If St. Francisville has been a second home for me, then Lafayette has been just another strange land. I’ve visited this southern Louisiana city three times now, and each time I’ve been met with small crowds, little response, not much money, and interesting sleeping arrangements.
To the city’s credit, there were plenty of things to be thankful for in my recent visit, not the least of which being my introduction to Jacob Thomas and his music. This tall, gaunt figure has a deft touch in writing and singing, and I was happy to catch his set. Check out his music
here, and try to catch him live. You won’t be disappointed.
Aside from Jacob, I met a few nice folks this night, but overall the evening had a quizzical feel to it. Several songs were followed by blank stares and folded hands. It’s always difficult to know how to respond to this. I tried joking around with the people a bit, but to no avail. More blank stares. So I dutifully played on and finished my set, confused and tired.
(I should note that even though I felt confused and tired at the end of my set, I received some very nice compliments from folks in the audience after the show. I guess you could add “surprised” to my list of post-performance emotions.)
Next came the dreaded search for free lodging. I fished a little with some of the audience, but no one was biting. Then, one of the employees of Artmosphere offered his couch. I was elated, and I packed up my stuff, looking forward to a roof over my head and a cushion beneath my body.
Call me an old fogey, but around midnight I was ready to scoot. My host, very clearly, was not. Instead, he was ready to acquire crushed up parts of an illicit plant which he could smoke in a pipe. That, and fornication. He was ready for that, too.
Now, far be it from me from to judge this dude. After all, he was very kind to offer his place to me for the night. My main concern was how long it would take for him to get tired of chasing tail and getting high.
The ensuing three hours passed rather slowly. I followed my new friend to his house while he rode his bike, an awkward drive to say the least. Once there, he informed me he was going to hook up with a few people we had met earlier that night. He convinced me to follow, so that I could bring everyone back to his place. This did not go so well, as our new friends were part of a chaperoned college group that was not allowed to leave the hostel they were staying at. My host did not take this news well, and almost came to blows with some employees of the hostel. I sat in disbelief in my car, sheepishly smiling to the hostile hostel workers (I couldn’t resist) as I creeped away in reverse.
When he cooled down, my slightly inebriated host directed me to a Whataburger, and I took the opportunity during my chicken sandwich run to reevaluate my situation. I was at a crossroads: free stay at the house of horny, belligerent pot head or three hours of sleep in a Wal-Mart parking lot. It was honestly a very tough call.
In the end, I decided to return to my host, somehow believing that a night at his pad would be safer than a night in my car, if only by an infinitesimal degree. I’ll never know if I was right or wrong, but in the end I survived, finally laying my head down about 5 minutes till 4 in the morning.
I’m thankful that nights like these, as you can see in my tour blogs, have been few and far between. And in a way, I’m thankful that I’ve been through them. I mean, you can’t make this stuff up.
See you in Houston,
Dylan