From the tour journals
October 1
4:26 PM
We're marooned in L.A. rush hour traffic on Rt. 5 South. On a Friday. This is our punishment for leaving late. Ray graciously offered his floor to us for a few nights. We'll spend the next week and a half in California. I can think of worse states in the union to spend 10 days. The weather is stereotypically mild and wonderful. Last night's show was unremarkable. A guy in one of the other bands somehow fell off a pick-up truck and broke the fall with his skull. An ambulance was called.
As I stare at the stalled motorists surrounding me like a scene out of an impending apocalypse film wherein every resident of the city under siege attempts to flee in one long motorcade of belching horns and frantic drivers, I recall two episodes while stranded in such traffic involving me, my bandmates and restroom needs.
l
When the band last traveled to California, we found ourselves idle in a similar roadway juggernaut. If you will recall, we utilized Greg's minivan. Since it sat four, one of us always had to join the Lickgoldensky van. On this particular drive, Greg took one for the team, forsook his automobile and drove with LGS.
One member of our team who shall remain nameless was stricken with a terrible pang to pee. Our van did not budge. Any hope of reaching a restroom was dim for hours. The victim- a connoisseur of gadgets and toys (he brought a bag full of goods, including a portable stove to heat tea and canned goods)- had nothing on hand to help his problem. Of course we made fun of him until all of us were in tears from laughter.
"Alright," he concluded. "I have to go. I can't wait."
Sitting beside him in the back bucket seats, I glanced over to discover his solution. He pulled his trusty Nalgene bottle from beside the seat.
"No fucking way are you using that!" I exclaimed.
The front seat passengers shot shocked looks back and exploded in guffaws and roars. Our fearless bladder-hurting bandmate coolly remarked, grinning, "I have to go." He reassured us, "Don't worry, I'll clean it."
“ARRRGGGGUUUGGGAAAAHHHH,” went the van in a symphony of grunts of disgust.
He rose from the seat and shuffled to his knees. It looked like he was kneeling at the pew, supplicant towards the urine god. The zipper went down and he held the Nalgene bottle below himself, facing the sliding door. The driver swerved the van maniacally.
"Cut it out! I'm going to get it all over the van!" "
"Wait til we tell Greg you pissed in his van!"
He tried with all his might to force the golden stream. I watched as his face clenched like he lifted weights or biked a marathon. He made straining sounds like a porno actor.
"I can't do it," he finally conceded. With that, traffic eased up.
ll
The first time we played LA in October of 2003, we obviously sat in stifling traffic. We left Sunset Boulevard, where we enjoyed a fulfilling meal at California Vegan. As we inched along the “freeway” (highway in California-ese), I began to experience the wrath of the freshly devoured feast. I felt the incredible need to relieve myself- and not in a way that involved standing.
Every second seemed to bring the act closer and closer to requiring prompt resolution. Billy had the van rolling with his impressions from Silence of the Lambs. “Put the fucking lotion in the basket!” And I was giggling and almost crying because I knew I would lose myself to the horror of soiling my pants.
I tried to focus on the gritty environment of whatever not-so hot neighborhood we crawled past. I fixated on the Non-prophets CD Greg put in the player. Then “Can you help me with this couch?” and I was laughing and gripping the seat until my fingers went white.
Somehow I managed to persevere until we reached our destination, Koo’s Café. Everyone jumped out and I sped towards the entrance. I approached the first kid in sight: “Where’s the bathroom?” He seemed startled. Perhaps it was my look of total despair: “Next door,” he said. “But you have to wait, they’re finishing up an art show.” I disregarded this and ran into the adjoining room. I found the bathroom, grabbed the knob and it didn’t budge- some motherfucker occupied it in my time of need! They came out, I rushed into what was a surprisingly clean restroom for an art/punk venue, all was then well with the world and we played a fantastic show.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Shellac/Uzeda
One of the first online music magazines to give this greenhorn a shot was Indieworkshop. It was run by good people and I felt honored that they'd let me do and cover essentially whatever I pleased. As my luck would have it, they bought the farm months after I joined the fold. This is one of many things I wrote for that much missed site.
Shellac/Uzeda
September 1, 2006
Philadelphia, PA
Not even a soaking, tree-limb antagonizing tropical storm could keep several hundred away from a Shellac show. It was a Friday night after all. Chicago’s finest handily sold out staunchly independent venue (Philly’s last) the First Unitarian Church. They brought along Sicilian old heads Uzeda, long-term touring compatriots. Considering the thundering underbellies and razor-sharp guitars of both acts, the show portended potent slash-and-burn performances.
I sprinted two blocks from my vehicle’s perch above the roaring Schuylkill River into the dry refuge of the Church just in time for Uzeda. Though they looked like your parents (even your parents’ parents- these Sicilians have been kicking it off-time rhythms and angular guitar style for the better part of two decades), Uzeda, in a verb, rocked. The drummer played the part of straight man, slamming out serious halting rhythms, while the bassist never once let his smile slip. He was the cheeriest Sicilian I’ve ever seen at the Church. The singer stood and shook with every howl, punctuating many words with some punches to the sky. Their guitarist spent as much time ripping shards of guitar noises from his aluminum axe as he did with mouth wide open in mock roar. Though they performed a bit of long set, Uzeda won over a crowd hungry for a rare Shellac appearance.
With no pretense or air of a dramatic entrance, the members of Shellac casually ascended the stage, wheeled their gear into place and prepared the assault. Drummer Todd Trainer disappeared, much to the apparent consternation of recording engineer band mates Bob Weston and Steve Albini. Weston stood with bass slung over his shoulder, eyeing the audience for a sign or a signal from the errant drummer. Albini (having disrobed from his mechanic jumpsuit) crouched down to talk with nearby audience members. Trainer soon materialized, donning two women’s blouses: an inner glittery silver one, with a black velour one on top. Did he hit up a nearby Salvation Army box? Pay a passing vagrant for the attire? Retrieve the dresses from the van specifically for the occasion?
Shellac quickly plugged in, turned on and churned out nearly an hour and a half of classics from their three long players, as well as live-only favorites and a handful of tunes slated to appear on their upcoming album (due anytime between now and 2007, according to Touch and Go’s website). They treated us to pummeling renditions of “My Black Ass,” “Canada,” “Prayer to God” and “Song of the Minerals.” They also blessed us with non-album classics “Steady as She Goes,” “The End of Radio,” “Be Prepared” and “Lulabelle,” any of which could pop up on their new record. The newer songs featured a rather tuneful Albini, along with long, dramatic soliloquies, particularly on the stirring “Lulabelle.”
As always, Albini played the role of raving bespectacled madman. He stormed in his robotic stumbling way, sometimes gripping the mic and yowling like a coyote in heat, or bouncing about like a toddler hopped up on Twinkies. He wore his customary round-the-waist guitar strap (slung to his trusty Travis Bean), and played like some alt-world Eric Clapton. Bob Weston sung many tunes as well, revealing his more melodic side. He effortlessly held down the material, as Trainer hammered away, looking almost giddy like a kid on a Christmas morning and his birthday party combined.
Shellac delivered not one, but TWO Q and A sessions (perhaps revealing their age and lack of practice, since Weston explained that the Q and A’s are physically necessary respites). Audience members in Philly proved unimaginative, with the routine “What kind of guitar is that” to “Where is the new album.” Weston did make the astute observation after a mosh pit broke out: “Were you guys really slam dancing to our second slowest song? That’s so fucking stupid.” When one fearless person inquired, “What’s the most impressive thing you’ve seen,” Albini responded, “David Yow wrapped his cock twice around his wrist, pulled the head through and called it his Italian Wrist Watch.”
The set ended with Albini and Weston taking Trainer’s drums apart mid-song, and then carrying the grinning drummer away from his disassembled kit. The call for an encore went unheeded. Shellac is one band that will not do what anyone tells them. To bolster this assessment, Albini offered a rousing speech lambasting the current state of Live Nation-run music business, and championing the quickly dying breed of independent music venues and culture. From a man once labeled one of the “biggest assholes in rock,” the sentiment hopefully resounded long after the last dying notes of the band’s performance.
Shellac/Uzeda
September 1, 2006
Philadelphia, PA
Not even a soaking, tree-limb antagonizing tropical storm could keep several hundred away from a Shellac show. It was a Friday night after all. Chicago’s finest handily sold out staunchly independent venue (Philly’s last) the First Unitarian Church. They brought along Sicilian old heads Uzeda, long-term touring compatriots. Considering the thundering underbellies and razor-sharp guitars of both acts, the show portended potent slash-and-burn performances.
I sprinted two blocks from my vehicle’s perch above the roaring Schuylkill River into the dry refuge of the Church just in time for Uzeda. Though they looked like your parents (even your parents’ parents- these Sicilians have been kicking it off-time rhythms and angular guitar style for the better part of two decades), Uzeda, in a verb, rocked. The drummer played the part of straight man, slamming out serious halting rhythms, while the bassist never once let his smile slip. He was the cheeriest Sicilian I’ve ever seen at the Church. The singer stood and shook with every howl, punctuating many words with some punches to the sky. Their guitarist spent as much time ripping shards of guitar noises from his aluminum axe as he did with mouth wide open in mock roar. Though they performed a bit of long set, Uzeda won over a crowd hungry for a rare Shellac appearance.
With no pretense or air of a dramatic entrance, the members of Shellac casually ascended the stage, wheeled their gear into place and prepared the assault. Drummer Todd Trainer disappeared, much to the apparent consternation of recording engineer band mates Bob Weston and Steve Albini. Weston stood with bass slung over his shoulder, eyeing the audience for a sign or a signal from the errant drummer. Albini (having disrobed from his mechanic jumpsuit) crouched down to talk with nearby audience members. Trainer soon materialized, donning two women’s blouses: an inner glittery silver one, with a black velour one on top. Did he hit up a nearby Salvation Army box? Pay a passing vagrant for the attire? Retrieve the dresses from the van specifically for the occasion?
Shellac quickly plugged in, turned on and churned out nearly an hour and a half of classics from their three long players, as well as live-only favorites and a handful of tunes slated to appear on their upcoming album (due anytime between now and 2007, according to Touch and Go’s website). They treated us to pummeling renditions of “My Black Ass,” “Canada,” “Prayer to God” and “Song of the Minerals.” They also blessed us with non-album classics “Steady as She Goes,” “The End of Radio,” “Be Prepared” and “Lulabelle,” any of which could pop up on their new record. The newer songs featured a rather tuneful Albini, along with long, dramatic soliloquies, particularly on the stirring “Lulabelle.”
As always, Albini played the role of raving bespectacled madman. He stormed in his robotic stumbling way, sometimes gripping the mic and yowling like a coyote in heat, or bouncing about like a toddler hopped up on Twinkies. He wore his customary round-the-waist guitar strap (slung to his trusty Travis Bean), and played like some alt-world Eric Clapton. Bob Weston sung many tunes as well, revealing his more melodic side. He effortlessly held down the material, as Trainer hammered away, looking almost giddy like a kid on a Christmas morning and his birthday party combined.
Shellac delivered not one, but TWO Q and A sessions (perhaps revealing their age and lack of practice, since Weston explained that the Q and A’s are physically necessary respites). Audience members in Philly proved unimaginative, with the routine “What kind of guitar is that” to “Where is the new album.” Weston did make the astute observation after a mosh pit broke out: “Were you guys really slam dancing to our second slowest song? That’s so fucking stupid.” When one fearless person inquired, “What’s the most impressive thing you’ve seen,” Albini responded, “David Yow wrapped his cock twice around his wrist, pulled the head through and called it his Italian Wrist Watch.”
The set ended with Albini and Weston taking Trainer’s drums apart mid-song, and then carrying the grinning drummer away from his disassembled kit. The call for an encore went unheeded. Shellac is one band that will not do what anyone tells them. To bolster this assessment, Albini offered a rousing speech lambasting the current state of Live Nation-run music business, and championing the quickly dying breed of independent music venues and culture. From a man once labeled one of the “biggest assholes in rock,” the sentiment hopefully resounded long after the last dying notes of the band’s performance.
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