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West Coast Part Two: Yer Never Too Old to Start Acting Young Again...

Next morn on Lynndale Ave in Minneapolis and I spend all my time at Treehouse Records. Picked up an LP copy of Beck's Mellow Gold as well jams like the La Beat Records Story, the Dethklok album, the live recording of Metal Machine Music by that weirdo German outfit, the Italians Do it Better After Dark compilation and some random new 45's that Treehouse is always good for.

The night before, Srini Radhakrishna (formerly of the questionably-legendary Guilty Pleasures and currently of France Has the Bomb) hipped me to a band called Vampire Hands, saying they're the hot new shit in town and that they're possibly even in talks with Sub Pop. Not only did Treehouse have Vampire Hands first two LP's AND play them for us in store to see if we dug it (we did), but the guy behind the counter was the guy behind putting them out.

When word-of-mouth things happen so nicely like that, it makes me feel like everything in the world is alright and that the Internet is just bullshit. We made talk with Mr. Treehouse and I was lucky enough to garner the super-secret discount for my wares. He's good people.

From there to the health food co-op down the street where the whole van loaded up on whatnots and whathaveyous. I got some Tom's of Maine toothpaste, unsure of whether I wanted (or needed) fluoride or not, as well as Paul Newman peanut butter cups, an organic croissant, some fruity fru-fru pansy electrolyte drink and a jar of royal jelly for Pat and I to split.

The royal jelly goes back to a story relayed to us by Chris Sutton of C.O.C.O. Apparently the members of Nation of Ulysses would down handfuls of the stuff before going onstage and that was supposed to be the secret to their overabundance of energy for their live performances. Anything good enough for Svenonius had to be good enough for us, right?

So cut to backstage in Fargo, Pat and I each swallow a lovin' spoonful of the stuff a little before going onstage. It's sweet but not overly so…if anything it's unpredictably viscous (that's what she said).

While tempted to grab a microphone and offer audience members $20 for the most embarrassing story they could offer about Chuck Klosterman, I only remember leaving the stage and saying the set felt "kinda fast" to which Ko, Troy and Mick replied, sarcastically, "You think?"

So while the royal jelly didn't find me jumping out second story window's with snare drum in hand or using two beer taps as drumsticks, it did, at the very least, propel the drummers to a speed slightly faster than usual. But I'm still waiting to turn into Steve Gamboa.

Hotel in Fargo felt brand new, wooden log façade (or hell, maybe it was actually a log cabin Best Western) and an overall nice smell to it. Right down the street from Space Alien Café, the worst eatery in all of town. We did a proper van clean up and briefing for our border crossing and all went smoothly.

West End Cultural Center seemed a bit off for us to be playing in Winnipeg, a place more-suited for touring theater productions rather than sweaty fag rock. On a pole outside the club was a Live Nation-commissioned Canadian tour poster…a towheaded Dennis the Menace-esque illustration complete with striped t-shirt and handful of dirt in mid-heave and I reveled in notifying the band that I and I alone was the one depicted on the Canadian posters.

Biggest bummer of the Winni show was noticing a significant crack in my ride cymbal. Boo. It's not worth it trying to buy cymbals in Canada with their imported prices and unnecessary sales-pitch "eh's" so I accepted the fact that I'd be somewhat screwed for the next week or so until we made it back to the States.

Dudes up front in Turbojugend jackets were into our jams and that was cool. But I've always wondered, do you have to send away UPC codes or something to get one? Because they're all personalized with your city and some vaguely homoerotic nickname and I can't imagine they just have a pile of "Turbojugend Vinnipeg" with "StevenSemen" jackets with them on tour.

So when I got the mic, I took the opportunity to ask this question in a clear and non-threatening way. The thing is, saying the phrase "Turbojugend" itself is threatening to jacket wearers if not immediately followed by the words "FUCKING ROCKS!"

So when I got into the crowd they were kinda messing with me, friendly pushing and the like. But when Pat and I commenced throwing our cracked cymbals at each other in a majestic, almost balletic finesse, I took to slamming mine at the edge of the stage and they took to spraying me with beer. I slickly unplugged Mick's adjacent pedals and tossed them out of beer spray's way and then used the cymbal as a Captain America-like shield from the stouts and lagers.

As I returned to the stage to break down my equipment, one of the dudes took to trying to start shit with me, asking "Why you gotta 'dis the Jugend man?" and "Come over here (to the edge of the stage) I just want to talk to you" to which I replied I was not dissing the Jugend, recited some lyrics from the song "Denim Demon" and refused to go to the edge of the stage, me being fully engrossed in the intricacies of breaking down a hi-hat stand like never before or since.

To add further challenge to it all, the club had received our big 'ole merchandise order for the rest of the tour. T-shirts with Morrisey on them, t-shirts with "You Are Being Watched" emblazoned across the chest, Blackula tote bags and possibly even other shit I'm forgetting arrived in Winnipeg to the tune of five huge cardboard boxes.

The van was already overstuffed with shit and as resident Tetris expert, I delighted in figuring out a way to make it all fit. By shoving my floor tom (which already had my rack tom telescoped inside) through my barely there batter-side kick drum head, I'd freed up a good cubic yard of space and with some more wiggling and jiggling and pushing and squeezing, I managed to get all the bullshit safely into our fifteen passenger boat.

Whenever such a packing feat is accomplished, you mark the occasion by saying one special phrase, "It's a beautiful thing." And indeed, it was.

Our hotel that night was purely Canadian in the fact that it had a water slide. As you traverse the Canadian Prairie the sudden omnipresence of waterslides becomes an inexplicable phenomenon along the lines of the Marfan Lights or Webkinz. This being the first time in memory we'd stayed at such a lodge and with Pantano and Sartain tying up the in-room shower the next morning (but not together…I don't think) I took to swimming as my means of bathing.

(cut to a golden nugget from Sartain…"Men will use going swimming as a reason to NOT shower, whereas women use going swimming as a reason to HAVE to shower." The man is full of them)

With the pool to myself I curiously press the "On" button for jets to the slide and with a youthful curiosity, climb to the top of the structure, anticipating an anticlimactic descent into the chlorinated depths.

So understand that upon being spit out of the curlicued aquatic attraction I was overcome with a complete sense of excitement. That shit was fun as hell! I couldn't, for the life of me, remember the last time I'd partaken in aquatic spirals and the entire experience was rejuvenating. I would proceed to climb those stairs and drop down the slide without a care in the world, seven consecutive times in all.

Moments like this are key to maintaining sanity on tour. Like an evening spent on carnival rides at Luna Park in Melbourne back in 2004, flipping upside down with a beautiful beach evening view, realizing it's all a gas, that the momentary childlike feeling is unpredictable and unmatchable. The waterslide made my tour, reminded me of sun-soaked summers spent slipping and sliding and proved to me yer never too old to start acting young again.

Breakfast at Tim Horton's and Sartain orders what he thought to be a BLT (in actuality it's a B-E-LT, the added "E" being egg). Upon unwrapping his food, he takes a disgusting look and immediately throws the offending chow with Clemens-like velocity into the trashcan and screams "FUCK THIS!"

He then sips at what he had ordered as "sweet tea" (a decidedly Southern offering all but nonexistent in Canada) only to pitch that onto the pavement and bellow "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT!" To which I didn't have the heart to reply "a 20oz of Lipton Iced Tea, you're in Winnipeg for chrissakes, what did you expect?"

A brief coolant leak scare allayed and the drive to Saskatoon was utterly uneventful. Louie's Pub is a campus-run sort of deal and if the 8x10's on the wall backstage were any indication, if you weren't a really important Canadian band (ie, Barenaked Ladies) then you had no reason playing, exempting Pavement.

The crowd was fairly sparse and Pantano let me use his ride for the Sartain set. Each show with him would get better and better, me actually remember how songs go and where changes come was a welcome departure from shitting my pants trying to follow that guy. I think it'd be the first night Dan yelled out "Cobras 2" without any apparent concern for the fact that not only hadn't we rehearsed it, but that the two of us hadn't actually played the song together since July. Luckily I'm fairly well versed in Sartain's back catalog and we pulled it out of our asses and no one was the wiser.

After the gig we crash the only way we know how…Best Western-style.

West Coast Part One: What Time Are We Supposed to Be There?

The Turner Ballroom in Milwaukee wanted us to arrive around 5pm. I don't think we showed up until 8:30 or so. Wasn't no thang for us, but apparently the club was paralyzed about what to do…there was even talk of completely canceling the show. We laughed when we were told this. We've shown up for gigs 45 minutes before closing and still played and STILL rocked the room.

The bigger problem, of course, was that we didn't even get to stop at Mars Cheese Castle.

The club was nice…catering, fancy upstairs dressing rooms, 'twas a shame we didn't really get to enjoy them for more than a few minutes. Caught the last few songs of the Terrible Twos and it was good seeing them on a big stage.

The set with Sartain was alright…I felt some kinks that still needed to be worked out, but I think the crowd was well-pleased with what they saw that night.

The Dirtbombs set was fun. We hadn't played together in over a week and there was a little rust to shake off, but overall the setlist is solid, everyone has it memorized and we can go from one song to another without having to speak to each other. This is the ultimate pinnacle of how tight we get on tour.

Having seen some non-flattering pix of my bass drum headstands, I'd vowed to myself to make that shit look a lot cooler. So during the encore of "I Can't Stop Thinking About It" I balanced myself on the drum and fully extended my legs with the sole intent of keeping them as straight as possible.

Somehow or another Pat timed the length of my headstand, an impressive 6.4 seconds, Easily a new personal best. Clearly the secret to a substantial stand time is keeping the legs straight. From there, I grabbed the floor tom mic, put the drum on my head and started singing about Green Bay stalwart Time Bomb Tom (representing in front of the stage) into Beck's "Timebomb" and then asking "Whatever happened to the Cactus Club?" as a sort of befuddlement as to why we were playing a theater more suited to fit over a thousand people in it rather than basement rec room-styled Cactus that broke so many bands in Beer City.

And so I relay to you a problem we've been encountering lately…do you play a smaller room, probably not as swank or with all the proper amenities, and totally pack 'em in and most likely for less money – OR – do you take the guaranteed bigger paycheck in the bigger room with catering and towels and a backstage and just cope with playing a room that's at 1/3 its capacity?

Frankly, I think proper showbiz etiquette dictates that you should always play a room slightly smaller than you can fill…just to keep things exciting. But as this is a touring operation highly susceptible to the forces of $7 a gallon gas, sometimes you just need to go for the sure thing.

I sang more at the front of the stage, kicked some cans of bear and then outright pounced upon David from the Mistreaters. I took him to the floor and we rolled around and after a spirited tussle I ended up on top with his arms pinned. An employee of the club, apparently unaware that I've spent the past 9 years of my life with the Mistreaters, was feverishly trying to pull me off the man, probably under the impression I had just blindly attacked a member of the audience and scared that it would somehow end up in a lawsuit against the club.

My little sister and her boyfriend drove up from Chicago for the show I had a blast hanging out with them backstage. It's crazy how much I miss her since she's moved to an area that actually has jobs for people in their twenties, but it makes the time that I do get to spend with her that much sweeter.

Next day in Madison. Time kicking around town proves fruitless at the record store and vintage clothing store, but the lesbian book store provides a goldmine of pins that will be discreetly placed on members of the touring party where they will sit for some time before being noticed. Pin sayings include:

"Stop staring at my tits" (and I actually may just keep that one for my own jacket)
"Not every sperm deserves a name"
"I got this way by kissing boys"
"I (heart) bisexuals"
"DYKE"

This is how we have fun. Is it funny for me to wear the "tits" button or no?

Madison was into us. Good-sized crowd and when I went into it during the encore I guess I pissed someone off. The stage was covered in broken glass by the time I left. Pat said he saw a dude getting particularly violent breaking bottles and being restrained by his friends. It is possible when I jumped into the crowd that I may have inadvertently injured him or someone in his party. If so, it was a mistake and I apologize for my carelessness and hopefully such misunderstandings can be worked out verbally in the future and not in the senseless destruction of alcoholic beverage containers.

After the show Pat was worried the guy would try and fight me, so he made sure to accompany me (all Bob Seger style) as I left the cushy confines of the backstage area to go help sell merch.

After a brief respite at Parson's Indian Trading Post in the Wisconsin Dells, we rolled into Minneapolis and saw that the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players were opening for Kate Nash at First Avenue, the club upstairs from the 7th St. Entry, where we would play.

It's little surprises like this that make touring exciting. I walked into the First Ave, found the fam and caught up with them, glad to figure that I would be able to catch their set and even moreso that they'd be able to see some of ours.

Their songs "Look at Me" and "Don't You Know What I Mean" (featured on their Cass Records 7") are still so strong and pure in my heart that I feel on the verge of tears when I hear them live. Rachel seems so grown up and I feel some sort of pride in watching her perform…the song where she played ukulele and sang about pigeons (she wrote it herself!) was even more wistful beauty and I still can't believe that the rest of the world still does not know how amazing this band is.

And to think I first saw them on Late Night with Conan O'Brien and only afterwards asked them to release a record. As a whole, the Trachetenburg single is still my proudest achievement with Cass. I'm a better person for knowing them as they give me hope for families, innovation, America and all kinds of abstract ideas that it's quite easy to be bummed about.

For our last song that night, Sartain yelled out "Tiger Man" a song we'd BARELY even goofed on at sound check. After listening to a few passes of his frantic strumming I cooked into a go-to Sartain Beat (or "Everything I Need to Know About Playing Drums for This Guy I Learned By Watching Ben Swank When I Was 17-Years-Old" as I like to call it) and Rufus Thomas could not have been prouder.

Our set was strong, just nothing particular stands out about it. Afterwards Kate Nash (headliner of the T-burg show upstairs) came up and said she really liked it. I guess she's a big deal, but I've still never heard her stuff. She mentioned that her boyfriend's band opened for us ages ago and when I had no idea what band that would be she said it was the Cribs. All at the same club I first met Jason Pierce. Thus concludes my name-dropping for the UK audiences.

Hotel was converted from an old train station into a cedar-smelling lodge with confusing circuitous room numbering and a numbingly brilliant way of fucking up our reservations that left me on a rollaway bed. I made a cup of noodles and lacking utensils had to venture out to the van (in some god-forsaken outfit, I'm sure) to obtain a spoon from the carry-out container I'd filled with plastic cutlery in a fit of prescience at catering in Milwaukee.

USA Part Seven: Conclusion of the East Coast...

Day off in Montreal wisely spent relaxing. Bought a kick-ass Detroit Red Wings throw-back sweater (not "jersey") the same that the team wore during the '91-92 season as part of the celebration of the 75th anniversary of the NHL.

This thing is beyond sweet, and I can't remember how much I actually spent on it, only that it was well-worth it. Makes me feel like I'm ten-years old again.

Ate at some greasy café that had a "Detroit" hot dog and was too curious to pass it up. The dog came with a liquefied meatsauce that may have possibly attempted to be chili. It was wholly unappetizing.

Bought Miranda July's "Learning to Love You More" from Urban Outfitters.

Trekked with Pat to the IMAX theater down the street from our hotel to catch Shine a Light, the latest Rolling Stones concert film. I was sincerely anticipating what I'd heard, from numerous sources, was a pretty great film.

From the opening sequence of the movie…with the playing up of the "what will the set-list be?" factor of the show, through the absolutely retching CGI'd ending with the moon over Manhattan morphing into the Stones' lips logo, the entire work was one solid disappointment after another.

Not only is it the only Scorcese film I can think of that doesn't feature "Gimme Shelter" but it's all so unexciting. Start the show with "Jumping Jack Flash"? Really? Was that the big secret you couldn't tell the producer before you got on stage? And that half-assed abortion you seemed to feel comfortable calling "Shattered"? Sick to my stomach…the band completely took the herky-jerky LIFE of that song and regurgitated it as forgettable bar band blues blah.

The entire thing suffered from what I would call "film mixing for idiots." That is, whoever is featured on screen is immediately thrust to the forefront of the audio mix. And as soon as the camera catches on someone else or changes shots, that next person is then the audio king for a second.

Distracting and frustrating to say the least, this approach left me completely unable to hear how certain guitar solos concluded. And believe me, I am so fucking far from an audio snob, I listen to Back From the Grave records and love 'em. But the accompanying audio to the visuals provided in Shine a Light is an egregious offense to anyone who's ever heard the Rolling Stones before.

All of these caused me to become particularly bored with the film and I fell asleep two separate times during the film. When Buddy Guy was thanked in the end credits, I had to ask Pantano why. Apparently I'd managed to miss that entire song.

Jack White's tasteful contribution to "Loving Cup" notwithstanding, I can in no way recommend "Shine a Light" and however inflated the Canadian dollar price of my IMAX ticket, I want it back.

Next day bought a vintage suit jacket (contemplated a German horse leather aviator coat from WWII but balked at the $700 tag) that Pat was jealous of and Mick said "You only got that 'cause it looks exactly like the coat I wore in the Gories."

My reply: "So?"

Quick drive up to Ottawa was particularly sunny. Club there was a complete shitfest, the backstage basement looking like something the most recalcitrant of crust punks would admit needed some cleaning. Had a tasty Asian meal down the street from the club.

Show was cool. The promoter threw all of the tickets for the night at us while we played in some faux-fetti fiasco. I believe the encore entailed me imploring the audience to dance like no one was watching them, a plea I would spruce up and use again at future shows. Ottawa also may have been my first use of "All the ugly people be quiet". Sometimes you just can't remember.

Next day in Toronto and buying rare rap records down the street from the Horseshoe Tavern. Stoltz band would play on CBC radio early that afternoon and he himself surprised me with a Hockey Night In Canada hooded sweatshirt that has become the instant envy of anyone who's seen it. I was chuffed.

The show was fine, again ending with a jam on "Miss You" with members of both bands taking part. As soon as we finished, we hurriedly packed up our gear and made the 4-hour drive straight back to Detroit. I dropped everyone else off first, stopped at Archer to pick up some test pressings and then collapsed in a heap.

Toledo and Ann Arbor didn't really feel like tour, but a trip to Tony Packo's and hitting up Underground Sounds on Record Store Day were choice. Pat got attacked by some drunken dude in Toledo and besides Frankie's looking exactly the way it did ten years ago, there's nothing else of merit to report from those days.

End of tour wrap party at New Seoul Gardens was delicious. There was created one collaborative picture sleeve for the Kelley Stoltz/Dirtbombs split single. Someday maybe someone will see it. A fun tour, marked by good meals, great shows, quixotic headaches and all kinds of in-between, it was a pleasure to share it all with a class-act like Kelley Stoltz and his equally as classy band. Good times.

USA Part Six: We're Actually in Canada Now...

Show day with time to kill in New York is a nice luxury. I again meet with Kugelberg and we finalize the details on a blockbuster record trade the likes of which make me giddy. We dine at a pretty fantastic ramen place, the name of which escapes me. He also took me to Academy Records, the vinyl store, in Manhattan. He made a few sound suggestions (a Folkways LP with early Moondog recordings , another Folkways LP with music made by wild animals) and when he asked what would be good records to play for a grade school classroom, all I could muster was the first White Stripes album. And I still stick by that.

After check at Bowery I tramped up the street to Rockit Scientist, my favorite record store in NYC. John and Ramsey behind the counter absolutely revel in playing shit for you and don't mind taking their time for frank discussion about anything from baseball to bossa nova. I don't remember what I bought, but I always buy something as, after seven years of loyal help, they feel like family to me.

From there, a nice and relaxing meal was had around the corner at Freeman's. A slight step-up from my usual gourmandizing Subway fares, "they" call restaurants of this nature "New American" and despite my not really believing that, the taxidermy on the walls and the staff were all warm and welcoming.

Started with the Devil's on Horseback (bleu-cheese stuffed prunes wrapped in bacon), a dish I'd been hearing raved about from quite some time. I was impressed…just not bowled over. Paired with the artichoke dip and it was a substantial appetizer for my barbeque spare ribs served over a bed of cheese grits.

While I usually frown upon pre-show food consumption, this entire experience opened my mind to what could be accomplished in the time before taking the stage. The pace of it was what really won me over…for a bustling joint on a Friday night that, for the most part, doesn't take reservations (and immediately after the '04 elections, responded to the Bush twins query of "How long for a table?" with the delicious "About 4 years") I felt amazingly calm and at ease, even with a set time to make.

There was dessert too…rich and sugary of some sort. As a whole it was a tad expensive yes, but it made my day as meals so rarely do. And a particularly good meal on tour is a commodity no price can be affixed to…instead you offer yourself to the god of gourmet and sacrifice your wallet in ecstasy.

First of three band was Care Bears on Fire and pending a show with Smoosh, we may be the adult band that's played with the most "kid" bands now. They were cute and fun and had parents that seemed like they were possibly a tad overbearing. But hey, maybe that's what you need to be when you're bringing your kids to hang out in bars while in junior high.

Our set was nothing spectacular. We showed up, we played our songs as we've come to play them and the response was appropriate. Nothing spectacular and far from a let-down, it was more just the accomplishment of our first show on the island of Manhattan in almost two years coming off without a hitch. The room was sold out and that was enough for me.

Pulling into Boston and as we drive past Cheapo Records I see Peter Wolf (J. Geils Band) exiting. I immediately called my mom, as she's the biggest J. Geils fan I know and played 20 questions with her about who I'd seen. For some reason she couldn't get off an Aerosmith tangent and I think she only figured it out after I gave some god-awful clue like "the band rhymes with 'lay liles.'" Even when she did get it, she seemed fairly unimpressed and I told her that's the last time I spot band members from semi-memorable bands of yesteryear for her.

But then she got on to talking about Electrifyin' Mojo made "Flamethrower" a hit in Detroit even though it was a single…and maybe something about how some of his listeners had thought J. Geils was a black band. I live for stories about Mojo…like Mike Banks in Underground Resistance cover story of THE WIRE recently saying something along the lines of

"He saved a lot of lives back in '82…gang violence was at its worst that year and he'd get on the air and say 'hey, let's be cool out there' and then drop 'Rock Lobster' and you can't be killing people while you're doing the rock lobster"

I'm also hoping big-time someone reading here can throw me a line on how to see the Electrifyin' Mojo documentary. Any help? Anyone?

Our good deed of the night was sneaking an underage girl in the back door and then hiding her in the band dressing room for the rest of the night until we played. I think at some point she even gave Ko a haircut, so we at least put her to work.

Show was solid (nice VU mallet beat throughout "Surrounded), best moment was our encore of "Kung Fu" called as an audible. During the freaky part in the middle I climbed atop Pat's bass drum and began banging on his rack tom. This would be the first time I made such a move and needless to say I dug on it hardcore and would jump at the chance whenever the opportunity arose in the future.

From there we welcomed the wicked border crossing for our frosty northern neighbors, Canada. When we arrived Man Man was sitting there waiting for their paperwork rigamarole "let's see how long we can make these weirdos sit here before one of them freaks out and then conduct body cavity searches on the whole lot" stunt. Dorien knew their tour manager, so they engaged in small talk, but the bands themselves shared nary a word.

Not long after they were on their way the Kelley Stoltz band arrived at the same crossing. Even though they showed up AFTER we did, they got out of there BEFORE us, most likely due to the fact they were carrying no merchandise with them and had no tariff/duties/customs bullshit fees to pay (whereas we did…all $87 of it).

So after they leave ANOTHER FUCKING BAND walks in the passport control building. Was this some kind of joke? It was killing me not knowing who they were and the fact that they looked hip was only exacerbating my mindset even more. I had to approach.

I'm pissed I didn't say the line I'd been toying with (suggested by Troy?) which was "Don't I know you from Pitchfork?" and instead probably just said something terribly monosyllabic like "What band you?" When they said they were Yeasayer, I was even more pissed…if only because they're totally always on Pitchfork. I told them what my initial intro line was going to be and they all agreed it would've been much, much funnier. Next time…

Cabaret Music Hall in Montreal is a nice club to play. Our set times got pushed back because the Habs had a playoff game and I'd like to blame the less-than-stellar turnout on the fact that those pansies lost.

It seems at this point in touring that our encores are really what keep everything fun and flowing. It's not that I don't dig the main set, but I've come to start thinking that the set is for the fans and the encore has become for the band. It's where we can explore ourselves out, try some different things, spread our metaphorical wings…our encore is where we can just BE.

So on this night many things would happen and I'd be a mystic if I could both remember them all and their order, so please forgive my usual chronological accuracy at this moment and just enjoy.

Before playing any songs, I said "Habitants, quel dommage" in response to the Canadiens losing earlier in the evening.

We played the Rolling Stones' "Miss You" with most (if not all) of the Kelley Stoltz band joining us in some form or another.

I carried my snare drum, kick drum, ride cymbal and drum throne off the stage down into the crowd and began playing while completely surrounded by the fans. I believe the song was "Granny's Little Chicken"

I had a microphone and partook in some playful banter with the crowd. I can remember being particularly fixated on the Arcade Fire, busting out with "My grandpa died too…get over it." I may also have dropped "All the ugly people be quiet" into the mix

I abdicated my drums (only to have the seat taken up by a revolving door of "I can do that's" kicking around) and climbed a speaker stack up to the balcony. I then began throwing wooden chairs off the balcony onto the stage. About four in total. One snapped in half. The promoter joked about charging us for it later, but he seemed so into it he said he couldn't charge us after such a great performance. He said the gig was so good it'd be written up in the weeklies. I don't think it was.

My drums ended a mess…in the process of tossing them in the air, (probably) putting them on my head, taking them into the crowd, headstanding on them and whatever else I managed to lose my last remaining mallet from my Euro tour with Stoltz in '06. That felt bittersweet, as a lone mallet was a small sacrifice for what was, in my mind, easily the best show of the tour.

USA Part Five: Whatever...

Maxwell's feels like home, albeit it one you can never park within 15 blocks of.

Hoboken is all so familiar that the fact we always have to search the darkest recesses of the city for a parking spot befitting a 15-passenger while in be it biting cold, suffocating heat, Jersey stench or just plain annoyance, has become somewhat a calming experience.

We rocked the party. I put all of the Stooges Funhouse on the jukebox as I sat down for dinner, but was bummed to find out that, although I'd programmed the songs in order, the beast itself took the liberty of scattering the songs throughout the span of my selections.

What kind of bullshit is that? It's like that completely fucked option on those ultimately lame satellite jukeboxes where, for an extra credit, you can have your song played immediately.

Now I know the world we live in is unfair and that those with gross amounts of money are usually quick to remind us of it. But the jukebox! The last bastion of public audio programming is now selling out for a quick credit? Whereas before the entire process was democratized, to hear my super-savvy obscurest garage jams, you had to be tempered under the spiteful honk of an Elton John medley. It made it all that much more worth it.

Just like everything else, the ad wizards have found an ever-so-small kink to cater to those with a nickel to spare while those of us still clinging to our jukebox ethics are freezing out in the cold.

The Datsuns showed up for the gig as they were spending some time in NYC. The room was fairly full, not jam-packed sold-out like other times, but it was a Sunday after all. I assume we played well and the crowd enjoyed it. I'm not writing this shit in real-time, so some details get lost after awhile.

The next day I spent with Johan Kugelberg. Smart, divisive and a record collector of the utmost caliber, he opened my eyes to a cornucopia of delights the likes of which I am not able to fully divulge on this here transmission. But a few things I dug:

-STREET AND GANGLAND RHYTHMS, BEATS AND IMPROVISATIONS BY SIX BOYS IN TROUBLE – Folkways
In a word…wow. There's no real reason something like this should exist and that's why I love it. Some have argued Folkways is the best record label of all-time and I'm coming up with nary a reason to try and disprove that. You can hear/see for yourself this particular title at
http://www.folkways.si.edu/search/AlbumDetails.aspx?ID=1069#

-original Back From the Grave promo poster

-picture sleeve for "All Tomorrow's Parties"

-a handful of songs off of Funhouse pressed onto one side of an LP intended for US Army radio airplay

The wise soul offered me much along the lines of opinion, touring advice (Spirolina) books he'd worked on (all oh-so delectable) and just general composure. We ate at Pizza by the Pound and it was glorious.

From there I walked to Other Music for the Dirtbombs instore performance. Load in was easy and we were able to stay parked in front of the store the entire time we were there. Nice.

I'd forgotten I'd broken my snare drum head the night before and the Other people were so helpful that they sent someone out to go grab me a new head. By the time the lights and cameras were set-up and they'd let the crowd pour in it was pretty exciting.

We played We Have You Surrounded in it's entirety, in order. I felt particularly energized (the "shit, we're only playing 45 minutes, let it all fly loose" vibe ringing in my head) and particular highlights were having the crowd so damn close to us, using the Buddha box on "Race to the Bottom" and getting my rack tom to hang upside-down from the ceiling and being able to play it that way.

Fucking fun times. I bought some shit there too…needing to take advantage of the 20% discount…the new Joe Carducci book, The Birth of Jazz by the Modey Lemon, the 1st Matador single by Jay Reatard, the 7" by Vivian Girls and some other shit I'm forgetting. The store even hooked me up with a free copy of the Breeders Mountain Battles that made my day.

Mick was interviewed on camera afterwards and I was delighted that the questioning was intelligent, informed and nothing like the other interviews he has to continuously do. I was left alone with the van, in charge of taking it back to Jersey City when I was hit with the weird vision spots (why do I think these are called fascia?) as a precursor to a headache.

I can say that driving a 15 passenger van alone through Manhattan in annoying rain at nighttime is not the best thing when your vision ain't 100% and it's even more aggravating when you're looking for signs for the Holland Tunnel. Every little light takes on a soft aura glow around it and where I'm used to 20/20 vision now more resembles an impressionist painting.

Next day foray to New Haven, CT was slightly fun. We picked half the band at Union Square and then made the hoof up to Third Unheard territory. The club (Café Nine) is beautifully tiny. We ate Italian carry-out, I ambled 'til I found a decent newsstand and bought the latest issue of Bad Idea and Stoltz hit his head on a precariously-placed ceiling nail, drawing blood.

I had a pre-show headache (I know, I know, I need to get this shit checked out) but once we were onstage everything felt magnificent. The head pain was gone, we were crammed up there like Mexicans in the back of a semi and the crowd couldn't have had more space than we did. It's moments like that where you feel the energy up in your throat. I did a headstand on my bass drum to end it all and in the process took Mick out with my legs.

I was a complete and total accident and I was thankful he wasn't hurt. Then I thought if I saw one of my favorite bands (shit, ANY band) where the drummer accidentally took out the lead singer because he was doing a headstand on a bass drum, I'd be really fucking impressed. So despite my inclusion in their ranks, I still think I'm the biggest Dirtbombs fan out there.

Spent the next day tramping around Jersey record stores with supreme collector Justin Frohwirth. He's largely responsible for upkeep on the staggeringly comprehensive punk discog at www.collectorscum.com

He was able to track down a copy of the first LP by the Fourth Movement and after talking for awhile (we got lost somewhere on the Garden State Parkway) we realized that I bought my copy of the Victims "No Thanks to the Human Turd" single off him at the WFMU Record Fair back in 2003.

He said the only reason he remembered me was because that he didn't know me, saying that it's rare to unload big ticket items like that to people you'd never met before. I think the price on the single was $200, which I gladly paid. I also picked up an X-X record. I liked that we'd "met" years before for nary a moment but both clearly remembered it.

A nice dinner in Jersey City was a mental relaxant.

Off to Philadelphia for some City of Brotherly Fuck You. I've never really had anything remotely resembling a good time there and wasn't ever really expecting to. The few record stores I hit were decent…the soul/dance/r&b shop filling me with copies of some choice early hip-hop comps as well as Freddy Fresh's Rap Records Book, Volume Two, all necessities in my current jag of early rap knowledge.

With tons and tons of shoe stores, I was still unable to find a pair of size 10 1/2 Nike Vintage Waffle Racers or Oregon Waffle Vintage in my desired color scheme of green and orange OR yellow and green. Any help from those reading here in searching down a pair would be greatly appreciated…the Nike Vintage site says all sold out, but I call bullshit, someone must have some somewhere.

Johnny Brenda's was nice and comfortable. Soundcheck and dinner afterwards were both supreme. I slept during Mondo Topless and most of the Stoltz set too. The crowd was into our jam and it got me into it big time. To end the set, I jumped off the stage, ran up the stairs into the balcony, climbed over the railing, traversed the lighting rig like a set of monkey bars, swung myself into motion and after almost losing my grip and falling 12-15 feet to the ground, gathered myself and landed on the stage, knocking the wind out of myself, but ultimately driving the crowd nuts.

I also did the drum on the head dance, sang parts of "We Fenced Other Houses With the Bones of Our Own", jumped into the crowd, had two glasses thrown at me (with one actually connecting) and overall pulled out all the stops to engage the audience while having fun myself. I think I clearly succeeded, just watch the video here…

USA Part Four: I Don't Want to Rhyme No More

We got into Atlanta early and spent time tramping around Little Five Points. I got the touring musician discount (20% off) at Criminal Records and took full advantage of said unpromoted promotion to purchase THE COMPLETE MOTOWN SINGLES VOL. 7 1967 at a relative steal.

From there I cleaned out some 7"s with potential from Wax'n'Fact's dollar bin. Two totally ghetto girls asked for the new Editors record and caught me off-guard. I hit up the vintage clothing stores nearby, but had no luck.

I was unpleased with my meal at the Earl before soundcheck. Met up with Henry Owings from Chunklet and went with him to some Mexican place. In front of us in line was some sort of radio promotions team. One of them handed Henry and I each a $5 bill and a pocket calendar for whatever station they were shilling. Hen thought it was a put-on…that the bill was fake and had some Bible quote on it. But no, shit was the real deal. When the girl handed us the dough, she said "(whatever radio station) would like to contribute $5 to your meal today" and that messed me up, because I'd already eaten and wasn't planning on ordering anything.

So do I give the money back because I'm not eating? Do I order something anyways and save it for later? Do I literally pass the buck to the dude behind me in line (to whom the promotions girl apologized for not having money for) because he's obviously hungry? I quickly figured a compromise and ordered a large lemonade. I made money on the deal in the end, which was nice.

I missed Thee Crucials, but can't remember if it was because I was asleep or something else. I can't remember Kelley either.

Our set was pretty damned fun. I did the mic in the mouth thing and started faux-rapping about Rob's House Records, the pre-eminent Atlanta 7" imprint. Then I just started screaming my balls out, pulling air from every last recess of my lungs to bellow and shriek into the microphone. I rolled around on the floor of the club until my hair ended up underneath someone's boot, leaving me physically unable to move anywhere else.

Amidst our Japanese-like end-of-the-show noise jam, I breathed a nugget of genius to the crowd that may just be the title of our next singles comp. I said "We can do this for a lot longer than you can deal with it." And although we didn't totally clear the room, we sent A LOT of motherfuckers for the door. There's something oddly satisfying about doing that.

I guess it seems like anything can pass for entertainment or music nowadays, so as to do something so strong or vile or annoying enough to make people who PAID for entry to leave the room of their own volition is a remarkable feat. I cherish it.

Not long after finishing a rewarding conversation with Trey of Rob's House Records (a label I can wholeheartedly endorse is worth picking up any of their releases indiscriminately), I picked up the blurry vision/seeing spots warning and prepared for a headache that would prove to be the second most painful one I'd experienced in my lifetime, just behind the migraine I got in second grade after the bowling league Xmas party where I was in so much pain I actually vomited.

There would be no vomit this time, just massive nausea that felt like it could lead to hurling at any minute. Also, we were driving two hours outside of town to a hotel that would shave that much time off the next day's drive, so I was left to try and remain motionless in our van in the wee hours of the morning trying to trick my brain into interpreting the pain as pleasure. Too bad that's some Dr. Spock shit that I ain't got a hold on yet.

We arrived at the hotel and Pat noticed the van was overheating. I went straight to our room, almost threw-up, then crashed to sleep big time, as the only thing that cures these tortuous headaches is some snoozing. The marquee pain had subsided by the time I awoke, but the rest of the day my head still hurt, as if it had been strained by the amount of pure pain exerted on it the previous night…yes, my headache was so strong that it had aftershocks.

So Pat woke up early to get the radiator hose fixed as a remedy to the overheating. A bunch of repair shop bullshit rigamarole went down and we were all left waiting hours (he at the shop, us still at the hotel) for a fix that should have taken next-to no time. Such is the touring life.

We got to Chapel Hill and soundchecked. Afterwards I walked in the rain to a used bookstore where I bought To Be Loved (Berry Gordy's autobiography), Berry, Motown and Me (Berry's ex-wife's autobio) and Hitmen the essential text exposing the music biz of yore for all their shady wheelings and dealings. Good scores.

Around the corner for burritos and art from vending machines. Good conversation about mail art and Ray Johnson at the club as my thoughts on how we played now seem lost to the ages.

Long-ass drive the next day to Baltimore the salty whore. All the drives tend to blend together at this point, but we got stuck in sick gridlock for two hours headed into downtown. From what I could see there was an Orioles game, a Duran Duran concert, some NCAA get-together (women's basketball finals?) and, of course, a Dirtbombs show.

We rolled into the Sonar right before doors opened, weary as hell and excited to stretch our legs. It was Ko's birthday and she was excited for it to be in the land of The Wire. Someone had their distro/traveling record store set-up so I bought some 7"s as a force of habit, some retail therapy to cope with the leftover dread of the bumper-humping traffic.

So for "Underdog" the guy's in Kelley's band put on sock puppets and stood in front of Ko and had the puppets join her for the "yeah yeah" response. She wasn't expecting it and it was nice and funny. Then our tour manager Dorien brought her a birthday cake onstage. I think Ko had a good birthday and that's a hard thing to pull off on tour.

The show was live. We hadn't played Baltimore since 2003 and even then it seemed whatever. But five years absence had uncovered some unknown dormant excitable kids who just danced their nuts off. It was so refreshing to see. Rolling Stone recently named Baltimore the best scene in the country and if the handful of freaks who showed up at our gig were any indication, I'd have to concur with Wenner's winners.

We drove after the show through to Washington DC to take full advantage of a Saturday afternoon spent there. I had hopes of going to the National Archives and checking out the veritable attic of the United States. Was bummed when I woke up in the morning to see that the Archives were closed for renovation until September and that a "best-of" their collection was available for viewing at the Air and Space museum.

The only thing I can hate more than viewing a tiny smidgen of the vast collection and resources of our country's National Archives would be seeing them alongside the fart of history in a building boring me with planes hanging from the ceiling like some Air Force-crazed 15-year-old boy with an endless supply of scale models and fishing line.

None of the other 82 museums in town floated my boat, so instead I just roamed around the area of the hotel. I called Svenonius and he directed me to some decent record stores, and as tempted as I was to flesh out my go-go collection, I failed to purchase anything.

I did, however, like the vibe of Dupont Circle, especially the people handing out the anti-Scientologist pamphleture with their faces covered for anonymity. There was the bustling 24-hour bookstore that I dug.

The show in DC was wild. I seem to remember DC being the town where I put TWO drums on my head…first my rack tom and then my floor tom over that, all while continuing to play. From there, more yelling and screaming into the mic and then moving my drums across the stage (while the band is sill playing, mind you) to set up my bass drum flush against Patrick's so that we were playing while facing each other. Grabbed Mick's guitar and started Thurston-ing out, shoving a drum stick under the strings and making all kinds of holy racket to rock out.

I ended with a headstand on Pat's bass drum and while trying to land with my legs straddling his head, took the dude out and gave both of us reason to walk off stage.

Shit was fun and it was best put by a fan who'd seen both the Baltimore and DC shows "Last night I saw one of the best rock and roll shows of my life and tonight I saw THE best rock and roll show of my life."

USA Part Three: Won't You Take a Walk With Me?

After New Orleans was a daylong day-off drive to Asheville. Sunday brunch was at Ruby Tuesday's and we feasted like kings. I indulged in the bottomless blackberry lemonade and engorged on the ribs and steak twofer. For some reason Troy didn't want Ruby Tuesday's, so he walked over to Waffle House and ate there by himself.

The drive was punctuated by short stolen bursts of sleep. Without a stereo in the van I've been pissed that I haven't brought any solid reading material, instead making do with issues of Vanity Fair and Radar and, if in a real pinch, the trashy bullshit celeb gossip rags that seem to multiply like Gremlins in our van.

Day in Asheville was spent ambling around those hippie streets. Breakfast with Mick and Pat at a nice little café where we see a guy wearing a white cloth jacket with the beginnings of a patch avalanche. As my chest pocket is filled with Cass Records logo patches for just such an occasion, I say "My man!" across the room (and let it be known, I have never used the phrase "My man!" before in my life and I have accepted the fact that I now sound like a floor salesperson at Guitar Center), say that he looks like the kind of guy who likes patches and then slap one of those 3" blue suckers in his hand. He seemed appreciative. I was glad that I had an interesting idea and instead of letting a weird nervousness block that just going up to the person, being cordial and realizing everything can work out just fine.

There were a couple of record stores I didn't buy anything at. Was tempted by a Mt. Tai 7" somewhere and can't believe that even with its Poopy Time connections that I decided not to buy it. Stupid.

There was a shitload of vintage clothing stores that were all worth my time. At Hip Replacement I bought two pair of Levi's 517's and an exemplary specimen of navy blue Sta-Prest pants as well. Throw in two pair of psychedelic tights for Malissa and I'm out of there $120 poorer. But those jeans will last me nice and long and you'd be hard-pressed to buy a lesser-quality, not-as-cool pair of NEW Levi's for $32 a pair.

Years ago I simplified my life and decided to only wear Levi's jeans. It was a process of weeding out one pair of Lee and two Old Navy that are now used for the rare painting excursion. I am in love with the fact that Levi's invented blue jeans. I love the history of the company, the evolution of their style and the perfection achieved with the 60's and 70's 517's (boot-cut) and 646's (bell-bottoms).

So when we tour, I stuff my Tumi with as many pairs of those denim demons as will feasibly fit. I seem to remember a looooong European tour a few years back where I brought at least 16 pairs of jeans with me. Yes…I own an insane amount of jeans. I'm of the mindset of "Let's not do laundry" on tour and the best way to achieve that is BULK! BULK! BULK! Naturally my t-shirt stockpile is impressive as are my underwear and sock reserves. I am nothing if not thorough and exact in my distaste of doing laundry on tour.

What I've also achieved by only wearing Levi's is a sense of regularity. I know that my cell phone will always be in my front left pocket. There's never the urgent sense of searching where the hell that "Conquest" ringtone is coming from. Plus, the initial Levi's jeans exclusivity have crossed over to corduroys and Sta-Prest in that there's nary an occasion (with the sometime exception of a wedding/funeral where I can't fake it with Sta-Prest) I will not have a Levi's tab on my right asscheek. I know I will always have a minimum of four pockets, if I'm lucky to get the fifth there'll certainly be a drum key stuffed in there.

I guess what I'm saying is that I love Levi's (shit, we haven't even gotten into the perfection of the six-pocket jean jacket design) and if you happen to stumble upon any 36x32's or (really need this one here) a size 42 black Sta-Prest suit coat, well, I want 'em.

The club in Asheville, the Orange Peel, was laughably too big. But seeing as they offered the big bucks to bring us there we weren't going to complain. Greg Cartwright showed up with his wife and daughter for soundcheck completing our Oblivians sightings trifecta for the tour (with the rare Quintron bonus!) and after knocking around a bit we cracked next door for some banging burritos.

Mostly slept backstage before the show. Saw a Muldoons tattoo that was pretty unexpected. We performed perfunctory.

Next day we drove to Birmingham. Now I'd heard lots about how cool the Bottle Tree is and every bone in my body wanted to prove it wrong. But the cynic inside is silenced. The Bottletree is easily the best rock club in the nation and (quite possibly) the world.

With seasoned skinsman Brian Teasley (Man…or Astroman?, Polyphonic Spree, Vue) as the driving force behind the venue ably aided by a veritable platoon of proud employees from soundman down to cook, the place is, considering its location in the lifeless wasteland of Alabama, a true-to-life oasis.

Backstage comfort is second to none. A plethora of time-killers are just screaming for you to mess with them…current magazines you'd actually want to read (and Spin too), interesting books (The History of Porn), massage chairs, bowls of candy, a tub filled with all kinds of great sports equipment (Nerf balls galore) and even an Airstream trailer with beds a'beckoning and a TV/DVD set-up with a sweet selection of rock-centric programming (I suggest WORLD'S BEST DRUM SOLOS VOL. 2).

While all the above-mentioned would certainly be enough to win my hardened rock and roll heart, I must specifically mention how fucking cool and courteous the staff at the Bottletree is. I felt a strong sense of mutual respect…they were there to make the show go as smoothly as possible and I was there to put on the best possible show I could. So with oh-so-succulent food (Jerk Grilled Pork Tenderloin) and a staffer who's only job it seemed was to make sure everything was cool for us, I am hard-pressed to come up with anything that even remotely resembles a complaint about the Bottle Tree.

And as it should work, we played a pretty damn solid show. I was actually somewhat nervous performing with Teasley in the room. As much as he's played, I'd figured he was jaded beyond belief and certainly his scribblings in Chunklet would make you think so. But when he came up to me after the show and said he'd never seen someone do a headstand on a bass drum before, it genuinely made my day.

Coming from a dude who's played thousands of shows the world over, it got me to thinking that if HE hadn't seen anyone else do it, maybe no one else HAS done it. This would, in most other circumstances, but no issue at all as I do things all the time I assume no one else has before (eg, ordering a cheeseburger, cheese curds, mini-corndogs at A&W today) but can't imagine that anyone really cares.

But as a music writer and one with a tendency to look for ultimates and firsts, I can't stress how hard it actually is to do something completely original behind a drum set. People just been playing the things for far too long…you can't set 'em on fire, throw 'em up against the wall, play 'em upside down or underwater without being reminded of those who did it first and (most often) better.

So it is here, my faithful readers, that I look to you to help me find any evidence of ANYONE else ever doing a headstand on a bass drum. I know the exact date I performed my first one (and if you do some digging, you can find it buried around here) and we will consider that the starting point until anyone proves otherwise.

But seriously, the Bottle Tree is unparalleled. A club run by a guy who's done his time touring is a club done right. While I never imagined I'd ever have a reason to say it, I truly cannot wait until the next time we get to Birmingham, and more importantly, the next time we get to play the Bottle Tree.

USA Part Two: I Say Oh My and a Boo Hoo...

After Arkansas was the mighty fine trek to Dallas. Ko let me tap my headphones into her iPod and I played DJ for a good chunk of the trip. She'd played a bunch of the new Gnarls Barkley record, but not enough for me to form an opinion. By the time we'd rolled up to the House of Blues I had us rocking out to the Misfits "Bullet."

In bad taste? Hardly.

I snuck off after soundcheck and waltzed over to Dealey Plaza. Trying to think of individual spots where the course of American history changed and that little white "X" in the road has to be tops in regards the actual size versus impact.

I easily would lump Fort Sumter and the World Trade Center site as monumental places in US history. But their literal size also seems too huge and ultimately detracts from the effect of being in its presence.

There were a few guys around …one trying to sell a newsprint pamphlet of photos and news reports, another with a full-blown desktop computer running on a generator hawking CD-ROM's, surely with "the truth" as his main intention.

I just sort of stared around. Later I'd read about a man who, about five years ago, killed himself on that very "X" that marks the spot where JFK was first struck by the assassin's bullet.

And I'll come out right here and say it…I think Oswald acted alone. I think I can solely base my opinion on the downright badass Case Closed account written by all-around badass Gerald Posner. You can huff all you want about LBJ and Castro and the CIA and Woody Harrelson's dad, but in the end, there's just TOO much evidence that points solely in the direction of little Lee Harvey.

Show in Dallas would be the first where I felt absolutely 100% recovered from my ills. There was a decent crowd and I think we sufficiently rocked them.

From Dallas to Austin with a brief stop in Waco at the Style Station. Housed in what was originally a gas station back in the 1920's, it's a wild collection of premium vintage clothes…swank snap-button cowboy shirts, buttery soft Seventies t-shirts, shitloads of Levis in all the right fades…not to mention all kinds of other cool old crap crammed into every last available crevice.

I found some cool shit and even took to trying it on, but alas my fat ass had to take a pass. I was even more bummed about it when the owner lady (who used to live in Detroit) said that musicians get an immediate 20% off. Damn. I ended up with a black print on yellow shirt for what appears to be a go-kart association from the 1970's. I was chuffed.

Upon arrival at Emo's we were greeted by Dave Sitek from TV on the Radio. Troy's bass amp had taken a shit in Little Rock and Mick had been in touch with Dave since then. As a side-effect of being one of the coolest fucking dudes around, Dave went out and bought a brand new Berringer bass amp and just handed it over to us. His instructions were to use it for the rest of the tour and when we're done with it to donate it to a school music program somewhere in Detroit.

Someone just give the guy a medal already, ok?

The Hold Steady would be playing Emo's outdoor space and I think we out-rocked them. I mean, come on, it's the Hold Steady, how many bad bar rock songs to you have to write before Pitchfork stops swallowing your nutsack? Our show was sold out and we had posters made by Rob Jones. We win.

Next day in Austin was spent cruising the hip shops. I got the JVC Force "Strong Island" 12" for $15 and we all contemplated really hard on whether or not the next Dirtbombs "look" would be Odd Fellows outfits from the 1890's with insane flame and eyeball insignias embroidered all over the wildly colored tunics. We opted not to plunk down the couple hundred bucks a piece they were asking at the antique mall, but I'm still certain they'd make for a badass photo shoot.

Then off to Waterloo where I grabbed a bunch of different things only to put it all back and instead buy Chuck Berry's complete Chess sessions from the 1950's. It's not that I'm even that big of a Chuck Berry fan (though I gotta admit the original title for the 4CD box, The Mann Act Was Bullshit is brilliant) but I'm ultimately a sucker for collections to which there's nothing else. Like the first three years of Sun Records boxset, the Bo Diddley double-disc of his first three years on Checker, the Complete Motown Singles series…the idea of having everything, excites me on historical, record collecting, archival contexts not to mention that the ability to clearly view how an artist/label has evolved from release to release is like a soggy dream come true for me.

I then walked across the street to whole foods where I got an Odwalla, some pork and rice mixed together, a bread roll and a chocolate bar with pieces of bacon in it all for a total of $18.

Yes, a chocolate bar with pieces of bacon in it. Someone read my mind. And let me tell you all, this concoction is godhead. It is easily worth the $6 I paid for it. Do yourself a favor and go and buy the greatest delicacy known to man…Mo's Bacon Bar from Vosges Haut Chocolat.

Off to Houston. Rudyard's always initially seems like it's going to be a bummer. We forewent a soundcheck and instead went to hang out at some bookstores. I passed on a $30 book about No Wave that I'm still thinking about. Bookstores = great time killer.

We played well, the crowd was into it but visible signs of their reactions were few and far between. It's frustrating when you KNOW the crowd is into it but they show none of the outward signs…makes it that much harder for you to completely pour yourself into the performance. That being said, I still seem to remember the show ending with fans being brought onto the stage to dance. So I could just be full of shit.

On to Louisiana, bringing to mind brilliant songs by the Walkmen. Seems we never get enough time to spend in New Orleans. Once we'd loaded in I scooted around the corner to check out Rev. Zombie's/Marie Laveaux's Voodoo Shop. I didn't have time to take the haunted New Orleans tour, so I perused around the shop, bought some postcards and a good luck mojo bag and made back to the club.

One-Eyed Jack's is a cool club. I dig it. Nice size and layout and just feels all-around cozy. After check I went around walking some more. Usually I'd go and spend all my time and most of my money at the Tower Records down the block, but with that closed I needed to expand my exploratory options. So I swallowed my pride and went to Urban Outfitters, "Ruining Your Thrift Store Finds since 1992."

I finally plunked down the requisite amount of cash for a copy of Banksy's Wall and Piece and I'm hard-pressed to think of another modern artist who seems to so ably capture the aw-fuckit, youthful joie-de-vivre as the anonymous graffiti chav with a penchant for clever and poignant observations paired with detailed stencil work.

But I was also surprised to see brand-new on-the-rack Levi's Sta-Prest pants. Available in black and brown (and I think only straight-leg as opposed to the more-common/desirable 517 boot cut), they may very well have not even been labeled Sta-Prest as such. But as a certifiable Levi's connoisseur, it was clear the material was that same polyester that I've come to depend on for my fancy-dress occasions. I thought they were no longer in production and a quick call to my sister who works at the Levi's Store on Michigan Ave in Chicago told me that they certainly weren't carried by that location. I know for a period they were being billed as "Tex Twill" and targeted to the cowboy market that Wrangler's pants of the same fabric, cut and colors were intended for.

But for $50 and with a curious inner waistband placement of a silk-screened Levi's logo I was not biting. Had they been available in blue, that'd be an entirely different story. There are barely any pants that I wear that are not Levi's. My hoard of jeans borders on psychologically problematic and by the time I realized that Sta-Prest are pretty much just jeans of a different material, I was easily won over. Also, it's not too often you deal with a company that has literally (really and truly literally) invented a piece of clothing. And Levi's invented the blue jean. To quote the seminal 1980's film about teenage female sorcery, "Top That."

Eric Oblivian's band the True Sons of Thunder opened and they were a welcome first of three. Mr Quintron and Miss Pussycat arrived quite early and I totally blanched as I hadn't even thought to put them on the list as I was certain they were on the road. But they got in nonetheless and I was bummed when I didn't get a chance to talk with them. I wanted to get the scoop on the recent batch of limited Drum Buddies he'd offered up for sale. Hell, I kinda wanted to buy one.

I napped a bit on the band balcony during the Stoltz set. His songs are soft and comforting and remind me of home, they put me at ease and I welcome their ability to but me aslumber.
We rocked well. The sizeable crowd was appreciative. The clear highlight though was a seven-minute band exercise in restraint. To end our main set, we stuck into a groove that became so much bigger than the sum of all our parts, beyond any of our control. The crowd reactions were fucking classic though.

Mike Hurtt said he had friends who wanted to leave during the jam. He wisely said "No, that's what they want you to do. They're not gonna end with this. They will reward you if you stick it out." Hurtt himself could not stand our arty experiment, but he was totally fucking right. As we retook the stage, some girl yelled indignant with pointed finger "THAT WAS NOT COOL!" while another audience member put it more bluntly with "YOU OWE ME!"

So we proffered up "Need You Tonight" and seemingly made it worth their while. It's refreshing to be able to do something that feels totally fresh and satisfying as an artist and yet still challenge (and possibly off-put) the audience. And to bring it all back with some INXS, the musical equivalent of a straight-outta-the-oven chocolate chip cookie, well, it's the best of both worlds, isn't it?

Spent a good chunk of my post-gig time chatting with Peg O'Neill of the Gories. This lady embodies a form of badass that is all but nonexistent outside of her DNA. I can sit there and listen to her talk endlessly. I know I'd creeped her out years ago with my Gories-related obsessiveness, but she's thankfully looked past that and now any time I get to see her is a pure treat. New Orleans was a good day.

USA Part One: This Could Maybe Be Some Fun...

I'm running behind, but I'll catch up sooner or later. Check out Australia Pts. 9 and 5 for some recently added photos (bloody finger, fuzzy drums) and now dig on my words about the motherland.


I had the awesome luck of having to drive to every other Dirtbombs member's house to pick them up before our voyage down to Bloomington. The promoter wanted us there at 4pm to load in. We left Detroit at 2pm and it's at best a five-hour drive.

The great part was that the club wasn't providing a soundman so had we arrived at the suggested time, we would've just been a bunch of aggravated, jet-lagged bombs.

In stead, we showed up after doors had opened and were all the better for it. Never mind that I was pulled over for not having my headlights on. It was totally one of those military haircut hard-ass dudes and I was just waiting for how bad he was gonna screw me.

I honestly explained to him how the lights on the dash made it appear as if my headlights were on. Being that weird time where you kind of need your lights and kind of don't I couldn't really tell if my beams were on or not. He took my license and registration and I immediately prepared for an unjust fine.

Dude came back with a written warning. Fuck yeah. We rule.

Chilled at the club and caught up with Stoltz and company. Looked for the posters for the night with no luck. Bummer. Opening bands were Shake and the Coke Dares. They were standard opening bands.

Stoltz sounded great. The mix, the way his players interacted, starting the set with Link Wray's "Ace of Spades" was all so insanely flawless. It's frustrating because Kelley makes it look effortless while I know firsthand how hard he works for these results and the attention he pays to minute details.

Our set was solid. Seemed like there had to be a dozen people crawling around the stage taking photos. During "They Have Us Surrounded" I set my cracked ride cymbal on top of my floor tom and beat on it with my mallet for some crunchy aural pleasure. After a little while of that, I grabbed the cymbal with one hand and just blindly threw it behind me and over my head. I think it probably looked cool.

For the encore I put my floor tom on my head and Ko banged the head that I think gave me some nasty hearing damage. I grabbed the tom mic and screamed into it "There's more photographers here than at a fucking Olan Mills" with my alternate phrase being "There's more cameras here than at Ko's family reunions."

One of the photographers apparently asked Ko what the most exciting moment was during our set. She wisely told him that was for him to figure out. Then I think he asked if she could signal him when something "cool" was about to happen and she replied "Do you want me to click the shudder for you too?"

So after I tossed the tom off my head I sidled up to this photog and gingerly tried to tackle him while also trying to weasel his camera away from him and take photos with it. Luckily he realized it was all in good fun.

The bummer of the entire day (and soon to be the entire weekend) would be my diminishing physical health. Body aches, sore throat, runny nose, congestion, chest-piercing coughs…they would all make appearances over the Holy Weekend.

Saturday found my illness taking its attack position. I would lack an appetite the entire day. We were mostly making good time for our check/load in Nashville until we came to a particular roadside stop in Kentucky. You see, this particular stop, which included megalithic renditions of prehistoric reptiles, had an establishment touting its t-shirt pricing prowess. But even more exciting…they were selling switchblades.

Of the many idyllic hopes and dreams I had as a young tyke joining this sputtering rock and roll juggernaut, one that had yet to have been fully crushed by the mind-flattening ennui that comes with the territory was to find a properly shady roadside establishment which partook in the commerce of spring-loaded cutlery. I figured that in this ill-begotten country such a search would take all of, oh I don't know, a five-hour drive in any direction.

So year after year I hoped and year after year I was disappointed. I began to think that switchblades just didn't exist any more. I found one once at a Mexican flea market outside of Austin back in 2003, but it had a swastika on it and Pat convinced me otherwise. So despite my deathbed sickness, the day was relatively saved by my $15 purchase. I was kinda into it, but the wide-eyed 17-year-old drummer who still shows up from time-to-time is turning cartwheels.

We got to the club, decided it pointless to load-in and try to soundcheck before our instore so instead went to the hotel and checked in there. Best Western. Nice.

Grimey's for BeerThirty was good. There was an ample enough crowd and a good amount of kids came out…reminding us our show that eve was not all ages. With some record bins pushed aside we had sufficient (not ample) room to fit our shit. I used the house drums, Troy the house bass amp, Mick bought house records.

We played almost all of WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED in order. We didn't do "La Fin Du Monde" and we kinda only really goofed on "They Have Us Surrounded" but otherwise, it sounded good, the crowd seemed happy, Pat climbed around on shelves and amps and drummed on anything he could get near and I fully utilized the 25% band discount to buy the Metalocalypse DVD, the new BYOP, Malkmus, Numero Group's Big Mack collection, Nick Swardson (my favorite comedian of the moment) as well as 7"s by Liars, the Kills and probably some others I'm forgetting.

Back at the Mercy Lounge and my illness would only escalate. I remember the Clutters and Stoltz playing, but I would remain backstage the entire eve trying to remain perfectly still in hopes that the sickness would think I had left and spare my soul. This, unfortunately, did not work. We played and the crowd was grateful but I found myself having to spit at least once a song, leaving an appetizing puddle of spittle that I'm sure some lucky soul chanced upon later in the eve.

As soon as we finished I returned backstage and continued my quest for eternal motionlessness. The fact that I failed to drink much of anything also led me to believe that our performance had now left me dehydrated.

Easter Sunday. The resurrection found me spending the entire day in bed in a Best Western in Nashville. The last time I spent an entire day supine was the summer between 4th and 5th grade and I'd had kidney surgery at Detroit Children's Hospital and watched a brawl breakout between the Tigers and Bosox after some schmuck decided to bean John Shelby and he rightfully charged the mound. That was almost 15 years ago. Wow.

I've often hoped for some regal excuse like an illness or injury (always thought a broken leg would work) as an excuse to take time and just get some shit DONE. In my dreams, it's usually the process of starting and completing the writing of a book. But with an entire day spent in bed with absolutely dipshit to do, I was left with the sneaking feeling that I only operate on the level of trying to do fifteen things simultaneously.

So if you give me nothing but time, I will complete absolutely nothing. Rather, give me a deadline that is too soon, pile on heaps of other tasks, get me to make the coffee, and I shall deliver. It's like my mom said, if you've got a job that needs to be done, always give it to the busiest person. They'll fit it in. The person not doing anything will just put it off and put it off and never get it done. I think that might be in the Bible somewhere.

Anyway, the entire day in bed sucked but was necessary for recuperation. The number of trips to the bathroom to hock up a lung's worth of phlegm and snot rocket the sink was upwards of thirty. I drank many fluids. I watched Wayne's World and reveled in it's early example of a "that's what she said" joke. Spaceballs was a nice treat too. All my immediate family called me individually to see how I was doing. I ate pizza for dinner. By the next morn I felt much better, about 85% operating level.

We quickly visited one of the few Guitar Center's in the world we've yet to experience, made a brief stop at Loretta Lynn's kitchen and seemed like we were in Memphis in no time. The Artisan hotel was something different last time we'd stayed there and now it just had bad reproductions of Mediterranean classics splashed all over the lobby. The rooms were fake nice…meaning some shit (like the bathroom sinks) really was swank, while other things like the carpet and the "paint" stains on Pat's bedspread were too glaring to overlook.

A quick trip to Shangri-La Records and I scored INXS' "Need You Tonight" in picture sleeve for $2. Played some pinball and killed lots of time as Memphis would prove a big bust. The Black Lips and Quintron had played on Friday, Saturday was Shangri-La's 20th anniversary party, Sunday was Easter and Monday was the night the Dirtbombs played for no more than 25 paying customers at the Hi-Tone Café.

I was happy though that Jack Yarber and Harlan T. Bobo showed up. To me, those two were worth more than 50 more audience members anyway. This night it would feel (to me anyway) that everything we played was hyper-sped up. I'm not gonna lie when I say I kinda liked it, especially on "Get It While You Can". I guess I'm just at that awkward phase where it seems like everything just sounds better when it's played breakneck. It's just a phase…I'm sure I'll grow out of it.

But it's not like Arkansas would prove to be any better. While the Best Western appeared to be brand new with its bright yellow exteriors, the Revolution Music Room would hold no more than 20 paying customers on this night. While the meal shared with the Stoltz band that day was time well spent (and time to catch up for me as both gangs had convened for Easter brunch while I was bed-bound), the club was laughably oversized for our limited draw and the highlight of the night for me was finding a stretch of Mann's Chinese Theater-inspired wet cement slabs that included the signature of a pre-Presidential Bill Clinton. I mean, it's kinda interesting to see that a man who would later become the leader of the Free World partook in some hokey bullshit like that at one time in his life, right?

Earlier that day the dudes in the band found ourselves in the hotel lobby staring at the television. We were held rapturous by the Univision weather report wherein a woman with breasts that bordered on geographic formations sputtered on, en Espanol, about the current meteorological conditions in the American South. Upon finishing her spiel, all four of us wisely and literally applauded her work. I left by saying "I've never found myself so curious about the barometric pressure."

Australia Part Nine: The Finale...

Early flight from Wellington to Christchurch. After time at hotel, Ko, Pat and I end up at a small little outdoor festival in a back alley. I remember eating wallaby on a stick and some crocodile (or was it alligator?) meat, as well as a more traditional German sausage with ketchup. Catsup. What's up? Shut up. I got some of that red stuff on the bandage covering my thumb and it kinda looked like blood. I had a big ole waffle cone of sorbet too. Good times eating.

At a resale shop down the street I saw a reproduction of what I must assume is a fairly popular painting of two naked pubescent girls from behind warming themselves near the orange glow of what appears to be a fire place. This same image hung on the walls of my childhood home while I was growing up. I have no idea where that one ended up, but was suddenly hit with a pang of nostalgia. The shit was framed though and there was no way getting it back to the US. Oh well.

After soundcheck we went to the pizza place right behind the club and had a meal with some of the Datsuns and their crew. It was there when I commented that it seems so many New Zealand women have tattoos. Women that don't look like in a million years they'd ever get tattoos. I mentioned this with spite as I wholly disdain tattoos. Sonic Newth, the Datsuns sound soundguy then took it a step further by saying "Every girl in New Zealand has tattoos. Trust me. I've checked."

So when our waitress comes to take our order, I begin the proceedings by asking her if she has any tattoos. When she replies that she does not, the table erupts in jubilation as we've found the Last of the Mohicans. As she walked away, Newth made a very valid point when he said "She may not have any tattoos, but she did have her tongue pierced."

He's right. That's just as bad. What's the deal ladies of New Zealand?

The Transistors opened again. Them boys got vim.

I guess we played well. I was able to perform with the bulbous bandaging on my thumb. I don't remember much else other than the Datsuns were particularly solid.

Lobby call the next morning was freakishly early but I stayed behind. As I'd been told by NZ tour liaison John Baker, I would be able to ride to Dunedin with the Transistors and hopefully make a stop off at Peter King's in Ashburton.

So with the Dirtbombs already gone, I'm frantically trying to get ahold of Baker, being told by the front desk that I need to get out of my hotel room and the whole time wondering if maybe I should've just ridden with the band.

It doesn't help that I've got at least four different phone numbers from Baker…US cell phones of ages past mixed with his parents' home numbers and what could possibly even be shady Auckland pay phone digits. Geez.

When I finally get ahold of him, Baker informs me that I won't be able to meet with Peter King on this day. I told him that was fine but I still needed a ride to Dunedin. In a concerned voice he told me I should get ahold of the Transistors quickly as they'd probably already left.

Fucking great. All this was shit that Baker said he would hook up and take care of and now I'm sitting in Christchurch with the possibility of not getting to the night's gig. Ugh. If you want something done correctly, you always need to do it yourself and I would prove that in the next day or so. Needless to say, I had a vague fear that I might not make it to that night's show.

So I called the boys in the Transistors who were indeed already an hour outside of town and told them sheepishly that I needed a ride to the gig. They so very nicely turned around and came to pick me up.

What stand-up gentlemen.

So when they arrived it became an issue of how to fit me and my two bags of oversized luggage in the hatchback along with all their gear. I felt like a dick with my big-ass bag of clothes but they were so damn accommodating. I ended up in the front passenger's seat while one of the fellas drove and the other two cramped in the back with a bass drum in between them and a floor tom on one of their laps.

The drive to Dunedin was nice…we passed the world HQ of Cookie Time, a legendary company responsible for many a NZ high school lunch. They're a bit meal-y for me, but I'm told the secret is popping one in the microwave for ten seconds. Nonetheless, in an effort to assimilate, I would become a wholehearted Cookie Time enthusiast by the time I left NZ and urge everyone else to search them out if ever they get the opportunity.

I played DJ for the Transistors guys…pulling out my laptop/iPod and listening to shit like Death and the upcoming Mudhoney records, anything that I thought they would dig. And they seemed to genuinely appreciate it, so that was nice.

We got into town and found the club and I found the Dbombs and we drove to Baldwin Street, supposedly the steepest street in the world. Shit was pretty crazy, we were literally screaming as we inched our way to the top and waving our arms in the air alluding to the roller coaster action proving your balls on our descent. Urban legend has it that some crazy kids had attempted to ride all the way down in garbage cans with wheels and actually died while doing so. All I could do was feel sorry for whoever the letter carrier for that street is. My words do this street no justice, it truly just needs to be experienced.

From there we checked into our day room. Again, I feel the concept of day rooms is unneeded for a band of our ilk, but this particular room (across the street from a row of university houses, one of which, inexplicably, was labeled, I shit you not, the Pink Pussy) felt like the kind of places you stay on a summer vacation. Kind of cottage-y, fake wood paneling, old furniture that surprisingly not appropriately worn for it's age, a small television with rabbit ears…it's so very quaint and we enjoyed watching the episode of The Simpsons featuring recent inadvertent Dirtbombs collaborator Alan Moore. Good times.

Back at the club was a weird scene. The attic-style dressing room was crammed with random shit and for awhile there seemed to be a lack of someone in charge.

The Aesthetics were awesomely terrible in the best of ways. I believe the guitar player showed up around the second or third song, the lead singer seemed like he may be slightly retarded and it was all so shambling that I could not help but love it. Why didn't I think to talk to them? Dumb dumb dumb on my part.

The Transistors played quickly, hitting them hard and fast and off the stage before the crowd knew what happened. I'm a big supporter of that approach.

What we anticipated to be a grudge gig actually ended going pretty great. Paid attendance was 98 people and for a Sunday night in a sleepy college town with (as I'm told) no promotion, that's success. And the crowd dug it. Afterwards I gave away a couple of t-shirts to kids who were pooling money together in hopes of sharing one shirt in that Bart Simpson, Milhouse Van Houten and Martin Prince "Radioactive Man #1" sort of way.

Across the street from the club was the world's most depressing supermarket. No more description available, shit was just depressing. I bought a peanut slab and some microwavable noodles. I've recently become addicted to noodles that cook in the micro and there's a wide selection available in the Southern Hemisphere locales.

Ko bought paper party crowns from the supermarket and we all put them on in the van in celebration of a show well-done. Sometimes you just need to revel in stupidity, to just embrace some total geekdom. Our driver was hard-headed and would not budge in his refusal to put one on. We gave him immense shit for it and when someone fails to swallow their pride on petty little stuff like that, they just don't seem to be part of the team.

We stayed an hour or two outside of town at a huge cottage-like place where everyone got their own room, complete with pre-arranged stuffed animal on the bed. We woke up mega-early mainly for the flight we had to catch, but also for the remote possibility of a rendezvous with the legendary Peter King.

I'd already tried to get ahold of him by phone numerous times, so I wasn't expecting much from my last-ditch call as we were passing through Ashburton. As if the gods were watching o'er me, he answered and was primed for us to come visit.

I suppose now is the time I explain that Peter King is the premier lathe-cut vinyl technician in the world. For the uninitiated, a lathe-cut record is one that is created in real time (ie, however long the song is will be how long it takes to make the record) whereas 99.9% of the records in the world are created using a compression mold in a matter of seconds.

So lathe-cuts are particularly labor-intensive and lend themselves to limited runs. Also, they need to be on a material conducive to accepting grooves being cut into them. Because of that, lathe-cut records have only a fraction of the lifespan (ie, plays) that a regular "pressed" record will have. Nowadays lathe-cuts are mainly utilized by noise bands looking to do a small, collectable run of records, because really, who listens to a noise record more than once?

Getting to King's residence/studio was tricky to say the least. When I tried to get directions from him over the phone he wisely told me that I'd need to buy a map before we went any further. I did and from there he was still about 20-30 miles from where we were. That's 20-30 miles along the most desolate, vacant, literal middle-of-fucking-nowhere farmland in the world.

And even from there, he told me to get to the Mt. Somers general store and ask for directions from there. First off, I don't know if I've ever been to an actual general store in my life, let alone one that can tell you the directions to the residence of one of its customers.

Strangely enough, King was literally right around the corner from the general store, living in space-age plastic-looking domicile. He greeted us kindly then took us to the laboratory where my mind would be blown.

Inside he had four separate lathes piggybacked to the same stereo rack so as to be able to cut 4 records at the same time. Genius. He showed us how, using a grinder and microscope, he would bevel an old phonograph needle to to a 45 degree point so as to optimize his cutting process. I handed him a CD of something special and he ran a test cut at differing volume levels.

The mastering job on the CD was solid so he was able to cut the disc pretty loud without fear of distortion. Before actually cutting though he applies a thin layer of polish to the 1mm thick clear polycarbonate 7" blank made from a material that is intended for roofing purposes.

Did I mention Peter King is (or was at this point in time) blind in one eye?

The unfortunate circumstance was that we really were trying to catch a plane and we had just around a half-hour to take in the whole process. So we still missed out on some cool shit, like how he makes picture discs, prints labels, or does shaped records (triangle, square, hexagon).

I was happy with the two copies of the special lathe-cut 7" but felt like I'd taken the rest of the band on this unfruitful wild goose chase. So once we were back in the van I apologized to everyone, for the fact that we had to get up early, that the whole trip to King's was basically just on my vanity and just for the whole inconvenience of it all.

"Are you kidding?" they seemed to echo in unison, "that was probably the coolest thing we've ever done on tour!" That truly warmed my heart as did everyone plotting what THEY were gonna get done for their own lathe-cut records.

We got to the airport just in time and appreciated the fact that those manning the check-in counter have an unwritten policy of not charging us for a single overweight bag, rather they calculate the average weight of ALL our bags and if it's under the limit we're in the clear. Cool or what?

We would play that day, St. Patrick's Day, in Auckland. The show was alright, but nowhere near our other headlining show in town four years earlier. Apparently garage rock was all the rage then and we saw the benefits of that. Nowadays the Kiwis go for beard rock (Iron and Wine) or disco dance (Glass Candy) and we're on the outs.

Spent time before the show chilling at the then-closed-but-open-by-now Department of Conversation. It's a comfy bar in the tradition of your neighborhood watering hole, complete with built-in record collection and room for dancing. Good friends Amber and Henry (the geniuses behind "The Art of the Band T-shirt" book) are the proprietors and they even helped me re-dress the bandage on my thumb. That's true friendship, so hold on to it tight when you find it.

The Situations started the night with their affable UK Sixties thing and then later backed up the legendary Ray Columbus for his set. The Dirtbombs did two Columbus covers which were intended for a New Zealand tour single, but for some reason unexplained to us said 7" never materialized. Oh well, maybe it'll be there for our next New Zealand tour. Either way, Ray was a consummate performer, told a story behind every song and brought the house down with his classic "Kick Me."

The stage at the Whammy Bar had an odd pillar right in the middle of it. Kinda threw me off not being able to see Troy at times.

We went out for kebabs afterwards. We had most of the next day free, our flight not leaving til late. I walked around Karangahape Road, bought a t-shirt with an AK-47 on it from an Army surplus store and generally enjoyed a sunny day walking around by myself.

The band as a whole had a fantastic meal before making our way to the airport. Once we'd checked in and paid the pesky departure tax, Baker took us to the grocery store where I bought an entire case of Peanut Slabs. While I failed to find Peanut Slab ice cream or meet Flight of the Conchords, I did get to meet Wayne Anderson, watch Peter King cut a record just for me, tour with the Datsuns and fall in love with Cookie Time. I had the quintessential New Zealand experience.

For more info about Peter King, check out this link...
http://home.comcast.net/~cassetto/
And for more about Cookie Time...
http://www.cookietime.com/

A Brief Respite From the Tour Diary Slog...

Here's an interview done with me after the Detroit Film Theater premier of It Came From Detroit in October 2006. The questioning is done by the always-lovely Tom Hendrickson and I actually like my answers for once. Enjoy!

Australia Part Eight: There Will Be Blood...

Day off in Auckland was wisely spent away from the rest of the band. I've got no problem with the rest of them; it's just that any chance you've got to do your own thing needs to be taken.

So they all went to a black sand beach with the Bellrays. I'd already been there two years ago, so I was alright. Instead, I spent the day driving around Auckland, checking out the different neighborhoods, driving on volcanic islands with supposed buried WWII fighter planes and enjoying all the small-scale cricket matches taking place.

For some reason, Australia and New Zealand both offer a dazzling array of potato chip flavors that are absolutely unfathomable in the States. On this day I would devour an entire bag of roast chicken chips trying to figure a reason why Americans are limited to "cheese", "spicy" or if they're really lucky "spicy cheese" for their chip flavors. Any help?

The main goal of the day would also be to track down some Peanut Slab ice cream. A Peanut Slab is a deceptively simply candy bar…it's merely chocolate and peanuts. Only available in New Zealand, it's a delicious bastard who's slowly made the transition to almond slabs, dark chocolate slabs, coconut slabs and the one-and-a-half times larger super slab. None of which hold a flame to the succulent heaven of the original.

Shortly before my trip I was alerted to the existence of the Peanut Slab in ice cream form and I'd been salivating ever since. The evening was spent hitting a handful of different grocery stores in hopes of turning up some of the savory delight. No one had it and most were certain it wasn't even in production anymore. The whole thing felt like a long-lost night from high school…hanging out at supermarkets, looking for ice cream, nothing more exciting to do, killing time…it was time well-spent then and was reminiscence enjoyed now.

The next morning the band ate together at a highly-recommended brekky place called Benediction on St. Benedict's road. After first hearing the name of the restaurant, I quickly offered up, "I've met some girl's before with a Ben addiction" quickly followed by a half-dozen elbow nudges and "Get it?" repeated incessantly. I would say the joke at least ten more times that day. I know no shame.

From Ben Addix to Real Groovy where I contemplated many a single in the $2 bin. I ultimately passed on stuff by Jale, Tsunami, Soul Asylum (1st single), Jonathan Fire-Eater, the Volcanos and a couple of unknown peculiarities. I did grab an Autolux 7" I'd never seen before (live on KXLU?), some Jap noise 7", a handful of oddball mid-Nineties rock and roll that seemed obscure and probably one or two more 7"s I now forget. I topped the whole thing off with a $40 NZ Sonic Youth "SONIC DEATH" CD from Venlo, Holland in 1983. You never see that shit around, so I was psyched.

After RG we slowly made our way to Hamilton, first stopping at One Tree Hill to check out the expansive view of most all of Auckland. Now the name One Tree Hill is a misnomer as the One Tree on top of the Hill had been chainsaw'd down by angry protesters some 15 years ago. What exists now is barely a stump, but clearly "One Stump Hill" doesn't have the same ring to it. We chilled up there for a bit and tried to get Ko to pet some cattle. She almost fell for it.

On the road to Hamilton, our driver made a quick detour to the residence of one Mr. Wayne Anderson. While mere words will do little justice to this character de resistance, let your mind swallow his performance and let it be known that HBO has supposedly bought the rights to the reality show.

In short, this man lives for the big-voiced bombastic male singers from days of yore. As we waited in his driveway the obscenely loud sound of Tom Jones sprung forth from his opened windows like a tortured pet trying to escape its master. The decoration of his abode is nothing but album covers, cardboard cut-outs, press clippings and anything else related to the likes of Sinatra, Humperdink and their ilk.

Baker had him put on the DVD of the reality show Wayne Anderson: Singer of Songs and to watch it in front of the man was a little surreal itself. But he was quite the gentleman and we were all grateful for having met him and being so generously allowed to walk through his home.

For some unexplained reason the promoter got us day rooms in Hamilton. So we spent maybe an hour or so there before going to the club. It would be family day for the Datsuns as they're from Cambridge, about 20 minutes away from Hammy. Someone's mother would specifically ask for Dirtbombs pins and I was more than happy to oblige.

First band was the New Telepathics and they had a nice no wavey, rhythm-heavy vibe. We played alright. Datsuns jammed too. After the show we were shuttled off to a hotel near the Auckland airport in preparation for our early morning flight. This would mean three different hotels in less than 24 hours. That was kind of cool and kind of depressing.

We were on the same flight at the Dat-O's (downunder slang for the Datsuns) and that's always fun. I walked past the CD/DVD shop and they were playing Kelley Stoltz's Circular Sounds inside so I walked in and feigned interest at their pathetic stock if only to get a dose of that San Franciscan sound. Woo-eee that Stoltz sure knows how to write 'em and it's great to see the usually clueless people of downunder to be hip to the fact so early in the game.

Once in Wellington we checked into the hotel which pushed our numbers to 4 different ones in just over 24 hours. Waltzed over to Slowboat Records and found nothing. Up the street to Real Groovy and contemplated a few releases (The Sonic Youth's Sister on Flying Nun with original uncensored artwork and possibly non-US gatefold) and ended up becoming preoccupied with a strange swelling sensation in my right knee.

So here's where I tell you that I'm a fiend for cracking my joints…knuckles, toes, my back, neck…if there's anything that will make that self-satisfying pop I will vow to find out how to do it. One of the weirder ones is definitely my knees. While it usually works best while laying in bed and rocking them akimbo while keeping my ankles close together, I've developed a method that works while I'm standing up. I set my foot down and with a careful but focused effort, I make a movement that in all likelihood is doing nothing but ruining my life at an accelerated pace.

On this day my knee would begin to unexplainably feel swollen. Of course, my solution to the problem is to keep on popping the thing which really only exacerbates the situation. To top it off, I strike on some weird knee-popping vortex where I'm magically able to pop and re-pop, and re-pop again with no recuperation time necessary, so I must've been popping and locking almost once a minute before I had to make a concerted effort to stop the madness, go back to the hotel and examine the situation.

The knee was visibly swollen. It would continue to be so for a couple of days and my lazy man's hypochondria once again failed to get the better of me.

Soundcheck was vaguely pointless and I kinda skipped out early anyway to go and do two last minute phone interviews with radio stations in (I think) Christchurch and Dunedin. Interviews have become more and more problematic…as one in the band who does NOT write the songs or front the group, I plainly don't have as much to say about it all as Mick would. And also, when's the last time you read/heard an interview with a musician that was interesting? Really think about it as it has probably been awhile.

For the Dirtbombs and the press we get set up with lately, a lot of our interviewers haven't previously heard us. So, that leaves us with introductory Dirtbombs 101 questions like why do we have two drummers, what's Detroit like, why so many different line-ups, etc, etc. And I in no way fault the interviewers who have never heard of us before.

The inherent problem is that in having been asked these questions no less than a billion times, whether in interviews, by my grandparents, by long-forgotten parents of kids I went to grade school with, by the boss of my first job at the mom-and-pop grocery store across the street, is that the questions lose any semblance of spontaneity. Instead, I've got stock, boring answers that are burped out without any effort or thought put into them. And it all wraps itself back into the fact that having interesting answers for an interview while being in a rock band is a lot harder than you'd ever imagine.

After interview I walked around town a bit, hoping to run into either of the Flight of the Conchords guys. I didn't. I did see a big throng of Hare Krishna followers weaving through the streets, with their tambourines and drums and generally seeming to enjoy themselves. That was cool. I stopped in for an Italian BMT at Subway and was caught off-guard by the table of three girls all speaking rapid-fire German.

Apparently there was a fire alarm set off somewhere near the hotel and Mick and Troy actually had to evacuate. It seemed like it was maybe the next building over or so, as I was able to get back to our room with no problem.

First band the Transistors were alright. Young kids from Christchurch they had that ever-sparking energy that is the hardest thing to produce. From there, the tunes will come. They look good behind their instruments too…so they've already got the two hardest things covered.

We played and it all felt right. We locked in together and were cooking like an Italian aunt who always says "EAT…you too skinny!" At the end of our set, I did a headstand on my bass drum. There was a little notch in the ceiling that I was actually able to slide my feet into and thus hang upside down from. With my hands free, I proceeded to play my drums while still upside down over them. After a few seconds of that, I removed my feet from the notch, went back into headstand form, stuck the landing and quickly walked off the stage.

I was immediately met by one of the Transistors who stuck out his paw to congratulate me on a show well played. As I put my right hand toward him I was immediately struck by the bold streak of crimson bubbling from my thumb and quickly offered him my left hand instead.

I wrapped it up in a towel and held it tight while we discussed the encore. I'd hoped to keep it covered up for the subsequent songs, but that clearly wasn't going to work. So for "Shake Shivaree" and "Can't Stop Thinking About It" I soldiered on and bled into my palm and all over my drumstick all for the sake of rock and roll.


From there, I sat sorta speechless backstage, curious as to how I'd cut the outside of my thumb so deep without feeling a stitch of pain. The more I looked at the wound the worse it seemed. The cut went deep, certainly deeper than anything I'd had before. I somehow avoided pouring tequila over it to disinfect and instead patiently waited for the club owner to call a medic and get their expert opinion.


The medic was there shortly and seemed to think it'd be my best bet to go to the hospital just to be safe. I went in the ambulance by myself and in mere minutes I was at the emergency room. All I was told in preparation was that my wait would be a couple of hours.

After filling out some simple paperwork, I found a chair, sat down and then noticed Harrison Ford's The Fugitive playing at approximately the 40 minute mark on the television up above. Oh yes…this wait would be momentary. You see, there was a span during my freshman year of high school where my brother (who was at the time a senior) would, without any particular reason, come straight home from class and immediately put The Fugitive into the VCR. And when I say without reason, I obviously mean other than the obvious fact that the film fucking rules.

So I sat there for the next hour and fifteen minutes totally oblivious to the open wound in my hand, trying to pick up any subtle nuances of the film that my high school brain may have been to dense to absorb. You've got to love movies that you've seen countless times that still find ways to reveal plot lines and approaches years after the fact. It offers up the idea that one is never completely done watching a film, just as a piece of recorded music is never done being listened to or a written work is entirely read. There's always more to be gleaned.

There was a guy there, slightly obnoxious, who'd apparently come to at the bottom of some stairs. He didn't remember how he ended up there, but he'd figured he'd somehow fallen. There was blood on his rugby shirt. He was shoeless. He left before they called his name. He figured he'd be alright. I wondered to myself how many emergency room visits on a Friday night are a result of mind altering substances.

At the movie's commencement I pick up the local daily paper and find that I'd done an interview with them the week prior. It was your standard fare, at this point the only memorable part other than the 1/4 page they dedicated to me and the Dirtbombs was the letdown that the headline made some mention of "help from Uncle Jack." Oh well, can't win 'em all.

From there my name was called to go to the back room, my wound was surveyed and quickly cleaned up, glued shut and wrapped in gauze and bandages. My whole treatment time was no more than 7 minutes. My waiting time (which was repeatedly predicted to be a couple of hours) was just short of 90 minutes. No one asked me word one about payment as New Zealand has free emergency health care. I would take a cab back to the hotel, walk down the street to an all-night chipshop that had a print out titled "Dance Like No One Is Watching You" that struck me particularly hard and then watched the "are they serious?" TV performance by metal band Immortal. It was a great night

So even though it reads kinda like something your 4th grade religion teacher would hand out in class, I searched for a good 20 minutes trying to find this tract, so enjoy it here. It connected with this fool after he'd tore his finger open...

We convince ourselves that life will be better after we get married, have a baby, then another. Then we are frustrated that the kids aren't old enough and we'll be more content when they are. After that we're frustrated that we have teenagers to deal with. We will certainly be happy when they are out of that stage. We tell ourselves that our life will be complete when our spouse gets his or her act together, when we get a nicer car, are able to go on a nice vacation, when we retire.

The truth is, there's no better time to be happy than right now. If not now, when?

Your life will always be filled with challenges. It's best to admit this to yourself and decide to be happy anyway. Alfred D Souza said, "For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin - real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life."

This perspective has helped me to see that there is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way. So, treasure every moment that you have. And treasure it more because you shared it with someone special, special enough to spend your time...and remember that time waits for no one...

So stop waiting until you finish school, until you go back to school, until you lose ten pounds, until you gain ten pounds, until you have kids, until your kids leave the house, until you start work, until you retire, until you get married, until you get divorced, until Friday night, until Sunday morning, until you get a new car or home, until your car or home is paid off, until spring, until summer, until fall, until winter, until you are off welfare, until the first or fifteenth, until your song comes on, until you've had a drink, until you've sobered up, until you die, until you are born again to decide that there is no better time than right now to be happy...

Happiness is a journey, not a destination.

Thought for the day:

Work like you don't need money,
Love like you've never been hurt,
And dance like no one's watching.

Author unknown