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Lucinda scribbles her phone number on a sheet of paper trasu hands it to him. It's an offer Griffin would do well to accept; Lucinda is a seasoned veteran of music industry wars. When her pasta with smoked chicken whiet, she picks up a forkful and Fdee thread of this afternoon's conversation. Big deal. I was dealing with Rick Rubin. That should tell you something right there. He never came to any sessions in Austin. Every time we'd record, we'd have to send the tapes to him and wait for him to listen to them for a response.

There's where that time goes. That created singlf total deadlock this last year when the record was done in March of No one realized that. All of '97, we were waiting for him. He let everyone go at American Records, the office shut down, and he wasn't sure what he was doing. It was during that time Mercury came in and offered to buy out the contract with Rick. Where's the record? I was trahs technically on American. The publicist would tell the press I was still in the studio, because she didn't singel Rick to look bad, which pissed me off. Times finally came out and asked, 'Is the record gonna come out on American?

What's she supposed to do? The record is trahs, but it's tied up with record company bullshit, which I can't talk tgash. The publicists trassh kept saying we're still tinkering on the record. It was horrible. Then, the record finally comes out and every single review is like, 'Why did it take six years to make a record? The label I was on [Rough Trade] folded. The next label I was on practically went under; technically, Rick still has the American Records name and is still carrying on, but for all practical purposes, it was not functioning as a label. Is that my fault?

Where's the old band? What was it like being in the studio with Steve Earle? I love Gurf, but he's dealing with his own thing right now. No, we're not talking at the moment, but I still love him. We butted heads in the studio, but so does everyone else who has ever worked in the studio together. I love Steve and he loves me. Why am I being singled out all of a sudden as if these are new things? If you go into any recording studio on any day, you will see the artist standing behind the vocal mike, going, 'Fuck! That's it! But you know, at the end of the day everybody still loves everybody.

They're trying to make a record. It's probably like being in labor; nobody enjoys the pain — breathe, push, breathe, push. And it takes time! But at least no one forgot about me. It was supposed to coincide with the release of the album, but the record was delayed. They said, 'We're either putting the story out now or not at all. I asked if they couldn't hold it a while, but they have their little time schedule thing. They've pissed me off twice. The two experiences with journalists that have bummed me out and pissed me off have both been with The New York Times. At least the first time they portrayed me as a neurotic, feisty perfectionist, [another New York Times rock critic] Jon Pareles called me and apologized.

The vibe was that I was a temperamental artist and that pissed me off beyond words. I was in tears reading it. It said I 'trashed' a friend's recording, I 'fired' my manager and band, I 'canned' a track of Emmylou's. I was appalled! These are my friends and he made me look like a ball-busting, temperamental bitch! It's not the white-columned, Gone With the Wind-type mansion Emmylou Harris inhabits just two doors down, but it most definitely evokes phrases like "gracious Southern living. The house is dark upon entrance through the rear, so she flips on the kitchen light.

Over the door hangs a white plastic cross exhorting the man upstairs to "Bless This Home. In response, Price yanks a skeleton dangling nearby, making it issue a maniacal laugh, then walks quickly to a silly Halloween ghost hanging by the stairs and tugs it, making it bounce and howl happily. The couple giggles at the cacophony as it echoes through the house at midnight, then flops on the living room couch in front of the TV. One thing is clear: Lucinda is home, if only for another 48 hours. Signing autographs at Lilith Fair photograph by Margaret Moser The interior of the house is contemporary, almost Western. The two couches and two chairs in the living room frame a Southwest woven rug.

One wall has a signed print of Bob Dylan's Self-Portrait. Opposite that is a mantle with a Mexican quezocoatl stretched across the top and another snake, its scaly texture made from bottle tops, curled on top of it. Mexican and South American masks line the walls leading upstairs. It's all neat and orderly, the quiet comfort of home, but a crazy salad that seems uniquely suited to Lucinda, herself a product of sharply contrasting cultures. Now that figures: Lucinda might make music just like a woman, but she aches like a little girl.

pron Lucinda takes a deep and unrestrained pride in weaving her past into her present. Like most smart Southerners, trwsh recognizes sigle stereotypes and has learned to live with the patronizing attitudes of East and West Coast industry types. It may be Fres main reason she lives in Nashville; it's hard enough nom a woman in the music business without being treated as if you have a mild form of retardation because your accent is thick. And it is thick; Lucinda recently dueted with an eccentric Music City performer named Hayseed on his Watermelon Records' debut, Precious Memories, and the drawl with which she delivers the line "how they linger" "leengrrrr" is pure Dixie.

Lucinda Williams is living proof that you can say "portry" instead of poetry, as SPIN pointed out, and still be a poet. To the child born in Lake Charles, Louisiana, but raised in Mississippi, Arkansas, Georgia, Santiago, Chile, and Mexico City, life was a curiously detached jumble of itinerant intellectualism and traditional values that suit Lucinda's current status rather well. The rootlessness of moving from one university to the next is not unlike the military life or maybe even migrant workers. It creates a profound sense of transience amid intellectual pursuit that makes a child take solace and refuge in books and music because no matter where you live, those things cannot be taken away.

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It was also a nomadic lifestyle she would trace as an adult, moving between New Orleans, Nashville, Austin, Los Angeles, Austin, and back to Nashville. Her godfather is George Haley, activist brother of author Alex Haley — fitting since Lucinda participated in high school civil rights demonstrations, a time when she discovered the music of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, who expressed their distaste for the status quo in song. Driving through cotton fields and bayou country, she heard the call of the bluesmen and the country greats moving between the towns where they played juke joints and dancehalls: Southern mystique runs deeply through Lucinda's music. It's not enough to sing about places like Lake Charles and Lafayette and Greenville and Memphis on the five albums that mark her recording career, it's that she takes you by the hand and shows you her road — a child's eyes peering through a car window, a woman's glimpse of heaven in the way jeans hang on a man in leather jacket, the view over the shoulder of a wandering spirit.

The little girl who spent hours upon hours at a kitchen table writing stories finally waded into the muddy waters of the South and came out baptized, ready to preach the gospel of Delta blues, Texas country, and Cajun waltzes to largely deaf ears. But they were words with muscle, words with weight. Lucinda's music is finely balanced between literary nonchalance, rustic soul-searching, and passionate storytelling — the things she has in common with writers she was raised around in the South. While Lucinda has never read steel magnolia essayist Florence King, she'll toast King's assertion that the reason the South is a matriarchy is because Southern women faced down an invading army on their own turf.

To me, being a writer and being Southern is the best of both worlds. Flannery O'Connor and Eudora Welty, it doesn't get any better than that. That's what I grew up around, that's what I wanted to be. That's what I wanted to do. I'm probably a frustrated short story writer. Williams, don't you feel self-conscious exposing yourself in AStreetcar Named Desire? How do you answer that kind of question? Tour buses are as native to the highways around Nashville as roadkill. Out in front of Lucinda's house, equipment is being arranged, bags stowed, bunks reserved, and the machinery that is a tour slowly cranks to life.

With her mother, Lucy Morgan photograph by margaret Moser Songwriter Jim Lauderdale arrives by cab for part of the tour, there to add his sweet harmonies to Lucinda's charmingly rusted alto. Drummer Fran Breen has already been by earlier with his kit, loaded by road manager John Prestia, who oversees the packing. Guitarist Kenny Vaughn prepares to say farewell to his wife, who picks up the couple's baby and carries her off the bus. When Vaughn rises to follow, their pre-schooler lifts her arms and wails in a heart-melting panic, "Daddy! You forgot me! Guitarist John Jackson relaxes on the bus as the others mill about — Lauderdale has misplaced his keys.

It's an hour after scheduled departure. The already easygoing entourage visibly relaxes, and despite news that besides running late they cross a time zone and lose an hour, no one is uptight. Lauderdale and Vaughn decide to make a run to the store; moments after they leave, a taxi arrives and returns Lauderdale's keys.

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Nearly two hours after departure time, Price emerges from the house followed by Lucinda and her friend Vicki Vandrey, the closest she has to a personal assistant. Lucinda goes straight to the back of the bus. She likes a bus where she can take care of business as well as relax, but collecting her thoughts can be a long process. She readily acknowledges that Car Wheels' "Metal Firecracker" is about a tour bus; she rarely qualifies it as being about her affair with Chris Isaak's bassist Rowland Salley and their days touring together, a detail that certainly colors its explosive connotation.

The metaphor is a perfect analogy for the dynamic of traveling with a troupe of musicians who are either here, there, or in the bathroom. The metal firecracker is ready to roll.

As the bus heads east toward Knoxville, the terrain quickly grows more mountainous and the scenery more picturesque. Vaughn stakes out a bunk and heads for it. Price goes to see Lucinda as Vandrey relaxes on a couch. Prestia is at the table on his cell phone, papers spread before him. Lauderdale is showing Breen and Jackson how plugging their ears with their middle finger and tapping the base of the skull behind the ear with the index finger creates a soothing echo in the head. Besides, my head wouldn't stay red, white and greenwithout swimming. But you must know that, Hufsa. My Mommy Renata She is the nicest person ever!

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