Camino Journal Day 21
April 22
Easy Back Home went live to the world while I slumbered on the third floor of Hotel Covadonga in Ribadesellas. Releasing a song has become commonplace for me and the rejection from any official Spotify playlists thuds into my heart like so many before. After releasing El Camino in July 2021, I learned that in order to qualify for an official playlist, you must submit the song to the curators at least two weeks before the release date, and really a month early is what you wanna shoot for. It’s free to submit once you’ve paid the distribution company and is imperative to the success of your song. There are also unofficial playlists, but the reach of a curated playlist is astronomically larger.
DFW local Tanner Usrey played my showcase one night for $100/hr. He was grinding the local scene just like the rest of us and then bam! One of his songs landed on the popular Indigo playlist and he was off like lightening, now with multiple songs over 1 million streams. He’s on the road with True Grit, the talent agency associated with Cody Jinks, and is living a rock star life. It’s wild. He’s got over half a million monthly listeners today, and it looks like his popularity isn’t going to wane anytime soon.
Everybody’s got their rock star dream, and much like Greenwich Village during the Dave Von Ronk era that landed Bob Dylan a Cinderella contract with Colombia records in the face of so many staple artists of that scene who’d been working for years before Dylan came along, Leon Bridges is our Bob Dylan. Since Leon got that million-dollar contract with Colombia records right in the face of the Fort Worth Royalty who’d been grinding the three bars around over and over since the 1990s. Bridges got the same backlash we associate with Dylan these days.
And just like that scene, since Leon, countless others have made it out. The dream seems so attainable when the Facebook feed is loaded with people who I know that are playing sold out shows and going on yearlong tours around the world. After Leon took a local Fort Worth band on his first world tour, everyone is itching to get to Europe. Some go over and play po-dunk bars for $100 a night, others get over and play quiet listening rooms, but only get $50/night as the local label has to make some money somewhere. It’s called recoup. Leon and his band went first class with a major record label. I heard bandmates capped at $350/night. You can tell who a felon might be a lot of times as some of the bigger names keep circling around the US.
I pop in my earbuds while Johnny continues to snooze in his bed next to mine. Easy Back Home comes on. It’s a sweet little song, and as many of the rejections to playlists and reviews stated, had great production value. Tatsch does a great job bringing my songs to life. The hard part about paying for criticism with sites like Submithub.com or going on Fiverr for a placement agent, is that you are just sure they are doing it for the money. Even small-time labels like Forthright Records, who I hired to do a campaign with a couple singles, seem to have a way to inflate the numbers when needed.
With just $150 with Forthright on a single in 2021, I was able to get a song up to 7,000 streams, my best. When I went the extra mile and bought in for 4 times that amount to promote the entire album, the streams never added back up to that. There was an air of bait and switch to it, and when I asked, I was told that Spotify users were sabotaging their competitors’ playlists. Other artists similar to me were going in and flagging the playlists where my songs landed for being fake playlists. Forthright assured me this was a problem with sabotage and the placements he’d earned my songs were legit. Either way, there was no way to really find out. The feature to report a playlist is still there.
With Fiverr, it’s the same thing. You hire someone like the Forthright guy, and they pitch your songs to user-created playlists. This can be helpful, if you like fake numbers. I’ve considered just setting up a few computers here at home with a VPN service and running them non-stop on my newest single for the first month of release. 3-minute song. 60 minutes in an hour, that’s 20 spins an hour, times 24 hours in a day. That’s 480 plays a day multiplied by 6 computers. that’s roughly 3,000 streams a day, albeit with only 6 unique listeners. That’s where the VPN service comes in. I would imagine there is a program out there that could switch your IP address every five minutes. Now the plays look like they’re coming from unique sources.
The risk here is that streams and monthly listeners translate into tickets sold at shows. If you get too far ahead of a real audience with your fake one, you’ll get caught by playing a venue where nobody shows. But if you use the fake numbers to attract published reviews and garner buzz, now you’re on track to actually get a few new listeners and real fans. If you’ve got the cash to keep this whole charade going long enough, then it’s almost a guarantee that eventually the music will be accepted as good, and people will go to shows. There is the obvious influence of God on some of this stuff. I couldn’t explain it any other way with people like Jinks, Usrey and Bridges. Those guys made it on grit, hard work and most importantly grace, I presume.
So here I was out on the trail using what little money I had and hoping for the best. What I started realizing with the first few singles I’d released while walking, is it would take me a few continuous Caminos to amass a grass roots following handing out business cards and stickers. I had faith though, and you just never know how things work. Malcom Gladwell’s The Tipping Point talks about the way disease and culture spread like lightening after accumulating momentum along an exponential curve.
I said a little silent prayer and put on the Book of Psalms from YouTube and quietly slipped out to have a spliff and a coffee while letting Johnny sleep a bit longer. I prayed for my songs, but then felt guilty for not being more grateful for the life I had already and for the experience of the Camino. Why couldn’t I be satisfied? Did I want fame? I didn’t think I would deal very well with fame, but in my mind, fame meant people liked my songs, and people liking my songs meant more money. I could use more money. And there again, I’m feeling guilty for wanting more.
A book called Boundaries came up in the suggested videos on my YouTube and I selected it. Right away I’m enthralled at what the book is talking about. I have not boundaries; I think to myself. I’m compliant. I’m also an avoidant.
“I’m not crazy at all,” I think to myself with joy, “I’m just totally fucked up!”
The first chapter is all about what boundaries actually are, and where they come from, and most importantly, the book was based in scripture. With each new revelation, there was a scripture to back it up and fortify the world of psychology with faith.
“Don’t worry so much about the song not being too hot,” my inner voice could be heard loud and clear. It was Joey, or Joe. He’d been stuck in a phase of development known as “practicing”. The boundaries book describes people in this phase as exciting to be around and risk takers, but in the end, they suffer from a developmental issue and cannot grow up and take life seriously. Many people who get stuck in this phase of development stay there forever and live a life of poverty and shame while forever working toward the attention and praise of another. Boy, was that ever my life.
View from Hotel - Ribadesellas
“Even now. With this trip,” I say to myself. “What am I doing out here again? Spiritual, Mental and Physical benefits.” and that was true, but there was still an element of wanting to be important and to impress, especially impress and be accepted by my family.
I kept listening to the book while getting ready to leave the hotel and didn’t really conversate with Johnny too much. Arguments were presented for delving out the responsibilities of my fucked-up-ness to my parents and society, but without the aim of vengeance. The developmental approach to the book allowed me to see myself and my parents as just average humans in this big wide world, trying to survive. The ideas presented me with some clarity about how and why my parents arrived at the situations they did, and how and why they may have failed in certain aspects of child raising.
I kept my earbuds in for the first couple hours of walking. Johnny and I didn’t leave the Hotel until 8am and took a coffee and smoke break. We stood outside on the small sidewalk and smoked and chatted about how far we’d go today and if the weather was going to hold up. I swore I wouldn’t walk in any heavy rain again. It just wasn’t worth it to me. If it started raining, I’d stop for the day and get a Hotel. That’d be that. For the time being the weather was good, and after our smokes, we headed back out on the trail. Before we could get even 20 meters from the door, Johnny and I both turn around hearing frantic screaming coming from behind us. It’s the barman from the cafe we’d just patronized.
“Hey, Oye, chicos. The cup? Give it over.” he says extending his open hand out toward us palm up.
“The cup? What cup? What do you mean?” I respond immediately, Johnny and I both complying without concern.
“La taza. That you stole. Put it in my hand now and I won’t call the police.”
I look at Johnny. He doesn’t drink coffee. This one is all on me.
“I left the cup on the window seal over there where we were smoking,” I say pointing back to his bar and turning to walk on.
“No, I looked. I didn’t see anything. Give me the taza, now.” he becomes firm and pulls his phone from his pocket. I presume he’s dialing the authorities.
“Sir, I didn’t take your cup. It’s sitting on the windowsill right now.” I say again signaling with wide gestures that he look on the other side of the door to his bar.
“I looked. It wasn’t there. Why don’t you show me? Hands where I can see them though. I think you’re lying,” and he mutters, “fucking pilgrims,” under his breath.
We walk back over to where I had taken my coffee, the barman staying ahead to disallow me to pull a fast one and deposit the cup on the sill without him noticing. I slowly walk over and stay about 20 feet back from the ledge and point.
“It’s there.”
Skeptical, the barman won’t take his eyes off me now.
“Where?” he asks again.
“Right there,” I say one more time moving closer with my empty open hand pointing with outstretched finger.
“No me jodes, hombre. Te vi. Give me back my taza.”
“Fuck man!” I’m kind of losing it with this guy. The cup is tucked in the corner on the ledge and has been made invisible from the inside of the bar by the decals on the windows. So certain I’d stolen his coffee cup as a souvenir the man couldn’t take his eyes off me long enough to actually see the damn thing. I try to pass him and get closer to the window to show him, but he not wanting to be made the fool, keeps me from passing him and makes sure he is able to watch me and the window the whole time. Finally, about 3 feet from the window and in plain sight of the coffee cup sitting in the windowsill, I point again almost touching the cup with my finger, my arm basically against the man’s head helping to site his eyes for him,
“Right fucking there. Joder!” and I draw it out. Ho-Deerrrrr.
“It’s customary to return the cup to the bar,” is all the man says picking up his property and heading back inside.
“Did you charge me the 10% terrace tax?” I say as Johnny, and I turn and make out way without another word with the man.
The man’s accusatory attitude has me wanting to start tipping even more. I’d been leaving a typical 10 cents here and 20 cents there, but I figured I’d up the tip to 5% of the bill no matter what and see if that changed anything with this year’s crop of rude Spaniards. Johnny and I walked on in a slight drizzle, but neither of us complained. We went as far as the edge of the current small town, walking along the seaside promenade, until the rain was just so bad I couldn’t go on.
“Johnny, we have to break. Let’s find a cafe.” I expected resistance to my suggestion and figured I might have to let Johnny go at the rain alone.
“Good idea, I have to shit.”
“Now that you mention it, I have to shit too,” I say wondering the ethereal nature of human contact. I pulled out my phone and took on some rain in order to look up the closest cafe. We’d have to backtrack 1000 meters. We booked it back the direction we came with the waves crashing to our left now. Before getting to the cafe we’d found on google, we dipped into a schwanky hotel with a cafeteria.
“Sirs, do you have a reservation?” We are greeted by the waitress in charge of the hotel breakfast nook.
“No. Can we take a coffee?” I ask politely
“In the lobby there is another bar for non-guests.” The waitress goes about her deal, and we drip over marble tile leading over to the lobby bar.
Setting our soaked packs down on the floor, Johnny immediately books it to the bathroom, and I order us a round of coffee and Cola-Cao. We have small chit-chat with the barmaid and talk over logistics.
“We could just take a taxi,” I suggest with a bit of reservation in my voice.
“Or we could wait a little bit and walk some more. It’s clearing up.” Johnny says.
We take another round of drinks and a small snack, have a couple smokes and pace around the outside terrace judging the clouds like the inexperienced laymen experts of meteorology we are.
“I’d rather walk it,” I confess to Johnny, “But I hate the rain and cold. I don’t want to get sick. Need to keep the core warm and steady,” I say rubbing my stomach and stretching out.
“We got a break in the clouds now. Want to try it?”
Feeling refreshed and with the clouds opening up, Johnny and I set off down the way again. I listened to my audio book as much as possible and we walked through beautiful trails, seaside promenades, muddy meadows, past cows and horses, up hills and down valleys. The hike was wet, but amazing and we both stayed pretty dry with little complaint as the sun forever seemed just about to pop out.
Johnny and I stopped and had lunch on a small bridge without leaving the trail. The sun was out, and it was dry and pleasant. I made us a couple of Spanish Jamon, chorizo and Manchego sandwiches and we drank a couple canned Shandys while having our first good chat of the day. I realized listening to the book, Johnny has great boundaries, and I have none. Or rather, I had been just starting to form some boundaries over the last few years of my life. I was still very compliant with people, but Johnny didn’t take advantage of this.
Not understanding boundaries, I didn’t have a clue boundaries are a two-way street. It is not only my responsibility to set boundaries, but to also observe those of the other and respect them as well. Johnny has good boundaries. When he initiated the chats, they were at times when he was absolutely certain he wouldn’t be intruding on my space. What I love about him is he was totally aware of how his actions could affect other people. He was also aware how his presence could be felt by others, and he was completely aware of the fact he existed. To top it off, he seemed to have no qualms about life, despite his recent strokes.
I wondered if Johnny’s strokes might have deadened his pain receptors, as at times, he seemed to be completely unaware of the pain he should have been feeling in that badly blistered, and continually blistering foot. His conversation was poignant, short and straight to the point with no long continuations into the ethereal philosophizing nature of it all.
“I used to like to play the devil’s advocate,” Johnny tells me while we are walking down the trail in response to one of my elaborate mind-maps I’ve drawn for him about some unimportant topic, “But I don’t have the capacity anymore,” he says with a matter-of-fact tone, “There’s good and bad to that. People get so blinded by their own convictions and the more strong willed they become, the less resistance they encounter. I really did enjoy giving the opposite point of view, and at times I did so without even agreeing with the point I was making.” Johnny laughs. You can feel some of the regret from his strokes and a slight want to return to his pre-stroke-brain, but he was accepting. Both our breathing is heightened due to the conversation, and we mince words between gasps of lung reinforcement.
Johnny’s boundaries helped me to stay quieter and also not intrude on him and helping me form some of my own first boundaries. I didn’t mind walking with Johnny because there was no expectation of me to walk with him. He was fine on his own, and he was also demonstratively grateful to have a friend along the way. One of his main goals was to socialize more, and boy, did I know how to engage in conversation, being boundaryless and all. So, we made a good pair. Our similar goals of simply walking all day and getting somewhere and enjoying the sport and physical benefit of it all, kept us on pace and honestly, I never bothered being on the trail with Johnny at all.
We took a smoke break every two hours, either at a cafe or right on the trail. Carrying a liter and half of water with me, and Johnny with his liter of Pepsi Zero, we could stop and take our breaks with refreshment anywhere we like.
Spring brought the sight of many baby animals. As we passed them with fixed gaze from the other side of the barrier, the youngins suckled the teats of the mothers, the adolescent colts raced ever farther away from their mare and back again, lacking the grace and majesty they will soon come to know. The jasmine flowers scent rose out unexpectedly around the bend and the lush green grass looked like a field of soft picnic areas to bring a girl and make a pallet. The animals didn’t seem to mind us at all, just staring as we passed, coming to eat the grass from our hands even though what they had access to was plentiful. Their deep eyes had no longing and served as an infinitely deep receptacle for my own longing in this world. As I made eyes with each along the way, they absorbed a little more of my unworthiness, my feelings of being unloved and alone. Their beaming dark colored windows to the soul were extracting the lonely out of me, and I gave willingly and silently.
As the trail opened to a seaside meadow on a cliff, there was Daddy Bull from Heiko’s story. Up at the top of a small hill leading down into the meadow. He gazed upon his flock. His fledgling still not old enough to be apart from his mother so newly born. Daddy Bull awaited his son to come up to him and to show him his lands and all that was his. The bull turned and looked at me.
“You can walk this Earth as I walk my meadows,” he told me somehow.
I walk this Earth with feelings of inaccessibility. I accustom myself to inferior products and foods because I feel I can’t afford the better stuff. I shy away from fancy and elegant things because I don’t like seeing my reflection in them. But these feelings were not of Daddy Bull. I deserved all I wanted. I deserved a happy life. I had saved the money in my bank, and I deserved to spend some of it. I decided I would walk down and enjoy all of life, not just the allotment I felt I had been dealt.
The trail opened wider. The clouds thinned and a nice warming blanket came over us.
“The apostle,” I thought. He’s with us again.
Johnny and I walked until 3pm totaling 16 miles for the day. When we came upon the municipal albergue in La Isla, there were a few pilgrims sitting outside on the covered patio at the large 20-foot picnic table. I wasn’t tired at all and thought I might continue on and get some alone time in and push myself a little further.
“I’ll at least take a break with you here and check it out,” I say as we set our packs down and greet the other two pilgrims as they disappear back inside. I roll a spliff and drain my water bottle while smoking it and after Johnny has a cig, he goes in and greets the hoteleros.
“Is it Joe Savage out there?” I hear a female voice say from inside with a happy screech. “No fucking way!”
My heart lurches as I try to figure out who it is. Do I know them?
A beautiful young woman from Argentina appears from the doorway, first with her hands on the door jam, then her head protruding quickly out to get a survey of the patio, and then her whole self comes down the steps with arms wide to give me a greeting hug.
“Joe Savage? The guy from Texas with the guitar? That’s you right?”
“Yes. Yes.” I say all smiles “How do you know me?”
“Your friends on the Camino told me about you. I love to sing. Everyone keeps saying, ‘You gotta meet this guy from Texas. He’s so cool. I can’t believe we finally meet. I was on the Camino like, where is the guy Joe, I never see him, but everyone else knows him. And here you are! Me alegro. We will have to sing together.”
I explain to her my weird rest-days and the three days in San Vicente and how that’s probably why we hadn’t met yet. Her lovely smile pierces my soul and I’m just so enamered at the reception. Of course, I wasn’t going to carry on by myself with these types of friends around.
Inside there were a group of two other women who had been walking with Cici, a woman from Germany, Iris, and another Argentinian named Magali. There was also an older Frenchman who seemed drunk already and a little off. By now the hostelero had looked me up on Spotify and was playing my songs from the albergue’s computer. People don’t seem bothered. I go back outside to have another spliff so as to not take the spotlight, but only take a few puffs. I go back in to make sure they are still enjoying. I put on the new singles and tell all the eagerly listening ears about my albums, give everyone stickers and bust out the guitar.
Passing it around first, we take turns singing a few songs while everyone gets checked in and makes up their beds. No heater, but the temps are back up into the 40s at night, and with the provided wool blankets and an open window or two, my top bunk sleeping should be great. The woman Iris happened to be friends with the guitarist from Turnpike Troubadours and so I played Good Lord Lorrie for her, and she filmed it promising to send it over to them. I could see myself opening up a run of shows and getting out on the road with a major band.
After everyone settles in, I head out alone to the only bar/cafe in town and order a couple of Shandy beers and wait for the grocery store to open. The weather is still nice, a little chilly, but no rain, and sitting on the patio in this ghost town during siesta hour, I’m at peace. I’m enjoying myself. I’m enjoying the beer. At about 5 or so the group of girls is spotted coming down the only street toward the bar. I greet them and they invite me to sit there and have some more beers with them. We exchange pleasantries and good conversation.
Magali’s mantra, which she keeps saying to all smiles is, “I am perfect and I am beautiful.” She turly was, my heart leapt sitting there with such beautiful women. What was it? It is uncontrollable feeling of attraction to the opposite sex. She was perfect and beautiful. All women are all perfect and all beautiful, and that was her point. She reminded me of Amali, the main character from the French movie of the same title. She was an Argentinian woman who now lived in Tromoso, Norway. It was at the tip top of the country, and I imagined her stuck in some type of Julio Medem inspired love affair like that of Amantes Del Circulo Polar.
All the bar had for snacks was Spanish Omelet, tortilla, and our group riffed on the title for a book about the Camino called, “40 Days of Tortilla”.
“Day 22,” Maga waxes poetically, “Eres dura, grande, y potente.”
“Day 27,” I continue, “The farts arrive.” The table of girls busts out laughing.
“So true,” Maga chokes on her beer, “The eggs. Too many eggs,” she affirms laughing harder.
The girls are vegetarian and on the Camino it’s hard to get by like that. You end up eating Spanish Omelet every day and sometimes every meal. The toxic gasses created after three weeks is deadly.
“Day 28,” Cici chimes in, “I hate you. I used to love you. I needed you, even. But I’ll die if I see you again.”
The laughter continues and we add in more and more days to the book.
“Someone ought to write it for sure,” we all agree as the laughter dies down and we begin making plans for what to cook. There’s a kitchen at the albergue and the small market opens up at 5:30. Johnny makes his way down and joins us for a beer before we all head over to the store together. We’ve divided up who should get what and decided to make some pasta and vegetables. The man at the market still has the mask mandate going and will only allow two patrons at a time. These smaller towns were hit harder because the magnitude of a death in a town of 200 people is felt like a tremor in the Earth.
I buy a couple bottles of sider, some local chorizo, potatoes, broccoli, garbanzos and some onion. Others buy more vegetables, a few bottles of wine and some desserts. It’s a delight to work together with willing strangers on a common meal. We dance around the dining area with ease and all tasks are done without order, and in no time, we are sitting together for a big communal meal. A few more pilgrims had arrived, and we welcomed them all to join us. After supper, I brought out the guitar again and we sang songs together including Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. The Frenchman, now plastered, was up dancing around the room as I played his requested, Paint It Black.
By 10pm everyone is making their way to their bunks for sleep. Even with the hosteleros not sleeping on site, after three weeks of walking, the entire group is accustomed to getting to bed early and rising with the sun. Like parachuters jumping from a plane, the pilgrims go off to bed and finally there are none left at the table. We are all in our beds, It’s 11pm. I jump up and shut off the last light, put my earbuds in and listen to the Psalms while I drift off to sleep.
Around 12:30am I’m jostled awake by the old Frenchman’s voice. He’s speaking first in French, and no one answers, but he is frantic. Then in German he asks again and gets a reply. I had no idea what he said. The room was wide awake now. Almost everyone understood. I texted Johnny who was a few bunks away from me.
“What did he say?”
“He asked where he was. And the woman responded to him he was in the albergue on the Camino Del Norte.” was all Johnny texted back.
I couldn’t get back to sleep the whole night. The entire room never settled back down. Everyone tossed and turned and got up and down to the bathroom. They slammed and opened the doors. I think the Frenchman even went back out to the bar just before midnight and drank a bottle of wine there and also brought one back with him.
Videos - My days videos of the walk with Transcendental Railroad
