Text of the 1976
Eagles Tour Program
"It's hard
to tell
the night-time
from the day..."
DESPERADO
For us
the world doesn't shrink.
We measure time in
routine &
waiting.
Waiting stretched like a
long rubber band
until the white light
tonight
suspends us on stage.
Time stops.
Remember:
what you see is slow motion
& when it disappears
it lasts
forever.
Like you,
we also watch
as it happens.
The waiting is
the distance in time between
hard work,
the finest expectation,
the tension &
the final...
"Hello.
We're the Eagles
from Los Angeles."
I am a rock star.
I am an ordinary man.
I haven't slept long.
The sheets are still cold
& my dreams sting
but I think that I know
the silence won't last long
without the noise of
a new city's business
& my own voice
singing to a blind spotlight.
In this bed,
like so many,
it doesn't matter.
I don't care anymore.
I am
a sleeping man.
Until the ring.
It's Richard
the bellweather man
who organizes the dazed &
bewildered.
Minstrels
who might fall apart any second
like drunken toys.
Richard makes sure I stumble
in the right direction.
So I reach for his voice
in the dark to remind me:
I am a working man.
The dark is as thin as
the drape that hides another day
I think I saw yesterday
& the day before that.
& I can see the night's celebration
strewn on the floor
in a vision we've all seen before.
It just isn't home.
The soap doesn't change.
& the room smell's the same.
Bottled & shipped to hypnotize
traveling salesmen.
& what the hell am I selling
so far from home?
I miss home.
Mine.
Yours.
Anybody's
I hate waking up.
When I do I brush my teeth
hard
& stare in the mirror
for signs of
life.
& when I see one
I dress & have the first laugh.
I look at the door
& I know every move
til it opens
& the day--
the real one--
has the sway.
will there be girls
in the hallway?
or some other
action?
I start the day
limping.
It's not time to fly.
Breakfast at
one
in the afternoon
is as bad as it is
anytime.
I sit alone
but I expect the others
& my expectations are as alive
as my eggs are dead.
They never had a chance.
My juice is dry, too.
There must be one menu
for all the hotels in the world.
& one cook.
Two fellow survivors arrive.
They remind me of those still
lost in the desert.
They order
six glasses of juice &
four glasses of milk.
The talk goes over & above my head
& settles in my ears.
I digest everything.
I see a mirage:
they discover a lost, dusty menu
on parchment
& share it with me.
Together they sit.
They don't look like explorers.
The talk is small
& then louder
& I'm a part with a quiet
smart remark.
Last night
after the gig
I had a giggle.
I went to my room
& the halls were empty.
I felt like a rat in a maze
with a rug to slow me down.
& two who refused to lie down
were sneaking around
conspiring to wake strangers
& frighten stray convention types.
Playing like kids
for hours on end.
They disappeared around the bend
bent on brand new ways to
abuse the English language.
I wasn't surprised to find
an elevator
greeting me with grinning
grown-up
campfire girls.
I smiled.
Naturally.
In another mood
as another man I might have found
a strange face in that cage
& winked myself to death or
jumped in
to go along for the ride.
I waited for an empty ride down.
Or was it up.
Up, of course or
so it seems as I finish my meal
& stare at my plate.
It stares back.
Keys & more keys.
To get out.
To get in.
To get by.
But Richard & his crew...
they'll take care of the
real keys.
The past...
the day past
I erase from memory
& yesterday lies in my suitcase
waiting for the cleaners.
It's a slow rush
to the airport
& maybe we won't make it.
Sure,
we could walk on our hands
& the plane would be
ready.
Lift a finger &
all's taken care of.
Well,
we're led by the hand
'cause we're tired.
The limos are waiting.
Most of the time.
This is normal.
An illusion
most of the time.
Right?
Am I normal?
I am waiting.
& we drive through the city
& the city stares back.
I observe &
make metaphors.
I'm polite with my words
while I study with my
eyes.
That's finally how you get to know:
Though a good word's
a good indication.
A Chinese restaurant goes by.
At the airport
the Enterprise is waiting.
I dig it.
I love it.
No waiting for tickets.
No baggage to check.
Jus beamed aboard
beaming.
Four tons of equipment are
already on their way
in two semi-trailers.
The hare in the air &
the tortoise is rolling.
The fairy take never changes.
On the plane
I'm a passenger
with a rock 'n' roll
headache.
Food's in a pirate's box
& I nibble fruit
& look out the window
& recognize clouds
more familiar than any city.
We're flying.
It's turbulent.
Outside &
inside.
My stomach hurts.
There's seat belt playtime
in the air.
Sometimes we're children
with expensive toys
that aren't so much fun.
I remember the last minute
through a dark cloud
with a child in its lap.
We begin our descent.
Beaming down
but it's hard to come down
when you've been up there.
We stay
lean & hungry
& a little afraid.
It's preparation for the competition
& walking on earth.
It's a long way down.
I have a good sense of timing.
Watch the way I walk.
Or talk.
Like a lazy cowboy or
a duck.
Quick draw.
I learned cartoons
out of boredom
& then I learned that
we first learned the world
through
Donald Duck's eyes.
That makes sense.
Funny paper Zen.
I have time to think so
in the air.
On the ground
there're limos &
at the hotel
Tommy passes out-
keys.
& he looks like a good beer &
a good coach
'cause we're a goodtime ballclub.
He shows us our positions
but it's just another hotel.
Or motel.
Another cottage cheese ceiling
that's peeling
& 25,000 people waiting
down the road.
We're professional waiters-
It's getting down to serous business.
Through the door,
on the floor &
wait for Richard's call.
Soundcheck.
Equipment to check.
Friends to check.
Check inside.
Head check.
Check.
Checkmate.
The hall is one huge empty
waiting space.
The seats are attentive.
It's calisthenics.
We play uninspired.
It's not that we're tired.
Just that we're instruments
& we need someone to play us.
We're still waiting.
Then in that great empty hall,
Irv appears.
A pretty sight for enlisted men
like us.
Irv is our manager.
He's fast.
Not sleek.
But fast in a way that
few understand.
A living art form.
& his T-shirt reads:
Phone Power.
Irv is a touch tone to tickle.
He keeps us alive.
We owe him a joke.
The laugh eases tension
& that is his grace.
We return to the hotel.
Rest Home.
Every long distance call
fails.
The TV's distorted.
It watches me.
I watch it & doze until
I wake the next second
with that ray gun tube
staring me down.
I think I'm getting dizzy
from the heat in this town.
I hide in the closet
& hope to be found
by a maid in black lace.
Irving shatters the vision
as he stops by for a
hug.
My phone must be broken.
Why is he here?
He disappears quickly
& by magic
the phone rings.
Mother?
Wife?
Girlfriend?
New friend?
Conference call?
Laundry service?
The limos are ready...long black cages.
It's time for
BACKSTAGE
Star heaven
you'd imagine but
I feel those flies
in my belly.
Some have butterflies.
Too delicate for me.
I have flies
& I'm tired of waiting
again.
Once again.
If I recall
anything at all
from a Zulu movie
or two,
backstage is a ritual dance.
One flashbulb from an audience
of ten & I'm begging for rain.
One second is trance.
The next a look from someone
who's living in Disneyland.
This is the
Eagles Bar & Grill
Cold beer & stale cheese.
Wait in the corner
& wink at the wall.
Laugh out loud or
keep it quiet.
Jump & make whoopee.
But it always ends
in silence.
I wonder:
how many eyes will meet mine
tonight?
how many memories for them?
For me?
This is called,
tension.
I live for the moment
& then?
Another call.
Next to last for the day.
This one for
Tune Up.
But haven't we done that?
From the room to
the plane
to the room
to the hall
to the room
to backstage to...
Tune Up?
& right there on stage
there're 50 guitars
already tuned.
Still,
we tune ourselves & the feeling gets
tight.
How many are waiting?
What do they expect?
Are they really looking for me?
We reach for instruments &
even the most uneven sound
breaks the mood.
Someone fiddles with drumsticks
like an aging Chinaman.
I play.
We play.
We're players
tuning up together again.
We are a team.
Going on stage happens in a second.
Just like waking up.
It's like saying "good morning."
Any time.
Night or day.
"Hello.
We're
the Eagles
from Los Angeles."
On Stage
the "Hello" means everything.
We smile in
spotlight.
Our voice is
just right.
We watch & react to the
welcome &
the day goes away.
Here we are.
The glow is in movement
& movement is dancing
with thousands.
Frightening.
but we know we're alive.
This play...
this playing around is all so
strange & familiar.
Memories of recess.
Glory in a smaller playground.
Touchdown
as everyone's watching &
finally joining in.
Dancing makes good sense.
Sit high & see how you glow.
You won't fall
leaning back
or forward
directly at me.
Listening to what I have to say.
I have to say it.
& I do.
We leave the stage.
A mixture of flash & blur.
It's divorce of a sort.
We've embraced our music
in a touching way.
Discovered ourselves again
in different ways & shared
a special feeling with an
audience we've never met before.
They know us.
The world's come together like
a soft-packed snowball tossed in
fun.
It flies like a bird until the
air makes it shatter
in crystals that separate &
meet again
in eyes that watch.
& walk.
& wait.
The road almost didn't work.
We had our hearts
ready
& felt the weak part.
We waited.
Filled the spaces.
The moment passed swiftly.
by Walter Wanger Jr./Translations
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