Arrival at Jupiter Hotel was late and through some possibly illegal methods, I discover that the Breeders are lodging there that evening as well.
The Ben Blackwell of 2002 in this situation would have shit his pants followed immediately by the cleaning of said shit pants and a surreptitious casing of the joint to find which room Kim Deal was staying in. Once I determined what room, I would nervously stare at its door for a half-hour before slipping a Dirtbombs CD accompanied by a hand-written note underneath. My heart rate would rise. I would feel like I'd accomplished something.
The Ben Blackwell of 2008 was tired and went to sleep.
Woke up early to enjoy as many of the Portland delights as possible. Voodoo Donuts delivered with its trusty, yummy morning goodness (a cruller and a bacon-covered maple log) and an exploratory visit into Powell's was nice and quick and left me prepared for later.
Would spend time walking dogs and waiting in the parking lot of BMW repair shop to finish the replacement of a broken headlight all while sitting on the concrete and discussing the individualistic perils and pet peeves of the touring musician. Grilled cheese lunch at the restaurant attached to the Jupiter was sufficient.
After lunch I was dropped off at Powell's. I picked up three books in the 33 1/3rd series…DAYDREAM NATION, KICK OUT THE JAMS and the self-titled Ramones record. I also got a book about the cultural history of blue jeans, another about the influx of amateur content creators and the supposed negative effect it's having on culture, vis a vis blogs and other new media (a text Mick dubbed "reactionary"), the thick, non-Stevie Chick Sonic Youth bio and a New York Times almanac-type tome called their "Guide to Essential Knowledge."
Was surprised they did not have a copy of Sugrue's ORIGIN OF THE URBAN CRISIS and still need to grab a copy for myself.
Walked to Berbati's for soundcheck and after that partook in a healthy debate about documentarians and their possible love/detachment from their subjects, in regards to people like Rodney King, Errol Morris, Michael Moore and others. After an entire month of relentless Ian Mackaye, vegan, straight-edge and "new guy in the band" barbs, it took my questioning of Zack's pronunciation of "Truman Capote" (which, to me, sounded like "Truman Compote") for him to finally go off.
It seems the hazing is finally complete.
Little Claw opened and was glad to see them. Wasn't expecting the violin and wish there were a tad more people to see them, but I enjoyed it and that's all that matters. Didn't watch as much of Eat Skull as I should've, but it seemed like the line-up was, barring one person, completely different from the one I'd seen in Detroit in September.
While not expecting much from the show I think all of us in the band were pleasantly surprised. It seemed the crowd in Portland had come to dance. Such is a beautiful sight from the stage. We'd forgotten that when headlining our own shows, as opposed to opening for other groups, people actually know what they're in for and have showed up (usually) expressly for your performance. It's a nice thing to be reminded of every once in awhile.
While loading out after the show made my second trip of the day to Voodoo Donuts and bought an Old Dirty Bastard…a chocolate donut with bits of Oreo cookie on top and some peanut butter (as a topping? Filling? I cannot remember) and it might be the best donut I've had there yet. Zack was excited about vegan donuts available at 2am.
Breakfast the next morn at the hotel restaurant was scrumptious and crowded and still left me with an overwhelming desire to play the Doug Fir lounge downstairs. Made a third visit to Powell's after that and bought 33 1/3's IN THE AEROPLANE OVER THE SEA.
Drove straight to the club, Chop Suey, in Seattle and enjoyed the fact that I could order Chinese food from a little kitchen situated inside the club. I thought the meal was tasty but my bowels seemed to disagree a little while later. Has anyone ever followed these "eat right for your blood type" recommendations? Just now in life I've begun to realize that particular foods have an adverse effect on my insides and that maybe I could prevent it.
Didn't watch the opening acts and instead spent time catching up with Henry from Chunklet who happened to be in town promoting his new book "The Rock Bible." We, as a band, bought four copies. Ko had apparently already received one for free. He also came up with the single best Zach joke yet.
Q: What's the difference between a straight-edge vegan and a bucket of shit?
A: You can at least party with a bucket of shit.
This after having met Zach for all of five minutes.
The show in Seattle was even more good-time-dancing-fun-vibes. For the encore I brought my drums onto the floor and riled up the crowd with pale (Dale) Crover imitations. To end it all, I grabbed my floor tom and threw it head-side down onto my ride cymbal, intending to puncture the drum skin with an exciting boom. While it failed to "boom" as much as I would've liked, I made a quick exit and went to catch my breath backstage.
While sitting backstage I heard pained moans coming from the hallway. Henry, standing halfway in the door showed signs of genuine revulsion on his face and then whispered, "There's a lot of blood" to me.
As it happened, one of the workers at Chop Suey was right there with me when I'd brought my drums into the crowd to make sure no one would fuck with my set. With split-second imprecision, he managed to slide his hand between my floor tom and ride cymbal as I was marrying the two in unholy bliss.
I ventured out into the hallway and there was an adequate amount of blood…way less than Henry'd led me to believe. The tip of his forefinger was just barely still attached. He was given a cup of ice to shove said digit into in preparation for reattaching it. I was freaked out but clearly not as much as the guy who was losing blood. I apologized and asked if there was anything I could do for him, but he seemed in genuine shock and other than telling me not to worry about it, didn't have anything else to say to me.
His bosses said the club would pay for the emergency room visit and his co-workers said if he played his cards right he could get workman's comp. After he was whisked away I got everyone in the band to autograph an LP for him and everyone wrote top-notch, witty and heartfelt inscriptions to the guy. We left him a t-shirt too. I didn't know what else we could do. I truly hope he's alright and I hope he doesn't mind that I don't plan on washing his blood off my bass drum.
Met Kim from the Dutchess and the Duke backstage and went totally fanboy gushing about how much I loved everything that band has done. She was humble and gracious and almost caught off-guard about how much I liked her "faggot-y folk band." When her and Dean from the Stoltz band were looking for beer after closing time, it was an honor for me to buy them a six-pack from the bar, as two finer people in Seattle you will not meet.
Stayed at the Crowne Plaza hotel and were charged $34 to park the van overnight.
Next morn was a requisite trip to the downtown Guitar Center (me: snare wires and floor tom head, Pat: crash cymbal, others: don't know) and then plunked down the big money for a meal from Whole Foods. I focused on dessert with cheese cake AND bread pudding. My main course was orange peel chicken on a bed of rice with some tofu thrown in for kicks. I ate both desserts and barely half of the rest and with a Odwalla I'd spent approximately $21 on lunch. Damn.
Showed up in Misssoula to find that the Badlander is the same room I knew as the Ritz where the infamous Jack White birthday riot went down back in 2001. Luckily, new ownership meant there would be no repeat of that night's shenanigans.
Local openers Rooster Sauce and Victory Smokes were exactly what I'd expected of bands from Missoula. The Sauce even premiered the video for their song "Snakeskin Monkey" this night and that too was everything I'd expected for a self-produced music video for a band from Missoula.
The stage was particularly small and coupled with not having played the town in over four years found us with an absolutely manic crowd completely up-front and in our faces. What upon booking felt like an unnecessary roadblock on our route home would prove to be the best of our headlining shows of this run…all the genuine excitement and dancing of Seattle and Portland increased tenfold and Missoula, despite what one may think, proved it can rock with the best of them. The encore was Zach's first-ever shot at "Granny's Little Chicken" and that devolved into Ko, Mick and I jiving in the crowd (Ko playing fuzz while I balanced her on my shoulders for a spell) and it ALL ended with me saying into the mic "Happy fucking birthday Jack."
The route back to Detroit would prove daunting. The first day of driving found us getting gas across the street from, I shit you not, a place with signage declaring it a used COW lot. Being the beginning of hunting season and Montana being kind-of a hunting state, it was fairly common to find ourselves driving behind a pick-up truck with 12 deer legs just sticking up in the air with the bodies completely obscured from sight. Most establishments had signs saying hunters were not allowed to bring their guns inside and I couldn't imagine why that even needed to be said.
We later stopped at a gas station that happened to be on an Indian reservation and it was one of the more depressing places we'd been in recent memory. The Kentucky Fried Chicken there carried only a bare-bones menu (scuttling my plans to rock a Famous Bowl) and the cash register sported a hand-written sign saying, in pen, "No credit cards…machine is messed up." The chicken strips were more breading than chicken and there were no fewer than three public service posters in view touting the dangers of methamphetamine use.
At the same time, Zach made a sullen declaration of not being able to dream in this establishment and after a suitable pause, pointed to the window of the gift shop completely filled with dream catchers and said "They just keep getting caught over there." There was a picturesque sunset and across the street was an advertisement for "Cuts-the-Hair." Weird, weird times.
That evening found us staying in Chamberlain, South Dakota. We'd GPS'd a Days Inn at the exit, but noticed the West River Inn and Suites offering 24-hour pool and spa. As frequent lodgers, this is not an everyday offer, and as night owls, it was an something we had to take them up on.
The hotel didn't appear to be a chain but it was clean and comfortable and very, very inviting. While making my way to the pool, Zach said the lady at the front desk said to let her know if we'd be swimming, as she would then turn the lights off for us. Having no idea what this meant I failed to notify her and instead just walked down to the pool by myself.
The indoor, heated pool and hot tub were accented not only by a stereo system that was playing light house music (and later, breezy classical) but by a second floor reminiscent of a projection booth with no less than three club-quality lighting systems in full-effect. We had managed to find the only 24-hour disco pool in all the world and it was in South Dakota.
After requisite hand-stands and underwater stretching I made way to the hot tub and marinated in there. There was no reason a place like this should exist, yet I was reveling in it. The thin, green laser lights coalescing into a circuit of geometric patterns was particularly spellbinding.
After ample time boiling in the tub I made back into the pool and stood in the middle, motionless, focusing on the colors and patterns the lights formed on the floor of the pool, benefiting from the unpredictable refraction caused by the still, chlorinated four feet of water. This is as close as I come to getting stoned, meditating or finding any other higher state of (un)consciousness.
(I later surmised that the only logical reason to have such a set up for a pool was that they probably host orgies there)
Having been away from home for so long, we'd planned to drive the remaining fifteen hours back to Detroit while only stopping for food, gas and pee breaks. And through the remainder of South Dakota, Wisconsin and Illinois this proved fine. It wasn't until we'd reached Indiana that shit got messy.
We reached a portion on I-94 where the road was just closed…all cars being forced to exit and most of them winding up at a Flying J Travel Plaza trying to plan alternate routes. Our GPS system helped us to get to the next open entrance ramp and once back on the freeway we were literally in a caravan on a road that was a sheet of ice with a flashing-lights police cruiser as the pace car.
While the icy conditions of the road became somewhat less daunting, the snow storm at that point had reached white-out conditions just around our crossing of the Michigan border. It was a nightmare…all of us had hopes of sleeping in our own beds that night and with home not even three hours away we could almost taste it. At the same time, we could not see more than a couple of feet ahead of our van in these conditions.
None of us wanted to stop, yet we all knew there was no other option.
We exited in Sawyer, Michigan and got rooms at the Super 8. Once checked in Zack (he of hole in his canvas shoe) and I trudged through the snow to eat at the 24-hour Country Pride restaurant at the truck stop across the street. At this point, the snow had ceased.
With nothing but time we had a long, languorous meal/conversation before heading back to grab some sleep. We'd all agreed to leave at 8am as getting home earlier was getting home better.
7:50 rolls around…Zack opens the curtains and coldly says "Fucking hell."
It seemed since we'd fallen asleep another four inches of snow had fallen. Thoughts of not making it home THAT day briefly entered my mind and I trembled. We loaded the van and Pat skillfully and cautiously maneuvered the van through more blizzard and icy road conditions until that spot where I-94 jags eastbound and we were free from the immobilizing grip of lake-effect snow. We would be home in no time and home ain't no time at all.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
TVOTR Part Nine: We Are Apparently Pimps and Prostitutes Too...
We stopped at some desert town on the Grapevine. Woke up in the morning and paid the one-armed man at Subway before hitting Starbucks for a milkshake that they besmirch by with the name Frappuccino.
The Warfield is a dignified place of performance and everything ran smoothly, bar Pat in a shouting match with some club worker about the guestlist. For our last show with TVOTR we played strong and floor-tom in-the-crowd/deconstructionist-stage-load-out seemed to really impress the crowd.
While cleaning out my bag in our dressing room between sets I happened upon a handful of "Fart Bombs" I'd bought at a corner store in Providence. Having not utilized any of the ammunition on the entire trip, I figured then was as good a time as any.
I cracked the bag of chemical as sealed in a gaudy mylar packaging. The two previously separated substances would soon join and commingle in an unholy pong. After starting the process, I blindly tossed the packet into the adjoining room. It landed at Mick's feet, he surveyed it curiously and it erupted with an inauspicious "pop" in his face.
While I would in any other circumstance consider myself a tomfooler of the utmost caliber, I can, with the joy of hindsight, offer that stinkbombing your own dressing room is a faux pas as gauche as recreating a silent film-era slapstick and having the protagonist slip on a plantain peel.
Everyone backstage from the TV on the Radio dudes, our guests, the security guards and the somewhat abrasive Jon Dwyer all found time to comment on the overpowering stench. It was clearly in bad form on my behalf, but, to be fair, I made sure to sit there throughout the tang's duration rather than escape to more fragrant pastures.
Joined TVOTR for their encore with the rest of the Dirtbombs and reveled in the massive percussive happening. Snuck out without saying goodbye to most and after-the-fact felt it was a tad impolite.
Ko would find herself on Danzig's tour bus later that evening. Clearly she wins.
The next day would prove to be a scheduling miracle…a day off in San Francisco, the likes of which we'd only dreamt of. Staying with Kelley Stoltz and he'd bought me half-a-dozen donuts as he revels in the fact that they're my breakfast food of choice. We met up with Mick and made time cruising the shops on Valencia.
After stocking up on postcards at the McSweeney's storefront, gawking at the taxidermy next door at Paxton's Gate and picking up a package containing a Kevin Ayers' solo record at Stoltz's PO box we made our way to the myriad of record shops in the Haight.
First to Rooky Ricardo's…I stocked up on pins of old record labels (Fortune, Palmer, others) and bought an LP that was visually reminiscent of the first Stripes' album cover. From there to some other record shop where I bought nothing, then onward to Amoeba, the temple.
Bought CD copy of the Dion album that was recommended as "sounds like Spiritualized" (produced by Phil Spector), the Cool Kids full-length, used copy of the Langley Schools CD, the Figures of Light CD (FINALLY!) and possibly other things that've since slipped my mind. Had good chats with all the requisite employees too…Tom Lynch, Shayde Sartin, Brock Whateverhislastnameis.
From there to Burma Superstar. Crowded as all get-out on a Monday night, this grub was the real deal. The tea leaf salad was enjoyed by vegan, vegetarian and real-people alike at our table. I personally delighted in my Nan Gyi Dok. Dining with Stoltz and his star-power found us enjoying complimentary dessert. The establishment gets utmost praise from all in our dining party.
Then down the street to Green Apple Books…I finally cross the LP copy of Beck's Mutations with bonus 7" and issue #6 of McSweeney's Quarterly Concern off my audio and literary want lists, respectively.
We spent downtime at a bar and caught up with various Stoltz band members while watching assorted sports highlights.
Stoltz drove us up to a hill overlooking the whole of San Francisco, a twinkling vista that made the burg seem smaller more than anything else. Zack and I soaked it in with Kel while Mick talked on the phone.
Back at Stoltz's to enjoy his "spatially inappropriate" Altec movie theater speakers and original pressings of Revolver and Black Monk Time.
The next morn we pick up Mick and him and Kel chow fish tacos while I'd early indulged in leftover donuts.
We then hit up Grooves, Kel's place of employment. I scored vinyl copies of the Flat Duo Jets' Go Go Harlem Baby and a mono copy of Mitch Ryder's Take a Ride LP. I also won some cool knick-knacks in the old-style crane-game in the shop…a slide whistle and a miniature cast of Nipper, the RCA Records logo dog.
From there back to the Haight to Groove Merchant Records that'd been closed on Monday. I got a Lorri Randolph 45 on Tri-Phi and a peculiar single by a band called Water Melon that's rambunctious weird '69-'70 rock with organ and the side "African Song" kills. After that we eat at a Pakistani (?) place in the Mission, on the same block as the Kil-o-Watt. Naan bread delicious, the rest of my meal not terribly so.
Big plan for the eve was a pizza party at Mike Gabriel's. Having attended one before, I knew what fun I was in for. Mike and his gal Jen prep with pre-portioned slabs of dough and assorted topping possibilities. Each person takes a turn assembling their own ideal pie and the rest of the party samples it with the requisite critique, ribbing and general good-hearted fun. The dough and I weren't getting along, but I still stand by my prime "How-To" example of a pepperoni pizza. Lots of stories told, records listened to and a general appreciation of life was shared by all.
Next morning Mick and I spent approximately 45 seconds inside Revolver (our distributor) to pick up copies of We Have You Surrounded on CD and LP. This is a new record as trips here usually become protracted bouts of scouring the racks for long-forgotten or mis-filed gems.
Slowly met up with the rest of the band and soon made our way out of the city.
After hours of driving and the lavatorial needs of one and the lodging needs of all was best squelched by a stop at a PETRO truck stop in Medvale, just inside the Oregon border. I made quick way to the bathroom, followed shortly thereafter by Pat who says "Ben…you should buy a "Greatest Hits" CD."
"Why?" I respond.
"Just do it," he says with a smile.
As I head back toward the register, I see a cardboard CD display case for the "Playlist: The Very Best of…" series of green-friendly repackaging of certain Sony-related artists' greatest hits. On top of the four-foot display was a mini billboard topper, listing the series title and its affordable $9.98 price. But neither the name nor the price could obscure the mind-boggling jaw-drop of seeing a picture of THE DIRTBOMBS on this advertisement.
Mick spotted it first. He was buying something at the register when his eyes caught the picture (one of our silhouette promo shots for...Surrounded) and he just stood there dumbfounded. When pressed by the cashier, Mick flipped the whole display around for the worker to see and said, "You'll never believe this…but that's ME!"
Zack nimbly negotiated the exchange of one CD copy of …Surrounded for the portion of the unit depicting his bandmates while we all just sat there kinda befuddled. No, they were not selling any Dirtbombs records at the stop. No, the records were not bootleg. No, no one in the band or at the label or even the photog had signed off on this.
We made a pledge to stop at any more PETRO's we saw the rest of the trip (with hopes of procuring more of the ads) and we saw not a one. A call to our record label and a call from him to friends in the photo licensing biz were encouraging, but apparently without the Sony logo anywhere on our visage, we've apparently been pimped without hope of retribution.
So here's a call to you faithful readers: If anyone can shed ANY light on this situation, if you know who does the layouts for the "Playlist" in-store advertising, if you find any more instances of this pic
at PETRO (or other) truckstop CD displays, if you steal/buy/barter for its possession or can just simply explain what-the-fuck is going on, please let us know and you will be rewarded HANDSOMELY by the band.
It's not that I don't like Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash or Heart…it's just that I never in a million truckstops thought that the band's picture (and to a degree, my image) would be used to shill products without any regard for consent or permission. Does this mean we're big time? Once we start getting screwed over? Surreal does not even begin to describe the situation. Two weeks later and it's still completely flummoxing and aggravating all at the same time.
At the same stop, Ko was utilizing the free WiFi to try and book hotels for the night. With our sights set on Portland, we'd discussed just straight booking rooms at the Jupiter Hotel, but with their quoted price as $150 per room, per night, we decided to take our chances with Priceline.
When the $60 per room, per night option for a 2 1/2 star hotel near downtown and the convention center popped up, we were a bit skeptical. Two and a half stars? Really? The luxury of the stay would be not having to check out the first morning…oh what a deep, restful luxury it is. We threw caution to the wind, booked it and were elated to find out we'd been placed at none other than…the Jupiter Hotel.
You win this round Shatner.
The Warfield is a dignified place of performance and everything ran smoothly, bar Pat in a shouting match with some club worker about the guestlist. For our last show with TVOTR we played strong and floor-tom in-the-crowd/deconstructionist-stage-load-out seemed to really impress the crowd.
While cleaning out my bag in our dressing room between sets I happened upon a handful of "Fart Bombs" I'd bought at a corner store in Providence. Having not utilized any of the ammunition on the entire trip, I figured then was as good a time as any.
I cracked the bag of chemical as sealed in a gaudy mylar packaging. The two previously separated substances would soon join and commingle in an unholy pong. After starting the process, I blindly tossed the packet into the adjoining room. It landed at Mick's feet, he surveyed it curiously and it erupted with an inauspicious "pop" in his face.
While I would in any other circumstance consider myself a tomfooler of the utmost caliber, I can, with the joy of hindsight, offer that stinkbombing your own dressing room is a faux pas as gauche as recreating a silent film-era slapstick and having the protagonist slip on a plantain peel.
Everyone backstage from the TV on the Radio dudes, our guests, the security guards and the somewhat abrasive Jon Dwyer all found time to comment on the overpowering stench. It was clearly in bad form on my behalf, but, to be fair, I made sure to sit there throughout the tang's duration rather than escape to more fragrant pastures.
Joined TVOTR for their encore with the rest of the Dirtbombs and reveled in the massive percussive happening. Snuck out without saying goodbye to most and after-the-fact felt it was a tad impolite.
Ko would find herself on Danzig's tour bus later that evening. Clearly she wins.
The next day would prove to be a scheduling miracle…a day off in San Francisco, the likes of which we'd only dreamt of. Staying with Kelley Stoltz and he'd bought me half-a-dozen donuts as he revels in the fact that they're my breakfast food of choice. We met up with Mick and made time cruising the shops on Valencia.
After stocking up on postcards at the McSweeney's storefront, gawking at the taxidermy next door at Paxton's Gate and picking up a package containing a Kevin Ayers' solo record at Stoltz's PO box we made our way to the myriad of record shops in the Haight.
First to Rooky Ricardo's…I stocked up on pins of old record labels (Fortune, Palmer, others) and bought an LP that was visually reminiscent of the first Stripes' album cover. From there to some other record shop where I bought nothing, then onward to Amoeba, the temple.
Bought CD copy of the Dion album that was recommended as "sounds like Spiritualized" (produced by Phil Spector), the Cool Kids full-length, used copy of the Langley Schools CD, the Figures of Light CD (FINALLY!) and possibly other things that've since slipped my mind. Had good chats with all the requisite employees too…Tom Lynch, Shayde Sartin, Brock Whateverhislastnameis.
From there to Burma Superstar. Crowded as all get-out on a Monday night, this grub was the real deal. The tea leaf salad was enjoyed by vegan, vegetarian and real-people alike at our table. I personally delighted in my Nan Gyi Dok. Dining with Stoltz and his star-power found us enjoying complimentary dessert. The establishment gets utmost praise from all in our dining party.
Then down the street to Green Apple Books…I finally cross the LP copy of Beck's Mutations with bonus 7" and issue #6 of McSweeney's Quarterly Concern off my audio and literary want lists, respectively.
We spent downtime at a bar and caught up with various Stoltz band members while watching assorted sports highlights.
Stoltz drove us up to a hill overlooking the whole of San Francisco, a twinkling vista that made the burg seem smaller more than anything else. Zack and I soaked it in with Kel while Mick talked on the phone.
Back at Stoltz's to enjoy his "spatially inappropriate" Altec movie theater speakers and original pressings of Revolver and Black Monk Time.
The next morn we pick up Mick and him and Kel chow fish tacos while I'd early indulged in leftover donuts.
We then hit up Grooves, Kel's place of employment. I scored vinyl copies of the Flat Duo Jets' Go Go Harlem Baby and a mono copy of Mitch Ryder's Take a Ride LP. I also won some cool knick-knacks in the old-style crane-game in the shop…a slide whistle and a miniature cast of Nipper, the RCA Records logo dog.
From there back to the Haight to Groove Merchant Records that'd been closed on Monday. I got a Lorri Randolph 45 on Tri-Phi and a peculiar single by a band called Water Melon that's rambunctious weird '69-'70 rock with organ and the side "African Song" kills. After that we eat at a Pakistani (?) place in the Mission, on the same block as the Kil-o-Watt. Naan bread delicious, the rest of my meal not terribly so.
Big plan for the eve was a pizza party at Mike Gabriel's. Having attended one before, I knew what fun I was in for. Mike and his gal Jen prep with pre-portioned slabs of dough and assorted topping possibilities. Each person takes a turn assembling their own ideal pie and the rest of the party samples it with the requisite critique, ribbing and general good-hearted fun. The dough and I weren't getting along, but I still stand by my prime "How-To" example of a pepperoni pizza. Lots of stories told, records listened to and a general appreciation of life was shared by all.
Next morning Mick and I spent approximately 45 seconds inside Revolver (our distributor) to pick up copies of We Have You Surrounded on CD and LP. This is a new record as trips here usually become protracted bouts of scouring the racks for long-forgotten or mis-filed gems.
Slowly met up with the rest of the band and soon made our way out of the city.
After hours of driving and the lavatorial needs of one and the lodging needs of all was best squelched by a stop at a PETRO truck stop in Medvale, just inside the Oregon border. I made quick way to the bathroom, followed shortly thereafter by Pat who says "Ben…you should buy a "Greatest Hits" CD."
"Why?" I respond.
"Just do it," he says with a smile.
As I head back toward the register, I see a cardboard CD display case for the "Playlist: The Very Best of…" series of green-friendly repackaging of certain Sony-related artists' greatest hits. On top of the four-foot display was a mini billboard topper, listing the series title and its affordable $9.98 price. But neither the name nor the price could obscure the mind-boggling jaw-drop of seeing a picture of THE DIRTBOMBS on this advertisement.
Mick spotted it first. He was buying something at the register when his eyes caught the picture (one of our silhouette promo shots for...Surrounded) and he just stood there dumbfounded. When pressed by the cashier, Mick flipped the whole display around for the worker to see and said, "You'll never believe this…but that's ME!"
Zack nimbly negotiated the exchange of one CD copy of …Surrounded for the portion of the unit depicting his bandmates while we all just sat there kinda befuddled. No, they were not selling any Dirtbombs records at the stop. No, the records were not bootleg. No, no one in the band or at the label or even the photog had signed off on this.
We made a pledge to stop at any more PETRO's we saw the rest of the trip (with hopes of procuring more of the ads) and we saw not a one. A call to our record label and a call from him to friends in the photo licensing biz were encouraging, but apparently without the Sony logo anywhere on our visage, we've apparently been pimped without hope of retribution.
So here's a call to you faithful readers: If anyone can shed ANY light on this situation, if you know who does the layouts for the "Playlist" in-store advertising, if you find any more instances of this pic
at PETRO (or other) truckstop CD displays, if you steal/buy/barter for its possession or can just simply explain what-the-fuck is going on, please let us know and you will be rewarded HANDSOMELY by the band.
It's not that I don't like Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash or Heart…it's just that I never in a million truckstops thought that the band's picture (and to a degree, my image) would be used to shill products without any regard for consent or permission. Does this mean we're big time? Once we start getting screwed over? Surreal does not even begin to describe the situation. Two weeks later and it's still completely flummoxing and aggravating all at the same time.
At the same stop, Ko was utilizing the free WiFi to try and book hotels for the night. With our sights set on Portland, we'd discussed just straight booking rooms at the Jupiter Hotel, but with their quoted price as $150 per room, per night, we decided to take our chances with Priceline.
When the $60 per room, per night option for a 2 1/2 star hotel near downtown and the convention center popped up, we were a bit skeptical. Two and a half stars? Really? The luxury of the stay would be not having to check out the first morning…oh what a deep, restful luxury it is. We threw caution to the wind, booked it and were elated to find out we'd been placed at none other than…the Jupiter Hotel.
You win this round Shatner.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Interstitial: Dirtbombs Propaganda from Recent Times...
To tide y'all over until I get some more writing done.
First, from our in-store at Amoeba SF back in May. Two thoughts after I viewed this:
1: Tom Lynch conducts conducts (possibly) the best Dirtbombs interview ever
and
2. During this performance, more often than not, we look completely bored onstage
http://www.amoeba.com/live-shows/videos/dirtbombs.html
Second, Mick and I got interviewed by Jesse Thorn of "The Sound of Young America" which may or may not be syndicated by your local public radio station. I get to geek out on the Gories, which is fun. Listen to it here:
http://earideas.com/earideas/explore/show/58505/The+Dirtbombs
First, from our in-store at Amoeba SF back in May. Two thoughts after I viewed this:
1: Tom Lynch conducts conducts (possibly) the best Dirtbombs interview ever
and
2. During this performance, more often than not, we look completely bored onstage
http://www.amoeba.com/live-shows/videos/dirtbombs.html
Second, Mick and I got interviewed by Jesse Thorn of "The Sound of Young America" which may or may not be syndicated by your local public radio station. I get to geek out on the Gories, which is fun. Listen to it here:
http://earideas.com/earideas/explore/show/58505/The+Dirtbombs
Monday, November 17, 2008
TVOTR Part Eight: A Police Situation...
Wake-up in post-election happiness. Breakfast at Auntie Em's in Eagle Rock and owner/operator/former Red Aunt Terri Wahl comps the meal. Mick and I then did a solid interview for the Sound of Young America radio show, a nationally syndicated program that we've actually listened to in the van before. With downtime after that we hit Amoeba Records in Hollywood. I feel equally ashamed and proud in saying that I bought nothing there.
Headlining the Detroit Bar in Costa Mesa ain't too shabby. After soundcheck we ate at the Mexican place next door. It was decent. From there, we ventured to the Borders up the road. When touring, a Borders or Barnes and Noble is the equivalent of "goal" in a game of tag. It's somewhere you can go and relax without fear of reprisals or persecution. Each and every one of these chain locations feels the same as the others and thus, in the grand scheme of things, vaguely familiar. We easily kill an hour there without even noticing.
Opening band Pistolero wasn't to my liking. But with Starlite Desperation as the middle band I was quite geeked. I hadn't seen them in about four years and their newest material on both Don't Do Time and Take It Personally stacks up to their best work in my opinion.
They opened with "Spirit Army" and I dug it, slinky bassline and all. They'd play one old tune, "Our Product" off their first 7" and dedicated it to me. Watching them play makes me feel like I'm still a senior in high school and Go Kill Mice was played to death/witnessed live that year more than you'd care to believe. Someday, maybe even here, I'll recall the days of hanging out at their crib on Commonwealth. What strange, strange days.
With a small hole in my floor tom head I asked Jeff from Starlite if I could borrow his floor tom. He said he was planning to leave during our set, that he had to be up early the next morning…and then just offered me his floor tom head. Dude literally gave me the head off his tom. It doesn't get any deeper than that for drummers.
Any detractive comments about our performance clearly stemmed from confusion between bandmates about doing our "headliner" set or our "opener" set. We'd agreed on an amended "opener" set beforehand but certain band members fell into "headliner" actions. This was, for all intents and purposes, completely unnoticeable to the audience.
Trying to get myself into "Start the Party" I'd accidentally biffed myself in the corner of my right eye with my drumstick. So hard that I managed to throw myself off the beat and have to play most of the song with my both my eyes closed…equal parts coping mechanism for the excruciating pain and hope that my eyeball would stay inside my ocular cavity. I was surprised there was no blood.
Drive back to LA to crash at the label HQ in Eagle Rock. I grab the couch, as I always do there, and it becomes a vague point of contention in the band. Pat asks why I always get the couch and I don't have a reason, just that I do. Never mind the fact that I claimed it first that night. It would not have been an issue had there been anything more than floor space available that night. Tired, I kinda snapped at him…told him he was free to find a hotel or someone else's place to stay that night, that no one was making him sleep on the floor. He responded acquiesced with "I'm just tired" to which I countered "I know Pat. We all are."
We were able to take the next day lazy…doing laundry, showering, loading mp3's into our laptops, enjoying the unfailing California sunshine and just generally relaxing before heading to the Wiltern around 6pm.
We were excited because catering was still up AND we got our $10 buy-outs. This never happens. We loaded up on the "make-your-own-fajitas" and cookies and ice cream as if we hadn't seen food in days. The thing with a catered club is that you have to view it that way…like you'll never see food again.
Our set, by all accounts, killed. With Larry from In the Red and Dale from the Melvins as the two people who've seen 100% of our Los Angeles area shows in our career in agreement, we clearly won over many people in the crowd. I feel confident in saying we could not have played a better show.
Afterwards we hung backstage and chatted with friends from Liars and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Rainn Wilson was there and Ko apparently thinks he's kinda weird.
Back to Larry's and to a comfortable night on the couch outside of Detroit that I've spent the most time on. Woke in the morning with and extreme lack of plans and responsibilities. Ate lunch at the Oinkster…chocolate malt and pastrami sandwich was delightful. Relented and finally did some laundry, having lasted just about a month without having to. Made plans for dinner with my buddy Josh. Larry, also with plans for dinner, put on the new Beefheart reissue It Comes to You in a Brown Paper Bag and we sat in his living room chatting leisurely.
I see what appears to be a spotlight searching around Larry's street. We then realize we've been hearing a helicopter overheard for a bit of time. It then becomes clear there is some sort of situation. Out in his backyard we hear from the chopper "Please surrender and give up your weapons."
I was half-hoping to hear them say "We have you surrounded."
Larry lives right at a "T" of two streets, with one end marked off with police tape and the other two blocked by police cars with their flashing lights. Despite all of this, he figured he'd be able to leave without a hitch. As he walked to his car he was informed that not only was he not able to leave, but that he wasn't even supposed to be outside his house.
According to the police officer, there were people in the neighborhood with weapons and the police couldn't find them.
We sat, metaphorical prisoners. Larry finally told his date to just come and pick him up and while they didn't let her past the police line, they did let Larry walk up the street toward the safe zone, but only if he would walk on the opposite side of the street.
We'd later find out that there was a car chase in the neighborhood and that the perps crashed the vehicle and scattered. The cops nabbed one of the suspects but the other was loose, so they blocked off the neighborhood and slowly combed through each block searching for him. I do not know if he was apprehended or not.
I managed to sneak out of the abode the same way Larry did and Josh and I hit up Local (the name of the restaurant and not an indicator of it's caloric content) in Echo Park for grub. I'm told the premise of the restaurant is that everything is made from fresh, local ingredients. I had the braised lamb tips and it was alright, but mainly had me wondering who in the hell is raising lamb in the city? The lemonade was clearly fresh, but too tart for my taste. I did find myself completely floored by their apple-cream chesse-caramel-sea salt hot desert…that dish totally made the meal.
From there we went back to Josh's crib and shot the shit, connecting over the fact that we both owned the same weird Mudhoney t-shirt when we were teenagers (with the band depicted on a TV set on the front and fake TV Guide listings on the reverse). Josh showed me the missing chord to "Cold Brains" that'd been bugging me for a couple of years, all while a video of him backing Beck back in 2003 played on the television.
Our buddy Steve came over and 3/4's of the band Kore Krew was in full-effect. There's unreleased recordings of us that, if Steve ever gets off his ass, might even be worth releasing. Called it a night and searching for Steve's car on the street for about 20 minutes was kinda hilarious.
Steve dropped me off back at Larry's, but not before taking me to the 7-11 in Eagle Rock, where for the third night in a row, I bought a pink-frosted donut with sprinkles. I think said donuts contain crack, as I was fucking hooked on these things like schadenfreude enthusiasts to Amy Winehouse.
We left from Larry's the next afternoon, but not before I worked out a trade for his out-of-print Cotton Museum 10" that was high atop my want list. Drive to San Diego seemed quicker and easier than usual.
The show that eve was a birthday party for a local radio station with two more bands on the bill than we're used to on the TVOTR/DBOMBS chuckwagon. We would be the second band. Noticing that TVOTR's soundcheck ran a little late, I figured there was no way we'd even get a chance to soundcheck, so I walked up the street to the mall.
The only store I'd visit was Levi's. While still never having bought a new pair of them in my life, I still always give them a chance. They had Orange Tab reissues that were absent when I visited my sister's store in Chicago, so I took the bait and took a pair of skinny fit and a pair of flares, both 36x32, to the dressing room.
The skinny fit was almost a joke on my end…with the circumference of one of my thighs hovering around that of a moderate-sized oak tree, there's hardly a "cut" that can diminish their impact. But after I found the flares were GASP, baggy and I contemplated the benefits of diversifying my blue jean reserves, no doubt inspired by an article I'd just read in GQ. $80 later and I'm the proud/confused owner of a new pair of Levis slim fit Orange Tab jeans. Weird.
While in line at Levis I got a call that it was time to soundcheck. Unexpectedly, TVOTR's tour manager had thrown some weight to get us the luxury so I hoofed it quickly back to the club and marveled at the monitor engineer walking around barefoot with the most vile, gouted, purple, misshapen feet I'd ever seen. Gross.
Zack and I walked up the street to Pokez for burritos that were offensively large. It is my hope with the new administration in Washington that someone steps up and puts and end to burrito inflation. I don't think, with our economy in the state that it is, that we can afford to keep making these things the size of one of Jupiter's more substantial moons. Zack wants me to mention that I could not even finish mine and that it should be a source of pride for Pokez. If he has any other input he can start his own blog.
Opening band was made up of DJ's from the sponsoring radio station, including John "Speedo" Reis of Rocket From the Crypt/Swami Records notoriety. They did all covers and I didn't quite know what to make of it…song selection was good with VU, the Who, Elvis Costello and other hip choices. Mick came out and sang "I Wanna Be Your Dog" as their final number and the rest of us D'bombs commented on how easy it is to forget what a commanding frontman the guy is.
Being in the unfavorable 2nd of four bands slot, we came at it with a bit of spite, not at any particular person, but just the situation. Thankfully, it translated, the crowd dug it and when I threw my floor tom from the audience back onto the stage and it unpredictably landed perfectly balanced on top of my bass drum (a feat of skill that could not be matched if I tried to replicate it a thousand times) I knew that the gods were on our side that night.
The third band (the generally inoffensive Delta Spirit) was clearly daunted by their spot on the bill. The fun thing was with us having to make it to San Fran for the show the next night, we didn't even stick around to watch them flail. We loaded up and hit I-5 for about four hours before we'd get our slumber that night, knowing full well that we'd rocked to the fullest of our capabilities.
Headlining the Detroit Bar in Costa Mesa ain't too shabby. After soundcheck we ate at the Mexican place next door. It was decent. From there, we ventured to the Borders up the road. When touring, a Borders or Barnes and Noble is the equivalent of "goal" in a game of tag. It's somewhere you can go and relax without fear of reprisals or persecution. Each and every one of these chain locations feels the same as the others and thus, in the grand scheme of things, vaguely familiar. We easily kill an hour there without even noticing.
Opening band Pistolero wasn't to my liking. But with Starlite Desperation as the middle band I was quite geeked. I hadn't seen them in about four years and their newest material on both Don't Do Time and Take It Personally stacks up to their best work in my opinion.
They opened with "Spirit Army" and I dug it, slinky bassline and all. They'd play one old tune, "Our Product" off their first 7" and dedicated it to me. Watching them play makes me feel like I'm still a senior in high school and Go Kill Mice was played to death/witnessed live that year more than you'd care to believe. Someday, maybe even here, I'll recall the days of hanging out at their crib on Commonwealth. What strange, strange days.
With a small hole in my floor tom head I asked Jeff from Starlite if I could borrow his floor tom. He said he was planning to leave during our set, that he had to be up early the next morning…and then just offered me his floor tom head. Dude literally gave me the head off his tom. It doesn't get any deeper than that for drummers.
Any detractive comments about our performance clearly stemmed from confusion between bandmates about doing our "headliner" set or our "opener" set. We'd agreed on an amended "opener" set beforehand but certain band members fell into "headliner" actions. This was, for all intents and purposes, completely unnoticeable to the audience.
Trying to get myself into "Start the Party" I'd accidentally biffed myself in the corner of my right eye with my drumstick. So hard that I managed to throw myself off the beat and have to play most of the song with my both my eyes closed…equal parts coping mechanism for the excruciating pain and hope that my eyeball would stay inside my ocular cavity. I was surprised there was no blood.
Drive back to LA to crash at the label HQ in Eagle Rock. I grab the couch, as I always do there, and it becomes a vague point of contention in the band. Pat asks why I always get the couch and I don't have a reason, just that I do. Never mind the fact that I claimed it first that night. It would not have been an issue had there been anything more than floor space available that night. Tired, I kinda snapped at him…told him he was free to find a hotel or someone else's place to stay that night, that no one was making him sleep on the floor. He responded acquiesced with "I'm just tired" to which I countered "I know Pat. We all are."
We were able to take the next day lazy…doing laundry, showering, loading mp3's into our laptops, enjoying the unfailing California sunshine and just generally relaxing before heading to the Wiltern around 6pm.
We were excited because catering was still up AND we got our $10 buy-outs. This never happens. We loaded up on the "make-your-own-fajitas" and cookies and ice cream as if we hadn't seen food in days. The thing with a catered club is that you have to view it that way…like you'll never see food again.
Our set, by all accounts, killed. With Larry from In the Red and Dale from the Melvins as the two people who've seen 100% of our Los Angeles area shows in our career in agreement, we clearly won over many people in the crowd. I feel confident in saying we could not have played a better show.
Afterwards we hung backstage and chatted with friends from Liars and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Rainn Wilson was there and Ko apparently thinks he's kinda weird.
Back to Larry's and to a comfortable night on the couch outside of Detroit that I've spent the most time on. Woke in the morning with and extreme lack of plans and responsibilities. Ate lunch at the Oinkster…chocolate malt and pastrami sandwich was delightful. Relented and finally did some laundry, having lasted just about a month without having to. Made plans for dinner with my buddy Josh. Larry, also with plans for dinner, put on the new Beefheart reissue It Comes to You in a Brown Paper Bag and we sat in his living room chatting leisurely.
I see what appears to be a spotlight searching around Larry's street. We then realize we've been hearing a helicopter overheard for a bit of time. It then becomes clear there is some sort of situation. Out in his backyard we hear from the chopper "Please surrender and give up your weapons."
I was half-hoping to hear them say "We have you surrounded."
Larry lives right at a "T" of two streets, with one end marked off with police tape and the other two blocked by police cars with their flashing lights. Despite all of this, he figured he'd be able to leave without a hitch. As he walked to his car he was informed that not only was he not able to leave, but that he wasn't even supposed to be outside his house.
According to the police officer, there were people in the neighborhood with weapons and the police couldn't find them.
We sat, metaphorical prisoners. Larry finally told his date to just come and pick him up and while they didn't let her past the police line, they did let Larry walk up the street toward the safe zone, but only if he would walk on the opposite side of the street.
We'd later find out that there was a car chase in the neighborhood and that the perps crashed the vehicle and scattered. The cops nabbed one of the suspects but the other was loose, so they blocked off the neighborhood and slowly combed through each block searching for him. I do not know if he was apprehended or not.
I managed to sneak out of the abode the same way Larry did and Josh and I hit up Local (the name of the restaurant and not an indicator of it's caloric content) in Echo Park for grub. I'm told the premise of the restaurant is that everything is made from fresh, local ingredients. I had the braised lamb tips and it was alright, but mainly had me wondering who in the hell is raising lamb in the city? The lemonade was clearly fresh, but too tart for my taste. I did find myself completely floored by their apple-cream chesse-caramel-sea salt hot desert…that dish totally made the meal.
From there we went back to Josh's crib and shot the shit, connecting over the fact that we both owned the same weird Mudhoney t-shirt when we were teenagers (with the band depicted on a TV set on the front and fake TV Guide listings on the reverse). Josh showed me the missing chord to "Cold Brains" that'd been bugging me for a couple of years, all while a video of him backing Beck back in 2003 played on the television.
Our buddy Steve came over and 3/4's of the band Kore Krew was in full-effect. There's unreleased recordings of us that, if Steve ever gets off his ass, might even be worth releasing. Called it a night and searching for Steve's car on the street for about 20 minutes was kinda hilarious.
Steve dropped me off back at Larry's, but not before taking me to the 7-11 in Eagle Rock, where for the third night in a row, I bought a pink-frosted donut with sprinkles. I think said donuts contain crack, as I was fucking hooked on these things like schadenfreude enthusiasts to Amy Winehouse.
We left from Larry's the next afternoon, but not before I worked out a trade for his out-of-print Cotton Museum 10" that was high atop my want list. Drive to San Diego seemed quicker and easier than usual.
The show that eve was a birthday party for a local radio station with two more bands on the bill than we're used to on the TVOTR/DBOMBS chuckwagon. We would be the second band. Noticing that TVOTR's soundcheck ran a little late, I figured there was no way we'd even get a chance to soundcheck, so I walked up the street to the mall.
The only store I'd visit was Levi's. While still never having bought a new pair of them in my life, I still always give them a chance. They had Orange Tab reissues that were absent when I visited my sister's store in Chicago, so I took the bait and took a pair of skinny fit and a pair of flares, both 36x32, to the dressing room.
The skinny fit was almost a joke on my end…with the circumference of one of my thighs hovering around that of a moderate-sized oak tree, there's hardly a "cut" that can diminish their impact. But after I found the flares were GASP, baggy and I contemplated the benefits of diversifying my blue jean reserves, no doubt inspired by an article I'd just read in GQ. $80 later and I'm the proud/confused owner of a new pair of Levis slim fit Orange Tab jeans. Weird.
While in line at Levis I got a call that it was time to soundcheck. Unexpectedly, TVOTR's tour manager had thrown some weight to get us the luxury so I hoofed it quickly back to the club and marveled at the monitor engineer walking around barefoot with the most vile, gouted, purple, misshapen feet I'd ever seen. Gross.
Zack and I walked up the street to Pokez for burritos that were offensively large. It is my hope with the new administration in Washington that someone steps up and puts and end to burrito inflation. I don't think, with our economy in the state that it is, that we can afford to keep making these things the size of one of Jupiter's more substantial moons. Zack wants me to mention that I could not even finish mine and that it should be a source of pride for Pokez. If he has any other input he can start his own blog.
Opening band was made up of DJ's from the sponsoring radio station, including John "Speedo" Reis of Rocket From the Crypt/Swami Records notoriety. They did all covers and I didn't quite know what to make of it…song selection was good with VU, the Who, Elvis Costello and other hip choices. Mick came out and sang "I Wanna Be Your Dog" as their final number and the rest of us D'bombs commented on how easy it is to forget what a commanding frontman the guy is.
Being in the unfavorable 2nd of four bands slot, we came at it with a bit of spite, not at any particular person, but just the situation. Thankfully, it translated, the crowd dug it and when I threw my floor tom from the audience back onto the stage and it unpredictably landed perfectly balanced on top of my bass drum (a feat of skill that could not be matched if I tried to replicate it a thousand times) I knew that the gods were on our side that night.
The third band (the generally inoffensive Delta Spirit) was clearly daunted by their spot on the bill. The fun thing was with us having to make it to San Fran for the show the next night, we didn't even stick around to watch them flail. We loaded up and hit I-5 for about four hours before we'd get our slumber that night, knowing full well that we'd rocked to the fullest of our capabilities.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
TVOTR: Halloween, Waterslide, Election Day...
Hauled ass to get to Kansas City on time. The show would take place in an atrium-like space in the Power and Light District. Nothing within a half-mile of this complex looked like it was built before 2005. All new, shiny, soulless and unfailingly gross.
There was a bit of confusion as to what the running order of bands would be. TVOTR would obviously be headlining and our contract said we were to go on immediately before them. But Shiny Toy Guns, a new wave band signed to Universal and most definitely destined for failure was possibly going in the direct support slot because, you know, they're on Universal.
After loading and being assured we would get nothing remotely resembling a sound check, I took off walking down the street. KC has an arts district, supposedly, but everything seemed to be closed early for Halloween. The building for the local newspaper, the Kansas City Star, seemed to take up a remarkable city block and serve as a prime example of engaging modern architecture that the Power and Light District should be taking cues from.
With an exorbitant amount of time to kill, Zack and I took the van to some record store that we spent approximately 45 seconds in. Up the street was a high-end vintage store that, while having prime selection only slightly overpriced (operating as an establishment where all merchandise is perpetually "on sale"), failed to offer anything compelling enough to purchase.
Got back to the venue before Shiny Toy Guns played. I did not watch them, but what I heard through the walls was enough to tell me I would not like them. The fact that they went ten minutes over their set time was not cool either.
We slung some hop in our step and got our shit up mad quick. By the time we got onstage we were only five minutes behind schedule. The whole food-court style space was completely fucking packed, a free radio station-sponsored show on Halloween apparently being a big draw in this town. There were at least three thousand people there and I'd bet 2936 of them had never heard of us.
Nevertheless, we pulled out all the stops to rock them. Somewhere in the middle I lost the stick in my right hand while playing my floor tom. I grabbed another and then saw a hole in my drum skin and the stick slowly sliding inside it, like the drum survived solely on the corpses of drumsticks and was yelling "FEED ME BENNY, FEED ME!"
Luckily, TVOTR has a spare tom on stage right so I ran back and grabbed up, clamped the mic down on the rim and smoothly pretended like nothing ever happened.
Not sure if the crowd was wowed or not, by the time we were wrapping up I decided to pull out all the stops. Grabbed my snare drum, climbed a speaker stack and then started playing it on top of there. Threw the snare at the rest of my kit and knocked down a bunch of shit. Then grabbed my floor tom and slammed it on top of a cymbal stand.
From there, requisite bass drum standing rock out ending.
I think we won them over.
TVOTR were highly into the Halloween spirit (Mick and I made no effort at costumes, Pat, Ko and Zack all wore Zorro-style masks and Z also gave himself fake facial hair) and between Sexy Santa, Gingerbread Man, undead zombie, some kind of monk and more, they looked it.
They'd even convinced the singer of that night's openers Beautiful Bodies to hop onstage during "Wolf Like Me" and pour fake blood all over herself. We hid toward the back of the stage to watch this. Suddenly, guitar tech Sean handed me a water bottle filled with fake blood and gestured toward the stage. Not wanting to anger the headliners, I got up there and poured they syrupy slop over her already-drenched head. I hope it looked cool.
Good costumes were: Jackie Starr from Semi-Pro, the Ralph Macchio shower curtain from Karate Kid and a blackface Mr. T.
After the show to the hotel, some kind of fraternity ballroom party in the Hyatt and it looked like Freaknik in there. I'm just glad the room had an iPod dock and a king-size bed.
Next morning we cruise over to Arthur Bryant's barbeque. After spending so much time the previous day in what amounted to a mall food court, it was nice to frequent an establishment with a little bit of flavor.
The building is no-frills, other than the requisite legendary restaurant fare (laudatory press clippings, photos of Presidents eating there). The line on this day would almost snake out the door. The half-hour wait in line was worth it. The barbeque at Bryant's maintains an almost cult-like following and once you taste it it's easy to see why.
I ordered the standard, can't-go-wrong classic of the beef sandwich, fries and lemonade. Once coupled with the original sauce it was sheer gastronomical heaven. I hate to belabor the point, but this is what America is all about. Restaurants started by minorities with inauspicious beginnings, serving gut-busting, artery clogging fare, servicing a community with quality and reliability year after year…you DO NOT find this anywhere else in the world. People do not lionize kebab shops in England, they don't worship the automats in the Netherlands. No one talks about a sausage place "you just have to go to" in Germany. No, it's quite clear that glory applied to long-standing greasy spoons is strictly an American construct. And this is why I love America.
We make a quick pit stop in Lawrence, KS and I spend all of our allotted one hour at Love Garden Sounds. What a great record store. I remember loving it the first time I was there back in 2000 and even moreso each subsequent visit. I got LP's by the Treniers, Art Phag, the Plaster Caster Blues Band and some 7"s by Sex Vid, Gary Numan, Fag Cop, etc.
Our stop for the night would be the Holiday Inn in Hays, KS. Main attraction: indoor waterslide. I've already espoused my newfound love for these amusements, but when coupled with screaming Grain Belt white trash, I've got a little less love for them than I had in an empty Edmonton pool.
While originally intending to eat at the Chili's up the road, when I realized that "Saturday Night Live" would be on in 45 minutes I switched it up. I've been a fan of "SNL" for as long as I can remember and not being hip to Hula or any other online viewing platform, I just wanted to watch the shit live as it happened.
So instead Pat and I went to eat at the sports bar inside the hotel. The Stadium Club was criminally understaffed and a long look at the menu had me instantly regret our foregoing of Chili's. I ordered a French dip and steak soup. Pat got a salad (borderline rotten tomatoes, iceberg lettuce, shredded cheddar cheese) and chicken wings. After twenty minutes and not having even received my soup, I told Pat I just wanted to throw a twenty on the table and just walk away.
He told me to go back to my room, that he would tell them to put my food in a carry-out container and all would be fine. This put me back in my room to catch the opening sketch and having had a crush on Tina Fey since high school I was happy to see her. Pat brought me my food, I thanked him, ate it and then soon thereafter suffered a headache and diarrhea.
Denver was alright. Record store next door and I bought the Cobain: Unseen book and some import Black Lips singles. Started with a dull crowd and by the last third of the set they'd really gotten into it. I jumped into the crowd with my floor tom and beat away like some primal savage, pouring beer on it for premium Stomp-like theatrics. They liked it.
It was TVOTR's tour manager Zoe's birthday, so that somehow translated into a bunch of folks going to a strip club. One unnamed member of the party actually received kisses from a stripper and upon leaving the establishment for a (possibly) gay bar would not stop talking about how much more fun the strip club was and how they should all go back there. I did not go to the strip club. I hate those places. I'm operating on second-hand knowledge here.
In the middle of the night, completely asleep and unaware, Zack says "I'm gonna slit your fucking throat." Did I mention we share a bed? It was equally creepy and hilarious.
That morning while on the phone with someone back in Detroit, Zack was notified that Allen Iverson had just been traded to the Detroit Pistons. He was instantly in a panic, said he had to get off the phone, pulled up the Freep website, read the news and literally jumped up hooting and hollering and running around the room like he'd just seen his first ever pair of boobs.
We would leave Denver on the 3rd with that day and the following one off for driving. We'd end up in Cedar City, Utah on the evening of the 3rd, TVOTR offering us their daytime shower rooms as they had to head off to LA around midnight. Their generosity in saving us around $160 for the night was immensely appreciated and it's small gestures like that that show you a connection has been made between bands on tour.
Next morning at Starbucks and when Pat is standing next to me as I order my venti chai tea frappacino and marshmallow square the lady asks me "Will you two be together?" I reply with "This guy's creepy. I don't even know him." And as she guffaws heartily I tip her $5 for laughing at my joke.
Pat then says "I've got a $5 tip if you tell Ben he shouldn't be so mean" and so as she tells me that Pat drops Lincoln in the jar.
I counter with "There's another $5 if you tell Pat that he's been getting on everyone's nerves lately" and as she does I'd then officially tipped $10 on a $7 purchase.
Pat was fresh outta fives and asked "When have I been getting on everyone's nerves?"
"You haven't," I said. "I just wanted to have a reason to tip her again."
The middle-aged women working the counter were all aflutter and we began to talk about being on tour in a rock band and sure enough one of the ladies had grown-up in Detroit at 8 Mile and Schaefer. What a small world.
Zack later told me he was really impressed by my tip. I told him that's just how I roll.
The 3rd and 4th of November would prove to be two long driving days spent almost entirely in the van listening to satellite radio coverage of the election, switching between NPR and CNN, the entire van excited with every babble of a pro-Obama outlook and awash with profanity with any mention of the words McCain, Palin or anything rhyming with them.
These two days will always stand-out for me, first off, because we had both of them off. It'd be the first time this entire tour we'd have two days off in a row. Second, There was a palpable heft to everything happening in the world. Our jokes and goofing around aside, there was a seriousness we could not shake, everyone's heads clearly eager for the best and deeply hoping they would not have to utilize the "Disaster Plan" if the election turned unfavorable.
Most of all it felt like we were living in a strange vacuum. A little over five years ago I felt this same when we tore ass through the Midwest after ending a tour in Lawrence, KS and in some unspoken pact trying to return to Detroit before the US invasion of Iraq would begin. We made it with a couple of hours to spare and although I had a feeling the world had become a worse place that night, at least I was at home while it was happening.
So cruising into LA with election results pouring in positively was electrifying in an oddly similar way, like a race against a completely arbitrary imaginary line. Your mind starts inventing strange games when you're spending upwards of 8 hours a day in a van and trying to get to Los Angeles before the election was officially called seemed to be the one I'd invented.
Each subsequent electoral vote tallied in the Obama column had our excitement kicking up a notch. As we dropped off Ko at her hotel in Hollywood around 8pm PST, Obama was projected as winning and I felt like a heavy weight that'd been unspokenly on all of our shoulders the entire tour had been lifted. Not only had "we" won the election, but "we" had also managed to defeat that imaginary line I'd dreamed up in some moment of completely vacuous van time. Whereas years ago it felt good to be home for what seemed like the dawn of a very crucial and foreboding time, now it felt conversely great to be somewhere other than home to celebrate what is clearly the pinnacle of hope, motivation and positivity in the United States in my lifetime and most likely my parents' lifetimes too.
We celebrated with our friend Dale and his wife and 3-year-old daughter. We went to the Cha Cha Lounge, were whisked past the velvet rope straight into the club and reveled in the percentage of Seattle ex-pats occupying the room. We munched at an impossibly delicious taco truck next to a Vons supermarket parking lot. It was late at night and everything felt like it was going in the right direction.
To think that only one of us in the band failed to vote...
There was a bit of confusion as to what the running order of bands would be. TVOTR would obviously be headlining and our contract said we were to go on immediately before them. But Shiny Toy Guns, a new wave band signed to Universal and most definitely destined for failure was possibly going in the direct support slot because, you know, they're on Universal.
After loading and being assured we would get nothing remotely resembling a sound check, I took off walking down the street. KC has an arts district, supposedly, but everything seemed to be closed early for Halloween. The building for the local newspaper, the Kansas City Star, seemed to take up a remarkable city block and serve as a prime example of engaging modern architecture that the Power and Light District should be taking cues from.
With an exorbitant amount of time to kill, Zack and I took the van to some record store that we spent approximately 45 seconds in. Up the street was a high-end vintage store that, while having prime selection only slightly overpriced (operating as an establishment where all merchandise is perpetually "on sale"), failed to offer anything compelling enough to purchase.
Got back to the venue before Shiny Toy Guns played. I did not watch them, but what I heard through the walls was enough to tell me I would not like them. The fact that they went ten minutes over their set time was not cool either.
We slung some hop in our step and got our shit up mad quick. By the time we got onstage we were only five minutes behind schedule. The whole food-court style space was completely fucking packed, a free radio station-sponsored show on Halloween apparently being a big draw in this town. There were at least three thousand people there and I'd bet 2936 of them had never heard of us.
Nevertheless, we pulled out all the stops to rock them. Somewhere in the middle I lost the stick in my right hand while playing my floor tom. I grabbed another and then saw a hole in my drum skin and the stick slowly sliding inside it, like the drum survived solely on the corpses of drumsticks and was yelling "FEED ME BENNY, FEED ME!"
Luckily, TVOTR has a spare tom on stage right so I ran back and grabbed up, clamped the mic down on the rim and smoothly pretended like nothing ever happened.
Not sure if the crowd was wowed or not, by the time we were wrapping up I decided to pull out all the stops. Grabbed my snare drum, climbed a speaker stack and then started playing it on top of there. Threw the snare at the rest of my kit and knocked down a bunch of shit. Then grabbed my floor tom and slammed it on top of a cymbal stand.
From there, requisite bass drum standing rock out ending.
I think we won them over.
TVOTR were highly into the Halloween spirit (Mick and I made no effort at costumes, Pat, Ko and Zack all wore Zorro-style masks and Z also gave himself fake facial hair) and between Sexy Santa, Gingerbread Man, undead zombie, some kind of monk and more, they looked it.
They'd even convinced the singer of that night's openers Beautiful Bodies to hop onstage during "Wolf Like Me" and pour fake blood all over herself. We hid toward the back of the stage to watch this. Suddenly, guitar tech Sean handed me a water bottle filled with fake blood and gestured toward the stage. Not wanting to anger the headliners, I got up there and poured they syrupy slop over her already-drenched head. I hope it looked cool.
Good costumes were: Jackie Starr from Semi-Pro, the Ralph Macchio shower curtain from Karate Kid and a blackface Mr. T.
After the show to the hotel, some kind of fraternity ballroom party in the Hyatt and it looked like Freaknik in there. I'm just glad the room had an iPod dock and a king-size bed.
Next morning we cruise over to Arthur Bryant's barbeque. After spending so much time the previous day in what amounted to a mall food court, it was nice to frequent an establishment with a little bit of flavor.
The building is no-frills, other than the requisite legendary restaurant fare (laudatory press clippings, photos of Presidents eating there). The line on this day would almost snake out the door. The half-hour wait in line was worth it. The barbeque at Bryant's maintains an almost cult-like following and once you taste it it's easy to see why.
I ordered the standard, can't-go-wrong classic of the beef sandwich, fries and lemonade. Once coupled with the original sauce it was sheer gastronomical heaven. I hate to belabor the point, but this is what America is all about. Restaurants started by minorities with inauspicious beginnings, serving gut-busting, artery clogging fare, servicing a community with quality and reliability year after year…you DO NOT find this anywhere else in the world. People do not lionize kebab shops in England, they don't worship the automats in the Netherlands. No one talks about a sausage place "you just have to go to" in Germany. No, it's quite clear that glory applied to long-standing greasy spoons is strictly an American construct. And this is why I love America.
We make a quick pit stop in Lawrence, KS and I spend all of our allotted one hour at Love Garden Sounds. What a great record store. I remember loving it the first time I was there back in 2000 and even moreso each subsequent visit. I got LP's by the Treniers, Art Phag, the Plaster Caster Blues Band and some 7"s by Sex Vid, Gary Numan, Fag Cop, etc.
Our stop for the night would be the Holiday Inn in Hays, KS. Main attraction: indoor waterslide. I've already espoused my newfound love for these amusements, but when coupled with screaming Grain Belt white trash, I've got a little less love for them than I had in an empty Edmonton pool.
While originally intending to eat at the Chili's up the road, when I realized that "Saturday Night Live" would be on in 45 minutes I switched it up. I've been a fan of "SNL" for as long as I can remember and not being hip to Hula or any other online viewing platform, I just wanted to watch the shit live as it happened.
So instead Pat and I went to eat at the sports bar inside the hotel. The Stadium Club was criminally understaffed and a long look at the menu had me instantly regret our foregoing of Chili's. I ordered a French dip and steak soup. Pat got a salad (borderline rotten tomatoes, iceberg lettuce, shredded cheddar cheese) and chicken wings. After twenty minutes and not having even received my soup, I told Pat I just wanted to throw a twenty on the table and just walk away.
He told me to go back to my room, that he would tell them to put my food in a carry-out container and all would be fine. This put me back in my room to catch the opening sketch and having had a crush on Tina Fey since high school I was happy to see her. Pat brought me my food, I thanked him, ate it and then soon thereafter suffered a headache and diarrhea.
Denver was alright. Record store next door and I bought the Cobain: Unseen book and some import Black Lips singles. Started with a dull crowd and by the last third of the set they'd really gotten into it. I jumped into the crowd with my floor tom and beat away like some primal savage, pouring beer on it for premium Stomp-like theatrics. They liked it.
It was TVOTR's tour manager Zoe's birthday, so that somehow translated into a bunch of folks going to a strip club. One unnamed member of the party actually received kisses from a stripper and upon leaving the establishment for a (possibly) gay bar would not stop talking about how much more fun the strip club was and how they should all go back there. I did not go to the strip club. I hate those places. I'm operating on second-hand knowledge here.
In the middle of the night, completely asleep and unaware, Zack says "I'm gonna slit your fucking throat." Did I mention we share a bed? It was equally creepy and hilarious.
That morning while on the phone with someone back in Detroit, Zack was notified that Allen Iverson had just been traded to the Detroit Pistons. He was instantly in a panic, said he had to get off the phone, pulled up the Freep website, read the news and literally jumped up hooting and hollering and running around the room like he'd just seen his first ever pair of boobs.
We would leave Denver on the 3rd with that day and the following one off for driving. We'd end up in Cedar City, Utah on the evening of the 3rd, TVOTR offering us their daytime shower rooms as they had to head off to LA around midnight. Their generosity in saving us around $160 for the night was immensely appreciated and it's small gestures like that that show you a connection has been made between bands on tour.
Next morning at Starbucks and when Pat is standing next to me as I order my venti chai tea frappacino and marshmallow square the lady asks me "Will you two be together?" I reply with "This guy's creepy. I don't even know him." And as she guffaws heartily I tip her $5 for laughing at my joke.
Pat then says "I've got a $5 tip if you tell Ben he shouldn't be so mean" and so as she tells me that Pat drops Lincoln in the jar.
I counter with "There's another $5 if you tell Pat that he's been getting on everyone's nerves lately" and as she does I'd then officially tipped $10 on a $7 purchase.
Pat was fresh outta fives and asked "When have I been getting on everyone's nerves?"
"You haven't," I said. "I just wanted to have a reason to tip her again."
The middle-aged women working the counter were all aflutter and we began to talk about being on tour in a rock band and sure enough one of the ladies had grown-up in Detroit at 8 Mile and Schaefer. What a small world.
Zack later told me he was really impressed by my tip. I told him that's just how I roll.
The 3rd and 4th of November would prove to be two long driving days spent almost entirely in the van listening to satellite radio coverage of the election, switching between NPR and CNN, the entire van excited with every babble of a pro-Obama outlook and awash with profanity with any mention of the words McCain, Palin or anything rhyming with them.
These two days will always stand-out for me, first off, because we had both of them off. It'd be the first time this entire tour we'd have two days off in a row. Second, There was a palpable heft to everything happening in the world. Our jokes and goofing around aside, there was a seriousness we could not shake, everyone's heads clearly eager for the best and deeply hoping they would not have to utilize the "Disaster Plan" if the election turned unfavorable.
Most of all it felt like we were living in a strange vacuum. A little over five years ago I felt this same when we tore ass through the Midwest after ending a tour in Lawrence, KS and in some unspoken pact trying to return to Detroit before the US invasion of Iraq would begin. We made it with a couple of hours to spare and although I had a feeling the world had become a worse place that night, at least I was at home while it was happening.
So cruising into LA with election results pouring in positively was electrifying in an oddly similar way, like a race against a completely arbitrary imaginary line. Your mind starts inventing strange games when you're spending upwards of 8 hours a day in a van and trying to get to Los Angeles before the election was officially called seemed to be the one I'd invented.
Each subsequent electoral vote tallied in the Obama column had our excitement kicking up a notch. As we dropped off Ko at her hotel in Hollywood around 8pm PST, Obama was projected as winning and I felt like a heavy weight that'd been unspokenly on all of our shoulders the entire tour had been lifted. Not only had "we" won the election, but "we" had also managed to defeat that imaginary line I'd dreamed up in some moment of completely vacuous van time. Whereas years ago it felt good to be home for what seemed like the dawn of a very crucial and foreboding time, now it felt conversely great to be somewhere other than home to celebrate what is clearly the pinnacle of hope, motivation and positivity in the United States in my lifetime and most likely my parents' lifetimes too.
We celebrated with our friend Dale and his wife and 3-year-old daughter. We went to the Cha Cha Lounge, were whisked past the velvet rope straight into the club and reveled in the percentage of Seattle ex-pats occupying the room. We munched at an impossibly delicious taco truck next to a Vons supermarket parking lot. It was late at night and everything felt like it was going in the right direction.
To think that only one of us in the band failed to vote...
Monday, November 03, 2008
TVOTR Part Six: Rank Rooms and Oil Refiners...
Drive to Knoxville was sunny and refreshing. We stopped at Guitar Center where I bought sticks, a snare head and snares and then "checked-in" to our room at the Extended Stay. This was around 4 in the afternoon. We unloaded our bags and stood patiently in the lobby only to be told that our rooms were not ready.
Really? What's the recommended check-in time then? I'm sorry but you've let us down twice now, I've got not choice but to publicly declare you unfit for touring bands to lodge at.
Bijou Theater had a jovial and joking crew and it made load-in and soundcheck all the much more enjoyable. Mick and I ventured up the street, always under close watch of the Sunsphere, to the Tomato Head restaurant. While it received rave reviews from our tour/band mates, it was satisfied but not blown away. Yet at this point in a tour, any meal that's made to order, doesn't make you vomit and is warm gets a thumbs-up…so thumbs-up to you Tomato Head.
Playing rock and roll music in a seated theater (as an opener) is something I would not wish upon any of you. Stewart the sax-man from TVOTR joined us for "Underdog" and even that seemed to fail to rile the crowd. The less-than-full attendance at least made it possible for me to jump off the stage and climb on the backs of chairs to the middle of the theater and bang on my floor tom right there. Woo-hoo.
Trying to open a window later that eve at the Extended Inn and the screen popped out like some kind of ghetto fab operation. Being on the second floor, I had to have Zack outside to hand me the screen and then bend the shit out of it to get it in a shape that would prevent it from falling out again. How does this establishment survive?
First thing next morning we partake in a long-needed clean-up of the van. Did I mention I found eight different backstage towels in the van when we loaded out in Atlanta? All in various degrees of sweat-soak? And that NO ONE in the band would take responsibility for ANY of them? Like they just magically appeared? I've got a prime suspect (the one who quickly tried changing the subject when everyone else in the van solidly denied any use of the towels) but I won't divulge the name here.
Vacuuming out the van is a fun time, got to show Zack how much of his crap was laying out in the open in the van and amidst the re-organizing and cleaning, the whole space feels cleaner and IS cleaner and has got to be an incredible boost for both mental and respiratory health.
From there off to PF Chang's. All seemed excited about this except Pat, and while everyone seemed delighted with their dish, Pat moped about his $18 salmon not hitting the spot. Conversations earlier this year found me posing the question "Why do Baby-Boomers love the Olive Garden so much? Can't they tell it's a fucking joke? Will there be something that is looked at with similar ridicule with Gen X/Gen Y when they get old?"
In short, it was postulated that Boomers (and older) love Olive Garden because of their unlimited soup and salad. That's it. To them, that's a bargain unlike no other. And yes, there will be a restaurant that our children laugh at us for liking and it is called PF Chang's. You heard it here first.
Day-off drive and we end up in Benton, Arkansas. We did nothing else.
Drive into Texas would be note-worthy for us seeing gas priced at $1.98/gallon. Wow. With about an hour to kill in Dallas, Ko directed the van to a Whole Foods and once parked I hopped up the street to the antique mall (some cool shit, modern furniture, etc that I couldn't take with me) and Good Records.
I bought the Flesh Eaters A Minute to Live, A Second to Die and David Candy's Play Power and picked up a copy of the special-edition book copy of Spirtiualized's Songs in A+E for Ko, as she'd been looking for one.
Lakewood Theater was a cool room. Dating back to the age of the one screen neighborhood movie house, they still show films from time to time and it maintains a certain level of Art Deco design that makes it stick out from the endless blur of other rooms we've played.
I think we won over some fans.
After the show we ended up at the Lakewood Landing with some of the TVOTR guys. It was a nice "upscale dive" as per their description. Met one of the guys from the Paper Chase there and it was nice to put a face to a name I've read countless times in Kill Rock Stars email blasts.
Stayed in a Double Tree again, this time no cookies or cockroaches. Woke up early for a swimming pool shower and the outdoor pool was SO-FUCKING-COLD! I could not manage to get in any further than above my waist and upon exit my legs both felt frostbit to the bone.
Hope of visiting the Sixth Floor Museum was again dashed, this time by a stop at a WaMu. We hit the road for Houston and were looking forward to crossing another House of Blues off our list. I think once we play all of them we get a drink named after us.
Backstage at HoB was a whirlwind of Zack watching previews for the start of the NBA season and me trying to book five separate flights for our European tour. Mick wanted to go out early and to/from New York, Ko wanted to stay late, so did Zack. It was one huge clusterfuck. What was available to me on the Orbitz website the night before as roundtrip flights from Detroit to London for about $730 turned into one-stop each way flights in the upper eight-hundreds.
The rub was, when searching the Orbitz site, those flights I'd seen earlier, those highly desired direct flights where the taxes/fees were equal to the actual ticket charge, still showed up. When trying to choose them, an alert would pop up saying the fare had changed to $3500. In the span of a day or so.
As soon as I walked onstage and started the beat to "Leopardman" I was struck with a nagging headache. First time I can remember actually having to play through one. Not fun. As soon as we were done I abstained from load-out and instead finished the booking of flights, the proverbial thorn in my side.
Would be the first night I joined TVOTR for the encore percussion mayhem and with a set of sleighbells in each hand, I hardly hesitate to say that I rocked that shit.
We had booked a hotel on Priceline and we ended up at the Red Roof Inn. When Zack, Mick and I entered our room we were immediately struck with a smell that was equally overpowering parts of rotten fish and dried blood. Zack called the front desk to bitch and with no more double rooms in the building they gave us to singles. Zack, the proactive one, got his own room, you know, for the effort. Mick and I shared the other single and that merely smelled like an ashtray. Red Roof Inn…never again.
We got into Austin early with the express intent of getting some band photos with Zack. Sitek had some photog friends who were up to the challenge so between our time spent behind the stage at Stubb's and underneath a stylish bridge near a jogging path, I think we got some useable shots.
Free food from Stubb's kitchen was served amazingly quick, but with the listed prices (that I didn't have to pay) I thought my serving would be a little larger. Nevertheless, the brisket was outstanding and the mashed potatoes and mac'n'cheese were spot-on as well. It was all served with amazing quickness…I ordered, sent a text message, and by the time I was done with my text, my plate was in front of me. Now that's service.
Stubb's outdoor space is massive…the capacity is listed at 2200 and in that space is just looks like a never-ending sea of bodies. They were packed tight up front for our set and they did not disappoint. I hopped down into the middle of it all and banged on my tom for a bit and had fun doing it.
We had to leave almost immediately after our set, but not before Zack donned a gingerbread man costume and surprised the TVOTR dudes during "Golden Age", the costumed, dancing equivalent of John McCain, unable to lift his arms over his chest. It had me wondering…if I was at the show, didn't know any better, and saw someone in a gingerbread costume hop on stage and start dancing, would I think it was funny?
My honest answer is, I think it would be even MORE funny if I was not expecting it.
We hit a rest stop outside of Austin with a Subway in side. The sandwich artist has zombie make-up on and his nametag reads "Vampire" and solely because of his enthusiasm in character, was able to convince to get a 12" (instead of a 6") and to switch from my standard Italian BMT to the cheaper, healthier, less-hammy Spicy Italian. I wish there was a tip jar, because I would've gladly dropped a $20 in for that kid.
We drove five hours after the show and when we picked an exit with hotels we stopped at four before we finally found one with vacancy. The Best Western never disappoints. I stayed up so I could catch the early end of breakfast. I walked down in my standard breakfast uniform (zipper boots, no socks, soccer shorts, t-shirt) and walked into a room full of manly men. Ugh.
I was figuring someone would call me "faggot" and had no proper response prepared. While I was waiting for my succulent waffle to finish cooking, I realized there were no empty tables. I'd have to sit with one of these dudes. Ugh.
The dude I ended up across from started the conversation "You from Houston?" (I was wearing my Gamblers t-shirt) and I proceeded to find out he was traveling too. Not a trucker, but one who travels to work in refineries. He was away from his wife and kids but the money was too good to pass up. He explained to me the intricacies of it all and I was fascinated. One of the other fellas on his crew spoke up too. Was displaced by Hurricane Katrina, came to Texas, found work in refineries and in three years, bought a house, paid off his truck, bought a Lexus and a Harley. He said "I thought it was the biggest secret in the world how much they pay people!"
They were genuinely genial and it was a proper joy talking to them and I felt like an idiot thinking they were going to make fun of me. It's random moments meeting people who totally destroy your expectations that brighten the day.
Really? What's the recommended check-in time then? I'm sorry but you've let us down twice now, I've got not choice but to publicly declare you unfit for touring bands to lodge at.
Bijou Theater had a jovial and joking crew and it made load-in and soundcheck all the much more enjoyable. Mick and I ventured up the street, always under close watch of the Sunsphere, to the Tomato Head restaurant. While it received rave reviews from our tour/band mates, it was satisfied but not blown away. Yet at this point in a tour, any meal that's made to order, doesn't make you vomit and is warm gets a thumbs-up…so thumbs-up to you Tomato Head.
Playing rock and roll music in a seated theater (as an opener) is something I would not wish upon any of you. Stewart the sax-man from TVOTR joined us for "Underdog" and even that seemed to fail to rile the crowd. The less-than-full attendance at least made it possible for me to jump off the stage and climb on the backs of chairs to the middle of the theater and bang on my floor tom right there. Woo-hoo.
Trying to open a window later that eve at the Extended Inn and the screen popped out like some kind of ghetto fab operation. Being on the second floor, I had to have Zack outside to hand me the screen and then bend the shit out of it to get it in a shape that would prevent it from falling out again. How does this establishment survive?
First thing next morning we partake in a long-needed clean-up of the van. Did I mention I found eight different backstage towels in the van when we loaded out in Atlanta? All in various degrees of sweat-soak? And that NO ONE in the band would take responsibility for ANY of them? Like they just magically appeared? I've got a prime suspect (the one who quickly tried changing the subject when everyone else in the van solidly denied any use of the towels) but I won't divulge the name here.
Vacuuming out the van is a fun time, got to show Zack how much of his crap was laying out in the open in the van and amidst the re-organizing and cleaning, the whole space feels cleaner and IS cleaner and has got to be an incredible boost for both mental and respiratory health.
From there off to PF Chang's. All seemed excited about this except Pat, and while everyone seemed delighted with their dish, Pat moped about his $18 salmon not hitting the spot. Conversations earlier this year found me posing the question "Why do Baby-Boomers love the Olive Garden so much? Can't they tell it's a fucking joke? Will there be something that is looked at with similar ridicule with Gen X/Gen Y when they get old?"
In short, it was postulated that Boomers (and older) love Olive Garden because of their unlimited soup and salad. That's it. To them, that's a bargain unlike no other. And yes, there will be a restaurant that our children laugh at us for liking and it is called PF Chang's. You heard it here first.
Day-off drive and we end up in Benton, Arkansas. We did nothing else.
Drive into Texas would be note-worthy for us seeing gas priced at $1.98/gallon. Wow. With about an hour to kill in Dallas, Ko directed the van to a Whole Foods and once parked I hopped up the street to the antique mall (some cool shit, modern furniture, etc that I couldn't take with me) and Good Records.
I bought the Flesh Eaters A Minute to Live, A Second to Die and David Candy's Play Power and picked up a copy of the special-edition book copy of Spirtiualized's Songs in A+E for Ko, as she'd been looking for one.
Lakewood Theater was a cool room. Dating back to the age of the one screen neighborhood movie house, they still show films from time to time and it maintains a certain level of Art Deco design that makes it stick out from the endless blur of other rooms we've played.
I think we won over some fans.
After the show we ended up at the Lakewood Landing with some of the TVOTR guys. It was a nice "upscale dive" as per their description. Met one of the guys from the Paper Chase there and it was nice to put a face to a name I've read countless times in Kill Rock Stars email blasts.
Stayed in a Double Tree again, this time no cookies or cockroaches. Woke up early for a swimming pool shower and the outdoor pool was SO-FUCKING-COLD! I could not manage to get in any further than above my waist and upon exit my legs both felt frostbit to the bone.
Hope of visiting the Sixth Floor Museum was again dashed, this time by a stop at a WaMu. We hit the road for Houston and were looking forward to crossing another House of Blues off our list. I think once we play all of them we get a drink named after us.
Backstage at HoB was a whirlwind of Zack watching previews for the start of the NBA season and me trying to book five separate flights for our European tour. Mick wanted to go out early and to/from New York, Ko wanted to stay late, so did Zack. It was one huge clusterfuck. What was available to me on the Orbitz website the night before as roundtrip flights from Detroit to London for about $730 turned into one-stop each way flights in the upper eight-hundreds.
The rub was, when searching the Orbitz site, those flights I'd seen earlier, those highly desired direct flights where the taxes/fees were equal to the actual ticket charge, still showed up. When trying to choose them, an alert would pop up saying the fare had changed to $3500. In the span of a day or so.
As soon as I walked onstage and started the beat to "Leopardman" I was struck with a nagging headache. First time I can remember actually having to play through one. Not fun. As soon as we were done I abstained from load-out and instead finished the booking of flights, the proverbial thorn in my side.
Would be the first night I joined TVOTR for the encore percussion mayhem and with a set of sleighbells in each hand, I hardly hesitate to say that I rocked that shit.
We had booked a hotel on Priceline and we ended up at the Red Roof Inn. When Zack, Mick and I entered our room we were immediately struck with a smell that was equally overpowering parts of rotten fish and dried blood. Zack called the front desk to bitch and with no more double rooms in the building they gave us to singles. Zack, the proactive one, got his own room, you know, for the effort. Mick and I shared the other single and that merely smelled like an ashtray. Red Roof Inn…never again.
We got into Austin early with the express intent of getting some band photos with Zack. Sitek had some photog friends who were up to the challenge so between our time spent behind the stage at Stubb's and underneath a stylish bridge near a jogging path, I think we got some useable shots.
Free food from Stubb's kitchen was served amazingly quick, but with the listed prices (that I didn't have to pay) I thought my serving would be a little larger. Nevertheless, the brisket was outstanding and the mashed potatoes and mac'n'cheese were spot-on as well. It was all served with amazing quickness…I ordered, sent a text message, and by the time I was done with my text, my plate was in front of me. Now that's service.
Stubb's outdoor space is massive…the capacity is listed at 2200 and in that space is just looks like a never-ending sea of bodies. They were packed tight up front for our set and they did not disappoint. I hopped down into the middle of it all and banged on my tom for a bit and had fun doing it.
We had to leave almost immediately after our set, but not before Zack donned a gingerbread man costume and surprised the TVOTR dudes during "Golden Age", the costumed, dancing equivalent of John McCain, unable to lift his arms over his chest. It had me wondering…if I was at the show, didn't know any better, and saw someone in a gingerbread costume hop on stage and start dancing, would I think it was funny?
My honest answer is, I think it would be even MORE funny if I was not expecting it.
We hit a rest stop outside of Austin with a Subway in side. The sandwich artist has zombie make-up on and his nametag reads "Vampire" and solely because of his enthusiasm in character, was able to convince to get a 12" (instead of a 6") and to switch from my standard Italian BMT to the cheaper, healthier, less-hammy Spicy Italian. I wish there was a tip jar, because I would've gladly dropped a $20 in for that kid.
We drove five hours after the show and when we picked an exit with hotels we stopped at four before we finally found one with vacancy. The Best Western never disappoints. I stayed up so I could catch the early end of breakfast. I walked down in my standard breakfast uniform (zipper boots, no socks, soccer shorts, t-shirt) and walked into a room full of manly men. Ugh.
I was figuring someone would call me "faggot" and had no proper response prepared. While I was waiting for my succulent waffle to finish cooking, I realized there were no empty tables. I'd have to sit with one of these dudes. Ugh.
The dude I ended up across from started the conversation "You from Houston?" (I was wearing my Gamblers t-shirt) and I proceeded to find out he was traveling too. Not a trucker, but one who travels to work in refineries. He was away from his wife and kids but the money was too good to pass up. He explained to me the intricacies of it all and I was fascinated. One of the other fellas on his crew spoke up too. Was displaced by Hurricane Katrina, came to Texas, found work in refineries and in three years, bought a house, paid off his truck, bought a Lexus and a Harley. He said "I thought it was the biggest secret in the world how much they pay people!"
They were genuinely genial and it was a proper joy talking to them and I felt like an idiot thinking they were going to make fun of me. It's random moments meeting people who totally destroy your expectations that brighten the day.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
TVOTR Part Five: Voodoo and Animal Shit...
Somewhere driving down to New Orleans we got caught with a counterfeit $10 bill. Shit's kinda scary…cashier came out of the gas station and said "You paid me with a fake ten" and it was confusing because I paid for the gas with band money, but bought a Vitamin Water with my own dough. The lady politely told us that she didn't have any tens in her drawer before we showed up. She handed over the offending bill and it was laughable how flimsy, fake and off-color it was. We apologized profusely and after trading her a proper Hamilton for the phony, we laughed it off.
It must've come to us at the merch table in Chicago. I wish there was a "Where's George?" for counterfeit bills. In discussing how to get rid of it (as change at the merch table, at another gas station, etc) we collectively decided to end the devastating circle and instead the piece-de-resistance now resides in the lining of our three-ring tour binder (holder of all our important contracts and deal memos) reminiscent of a sixth-grade Trapper Keeper.
Arrive in New Orleans early at the site for the Voodoo Music Festival. Showing up for a show at noon is pretty surreal. We all should have been sleeping.
We drove through the winding back roads to the Playstation stage (which doubled as an oversized Blu-Ray disc player), set-up our equipment and then were whisked away on an ever-so-swift golf cart to our very own tent, not really "furnished" moreso than a couch and a table, but there was a piece of paper on the outside that had our name on it, so we felt special.
We did a photo shoot that every band at the festival was required to do…something to be auctioned off with the proceeds going to victims of Hurricane Katrina. While sitting on a couch with a generic gray background and seeming like the whole shoot was to be a bust, I made a bold move and started to tickle Ko. Thus set off a chain reaction of tickling, slowly degenerating into an all-out manpile. The photog, happy, declared she had got her shot. Mission: accomplished.
From there back on a golf cart and onstage to run through a line check. A more prepared and quick sound crew I have not met. These guys knew what they were doing and it made us as a band step up our game. The sound in my monitors was perfect and for an outdoor festival, where complete and utter audio cacophony is the norm, that is no small accomplishment.
We took the stage at 2:45pm, right as the skies cleared up and the sun unleashed it's beating rays down on us. It was damn hot up there, sweatier than Larry Bird's jockstrap, and perplexing looking at acres of grass with attendees experiencing a clear abundance of personal space.
We took the adversity in stride and rocked the place. At the opposing end of the field, flanking the other main stage for the festival, were two massive video screens, showing the feed of the cameras fixed on us. There was a slight video delay and to watch that while performing is funny…like continuous access to the most immediate instant replay system in the world, where you wonder "hmmm…what was I doing .75 seconds ago? OF COURSE! I moved my arm to the left just a hair so I could make sure that the video was really of me and not some holographic, animatronic spectre of myself conjured by the mere name Voodoo Music Festival."
Seriously, I can't be the only person in the world who, when finds themselves on a monitor for surveillance or closed-circuit camera, does a unnecessary half-turn of the leg, hair flip, glance to the side or raise the roof as a way to just check the system, you know, make sure it's all working alright. Please tell me I'm not, I could really use the reassurance right about now.
Ended the set on top of Pat's bass drum with my floor tom in hand. With no actual ceiling above me, just wispy cerulean sky, I tossed that 16" blue satin flame Slingerland into the matching heavens and caught it with the delicacy of a guy on his first day on the receiving end at the fish flinging market. Confident, I tossed it again and with the throw being a little off, I veered off the bass drum to keep it from biffing Pat in the head.
With adroit skill I saved Pat's life from certain carnage, the only-slightly less destructive consequence was that my body took him out instead. Wiped out his hi-hat stand, his crash cymbal and his rack tom too. As it was happening, he said he was thinking to himself "no broken bones, no broken bones, no broken bones". To me, the entire thing looked like the scene in Nirvana's "Lithium" video, taken from their performance at the 1991 Reading Festival, where Cobain, with a running start, jumps whole hog into Grohl's drums and in the process dislocates his shoulder.
Luckily, with the film crew up our nostrils the entire time, I figured I'd be able to at least see how it looked to anyone who was fortunate enough to witness my floor tomfoolery. Given a DVD of the performance immediately after the set's completion, at the hotel later that night I was horrified to see that not only did the edit completely miss BOTH of my magnificent drum tosses, but instead of me completely wiping out on Pat for the second and most triumphant manpile of the day, the shot they did have was of Ko laughing at what had just happened out of frame.
Dammit.
After breaking down gear and toweling off the gallons of sweat, we drove the van back to our tent only to discover that it now belonged to Joss Stone. BOOOOOOOOOO. I think even the trail mix and Pepsi they'd put in there for us was gone. Out with the old, in with the new, kicked to the curb…it don't feel too hot. With dinner not served until 5:30, we killed time.
Zack and I sidled up to a Playstation for a friendly game of NBA whateverthefucktheycallit. I chose Cleveland, wanting to fully utilize the skillz of Lebaron James and Zack grabbed LA so that he could gloat "KO-BAY!" every five seconds.
It'd been awhile since I'd partook in any Playstationing and I needed a bit to get re-acquainted with the controller. Even so, it seems I'd forgotten the Left/Right buttons for each respective forefinger and thus missed out on the advantage that is "turbo".
Zack blew me away. We played 7-minute quarters and I lost by no less than 40 points. His outside game was strong and my domination in the unintentional intentional fouls/missed shots from beyond half-court tandem notwithstanding, I had fun. Upon completion Z commended me on my sticking with it for the entire duration, even though having been statistically eliminated from actually winning around the start of the second quarter. He said it showed character and that he himself would have quit long ago. I felt proud for losing with dignity.
5:30 rolled around and the wait for catering was instantly long, the serpentine chow line overflowing with everyone from festival volunteers to security guards to the artists themselves. Out of nowhere, Tom DeLonge of Blink-182 (who were shitty, but at least popular) and the lesser-cared-about (and playing Voodoo) Angels and Airwaves, is dropped off in one of them snazzy golf carts. Like it's no big thing, he cozies up to some friends/buddies/fellow douchebags toward the front of the line and slides in like it ain't no thing.
People in his position would usually just get someone else to grab their food for them, But no, this self-centered asshole saw nothing wrong with cutting in line in front of at least 70 people. WHAT-THE-FUCK? I wanted to go up to the idiot and ask him if he just didn't happen to notice everyone else waiting in line or if he thought it wasn't a big deal or what. Funnily enough, once I finally got my food, he'd already finished eating and was long gone.
Worst part about the wait was that the food was bad. The Italian sausage was barely passable and everything else was just slop. And having to stand in line for 30 minutes for it made it that much worse. I ate alone at an empty table before it filled up with college-aged volunteers excitedly discussing the minute details of a conversation one of them had with, you guessed it, Tom DeLonge. I quit.
I didn't watch any of the other bands play. This only hypothetically disappointed me if Stone Temple Pilots did "Big Bang Baby" or Wyclef Jean did ""We Trying to Stay Alive" as those are both my jams.
Before we left Joss Stone's drummer commented on how much he enjoyed our performance. That made me happy. There's hope for us yet.
Instead we trucked out early so we could make it to Atlanta in decent time. Ko was frazzled and when, in trying to ask the rest of the band a legitimate question I made some joke about "anal", she shutdown and would not say anything other than "just forget it."
I apologized for my admittedly awesome joke and tried to get her to come back to the rest of us, but she refused. It was awkward for a moment until Zack climbed on top of her and through either tickling, fear, fear of tickling or some Jedi shit, got her to laugh and open back up and all of us be a happy family again.
This will forever be known as the Zack Attack. You should be so lucky to find yourself on the receiving end of one at least once in your life.
Watched the DVD of the Voodoo performance in the hotel that night. I, among other band members, was not pleased with my appearance. Where'd that beard come from? Why didn't someone tell me I'm fat? Shit, I gots to get on that Nordic Trak soon.
Little Five Points in Atlanta was bumping, bumping…like someone forgot to turn the hipster faucet off. The new location of Criminal Records was nice, we manged some free pizza and I grabbed vols. 2 and 3 of the Mad Mike comp series on Norton as well as the Complete Motown Singles box Volume 9 (1969) with the lovely touring musician discount.
From there I walked around the corner and in trying to avoid what appeared to be some doctrine pusher along the lines of (but not) a Hare Krishna, I stepped in dog shit. Kindly enough, the fellow warned me about it AFTER I'd squashed my heel in it. I dragged my sole along the brick sidewalk and eliminated any sign/smell of the offense.
Not sixty seconds later, I'm standing outside a vintage clothing store with Zack when I am alarmed by the sudden appearance of black spots on my arm. Confused, I look at Zack and ask, "Did I just get shit on by a bird?" He replied in the affirmative and then told me to stand still as he would shake the fecal matter out of my hair. All that managed to do was get bird shit on him. I found the whole thing completely hilarious.
Off to the Tabernacle and we passed by Martin Luther King Jr's birthplace and the church where he served as pastor. Was bummed we didn't have time to check them out any moreso than from the van. Club used to be a House of Blues and still held all the requisite folk art and general good club amenities like big individual dressing rooms, private one-person bathrooms, catering, etc, etc. Before HOB it used to be an actual church and that's usually a good sign.
Did an interview before the show in my socks. Tried to grab some sleep during TvoTR but was unsuccessful. Saw Janelle Monae backstage, but didn't know who she was until I cracked open an old ish of GQ in the van a few days later and asked "Wasn't this girl at the Atlanta show?"
After the show we made it to the monthly dance party in the basement of the Highland Inn. What a fun, vibrant and completely impossible in Detroit gathering it was. We'd missed Greg Cartwright perform with a last minute Reigning Sound (including onetime Dirtbomb Adam Renshaw on drums) but instead enjoyed him spinning records. It was late but there were still kids on the dancefloor and the fact that they seemed into 60's psych records was encouraging for Atlanta, depressing for Detroit. I guess these are costume affairs and tonight's theme was Warhol characters and people seemed to take that shit seriously. Why would this never work in Detroit? Is funk night the only DJ'ing that gets hipsters dancing? Is ATL just experiencing the positive aftershocks of Cartoon Network/Adult Swim slowly taking over the city?
Talked with Jared from the Black Lips briefly. He said their new album is done, whereas when I saw him last, in July, he said they would be recording it themselves and "taking their time." Them boys are funny.
After slight confusion with street names involving the words "peach" and "tree" (in Atlanta? Really?) we checked into the Double Tree in Bucktown and had to share a mere three chocolate chip cookies we'd received on check-in.
Zack and I flipped the channels between "Knocked Up" and "Deal or No Deal" with Zack consistently criticizing EVERY decision the young pregnant contestant made on "Deal."
"She's too greedy"
"This is where everyone blows it"
"I can't believe she just did that"
It was hilarious to see how INVOLVED Zack got with the entire show. With two suitcases left, $1 million and $200k where the contestant is given the choice of switching briefcases, Z opened up
"Shit…that's fucked up they offer that."
And finally, when the contestant became the first to ever win $1 million, Zack admitted that, clearly, his critiques would be probably be best-leveled at another contestant.
Then out of nowhere, I spot something crawling up the wall out the corner of my eye. I exclaim dramatically (but not too loudly) "What the fuck is that?"
Upon closer inspection, we had a 2" long cockroach visiting our room at the 4-star Double Tree. Like a pair of 6-year-olds holding an old mayonnaise jar with a twig and some grass shoved inside, we deftly caught the offensive insect. Once imprisoned, I asked Zack what we should do. He excitedly replied "Let's get some free shit!"
Z hurried to the front desk and presented the bug to a startled clerk. With our rooms booked via Priceline he was not able to comp us. But he did give us five passes for free breakfast, a voucher for free parking and the code for free internet. Oh yeah, Zack was in his underwear when he negotiated this.
In hindsight we realized it naïve to take FOOD as compensation for discovering a cockroach in an establishment. Nevertheless, as Ko and Zack and I can attest, that Sunday breakfast buffet was tasty and worth our momentary stint as D-level Bindi Irwin's to get it.
It must've come to us at the merch table in Chicago. I wish there was a "Where's George?" for counterfeit bills. In discussing how to get rid of it (as change at the merch table, at another gas station, etc) we collectively decided to end the devastating circle and instead the piece-de-resistance now resides in the lining of our three-ring tour binder (holder of all our important contracts and deal memos) reminiscent of a sixth-grade Trapper Keeper.
Arrive in New Orleans early at the site for the Voodoo Music Festival. Showing up for a show at noon is pretty surreal. We all should have been sleeping.
We drove through the winding back roads to the Playstation stage (which doubled as an oversized Blu-Ray disc player), set-up our equipment and then were whisked away on an ever-so-swift golf cart to our very own tent, not really "furnished" moreso than a couch and a table, but there was a piece of paper on the outside that had our name on it, so we felt special.
We did a photo shoot that every band at the festival was required to do…something to be auctioned off with the proceeds going to victims of Hurricane Katrina. While sitting on a couch with a generic gray background and seeming like the whole shoot was to be a bust, I made a bold move and started to tickle Ko. Thus set off a chain reaction of tickling, slowly degenerating into an all-out manpile. The photog, happy, declared she had got her shot. Mission: accomplished.
From there back on a golf cart and onstage to run through a line check. A more prepared and quick sound crew I have not met. These guys knew what they were doing and it made us as a band step up our game. The sound in my monitors was perfect and for an outdoor festival, where complete and utter audio cacophony is the norm, that is no small accomplishment.
We took the stage at 2:45pm, right as the skies cleared up and the sun unleashed it's beating rays down on us. It was damn hot up there, sweatier than Larry Bird's jockstrap, and perplexing looking at acres of grass with attendees experiencing a clear abundance of personal space.
We took the adversity in stride and rocked the place. At the opposing end of the field, flanking the other main stage for the festival, were two massive video screens, showing the feed of the cameras fixed on us. There was a slight video delay and to watch that while performing is funny…like continuous access to the most immediate instant replay system in the world, where you wonder "hmmm…what was I doing .75 seconds ago? OF COURSE! I moved my arm to the left just a hair so I could make sure that the video was really of me and not some holographic, animatronic spectre of myself conjured by the mere name Voodoo Music Festival."
Seriously, I can't be the only person in the world who, when finds themselves on a monitor for surveillance or closed-circuit camera, does a unnecessary half-turn of the leg, hair flip, glance to the side or raise the roof as a way to just check the system, you know, make sure it's all working alright. Please tell me I'm not, I could really use the reassurance right about now.
Ended the set on top of Pat's bass drum with my floor tom in hand. With no actual ceiling above me, just wispy cerulean sky, I tossed that 16" blue satin flame Slingerland into the matching heavens and caught it with the delicacy of a guy on his first day on the receiving end at the fish flinging market. Confident, I tossed it again and with the throw being a little off, I veered off the bass drum to keep it from biffing Pat in the head.
With adroit skill I saved Pat's life from certain carnage, the only-slightly less destructive consequence was that my body took him out instead. Wiped out his hi-hat stand, his crash cymbal and his rack tom too. As it was happening, he said he was thinking to himself "no broken bones, no broken bones, no broken bones". To me, the entire thing looked like the scene in Nirvana's "Lithium" video, taken from their performance at the 1991 Reading Festival, where Cobain, with a running start, jumps whole hog into Grohl's drums and in the process dislocates his shoulder.
Luckily, with the film crew up our nostrils the entire time, I figured I'd be able to at least see how it looked to anyone who was fortunate enough to witness my floor tomfoolery. Given a DVD of the performance immediately after the set's completion, at the hotel later that night I was horrified to see that not only did the edit completely miss BOTH of my magnificent drum tosses, but instead of me completely wiping out on Pat for the second and most triumphant manpile of the day, the shot they did have was of Ko laughing at what had just happened out of frame.
Dammit.
After breaking down gear and toweling off the gallons of sweat, we drove the van back to our tent only to discover that it now belonged to Joss Stone. BOOOOOOOOOO. I think even the trail mix and Pepsi they'd put in there for us was gone. Out with the old, in with the new, kicked to the curb…it don't feel too hot. With dinner not served until 5:30, we killed time.
Zack and I sidled up to a Playstation for a friendly game of NBA whateverthefucktheycallit. I chose Cleveland, wanting to fully utilize the skillz of Lebaron James and Zack grabbed LA so that he could gloat "KO-BAY!" every five seconds.
It'd been awhile since I'd partook in any Playstationing and I needed a bit to get re-acquainted with the controller. Even so, it seems I'd forgotten the Left/Right buttons for each respective forefinger and thus missed out on the advantage that is "turbo".
Zack blew me away. We played 7-minute quarters and I lost by no less than 40 points. His outside game was strong and my domination in the unintentional intentional fouls/missed shots from beyond half-court tandem notwithstanding, I had fun. Upon completion Z commended me on my sticking with it for the entire duration, even though having been statistically eliminated from actually winning around the start of the second quarter. He said it showed character and that he himself would have quit long ago. I felt proud for losing with dignity.
5:30 rolled around and the wait for catering was instantly long, the serpentine chow line overflowing with everyone from festival volunteers to security guards to the artists themselves. Out of nowhere, Tom DeLonge of Blink-182 (who were shitty, but at least popular) and the lesser-cared-about (and playing Voodoo) Angels and Airwaves, is dropped off in one of them snazzy golf carts. Like it's no big thing, he cozies up to some friends/buddies/fellow douchebags toward the front of the line and slides in like it ain't no thing.
People in his position would usually just get someone else to grab their food for them, But no, this self-centered asshole saw nothing wrong with cutting in line in front of at least 70 people. WHAT-THE-FUCK? I wanted to go up to the idiot and ask him if he just didn't happen to notice everyone else waiting in line or if he thought it wasn't a big deal or what. Funnily enough, once I finally got my food, he'd already finished eating and was long gone.
Worst part about the wait was that the food was bad. The Italian sausage was barely passable and everything else was just slop. And having to stand in line for 30 minutes for it made it that much worse. I ate alone at an empty table before it filled up with college-aged volunteers excitedly discussing the minute details of a conversation one of them had with, you guessed it, Tom DeLonge. I quit.
I didn't watch any of the other bands play. This only hypothetically disappointed me if Stone Temple Pilots did "Big Bang Baby" or Wyclef Jean did ""We Trying to Stay Alive" as those are both my jams.
Before we left Joss Stone's drummer commented on how much he enjoyed our performance. That made me happy. There's hope for us yet.
Instead we trucked out early so we could make it to Atlanta in decent time. Ko was frazzled and when, in trying to ask the rest of the band a legitimate question I made some joke about "anal", she shutdown and would not say anything other than "just forget it."
I apologized for my admittedly awesome joke and tried to get her to come back to the rest of us, but she refused. It was awkward for a moment until Zack climbed on top of her and through either tickling, fear, fear of tickling or some Jedi shit, got her to laugh and open back up and all of us be a happy family again.
This will forever be known as the Zack Attack. You should be so lucky to find yourself on the receiving end of one at least once in your life.
Watched the DVD of the Voodoo performance in the hotel that night. I, among other band members, was not pleased with my appearance. Where'd that beard come from? Why didn't someone tell me I'm fat? Shit, I gots to get on that Nordic Trak soon.
Little Five Points in Atlanta was bumping, bumping…like someone forgot to turn the hipster faucet off. The new location of Criminal Records was nice, we manged some free pizza and I grabbed vols. 2 and 3 of the Mad Mike comp series on Norton as well as the Complete Motown Singles box Volume 9 (1969) with the lovely touring musician discount.
From there I walked around the corner and in trying to avoid what appeared to be some doctrine pusher along the lines of (but not) a Hare Krishna, I stepped in dog shit. Kindly enough, the fellow warned me about it AFTER I'd squashed my heel in it. I dragged my sole along the brick sidewalk and eliminated any sign/smell of the offense.
Not sixty seconds later, I'm standing outside a vintage clothing store with Zack when I am alarmed by the sudden appearance of black spots on my arm. Confused, I look at Zack and ask, "Did I just get shit on by a bird?" He replied in the affirmative and then told me to stand still as he would shake the fecal matter out of my hair. All that managed to do was get bird shit on him. I found the whole thing completely hilarious.
Off to the Tabernacle and we passed by Martin Luther King Jr's birthplace and the church where he served as pastor. Was bummed we didn't have time to check them out any moreso than from the van. Club used to be a House of Blues and still held all the requisite folk art and general good club amenities like big individual dressing rooms, private one-person bathrooms, catering, etc, etc. Before HOB it used to be an actual church and that's usually a good sign.
Did an interview before the show in my socks. Tried to grab some sleep during TvoTR but was unsuccessful. Saw Janelle Monae backstage, but didn't know who she was until I cracked open an old ish of GQ in the van a few days later and asked "Wasn't this girl at the Atlanta show?"
After the show we made it to the monthly dance party in the basement of the Highland Inn. What a fun, vibrant and completely impossible in Detroit gathering it was. We'd missed Greg Cartwright perform with a last minute Reigning Sound (including onetime Dirtbomb Adam Renshaw on drums) but instead enjoyed him spinning records. It was late but there were still kids on the dancefloor and the fact that they seemed into 60's psych records was encouraging for Atlanta, depressing for Detroit. I guess these are costume affairs and tonight's theme was Warhol characters and people seemed to take that shit seriously. Why would this never work in Detroit? Is funk night the only DJ'ing that gets hipsters dancing? Is ATL just experiencing the positive aftershocks of Cartoon Network/Adult Swim slowly taking over the city?
Talked with Jared from the Black Lips briefly. He said their new album is done, whereas when I saw him last, in July, he said they would be recording it themselves and "taking their time." Them boys are funny.
After slight confusion with street names involving the words "peach" and "tree" (in Atlanta? Really?) we checked into the Double Tree in Bucktown and had to share a mere three chocolate chip cookies we'd received on check-in.
Zack and I flipped the channels between "Knocked Up" and "Deal or No Deal" with Zack consistently criticizing EVERY decision the young pregnant contestant made on "Deal."
"She's too greedy"
"This is where everyone blows it"
"I can't believe she just did that"
It was hilarious to see how INVOLVED Zack got with the entire show. With two suitcases left, $1 million and $200k where the contestant is given the choice of switching briefcases, Z opened up
"Shit…that's fucked up they offer that."
And finally, when the contestant became the first to ever win $1 million, Zack admitted that, clearly, his critiques would be probably be best-leveled at another contestant.
Then out of nowhere, I spot something crawling up the wall out the corner of my eye. I exclaim dramatically (but not too loudly) "What the fuck is that?"
Upon closer inspection, we had a 2" long cockroach visiting our room at the 4-star Double Tree. Like a pair of 6-year-olds holding an old mayonnaise jar with a twig and some grass shoved inside, we deftly caught the offensive insect. Once imprisoned, I asked Zack what we should do. He excitedly replied "Let's get some free shit!"
Z hurried to the front desk and presented the bug to a startled clerk. With our rooms booked via Priceline he was not able to comp us. But he did give us five passes for free breakfast, a voucher for free parking and the code for free internet. Oh yeah, Zack was in his underwear when he negotiated this.
In hindsight we realized it naïve to take FOOD as compensation for discovering a cockroach in an establishment. Nevertheless, as Ko and Zack and I can attest, that Sunday breakfast buffet was tasty and worth our momentary stint as D-level Bindi Irwin's to get it.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
TVOTR Part Four: Amish Food, Switchblades and Stray Dogs...
Cincinnati, the area around Bogart's over the past couple of years has been suffering from the fallout of a ghetto bomb. When Sudsy's, a nightclub/laundromat combo can't stay open, you know something's clearly wrong. Mike's Music, next door to 'garts, is one of the best instrument stores in this nation. I was devilishly tempted by a $150 Sigma acoustic that sounded like heaven, but decided against it. I bought a bad-ass four pickup Conqueror there back in 2003 and it's still the instrument I own that I love the most.
Pat bought a hi-hat stand, which was fitting because mine broke later that night and I would re-appropriate his old one for myself.
Bogart's is a scummy, nigh-dilapidated club that seems suited for metal bands in their aging years. There wasn't a spot in the place that came remotely close to comfortable. Broken chairs and couches, no wireless internet and an overall grimy vibe that one couldn't escape anywhere in the building was decidedly depressing.
Walked up the street to a record store that didn't sell 45's and therefore didn't seem like it needed my business. Further up the street was an Urban Outfitters housed inside a building that clearly used to be a church. This is what is wrong with America.
I ate at the Subway located in a gas station across the street. We played. After the show all us Dirtbombs went to a Skyline Chili for late-night eats. Cincy is known for it's chili (the only place where there's at least TWO omnipresent chili franchises) so it seemed like a no-brainer. With an overall vibe like a Denny's, no one was pleased with their food.
I ordered the coney bowl, which is three hot dogs served in a bowl of chili topped off with a gluttonous mound of cheese. The chili and cheese were both equally bland and the dogs were very middle-of-the-road. Which is hilarious, because I love the hell out of almost all hot dogs, cheese AND chili. How did Skyline to manage to goof up three pretty easy classics? For shame.
Random Overheard Comment #2 of the tour: Walking into our Cincy hotel, another patron, speaking on a cell phone while exiting the hotel:
"Yeah man, you gotta just tear that pussy up"
It's contradictory moments like this, where one is desperate for context and direction of the conversation at the same time as not wanting to know an ounce more of info than they've already gleaned, that are comfortingly conflicting and grounding at the same time.
Next morn we breakfast at a Whole Foods with a lackluster fresh cooked food selection. My lasagna was weak and the herb-encrusted tofu slice was bland. From there to Shake It! Records, a fine establishment that I hadn't been to in about 8 years. Shake It is a solid record store…I bought some post cards and LCD Soundsystem's Sound of Silver as I'd been meaning to listen to it for the past year. And I hipped Zack to a rare-ish Hentchmen single on Front Porch that even impressed the guy working the counter. Score.
Drive to Indianapolis was quick. Once in the neighborhood of the Vogue the overwhelming flux of pedestrians clad in Colt's jerseys was oppressive. It seems that in Indianapolis people go to the bar to watch NFL games, even if they're start time is 1pm. Each and every bar was packed and bumping. The vintage store where I bought a pair of 517's…not so much.
We got some free pizza from the folks at Hot Box (next door to the theater) in exchange for signing an empty pizza box for them to display on their wall. The pizza was vegan (Zack ordered it…go figure) and not bad. We loafed around killing time around our van in the back parking lot, just plain bored.
Ko and Zack each gave away a half-case of beer from the stage during our set. Jaleel played keys and Tunde sang back-ups on our version of "Underdog" that night. We loaded out immediately after our set and made our way off towards Minneapolis.
Random Overheard Comment#3: Two men talking inside gas station
"You better get the Mexicans up here…I ain't doing that shit."
In Minneapolis the next day, our first time lucky enough to play the big room at First Avenue. Spent most all of my time backstage, not caring to venture outside. We played well and a portion of the audience seemed to "get" it and "it'" reflected in our merch sales.
Ko, Pat and Zack would go and hang with TVOTR after the show while Mick and I chilled back at the hotel. While there I got a text from Dave of TVOTR that said "Are you blogging about how sweaty my nutsack is?" to which I replied "Hell yizeah! I'll give you $100 if you get Zack to drink tonight."
The funny thing is, Zack doesn't drink and Dave didn't know this. And Zack didn't know that I'd offered Dave money to do this. It apparently found Zack having to respectfully decline the beer and whiskey being forced upon him by Dave. From there Dave questioned him "Name me one good straight-edge musician" to which Zack replied "Ian Mackaye" and Dave countered with "Ok, I'll give you Mackaye…name me one more" to which Zack had no reply.
Time down the next day would prove fruitful. Bought the new Vampire Hands and Little Claw singles at Treehouse where Mick contemplated $40 for a Rebel Records compilation LP (he decided against it). Further up the street at Tatters I got two pair of Levi's Sta-Prest…one off-white and another a green almost houndstooth pattern. The mac'n'cheese and salad combo at the French Meadow Bakery was simple, tasty and a treat.
All ages show for the second night at First Avenue and TV on the Radio were bestowed with the honor of having their name emblazoned on the exterior of the club, replacing a star formerly occupied by Limp Bizkit. Justice…served. While the underage kids seemed bored at moments during our set, when confronted with a stage right drummer imploring them to smile, they get all giggly and appear, on the surface at least, to be enjoying themselves.
We trek out of town that night because of the longish distance to Chicago. Hotel in the middle of nowhere, I wake early in the morning for the swimming pool and am slightly pissed when I see a sign that declares the pool open 24 hours a day. This is completely unprecedented and had we known, there surely would have been a 2am swimming party the night before. Instead, I swam alone, the maintenance man making awkward conversation with me about the weather. The hot tub was magnificent, what a relaxing, refreshing, revitalizing way to start the day.
We arrive in Chicago at Strange Cargo. I put off my Italy Records t-shirt a little longer and instead head across the street to the salon where my sister was getting her hair colored. Sat with her until all the dye was washed out and she was a newly brunette beauty. Walked up the street to her crib where she made microwave nachos and we watched the History Channel before heading back to the van and off to the Riviera Theater.
Waiting for sound check I did an interview with my sister for one of her college classes. She had to talk to someone in sales so her older brother and his bedroom record label were what she chose to focus on.
Soundcheck was a fucking nightmare. The sap running monitors had absolutely no clue on how to operate the board. I wish I was using some sort of hyperbole here, but sadly I am not. After hitting my kick drum for about 45 seconds I stop and ask if I'm checking for my monitor. When he says yes, I realize the futility and just tell him not to worry about it and go on to someone else.
During the set Mick's vocals were loud and shrill in the monitors and painfully so. It was LAUGHABLE how bad our onstage sound was coming from a supposedly professionally-run theater. Every other aspect of the club was top-notch…stupendous catering, attentive security guards, everyone else was great. But the monitor tech should be fired for his all-encompassing inability to operate a mixing board.
Got to meet a good chunk of Zack's family backstage and was told that when he was little he would point to Billy Idol on MTV and say "That's what I'm gonna do." It's weird, because I've shared a bed with Billy Idol too, so in that respect, Zack's achieved his dreams.
We have to leave Chicago after the show because of the long trek to New Orleans. We found ourselves in Arcola the next day and experienced the cornucopia of delights the small town had to offer. We wisely chose to eat at the Dutch Kitchen as opposed to the Mexican restaurant closer to the interstate exit.
The Dutch Kitchen was listed as an Amish restaurant. None of us having eaten Amish before, we had to try it. The place was packed and with only one waitress we were warned it'd be a while before our order would be taken/served but we had an open schedule. I ordered Amish rope sausage with mashed potatoes, stuffing and green beans. It was, in a word, delicious. The Amish might be on to something.
For dessert, Shoe-Fly Pie, somewhat reminiscent of a coffee cake, but Entemann's ain't got nothing on this scrumptious little treat. The ingredients had the whole of the band trying to figure out just exactly what sorghum is.
Across the street was a pretty amazing antique store. I got some nice postcards (one a real photo that may or may not show a Ku Klux Klan gathering), a post-mortem photo and a plastic Sesame Street plate that I believe was present during my childhood. Stuff equally as cool but not purchased included an electric butter churn, a battery-powered cymbal-clanging monkey, sheet music for "The Tears of a Clown" and a plethora of quilts and other hand-made finery.
From there across the street to the Raggedy Ann and Andy Museum. I know…how lucky are we? The creator of those red-haired scamps, Johnny Gruelle was born in Arcola and his granddaughter runs the museum/gift shop with ardent fervor. The one-room museum does an admirable job on a subject, for me at least, that seemed only remotely interesting.
The size of the museum and it's $1 entry fee notwithstanding, the whole operation was quite impressive, from murals Gruelle had painted in a basement in Vermont carefully transported back to Arcola, to the plethora of all kinds of Raggedy merchandise from over the years and it's curious popularity in Japan, I was left thinking that they must still pull in some serious dough for the licensing of it. Check it out at…
www.raggedyann-museum.org
From there we had a serious 8 hours of driving through rain. It may not read like a lot, but I exaggerate not when I say it did not stop raining for 8 interminable hours. After a solid five of unrelenting downpour I began to keep my eyes peeled for an ark on the horizon. Somewhere outside of Illinois we chanced upon a gas station with switchblades for sale. I bought one, told Zack about it and he seemed almost TOO excited about the possibility of buying his own.
After being shown a model by the clerk, he attempted to hand it back to the woman who wouldn't touch it. "Can you put it back in the box please? I don't want my finger prints on it." Zack, because he's planning to personally stage a one-man rendition of West Side Story, then bought two switchblades.
Of all my years touring this would be first gas station I'd see with switchblades for sale. Sure enough, our next stop that very same day not an hour later would also have them availble for purchase. Ko then bought one for herself at this stop. At this point, the van has more knives than the Swiss Army? More knives than a Japanese chef? More knives than a redneck? More knives than the propsmaster for the 1970's gangsploitation flick "The Warriors"? Pleas feel free to create your own punchline in the comments section.
Outside the gas station was a lonely beagle, skittish and apprehensive about human contact. Zack bought some Slim Jims and fed 'em to the hound, increasingly receptive to interaction. Pup was just sitting there, no home, nowhere to go. I think every single one of us individually contemplated just scooping him up and having a new band mascot. Touring life just wasn't made for dogs, so we ventured back into the pouring rain, all a little bit sadder than before encountering the pooch, with our eyes set on an early arrival in New Orleans.
Pat bought a hi-hat stand, which was fitting because mine broke later that night and I would re-appropriate his old one for myself.
Bogart's is a scummy, nigh-dilapidated club that seems suited for metal bands in their aging years. There wasn't a spot in the place that came remotely close to comfortable. Broken chairs and couches, no wireless internet and an overall grimy vibe that one couldn't escape anywhere in the building was decidedly depressing.
Walked up the street to a record store that didn't sell 45's and therefore didn't seem like it needed my business. Further up the street was an Urban Outfitters housed inside a building that clearly used to be a church. This is what is wrong with America.
I ate at the Subway located in a gas station across the street. We played. After the show all us Dirtbombs went to a Skyline Chili for late-night eats. Cincy is known for it's chili (the only place where there's at least TWO omnipresent chili franchises) so it seemed like a no-brainer. With an overall vibe like a Denny's, no one was pleased with their food.
I ordered the coney bowl, which is three hot dogs served in a bowl of chili topped off with a gluttonous mound of cheese. The chili and cheese were both equally bland and the dogs were very middle-of-the-road. Which is hilarious, because I love the hell out of almost all hot dogs, cheese AND chili. How did Skyline to manage to goof up three pretty easy classics? For shame.
Random Overheard Comment #2 of the tour: Walking into our Cincy hotel, another patron, speaking on a cell phone while exiting the hotel:
"Yeah man, you gotta just tear that pussy up"
It's contradictory moments like this, where one is desperate for context and direction of the conversation at the same time as not wanting to know an ounce more of info than they've already gleaned, that are comfortingly conflicting and grounding at the same time.
Next morn we breakfast at a Whole Foods with a lackluster fresh cooked food selection. My lasagna was weak and the herb-encrusted tofu slice was bland. From there to Shake It! Records, a fine establishment that I hadn't been to in about 8 years. Shake It is a solid record store…I bought some post cards and LCD Soundsystem's Sound of Silver as I'd been meaning to listen to it for the past year. And I hipped Zack to a rare-ish Hentchmen single on Front Porch that even impressed the guy working the counter. Score.
Drive to Indianapolis was quick. Once in the neighborhood of the Vogue the overwhelming flux of pedestrians clad in Colt's jerseys was oppressive. It seems that in Indianapolis people go to the bar to watch NFL games, even if they're start time is 1pm. Each and every bar was packed and bumping. The vintage store where I bought a pair of 517's…not so much.
We got some free pizza from the folks at Hot Box (next door to the theater) in exchange for signing an empty pizza box for them to display on their wall. The pizza was vegan (Zack ordered it…go figure) and not bad. We loafed around killing time around our van in the back parking lot, just plain bored.
Ko and Zack each gave away a half-case of beer from the stage during our set. Jaleel played keys and Tunde sang back-ups on our version of "Underdog" that night. We loaded out immediately after our set and made our way off towards Minneapolis.
Random Overheard Comment#3: Two men talking inside gas station
"You better get the Mexicans up here…I ain't doing that shit."
In Minneapolis the next day, our first time lucky enough to play the big room at First Avenue. Spent most all of my time backstage, not caring to venture outside. We played well and a portion of the audience seemed to "get" it and "it'" reflected in our merch sales.
Ko, Pat and Zack would go and hang with TVOTR after the show while Mick and I chilled back at the hotel. While there I got a text from Dave of TVOTR that said "Are you blogging about how sweaty my nutsack is?" to which I replied "Hell yizeah! I'll give you $100 if you get Zack to drink tonight."
The funny thing is, Zack doesn't drink and Dave didn't know this. And Zack didn't know that I'd offered Dave money to do this. It apparently found Zack having to respectfully decline the beer and whiskey being forced upon him by Dave. From there Dave questioned him "Name me one good straight-edge musician" to which Zack replied "Ian Mackaye" and Dave countered with "Ok, I'll give you Mackaye…name me one more" to which Zack had no reply.
Time down the next day would prove fruitful. Bought the new Vampire Hands and Little Claw singles at Treehouse where Mick contemplated $40 for a Rebel Records compilation LP (he decided against it). Further up the street at Tatters I got two pair of Levi's Sta-Prest…one off-white and another a green almost houndstooth pattern. The mac'n'cheese and salad combo at the French Meadow Bakery was simple, tasty and a treat.
All ages show for the second night at First Avenue and TV on the Radio were bestowed with the honor of having their name emblazoned on the exterior of the club, replacing a star formerly occupied by Limp Bizkit. Justice…served. While the underage kids seemed bored at moments during our set, when confronted with a stage right drummer imploring them to smile, they get all giggly and appear, on the surface at least, to be enjoying themselves.
We trek out of town that night because of the longish distance to Chicago. Hotel in the middle of nowhere, I wake early in the morning for the swimming pool and am slightly pissed when I see a sign that declares the pool open 24 hours a day. This is completely unprecedented and had we known, there surely would have been a 2am swimming party the night before. Instead, I swam alone, the maintenance man making awkward conversation with me about the weather. The hot tub was magnificent, what a relaxing, refreshing, revitalizing way to start the day.
We arrive in Chicago at Strange Cargo. I put off my Italy Records t-shirt a little longer and instead head across the street to the salon where my sister was getting her hair colored. Sat with her until all the dye was washed out and she was a newly brunette beauty. Walked up the street to her crib where she made microwave nachos and we watched the History Channel before heading back to the van and off to the Riviera Theater.
Waiting for sound check I did an interview with my sister for one of her college classes. She had to talk to someone in sales so her older brother and his bedroom record label were what she chose to focus on.
Soundcheck was a fucking nightmare. The sap running monitors had absolutely no clue on how to operate the board. I wish I was using some sort of hyperbole here, but sadly I am not. After hitting my kick drum for about 45 seconds I stop and ask if I'm checking for my monitor. When he says yes, I realize the futility and just tell him not to worry about it and go on to someone else.
During the set Mick's vocals were loud and shrill in the monitors and painfully so. It was LAUGHABLE how bad our onstage sound was coming from a supposedly professionally-run theater. Every other aspect of the club was top-notch…stupendous catering, attentive security guards, everyone else was great. But the monitor tech should be fired for his all-encompassing inability to operate a mixing board.
Got to meet a good chunk of Zack's family backstage and was told that when he was little he would point to Billy Idol on MTV and say "That's what I'm gonna do." It's weird, because I've shared a bed with Billy Idol too, so in that respect, Zack's achieved his dreams.
We have to leave Chicago after the show because of the long trek to New Orleans. We found ourselves in Arcola the next day and experienced the cornucopia of delights the small town had to offer. We wisely chose to eat at the Dutch Kitchen as opposed to the Mexican restaurant closer to the interstate exit.
The Dutch Kitchen was listed as an Amish restaurant. None of us having eaten Amish before, we had to try it. The place was packed and with only one waitress we were warned it'd be a while before our order would be taken/served but we had an open schedule. I ordered Amish rope sausage with mashed potatoes, stuffing and green beans. It was, in a word, delicious. The Amish might be on to something.
For dessert, Shoe-Fly Pie, somewhat reminiscent of a coffee cake, but Entemann's ain't got nothing on this scrumptious little treat. The ingredients had the whole of the band trying to figure out just exactly what sorghum is.
Across the street was a pretty amazing antique store. I got some nice postcards (one a real photo that may or may not show a Ku Klux Klan gathering), a post-mortem photo and a plastic Sesame Street plate that I believe was present during my childhood. Stuff equally as cool but not purchased included an electric butter churn, a battery-powered cymbal-clanging monkey, sheet music for "The Tears of a Clown" and a plethora of quilts and other hand-made finery.
From there across the street to the Raggedy Ann and Andy Museum. I know…how lucky are we? The creator of those red-haired scamps, Johnny Gruelle was born in Arcola and his granddaughter runs the museum/gift shop with ardent fervor. The one-room museum does an admirable job on a subject, for me at least, that seemed only remotely interesting.
The size of the museum and it's $1 entry fee notwithstanding, the whole operation was quite impressive, from murals Gruelle had painted in a basement in Vermont carefully transported back to Arcola, to the plethora of all kinds of Raggedy merchandise from over the years and it's curious popularity in Japan, I was left thinking that they must still pull in some serious dough for the licensing of it. Check it out at…
www.raggedyann-museum.org
From there we had a serious 8 hours of driving through rain. It may not read like a lot, but I exaggerate not when I say it did not stop raining for 8 interminable hours. After a solid five of unrelenting downpour I began to keep my eyes peeled for an ark on the horizon. Somewhere outside of Illinois we chanced upon a gas station with switchblades for sale. I bought one, told Zack about it and he seemed almost TOO excited about the possibility of buying his own.
After being shown a model by the clerk, he attempted to hand it back to the woman who wouldn't touch it. "Can you put it back in the box please? I don't want my finger prints on it." Zack, because he's planning to personally stage a one-man rendition of West Side Story, then bought two switchblades.
Of all my years touring this would be first gas station I'd see with switchblades for sale. Sure enough, our next stop that very same day not an hour later would also have them availble for purchase. Ko then bought one for herself at this stop. At this point, the van has more knives than the Swiss Army? More knives than a Japanese chef? More knives than a redneck? More knives than the propsmaster for the 1970's gangsploitation flick "The Warriors"? Pleas feel free to create your own punchline in the comments section.
Outside the gas station was a lonely beagle, skittish and apprehensive about human contact. Zack bought some Slim Jims and fed 'em to the hound, increasingly receptive to interaction. Pup was just sitting there, no home, nowhere to go. I think every single one of us individually contemplated just scooping him up and having a new band mascot. Touring life just wasn't made for dogs, so we ventured back into the pouring rain, all a little bit sadder than before encountering the pooch, with our eyes set on an early arrival in New Orleans.
Friday, October 24, 2008
TVOTR Part Three: Biffed...
The Brooklyn Masonic Temple was dumpy. In the back of my mind I was expecting something that at least compared to Detroit's Masonic Temple but what we got was more along the lines of my high school cafeteria except with dirtier bathrooms.
The long banquet tables, plastic chairs, the low-cycle hum of fluorescent lights, linoleum floor tiles and 45rpm jukebox made me crave an order of cheese fries with pepper, want to play a game of intramural basketball, worry about copying someone's answers for geometry and generally just complain about how bored I am.
The surrounding neighborhood failed to provide much stimulation as well. My time in a deli proudly advertising their Boar's Head meats was punctuated by little school children arguing the redeeming qualities of 50 Cent, one of whom apparently had worked with Fiddy in a film. The only comment I remember hearing was said child, all of ten years old, describing 50 Cent as "mad nice" and a more brilliant juxtaposition of adjectives I could not create.
The show was decent. Ended the set by screaming "Brooklyn!" into the mic ad infinitum. Saw John Norris in the crowd.
Spent most of the next day sitting on my ass and not doing a damn thing. Took a car service from Brooklyn to Ground Zero then the PATH train to Hoboken followed by a cab ride to Maxwell's. The biggest news of note was that we got the parking spot right outside the door to the club and of all the times we've played there this has never happened. We were excited and certainly thought it'd be a sign of good things to come.
Unfortunately, this would be our third time playing Maxwell's in 2008 and our fourth time in the span of a year. Such circumstances do not bode well for a Wednesday night turnout on the same evening of a contested presidential debate. Suddenly our standard door deal at Maxwell's, (which usually proves quite lucrative) was not looking so hot.
The room wasn't empty, just a tad sparse. In hopes of changing things up we tried to open with "Sherlock Holmes" but Mick was in the wrong key and we actually had to abort the venture mid-song. There were other bummers too…specifically trying to NOT do the set in the order that we know it proved confusing. Thankfully, the crowd stuck with us and by the end of the set I feel we at least pulled out something "passable" (like brief riffing on Spacemen 3's "Take Me to The Other Side) to their liking while it was still one of our worst shows in quite some time.
Crashed on a pal's bed at the Bowery Hotel that night and rocked some awesome rigatoni at Gemma downstairs for breakfast the next morning. A quick trip up the street to John Varvatos' store in the old CBGB's space not only found criminally overpriced used Brook's leather jackets at $500 a pop, but a copy of one of the Seger Liberation Army 7"s and a framed, silk-screened poster for the Dirtbombs show at the Troubadour in Los Angeles from May of this year. I was confused but pleased by its presence.
Up to St. Mark's and into Rockit Scientist where I picked up the LP reissue of Rodriguez' Cold Fact (I merely needed the bonus 7" contained within), the Shim Sham Shimmy blues comp, volume one of the Mad Mike series on Norton and the latest LP from Your 33 Black Angels. God I love that record store.
Back to Hoboken to load out of Maxwell's, to Brooklyn in decent time, load-in and soundcheck painless. I play good Indiana Jones pinball and for once ignore the photo booth.
Walk up the street to a corner store to pick up a Skor bar where the shopkeep and a customer are in deep conversation on whether or not they like their jobs. One of them argued that a job, by definition, has to be unenjoyable. At that point, they both turn to me and ask what my job is.
I fumble for words and don't know what to say. After brief consideration, I offer up that I am a musician and that I'm currently traveling. The customer asks where I'm from and I say Detroit. She lights up and asks where and I reply East Side. Her eyes grow wider and as she asks for more specific coordinates I tell her Mack and Cadieux area. She smiles brightly and responds with Mack and Buckingham, locations no more than a half-mile from each other.
She was in Brooklyn as a professional dancer but had just started a dance company in Detroit called Come Back City Dance. We sat inside the store for about 5 minutes discussing all the challenges and heartbreaks of living in Detroit. It's moments like this, where the world genuinely feels a little bit smaller, that brighten the day.
Waited forever for friends to pick me up for dinner. By the time we arrived at Petite Crevette we had approximately thirty minutes before I needed to be back at the Southpaw and it would take at least 10 minutes to drive back.
While I don't like hurrying to eat and certainly don't like chowing too soon before we hit the stage, the small eating area (the entire place seats twelve), hand-written menu on butcher paper, pictures of Kennedys Edward and Caroline and numerous culinary awards lining the wall made me throw caution to the wind.
The ten dollar cheeseburger was tasty. I wish I would have had patience enough to order a soup as well, but I didn't want the rest of the band sitting on stage looking at their watches wondering where in the hell I was. Apparently their seafood is exquisite, I will just have to venture again.
Luckily, we got back to the club while the Nouvellas were still on and I had a moment to catch my breath, digest my food and just get generally situated. I was handed a bag of vintage t-shirts before we went on from good friend Richard of Metropolis Vintage in Manhattan. A Mark Fidrych t-shirt, one that says "Hamtramck" with the Polish eagle on it and individual iron-on letters spelling "Candy Ass" were three fitting (in both senses of the word) garments that will be welcome additions to the collection.
We played well, if a little fast for most of the set. I was told afterward that Maeby from "Arrested Development" was spotted in the crowd, so that was a bonus.
For your downloading enjoyment, here's our version of "Start the Party" from the Southpaw that evening.
Start the Party - Live in Brooklyn
The Beachland complex in Cleveland is like home. From the tavern that feels like every single post-softball dive my father dragged us to in the Eighties, to the faux-wood paneled basement that feels like every rec room I ever fought tooth and nail in heartbreaking competitions of Nintendo's "RBI Baseball", the whole place is quintessentially Midwest in the most comforting of ways. The old Ukranian social hall of a ballroom and the vintage store in the basement make it one of our favorite stops in the nation.
Did I mention the record store Music Saves next door? Record vendors near to the club are always a welcome way to spend time. I went through damn-near everything in the store and bought Dungen 4, Indian Jewelry's Free Gold and the latest 7" from Times New Viking on Matador, not oblivious to the fact that their previous 7" on Matador is still sitting in my "to listen-to" pile back in Detroit.
I didn't watch the openers. During our encore I grabbed the mic and started riffing. I decided to tell jokes the soundman at the Southpaw had told me. The first of which as follows:
Q: What's the difference between Sarah Palin's mouth and her vagina?
A: What comes out of her vagina is only SOMETIMES retarded.
Seemed like the joke got a mixed reaction, to which I replied "Too soon?"
Around this time I began to hear someone in the crowd yelling "FUCK YOU!" repeatedly, as in, not stopping, constant, without end. I would later be told by the soundman that said dude was yelling "FUCK YOU!" throughout our entire set.
I respond with a quick "Fuck you too, buddy" and when he failed to stop, I walked up to him and put the mic in his face where he said (and I'm paraphrasing here) "Fuck you! No politics, go play…" before I open-handedly shoved his face away from the mic.
I immediately regretted doing it, but got back on the mic and told him no one was making him stay and that if he didn't like what I was saying he was free to go and even told the club to give him his money back. I then went on to say that it was because of douchedicks (copyright pending) like that guy that Ohio ended up going to W in 2004. I said "Just because my last name is Blackwell, don't blame me…I'm not related to that Ken guy anyway."
Afterwards at the bar and one bartender, proud of what I'd done, said I could have whatever I wanted (and with no beer backstage, I just needed a Corona for Pantano at the merch table) where another wanted to get the story of what happened straight from me. I relayed to her what went down and she then said that some girl was claiming I punched her in the face. Where the fuck did that come from? She said the girl then changed her story and said that I had elbowed her in the face. As I remember it, NEITHER of these happened, but the bartendress later said she was able to get the girl to admit that, had anything actually occurred that it was most certainly an accident.
"Except, you know, when you biffed that guy" she ended. I'd never heard the word "biffed" before, know not its etymology, but deeply hope that it has something to do with Back to the Future.
In the future (and as I've done in the past) I need to remember that when confronted with an asshole the best response is to give the person a hug. So if Mr. "Fuck You" is reading this, please accept my apology and understand that I owe you a loving embrace.
The long banquet tables, plastic chairs, the low-cycle hum of fluorescent lights, linoleum floor tiles and 45rpm jukebox made me crave an order of cheese fries with pepper, want to play a game of intramural basketball, worry about copying someone's answers for geometry and generally just complain about how bored I am.
The surrounding neighborhood failed to provide much stimulation as well. My time in a deli proudly advertising their Boar's Head meats was punctuated by little school children arguing the redeeming qualities of 50 Cent, one of whom apparently had worked with Fiddy in a film. The only comment I remember hearing was said child, all of ten years old, describing 50 Cent as "mad nice" and a more brilliant juxtaposition of adjectives I could not create.
The show was decent. Ended the set by screaming "Brooklyn!" into the mic ad infinitum. Saw John Norris in the crowd.
Spent most of the next day sitting on my ass and not doing a damn thing. Took a car service from Brooklyn to Ground Zero then the PATH train to Hoboken followed by a cab ride to Maxwell's. The biggest news of note was that we got the parking spot right outside the door to the club and of all the times we've played there this has never happened. We were excited and certainly thought it'd be a sign of good things to come.
Unfortunately, this would be our third time playing Maxwell's in 2008 and our fourth time in the span of a year. Such circumstances do not bode well for a Wednesday night turnout on the same evening of a contested presidential debate. Suddenly our standard door deal at Maxwell's, (which usually proves quite lucrative) was not looking so hot.
The room wasn't empty, just a tad sparse. In hopes of changing things up we tried to open with "Sherlock Holmes" but Mick was in the wrong key and we actually had to abort the venture mid-song. There were other bummers too…specifically trying to NOT do the set in the order that we know it proved confusing. Thankfully, the crowd stuck with us and by the end of the set I feel we at least pulled out something "passable" (like brief riffing on Spacemen 3's "Take Me to The Other Side) to their liking while it was still one of our worst shows in quite some time.
Crashed on a pal's bed at the Bowery Hotel that night and rocked some awesome rigatoni at Gemma downstairs for breakfast the next morning. A quick trip up the street to John Varvatos' store in the old CBGB's space not only found criminally overpriced used Brook's leather jackets at $500 a pop, but a copy of one of the Seger Liberation Army 7"s and a framed, silk-screened poster for the Dirtbombs show at the Troubadour in Los Angeles from May of this year. I was confused but pleased by its presence.
Up to St. Mark's and into Rockit Scientist where I picked up the LP reissue of Rodriguez' Cold Fact (I merely needed the bonus 7" contained within), the Shim Sham Shimmy blues comp, volume one of the Mad Mike series on Norton and the latest LP from Your 33 Black Angels. God I love that record store.
Back to Hoboken to load out of Maxwell's, to Brooklyn in decent time, load-in and soundcheck painless. I play good Indiana Jones pinball and for once ignore the photo booth.
Walk up the street to a corner store to pick up a Skor bar where the shopkeep and a customer are in deep conversation on whether or not they like their jobs. One of them argued that a job, by definition, has to be unenjoyable. At that point, they both turn to me and ask what my job is.
I fumble for words and don't know what to say. After brief consideration, I offer up that I am a musician and that I'm currently traveling. The customer asks where I'm from and I say Detroit. She lights up and asks where and I reply East Side. Her eyes grow wider and as she asks for more specific coordinates I tell her Mack and Cadieux area. She smiles brightly and responds with Mack and Buckingham, locations no more than a half-mile from each other.
She was in Brooklyn as a professional dancer but had just started a dance company in Detroit called Come Back City Dance. We sat inside the store for about 5 minutes discussing all the challenges and heartbreaks of living in Detroit. It's moments like this, where the world genuinely feels a little bit smaller, that brighten the day.
Waited forever for friends to pick me up for dinner. By the time we arrived at Petite Crevette we had approximately thirty minutes before I needed to be back at the Southpaw and it would take at least 10 minutes to drive back.
While I don't like hurrying to eat and certainly don't like chowing too soon before we hit the stage, the small eating area (the entire place seats twelve), hand-written menu on butcher paper, pictures of Kennedys Edward and Caroline and numerous culinary awards lining the wall made me throw caution to the wind.
The ten dollar cheeseburger was tasty. I wish I would have had patience enough to order a soup as well, but I didn't want the rest of the band sitting on stage looking at their watches wondering where in the hell I was. Apparently their seafood is exquisite, I will just have to venture again.
Luckily, we got back to the club while the Nouvellas were still on and I had a moment to catch my breath, digest my food and just get generally situated. I was handed a bag of vintage t-shirts before we went on from good friend Richard of Metropolis Vintage in Manhattan. A Mark Fidrych t-shirt, one that says "Hamtramck" with the Polish eagle on it and individual iron-on letters spelling "Candy Ass" were three fitting (in both senses of the word) garments that will be welcome additions to the collection.
We played well, if a little fast for most of the set. I was told afterward that Maeby from "Arrested Development" was spotted in the crowd, so that was a bonus.
For your downloading enjoyment, here's our version of "Start the Party" from the Southpaw that evening.
Start the Party - Live in Brooklyn
The Beachland complex in Cleveland is like home. From the tavern that feels like every single post-softball dive my father dragged us to in the Eighties, to the faux-wood paneled basement that feels like every rec room I ever fought tooth and nail in heartbreaking competitions of Nintendo's "RBI Baseball", the whole place is quintessentially Midwest in the most comforting of ways. The old Ukranian social hall of a ballroom and the vintage store in the basement make it one of our favorite stops in the nation.
Did I mention the record store Music Saves next door? Record vendors near to the club are always a welcome way to spend time. I went through damn-near everything in the store and bought Dungen 4, Indian Jewelry's Free Gold and the latest 7" from Times New Viking on Matador, not oblivious to the fact that their previous 7" on Matador is still sitting in my "to listen-to" pile back in Detroit.
I didn't watch the openers. During our encore I grabbed the mic and started riffing. I decided to tell jokes the soundman at the Southpaw had told me. The first of which as follows:
Q: What's the difference between Sarah Palin's mouth and her vagina?
A: What comes out of her vagina is only SOMETIMES retarded.
Seemed like the joke got a mixed reaction, to which I replied "Too soon?"
Around this time I began to hear someone in the crowd yelling "FUCK YOU!" repeatedly, as in, not stopping, constant, without end. I would later be told by the soundman that said dude was yelling "FUCK YOU!" throughout our entire set.
I respond with a quick "Fuck you too, buddy" and when he failed to stop, I walked up to him and put the mic in his face where he said (and I'm paraphrasing here) "Fuck you! No politics, go play…" before I open-handedly shoved his face away from the mic.
I immediately regretted doing it, but got back on the mic and told him no one was making him stay and that if he didn't like what I was saying he was free to go and even told the club to give him his money back. I then went on to say that it was because of douchedicks (copyright pending) like that guy that Ohio ended up going to W in 2004. I said "Just because my last name is Blackwell, don't blame me…I'm not related to that Ken guy anyway."
Afterwards at the bar and one bartender, proud of what I'd done, said I could have whatever I wanted (and with no beer backstage, I just needed a Corona for Pantano at the merch table) where another wanted to get the story of what happened straight from me. I relayed to her what went down and she then said that some girl was claiming I punched her in the face. Where the fuck did that come from? She said the girl then changed her story and said that I had elbowed her in the face. As I remember it, NEITHER of these happened, but the bartendress later said she was able to get the girl to admit that, had anything actually occurred that it was most certainly an accident.
"Except, you know, when you biffed that guy" she ended. I'd never heard the word "biffed" before, know not its etymology, but deeply hope that it has something to do with Back to the Future.
In the future (and as I've done in the past) I need to remember that when confronted with an asshole the best response is to give the person a hug. So if Mr. "Fuck You" is reading this, please accept my apology and understand that I owe you a loving embrace.
Monday, October 20, 2008
TVOTR Part Two: Be Careful Where You Shit...
Sunday off in Providence was ripe with possibilities. We stopped at Whole Foods for lunch and not only did I revel in the serve yourself food bar with all kinds of tasty shit (macrobiotic pad thai?) but I was scared of the possibility that my biodegradable cardboard carry-out container would explode because I happened to mix vegan tofu and fried chicken together. Luckily no one was hurt. I took the opportunity to buy a box of chocolate chip peanut Clif Bars. I had my breakfast for the next twelve days.
From there, picked up some of the TVOTR crew and then made way to Armageddon Shop and spent a chunk of time going through the racks there. I bought a used Lee Ranaldo solo CD on SST that I imagine is out of print, along with a set of post cards and two 7"s I can't remember.
From there, we went to the more "collegiate" area of town and I bought a button-down plaid dress shirt from a vintage store. It seems I will forever be trying to buy up these shirts that remind me of what I wore to high school every day for four years. A brand that always seems to have good patterns is Wedgefield and I realize I may be bordering on compulsive with this quest.
After tramping around that hood for a bit we drove closer to the site of the previous night's show. Hungry, we found ourselves at Ta'Zaa, a "restaurant" apparently. We showed up just as open mic night was beginning and Tunde was trying to start a drinking game where any mention of the words "flying", "mountains" or "dreaming" warranted a slug of alcohol and needless to say, it would have made for a table of even more drunken fools.
Waitress informed us they were out of the crab cakes, my first choice, so I ordered the calamari, which Fritz had informed the night before is an exquisite delicacy in Rhode Island. Being informed that they too were out of that, I found myself standing on the bottom rung of the seafood ladder and threw my better sense of reason out the window and ordered the linguine vongole with baby clams.
Let me just say that if you like wet pasta with no sauce, then this is the dish for you. I found myself (and everyone else) eagerly grabbing at the leftover french fries Ko offered up to the table as our entire party seemed equally as unimpressed with their food. Dave and Mick did polish off the Scorpion Bowl (an impressive cauldron of Gosling’s dark rum, brandy, orange juice, fresh lime juice & orgeat syrup) in one fell sip, and despite his threats to do so, we did not get Sitek to freestyle rap as part of the open mic.
Back to the TVOTR bus to chill. Mick, anxious, enters the bathroom. When he's in there for a bit longer than the requisite 30 seconds one needs to take a leak, I begin to question everyone else "Is he taking a shit?" to which they replied "No, he wouldn't do that."
And now a brief explanation: toilets on a tour bus are, without exception, meant for urination and nothing else. Pat put it best when he said this was something he learned in kindergarten…it just seems so ingrained and general knowledge that it usually goes without saying. But apparently Mick was completely unaware.
If an absolute emergency, one can line the interior of the toilet bowl with a standard plastic shopping bag and once the bowel has been moved, tie up the bag and properly dispose of it at the next rest stop. This process, heading toward a garbage can with a CVS bag of your own fecal matter in hand, has been brilliantly dubbed "the walk of shame" by no less than No Doubt.
So upon his exit, Mick informs us that yes, he did shit in the bus. I went in after him and there was still toilet paper in the bowl, which is another no-no. He said it was an emergency and it couldn't wait, but this "emergency" could quite possibly cost TVOTR an additional $700 in charges from their bus driver. Egad. I merely write about it here in hopes to educate others from making the same mistake. In short, DON'T SHIT ON THE BUS.
Back to our hotel and we're all still a bit hungry so we find a gas station where I stock up on four 32oz bottles of Vitamin Water and then across the street to Rite Aid and get nine Nissin Cup of Noodles. My meals for the next few days were taken care of. Zack wanted his vegan fulfillment so we drive-thru some Taco Bell and him not content with Pat in the driver's seat to give his order instead climbs on top of Pat to stick his entire torso out the window to make sure that the order goes through smoothly.
Spend a good portion of the evening in gentlemanly debate with Zack about the intricacies of booking shows in the morass of the Detroit music scene. He made some good points about being a band working hard to make strides in their hometown (Lee Marvin Computer Arm) while I countered with the previously unseen (to him) circumstances that come into play for an out-of-town band relying on a solid hometown openers when on tour. I think we both left the conversation a little smarter and with more understanding for how the other side operates. Cue the instrumental track to "We Are the World."
With a brief drive the next day to Boston, we stopped at a nearby strip mall for an oil change. I tried to kill time at what felt like an awkwardly small Wal-Mart (aren't their ceilings all supposed to be 25 feet?) and after overcoming the complete boredom that comes with trying to remain conscious in a Kohl's, I made my way to Chuck E. Cheese.
I didn't imagine the establishment would even be open, but seeing as kids get Columbus Day off from school (and when did THAT start?) the place was respectably occupied by surly rugrats screaming at the top of their lungs. Upon entrance into said zoo I was met by an authoritative Cheese employee standing at a podium. There was, I shit you not, a velvet rope.
"Are you meeting a party here?" she asked.
I was confused but really wanted to play pinball. Contemplated saying "I'm here to start a party...YEA-UH!" but instead replied with a simple lie, "Yes"
She opened the velvet rope, I exchanged a dollar for four tokens, played Elvis pinball, felt a little creepy going to the bathroom and downright scared when exiting. I was for certain that the bouncer at the velvet rope would question why such a quick exit and then I'd have to quickly think of a clever line like "Wrong Chuck E. Cheese" or "The party was lame" but luckily I exited with none of the expected drama.
(And while I'm on topic…what the fuck happened to all the Major Magic's? Is there really only one left and it's in Ohio? And why don't these places have regulation size ski-ball lanes? Is this good riddance?)
Seriously, the oil change seemed like it took forever. Walking around the abandoned mall in Warwick was desperately challenging my will to live. Luckily the oil change finished before Wal-Mart would sell me a shot gun (I was reading a Ripley's Believe it or Not book).
In Boston with time to kill and I finally get to see the historic side of the city. While most of my time in town has been spent in Cambridge, the Wilbur Theater was smack-dab in the middle of history. I finally got to walk through Boston Common and loved breathing in the scenery that quartered British troops over two-hundred years ago. The fact that the Red Sox were playing a playoff game that eve and that all the kids were out of school provided an even more festive environ than I expected.
Further up the road is the Granary Burying Ground, so steeped in revolutionary history that I wish someone there was giving a pop quiz just so I could ace that shit. US History, along with English, was the subject that I totally ruled at in high school. Anyway, garage rock visionary Paul Revere, future beer magnate Sam Adams, oversized penmanship advocate John Hancock and ALL the victims of the Boston Massacre are buried here.
There was a guy standing at the entrance of the cemetery handing out binders with all kinds of info/facts/tidbits about the place and those interred there. All he asked was to return the binder upon exit, but inside the binder was a little pocket for donations if you felt so inclined. There's nothing that makes me want to tip someone more than having the air about them that tipping is not mandatory, so I happily left him $1. There were a lot of people walking around there and it makes me wonder how much he can pull in on a good day. Anyone?
I traipsed around even more…the site of Ben Franklin's birth, the first public schoolhouse in North America, Barnes and Noble, the Old South Meeting House, Designer Shoe Warehouse…all wonderful and stimulating in their own ways. I would later find out that I inadvertently was following a significant portion of Boston's Freedom Trail. Interesting, as I've always had a nose for freedom.
Hightlight of the day: in front of Old South Meeting House, two hipsters (a male and female) in their late twenties, the dude wearing some art-damaged neon t-shirt, both wearing sunglasses and emitting an overpowering sense of disenchantment. As they stood looking at OSMH with nary a wisp of respect detectable, the male said, bluntly
"Fuck electricity"
I loved it, but probably for none of the same reasons he said it.
Our show was solid, I pulled the drums down onto the main floor and then realized that I couldn't hear shit down there. I had to recalibrate my tempo a couple of times, but luckily the audience was forgiving.
From there, picked up some of the TVOTR crew and then made way to Armageddon Shop and spent a chunk of time going through the racks there. I bought a used Lee Ranaldo solo CD on SST that I imagine is out of print, along with a set of post cards and two 7"s I can't remember.
From there, we went to the more "collegiate" area of town and I bought a button-down plaid dress shirt from a vintage store. It seems I will forever be trying to buy up these shirts that remind me of what I wore to high school every day for four years. A brand that always seems to have good patterns is Wedgefield and I realize I may be bordering on compulsive with this quest.
After tramping around that hood for a bit we drove closer to the site of the previous night's show. Hungry, we found ourselves at Ta'Zaa, a "restaurant" apparently. We showed up just as open mic night was beginning and Tunde was trying to start a drinking game where any mention of the words "flying", "mountains" or "dreaming" warranted a slug of alcohol and needless to say, it would have made for a table of even more drunken fools.
Waitress informed us they were out of the crab cakes, my first choice, so I ordered the calamari, which Fritz had informed the night before is an exquisite delicacy in Rhode Island. Being informed that they too were out of that, I found myself standing on the bottom rung of the seafood ladder and threw my better sense of reason out the window and ordered the linguine vongole with baby clams.
Let me just say that if you like wet pasta with no sauce, then this is the dish for you. I found myself (and everyone else) eagerly grabbing at the leftover french fries Ko offered up to the table as our entire party seemed equally as unimpressed with their food. Dave and Mick did polish off the Scorpion Bowl (an impressive cauldron of Gosling’s dark rum, brandy, orange juice, fresh lime juice & orgeat syrup) in one fell sip, and despite his threats to do so, we did not get Sitek to freestyle rap as part of the open mic.
Back to the TVOTR bus to chill. Mick, anxious, enters the bathroom. When he's in there for a bit longer than the requisite 30 seconds one needs to take a leak, I begin to question everyone else "Is he taking a shit?" to which they replied "No, he wouldn't do that."
And now a brief explanation: toilets on a tour bus are, without exception, meant for urination and nothing else. Pat put it best when he said this was something he learned in kindergarten…it just seems so ingrained and general knowledge that it usually goes without saying. But apparently Mick was completely unaware.
If an absolute emergency, one can line the interior of the toilet bowl with a standard plastic shopping bag and once the bowel has been moved, tie up the bag and properly dispose of it at the next rest stop. This process, heading toward a garbage can with a CVS bag of your own fecal matter in hand, has been brilliantly dubbed "the walk of shame" by no less than No Doubt.
So upon his exit, Mick informs us that yes, he did shit in the bus. I went in after him and there was still toilet paper in the bowl, which is another no-no. He said it was an emergency and it couldn't wait, but this "emergency" could quite possibly cost TVOTR an additional $700 in charges from their bus driver. Egad. I merely write about it here in hopes to educate others from making the same mistake. In short, DON'T SHIT ON THE BUS.
Back to our hotel and we're all still a bit hungry so we find a gas station where I stock up on four 32oz bottles of Vitamin Water and then across the street to Rite Aid and get nine Nissin Cup of Noodles. My meals for the next few days were taken care of. Zack wanted his vegan fulfillment so we drive-thru some Taco Bell and him not content with Pat in the driver's seat to give his order instead climbs on top of Pat to stick his entire torso out the window to make sure that the order goes through smoothly.
Spend a good portion of the evening in gentlemanly debate with Zack about the intricacies of booking shows in the morass of the Detroit music scene. He made some good points about being a band working hard to make strides in their hometown (Lee Marvin Computer Arm) while I countered with the previously unseen (to him) circumstances that come into play for an out-of-town band relying on a solid hometown openers when on tour. I think we both left the conversation a little smarter and with more understanding for how the other side operates. Cue the instrumental track to "We Are the World."
With a brief drive the next day to Boston, we stopped at a nearby strip mall for an oil change. I tried to kill time at what felt like an awkwardly small Wal-Mart (aren't their ceilings all supposed to be 25 feet?) and after overcoming the complete boredom that comes with trying to remain conscious in a Kohl's, I made my way to Chuck E. Cheese.
I didn't imagine the establishment would even be open, but seeing as kids get Columbus Day off from school (and when did THAT start?) the place was respectably occupied by surly rugrats screaming at the top of their lungs. Upon entrance into said zoo I was met by an authoritative Cheese employee standing at a podium. There was, I shit you not, a velvet rope.
"Are you meeting a party here?" she asked.
I was confused but really wanted to play pinball. Contemplated saying "I'm here to start a party...YEA-UH!" but instead replied with a simple lie, "Yes"
She opened the velvet rope, I exchanged a dollar for four tokens, played Elvis pinball, felt a little creepy going to the bathroom and downright scared when exiting. I was for certain that the bouncer at the velvet rope would question why such a quick exit and then I'd have to quickly think of a clever line like "Wrong Chuck E. Cheese" or "The party was lame" but luckily I exited with none of the expected drama.
(And while I'm on topic…what the fuck happened to all the Major Magic's? Is there really only one left and it's in Ohio? And why don't these places have regulation size ski-ball lanes? Is this good riddance?)
Seriously, the oil change seemed like it took forever. Walking around the abandoned mall in Warwick was desperately challenging my will to live. Luckily the oil change finished before Wal-Mart would sell me a shot gun (I was reading a Ripley's Believe it or Not book).
In Boston with time to kill and I finally get to see the historic side of the city. While most of my time in town has been spent in Cambridge, the Wilbur Theater was smack-dab in the middle of history. I finally got to walk through Boston Common and loved breathing in the scenery that quartered British troops over two-hundred years ago. The fact that the Red Sox were playing a playoff game that eve and that all the kids were out of school provided an even more festive environ than I expected.
Further up the road is the Granary Burying Ground, so steeped in revolutionary history that I wish someone there was giving a pop quiz just so I could ace that shit. US History, along with English, was the subject that I totally ruled at in high school. Anyway, garage rock visionary Paul Revere, future beer magnate Sam Adams, oversized penmanship advocate John Hancock and ALL the victims of the Boston Massacre are buried here.
There was a guy standing at the entrance of the cemetery handing out binders with all kinds of info/facts/tidbits about the place and those interred there. All he asked was to return the binder upon exit, but inside the binder was a little pocket for donations if you felt so inclined. There's nothing that makes me want to tip someone more than having the air about them that tipping is not mandatory, so I happily left him $1. There were a lot of people walking around there and it makes me wonder how much he can pull in on a good day. Anyone?
I traipsed around even more…the site of Ben Franklin's birth, the first public schoolhouse in North America, Barnes and Noble, the Old South Meeting House, Designer Shoe Warehouse…all wonderful and stimulating in their own ways. I would later find out that I inadvertently was following a significant portion of Boston's Freedom Trail. Interesting, as I've always had a nose for freedom.
Hightlight of the day: in front of Old South Meeting House, two hipsters (a male and female) in their late twenties, the dude wearing some art-damaged neon t-shirt, both wearing sunglasses and emitting an overpowering sense of disenchantment. As they stood looking at OSMH with nary a wisp of respect detectable, the male said, bluntly
"Fuck electricity"
I loved it, but probably for none of the same reasons he said it.
Our show was solid, I pulled the drums down onto the main floor and then realized that I couldn't hear shit down there. I had to recalibrate my tempo a couple of times, but luckily the audience was forgiving.
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