We hit torrential downpour in the middle of Kansas (there is no other part of this state…yer either East Colorado, West Missouri or Middle of Kansas) and the sprint Mick, Ko and I made from our parking spot to shelter, a ten-second dash at most, left us completely drenched.
Lawrence, Kansas feels a necessary evil. Our shows, while never bank-breakers, seem to do alright sales. Plus, there's not much else to do between Denver and the rest of civilization. Upstairs at the Bottlenekk somehow manages to year-after-year retain the smell of every possible offensive bodily odor slapping you in the face in rapid succession, one after another. I escape across the street and buy the book I Was Told There Would Be Cake based on the title, the fact it's non-fiction personal account and that the author penned the cover story for the worst-ever selling issue of Maxim magazine.
The gig was nothing spectacular on our end, but quite some time ago we reached a point where our autopilot performance level pushed into the red. Maybe it was once we all memorized the set list, not having to look at each other or announce any cues. After a week or two of that, we'd virtually eliminated any unnecessary time between songs.
You see, I think time between songs is the downfall of most every rock and roll band…banter is best left to Bantam with 8-ball and once your done toweling off, tuning your shitty guitar and taking a swig of lukewarm brew from a Dixie cup, it's already curfew because you've been lollygagging.
So our set of late…with an absolute minimum of space between songs (I'd like to think equally inspired by the Fiery Furnaces and Jay Reatard) has been slaying. With no down time you give the crowd less time to think and that means less time to think you suck. Really, it all just comes down to math in the end. Honest.
Show ended relatively early and the rest of the crew wanted to hit up a bar down the road for last call. I thought the one night we'd finished early would be prime time to get some extra sleep and luckily their last call call got called and they got no drinks.
Instead, we spent our time at Jimmy John's in a college town after 2am on a Friday night. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Ben, of all of my deepest, most ambitious dreams in life, you've managed to live out the one where I mow down a gaggle of drunken 'academics' in a condescending establishment that offers 'free smells' at prime hour" and I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you that while it took every fiber of my being not to do so, I did deeply consider the possibility. Hell, when Obama takes office he'd be longing to pardon my brave soul.
Instead, I ate an Italian sub that was devilishly good.
Next morn with an hour to kill in town and I rock the new Jay Reatard 7" at Love Garden Records and maybe even something else. Hit a vintage store down the block where the guy behind the counter was explaining to his coworker in quite expressive detail about a dream he had involving all kinds of razors and having to jump into a swimming pool full of them with Mr Rogers watching while the late 1980's advertising character for McDonald's "Mack the Knife" campaign curiously cattle-called the Horse of Many Colors from The Wizard of Oz.
So when I came to the counter with a decent, cheap pair of Levi's, I say "You know, I couldn't help but overhear you describe your dream and it's the weirdest thing…I had the exact same dream last night." I always love that one and am hereby requesting you use it whenever you get the opportunity.
Sartain, perhaps weary of the smoking ban in our van, began using dip (smokeless tobacco) sometime around here and I was glad that there were only a few days left, as his bottle of regurgitated black spit wasn't quite the appetizing elixir I had been promised it could be.
St. Louis, long considered the second asshole of the United States after Toledo, found us at the legendary Creepy Crawl. Legendary for the twine rope separating the room into drinking and non-drinking sections and for the onstage fist-fight Patrick Keeler and Brian Olive engaged in that (surprisingly) lead to Olive's exit from the Greenhornes. Our night would prove no less legendary in that our entire rider…two cases of beer, an assortment of granola bars, Cheerios, chips and salsa, sweet Gatorade nectar, was left for us in plastic bags on the floor backstage. Talk about hospitality…we weren't even good enough to warrant a table!
Watched a good chunk of Scarface on the TV at the bar before the Twos started and took to the non-drinking side of the rope to show my support. They brought it. We ate what I was led to believe was goat-cheese pizza. I tasted no distinction.
Set with Sartain may have been the best we will ever play. He had a few drinks beforehand…nothing of major consequence, just a little lubrication to get him lucid. We were like rocket fuel up there. I nailed all my fills…hard and he grooved like everything in the world depended on it. We ended with a song just made up on the spot…Dan all kinds of hiccupping Gene Vincent vocals over a forceful slop-a-billy beat while we're both bathed in sweat and laughing our asses off.
As we walked offstage Pantano said we reminded of something like the Flat Duo Jets that night and that was the only compliment I was hoping for the entire time I'd played with Dan. Mission accomplished.
With big shoes to fill, the Dirtbombs completely destroyed the crowd. Highlights included my climbing atop Pantano's bass drum during the "Kung Fu" break to spray him with Silly String, having the crowd hang on my every word as I implored them to unfold arms and not worry about being white while trying to dance and the 8-year-old girl electrified up front for the entirety of our set.
I lit off fireworks in the parking lot afterwards to celebrate, the purchase thereof the only perk of the otherwise evil drive through Arizona.
We made way as far as we could outside of town and I wrote this fairly self-descriptive poem entitled SUNDAY MAY 25th
5:48am
somewhereillinois
econolodge
why
did I
stay up
after 3:15am
check-in
and two hours of internet later
decide on continental breakfast?
Alone
Two pieces of toast, buttered
Undersized bowl of fruit loops, milked
Two cups orange juiced, watered (down)
Cinnamon Danish, bored
All so deliciously unsatisfying
As I wonder
Why in the fuck are these other people awake at 5am?
In their fire department t-shirts? Their sandals?
(me in the shirt I wore onstage the previous night, green/white adidas shorts I wore my senior year for varsity soccer, brown ankle-high boots, unzipped, no socks)
I slowly contemplate life choices
And those of others
Right or wrong
This breakfast nook
Is america
Woke in morning to see a random friend from Detroit walking through the front door. He on a cross-country trip, our unexpected encounter the proof of synchronicity…when figuring the chances of us both staying in the same nothing town, at the same hotel and actually seeing each other…it all makes me feel inexplicably better about the world.
Stopped at Antique Mall where I got a sweet book put together by the US Gov't Comission to investigate the urban uprisings of the 1960's, complete with tons of choice photos and facts about the 1967 Detroit Riots.
I also found a pretty badass men's one-piece bathing suit there, you know, the kind usually worn by a guy with a handlebar moustache, riding one of those bikes with the huge front wheel and lifting the old-fashioned barbells resembling two old-style round black metal bombs held together with a metal rod.
The price was only $50 and that was well within my range. The garment was at least 80-years-old with minimal signs of wear, but if I couldn't fit into the thing, it was useless. I was able to find a bathroom only to see it emblazoned with a sign telling me that no merchandise was allowed within.
I'm not one to break rules, but the rest of the band was waiting for me in the van and I figured the time it would take me to try and do it the honest way would just drag. So I decided to be ready to ask for forgiveness as opposed to just asking for permission and got into a stall and stripped down to my drawers.
Just as I'd removed my shoes, someone else entered the john. We were clearly not in the land of educated tolerance and I was in a bathroom 90% naked (my shoes even off) praying that this hulk didn't peer through that crack between the door and the frame and figure me to be trying on a ladies dress and try to kick my ass.
So even thought that's what I was fully expecting, he merely micturated and was on his merry way. I continued the awkward process of trying to squeeze into the suit only to surmise (with help from the three suits I'd tried on in San Fran a week prior) that men back then didn't have torsos as long as mine. So I'm still in the market for a swinging men's one-piece over-the-shoulder bathing suit and it needn't be wool or vintage. It merely need to be badass.
Columbo was wily…club was downstairs from a White Castle (if I'm lying, I'm dying) which I gladly ate from. Finally made good on my promise to holler "Pipe Bomb, Pipe Bomb" as the Terrible Twos set closer (I think I was wearing a fez while doing so) that quickly descended into onstage pile-on. Sartain set with fluorescent basement lighting ended the tour on a decidedly weak note.
Dirtbombs jammed like grapes and strawberries. Brought my drums out into the crowd during the encore, climbed on some above-head piping, almost broke my ankle getting down from said piping and concluded the entire thing…show, tour, in a proper fashion. I cannot overstress how much touring with people you actually like (socially AND musically) makes the entire process less like a month-long rectal exam and more like a month-long rectal exploration.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
West Coast Part Six: Sweat, tatoos, sex tapes...
Drive to Phoenix would seriously blow monstrous monkey balls. As previously mentioned, we have no air-conditioning in the van. With the only climate control being the ability to roll down windows (and that leaving everyone's wig completely busted) the thermometer-shattering temps we'd encounter this day would leave everyone a little bit stir crazy.
In Yuma we stop at a gas station and Dorien starts talking to a girl no more than 8-years-old who's holding a tiny kitten. As she pulls out her camera to forever burn the moment into eternal digital pixels, Sartain shouts "Hey! Are you trying to win a 'World's Cutest Photo' competition or something?"
Hee-larious.
From there we make way to Target, someone needed to buy something or other. I asked if anyone had seen one of those bank signs that displays the temperature. No one had, but the temp is pulled up on an iPhone and we're flabbergasted to find the current temp in Yuma to be 115 degrees.
The common saying seems to dictate that heat will not cause discomfort, rather it's the humidity to blame. To that dictum I say fuck you. 115 would make you eat dog shit for a momentary release from the vicious grip of the stifling heat.
Somehow a three-pack of Hanes wife-beaters was procured from Target and soon enough Pat, Troy and I were doing our best imitation of the Drive-By Truckers. Troy really got into the part though…he began to take on the persona of an abusive husband, shouting expletives, watching football, asking "Where's my dinner, bitch?" and just overall letting all of us in on his softer, more feminine side.
I think I drank four 32oz Gatorades that drive, not to mention a bunch of water and at least one Slurpee. By the end of it, my skin had taken a beating from the open windows and began to resemble a sheet of fly-paper. It was sticky and gross with a thin layer of grime on the top that wasn't going anywhere. We arrived to the club to have a little "We Love You!" art project on the wall left for us by the Hard Lessons who'd played there earlier in the week. What a nice bunch of kids.
Sartain tosses "Metropolis" at me (possibly a crowd request) and we work it alright. The unprepared tunes have quickly become what I look forward to in his set. Crowd was alive and percolating by the times the Dirtbombs hit our stride. For a town we'd never been to before, we were all very, very happy and the crowd was equally as pleased. Mutually beneficial, no?
Aftershow Italian sandwich was killer. We drove all the way to Tucson to stay at the Hotel Congress. I could go on forever about this place…rock venue is part of the building, John Dillinger stayed there, National Historic Landmark, rooms as they would have been roughly 50 years ago…it's a nice place. Pat and I were given the exact same room (#33?) that we'd stayed in over two years ago. Eerie.
With daytime to kill in Tucson, I ambulate down the street to Grill for some grub. Another establishment, along with Voodoo Donuts, that I must hit-up every time I'm in its town. Started brunching alone and Pantano joined a little later. I live for a butterscotch malt and they never disappoint in this hipsterfied throwback diner.
I've wondered on numerous occasions if I lived in Tucson, what would my opinion of this establishment be? Would I eat there all the time like it was the Max and I was one of the ancillary background Bayside Tigers like Moose? Or would I shun it with an unparalleled ennui? What do the locals think? It's hard to turn up much anywhere else in that wasteland that has the vaguest sign of life or atmosphere…but do they know that? Do they view it as a necessary evil? Or just a damn fine place to eat? Tucsonians…please chime in if you will.
My post meal trip to the color photo booth was classy. Me sucking down a malt like a wholesome 1950's Lichtenstein depiction. Upon exit and waiting for my strip to vend, I walk upon two women talking to each other and hear a sentence end with something like
"…I'll be slutty or skanky or whatever."
To which I made eye contact with the speaking woman, afforded an appropriate pause and, surprising myself, said "Good luck with that."
She laughed and wanted my opinion. She wanted to know what I thought of her tattoos (I believe this was what she was talking about when I walked into the convo). She showed me her calf which read, in a sort-of classic-style unfurling scroll, the phrase "Absolutely Bullshit."
I said "I, as a whole, cannot stand tattoos, especially on women…But I genuinely like yours." To which she replied "Thank you" and I was on my way to walk around bewildered and lost underneath the oppressive blanket of heat and sunshine bearing down on the city.
After check Campbell and I traipse to Grill and have some pre-show grub. Dude was selling CD's as he DJ'd choice jams and I picked up a Beach Boys "SMILE" boot CD and the Bent Mustache disc as I'd liked the 7" they'd put out. At the show I picked up a copy of the Okmoniks LP straight from the band without having to mention anything about Terminal Boredom Forum.
All three bands played music. A crowd watched.
We made way out of town with hopes of getting Albequerque'd at a decent hour the next day. We ran into the Twos at a trading post and Sartain figured he'd ride with them for a spell. We bid him farewell, watched him wince from across the parking lot as he realized their van has only two seats and sped off before he could change his mind.
While we were on schedule, an unforeseen interstate closure and dust storm put us on a detour. Down time at Dairy Queen with the Twos convoy afforded us the chance to learn how the shake machine really works while waiting for roads to open and storms to settle ultimately added at least two hours to our trek. I thought my skin resembled fly paper the previous day, but the dust storm with van windows open would take it to another level.
By the time we check-in at the Albe hotel, the overall feeling of the troops is one of defeat. We reconvene and venture out for what is supposed to be exceptional Mexican food at a restaurant with a tree growing through the roof. That place was closed so we ate next door where the food is far from exceptional. But a big group meal, all of us sitting at a table together, enjoying each other's company and building the camaraderie…that far surpassed the middling meal we munched.
From there Pantano and I hosted movie night in our room. First was the properly entertaining "Semi-Pro," Will Ferrell delivering as we've all come to expect from him. Following that, we bit the bait and paid to $10 to watch "The Jimi Hendrix Sex Tape."
We totally got ripped off. While the actual footage runs less than ten minutes, they pad the thing out to an hour with banal commentary from Cynthia Plaster Caster and Pamela Des Barres…you know, two broads who can totally carry-on a compelling discourse. And they didn't even have enough dialogue to sufficiently pad with…some snippets and soundbytes being used upwards of three times.
Come on Vivid Video…I'm expecting a little more quality control in regards to dubious sex tapes featuring 1960's guitar icons. As for the actual clip itself…I guess the best way to describe it would be the complete antithesis of erotic. Nevermind that the only way they're identifying the video as featuring Jimi Hendrix is that there's a black guy with a headband and Afro in it whose extreme lack of movement the entire film speaks to possible chemical paralyzation. Otherwise…it's a D+ stag film at best.
Campbell from the Twos sat on my bed while we were watching both movies. He made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Maybe it was the spooning?
The Larimer Lounge in Denver is neither particularly offensive nor pleasant. It just is. The crowd was exceptionally tuned-in for the Dirtbombs jams and it felt good to scream "WHY DON'T YOU DANCE WITH ME?" to get them all loose and danceable. I even threw some Tyvek "Honda" into the mix to see if the Twos were listening. They were.
Seemed to be a strong Detroit contingent representing (even without Mark Norton or my cousin Gary attending) and it's always fun when someone says "Hey, I'm from Detroit" to ask "Oh really, what part?" to which they almost exclusively reply "Flint", "Bad Axe" or in some extreme cases "Delray."
It seems that expatriation from the region finds anyone from Grand Rapids southward claiming to be "from Detroit" whereas when actually in the Metro Detroit area people utilize electron microscopes to determine whether or not one lies within the city limits and can thus claim all of the requisite "cred" (?) that comes with.
Doesn't it all sound like a bunch of overzealous pieces of toilet paper fighting over who gets to wipe an ass? Even if you win the argument, you're still covered in shit.
In Yuma we stop at a gas station and Dorien starts talking to a girl no more than 8-years-old who's holding a tiny kitten. As she pulls out her camera to forever burn the moment into eternal digital pixels, Sartain shouts "Hey! Are you trying to win a 'World's Cutest Photo' competition or something?"
Hee-larious.
From there we make way to Target, someone needed to buy something or other. I asked if anyone had seen one of those bank signs that displays the temperature. No one had, but the temp is pulled up on an iPhone and we're flabbergasted to find the current temp in Yuma to be 115 degrees.
The common saying seems to dictate that heat will not cause discomfort, rather it's the humidity to blame. To that dictum I say fuck you. 115 would make you eat dog shit for a momentary release from the vicious grip of the stifling heat.
Somehow a three-pack of Hanes wife-beaters was procured from Target and soon enough Pat, Troy and I were doing our best imitation of the Drive-By Truckers. Troy really got into the part though…he began to take on the persona of an abusive husband, shouting expletives, watching football, asking "Where's my dinner, bitch?" and just overall letting all of us in on his softer, more feminine side.
I think I drank four 32oz Gatorades that drive, not to mention a bunch of water and at least one Slurpee. By the end of it, my skin had taken a beating from the open windows and began to resemble a sheet of fly-paper. It was sticky and gross with a thin layer of grime on the top that wasn't going anywhere. We arrived to the club to have a little "We Love You!" art project on the wall left for us by the Hard Lessons who'd played there earlier in the week. What a nice bunch of kids.
Sartain tosses "Metropolis" at me (possibly a crowd request) and we work it alright. The unprepared tunes have quickly become what I look forward to in his set. Crowd was alive and percolating by the times the Dirtbombs hit our stride. For a town we'd never been to before, we were all very, very happy and the crowd was equally as pleased. Mutually beneficial, no?
Aftershow Italian sandwich was killer. We drove all the way to Tucson to stay at the Hotel Congress. I could go on forever about this place…rock venue is part of the building, John Dillinger stayed there, National Historic Landmark, rooms as they would have been roughly 50 years ago…it's a nice place. Pat and I were given the exact same room (#33?) that we'd stayed in over two years ago. Eerie.
With daytime to kill in Tucson, I ambulate down the street to Grill for some grub. Another establishment, along with Voodoo Donuts, that I must hit-up every time I'm in its town. Started brunching alone and Pantano joined a little later. I live for a butterscotch malt and they never disappoint in this hipsterfied throwback diner.
I've wondered on numerous occasions if I lived in Tucson, what would my opinion of this establishment be? Would I eat there all the time like it was the Max and I was one of the ancillary background Bayside Tigers like Moose? Or would I shun it with an unparalleled ennui? What do the locals think? It's hard to turn up much anywhere else in that wasteland that has the vaguest sign of life or atmosphere…but do they know that? Do they view it as a necessary evil? Or just a damn fine place to eat? Tucsonians…please chime in if you will.
My post meal trip to the color photo booth was classy. Me sucking down a malt like a wholesome 1950's Lichtenstein depiction. Upon exit and waiting for my strip to vend, I walk upon two women talking to each other and hear a sentence end with something like
"…I'll be slutty or skanky or whatever."
To which I made eye contact with the speaking woman, afforded an appropriate pause and, surprising myself, said "Good luck with that."
She laughed and wanted my opinion. She wanted to know what I thought of her tattoos (I believe this was what she was talking about when I walked into the convo). She showed me her calf which read, in a sort-of classic-style unfurling scroll, the phrase "Absolutely Bullshit."
I said "I, as a whole, cannot stand tattoos, especially on women…But I genuinely like yours." To which she replied "Thank you" and I was on my way to walk around bewildered and lost underneath the oppressive blanket of heat and sunshine bearing down on the city.
After check Campbell and I traipse to Grill and have some pre-show grub. Dude was selling CD's as he DJ'd choice jams and I picked up a Beach Boys "SMILE" boot CD and the Bent Mustache disc as I'd liked the 7" they'd put out. At the show I picked up a copy of the Okmoniks LP straight from the band without having to mention anything about Terminal Boredom Forum.
All three bands played music. A crowd watched.
We made way out of town with hopes of getting Albequerque'd at a decent hour the next day. We ran into the Twos at a trading post and Sartain figured he'd ride with them for a spell. We bid him farewell, watched him wince from across the parking lot as he realized their van has only two seats and sped off before he could change his mind.
While we were on schedule, an unforeseen interstate closure and dust storm put us on a detour. Down time at Dairy Queen with the Twos convoy afforded us the chance to learn how the shake machine really works while waiting for roads to open and storms to settle ultimately added at least two hours to our trek. I thought my skin resembled fly paper the previous day, but the dust storm with van windows open would take it to another level.
By the time we check-in at the Albe hotel, the overall feeling of the troops is one of defeat. We reconvene and venture out for what is supposed to be exceptional Mexican food at a restaurant with a tree growing through the roof. That place was closed so we ate next door where the food is far from exceptional. But a big group meal, all of us sitting at a table together, enjoying each other's company and building the camaraderie…that far surpassed the middling meal we munched.
From there Pantano and I hosted movie night in our room. First was the properly entertaining "Semi-Pro," Will Ferrell delivering as we've all come to expect from him. Following that, we bit the bait and paid to $10 to watch "The Jimi Hendrix Sex Tape."
We totally got ripped off. While the actual footage runs less than ten minutes, they pad the thing out to an hour with banal commentary from Cynthia Plaster Caster and Pamela Des Barres…you know, two broads who can totally carry-on a compelling discourse. And they didn't even have enough dialogue to sufficiently pad with…some snippets and soundbytes being used upwards of three times.
Come on Vivid Video…I'm expecting a little more quality control in regards to dubious sex tapes featuring 1960's guitar icons. As for the actual clip itself…I guess the best way to describe it would be the complete antithesis of erotic. Nevermind that the only way they're identifying the video as featuring Jimi Hendrix is that there's a black guy with a headband and Afro in it whose extreme lack of movement the entire film speaks to possible chemical paralyzation. Otherwise…it's a D+ stag film at best.
Campbell from the Twos sat on my bed while we were watching both movies. He made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Maybe it was the spooning?
The Larimer Lounge in Denver is neither particularly offensive nor pleasant. It just is. The crowd was exceptionally tuned-in for the Dirtbombs jams and it felt good to scream "WHY DON'T YOU DANCE WITH ME?" to get them all loose and danceable. I even threw some Tyvek "Honda" into the mix to see if the Twos were listening. They were.
Seemed to be a strong Detroit contingent representing (even without Mark Norton or my cousin Gary attending) and it's always fun when someone says "Hey, I'm from Detroit" to ask "Oh really, what part?" to which they almost exclusively reply "Flint", "Bad Axe" or in some extreme cases "Delray."
It seems that expatriation from the region finds anyone from Grand Rapids southward claiming to be "from Detroit" whereas when actually in the Metro Detroit area people utilize electron microscopes to determine whether or not one lies within the city limits and can thus claim all of the requisite "cred" (?) that comes with.
Doesn't it all sound like a bunch of overzealous pieces of toilet paper fighting over who gets to wipe an ass? Even if you win the argument, you're still covered in shit.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
West Coast Part Five: Rock and Roll Alive and Well...
Day off after Portland was prime recuperation time. I imagine had I put the strain on my knee by trying to perform that I would've only exacerbated the situation. Instead, we spent the daylong drive to San Francisco in a sweaty van without any air conditioning. By the time we'd arrived at the Hotel Phoenix I was feeling spent.
Switched hotels next morning and was the lone band member to end up at the Hyatt. Fucking swank. A welcome change to say the least.
After some calm time spent traipsing the Haight, I arrived at Amoeba for our instore performance. Put on my new bass drum head, shopped a little with my $50 voucher in mind (used copy of Beck's 2xCD Odelay reissue, Relatively Clean Rivers, Last Shadow Puppets) then sat in the lounge upstairs for an interview with former Dirtbomb and current Amoeba employee Tom Lynch.
While I generally despise all five of us being interviewed at once, for some reason Lynch was a formidable foe able to keep us all in check and conduct a provoking and spirited interview.
It took a song or two before I realized that I was playing without any pain in my knee. What a relief. We did Surrounded save for "Race to the Bottom" and "La Fin Du Monde" and best compliment of the tour came from Utrillo of the legendary ATP mainstays Comets on Fire. Simply put, his "Man, these guys are LOUD" could not have come from a more-approving person.
Immediately after finishing our set we had to tear down all our shit, load it in the van and then trek the half-mile up to the Independent so that we could soundcheck there. Some straight-up, hardcore pure giging bullshit. Our main man Kurt Schlegel came to the rescue at the soundboard and made everything run nice and smoothly.
The Terrible Twos got to play in front of a good crowd and that made me happy. Sartain vomited right before (or right after?) we played because he'd eaten some iffy oysters earlier.
Set with DB's was everything it needed to be. The room was packed and appropriate energies were both given and received from the stage. They didn't even to hesitate to dance. As a band we could ask for nothing more and I genuinely think the crowd couldn't either.
Next day a hellacious drive to L.A. The heat blazing again, the air conditioning somehow not self-repairing and some traffic snarls aside, we actually made it in time to squeeze out a soundcheck. The Terrible Twos were not so lucky. I think they finally got to the club about 15 minutes after they were supposed to start playing. The Troubadour told them to not even bother bringing in their equipment and instead they got to talk to Mike Watt and drink our beers.
During Sartain's set the smoke machine spits its acrid bile and he says "Don't you know you're not allowed to smoke in bars here?" To which the sound guy (the fucking SOUND guy!) replies in an otherwise silent room "It's water-based!"
As if any more documentation or scholarship was needed to drive home the fact that "sound" guys as a whole are complete and utter wastes of Leatherman tools and the ability to repeat the words "tsoo, tsoo" ad nauseum, I hereby offer your more grist for the milling.
Dirtbombs set felt proper. Some of the Twos joined us for the encore…Ko climbed the big metal lighting rig, Pat pulled out his floor tom and rocked that solo and while he left others to worry about the beat to "Kung Fu" and for a second it all felt perfect.
Post show ranting from Watt was welcome as he'd never seen us before and testified to his mind being blown. What a guy. As the place empties there's a few stragglers, one I feel particularly wary of. A friend comes up and says he has someone he wants to introduce me to…and the questionable straggler is Ben Sheppard of Soundgarden. To top it off, he's a Dirtbombs fan.
That alone made my night and would've topped the tour had I not ended up behind the wheel of a minivan packed with people from bands such as Melvins, the White Stripes, Nirvana, the Gories and Soundgarden trying to catch last call at the Wagon Wheel and nervous that my car wreck earlier in the week had been some sort of precursor to a Day the Music Died Tragedy.
We arrived at the Wagon Wheel safely and the most memorable exchange between the two Ben's went something like this:
BB: I saw Soundgarden at the Palace of Auburn Hills on the Down on the Upside tour…Rocket From the Crypt and Tenderloin opened…you came out and played bass with them…
BS: …I played guitar with them…
BB: …you played guitar with them for a song. At the end of the set you did the big encore…Cornell put his Les Paul on top of his amp and stood on it like it was a surfboard until he snapped the neck off. It was amazing.
BS: (nothing)
BB: So after that, the house lights come on and music starts playing and they begin to usher people out of the arena. Out of nowhere you guys come back on stage, Cornell says something like "Turn the fucking lights off! We're gonna play some more!" and you proceed to blow everyone's mind.
BS: (nothing)
BB: What I've been dying to know for over ten years is…was that at all planned?
BS: Hell no! We'd have been dying to get out of there as soon as possible. We could've never planned something like that.
BB: Good. Thank you for restoring my faith in rock and roll.
Next day onward to San Diego and I slept the whole drive there. If ever existed a club other than the Casbah in this town, I'd never know it. Only recently have I discovered that there actually exists shit to do around there. Ambled up Kettner Ave to a bar that had a horrid band and excellent cheeseburgers/fish tacos. We ordered carry-out, me with the praise-worthy cheese burg, and ate it on the water as the sun slowly faded.
Good time chilling with Twos before the show. Learned the story of their tour last summer with the Frustrations in which they had a contest to see who could go the longest without masturbating. But some tough decisions had to be made…apparently actually hooking up with a girl did not disqualify one from the competition (as depriving a band mate of that most basic need would be cruel) but if you had TWO wet dreams you were eliminated.
As they put it, one wet dream was forgivable. After the second one, though, it's like you're consciously trying to make it happen. And it seems some offense was taken in the fact that one of these wet dreams occurred while the band was staying at one of their grandma's house.
I love the Terrible Twos more and more each day.
With Sartain in his second hometown and I think we brought the noise. Dirtbombs did our thing and the Tan Diego crowd is always appreciative. Watching Craig from the Twos rock out while we're playing was priceless. He'd keep begging for "Cedar Pointe '76" and resorted to saying stuff (true or not doesn't matter) like "Yeah, uh, I was out in the crowd and, uh, there was a bunch of fans out there all complainin' that you didn't do 'Cedar Pointe' so you should probably, you know, start to, uh, do it again." We'd throw him a bone a few days later in Kansas and he danced like a fool. And I really wouldn't want to have it any other way.
Switched hotels next morning and was the lone band member to end up at the Hyatt. Fucking swank. A welcome change to say the least.
After some calm time spent traipsing the Haight, I arrived at Amoeba for our instore performance. Put on my new bass drum head, shopped a little with my $50 voucher in mind (used copy of Beck's 2xCD Odelay reissue, Relatively Clean Rivers, Last Shadow Puppets) then sat in the lounge upstairs for an interview with former Dirtbomb and current Amoeba employee Tom Lynch.
While I generally despise all five of us being interviewed at once, for some reason Lynch was a formidable foe able to keep us all in check and conduct a provoking and spirited interview.
It took a song or two before I realized that I was playing without any pain in my knee. What a relief. We did Surrounded save for "Race to the Bottom" and "La Fin Du Monde" and best compliment of the tour came from Utrillo of the legendary ATP mainstays Comets on Fire. Simply put, his "Man, these guys are LOUD" could not have come from a more-approving person.
Immediately after finishing our set we had to tear down all our shit, load it in the van and then trek the half-mile up to the Independent so that we could soundcheck there. Some straight-up, hardcore pure giging bullshit. Our main man Kurt Schlegel came to the rescue at the soundboard and made everything run nice and smoothly.
The Terrible Twos got to play in front of a good crowd and that made me happy. Sartain vomited right before (or right after?) we played because he'd eaten some iffy oysters earlier.
Set with DB's was everything it needed to be. The room was packed and appropriate energies were both given and received from the stage. They didn't even to hesitate to dance. As a band we could ask for nothing more and I genuinely think the crowd couldn't either.
Next day a hellacious drive to L.A. The heat blazing again, the air conditioning somehow not self-repairing and some traffic snarls aside, we actually made it in time to squeeze out a soundcheck. The Terrible Twos were not so lucky. I think they finally got to the club about 15 minutes after they were supposed to start playing. The Troubadour told them to not even bother bringing in their equipment and instead they got to talk to Mike Watt and drink our beers.
During Sartain's set the smoke machine spits its acrid bile and he says "Don't you know you're not allowed to smoke in bars here?" To which the sound guy (the fucking SOUND guy!) replies in an otherwise silent room "It's water-based!"
As if any more documentation or scholarship was needed to drive home the fact that "sound" guys as a whole are complete and utter wastes of Leatherman tools and the ability to repeat the words "tsoo, tsoo" ad nauseum, I hereby offer your more grist for the milling.
Dirtbombs set felt proper. Some of the Twos joined us for the encore…Ko climbed the big metal lighting rig, Pat pulled out his floor tom and rocked that solo and while he left others to worry about the beat to "Kung Fu" and for a second it all felt perfect.
Post show ranting from Watt was welcome as he'd never seen us before and testified to his mind being blown. What a guy. As the place empties there's a few stragglers, one I feel particularly wary of. A friend comes up and says he has someone he wants to introduce me to…and the questionable straggler is Ben Sheppard of Soundgarden. To top it off, he's a Dirtbombs fan.
That alone made my night and would've topped the tour had I not ended up behind the wheel of a minivan packed with people from bands such as Melvins, the White Stripes, Nirvana, the Gories and Soundgarden trying to catch last call at the Wagon Wheel and nervous that my car wreck earlier in the week had been some sort of precursor to a Day the Music Died Tragedy.
We arrived at the Wagon Wheel safely and the most memorable exchange between the two Ben's went something like this:
BB: I saw Soundgarden at the Palace of Auburn Hills on the Down on the Upside tour…Rocket From the Crypt and Tenderloin opened…you came out and played bass with them…
BS: …I played guitar with them…
BB: …you played guitar with them for a song. At the end of the set you did the big encore…Cornell put his Les Paul on top of his amp and stood on it like it was a surfboard until he snapped the neck off. It was amazing.
BS: (nothing)
BB: So after that, the house lights come on and music starts playing and they begin to usher people out of the arena. Out of nowhere you guys come back on stage, Cornell says something like "Turn the fucking lights off! We're gonna play some more!" and you proceed to blow everyone's mind.
BS: (nothing)
BB: What I've been dying to know for over ten years is…was that at all planned?
BS: Hell no! We'd have been dying to get out of there as soon as possible. We could've never planned something like that.
BB: Good. Thank you for restoring my faith in rock and roll.
Next day onward to San Diego and I slept the whole drive there. If ever existed a club other than the Casbah in this town, I'd never know it. Only recently have I discovered that there actually exists shit to do around there. Ambled up Kettner Ave to a bar that had a horrid band and excellent cheeseburgers/fish tacos. We ordered carry-out, me with the praise-worthy cheese burg, and ate it on the water as the sun slowly faded.
Good time chilling with Twos before the show. Learned the story of their tour last summer with the Frustrations in which they had a contest to see who could go the longest without masturbating. But some tough decisions had to be made…apparently actually hooking up with a girl did not disqualify one from the competition (as depriving a band mate of that most basic need would be cruel) but if you had TWO wet dreams you were eliminated.
As they put it, one wet dream was forgivable. After the second one, though, it's like you're consciously trying to make it happen. And it seems some offense was taken in the fact that one of these wet dreams occurred while the band was staying at one of their grandma's house.
I love the Terrible Twos more and more each day.
With Sartain in his second hometown and I think we brought the noise. Dirtbombs did our thing and the Tan Diego crowd is always appreciative. Watching Craig from the Twos rock out while we're playing was priceless. He'd keep begging for "Cedar Pointe '76" and resorted to saying stuff (true or not doesn't matter) like "Yeah, uh, I was out in the crowd and, uh, there was a bunch of fans out there all complainin' that you didn't do 'Cedar Pointe' so you should probably, you know, start to, uh, do it again." We'd throw him a bone a few days later in Kansas and he danced like a fool. And I really wouldn't want to have it any other way.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
West Coast Part Four: Pain...
Next day to the uncharted territory of Victoria, British Columbia. The ferry ride was a welcome change from slogging transcontinental Canadian highways.
A sunny day on the island was quite enjoyable. A few record stores were worth the trip…picked up a 4xCD John Lee Hooker set that was cheap and exhaustive. Also got baseball-style, 3/4 sleeve shirt that says "Detroit: the Home of Punk Polka" accompanied by an illustration by Guindon. I doubt I'll ever wear it, but I couldn't in good-faith leave such a nugget in Victoria.
Mick and I shared a meal at a local Chinese place, not particularly good, but appreciated in the fact that it ended my hunger. First band was the Laundronauts, a concept-band if you will, whose shtick was garage rock songs all about laundry. They wore all white suits and I didn't watch them play.
Nothing of note to relay about either the Sartain or Dirtbombs' sets.
Lobby call next morning was marred by the fact that our intended ferry departure of 1pm was fully-booked and we wouldn't be able to get on another until 3pm. Bummed to say the least, I made the most of my time in Victoria, decided against re-purchasing all the 8-bit Nintendo cartridges of my youth from a well-stocked pawn shop, wandered aimlessly, purchased a mini plate of meat from a miniatures store and generally enjoyed the unexpected free time in what's actually a pretty cool town for Canada. I recommend.
Ferry trip found us with a parking spot completely unencumbered by any obstructions of view. The van was essentially in open air with no one in front of us, a complete 180-degree vista of the dazzling seascapes a fanciful treat to view from behind the wheel of a Dodge van. After digging that for awhile I made to the poop deck for some grub. At some point the captain announced a pod of Orca's visible on the starboard side. Quickly recalling my time spent rowing in the Detroit River, I headed over to what seemed to be the correct side, but alas saw no orcas.
It was a minor letdown.
Once back on land we give the van a thorough once-over with a gas station vacuum, empty out what we'd collected from Canadian catering (well over a case of beer to just be left for anyone brave enough to take it) and through the border where the attending officer ordered the side-door opened just so he could get a peek at Ko, to which he smiled and waved us on our way.
Once in Seattle and settled, we ventured to Linda's for drinks and conversation. Spent the night playing "JOURNEY ESCAPE", messing around with an air cannon, discussing the peculiarity and non-canonical attributes of "SUPER MARIO BROTHERS 2" (seriously, even if your Nintendo interest is minimal, you MUST view the Angry Nintedo Nerd's explanation video online) and then sleeping in the basement of an old mansion apportioned into neat little apartments.
Next morning for our KEXP session. The staff was courteous and professional, later explained to us by the fact that they do at least one live session A DAY there. Mick's amp crapped out while we were getting levels, they brought in a suitable replacement and just before broadcast, his Pignose began working again.
It was all quick and painless and fairly rote. I felt no need to speak during the interview portion as times where each member is given a microphone can often feel like the in-between song banter from the Kick Out the Jams album. Luckily it seems Mick handled most of the queries and in next to no time our four songs were done. A photo shoot in the rain afterwards and then off to Guitar Center.
I'd been to the GC in downtown Seattle before. I've been to them all before. That's not a fact I offer up with pride, but rather with a level of self-hatred usually reserved for familial shame-causing Japanese business men. I purchased a 20" Paiste PST medium ride, some sticks, a set of maracas and a tambourine. I'm sure the salesperson called me dude.
From there to sushi lunch. On the waterfront. Tasty. As the only one at the meal who didn't drink, I was entrusted with the keys to the vehicle. So that made it all the more ironic that I would happen to cause an accident while driving. Pulled out into traffic, didn't see the other car coming (I think it was a Prius, so maybe I just didn't HEAR it) and managed to hit 'em pretty good. Everyone in both cars was fine, I was a bit embarrassed so much so that I didn't even have the heart to approach the other driver and say, "ARE YOU GOING TO FUCKING APOLOGIZE!"
Post soundcheck we embark to record a vid session for the Takeaway show. I have no idea what this thing actually is, but the guy who runs our website said it was a pretty big deal. We search desperately for somewhere to record the thing (I suggest in one of the dumpsters outside Neumo's, but no one else seems interested) and instead we start off with "Leopardman" in the bathroom of the bar across the street. We ended with "Devil Inside" by a reflecting pool in a park across the street. The overall experience was fun and I can't wait to see how it turns out.
Show was smooth…Terrible Twos were on in front of a crowd for once and we all dug that. Dan and I brought some damage and the Dirtbombs portion was well-smooth. Had fun on the encore and most of the time, that's all that matters to me. Post-show was a quick breakdown where we had to jet off for our hotel rooms in Portland.
The Jupiter Hotel was cool, but I'll reserve a full review for whenever the hell we actually get to play the Doug Fir Lounge. All I know is that ever since I first set foot in the place (on what just happened to be it's opening night) I've wanted to play there badly. And ever since then it seems like we've played Dante's a minimum of 47 times.
Day tramping around Portland with Malissa was enjoyable. Lunch at Kenny and Zuke's was particularly amazing…their vast selection of exotic sodas from across the globe warmed my heart. Where else outside of New England can you find Moxie and in a glass bottle to boot? 'Twas well worth the wait for a table and the sandwiches were glorious in all of their meat-stacking magnificence.
Time at Powell's was glorious as always. While a recent interest has had me desperately wanting to buy oversized art books, I ultimately had to pass on the $100 and upwards collections of Panter, Schnabel, Ryden ($500?) Hirst and instead bought the new Sonic Youth book by Stevie Chick, Maps and Legends by Michael Chabon, a collection of Black Panther Party papers and ephemera, the BOMP magazine book, the Onion's Our Dumb Planet and a Borat book, along with some Gorey stuff, a used copy of Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, a Coltrane bio and What Music Means to Girls for Malissa. I got out for under $300, but still spent more dough there than anyone else in the band.
I honestly feel no qualms about spending money (and lots of it) on books. I feel that it is all in the spirit of the scholarly pursuit, no? Really what price could you put on the information…whether it be raw facts, philosophical insight, bellyaching laughter, contained within the volumes purchased? How many rhetorical questions can I ask in a row?
Was thrilled to rock some Voodoo Donuts. Tiny yet comfortable, this 24-hour donut dispensary is the kind of place that makes me feel good about America. Petite in size and with walls covered in metaphorical shit, the proprietors of this mighty establishment have managed to take the boring, bland breakfast to coppers the world over and give it an ingenious Gen-X twist and open it up for munching at all hours.
The best donuts all seem to be ones topped with sugary breakfast cereals…Captain Crunch, Froot Loops and thank god NOT Raisin Bran all make a delicious hand-held dessert to die for. The maple log with a topping of strips of bacon is for more adventurous gormandizers but a treat nonetheless. Apparently they used to have a donut filled with cough syrup (or some other medicinal equivalent) but it's since been removed from the menu. Either way, Voodoo Donuts is, at this point, the only eatery that I make a conscious effort to visit every time I visit when I'm in its town. HIGEST OF RECOMMENDATIONS.
Show could have gone better…busted through my bass drum head in the middle of Sartain's set, so just hopped on over to Pantano's kit and finished from behind there. With the spare drum heads I'd bought mistakenly thrown out by an as-yet-undetermined member of the touring party sometime after Fargo, I had nothing to replace it with and instead had to borrow Jeff from Terrible Twos white-with-red-marker-flourishes bass drum.
First mistake.
Second mistake was trying to do a headstand on that bass drum at the conclusion of our set. I don’t' know…maybe I sized it up all wrong, came at it too hard, didn't bail when I should've and instead spilled upside-down towards my rack tom/snare and wrenched my right knee HARD on some metal stands. Fucking hell it was instantly painful. I limped offstage, hoping nothing was royally fucked.
Enough adrenalin was flowing to come back for an encore and to even dip into the crowd to dance a mess around. But upon return to downstairs sanctuary, I was anticipating for the worst. A bag of ice was scared up, I dropped my pants and left the thing on there for at least a half-hour, my mind left to wander and contemplate how I'd got there.
Most periods of my childhood are punctuated with memories of my dad icing his leg, and usually, more specifically, his knee. He was (and still is) a consummate athlete and nary was there a time where the freezer wasn't stocked with those paper Gatorade cups…all green and waxy and flimsy. Once frozen, the offending paper would be peeled away delicately like a rind, exposing the glacial interior goodness for maximum icing capabilities. He would sit on the floor of the living room, his back up against the couch, legs splayed, and almost always unleashed an exhausted sigh as he exhaled followed by a wincing breath inward as the ice was applied.
My dad spent lots of time playing sports. My mom would probably say it was too much time and that he wasn't around as much as he should've been. I can't really agree or disagree with that…I played lots of sports that he coached which most likely afforded me more time with him. My parents divorced when I was 19-years-old and I like to think it had no affect on me.
So as I sat alone, away from my family, in the midst of a tour that would span at LEAST 5 months, contemplating the havoc it was wreaking on all of my personal relationships, with a knee in absolute pain and the ice acting merely as a distracting panacea, I couldn't help but think that no matter how hard I tried to do otherwise that I was destined to repeat the actions of my father.
I already had the moustache.
A sunny day on the island was quite enjoyable. A few record stores were worth the trip…picked up a 4xCD John Lee Hooker set that was cheap and exhaustive. Also got baseball-style, 3/4 sleeve shirt that says "Detroit: the Home of Punk Polka" accompanied by an illustration by Guindon. I doubt I'll ever wear it, but I couldn't in good-faith leave such a nugget in Victoria.
Mick and I shared a meal at a local Chinese place, not particularly good, but appreciated in the fact that it ended my hunger. First band was the Laundronauts, a concept-band if you will, whose shtick was garage rock songs all about laundry. They wore all white suits and I didn't watch them play.
Nothing of note to relay about either the Sartain or Dirtbombs' sets.
Lobby call next morning was marred by the fact that our intended ferry departure of 1pm was fully-booked and we wouldn't be able to get on another until 3pm. Bummed to say the least, I made the most of my time in Victoria, decided against re-purchasing all the 8-bit Nintendo cartridges of my youth from a well-stocked pawn shop, wandered aimlessly, purchased a mini plate of meat from a miniatures store and generally enjoyed the unexpected free time in what's actually a pretty cool town for Canada. I recommend.
Ferry trip found us with a parking spot completely unencumbered by any obstructions of view. The van was essentially in open air with no one in front of us, a complete 180-degree vista of the dazzling seascapes a fanciful treat to view from behind the wheel of a Dodge van. After digging that for awhile I made to the poop deck for some grub. At some point the captain announced a pod of Orca's visible on the starboard side. Quickly recalling my time spent rowing in the Detroit River, I headed over to what seemed to be the correct side, but alas saw no orcas.
It was a minor letdown.
Once back on land we give the van a thorough once-over with a gas station vacuum, empty out what we'd collected from Canadian catering (well over a case of beer to just be left for anyone brave enough to take it) and through the border where the attending officer ordered the side-door opened just so he could get a peek at Ko, to which he smiled and waved us on our way.
Once in Seattle and settled, we ventured to Linda's for drinks and conversation. Spent the night playing "JOURNEY ESCAPE", messing around with an air cannon, discussing the peculiarity and non-canonical attributes of "SUPER MARIO BROTHERS 2" (seriously, even if your Nintendo interest is minimal, you MUST view the Angry Nintedo Nerd's explanation video online) and then sleeping in the basement of an old mansion apportioned into neat little apartments.
Next morning for our KEXP session. The staff was courteous and professional, later explained to us by the fact that they do at least one live session A DAY there. Mick's amp crapped out while we were getting levels, they brought in a suitable replacement and just before broadcast, his Pignose began working again.
It was all quick and painless and fairly rote. I felt no need to speak during the interview portion as times where each member is given a microphone can often feel like the in-between song banter from the Kick Out the Jams album. Luckily it seems Mick handled most of the queries and in next to no time our four songs were done. A photo shoot in the rain afterwards and then off to Guitar Center.
I'd been to the GC in downtown Seattle before. I've been to them all before. That's not a fact I offer up with pride, but rather with a level of self-hatred usually reserved for familial shame-causing Japanese business men. I purchased a 20" Paiste PST medium ride, some sticks, a set of maracas and a tambourine. I'm sure the salesperson called me dude.
From there to sushi lunch. On the waterfront. Tasty. As the only one at the meal who didn't drink, I was entrusted with the keys to the vehicle. So that made it all the more ironic that I would happen to cause an accident while driving. Pulled out into traffic, didn't see the other car coming (I think it was a Prius, so maybe I just didn't HEAR it) and managed to hit 'em pretty good. Everyone in both cars was fine, I was a bit embarrassed so much so that I didn't even have the heart to approach the other driver and say, "ARE YOU GOING TO FUCKING APOLOGIZE!"
Post soundcheck we embark to record a vid session for the Takeaway show. I have no idea what this thing actually is, but the guy who runs our website said it was a pretty big deal. We search desperately for somewhere to record the thing (I suggest in one of the dumpsters outside Neumo's, but no one else seems interested) and instead we start off with "Leopardman" in the bathroom of the bar across the street. We ended with "Devil Inside" by a reflecting pool in a park across the street. The overall experience was fun and I can't wait to see how it turns out.
Show was smooth…Terrible Twos were on in front of a crowd for once and we all dug that. Dan and I brought some damage and the Dirtbombs portion was well-smooth. Had fun on the encore and most of the time, that's all that matters to me. Post-show was a quick breakdown where we had to jet off for our hotel rooms in Portland.
The Jupiter Hotel was cool, but I'll reserve a full review for whenever the hell we actually get to play the Doug Fir Lounge. All I know is that ever since I first set foot in the place (on what just happened to be it's opening night) I've wanted to play there badly. And ever since then it seems like we've played Dante's a minimum of 47 times.
Day tramping around Portland with Malissa was enjoyable. Lunch at Kenny and Zuke's was particularly amazing…their vast selection of exotic sodas from across the globe warmed my heart. Where else outside of New England can you find Moxie and in a glass bottle to boot? 'Twas well worth the wait for a table and the sandwiches were glorious in all of their meat-stacking magnificence.
Time at Powell's was glorious as always. While a recent interest has had me desperately wanting to buy oversized art books, I ultimately had to pass on the $100 and upwards collections of Panter, Schnabel, Ryden ($500?) Hirst and instead bought the new Sonic Youth book by Stevie Chick, Maps and Legends by Michael Chabon, a collection of Black Panther Party papers and ephemera, the BOMP magazine book, the Onion's Our Dumb Planet and a Borat book, along with some Gorey stuff, a used copy of Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, a Coltrane bio and What Music Means to Girls for Malissa. I got out for under $300, but still spent more dough there than anyone else in the band.
I honestly feel no qualms about spending money (and lots of it) on books. I feel that it is all in the spirit of the scholarly pursuit, no? Really what price could you put on the information…whether it be raw facts, philosophical insight, bellyaching laughter, contained within the volumes purchased? How many rhetorical questions can I ask in a row?
Was thrilled to rock some Voodoo Donuts. Tiny yet comfortable, this 24-hour donut dispensary is the kind of place that makes me feel good about America. Petite in size and with walls covered in metaphorical shit, the proprietors of this mighty establishment have managed to take the boring, bland breakfast to coppers the world over and give it an ingenious Gen-X twist and open it up for munching at all hours.
The best donuts all seem to be ones topped with sugary breakfast cereals…Captain Crunch, Froot Loops and thank god NOT Raisin Bran all make a delicious hand-held dessert to die for. The maple log with a topping of strips of bacon is for more adventurous gormandizers but a treat nonetheless. Apparently they used to have a donut filled with cough syrup (or some other medicinal equivalent) but it's since been removed from the menu. Either way, Voodoo Donuts is, at this point, the only eatery that I make a conscious effort to visit every time I visit when I'm in its town. HIGEST OF RECOMMENDATIONS.
Show could have gone better…busted through my bass drum head in the middle of Sartain's set, so just hopped on over to Pantano's kit and finished from behind there. With the spare drum heads I'd bought mistakenly thrown out by an as-yet-undetermined member of the touring party sometime after Fargo, I had nothing to replace it with and instead had to borrow Jeff from Terrible Twos white-with-red-marker-flourishes bass drum.
First mistake.
Second mistake was trying to do a headstand on that bass drum at the conclusion of our set. I don’t' know…maybe I sized it up all wrong, came at it too hard, didn't bail when I should've and instead spilled upside-down towards my rack tom/snare and wrenched my right knee HARD on some metal stands. Fucking hell it was instantly painful. I limped offstage, hoping nothing was royally fucked.
Enough adrenalin was flowing to come back for an encore and to even dip into the crowd to dance a mess around. But upon return to downstairs sanctuary, I was anticipating for the worst. A bag of ice was scared up, I dropped my pants and left the thing on there for at least a half-hour, my mind left to wander and contemplate how I'd got there.
Most periods of my childhood are punctuated with memories of my dad icing his leg, and usually, more specifically, his knee. He was (and still is) a consummate athlete and nary was there a time where the freezer wasn't stocked with those paper Gatorade cups…all green and waxy and flimsy. Once frozen, the offending paper would be peeled away delicately like a rind, exposing the glacial interior goodness for maximum icing capabilities. He would sit on the floor of the living room, his back up against the couch, legs splayed, and almost always unleashed an exhausted sigh as he exhaled followed by a wincing breath inward as the ice was applied.
My dad spent lots of time playing sports. My mom would probably say it was too much time and that he wasn't around as much as he should've been. I can't really agree or disagree with that…I played lots of sports that he coached which most likely afforded me more time with him. My parents divorced when I was 19-years-old and I like to think it had no affect on me.
So as I sat alone, away from my family, in the midst of a tour that would span at LEAST 5 months, contemplating the havoc it was wreaking on all of my personal relationships, with a knee in absolute pain and the ice acting merely as a distracting panacea, I couldn't help but think that no matter how hard I tried to do otherwise that I was destined to repeat the actions of my father.
I already had the moustache.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
West Coast Part Three: Can't Stand the Light...
From Saskatoon to Calgary. If memory serves the roads were uneventful and boring.
Someone yelled out "Telegram Sam" during the Sartain set and again, although we'd never even played it together, Dan wholeheartedly jumped into the song and I was left to try and follow.
I actually dig this approach…the "there's-only-two-of-us, how-hard-could-it-be-to-figure-out-we'll-just-do-it-on-stage" tactic that I've come to know and love from the White Stripes makes loosey goosey a positive trait and keeps everyone on their toes. When you finish a song, you're left with a sensational feeling that can only be described (weakly) as "well shit, we got through that, we can do anything." I believe the Germans have a word for it.
From Calgary that night to Red Deer where another booking foul-up (but of course, the hotel's fault) puts Pat, Dan and I in a smoking room with one queen-sized bed and one pull-out couch, a room that was supposed to have two full-size beds, mind you.
So being the understanding hoteliers that that are, the good folks at the Red Deer Best Western (an establishment curiously sans waterslide) just tossed in an extra single room at no extra charge. As we sat paralyzed at the ability to make a decision on who should get the room, tour manager Dorien declared that I, the non-smoker, should be the one.
I guess Mick and Troy were put in the same room set-up (one pull-out, one queen) when they too were promised two fulls and a pull-out. Troy was peeved about being stuck with the bitch bed and while going to the front desk for an Internet cable encountered the lady at the front desk offers him keys to the free room she'd just promised.
Troy is not expecting this and is geeked…only to find out that the room was actually meant for me, coming from the space previously cluttered by three dudes total. Needless to say, he was a little bummed when this was relayed to him.
So as slide the key card and open the door to my own private Idaho, imagine the amazement and utter confusion of seeing two full-size beds inside. Weird. It also put me in an awkward predicament. Do I just keep the room and not say a thing? Or do I call Troy and say there's a bed downstairs with your name on it, let's shack up and gossip all night long and leave Mick and his fursuits alone?
It was a tough decision and I though all of, oh, zero seconds before I settled on keeping the pad for myself and enjoying some Ben time.
After blogging my balls out, I took to slumbering and found myself perturbed by the itsy-bitsy sliver of space spewing light from between the curtains. This is, by far, my biggest hotel pet peeve…worse than non-existant "Do Not Disturb" signs, worse than clocks not set to the correct time, worse than a room having only one electrical outlet strategically placed on the ceiling and even worse yet than a shower head that comes up to my neck.
No, easily the worst offense a room of lodging can make is having a set of curtains that just don't meet all the way. Because that slice of light is going make your room look like the final scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark come sun-up and that unexpected awakening and unavailable return to REM alone will ruin your day.
So I climb on top of a chair to fix this fiasco…lobby call the next day isn't until 3pm and I want to make the most of my sleepy time. After tugging a bit and twisting to having the drapes kinda folded over each other where they met, I put an ever-so-slight amount of pressure on the curtain rod and without warning, pulled the fucking thing out of the wall.
My immediate verbal reaction was "Aw hell naw!"
So instead of remedying the situation, I'd just amplified it's severity, now only enjoying the services of half a curtain, in my underwear in front of a window overlooking the Canadian highway at some bullshit hour like 5:30am.
First things first, I put on a pair of shorts…I ain't letting any overzealous Canuck paparazzo's snag the million-loonie shot because of some malfunctioning shades. Second, I completely removed the secondary, see-through, gauze-like curtain that serves no fucking purpose whatsoever and threw that shit on the floor. Now with the vacant attachments from the gauze poseurs, I hooked the actual functioning curtains up without a problem and gave myself a pat on the back for such quick and effective solution. (All those years missing Silent Reading once a week at St. Clare for the Michigan Future Problem Solvers have now finally paid off)
For the first time in Edmonton we weren't playing the New City Likwid Lounge and instead, were playing the club exactly one block away that looked exactly like New City on the inside. So take that! Free time spent talking to hardcore White Stripes collectorate and having a decent Asian meal.
We'd spend the night in Red Deer again and I again was privy to my own room. As we checked out the next morning, an older female employee of the hotel said she just had to ask what kind of music we played. After we all replied "rock and roll" in sing-songy unison, she made a disappointed face and told us she had guessed otherwise.
When we asked her what music she thought we played, she sheepishly replied "jazz" to which, I must admit, it was a little hard not busting out and laughing at right away. Mick maybe…but Ko? Or me? Jazz? We do share a common understanding of the word "jazz" here, right Canada?
Between Edmonton and Vancouver we had a day off to make the moosetacular drive. It's at this point where the scenery becomes noteworthy…the Canadian Rockies are picturesque and, at moments, breathtaking.
Everyone was looking forward to our planned downtime in Banff, if only for an excuse to repeatedly say the word "Banff." Come on, just let that silky smooth Canadian city just roll off your tongue and say it with me…Banff. Don't you feel better? I know I do.
So while it is kind of a high-end ski resort town, there's still some cool shit to dig on. Bang-On iron-on store has Dirtbombs Blackula t-shirt transfers available and there's enough neon designer t-shirt/$800 sunglasses/graffiti bathing suit/faux urban sneaker peddlers to keep you laughing for hours on end. Add to that the high-end fossil shop (with some shit as high as $75,000) and the weird overabundance of sunlight (creepy!) and the whole time in town was a relative blast.
I managed to finally find some reusable plastic cutlery at a camping supply store, a trio of bright orange bits handily kept together on a harbinger and a relative steal for $5. This would make late-night snacking a thing of ease for the rest of the tour. I was hoping for a decent pair of Lou Reed-worthy black wraparound shades circa 1967, but no such luck.
All seven of us met up for a group meal at an upstairs Japanese restaurant, one of them real deal things where you take off your shoes and sit at the sunken tables. The entire experience there was so pleasant, relaxing and delicious that it totally saved the day. Those low tables made me just stretch out and try to catch some z's, to which I was told by the rest of the band that it wasn't "proper Japanese custom for burly American to take nap at table after meal." It's nice to learn something new every day.
At some charming pee break b/n Banff and Rogers Pass, we noticed an empty children's playground within sprinting distance of the piss house. With no trouble mustering energy on a day off, I galloped on over, trucked down the slide, tried the monkey bars I was too tall for and then made my way to the nearby stream to go skip rocks. Had Tom Sawyer shown up, I'd be painting that picket fence with his blood…that's just how wholesomely badass I was rolling.
Long drive the next day to Vancouver, arrive at the club just in time for soundcheck and it's even cooler when we can delay it a few minutes to watch some of the Red Wings game. We'd play pretty solid…even before the encore we'd gotten all kinds of goofy and sloppy, me and Troy wrasslin' around, falling offstage and taking a monitor with us while getting gently sprayed with beer. I couldn't believe that the monitor fell and didn't kill anyone, least of all Troy or I who were both essentially in its flight path.
I also think Vancouver was the first town I pulled out singing "Dance This Mess Around" in earnest during the breakdown in our "Kung Fu" encore. The crowd ate it up. After show merch table praise (was this where the pin sets and bottle openers showed up?) was at an all-time high, letting us know that we got the job done. Talks of hitting a bar or club later dissipated when I got to the hotel and realized I'd rather just sleep…but I'm told Troy totally slayed at karaoke at the hotel bar.
Someone yelled out "Telegram Sam" during the Sartain set and again, although we'd never even played it together, Dan wholeheartedly jumped into the song and I was left to try and follow.
I actually dig this approach…the "there's-only-two-of-us, how-hard-could-it-be-to-figure-out-we'll-just-do-it-on-stage" tactic that I've come to know and love from the White Stripes makes loosey goosey a positive trait and keeps everyone on their toes. When you finish a song, you're left with a sensational feeling that can only be described (weakly) as "well shit, we got through that, we can do anything." I believe the Germans have a word for it.
From Calgary that night to Red Deer where another booking foul-up (but of course, the hotel's fault) puts Pat, Dan and I in a smoking room with one queen-sized bed and one pull-out couch, a room that was supposed to have two full-size beds, mind you.
So being the understanding hoteliers that that are, the good folks at the Red Deer Best Western (an establishment curiously sans waterslide) just tossed in an extra single room at no extra charge. As we sat paralyzed at the ability to make a decision on who should get the room, tour manager Dorien declared that I, the non-smoker, should be the one.
I guess Mick and Troy were put in the same room set-up (one pull-out, one queen) when they too were promised two fulls and a pull-out. Troy was peeved about being stuck with the bitch bed and while going to the front desk for an Internet cable encountered the lady at the front desk offers him keys to the free room she'd just promised.
Troy is not expecting this and is geeked…only to find out that the room was actually meant for me, coming from the space previously cluttered by three dudes total. Needless to say, he was a little bummed when this was relayed to him.
So as slide the key card and open the door to my own private Idaho, imagine the amazement and utter confusion of seeing two full-size beds inside. Weird. It also put me in an awkward predicament. Do I just keep the room and not say a thing? Or do I call Troy and say there's a bed downstairs with your name on it, let's shack up and gossip all night long and leave Mick and his fursuits alone?
It was a tough decision and I though all of, oh, zero seconds before I settled on keeping the pad for myself and enjoying some Ben time.
After blogging my balls out, I took to slumbering and found myself perturbed by the itsy-bitsy sliver of space spewing light from between the curtains. This is, by far, my biggest hotel pet peeve…worse than non-existant "Do Not Disturb" signs, worse than clocks not set to the correct time, worse than a room having only one electrical outlet strategically placed on the ceiling and even worse yet than a shower head that comes up to my neck.
No, easily the worst offense a room of lodging can make is having a set of curtains that just don't meet all the way. Because that slice of light is going make your room look like the final scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark come sun-up and that unexpected awakening and unavailable return to REM alone will ruin your day.
So I climb on top of a chair to fix this fiasco…lobby call the next day isn't until 3pm and I want to make the most of my sleepy time. After tugging a bit and twisting to having the drapes kinda folded over each other where they met, I put an ever-so-slight amount of pressure on the curtain rod and without warning, pulled the fucking thing out of the wall.
My immediate verbal reaction was "Aw hell naw!"
So instead of remedying the situation, I'd just amplified it's severity, now only enjoying the services of half a curtain, in my underwear in front of a window overlooking the Canadian highway at some bullshit hour like 5:30am.
First things first, I put on a pair of shorts…I ain't letting any overzealous Canuck paparazzo's snag the million-loonie shot because of some malfunctioning shades. Second, I completely removed the secondary, see-through, gauze-like curtain that serves no fucking purpose whatsoever and threw that shit on the floor. Now with the vacant attachments from the gauze poseurs, I hooked the actual functioning curtains up without a problem and gave myself a pat on the back for such quick and effective solution. (All those years missing Silent Reading once a week at St. Clare for the Michigan Future Problem Solvers have now finally paid off)
For the first time in Edmonton we weren't playing the New City Likwid Lounge and instead, were playing the club exactly one block away that looked exactly like New City on the inside. So take that! Free time spent talking to hardcore White Stripes collectorate and having a decent Asian meal.
We'd spend the night in Red Deer again and I again was privy to my own room. As we checked out the next morning, an older female employee of the hotel said she just had to ask what kind of music we played. After we all replied "rock and roll" in sing-songy unison, she made a disappointed face and told us she had guessed otherwise.
When we asked her what music she thought we played, she sheepishly replied "jazz" to which, I must admit, it was a little hard not busting out and laughing at right away. Mick maybe…but Ko? Or me? Jazz? We do share a common understanding of the word "jazz" here, right Canada?
Between Edmonton and Vancouver we had a day off to make the moosetacular drive. It's at this point where the scenery becomes noteworthy…the Canadian Rockies are picturesque and, at moments, breathtaking.
Everyone was looking forward to our planned downtime in Banff, if only for an excuse to repeatedly say the word "Banff." Come on, just let that silky smooth Canadian city just roll off your tongue and say it with me…Banff. Don't you feel better? I know I do.
So while it is kind of a high-end ski resort town, there's still some cool shit to dig on. Bang-On iron-on store has Dirtbombs Blackula t-shirt transfers available and there's enough neon designer t-shirt/$800 sunglasses/graffiti bathing suit/faux urban sneaker peddlers to keep you laughing for hours on end. Add to that the high-end fossil shop (with some shit as high as $75,000) and the weird overabundance of sunlight (creepy!) and the whole time in town was a relative blast.
I managed to finally find some reusable plastic cutlery at a camping supply store, a trio of bright orange bits handily kept together on a harbinger and a relative steal for $5. This would make late-night snacking a thing of ease for the rest of the tour. I was hoping for a decent pair of Lou Reed-worthy black wraparound shades circa 1967, but no such luck.
All seven of us met up for a group meal at an upstairs Japanese restaurant, one of them real deal things where you take off your shoes and sit at the sunken tables. The entire experience there was so pleasant, relaxing and delicious that it totally saved the day. Those low tables made me just stretch out and try to catch some z's, to which I was told by the rest of the band that it wasn't "proper Japanese custom for burly American to take nap at table after meal." It's nice to learn something new every day.
At some charming pee break b/n Banff and Rogers Pass, we noticed an empty children's playground within sprinting distance of the piss house. With no trouble mustering energy on a day off, I galloped on over, trucked down the slide, tried the monkey bars I was too tall for and then made my way to the nearby stream to go skip rocks. Had Tom Sawyer shown up, I'd be painting that picket fence with his blood…that's just how wholesomely badass I was rolling.
Long drive the next day to Vancouver, arrive at the club just in time for soundcheck and it's even cooler when we can delay it a few minutes to watch some of the Red Wings game. We'd play pretty solid…even before the encore we'd gotten all kinds of goofy and sloppy, me and Troy wrasslin' around, falling offstage and taking a monitor with us while getting gently sprayed with beer. I couldn't believe that the monitor fell and didn't kill anyone, least of all Troy or I who were both essentially in its flight path.
I also think Vancouver was the first town I pulled out singing "Dance This Mess Around" in earnest during the breakdown in our "Kung Fu" encore. The crowd ate it up. After show merch table praise (was this where the pin sets and bottle openers showed up?) was at an all-time high, letting us know that we got the job done. Talks of hitting a bar or club later dissipated when I got to the hotel and realized I'd rather just sleep…but I'm told Troy totally slayed at karaoke at the hotel bar.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Help Arthur Magazine...
While perpetually tied with Ugly Things and Chunklet for the coveted position of my favorite music magazine, Arthur feels like the print version of NPR, without all the bullshit boring stuff. And unlike UT and Chunky, Arthur has always been free (just like NPR...weird) so just consider right now pledge time.
I implore all of you to donate something, ANYTHING to support this truly worthy cause.
I implore all of you to donate something, ANYTHING to support this truly worthy cause.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
West Coast Part Two: Yer Never Too Old to Start Acting Young Again...
Next morn on Lynndale Ave in Minneapolis and I spend all my time at Treehouse Records. Picked up an LP copy of Beck's Mellow Gold as well jams like the La Beat Records Story, the Dethklok album, the live recording of Metal Machine Music by that weirdo German outfit, the Italians Do it Better After Dark compilation and some random new 45's that Treehouse is always good for.
The night before, Srini Radhakrishna (formerly of the questionably-legendary Guilty Pleasures and currently of France Has the Bomb) hipped me to a band called Vampire Hands, saying they're the hot new shit in town and that they're possibly even in talks with Sub Pop. Not only did Treehouse have Vampire Hands first two LP's AND play them for us in store to see if we dug it (we did), but the guy behind the counter was the guy behind putting them out.
When word-of-mouth things happen so nicely like that, it makes me feel like everything in the world is alright and that the Internet is just bullshit. We made talk with Mr. Treehouse and I was lucky enough to garner the super-secret discount for my wares. He's good people.
From there to the health food co-op down the street where the whole van loaded up on whatnots and whathaveyous. I got some Tom's of Maine toothpaste, unsure of whether I wanted (or needed) fluoride or not, as well as Paul Newman peanut butter cups, an organic croissant, some fruity fru-fru pansy electrolyte drink and a jar of royal jelly for Pat and I to split.
The royal jelly goes back to a story relayed to us by Chris Sutton of C.O.C.O. Apparently the members of Nation of Ulysses would down handfuls of the stuff before going onstage and that was supposed to be the secret to their overabundance of energy for their live performances. Anything good enough for Svenonius had to be good enough for us, right?
So cut to backstage in Fargo, Pat and I each swallow a lovin' spoonful of the stuff a little before going onstage. It's sweet but not overly so…if anything it's unpredictably viscous (that's what she said).
While tempted to grab a microphone and offer audience members $20 for the most embarrassing story they could offer about Chuck Klosterman, I only remember leaving the stage and saying the set felt "kinda fast" to which Ko, Troy and Mick replied, sarcastically, "You think?"
So while the royal jelly didn't find me jumping out second story window's with snare drum in hand or using two beer taps as drumsticks, it did, at the very least, propel the drummers to a speed slightly faster than usual. But I'm still waiting to turn into Steve Gamboa.
Hotel in Fargo felt brand new, wooden log façade (or hell, maybe it was actually a log cabin Best Western) and an overall nice smell to it. Right down the street from Space Alien Café, the worst eatery in all of town. We did a proper van clean up and briefing for our border crossing and all went smoothly.
West End Cultural Center seemed a bit off for us to be playing in Winnipeg, a place more-suited for touring theater productions rather than sweaty fag rock. On a pole outside the club was a Live Nation-commissioned Canadian tour poster…a towheaded Dennis the Menace-esque illustration complete with striped t-shirt and handful of dirt in mid-heave and I reveled in notifying the band that I and I alone was the one depicted on the Canadian posters.
Biggest bummer of the Winni show was noticing a significant crack in my ride cymbal. Boo. It's not worth it trying to buy cymbals in Canada with their imported prices and unnecessary sales-pitch "eh's" so I accepted the fact that I'd be somewhat screwed for the next week or so until we made it back to the States.
Dudes up front in Turbojugend jackets were into our jams and that was cool. But I've always wondered, do you have to send away UPC codes or something to get one? Because they're all personalized with your city and some vaguely homoerotic nickname and I can't imagine they just have a pile of "Turbojugend Vinnipeg" with "StevenSemen" jackets with them on tour.
So when I got the mic, I took the opportunity to ask this question in a clear and non-threatening way. The thing is, saying the phrase "Turbojugend" itself is threatening to jacket wearers if not immediately followed by the words "FUCKING ROCKS!"
So when I got into the crowd they were kinda messing with me, friendly pushing and the like. But when Pat and I commenced throwing our cracked cymbals at each other in a majestic, almost balletic finesse, I took to slamming mine at the edge of the stage and they took to spraying me with beer. I slickly unplugged Mick's adjacent pedals and tossed them out of beer spray's way and then used the cymbal as a Captain America-like shield from the stouts and lagers.
As I returned to the stage to break down my equipment, one of the dudes took to trying to start shit with me, asking "Why you gotta 'dis the Jugend man?" and "Come over here (to the edge of the stage) I just want to talk to you" to which I replied I was not dissing the Jugend, recited some lyrics from the song "Denim Demon" and refused to go to the edge of the stage, me being fully engrossed in the intricacies of breaking down a hi-hat stand like never before or since.
To add further challenge to it all, the club had received our big 'ole merchandise order for the rest of the tour. T-shirts with Morrisey on them, t-shirts with "You Are Being Watched" emblazoned across the chest, Blackula tote bags and possibly even other shit I'm forgetting arrived in Winnipeg to the tune of five huge cardboard boxes.
The van was already overstuffed with shit and as resident Tetris expert, I delighted in figuring out a way to make it all fit. By shoving my floor tom (which already had my rack tom telescoped inside) through my barely there batter-side kick drum head, I'd freed up a good cubic yard of space and with some more wiggling and jiggling and pushing and squeezing, I managed to get all the bullshit safely into our fifteen passenger boat.
Whenever such a packing feat is accomplished, you mark the occasion by saying one special phrase, "It's a beautiful thing." And indeed, it was.
Our hotel that night was purely Canadian in the fact that it had a water slide. As you traverse the Canadian Prairie the sudden omnipresence of waterslides becomes an inexplicable phenomenon along the lines of the Marfan Lights or Webkinz. This being the first time in memory we'd stayed at such a lodge and with Pantano and Sartain tying up the in-room shower the next morning (but not together…I don't think) I took to swimming as my means of bathing.
(cut to a golden nugget from Sartain…"Men will use going swimming as a reason to NOT shower, whereas women use going swimming as a reason to HAVE to shower." The man is full of them)
With the pool to myself I curiously press the "On" button for jets to the slide and with a youthful curiosity, climb to the top of the structure, anticipating an anticlimactic descent into the chlorinated depths.
So understand that upon being spit out of the curlicued aquatic attraction I was overcome with a complete sense of excitement. That shit was fun as hell! I couldn't, for the life of me, remember the last time I'd partaken in aquatic spirals and the entire experience was rejuvenating. I would proceed to climb those stairs and drop down the slide without a care in the world, seven consecutive times in all.
Moments like this are key to maintaining sanity on tour. Like an evening spent on carnival rides at Luna Park in Melbourne back in 2004, flipping upside down with a beautiful beach evening view, realizing it's all a gas, that the momentary childlike feeling is unpredictable and unmatchable. The waterslide made my tour, reminded me of sun-soaked summers spent slipping and sliding and proved to me yer never too old to start acting young again.
Breakfast at Tim Horton's and Sartain orders what he thought to be a BLT (in actuality it's a B-E-LT, the added "E" being egg). Upon unwrapping his food, he takes a disgusting look and immediately throws the offending chow with Clemens-like velocity into the trashcan and screams "FUCK THIS!"
He then sips at what he had ordered as "sweet tea" (a decidedly Southern offering all but nonexistent in Canada) only to pitch that onto the pavement and bellow "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT!" To which I didn't have the heart to reply "a 20oz of Lipton Iced Tea, you're in Winnipeg for chrissakes, what did you expect?"
A brief coolant leak scare allayed and the drive to Saskatoon was utterly uneventful. Louie's Pub is a campus-run sort of deal and if the 8x10's on the wall backstage were any indication, if you weren't a really important Canadian band (ie, Barenaked Ladies) then you had no reason playing, exempting Pavement.
The crowd was fairly sparse and Pantano let me use his ride for the Sartain set. Each show with him would get better and better, me actually remember how songs go and where changes come was a welcome departure from shitting my pants trying to follow that guy. I think it'd be the first night Dan yelled out "Cobras 2" without any apparent concern for the fact that not only hadn't we rehearsed it, but that the two of us hadn't actually played the song together since July. Luckily I'm fairly well versed in Sartain's back catalog and we pulled it out of our asses and no one was the wiser.
After the gig we crash the only way we know how…Best Western-style.
The night before, Srini Radhakrishna (formerly of the questionably-legendary Guilty Pleasures and currently of France Has the Bomb) hipped me to a band called Vampire Hands, saying they're the hot new shit in town and that they're possibly even in talks with Sub Pop. Not only did Treehouse have Vampire Hands first two LP's AND play them for us in store to see if we dug it (we did), but the guy behind the counter was the guy behind putting them out.
When word-of-mouth things happen so nicely like that, it makes me feel like everything in the world is alright and that the Internet is just bullshit. We made talk with Mr. Treehouse and I was lucky enough to garner the super-secret discount for my wares. He's good people.
From there to the health food co-op down the street where the whole van loaded up on whatnots and whathaveyous. I got some Tom's of Maine toothpaste, unsure of whether I wanted (or needed) fluoride or not, as well as Paul Newman peanut butter cups, an organic croissant, some fruity fru-fru pansy electrolyte drink and a jar of royal jelly for Pat and I to split.
The royal jelly goes back to a story relayed to us by Chris Sutton of C.O.C.O. Apparently the members of Nation of Ulysses would down handfuls of the stuff before going onstage and that was supposed to be the secret to their overabundance of energy for their live performances. Anything good enough for Svenonius had to be good enough for us, right?
So cut to backstage in Fargo, Pat and I each swallow a lovin' spoonful of the stuff a little before going onstage. It's sweet but not overly so…if anything it's unpredictably viscous (that's what she said).
While tempted to grab a microphone and offer audience members $20 for the most embarrassing story they could offer about Chuck Klosterman, I only remember leaving the stage and saying the set felt "kinda fast" to which Ko, Troy and Mick replied, sarcastically, "You think?"
So while the royal jelly didn't find me jumping out second story window's with snare drum in hand or using two beer taps as drumsticks, it did, at the very least, propel the drummers to a speed slightly faster than usual. But I'm still waiting to turn into Steve Gamboa.
Hotel in Fargo felt brand new, wooden log façade (or hell, maybe it was actually a log cabin Best Western) and an overall nice smell to it. Right down the street from Space Alien Café, the worst eatery in all of town. We did a proper van clean up and briefing for our border crossing and all went smoothly.
West End Cultural Center seemed a bit off for us to be playing in Winnipeg, a place more-suited for touring theater productions rather than sweaty fag rock. On a pole outside the club was a Live Nation-commissioned Canadian tour poster…a towheaded Dennis the Menace-esque illustration complete with striped t-shirt and handful of dirt in mid-heave and I reveled in notifying the band that I and I alone was the one depicted on the Canadian posters.
Biggest bummer of the Winni show was noticing a significant crack in my ride cymbal. Boo. It's not worth it trying to buy cymbals in Canada with their imported prices and unnecessary sales-pitch "eh's" so I accepted the fact that I'd be somewhat screwed for the next week or so until we made it back to the States.
Dudes up front in Turbojugend jackets were into our jams and that was cool. But I've always wondered, do you have to send away UPC codes or something to get one? Because they're all personalized with your city and some vaguely homoerotic nickname and I can't imagine they just have a pile of "Turbojugend Vinnipeg" with "StevenSemen" jackets with them on tour.
So when I got the mic, I took the opportunity to ask this question in a clear and non-threatening way. The thing is, saying the phrase "Turbojugend" itself is threatening to jacket wearers if not immediately followed by the words "FUCKING ROCKS!"
So when I got into the crowd they were kinda messing with me, friendly pushing and the like. But when Pat and I commenced throwing our cracked cymbals at each other in a majestic, almost balletic finesse, I took to slamming mine at the edge of the stage and they took to spraying me with beer. I slickly unplugged Mick's adjacent pedals and tossed them out of beer spray's way and then used the cymbal as a Captain America-like shield from the stouts and lagers.
As I returned to the stage to break down my equipment, one of the dudes took to trying to start shit with me, asking "Why you gotta 'dis the Jugend man?" and "Come over here (to the edge of the stage) I just want to talk to you" to which I replied I was not dissing the Jugend, recited some lyrics from the song "Denim Demon" and refused to go to the edge of the stage, me being fully engrossed in the intricacies of breaking down a hi-hat stand like never before or since.
To add further challenge to it all, the club had received our big 'ole merchandise order for the rest of the tour. T-shirts with Morrisey on them, t-shirts with "You Are Being Watched" emblazoned across the chest, Blackula tote bags and possibly even other shit I'm forgetting arrived in Winnipeg to the tune of five huge cardboard boxes.
The van was already overstuffed with shit and as resident Tetris expert, I delighted in figuring out a way to make it all fit. By shoving my floor tom (which already had my rack tom telescoped inside) through my barely there batter-side kick drum head, I'd freed up a good cubic yard of space and with some more wiggling and jiggling and pushing and squeezing, I managed to get all the bullshit safely into our fifteen passenger boat.
Whenever such a packing feat is accomplished, you mark the occasion by saying one special phrase, "It's a beautiful thing." And indeed, it was.
Our hotel that night was purely Canadian in the fact that it had a water slide. As you traverse the Canadian Prairie the sudden omnipresence of waterslides becomes an inexplicable phenomenon along the lines of the Marfan Lights or Webkinz. This being the first time in memory we'd stayed at such a lodge and with Pantano and Sartain tying up the in-room shower the next morning (but not together…I don't think) I took to swimming as my means of bathing.
(cut to a golden nugget from Sartain…"Men will use going swimming as a reason to NOT shower, whereas women use going swimming as a reason to HAVE to shower." The man is full of them)
With the pool to myself I curiously press the "On" button for jets to the slide and with a youthful curiosity, climb to the top of the structure, anticipating an anticlimactic descent into the chlorinated depths.
So understand that upon being spit out of the curlicued aquatic attraction I was overcome with a complete sense of excitement. That shit was fun as hell! I couldn't, for the life of me, remember the last time I'd partaken in aquatic spirals and the entire experience was rejuvenating. I would proceed to climb those stairs and drop down the slide without a care in the world, seven consecutive times in all.
Moments like this are key to maintaining sanity on tour. Like an evening spent on carnival rides at Luna Park in Melbourne back in 2004, flipping upside down with a beautiful beach evening view, realizing it's all a gas, that the momentary childlike feeling is unpredictable and unmatchable. The waterslide made my tour, reminded me of sun-soaked summers spent slipping and sliding and proved to me yer never too old to start acting young again.
Breakfast at Tim Horton's and Sartain orders what he thought to be a BLT (in actuality it's a B-E-LT, the added "E" being egg). Upon unwrapping his food, he takes a disgusting look and immediately throws the offending chow with Clemens-like velocity into the trashcan and screams "FUCK THIS!"
He then sips at what he had ordered as "sweet tea" (a decidedly Southern offering all but nonexistent in Canada) only to pitch that onto the pavement and bellow "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT!" To which I didn't have the heart to reply "a 20oz of Lipton Iced Tea, you're in Winnipeg for chrissakes, what did you expect?"
A brief coolant leak scare allayed and the drive to Saskatoon was utterly uneventful. Louie's Pub is a campus-run sort of deal and if the 8x10's on the wall backstage were any indication, if you weren't a really important Canadian band (ie, Barenaked Ladies) then you had no reason playing, exempting Pavement.
The crowd was fairly sparse and Pantano let me use his ride for the Sartain set. Each show with him would get better and better, me actually remember how songs go and where changes come was a welcome departure from shitting my pants trying to follow that guy. I think it'd be the first night Dan yelled out "Cobras 2" without any apparent concern for the fact that not only hadn't we rehearsed it, but that the two of us hadn't actually played the song together since July. Luckily I'm fairly well versed in Sartain's back catalog and we pulled it out of our asses and no one was the wiser.
After the gig we crash the only way we know how…Best Western-style.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
West Coast Part One: What Time Are We Supposed to Be There?
The Turner Ballroom in Milwaukee wanted us to arrive around 5pm. I don't think we showed up until 8:30 or so. Wasn't no thang for us, but apparently the club was paralyzed about what to do…there was even talk of completely canceling the show. We laughed when we were told this. We've shown up for gigs 45 minutes before closing and still played and STILL rocked the room.
The bigger problem, of course, was that we didn't even get to stop at Mars Cheese Castle.
The club was nice…catering, fancy upstairs dressing rooms, 'twas a shame we didn't really get to enjoy them for more than a few minutes. Caught the last few songs of the Terrible Twos and it was good seeing them on a big stage.
The set with Sartain was alright…I felt some kinks that still needed to be worked out, but I think the crowd was well-pleased with what they saw that night.
The Dirtbombs set was fun. We hadn't played together in over a week and there was a little rust to shake off, but overall the setlist is solid, everyone has it memorized and we can go from one song to another without having to speak to each other. This is the ultimate pinnacle of how tight we get on tour.
Having seen some non-flattering pix of my bass drum headstands, I'd vowed to myself to make that shit look a lot cooler. So during the encore of "I Can't Stop Thinking About It" I balanced myself on the drum and fully extended my legs with the sole intent of keeping them as straight as possible.
Somehow or another Pat timed the length of my headstand, an impressive 6.4 seconds, Easily a new personal best. Clearly the secret to a substantial stand time is keeping the legs straight. From there, I grabbed the floor tom mic, put the drum on my head and started singing about Green Bay stalwart Time Bomb Tom (representing in front of the stage) into Beck's "Timebomb" and then asking "Whatever happened to the Cactus Club?" as a sort of befuddlement as to why we were playing a theater more suited to fit over a thousand people in it rather than basement rec room-styled Cactus that broke so many bands in Beer City.
And so I relay to you a problem we've been encountering lately…do you play a smaller room, probably not as swank or with all the proper amenities, and totally pack 'em in and most likely for less money – OR – do you take the guaranteed bigger paycheck in the bigger room with catering and towels and a backstage and just cope with playing a room that's at 1/3 its capacity?
Frankly, I think proper showbiz etiquette dictates that you should always play a room slightly smaller than you can fill…just to keep things exciting. But as this is a touring operation highly susceptible to the forces of $7 a gallon gas, sometimes you just need to go for the sure thing.
I sang more at the front of the stage, kicked some cans of bear and then outright pounced upon David from the Mistreaters. I took him to the floor and we rolled around and after a spirited tussle I ended up on top with his arms pinned. An employee of the club, apparently unaware that I've spent the past 9 years of my life with the Mistreaters, was feverishly trying to pull me off the man, probably under the impression I had just blindly attacked a member of the audience and scared that it would somehow end up in a lawsuit against the club.
My little sister and her boyfriend drove up from Chicago for the show I had a blast hanging out with them backstage. It's crazy how much I miss her since she's moved to an area that actually has jobs for people in their twenties, but it makes the time that I do get to spend with her that much sweeter.
Next day in Madison. Time kicking around town proves fruitless at the record store and vintage clothing store, but the lesbian book store provides a goldmine of pins that will be discreetly placed on members of the touring party where they will sit for some time before being noticed. Pin sayings include:
"Stop staring at my tits" (and I actually may just keep that one for my own jacket)
"Not every sperm deserves a name"
"I got this way by kissing boys"
"I (heart) bisexuals"
"DYKE"
This is how we have fun. Is it funny for me to wear the "tits" button or no?
Madison was into us. Good-sized crowd and when I went into it during the encore I guess I pissed someone off. The stage was covered in broken glass by the time I left. Pat said he saw a dude getting particularly violent breaking bottles and being restrained by his friends. It is possible when I jumped into the crowd that I may have inadvertently injured him or someone in his party. If so, it was a mistake and I apologize for my carelessness and hopefully such misunderstandings can be worked out verbally in the future and not in the senseless destruction of alcoholic beverage containers.
After the show Pat was worried the guy would try and fight me, so he made sure to accompany me (all Bob Seger style) as I left the cushy confines of the backstage area to go help sell merch.
After a brief respite at Parson's Indian Trading Post in the Wisconsin Dells, we rolled into Minneapolis and saw that the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players were opening for Kate Nash at First Avenue, the club upstairs from the 7th St. Entry, where we would play.
It's little surprises like this that make touring exciting. I walked into the First Ave, found the fam and caught up with them, glad to figure that I would be able to catch their set and even moreso that they'd be able to see some of ours.
Their songs "Look at Me" and "Don't You Know What I Mean" (featured on their Cass Records 7") are still so strong and pure in my heart that I feel on the verge of tears when I hear them live. Rachel seems so grown up and I feel some sort of pride in watching her perform…the song where she played ukulele and sang about pigeons (she wrote it herself!) was even more wistful beauty and I still can't believe that the rest of the world still does not know how amazing this band is.
And to think I first saw them on Late Night with Conan O'Brien and only afterwards asked them to release a record. As a whole, the Trachetenburg single is still my proudest achievement with Cass. I'm a better person for knowing them as they give me hope for families, innovation, America and all kinds of abstract ideas that it's quite easy to be bummed about.
For our last song that night, Sartain yelled out "Tiger Man" a song we'd BARELY even goofed on at sound check. After listening to a few passes of his frantic strumming I cooked into a go-to Sartain Beat (or "Everything I Need to Know About Playing Drums for This Guy I Learned By Watching Ben Swank When I Was 17-Years-Old" as I like to call it) and Rufus Thomas could not have been prouder.
Our set was strong, just nothing particular stands out about it. Afterwards Kate Nash (headliner of the T-burg show upstairs) came up and said she really liked it. I guess she's a big deal, but I've still never heard her stuff. She mentioned that her boyfriend's band opened for us ages ago and when I had no idea what band that would be she said it was the Cribs. All at the same club I first met Jason Pierce. Thus concludes my name-dropping for the UK audiences.
Hotel was converted from an old train station into a cedar-smelling lodge with confusing circuitous room numbering and a numbingly brilliant way of fucking up our reservations that left me on a rollaway bed. I made a cup of noodles and lacking utensils had to venture out to the van (in some god-forsaken outfit, I'm sure) to obtain a spoon from the carry-out container I'd filled with plastic cutlery in a fit of prescience at catering in Milwaukee.
The bigger problem, of course, was that we didn't even get to stop at Mars Cheese Castle.
The club was nice…catering, fancy upstairs dressing rooms, 'twas a shame we didn't really get to enjoy them for more than a few minutes. Caught the last few songs of the Terrible Twos and it was good seeing them on a big stage.
The set with Sartain was alright…I felt some kinks that still needed to be worked out, but I think the crowd was well-pleased with what they saw that night.
The Dirtbombs set was fun. We hadn't played together in over a week and there was a little rust to shake off, but overall the setlist is solid, everyone has it memorized and we can go from one song to another without having to speak to each other. This is the ultimate pinnacle of how tight we get on tour.
Having seen some non-flattering pix of my bass drum headstands, I'd vowed to myself to make that shit look a lot cooler. So during the encore of "I Can't Stop Thinking About It" I balanced myself on the drum and fully extended my legs with the sole intent of keeping them as straight as possible.
Somehow or another Pat timed the length of my headstand, an impressive 6.4 seconds, Easily a new personal best. Clearly the secret to a substantial stand time is keeping the legs straight. From there, I grabbed the floor tom mic, put the drum on my head and started singing about Green Bay stalwart Time Bomb Tom (representing in front of the stage) into Beck's "Timebomb" and then asking "Whatever happened to the Cactus Club?" as a sort of befuddlement as to why we were playing a theater more suited to fit over a thousand people in it rather than basement rec room-styled Cactus that broke so many bands in Beer City.
And so I relay to you a problem we've been encountering lately…do you play a smaller room, probably not as swank or with all the proper amenities, and totally pack 'em in and most likely for less money – OR – do you take the guaranteed bigger paycheck in the bigger room with catering and towels and a backstage and just cope with playing a room that's at 1/3 its capacity?
Frankly, I think proper showbiz etiquette dictates that you should always play a room slightly smaller than you can fill…just to keep things exciting. But as this is a touring operation highly susceptible to the forces of $7 a gallon gas, sometimes you just need to go for the sure thing.
I sang more at the front of the stage, kicked some cans of bear and then outright pounced upon David from the Mistreaters. I took him to the floor and we rolled around and after a spirited tussle I ended up on top with his arms pinned. An employee of the club, apparently unaware that I've spent the past 9 years of my life with the Mistreaters, was feverishly trying to pull me off the man, probably under the impression I had just blindly attacked a member of the audience and scared that it would somehow end up in a lawsuit against the club.
My little sister and her boyfriend drove up from Chicago for the show I had a blast hanging out with them backstage. It's crazy how much I miss her since she's moved to an area that actually has jobs for people in their twenties, but it makes the time that I do get to spend with her that much sweeter.
Next day in Madison. Time kicking around town proves fruitless at the record store and vintage clothing store, but the lesbian book store provides a goldmine of pins that will be discreetly placed on members of the touring party where they will sit for some time before being noticed. Pin sayings include:
"Stop staring at my tits" (and I actually may just keep that one for my own jacket)
"Not every sperm deserves a name"
"I got this way by kissing boys"
"I (heart) bisexuals"
"DYKE"
This is how we have fun. Is it funny for me to wear the "tits" button or no?
Madison was into us. Good-sized crowd and when I went into it during the encore I guess I pissed someone off. The stage was covered in broken glass by the time I left. Pat said he saw a dude getting particularly violent breaking bottles and being restrained by his friends. It is possible when I jumped into the crowd that I may have inadvertently injured him or someone in his party. If so, it was a mistake and I apologize for my carelessness and hopefully such misunderstandings can be worked out verbally in the future and not in the senseless destruction of alcoholic beverage containers.
After the show Pat was worried the guy would try and fight me, so he made sure to accompany me (all Bob Seger style) as I left the cushy confines of the backstage area to go help sell merch.
After a brief respite at Parson's Indian Trading Post in the Wisconsin Dells, we rolled into Minneapolis and saw that the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players were opening for Kate Nash at First Avenue, the club upstairs from the 7th St. Entry, where we would play.
It's little surprises like this that make touring exciting. I walked into the First Ave, found the fam and caught up with them, glad to figure that I would be able to catch their set and even moreso that they'd be able to see some of ours.
Their songs "Look at Me" and "Don't You Know What I Mean" (featured on their Cass Records 7") are still so strong and pure in my heart that I feel on the verge of tears when I hear them live. Rachel seems so grown up and I feel some sort of pride in watching her perform…the song where she played ukulele and sang about pigeons (she wrote it herself!) was even more wistful beauty and I still can't believe that the rest of the world still does not know how amazing this band is.
And to think I first saw them on Late Night with Conan O'Brien and only afterwards asked them to release a record. As a whole, the Trachetenburg single is still my proudest achievement with Cass. I'm a better person for knowing them as they give me hope for families, innovation, America and all kinds of abstract ideas that it's quite easy to be bummed about.
For our last song that night, Sartain yelled out "Tiger Man" a song we'd BARELY even goofed on at sound check. After listening to a few passes of his frantic strumming I cooked into a go-to Sartain Beat (or "Everything I Need to Know About Playing Drums for This Guy I Learned By Watching Ben Swank When I Was 17-Years-Old" as I like to call it) and Rufus Thomas could not have been prouder.
Our set was strong, just nothing particular stands out about it. Afterwards Kate Nash (headliner of the T-burg show upstairs) came up and said she really liked it. I guess she's a big deal, but I've still never heard her stuff. She mentioned that her boyfriend's band opened for us ages ago and when I had no idea what band that would be she said it was the Cribs. All at the same club I first met Jason Pierce. Thus concludes my name-dropping for the UK audiences.
Hotel was converted from an old train station into a cedar-smelling lodge with confusing circuitous room numbering and a numbingly brilliant way of fucking up our reservations that left me on a rollaway bed. I made a cup of noodles and lacking utensils had to venture out to the van (in some god-forsaken outfit, I'm sure) to obtain a spoon from the carry-out container I'd filled with plastic cutlery in a fit of prescience at catering in Milwaukee.
Friday, June 13, 2008
USA Part Seven: Conclusion of the East Coast...
Day off in Montreal wisely spent relaxing. Bought a kick-ass Detroit Red Wings throw-back sweater (not "jersey") the same that the team wore during the '91-92 season as part of the celebration of the 75th anniversary of the NHL.
This thing is beyond sweet, and I can't remember how much I actually spent on it, only that it was well-worth it. Makes me feel like I'm ten-years old again.
Ate at some greasy café that had a "Detroit" hot dog and was too curious to pass it up. The dog came with a liquefied meatsauce that may have possibly attempted to be chili. It was wholly unappetizing.
Bought Miranda July's "Learning to Love You More" from Urban Outfitters.
Trekked with Pat to the IMAX theater down the street from our hotel to catch Shine a Light, the latest Rolling Stones concert film. I was sincerely anticipating what I'd heard, from numerous sources, was a pretty great film.
From the opening sequence of the movie…with the playing up of the "what will the set-list be?" factor of the show, through the absolutely retching CGI'd ending with the moon over Manhattan morphing into the Stones' lips logo, the entire work was one solid disappointment after another.
Not only is it the only Scorcese film I can think of that doesn't feature "Gimme Shelter" but it's all so unexciting. Start the show with "Jumping Jack Flash"? Really? Was that the big secret you couldn't tell the producer before you got on stage? And that half-assed abortion you seemed to feel comfortable calling "Shattered"? Sick to my stomach…the band completely took the herky-jerky LIFE of that song and regurgitated it as forgettable bar band blues blah.
The entire thing suffered from what I would call "film mixing for idiots." That is, whoever is featured on screen is immediately thrust to the forefront of the audio mix. And as soon as the camera catches on someone else or changes shots, that next person is then the audio king for a second.
Distracting and frustrating to say the least, this approach left me completely unable to hear how certain guitar solos concluded. And believe me, I am so fucking far from an audio snob, I listen to Back From the Grave records and love 'em. But the accompanying audio to the visuals provided in Shine a Light is an egregious offense to anyone who's ever heard the Rolling Stones before.
All of these caused me to become particularly bored with the film and I fell asleep two separate times during the film. When Buddy Guy was thanked in the end credits, I had to ask Pantano why. Apparently I'd managed to miss that entire song.
Jack White's tasteful contribution to "Loving Cup" notwithstanding, I can in no way recommend "Shine a Light" and however inflated the Canadian dollar price of my IMAX ticket, I want it back.
Next day bought a vintage suit jacket (contemplated a German horse leather aviator coat from WWII but balked at the $700 tag) that Pat was jealous of and Mick said "You only got that 'cause it looks exactly like the coat I wore in the Gories."
My reply: "So?"
Quick drive up to Ottawa was particularly sunny. Club there was a complete shitfest, the backstage basement looking like something the most recalcitrant of crust punks would admit needed some cleaning. Had a tasty Asian meal down the street from the club.
Show was cool. The promoter threw all of the tickets for the night at us while we played in some faux-fetti fiasco. I believe the encore entailed me imploring the audience to dance like no one was watching them, a plea I would spruce up and use again at future shows. Ottawa also may have been my first use of "All the ugly people be quiet". Sometimes you just can't remember.
Next day in Toronto and buying rare rap records down the street from the Horseshoe Tavern. Stoltz band would play on CBC radio early that afternoon and he himself surprised me with a Hockey Night In Canada hooded sweatshirt that has become the instant envy of anyone who's seen it. I was chuffed.
The show was fine, again ending with a jam on "Miss You" with members of both bands taking part. As soon as we finished, we hurriedly packed up our gear and made the 4-hour drive straight back to Detroit. I dropped everyone else off first, stopped at Archer to pick up some test pressings and then collapsed in a heap.
Toledo and Ann Arbor didn't really feel like tour, but a trip to Tony Packo's and hitting up Underground Sounds on Record Store Day were choice. Pat got attacked by some drunken dude in Toledo and besides Frankie's looking exactly the way it did ten years ago, there's nothing else of merit to report from those days.
End of tour wrap party at New Seoul Gardens was delicious. There was created one collaborative picture sleeve for the Kelley Stoltz/Dirtbombs split single. Someday maybe someone will see it. A fun tour, marked by good meals, great shows, quixotic headaches and all kinds of in-between, it was a pleasure to share it all with a class-act like Kelley Stoltz and his equally as classy band. Good times.
This thing is beyond sweet, and I can't remember how much I actually spent on it, only that it was well-worth it. Makes me feel like I'm ten-years old again.
Ate at some greasy café that had a "Detroit" hot dog and was too curious to pass it up. The dog came with a liquefied meatsauce that may have possibly attempted to be chili. It was wholly unappetizing.
Bought Miranda July's "Learning to Love You More" from Urban Outfitters.
Trekked with Pat to the IMAX theater down the street from our hotel to catch Shine a Light, the latest Rolling Stones concert film. I was sincerely anticipating what I'd heard, from numerous sources, was a pretty great film.
From the opening sequence of the movie…with the playing up of the "what will the set-list be?" factor of the show, through the absolutely retching CGI'd ending with the moon over Manhattan morphing into the Stones' lips logo, the entire work was one solid disappointment after another.
Not only is it the only Scorcese film I can think of that doesn't feature "Gimme Shelter" but it's all so unexciting. Start the show with "Jumping Jack Flash"? Really? Was that the big secret you couldn't tell the producer before you got on stage? And that half-assed abortion you seemed to feel comfortable calling "Shattered"? Sick to my stomach…the band completely took the herky-jerky LIFE of that song and regurgitated it as forgettable bar band blues blah.
The entire thing suffered from what I would call "film mixing for idiots." That is, whoever is featured on screen is immediately thrust to the forefront of the audio mix. And as soon as the camera catches on someone else or changes shots, that next person is then the audio king for a second.
Distracting and frustrating to say the least, this approach left me completely unable to hear how certain guitar solos concluded. And believe me, I am so fucking far from an audio snob, I listen to Back From the Grave records and love 'em. But the accompanying audio to the visuals provided in Shine a Light is an egregious offense to anyone who's ever heard the Rolling Stones before.
All of these caused me to become particularly bored with the film and I fell asleep two separate times during the film. When Buddy Guy was thanked in the end credits, I had to ask Pantano why. Apparently I'd managed to miss that entire song.
Jack White's tasteful contribution to "Loving Cup" notwithstanding, I can in no way recommend "Shine a Light" and however inflated the Canadian dollar price of my IMAX ticket, I want it back.
Next day bought a vintage suit jacket (contemplated a German horse leather aviator coat from WWII but balked at the $700 tag) that Pat was jealous of and Mick said "You only got that 'cause it looks exactly like the coat I wore in the Gories."
My reply: "So?"
Quick drive up to Ottawa was particularly sunny. Club there was a complete shitfest, the backstage basement looking like something the most recalcitrant of crust punks would admit needed some cleaning. Had a tasty Asian meal down the street from the club.
Show was cool. The promoter threw all of the tickets for the night at us while we played in some faux-fetti fiasco. I believe the encore entailed me imploring the audience to dance like no one was watching them, a plea I would spruce up and use again at future shows. Ottawa also may have been my first use of "All the ugly people be quiet". Sometimes you just can't remember.
Next day in Toronto and buying rare rap records down the street from the Horseshoe Tavern. Stoltz band would play on CBC radio early that afternoon and he himself surprised me with a Hockey Night In Canada hooded sweatshirt that has become the instant envy of anyone who's seen it. I was chuffed.
The show was fine, again ending with a jam on "Miss You" with members of both bands taking part. As soon as we finished, we hurriedly packed up our gear and made the 4-hour drive straight back to Detroit. I dropped everyone else off first, stopped at Archer to pick up some test pressings and then collapsed in a heap.
Toledo and Ann Arbor didn't really feel like tour, but a trip to Tony Packo's and hitting up Underground Sounds on Record Store Day were choice. Pat got attacked by some drunken dude in Toledo and besides Frankie's looking exactly the way it did ten years ago, there's nothing else of merit to report from those days.
End of tour wrap party at New Seoul Gardens was delicious. There was created one collaborative picture sleeve for the Kelley Stoltz/Dirtbombs split single. Someday maybe someone will see it. A fun tour, marked by good meals, great shows, quixotic headaches and all kinds of in-between, it was a pleasure to share it all with a class-act like Kelley Stoltz and his equally as classy band. Good times.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
USA Part Six: We're Actually in Canada Now...
Show day with time to kill in New York is a nice luxury. I again meet with Kugelberg and we finalize the details on a blockbuster record trade the likes of which make me giddy. We dine at a pretty fantastic ramen place, the name of which escapes me. He also took me to Academy Records, the vinyl store, in Manhattan. He made a few sound suggestions (a Folkways LP with early Moondog recordings , another Folkways LP with music made by wild animals) and when he asked what would be good records to play for a grade school classroom, all I could muster was the first White Stripes album. And I still stick by that.
After check at Bowery I tramped up the street to Rockit Scientist, my favorite record store in NYC. John and Ramsey behind the counter absolutely revel in playing shit for you and don't mind taking their time for frank discussion about anything from baseball to bossa nova. I don't remember what I bought, but I always buy something as, after seven years of loyal help, they feel like family to me.
From there, a nice and relaxing meal was had around the corner at Freeman's. A slight step-up from my usual gourmandizing Subway fares, "they" call restaurants of this nature "New American" and despite my not really believing that, the taxidermy on the walls and the staff were all warm and welcoming.
Started with the Devil's on Horseback (bleu-cheese stuffed prunes wrapped in bacon), a dish I'd been hearing raved about from quite some time. I was impressed…just not bowled over. Paired with the artichoke dip and it was a substantial appetizer for my barbeque spare ribs served over a bed of cheese grits.
While I usually frown upon pre-show food consumption, this entire experience opened my mind to what could be accomplished in the time before taking the stage. The pace of it was what really won me over…for a bustling joint on a Friday night that, for the most part, doesn't take reservations (and immediately after the '04 elections, responded to the Bush twins query of "How long for a table?" with the delicious "About 4 years") I felt amazingly calm and at ease, even with a set time to make.
There was dessert too…rich and sugary of some sort. As a whole it was a tad expensive yes, but it made my day as meals so rarely do. And a particularly good meal on tour is a commodity no price can be affixed to…instead you offer yourself to the god of gourmet and sacrifice your wallet in ecstasy.
First of three band was Care Bears on Fire and pending a show with Smoosh, we may be the adult band that's played with the most "kid" bands now. They were cute and fun and had parents that seemed like they were possibly a tad overbearing. But hey, maybe that's what you need to be when you're bringing your kids to hang out in bars while in junior high.
Our set was nothing spectacular. We showed up, we played our songs as we've come to play them and the response was appropriate. Nothing spectacular and far from a let-down, it was more just the accomplishment of our first show on the island of Manhattan in almost two years coming off without a hitch. The room was sold out and that was enough for me.
Pulling into Boston and as we drive past Cheapo Records I see Peter Wolf (J. Geils Band) exiting. I immediately called my mom, as she's the biggest J. Geils fan I know and played 20 questions with her about who I'd seen. For some reason she couldn't get off an Aerosmith tangent and I think she only figured it out after I gave some god-awful clue like "the band rhymes with 'lay liles.'" Even when she did get it, she seemed fairly unimpressed and I told her that's the last time I spot band members from semi-memorable bands of yesteryear for her.
But then she got on to talking about Electrifyin' Mojo made "Flamethrower" a hit in Detroit even though it was a single…and maybe something about how some of his listeners had thought J. Geils was a black band. I live for stories about Mojo…like Mike Banks in Underground Resistance cover story of THE WIRE recently saying something along the lines of
I'm also hoping big-time someone reading here can throw me a line on how to see the Electrifyin' Mojo documentary. Any help? Anyone?
Our good deed of the night was sneaking an underage girl in the back door and then hiding her in the band dressing room for the rest of the night until we played. I think at some point she even gave Ko a haircut, so we at least put her to work.
Show was solid (nice VU mallet beat throughout "Surrounded), best moment was our encore of "Kung Fu" called as an audible. During the freaky part in the middle I climbed atop Pat's bass drum and began banging on his rack tom. This would be the first time I made such a move and needless to say I dug on it hardcore and would jump at the chance whenever the opportunity arose in the future.
From there we welcomed the wicked border crossing for our frosty northern neighbors, Canada. When we arrived Man Man was sitting there waiting for their paperwork rigamarole "let's see how long we can make these weirdos sit here before one of them freaks out and then conduct body cavity searches on the whole lot" stunt. Dorien knew their tour manager, so they engaged in small talk, but the bands themselves shared nary a word.
Not long after they were on their way the Kelley Stoltz band arrived at the same crossing. Even though they showed up AFTER we did, they got out of there BEFORE us, most likely due to the fact they were carrying no merchandise with them and had no tariff/duties/customs bullshit fees to pay (whereas we did…all $87 of it).
So after they leave ANOTHER FUCKING BAND walks in the passport control building. Was this some kind of joke? It was killing me not knowing who they were and the fact that they looked hip was only exacerbating my mindset even more. I had to approach.
I'm pissed I didn't say the line I'd been toying with (suggested by Troy?) which was "Don't I know you from Pitchfork?" and instead probably just said something terribly monosyllabic like "What band you?" When they said they were Yeasayer, I was even more pissed…if only because they're totally always on Pitchfork. I told them what my initial intro line was going to be and they all agreed it would've been much, much funnier. Next time…
Cabaret Music Hall in Montreal is a nice club to play. Our set times got pushed back because the Habs had a playoff game and I'd like to blame the less-than-stellar turnout on the fact that those pansies lost.
It seems at this point in touring that our encores are really what keep everything fun and flowing. It's not that I don't dig the main set, but I've come to start thinking that the set is for the fans and the encore has become for the band. It's where we can explore ourselves out, try some different things, spread our metaphorical wings…our encore is where we can just BE.
So on this night many things would happen and I'd be a mystic if I could both remember them all and their order, so please forgive my usual chronological accuracy at this moment and just enjoy.
Before playing any songs, I said "Habitants, quel dommage" in response to the Canadiens losing earlier in the evening.
We played the Rolling Stones' "Miss You" with most (if not all) of the Kelley Stoltz band joining us in some form or another.
I carried my snare drum, kick drum, ride cymbal and drum throne off the stage down into the crowd and began playing while completely surrounded by the fans. I believe the song was "Granny's Little Chicken"
I had a microphone and partook in some playful banter with the crowd. I can remember being particularly fixated on the Arcade Fire, busting out with "My grandpa died too…get over it." I may also have dropped "All the ugly people be quiet" into the mix
I abdicated my drums (only to have the seat taken up by a revolving door of "I can do that's" kicking around) and climbed a speaker stack up to the balcony. I then began throwing wooden chairs off the balcony onto the stage. About four in total. One snapped in half. The promoter joked about charging us for it later, but he seemed so into it he said he couldn't charge us after such a great performance. He said the gig was so good it'd be written up in the weeklies. I don't think it was.
My drums ended a mess…in the process of tossing them in the air, (probably) putting them on my head, taking them into the crowd, headstanding on them and whatever else I managed to lose my last remaining mallet from my Euro tour with Stoltz in '06. That felt bittersweet, as a lone mallet was a small sacrifice for what was, in my mind, easily the best show of the tour.
After check at Bowery I tramped up the street to Rockit Scientist, my favorite record store in NYC. John and Ramsey behind the counter absolutely revel in playing shit for you and don't mind taking their time for frank discussion about anything from baseball to bossa nova. I don't remember what I bought, but I always buy something as, after seven years of loyal help, they feel like family to me.
From there, a nice and relaxing meal was had around the corner at Freeman's. A slight step-up from my usual gourmandizing Subway fares, "they" call restaurants of this nature "New American" and despite my not really believing that, the taxidermy on the walls and the staff were all warm and welcoming.
Started with the Devil's on Horseback (bleu-cheese stuffed prunes wrapped in bacon), a dish I'd been hearing raved about from quite some time. I was impressed…just not bowled over. Paired with the artichoke dip and it was a substantial appetizer for my barbeque spare ribs served over a bed of cheese grits.
While I usually frown upon pre-show food consumption, this entire experience opened my mind to what could be accomplished in the time before taking the stage. The pace of it was what really won me over…for a bustling joint on a Friday night that, for the most part, doesn't take reservations (and immediately after the '04 elections, responded to the Bush twins query of "How long for a table?" with the delicious "About 4 years") I felt amazingly calm and at ease, even with a set time to make.
There was dessert too…rich and sugary of some sort. As a whole it was a tad expensive yes, but it made my day as meals so rarely do. And a particularly good meal on tour is a commodity no price can be affixed to…instead you offer yourself to the god of gourmet and sacrifice your wallet in ecstasy.
First of three band was Care Bears on Fire and pending a show with Smoosh, we may be the adult band that's played with the most "kid" bands now. They were cute and fun and had parents that seemed like they were possibly a tad overbearing. But hey, maybe that's what you need to be when you're bringing your kids to hang out in bars while in junior high.
Our set was nothing spectacular. We showed up, we played our songs as we've come to play them and the response was appropriate. Nothing spectacular and far from a let-down, it was more just the accomplishment of our first show on the island of Manhattan in almost two years coming off without a hitch. The room was sold out and that was enough for me.
Pulling into Boston and as we drive past Cheapo Records I see Peter Wolf (J. Geils Band) exiting. I immediately called my mom, as she's the biggest J. Geils fan I know and played 20 questions with her about who I'd seen. For some reason she couldn't get off an Aerosmith tangent and I think she only figured it out after I gave some god-awful clue like "the band rhymes with 'lay liles.'" Even when she did get it, she seemed fairly unimpressed and I told her that's the last time I spot band members from semi-memorable bands of yesteryear for her.
But then she got on to talking about Electrifyin' Mojo made "Flamethrower" a hit in Detroit even though it was a single…and maybe something about how some of his listeners had thought J. Geils was a black band. I live for stories about Mojo…like Mike Banks in Underground Resistance cover story of THE WIRE recently saying something along the lines of
"He saved a lot of lives back in '82…gang violence was at its worst that year and he'd get on the air and say 'hey, let's be cool out there' and then drop 'Rock Lobster' and you can't be killing people while you're doing the rock lobster"
I'm also hoping big-time someone reading here can throw me a line on how to see the Electrifyin' Mojo documentary. Any help? Anyone?
Our good deed of the night was sneaking an underage girl in the back door and then hiding her in the band dressing room for the rest of the night until we played. I think at some point she even gave Ko a haircut, so we at least put her to work.
Show was solid (nice VU mallet beat throughout "Surrounded), best moment was our encore of "Kung Fu" called as an audible. During the freaky part in the middle I climbed atop Pat's bass drum and began banging on his rack tom. This would be the first time I made such a move and needless to say I dug on it hardcore and would jump at the chance whenever the opportunity arose in the future.
From there we welcomed the wicked border crossing for our frosty northern neighbors, Canada. When we arrived Man Man was sitting there waiting for their paperwork rigamarole "let's see how long we can make these weirdos sit here before one of them freaks out and then conduct body cavity searches on the whole lot" stunt. Dorien knew their tour manager, so they engaged in small talk, but the bands themselves shared nary a word.
Not long after they were on their way the Kelley Stoltz band arrived at the same crossing. Even though they showed up AFTER we did, they got out of there BEFORE us, most likely due to the fact they were carrying no merchandise with them and had no tariff/duties/customs bullshit fees to pay (whereas we did…all $87 of it).
So after they leave ANOTHER FUCKING BAND walks in the passport control building. Was this some kind of joke? It was killing me not knowing who they were and the fact that they looked hip was only exacerbating my mindset even more. I had to approach.
I'm pissed I didn't say the line I'd been toying with (suggested by Troy?) which was "Don't I know you from Pitchfork?" and instead probably just said something terribly monosyllabic like "What band you?" When they said they were Yeasayer, I was even more pissed…if only because they're totally always on Pitchfork. I told them what my initial intro line was going to be and they all agreed it would've been much, much funnier. Next time…
Cabaret Music Hall in Montreal is a nice club to play. Our set times got pushed back because the Habs had a playoff game and I'd like to blame the less-than-stellar turnout on the fact that those pansies lost.
It seems at this point in touring that our encores are really what keep everything fun and flowing. It's not that I don't dig the main set, but I've come to start thinking that the set is for the fans and the encore has become for the band. It's where we can explore ourselves out, try some different things, spread our metaphorical wings…our encore is where we can just BE.
So on this night many things would happen and I'd be a mystic if I could both remember them all and their order, so please forgive my usual chronological accuracy at this moment and just enjoy.
Before playing any songs, I said "Habitants, quel dommage" in response to the Canadiens losing earlier in the evening.
We played the Rolling Stones' "Miss You" with most (if not all) of the Kelley Stoltz band joining us in some form or another.
I carried my snare drum, kick drum, ride cymbal and drum throne off the stage down into the crowd and began playing while completely surrounded by the fans. I believe the song was "Granny's Little Chicken"
I had a microphone and partook in some playful banter with the crowd. I can remember being particularly fixated on the Arcade Fire, busting out with "My grandpa died too…get over it." I may also have dropped "All the ugly people be quiet" into the mix
I abdicated my drums (only to have the seat taken up by a revolving door of "I can do that's" kicking around) and climbed a speaker stack up to the balcony. I then began throwing wooden chairs off the balcony onto the stage. About four in total. One snapped in half. The promoter joked about charging us for it later, but he seemed so into it he said he couldn't charge us after such a great performance. He said the gig was so good it'd be written up in the weeklies. I don't think it was.
My drums ended a mess…in the process of tossing them in the air, (probably) putting them on my head, taking them into the crowd, headstanding on them and whatever else I managed to lose my last remaining mallet from my Euro tour with Stoltz in '06. That felt bittersweet, as a lone mallet was a small sacrifice for what was, in my mind, easily the best show of the tour.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
USA Part Five: Whatever...
Maxwell's feels like home, albeit it one you can never park within 15 blocks of.
Hoboken is all so familiar that the fact we always have to search the darkest recesses of the city for a parking spot befitting a 15-passenger while in be it biting cold, suffocating heat, Jersey stench or just plain annoyance, has become somewhat a calming experience.
We rocked the party. I put all of the Stooges Funhouse on the jukebox as I sat down for dinner, but was bummed to find out that, although I'd programmed the songs in order, the beast itself took the liberty of scattering the songs throughout the span of my selections.
What kind of bullshit is that? It's like that completely fucked option on those ultimately lame satellite jukeboxes where, for an extra credit, you can have your song played immediately.
Now I know the world we live in is unfair and that those with gross amounts of money are usually quick to remind us of it. But the jukebox! The last bastion of public audio programming is now selling out for a quick credit? Whereas before the entire process was democratized, to hear my super-savvy obscurest garage jams, you had to be tempered under the spiteful honk of an Elton John medley. It made it all that much more worth it.
Just like everything else, the ad wizards have found an ever-so-small kink to cater to those with a nickel to spare while those of us still clinging to our jukebox ethics are freezing out in the cold.
The Datsuns showed up for the gig as they were spending some time in NYC. The room was fairly full, not jam-packed sold-out like other times, but it was a Sunday after all. I assume we played well and the crowd enjoyed it. I'm not writing this shit in real-time, so some details get lost after awhile.
The next day I spent with Johan Kugelberg. Smart, divisive and a record collector of the utmost caliber, he opened my eyes to a cornucopia of delights the likes of which I am not able to fully divulge on this here transmission. But a few things I dug:
-STREET AND GANGLAND RHYTHMS, BEATS AND IMPROVISATIONS BY SIX BOYS IN TROUBLE – Folkways
In a word…wow. There's no real reason something like this should exist and that's why I love it. Some have argued Folkways is the best record label of all-time and I'm coming up with nary a reason to try and disprove that. You can hear/see for yourself this particular title at
http://www.folkways.si.edu/search/AlbumDetails.aspx?ID=1069#
-original Back From the Grave promo poster
-picture sleeve for "All Tomorrow's Parties"
-a handful of songs off of Funhouse pressed onto one side of an LP intended for US Army radio airplay
The wise soul offered me much along the lines of opinion, touring advice (Spirolina) books he'd worked on (all oh-so delectable) and just general composure. We ate at Pizza by the Pound and it was glorious.
From there I walked to Other Music for the Dirtbombs instore performance. Load in was easy and we were able to stay parked in front of the store the entire time we were there. Nice.
I'd forgotten I'd broken my snare drum head the night before and the Other people were so helpful that they sent someone out to go grab me a new head. By the time the lights and cameras were set-up and they'd let the crowd pour in it was pretty exciting.
We played We Have You Surrounded in it's entirety, in order. I felt particularly energized (the "shit, we're only playing 45 minutes, let it all fly loose" vibe ringing in my head) and particular highlights were having the crowd so damn close to us, using the Buddha box on "Race to the Bottom" and getting my rack tom to hang upside-down from the ceiling and being able to play it that way.
Fucking fun times. I bought some shit there too…needing to take advantage of the 20% discount…the new Joe Carducci book, The Birth of Jazz by the Modey Lemon, the 1st Matador single by Jay Reatard, the 7" by Vivian Girls and some other shit I'm forgetting. The store even hooked me up with a free copy of the Breeders Mountain Battles that made my day.
Mick was interviewed on camera afterwards and I was delighted that the questioning was intelligent, informed and nothing like the other interviews he has to continuously do. I was left alone with the van, in charge of taking it back to Jersey City when I was hit with the weird vision spots (why do I think these are called fascia?) as a precursor to a headache.
I can say that driving a 15 passenger van alone through Manhattan in annoying rain at nighttime is not the best thing when your vision ain't 100% and it's even more aggravating when you're looking for signs for the Holland Tunnel. Every little light takes on a soft aura glow around it and where I'm used to 20/20 vision now more resembles an impressionist painting.
Next day foray to New Haven, CT was slightly fun. We picked half the band at Union Square and then made the hoof up to Third Unheard territory. The club (Café Nine) is beautifully tiny. We ate Italian carry-out, I ambled 'til I found a decent newsstand and bought the latest issue of Bad Idea and Stoltz hit his head on a precariously-placed ceiling nail, drawing blood.
I had a pre-show headache (I know, I know, I need to get this shit checked out) but once we were onstage everything felt magnificent. The head pain was gone, we were crammed up there like Mexicans in the back of a semi and the crowd couldn't have had more space than we did. It's moments like that where you feel the energy up in your throat. I did a headstand on my bass drum to end it all and in the process took Mick out with my legs.
I was a complete and total accident and I was thankful he wasn't hurt. Then I thought if I saw one of my favorite bands (shit, ANY band) where the drummer accidentally took out the lead singer because he was doing a headstand on a bass drum, I'd be really fucking impressed. So despite my inclusion in their ranks, I still think I'm the biggest Dirtbombs fan out there.
Spent the next day tramping around Jersey record stores with supreme collector Justin Frohwirth. He's largely responsible for upkeep on the staggeringly comprehensive punk discog at www.collectorscum.com
He was able to track down a copy of the first LP by the Fourth Movement and after talking for awhile (we got lost somewhere on the Garden State Parkway) we realized that I bought my copy of the Victims "No Thanks to the Human Turd" single off him at the WFMU Record Fair back in 2003.
He said the only reason he remembered me was because that he didn't know me, saying that it's rare to unload big ticket items like that to people you'd never met before. I think the price on the single was $200, which I gladly paid. I also picked up an X-X record. I liked that we'd "met" years before for nary a moment but both clearly remembered it.
A nice dinner in Jersey City was a mental relaxant.
Off to Philadelphia for some City of Brotherly Fuck You. I've never really had anything remotely resembling a good time there and wasn't ever really expecting to. The few record stores I hit were decent…the soul/dance/r&b shop filling me with copies of some choice early hip-hop comps as well as Freddy Fresh's Rap Records Book, Volume Two, all necessities in my current jag of early rap knowledge.
With tons and tons of shoe stores, I was still unable to find a pair of size 10 1/2 Nike Vintage Waffle Racers or Oregon Waffle Vintage in my desired color scheme of green and orange OR yellow and green. Any help from those reading here in searching down a pair would be greatly appreciated…the Nike Vintage site says all sold out, but I call bullshit, someone must have some somewhere.
Johnny Brenda's was nice and comfortable. Soundcheck and dinner afterwards were both supreme. I slept during Mondo Topless and most of the Stoltz set too. The crowd was into our jam and it got me into it big time. To end the set, I jumped off the stage, ran up the stairs into the balcony, climbed over the railing, traversed the lighting rig like a set of monkey bars, swung myself into motion and after almost losing my grip and falling 12-15 feet to the ground, gathered myself and landed on the stage, knocking the wind out of myself, but ultimately driving the crowd nuts.
I also did the drum on the head dance, sang parts of "We Fenced Other Houses With the Bones of Our Own", jumped into the crowd, had two glasses thrown at me (with one actually connecting) and overall pulled out all the stops to engage the audience while having fun myself. I think I clearly succeeded, just watch the video here…
Hoboken is all so familiar that the fact we always have to search the darkest recesses of the city for a parking spot befitting a 15-passenger while in be it biting cold, suffocating heat, Jersey stench or just plain annoyance, has become somewhat a calming experience.
We rocked the party. I put all of the Stooges Funhouse on the jukebox as I sat down for dinner, but was bummed to find out that, although I'd programmed the songs in order, the beast itself took the liberty of scattering the songs throughout the span of my selections.
What kind of bullshit is that? It's like that completely fucked option on those ultimately lame satellite jukeboxes where, for an extra credit, you can have your song played immediately.
Now I know the world we live in is unfair and that those with gross amounts of money are usually quick to remind us of it. But the jukebox! The last bastion of public audio programming is now selling out for a quick credit? Whereas before the entire process was democratized, to hear my super-savvy obscurest garage jams, you had to be tempered under the spiteful honk of an Elton John medley. It made it all that much more worth it.
Just like everything else, the ad wizards have found an ever-so-small kink to cater to those with a nickel to spare while those of us still clinging to our jukebox ethics are freezing out in the cold.
The Datsuns showed up for the gig as they were spending some time in NYC. The room was fairly full, not jam-packed sold-out like other times, but it was a Sunday after all. I assume we played well and the crowd enjoyed it. I'm not writing this shit in real-time, so some details get lost after awhile.
The next day I spent with Johan Kugelberg. Smart, divisive and a record collector of the utmost caliber, he opened my eyes to a cornucopia of delights the likes of which I am not able to fully divulge on this here transmission. But a few things I dug:
-STREET AND GANGLAND RHYTHMS, BEATS AND IMPROVISATIONS BY SIX BOYS IN TROUBLE – Folkways
In a word…wow. There's no real reason something like this should exist and that's why I love it. Some have argued Folkways is the best record label of all-time and I'm coming up with nary a reason to try and disprove that. You can hear/see for yourself this particular title at
http://www.folkways.si.edu/search/AlbumDetails.aspx?ID=1069#
-original Back From the Grave promo poster
-picture sleeve for "All Tomorrow's Parties"
-a handful of songs off of Funhouse pressed onto one side of an LP intended for US Army radio airplay
The wise soul offered me much along the lines of opinion, touring advice (Spirolina) books he'd worked on (all oh-so delectable) and just general composure. We ate at Pizza by the Pound and it was glorious.
From there I walked to Other Music for the Dirtbombs instore performance. Load in was easy and we were able to stay parked in front of the store the entire time we were there. Nice.
I'd forgotten I'd broken my snare drum head the night before and the Other people were so helpful that they sent someone out to go grab me a new head. By the time the lights and cameras were set-up and they'd let the crowd pour in it was pretty exciting.
We played We Have You Surrounded in it's entirety, in order. I felt particularly energized (the "shit, we're only playing 45 minutes, let it all fly loose" vibe ringing in my head) and particular highlights were having the crowd so damn close to us, using the Buddha box on "Race to the Bottom" and getting my rack tom to hang upside-down from the ceiling and being able to play it that way.
Fucking fun times. I bought some shit there too…needing to take advantage of the 20% discount…the new Joe Carducci book, The Birth of Jazz by the Modey Lemon, the 1st Matador single by Jay Reatard, the 7" by Vivian Girls and some other shit I'm forgetting. The store even hooked me up with a free copy of the Breeders Mountain Battles that made my day.
Mick was interviewed on camera afterwards and I was delighted that the questioning was intelligent, informed and nothing like the other interviews he has to continuously do. I was left alone with the van, in charge of taking it back to Jersey City when I was hit with the weird vision spots (why do I think these are called fascia?) as a precursor to a headache.
I can say that driving a 15 passenger van alone through Manhattan in annoying rain at nighttime is not the best thing when your vision ain't 100% and it's even more aggravating when you're looking for signs for the Holland Tunnel. Every little light takes on a soft aura glow around it and where I'm used to 20/20 vision now more resembles an impressionist painting.
Next day foray to New Haven, CT was slightly fun. We picked half the band at Union Square and then made the hoof up to Third Unheard territory. The club (Café Nine) is beautifully tiny. We ate Italian carry-out, I ambled 'til I found a decent newsstand and bought the latest issue of Bad Idea and Stoltz hit his head on a precariously-placed ceiling nail, drawing blood.
I had a pre-show headache (I know, I know, I need to get this shit checked out) but once we were onstage everything felt magnificent. The head pain was gone, we were crammed up there like Mexicans in the back of a semi and the crowd couldn't have had more space than we did. It's moments like that where you feel the energy up in your throat. I did a headstand on my bass drum to end it all and in the process took Mick out with my legs.
I was a complete and total accident and I was thankful he wasn't hurt. Then I thought if I saw one of my favorite bands (shit, ANY band) where the drummer accidentally took out the lead singer because he was doing a headstand on a bass drum, I'd be really fucking impressed. So despite my inclusion in their ranks, I still think I'm the biggest Dirtbombs fan out there.
Spent the next day tramping around Jersey record stores with supreme collector Justin Frohwirth. He's largely responsible for upkeep on the staggeringly comprehensive punk discog at www.collectorscum.com
He was able to track down a copy of the first LP by the Fourth Movement and after talking for awhile (we got lost somewhere on the Garden State Parkway) we realized that I bought my copy of the Victims "No Thanks to the Human Turd" single off him at the WFMU Record Fair back in 2003.
He said the only reason he remembered me was because that he didn't know me, saying that it's rare to unload big ticket items like that to people you'd never met before. I think the price on the single was $200, which I gladly paid. I also picked up an X-X record. I liked that we'd "met" years before for nary a moment but both clearly remembered it.
A nice dinner in Jersey City was a mental relaxant.
Off to Philadelphia for some City of Brotherly Fuck You. I've never really had anything remotely resembling a good time there and wasn't ever really expecting to. The few record stores I hit were decent…the soul/dance/r&b shop filling me with copies of some choice early hip-hop comps as well as Freddy Fresh's Rap Records Book, Volume Two, all necessities in my current jag of early rap knowledge.
With tons and tons of shoe stores, I was still unable to find a pair of size 10 1/2 Nike Vintage Waffle Racers or Oregon Waffle Vintage in my desired color scheme of green and orange OR yellow and green. Any help from those reading here in searching down a pair would be greatly appreciated…the Nike Vintage site says all sold out, but I call bullshit, someone must have some somewhere.
Johnny Brenda's was nice and comfortable. Soundcheck and dinner afterwards were both supreme. I slept during Mondo Topless and most of the Stoltz set too. The crowd was into our jam and it got me into it big time. To end the set, I jumped off the stage, ran up the stairs into the balcony, climbed over the railing, traversed the lighting rig like a set of monkey bars, swung myself into motion and after almost losing my grip and falling 12-15 feet to the ground, gathered myself and landed on the stage, knocking the wind out of myself, but ultimately driving the crowd nuts.
I also did the drum on the head dance, sang parts of "We Fenced Other Houses With the Bones of Our Own", jumped into the crowd, had two glasses thrown at me (with one actually connecting) and overall pulled out all the stops to engage the audience while having fun myself. I think I clearly succeeded, just watch the video here…
Sunday, May 25, 2008
USA Part Four: I Don't Want to Rhyme No More
We got into Atlanta early and spent time tramping around Little Five Points. I got the touring musician discount (20% off) at Criminal Records and took full advantage of said unpromoted promotion to purchase THE COMPLETE MOTOWN SINGLES VOL. 7 1967 at a relative steal.
From there I cleaned out some 7"s with potential from Wax'n'Fact's dollar bin. Two totally ghetto girls asked for the new Editors record and caught me off-guard. I hit up the vintage clothing stores nearby, but had no luck.
I was unpleased with my meal at the Earl before soundcheck. Met up with Henry Owings from Chunklet and went with him to some Mexican place. In front of us in line was some sort of radio promotions team. One of them handed Henry and I each a $5 bill and a pocket calendar for whatever station they were shilling. Hen thought it was a put-on…that the bill was fake and had some Bible quote on it. But no, shit was the real deal. When the girl handed us the dough, she said "(whatever radio station) would like to contribute $5 to your meal today" and that messed me up, because I'd already eaten and wasn't planning on ordering anything.
So do I give the money back because I'm not eating? Do I order something anyways and save it for later? Do I literally pass the buck to the dude behind me in line (to whom the promotions girl apologized for not having money for) because he's obviously hungry? I quickly figured a compromise and ordered a large lemonade. I made money on the deal in the end, which was nice.
I missed Thee Crucials, but can't remember if it was because I was asleep or something else. I can't remember Kelley either.
Our set was pretty damned fun. I did the mic in the mouth thing and started faux-rapping about Rob's House Records, the pre-eminent Atlanta 7" imprint. Then I just started screaming my balls out, pulling air from every last recess of my lungs to bellow and shriek into the microphone. I rolled around on the floor of the club until my hair ended up underneath someone's boot, leaving me physically unable to move anywhere else.
Amidst our Japanese-like end-of-the-show noise jam, I breathed a nugget of genius to the crowd that may just be the title of our next singles comp. I said "We can do this for a lot longer than you can deal with it." And although we didn't totally clear the room, we sent A LOT of motherfuckers for the door. There's something oddly satisfying about doing that.
I guess it seems like anything can pass for entertainment or music nowadays, so as to do something so strong or vile or annoying enough to make people who PAID for entry to leave the room of their own volition is a remarkable feat. I cherish it.
Not long after finishing a rewarding conversation with Trey of Rob's House Records (a label I can wholeheartedly endorse is worth picking up any of their releases indiscriminately), I picked up the blurry vision/seeing spots warning and prepared for a headache that would prove to be the second most painful one I'd experienced in my lifetime, just behind the migraine I got in second grade after the bowling league Xmas party where I was in so much pain I actually vomited.
There would be no vomit this time, just massive nausea that felt like it could lead to hurling at any minute. Also, we were driving two hours outside of town to a hotel that would shave that much time off the next day's drive, so I was left to try and remain motionless in our van in the wee hours of the morning trying to trick my brain into interpreting the pain as pleasure. Too bad that's some Dr. Spock shit that I ain't got a hold on yet.
We arrived at the hotel and Pat noticed the van was overheating. I went straight to our room, almost threw-up, then crashed to sleep big time, as the only thing that cures these tortuous headaches is some snoozing. The marquee pain had subsided by the time I awoke, but the rest of the day my head still hurt, as if it had been strained by the amount of pure pain exerted on it the previous night…yes, my headache was so strong that it had aftershocks.
So Pat woke up early to get the radiator hose fixed as a remedy to the overheating. A bunch of repair shop bullshit rigamarole went down and we were all left waiting hours (he at the shop, us still at the hotel) for a fix that should have taken next-to no time. Such is the touring life.
We got to Chapel Hill and soundchecked. Afterwards I walked in the rain to a used bookstore where I bought To Be Loved (Berry Gordy's autobiography), Berry, Motown and Me (Berry's ex-wife's autobio) and Hitmen the essential text exposing the music biz of yore for all their shady wheelings and dealings. Good scores.
Around the corner for burritos and art from vending machines. Good conversation about mail art and Ray Johnson at the club as my thoughts on how we played now seem lost to the ages.
Long-ass drive the next day to Baltimore the salty whore. All the drives tend to blend together at this point, but we got stuck in sick gridlock for two hours headed into downtown. From what I could see there was an Orioles game, a Duran Duran concert, some NCAA get-together (women's basketball finals?) and, of course, a Dirtbombs show.
We rolled into the Sonar right before doors opened, weary as hell and excited to stretch our legs. It was Ko's birthday and she was excited for it to be in the land of The Wire. Someone had their distro/traveling record store set-up so I bought some 7"s as a force of habit, some retail therapy to cope with the leftover dread of the bumper-humping traffic.
So for "Underdog" the guy's in Kelley's band put on sock puppets and stood in front of Ko and had the puppets join her for the "yeah yeah" response. She wasn't expecting it and it was nice and funny. Then our tour manager Dorien brought her a birthday cake onstage. I think Ko had a good birthday and that's a hard thing to pull off on tour.
The show was live. We hadn't played Baltimore since 2003 and even then it seemed whatever. But five years absence had uncovered some unknown dormant excitable kids who just danced their nuts off. It was so refreshing to see. Rolling Stone recently named Baltimore the best scene in the country and if the handful of freaks who showed up at our gig were any indication, I'd have to concur with Wenner's winners.
We drove after the show through to Washington DC to take full advantage of a Saturday afternoon spent there. I had hopes of going to the National Archives and checking out the veritable attic of the United States. Was bummed when I woke up in the morning to see that the Archives were closed for renovation until September and that a "best-of" their collection was available for viewing at the Air and Space museum.
The only thing I can hate more than viewing a tiny smidgen of the vast collection and resources of our country's National Archives would be seeing them alongside the fart of history in a building boring me with planes hanging from the ceiling like some Air Force-crazed 15-year-old boy with an endless supply of scale models and fishing line.
None of the other 82 museums in town floated my boat, so instead I just roamed around the area of the hotel. I called Svenonius and he directed me to some decent record stores, and as tempted as I was to flesh out my go-go collection, I failed to purchase anything.
I did, however, like the vibe of Dupont Circle, especially the people handing out the anti-Scientologist pamphleture with their faces covered for anonymity. There was the bustling 24-hour bookstore that I dug.
The show in DC was wild. I seem to remember DC being the town where I put TWO drums on my head…first my rack tom and then my floor tom over that, all while continuing to play. From there, more yelling and screaming into the mic and then moving my drums across the stage (while the band is sill playing, mind you) to set up my bass drum flush against Patrick's so that we were playing while facing each other. Grabbed Mick's guitar and started Thurston-ing out, shoving a drum stick under the strings and making all kinds of holy racket to rock out.
I ended with a headstand on Pat's bass drum and while trying to land with my legs straddling his head, took the dude out and gave both of us reason to walk off stage.
Shit was fun and it was best put by a fan who'd seen both the Baltimore and DC shows "Last night I saw one of the best rock and roll shows of my life and tonight I saw THE best rock and roll show of my life."
From there I cleaned out some 7"s with potential from Wax'n'Fact's dollar bin. Two totally ghetto girls asked for the new Editors record and caught me off-guard. I hit up the vintage clothing stores nearby, but had no luck.
I was unpleased with my meal at the Earl before soundcheck. Met up with Henry Owings from Chunklet and went with him to some Mexican place. In front of us in line was some sort of radio promotions team. One of them handed Henry and I each a $5 bill and a pocket calendar for whatever station they were shilling. Hen thought it was a put-on…that the bill was fake and had some Bible quote on it. But no, shit was the real deal. When the girl handed us the dough, she said "(whatever radio station) would like to contribute $5 to your meal today" and that messed me up, because I'd already eaten and wasn't planning on ordering anything.
So do I give the money back because I'm not eating? Do I order something anyways and save it for later? Do I literally pass the buck to the dude behind me in line (to whom the promotions girl apologized for not having money for) because he's obviously hungry? I quickly figured a compromise and ordered a large lemonade. I made money on the deal in the end, which was nice.
I missed Thee Crucials, but can't remember if it was because I was asleep or something else. I can't remember Kelley either.
Our set was pretty damned fun. I did the mic in the mouth thing and started faux-rapping about Rob's House Records, the pre-eminent Atlanta 7" imprint. Then I just started screaming my balls out, pulling air from every last recess of my lungs to bellow and shriek into the microphone. I rolled around on the floor of the club until my hair ended up underneath someone's boot, leaving me physically unable to move anywhere else.
Amidst our Japanese-like end-of-the-show noise jam, I breathed a nugget of genius to the crowd that may just be the title of our next singles comp. I said "We can do this for a lot longer than you can deal with it." And although we didn't totally clear the room, we sent A LOT of motherfuckers for the door. There's something oddly satisfying about doing that.
I guess it seems like anything can pass for entertainment or music nowadays, so as to do something so strong or vile or annoying enough to make people who PAID for entry to leave the room of their own volition is a remarkable feat. I cherish it.
Not long after finishing a rewarding conversation with Trey of Rob's House Records (a label I can wholeheartedly endorse is worth picking up any of their releases indiscriminately), I picked up the blurry vision/seeing spots warning and prepared for a headache that would prove to be the second most painful one I'd experienced in my lifetime, just behind the migraine I got in second grade after the bowling league Xmas party where I was in so much pain I actually vomited.
There would be no vomit this time, just massive nausea that felt like it could lead to hurling at any minute. Also, we were driving two hours outside of town to a hotel that would shave that much time off the next day's drive, so I was left to try and remain motionless in our van in the wee hours of the morning trying to trick my brain into interpreting the pain as pleasure. Too bad that's some Dr. Spock shit that I ain't got a hold on yet.
We arrived at the hotel and Pat noticed the van was overheating. I went straight to our room, almost threw-up, then crashed to sleep big time, as the only thing that cures these tortuous headaches is some snoozing. The marquee pain had subsided by the time I awoke, but the rest of the day my head still hurt, as if it had been strained by the amount of pure pain exerted on it the previous night…yes, my headache was so strong that it had aftershocks.
So Pat woke up early to get the radiator hose fixed as a remedy to the overheating. A bunch of repair shop bullshit rigamarole went down and we were all left waiting hours (he at the shop, us still at the hotel) for a fix that should have taken next-to no time. Such is the touring life.
We got to Chapel Hill and soundchecked. Afterwards I walked in the rain to a used bookstore where I bought To Be Loved (Berry Gordy's autobiography), Berry, Motown and Me (Berry's ex-wife's autobio) and Hitmen the essential text exposing the music biz of yore for all their shady wheelings and dealings. Good scores.
Around the corner for burritos and art from vending machines. Good conversation about mail art and Ray Johnson at the club as my thoughts on how we played now seem lost to the ages.
Long-ass drive the next day to Baltimore the salty whore. All the drives tend to blend together at this point, but we got stuck in sick gridlock for two hours headed into downtown. From what I could see there was an Orioles game, a Duran Duran concert, some NCAA get-together (women's basketball finals?) and, of course, a Dirtbombs show.
We rolled into the Sonar right before doors opened, weary as hell and excited to stretch our legs. It was Ko's birthday and she was excited for it to be in the land of The Wire. Someone had their distro/traveling record store set-up so I bought some 7"s as a force of habit, some retail therapy to cope with the leftover dread of the bumper-humping traffic.
So for "Underdog" the guy's in Kelley's band put on sock puppets and stood in front of Ko and had the puppets join her for the "yeah yeah" response. She wasn't expecting it and it was nice and funny. Then our tour manager Dorien brought her a birthday cake onstage. I think Ko had a good birthday and that's a hard thing to pull off on tour.
The show was live. We hadn't played Baltimore since 2003 and even then it seemed whatever. But five years absence had uncovered some unknown dormant excitable kids who just danced their nuts off. It was so refreshing to see. Rolling Stone recently named Baltimore the best scene in the country and if the handful of freaks who showed up at our gig were any indication, I'd have to concur with Wenner's winners.
We drove after the show through to Washington DC to take full advantage of a Saturday afternoon spent there. I had hopes of going to the National Archives and checking out the veritable attic of the United States. Was bummed when I woke up in the morning to see that the Archives were closed for renovation until September and that a "best-of" their collection was available for viewing at the Air and Space museum.
The only thing I can hate more than viewing a tiny smidgen of the vast collection and resources of our country's National Archives would be seeing them alongside the fart of history in a building boring me with planes hanging from the ceiling like some Air Force-crazed 15-year-old boy with an endless supply of scale models and fishing line.
None of the other 82 museums in town floated my boat, so instead I just roamed around the area of the hotel. I called Svenonius and he directed me to some decent record stores, and as tempted as I was to flesh out my go-go collection, I failed to purchase anything.
I did, however, like the vibe of Dupont Circle, especially the people handing out the anti-Scientologist pamphleture with their faces covered for anonymity. There was the bustling 24-hour bookstore that I dug.
The show in DC was wild. I seem to remember DC being the town where I put TWO drums on my head…first my rack tom and then my floor tom over that, all while continuing to play. From there, more yelling and screaming into the mic and then moving my drums across the stage (while the band is sill playing, mind you) to set up my bass drum flush against Patrick's so that we were playing while facing each other. Grabbed Mick's guitar and started Thurston-ing out, shoving a drum stick under the strings and making all kinds of holy racket to rock out.
I ended with a headstand on Pat's bass drum and while trying to land with my legs straddling his head, took the dude out and gave both of us reason to walk off stage.
Shit was fun and it was best put by a fan who'd seen both the Baltimore and DC shows "Last night I saw one of the best rock and roll shows of my life and tonight I saw THE best rock and roll show of my life."
Monday, May 19, 2008
USA Part Three: Won't You Take a Walk With Me?
After New Orleans was a daylong day-off drive to Asheville. Sunday brunch was at Ruby Tuesday's and we feasted like kings. I indulged in the bottomless blackberry lemonade and engorged on the ribs and steak twofer. For some reason Troy didn't want Ruby Tuesday's, so he walked over to Waffle House and ate there by himself.
The drive was punctuated by short stolen bursts of sleep. Without a stereo in the van I've been pissed that I haven't brought any solid reading material, instead making do with issues of Vanity Fair and Radar and, if in a real pinch, the trashy bullshit celeb gossip rags that seem to multiply like Gremlins in our van.
Day in Asheville was spent ambling around those hippie streets. Breakfast with Mick and Pat at a nice little café where we see a guy wearing a white cloth jacket with the beginnings of a patch avalanche. As my chest pocket is filled with Cass Records logo patches for just such an occasion, I say "My man!" across the room (and let it be known, I have never used the phrase "My man!" before in my life and I have accepted the fact that I now sound like a floor salesperson at Guitar Center), say that he looks like the kind of guy who likes patches and then slap one of those 3" blue suckers in his hand. He seemed appreciative. I was glad that I had an interesting idea and instead of letting a weird nervousness block that just going up to the person, being cordial and realizing everything can work out just fine.
There were a couple of record stores I didn't buy anything at. Was tempted by a Mt. Tai 7" somewhere and can't believe that even with its Poopy Time connections that I decided not to buy it. Stupid.
There was a shitload of vintage clothing stores that were all worth my time. At Hip Replacement I bought two pair of Levi's 517's and an exemplary specimen of navy blue Sta-Prest pants as well. Throw in two pair of psychedelic tights for Malissa and I'm out of there $120 poorer. But those jeans will last me nice and long and you'd be hard-pressed to buy a lesser-quality, not-as-cool pair of NEW Levi's for $32 a pair.
Years ago I simplified my life and decided to only wear Levi's jeans. It was a process of weeding out one pair of Lee and two Old Navy that are now used for the rare painting excursion. I am in love with the fact that Levi's invented blue jeans. I love the history of the company, the evolution of their style and the perfection achieved with the 60's and 70's 517's (boot-cut) and 646's (bell-bottoms).
So when we tour, I stuff my Tumi with as many pairs of those denim demons as will feasibly fit. I seem to remember a looooong European tour a few years back where I brought at least 16 pairs of jeans with me. Yes…I own an insane amount of jeans. I'm of the mindset of "Let's not do laundry" on tour and the best way to achieve that is BULK! BULK! BULK! Naturally my t-shirt stockpile is impressive as are my underwear and sock reserves. I am nothing if not thorough and exact in my distaste of doing laundry on tour.
What I've also achieved by only wearing Levi's is a sense of regularity. I know that my cell phone will always be in my front left pocket. There's never the urgent sense of searching where the hell that "Conquest" ringtone is coming from. Plus, the initial Levi's jeans exclusivity have crossed over to corduroys and Sta-Prest in that there's nary an occasion (with the sometime exception of a wedding/funeral where I can't fake it with Sta-Prest) I will not have a Levi's tab on my right asscheek. I know I will always have a minimum of four pockets, if I'm lucky to get the fifth there'll certainly be a drum key stuffed in there.
I guess what I'm saying is that I love Levi's (shit, we haven't even gotten into the perfection of the six-pocket jean jacket design) and if you happen to stumble upon any 36x32's or (really need this one here) a size 42 black Sta-Prest suit coat, well, I want 'em.
The club in Asheville, the Orange Peel, was laughably too big. But seeing as they offered the big bucks to bring us there we weren't going to complain. Greg Cartwright showed up with his wife and daughter for soundcheck completing our Oblivians sightings trifecta for the tour (with the rare Quintron bonus!) and after knocking around a bit we cracked next door for some banging burritos.
Mostly slept backstage before the show. Saw a Muldoons tattoo that was pretty unexpected. We performed perfunctory.
Next day we drove to Birmingham. Now I'd heard lots about how cool the Bottle Tree is and every bone in my body wanted to prove it wrong. But the cynic inside is silenced. The Bottletree is easily the best rock club in the nation and (quite possibly) the world.
With seasoned skinsman Brian Teasley (Man…or Astroman?, Polyphonic Spree, Vue) as the driving force behind the venue ably aided by a veritable platoon of proud employees from soundman down to cook, the place is, considering its location in the lifeless wasteland of Alabama, a true-to-life oasis.
Backstage comfort is second to none. A plethora of time-killers are just screaming for you to mess with them…current magazines you'd actually want to read (and Spin too), interesting books (The History of Porn), massage chairs, bowls of candy, a tub filled with all kinds of great sports equipment (Nerf balls galore) and even an Airstream trailer with beds a'beckoning and a TV/DVD set-up with a sweet selection of rock-centric programming (I suggest WORLD'S BEST DRUM SOLOS VOL. 2).
While all the above-mentioned would certainly be enough to win my hardened rock and roll heart, I must specifically mention how fucking cool and courteous the staff at the Bottletree is. I felt a strong sense of mutual respect…they were there to make the show go as smoothly as possible and I was there to put on the best possible show I could. So with oh-so-succulent food (Jerk Grilled Pork Tenderloin) and a staffer who's only job it seemed was to make sure everything was cool for us, I am hard-pressed to come up with anything that even remotely resembles a complaint about the Bottle Tree.
And as it should work, we played a pretty damn solid show. I was actually somewhat nervous performing with Teasley in the room. As much as he's played, I'd figured he was jaded beyond belief and certainly his scribblings in Chunklet would make you think so. But when he came up to me after the show and said he'd never seen someone do a headstand on a bass drum before, it genuinely made my day.
Coming from a dude who's played thousands of shows the world over, it got me to thinking that if HE hadn't seen anyone else do it, maybe no one else HAS done it. This would, in most other circumstances, but no issue at all as I do things all the time I assume no one else has before (eg, ordering a cheeseburger, cheese curds, mini-corndogs at A&W today) but can't imagine that anyone really cares.
But as a music writer and one with a tendency to look for ultimates and firsts, I can't stress how hard it actually is to do something completely original behind a drum set. People just been playing the things for far too long…you can't set 'em on fire, throw 'em up against the wall, play 'em upside down or underwater without being reminded of those who did it first and (most often) better.
So it is here, my faithful readers, that I look to you to help me find any evidence of ANYONE else ever doing a headstand on a bass drum. I know the exact date I performed my first one (and if you do some digging, you can find it buried around here) and we will consider that the starting point until anyone proves otherwise.
But seriously, the Bottle Tree is unparalleled. A club run by a guy who's done his time touring is a club done right. While I never imagined I'd ever have a reason to say it, I truly cannot wait until the next time we get to Birmingham, and more importantly, the next time we get to play the Bottle Tree.
The drive was punctuated by short stolen bursts of sleep. Without a stereo in the van I've been pissed that I haven't brought any solid reading material, instead making do with issues of Vanity Fair and Radar and, if in a real pinch, the trashy bullshit celeb gossip rags that seem to multiply like Gremlins in our van.
Day in Asheville was spent ambling around those hippie streets. Breakfast with Mick and Pat at a nice little café where we see a guy wearing a white cloth jacket with the beginnings of a patch avalanche. As my chest pocket is filled with Cass Records logo patches for just such an occasion, I say "My man!" across the room (and let it be known, I have never used the phrase "My man!" before in my life and I have accepted the fact that I now sound like a floor salesperson at Guitar Center), say that he looks like the kind of guy who likes patches and then slap one of those 3" blue suckers in his hand. He seemed appreciative. I was glad that I had an interesting idea and instead of letting a weird nervousness block that just going up to the person, being cordial and realizing everything can work out just fine.
There were a couple of record stores I didn't buy anything at. Was tempted by a Mt. Tai 7" somewhere and can't believe that even with its Poopy Time connections that I decided not to buy it. Stupid.
There was a shitload of vintage clothing stores that were all worth my time. At Hip Replacement I bought two pair of Levi's 517's and an exemplary specimen of navy blue Sta-Prest pants as well. Throw in two pair of psychedelic tights for Malissa and I'm out of there $120 poorer. But those jeans will last me nice and long and you'd be hard-pressed to buy a lesser-quality, not-as-cool pair of NEW Levi's for $32 a pair.
Years ago I simplified my life and decided to only wear Levi's jeans. It was a process of weeding out one pair of Lee and two Old Navy that are now used for the rare painting excursion. I am in love with the fact that Levi's invented blue jeans. I love the history of the company, the evolution of their style and the perfection achieved with the 60's and 70's 517's (boot-cut) and 646's (bell-bottoms).
So when we tour, I stuff my Tumi with as many pairs of those denim demons as will feasibly fit. I seem to remember a looooong European tour a few years back where I brought at least 16 pairs of jeans with me. Yes…I own an insane amount of jeans. I'm of the mindset of "Let's not do laundry" on tour and the best way to achieve that is BULK! BULK! BULK! Naturally my t-shirt stockpile is impressive as are my underwear and sock reserves. I am nothing if not thorough and exact in my distaste of doing laundry on tour.
What I've also achieved by only wearing Levi's is a sense of regularity. I know that my cell phone will always be in my front left pocket. There's never the urgent sense of searching where the hell that "Conquest" ringtone is coming from. Plus, the initial Levi's jeans exclusivity have crossed over to corduroys and Sta-Prest in that there's nary an occasion (with the sometime exception of a wedding/funeral where I can't fake it with Sta-Prest) I will not have a Levi's tab on my right asscheek. I know I will always have a minimum of four pockets, if I'm lucky to get the fifth there'll certainly be a drum key stuffed in there.
I guess what I'm saying is that I love Levi's (shit, we haven't even gotten into the perfection of the six-pocket jean jacket design) and if you happen to stumble upon any 36x32's or (really need this one here) a size 42 black Sta-Prest suit coat, well, I want 'em.
The club in Asheville, the Orange Peel, was laughably too big. But seeing as they offered the big bucks to bring us there we weren't going to complain. Greg Cartwright showed up with his wife and daughter for soundcheck completing our Oblivians sightings trifecta for the tour (with the rare Quintron bonus!) and after knocking around a bit we cracked next door for some banging burritos.
Mostly slept backstage before the show. Saw a Muldoons tattoo that was pretty unexpected. We performed perfunctory.
Next day we drove to Birmingham. Now I'd heard lots about how cool the Bottle Tree is and every bone in my body wanted to prove it wrong. But the cynic inside is silenced. The Bottletree is easily the best rock club in the nation and (quite possibly) the world.
With seasoned skinsman Brian Teasley (Man…or Astroman?, Polyphonic Spree, Vue) as the driving force behind the venue ably aided by a veritable platoon of proud employees from soundman down to cook, the place is, considering its location in the lifeless wasteland of Alabama, a true-to-life oasis.
Backstage comfort is second to none. A plethora of time-killers are just screaming for you to mess with them…current magazines you'd actually want to read (and Spin too), interesting books (The History of Porn), massage chairs, bowls of candy, a tub filled with all kinds of great sports equipment (Nerf balls galore) and even an Airstream trailer with beds a'beckoning and a TV/DVD set-up with a sweet selection of rock-centric programming (I suggest WORLD'S BEST DRUM SOLOS VOL. 2).
While all the above-mentioned would certainly be enough to win my hardened rock and roll heart, I must specifically mention how fucking cool and courteous the staff at the Bottletree is. I felt a strong sense of mutual respect…they were there to make the show go as smoothly as possible and I was there to put on the best possible show I could. So with oh-so-succulent food (Jerk Grilled Pork Tenderloin) and a staffer who's only job it seemed was to make sure everything was cool for us, I am hard-pressed to come up with anything that even remotely resembles a complaint about the Bottle Tree.
And as it should work, we played a pretty damn solid show. I was actually somewhat nervous performing with Teasley in the room. As much as he's played, I'd figured he was jaded beyond belief and certainly his scribblings in Chunklet would make you think so. But when he came up to me after the show and said he'd never seen someone do a headstand on a bass drum before, it genuinely made my day.
Coming from a dude who's played thousands of shows the world over, it got me to thinking that if HE hadn't seen anyone else do it, maybe no one else HAS done it. This would, in most other circumstances, but no issue at all as I do things all the time I assume no one else has before (eg, ordering a cheeseburger, cheese curds, mini-corndogs at A&W today) but can't imagine that anyone really cares.
But as a music writer and one with a tendency to look for ultimates and firsts, I can't stress how hard it actually is to do something completely original behind a drum set. People just been playing the things for far too long…you can't set 'em on fire, throw 'em up against the wall, play 'em upside down or underwater without being reminded of those who did it first and (most often) better.
So it is here, my faithful readers, that I look to you to help me find any evidence of ANYONE else ever doing a headstand on a bass drum. I know the exact date I performed my first one (and if you do some digging, you can find it buried around here) and we will consider that the starting point until anyone proves otherwise.
But seriously, the Bottle Tree is unparalleled. A club run by a guy who's done his time touring is a club done right. While I never imagined I'd ever have a reason to say it, I truly cannot wait until the next time we get to Birmingham, and more importantly, the next time we get to play the Bottle Tree.
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