The Happiest Runaway

By Lisa Beyer/Columbus

Bonnie Raitt breezes into my hotel room, ignores the two chairs I've set up to talk, and plops down on my bed, Doc Martens and all. She pulls two pillows from under the cover to prop up her back and then catches herself. "Oh," she says with an apologetic grimace. "These are your pillows."

Raitt has never been what you would call inhibited, but these days she's feeling positively frisky, to use her word. She's not a pop star anymore, as she was in the early 1990s, after her breakthrough album Nick of Time sold 5 million copies and earned her three of her nine Grammys. But she has just released the eclectic and rollicking new album, Silver Lining, her 16th, and is out on the road, where she loves to be even after 30 years of touring. At 52, she's fit and proudly sober, having quit a drinking habit 15 years ago. "I love being unburdened by the need to prove yourself, by patterns that held you back," she says. "I don't want to sound arrogant, but I feel like I'm at the height of my powers. It's a surprise to me that my 50s would be this fun." And she's relieved to be single after 10 years of marriage to the actor Michael O'Keefe. "I feel frisky as a woman," she says. "It's a euphemism."

Not that Raitt has much opportunity for courtship in her current schedule. On tour, her days begin with a morning walk or bike ride in whatever town she's performing in--her trusty Bianchi hybrid bicycle travels with her. At a recent stop in Columbus, Ohio, she saw the butterfly exhibit at Franklin Park. "I'm seeing all these cities I slept through in my 20s," she says.

By mid-afternoon, she's at the concert hall for a sound check. She eats dinner with the band backstage, a meal prepared with organic ingredients when available. She introduces herself to the caterer, to the caterer's assistant, to the guy who comes to clear the trash. "Hi, I'm Bonnie," she says, extending a hand. Tonight the entree is cod. It's an O.K. dish, but Raitt's ecstatic. "Try the cod," she tells the drummer, the bass player, everyone. "You gotta have the cod. This is the fish of the tour." The caterer beams.

A local friend calls on the cell phone, and Raitt starts negotiating the return of three socks--green, plum and black--that she left at his house, where she did her laundry the day before. Why did she do her laundry there? "Because he has a washer-dryer," she says, like duh. Does she know the hotel has laundry service? "At $3 a sock!" she replies. "I'm Scottish and Quaker. Double frugal." After the band's post-concert meal, she tries to persuade the road manager to pack up the leftover tofu and brown rice. "Otherwise," she laments, "they're just going to throw it out."

Raitt spends less time getting ready to go onstage than most women do before walking the dog on a weekend morning. She does her own makeup, which means she throws on some eyeliner, mascara and blush--unless she has mislaid it, as she did in Columbus; then she just runs a brush through her hair. "I'm coming from a tomboy type of position," she says. She changes into black pants that fit tight over her skinny legs and one of the 12 chiffon shirts she had tailored in emerald, salmon and aqua hues. Has she had her colors done? She gives a withering look.

The show goes well, though the crowd is a bit stiff. She lauds Columbus for being in the forefront of her favorite cause, the antinuclear movement. She's referring to the work of her friend, '60s activist Harvey Wasserman, a local, but the audience doesn't seem to get it. "I guess you can like my music without liking my politics," she says sheepishly after the show.

When the gear is packed, Raitt boards the bus. The band travels from venue to venue at night--usually all night. The onboard meal is Indian food; Raitt's desire for leftover tofu was not universal. She presses the spinach dish on everyone. "Try the saag." To unwind, the group plays Name the Worst Band Ever. (Their nominations are strictly off the record.) One by one, Raitt, the other four musicians and two managers slink off to sleep in their separate bunks, each with a curtain for privacy. Raitt loves the routine. "It's like being at camp all the time," she says, before drawing her curtain closed.