following their passion. Some folks, however, are just goddamn bizarre.

We heard a crash of piano keys across the room, followed by constant striking of a single high note on the piano. The ominous ‘ping ping ping’ had an eerie melody, like in a horror movie right before the monster is revealed. As soon as the spooky tune wrapped up, the player - who fittingly was of monstrous proportions herself - drove over to us in a rascal scooter.

If the people of Wal-Mart formed a kingdom, this woman would immediately be crowned queen. To call her The Blob would be too cliché, and to call her The Slob would be too lazy, so let’s settle somewhere in the middle and call her The Amoeba. With every bump of the scooter, the undefined boundaries of her form extended and retracted in kaleidoscopic shape-shifts. After running over my foot, instead of an apology she opened the conversation with an impatient “Ay I gotta sodeh round back udda chair. Coudja grab it fer me?”

“Yeah ... sure”, I said. After picking a mountain dew bottle delicately between thumb and forefinger from a greasy bag, I extended it to her greedily awaiting pseudopod. Before the carbonated “csssshh” of an opening bottle could sound, nearly the entire soda had been consumed. With a quarter inch of backwash remaining at the bottom, she asked if i’d care for a sip. I politely declined.

To get every last drop, she upended the bottle and held it suspended above her gaping maw as if she were a rockstar hitting a high note.

When the microscopic droplets weren’t flowing quickly enough, she began to vigorously shake the bottle - covering me and everyone within a 5-foot radius in Mountain Dew dew. Sufficiently bone dry, she tossed the bottle into a trash can. My utility as soda-fetcher concluded, and she floated off in another direction to engulf the next errand boy.

Thoroughly shaken after that bizarre interaction, we sat at a table with some new friends and settled in to enjoy the show. Each musical performer was given three songs or fifteen minutes on stage. The first performer was incredible. She was a classically trained musician from Pennsylvania with a soulful voice. Next was a guy who looked like he’d seen some shit and had stories to tell. He took the stage and rocked the room with gravelly vocals that held eyes and ears hostage. We were impressed with how talented everyone was - until ...

Let the real show begin

The host then announced the next performer, who to our astonished and disbelieving eyes was The Amoeba. We couldn’t believe it; we thought she was just a deranged local maniac there to watch. We wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that she’d take the stage. However Dan and I took a step back and reminded ourselves to stop being so judgemental. Looks don’t indicate talent, and books shouldn’t be judged by the cover. This woman could be like Susan Boyle!.

She was not. Her skills and looks were evenly matched. The first ‘song’ began with a mirror-shattering screech which became a rumbling howl, followed by an atonal interlude about ‘skeeters’ (mosquitos) and ramblings of half-remembered dreams. The end was part gregorian chant, part funeral dirge, and abruptly guttered out like a candle without oxygen. Below is a rough recounting of the lyrics

*Botched high note, gutteral moan*

Heeyyyyyy alll, dun here be all love,

Be good to eachotherrrr and love the at time

*brief pause for non-existent chorus*

He sed, wut? I sed da skeeter dun gonn bite. I sed looOOooOviinnnnnNN all you peopleeeeee is good. I sed no, dat dun skeeter gon … fly to da… heavennnn for the ale. He sed no and i … laaaannnd offff the freee

This continued for the entire set. Let that sink in for a moment. She ‘sang’ three full ‘songs’ acapella, and made up the words as she went. We couldn’t even dream of having that kind of confidence on stage. During the second song, she even asked the audience if they had any requests. Someone shouted “Stayin Alive!” to which she replied “Sang Somethin? Never heard of it”. Several other extremely well-known songs were shouted out, but she hadn’t heard a single one of them (of course). I have zero doubt if someone shouted “sing Happy Birthday!” she’d act like someone requested a song in Cantonese. But if someone shouted “sing Cousin Zeke’s Pet Fly!” she’d be buzzin' and hummin' in an instant.

We were the definition of a captive audience. All in attendance thought (correctly) that this lady was crazy, so no one wanted to rock the boat. Desperate attempts to inject positive energy into the room, like clapping along, died swiftly. It’s impossible to keep a beat when a song has zero instrumental accompaniment or lyrical cadence. By the time the collective clap had begun, it was already out of tune.

After twelve minutes which felt like seven lifetimes, she launched into the last song which had a ‘pop-meets-colonoscopy’ sound. It’s worth mentioning again that all these songs didn’t fucking exist, so no one in the audience knew when they’d end. Thankfully, she cued us in by interrupting herself and bowing like a conductor concluding a symphony. The bow was accompanied by a head nod, flap of the wrist, and utterance of a smug “ayuh” to indicate the applause was well-deserved.

Sifting through the wreckage

Sometimes performers bomb. Occasionally they bomb so badly that they walk the room (people get up and leave). But rarest of all, the bomb is so horrific that people lose the will to live. The Amoeba’s performance easily scored a gold medal in the last category. Almost everyone walked out, never to be seen again.

With the energy of the room unequivocally obliterated, the bewildered host came back to announce the next performer. “Coming to the stage, we have Dann Gibbonnssss”. That’s right. I had to follow that. It took all the courage I could muster just to get out of my seat.

I got on stage and surveyed the room - almost everyone had evacuated to the outdoor portion of the venue. With five or six remaining people in the room, I started telling jokes and trying to connect. Dan C followed. It was extremely challenging for us to revive the audience, and although we didn’t set the room on fire in our performances, we definitely began to turn the tide in the room.

Looking back now, we’re both happy that the show went the route it did. Sure it was tough, but it was an incredible lesson in staying calm under pressure. Like the old saying “It’s always darkest before dawn”, Asheville proved to be a fitting end to our first road trip.

We recharged in Philly for a few weeks before going on our next road trip North. We started that trip with New York.