11:32 AM
Somehow a hummus bagel from Einstein Bagels in Provo, Utah did not fill me up. Josh yelled at Mormon children. A family- two boys with big pale ghost-eyed faces and a non-descript mother- sat behind us enjoying their bagels. One of the boys knocked his drink all over the floor. We heard the instantaneous splash of 8 ounces of apple juice slapping on the freshly mopped floor with a smack. This brought a representative of the establishment out to clean up the spill. As we got up to depart, Josh slipped on the still-damp floor. “FUCK MAN!” He barked. “This is bullshit!” The family looked at him in horror, a shade of total panic coloring their eyes.
Prior to that episode, I gazed off into the surrounding mountains. The strip mall and its surrounding structures seemed barely six months old, cut into the mountainous terrain with all the finesse of surgeon wielding a rusty saw blade to perform a transplant (cue Carcass songs here).
This is Utah.
I think I am looking at the Rockies. Utah looks different. The houses boast their own peculiar personality compared to other states in this area. You see many churches and steeples. More cows, always cows. We drive between cliffs. They’re severe, brutal, jagged, foreboding. Then it all appears red, like the cliffs of Arizona or New Mexico. Then verdant and rolling fields. Horses chill by the side of the road, no human or house for miles. Most structures I see along this highway: 80? 84? – all of them look new, as if they appeared in 2000, at least around Ogden. Clouds continue to darken our journey.
11:47 AM
It’s crazy to see things like campers, shacks and what appears to be UFOs hidden in the crevices and small valleys of these tan hills. This reminds me of Mesa Verde, the Native American city built into the side of a mountain somewhere out in the southwest. That always blew my mind back in elementary school: this civilization existing in the gaping wound of a mountain. Everything out here is desolate and lonely. Where are the standard natural life forms? Birds, squirrels, snakes, humans, lizards??? It’s probably better this way.
12:19 AM
Lots of snow. We must be reaching the apex of the mountain I ogled earlier. The highway stretches ahead and up into the clouds. Highway to heaven or highway to hell. Does Michael Landon or Bon Scott stand at the other side? (I know, I know, Bon Scott did not appear on that multi-platinum AC/DC record, fuck off). I have to piss of course.
1:25 AM
Do you remember what you did on this exact day nine years ago? I do. April 22, 1995. I was 19-years old. I drove around Red Bank, NJ searching in vain for a hardcore show. This was pre-Google Maps, so I cruised around aimlessly looking for the telltale signs: big pants, thick Tulsai beads, x-ed up hands, headbands around bleached-blonde heads (I myself was guilty of many of those fashion faux-pas). I drove back to the record store near my parents home and purchased two records to make up for missing out on what surely would have been a painfully awful hardcore show: Still Life “Slow Children At Play” 8-inch and the All the President’s Men comp on Old Glory. I hung out with Spoon, dining at Italian Delite at Monmouth Mall. This was our Saturday evening routine. We probably flirted with Debbie, Donna and Laurie. That girl nearly got my brother stomped by local thugs, one of whose members did not approve of my little brother hanging out with their ex.
Then we met up with said brother, Adolfo and Arthur Vance. What mattered most to me was seeing my girlfriend. She’d gone away for a week to Florida with her friends for spring break. I mean, c’mon, spring break? How fucking typical. I should’ve known the relationship was doomed when she even mentioned going.
But she was my first girlfriend and I was smitten. She was 17, a senior in high school, smarter than me, a bit of a hippy. So I was finally going to see her after this vacation. Of course I completely ruined seeing her the previous night. We planned to meet up after band practice. Well, band practice led to eating at the local Denny’s and that led to hours of cavorting. By the time I returned home, I called her. She abandoned me and went out with friends. I called her the following day: she was understandably curt with me. She seemed distant. She didn’t like the name of my new band. All was not well. But I didn’t think much of it.
That night, my friends and I met with her and her friends, too car loads of obnoxious teenagers loudly roaring into parking spots at the Manasquan Inlet. Foolishly, I wore my Earth Crisis long sleeve. I was straight edge, she was not. I don’t know why I wore it- to antagonize her and her friends (something Spoon and I loved to do, us the ignorant militant edgers).
So my girlfriend and I reunite. We hug and she’s limp like a warm corpse. We get back into different cars and cruise over the Dunkin Donuts in Wall on Rt. 35. All of us enter. She grabs my arm and stammers: “We need to talk.” This was the first time hearing this phrase directed at me and would not be the last. I wasn’t aware of its significance at the time, but I did detect that it did not bode well.
We go outside and into her car. “I don’t think this is working,” she muttered. “I don’t think we should be together like this.” Then she laid it on heavy, like dumping a crane load of dirt on me: “I feel numb.” And then the deathblow: “I want to still be friends.” All of this, in a Dunkin Donuts parking lot.
There then followed a grim time of post-break up despair better left in the thankfully small print run zines I banged out back then. Eventually we would migrate back together and she would break up with me again. Still, nothing compared to the emotional bombardment of that night, April 22, 1995. In retrospect, I have to look back in awe at the tumult of emotions, the violence of heartbreak. Though it was a long time ago, it will not be forgotten. I am tougher, smarter, more resilient now. Or something.
1:57 PM
Wyoming looks like the desert. Superior, Wyoming. Utah looks like mountains. I expected desert in Utah and mountains in Wyoming. Remember that scene in Dog Day Afternoon wherein Al Pacino’s character asks John Cazale’s what country he wants to fly to when they flee their botched bank robbery? Cazale responds: “Wyoming.”
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Idaho
6:25 AM
I know, it’s early. Ask my eyeballs, which feel like someone slashed them with razorblades and soaked them in rubbing alcohol. We left the hotel bright and early to get a leg on this drive to Denver. Yes, that’s Boise, ID to Denver, CO. Around 830 miles, nearly a third of the way across these great United States. Let us not forget that we lose an hour during the journey.
Boise seemed as drab as one might expect of a city in the state of Idaho. But perhaps that is an overly harsh, generalized statement from a dude raised within a six-hour drive of New York City, Philadelphia, Washington DC, Boston, Baltimore and New Brunswick (the envy-worth of that last one is arguable). The show was decent. 40-50 kids, typical technical difficulties, small stage we did not use, much to the consternation of the drug-addled looking sound guy (is there really any other kind?). The kids were quite appreciative of us coming out here. I mean, it’s Boise, ID. Not exactly the cultural hotbed of Western Civilization.
Whenever I find myself in these places, I ponder what it must be like to live in them. I grew up at the Jersey shore nearly a spitting distance from the Atlantic Ocean and 50 miles from NYC. Southern California thus far comes as close to my homeland as anywhere we’ve been, and SoCal is on an entirely different existential trip. This is America. Most of it is pick-up trucks, southern accents, chain stores, beef jerky, religious emblems and American flags. This, as Josh commented, is why George W. Bush is president.
7:07 AM
In other news, our show in Cleveland, OH on May 2 fell through. Allegedly, the kids doing the show neglected to pay a deposit to reserve the space. Of course said kid also failed to notify us that the show was cancelled. Someone else from the area posted this information on a messageboard. Someone else might be able to set up a show. This is DIY hardcore. We will track down Jason, the offender, and deal with him summarily, harshly, Jersey-style.
Also, Matt cracked me in the dome-piece last night with his bass. I thought it was Billy striking me with the mic. Upon impact, everything flashed for a second. This morning there’s only a small bump on my forehead, not much larger than a nasty pimple. That makes two whacks to the head and one to the jaw, in addition to a bevy of bumps, bruises, cuts and scrapes all across my arms, elbows, legs, knees and hips. I used to judge the quality of a set on how damaged I was the next morning. As John McClain would say, I’m getting too old for this shit.
7:16 AM
As indicated earlier, eating has been difficult. These long drives limit time and availability for decent sustenance. For me it’s doubly hard. I need a grocery store. I’m ready to ravage a head of lettuce. I’d eat a block of tofu whole, unseasoned and raw. Maybe Denver will be an oasis of fine vegetarian/vegan dining in a desert of Carl’s Jr. Jr. and Mickey Ds.
7:43 AM
It’s sunk to the point where Minute Maid orange juice “from concentrate” tastes refreshing, as if I just pulled the fruit off the branch and squeezed it into this plastic bottle. That, my friends, is a commentary on the beverage selection in this desolate nowhere we now inhabit. Indeed, you think about food a great deal during these long drives with nary a nutritious meal in sight. Sometimes a vast bowl of salad hovers along the horizon- but it’s just a desert mirage. How sweet those thick, dark leafy greens drenched in roasted red pepper dressing would taste right now. I can feel the fibers of the leaves crunching to green mush in my mouth. It’s been 27 days on the road.
7:53 AM
We were met with extreme signs of poverty when we rolled in Idaho. Outside one house stood a makeshift sign announcing “Chuckleberries For Sale.” What the hell is a chuckleberry??? Is this a regional delicacy like boiled peanuts? What’s up with boiled peanuts anyway??? Perhaps a chuckleberry is a mutant, Frankenstein concoction by a bored, hard-working self-starter. Maybe genetic modification has reached the DIY level out here in Idaho.
I know, it’s early. Ask my eyeballs, which feel like someone slashed them with razorblades and soaked them in rubbing alcohol. We left the hotel bright and early to get a leg on this drive to Denver. Yes, that’s Boise, ID to Denver, CO. Around 830 miles, nearly a third of the way across these great United States. Let us not forget that we lose an hour during the journey.
Boise seemed as drab as one might expect of a city in the state of Idaho. But perhaps that is an overly harsh, generalized statement from a dude raised within a six-hour drive of New York City, Philadelphia, Washington DC, Boston, Baltimore and New Brunswick (the envy-worth of that last one is arguable). The show was decent. 40-50 kids, typical technical difficulties, small stage we did not use, much to the consternation of the drug-addled looking sound guy (is there really any other kind?). The kids were quite appreciative of us coming out here. I mean, it’s Boise, ID. Not exactly the cultural hotbed of Western Civilization.
Whenever I find myself in these places, I ponder what it must be like to live in them. I grew up at the Jersey shore nearly a spitting distance from the Atlantic Ocean and 50 miles from NYC. Southern California thus far comes as close to my homeland as anywhere we’ve been, and SoCal is on an entirely different existential trip. This is America. Most of it is pick-up trucks, southern accents, chain stores, beef jerky, religious emblems and American flags. This, as Josh commented, is why George W. Bush is president.
7:07 AM
In other news, our show in Cleveland, OH on May 2 fell through. Allegedly, the kids doing the show neglected to pay a deposit to reserve the space. Of course said kid also failed to notify us that the show was cancelled. Someone else from the area posted this information on a messageboard. Someone else might be able to set up a show. This is DIY hardcore. We will track down Jason, the offender, and deal with him summarily, harshly, Jersey-style.
Also, Matt cracked me in the dome-piece last night with his bass. I thought it was Billy striking me with the mic. Upon impact, everything flashed for a second. This morning there’s only a small bump on my forehead, not much larger than a nasty pimple. That makes two whacks to the head and one to the jaw, in addition to a bevy of bumps, bruises, cuts and scrapes all across my arms, elbows, legs, knees and hips. I used to judge the quality of a set on how damaged I was the next morning. As John McClain would say, I’m getting too old for this shit.
7:16 AM
As indicated earlier, eating has been difficult. These long drives limit time and availability for decent sustenance. For me it’s doubly hard. I need a grocery store. I’m ready to ravage a head of lettuce. I’d eat a block of tofu whole, unseasoned and raw. Maybe Denver will be an oasis of fine vegetarian/vegan dining in a desert of Carl’s Jr. Jr. and Mickey Ds.
7:43 AM
It’s sunk to the point where Minute Maid orange juice “from concentrate” tastes refreshing, as if I just pulled the fruit off the branch and squeezed it into this plastic bottle. That, my friends, is a commentary on the beverage selection in this desolate nowhere we now inhabit. Indeed, you think about food a great deal during these long drives with nary a nutritious meal in sight. Sometimes a vast bowl of salad hovers along the horizon- but it’s just a desert mirage. How sweet those thick, dark leafy greens drenched in roasted red pepper dressing would taste right now. I can feel the fibers of the leaves crunching to green mush in my mouth. It’s been 27 days on the road.
7:53 AM
We were met with extreme signs of poverty when we rolled in Idaho. Outside one house stood a makeshift sign announcing “Chuckleberries For Sale.” What the hell is a chuckleberry??? Is this a regional delicacy like boiled peanuts? What’s up with boiled peanuts anyway??? Perhaps a chuckleberry is a mutant, Frankenstein concoction by a bored, hard-working self-starter. Maybe genetic modification has reached the DIY level out here in Idaho.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Sacramento
10:22 AM
Gloomy outside and I can barely keep my eyes open. I slept OK; maybe I’m getting sick. I certainly have not eaten well. We’re on our way to Boise, ID, so I expect the food selection to worsen. Last night’s show was alright, despite ordinary DIY touring snafus. The show went down at UC Davis. It took us an hour to find the actual place where the show location on campus thanks to terrible directions. When we finally located the space, we saw that it was in some kind of student activities center, specifically in a glass-enclosed cafeteria. Turned out, the show was free and three touring bands would split the $250 check, a check that would me mailed to us. I ate a sandwich at a crunchy hippy café. It had mayo smeared all over it, the un-vegan kind, though the menu said it was vegan. So much for that.
We reunited with our friends’ band and met Chris. Chris is a real character. He was gracious enough to let us all crash at his apartment (eight dudes). We piled into the living room and watched bad TV. We sat mesmerized by some bizarre public access low-fi horror flick. Chris kept issuing proclamations as if they were Buddhist koans: “I love Mastodon. If you don’t love Mastodon get outta my house.” “I love basketball. If you don’t love basketball, get outta my house.” Later on, he said, “You guys have a lot of energy. I like that. You feel that vibe when you play. I like your energy.” At some point, Eric went for a smoke. He dislodged something essential to the closing of the door, at which point Chris burst out: “You broke my door. Anyone who breaks my door, get outta my house.” I fell asleep pressed against the wall and halfway under an end table, a stereo centimeters from my face.
(It should here be noted, for the sake of Chris’ character development, that years later he would relay to the owner of a Philadelphia-based music distribution center: “I’m drunk. I’m high. I’m looking at porn on the internet. I’m eating cheese doodles. My dick is orange.”)
10:36 AM
Snow envelopes us. We’re driving up some mountain north of Sacramento on 80 towards Reno. The fog obscures whatever lay beyond these trees lining the highway like nature’s fence. I drove yesterday through ungodly mountain passes. I’m sure Rollins would handle all of this with aplomb. Billy brought Get In the Van, so we’ve made many comments and jokes in reference to Rollins’ travails (his self-proclaimed ‘alonity’). I need to eat more than Clif bars. I crave nutritious foodstuffs.
2:07 PM
Leaving Pucker Brush, NV, population 28. I can’t believe I look forward to Subway. That was a weird rest stop. We entered the joint with it sunny and warm. We left with wind, rain and face-smacking blowing sand. This environment is insane: desert, snow-capped mountains, painted cliffs, a weird emerald ravine and droves of roaming cows. Nevada. Subway seems to have rocked my stomach, as it feels like Assuck is playing a show in it. This is likely due to me not eating anything substantial in days.
Gloomy outside and I can barely keep my eyes open. I slept OK; maybe I’m getting sick. I certainly have not eaten well. We’re on our way to Boise, ID, so I expect the food selection to worsen. Last night’s show was alright, despite ordinary DIY touring snafus. The show went down at UC Davis. It took us an hour to find the actual place where the show location on campus thanks to terrible directions. When we finally located the space, we saw that it was in some kind of student activities center, specifically in a glass-enclosed cafeteria. Turned out, the show was free and three touring bands would split the $250 check, a check that would me mailed to us. I ate a sandwich at a crunchy hippy café. It had mayo smeared all over it, the un-vegan kind, though the menu said it was vegan. So much for that.
We reunited with our friends’ band and met Chris. Chris is a real character. He was gracious enough to let us all crash at his apartment (eight dudes). We piled into the living room and watched bad TV. We sat mesmerized by some bizarre public access low-fi horror flick. Chris kept issuing proclamations as if they were Buddhist koans: “I love Mastodon. If you don’t love Mastodon get outta my house.” “I love basketball. If you don’t love basketball, get outta my house.” Later on, he said, “You guys have a lot of energy. I like that. You feel that vibe when you play. I like your energy.” At some point, Eric went for a smoke. He dislodged something essential to the closing of the door, at which point Chris burst out: “You broke my door. Anyone who breaks my door, get outta my house.” I fell asleep pressed against the wall and halfway under an end table, a stereo centimeters from my face.
(It should here be noted, for the sake of Chris’ character development, that years later he would relay to the owner of a Philadelphia-based music distribution center: “I’m drunk. I’m high. I’m looking at porn on the internet. I’m eating cheese doodles. My dick is orange.”)
10:36 AM
Snow envelopes us. We’re driving up some mountain north of Sacramento on 80 towards Reno. The fog obscures whatever lay beyond these trees lining the highway like nature’s fence. I drove yesterday through ungodly mountain passes. I’m sure Rollins would handle all of this with aplomb. Billy brought Get In the Van, so we’ve made many comments and jokes in reference to Rollins’ travails (his self-proclaimed ‘alonity’). I need to eat more than Clif bars. I crave nutritious foodstuffs.
2:07 PM
Leaving Pucker Brush, NV, population 28. I can’t believe I look forward to Subway. That was a weird rest stop. We entered the joint with it sunny and warm. We left with wind, rain and face-smacking blowing sand. This environment is insane: desert, snow-capped mountains, painted cliffs, a weird emerald ravine and droves of roaming cows. Nevada. Subway seems to have rocked my stomach, as it feels like Assuck is playing a show in it. This is likely due to me not eating anything substantial in days.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Seattle
9:25 AM
Early, yeah. It doesn’t matter if it’s 7:00 AM or 1:00 PM, I can never seem to pull myself out of sleep. I’m probably not drinking enough water. Or eating enough. So it goes. The rain hammers hard against the van as we drive through Oregon.
Last time we rolled through here, someone thought it a wise idea to book a show in Seattle the day after a show at Gilman. That’s over 800 miles, a trek that mapquest tells us should take between 12 and 13 hours. To guarantee on-time arrival, we drove through the night. Now I don’t know about other bands, maybe they’re made of more durable, rugged fibers. But all of us were train wrecks by the time we reached Seattle.
We took shifts driving. Josh and I did the midnight to 6 AM portion. I sat with nerves frayed as we narrowly averted disaster at every turn up the black winding highways of northern California into southern Oregon. It was mountainous, treacherous terrain, with hulking logging trucks racing by us as if we were an old woman with a walker. How we survived I do not know. Perhaps it was listening to hometown boy Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska on repeat, preceded by multiple listenings of Three Mile Pilot’s mesmerizing Another Desert, Another Sea. Because of that experience we vowed to never again drive overnight.
This time we make that path back south in broad (albeit rain soaked) daylight. The show in Seattle last night was a welcome respite from the glut of lackluster ones. We spent the day in that wet, gloomy city. As soon as we entered its border, it began to rain. I walked around for a long time alone, which was refreshing. You need room to breathe, to think sometimes. I noticed hordes of panhandlers. I bought a magazine and ate falafel-, which the girl did not charge me for. Did she forget? Am I that cute? Who knows, I saved $5.
As for the show, I was apprehensive to return given news Billy imparted upon me prior to my arrival back at First Avenue Pizza. Allegedly, a girl took the bus from Spokane to Seattle, just to meet yours truly. Apparently she was a fan of my zines. I concede that it is flattering to hear that someone found some worth in my creative pursuits. And I conveyed as loudly as many other zinesters during the 90s that the whole intention was to communicate, to engage in dialogue, to construct a personal dialectic that could perhaps make us better people and potentially change the world. Or something. Those were heady, idealistic times. I feel sad for the kids of today who completely missed that phenomenon, since the internet is a piss-poor proxy.
The problem with this scenario is that I am not a social butterfly. When it comes to interacting with someone who only knows me via a zine or a band, I feel like I have to live up to a persona that doesn’t exist, or I am not comfortable to let exist to a complete stranger. Needless to say, I took my sweet time in the drenching rain making my way back to the show.
Upon returning, I was told that the opening band did not bring most of their equipment. They evidently live just outside Seattle in the burbs. C’mon, common sense- bring your gear! Don’t rely on bands who’ve driven across the entire country to supply it. Our gear has already taken a serious beating on the way to your town, and it has to last us the whole cross-country drive of shows home.
I saw Josh. He told me a prostitute accosted him in the parking lot. He relayed the brief encounter, “She said, ‘I’ll suck yo’ dick fo’ six dollas and twenty fi’ cent.’” He shrewdly declined the offer.
I entered First Avenue Pizza. As soon as Greg saw me, he approached, grinning: “Dude, have you met her yet?” He loved having something to goad me with, since I always keep quiet and don’t let much out in the open. During the show, he would commence yelling my name, “Here he is!” I had to chuckle, though I was in no mood for laughs.
We played and had fun. A lot of kids showed up wearing costumes for some reason. They danced and sang along and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, for a change. As soon we finished, the girl introduced herself. She said that she loved my zine. Turns out, the zine she referred to was from seven years ago. As if anything I scribbled when I was 21 has any bearing on me at 28. Well…who am I kidding, I am not much different. She seemed like a nice enough person, and after a few scant minutes of discussion, we were off to our next location.
We drove a half hour outside the city and stayed at another hotel (since lodging is much cheaper beyond metropolitan city limits). I slept on a bed this time. I am quite content with the floor. Give me a six by three feet swath of good, carpeted floor and I will sleep soundly.
10:30 AM
Just finished reading interviews with Ian MacKaye and Q and Not U. Inspiring. Inspiring to me in my quest to operate bands in non-traditional and uncompromising ways. But I understand why bands choose to use the tools of the rock biz. I see those reasons everyday on this tour. Bands existing at our level get just as fucked as any major label band, if not more so. Some show promoters feel the need to do as frighteningly little as possible: no flyers, a crappy or no PA, putting every one of their friends bands on the bill so someone like us finally play after six hours of unendurable music for a total of 10 minutes since the place needs to shut down due to the late hour. These circumstances reoccur with dependable frequency on this entire tour. It should come as no surprise that bands see that hope of a better way, of solidly booked tours by music professionals, of guarantees and food, of maybe, just maybe, receiving some paltry financial reward for the time and the effort.
I love playing non-rock club spaces. But I also love being able to sing through a functioning microphone. The only times we have been fed on this tour have been by promoters at more traditional rock venues, with the exception of Daniel in L.A. Still, I want to find that middle ground. Though rare and fleeting, I’ve experienced tiny moments when this is something special, particularly in Oakland and last night. Small spaces of time when every element clicks. Again, they are uncommon moments. They are ideal types and they are hardly detectable. But when they occur- when they decide to grace us with their presence- all of this just might seem worth it.
Early, yeah. It doesn’t matter if it’s 7:00 AM or 1:00 PM, I can never seem to pull myself out of sleep. I’m probably not drinking enough water. Or eating enough. So it goes. The rain hammers hard against the van as we drive through Oregon.
Last time we rolled through here, someone thought it a wise idea to book a show in Seattle the day after a show at Gilman. That’s over 800 miles, a trek that mapquest tells us should take between 12 and 13 hours. To guarantee on-time arrival, we drove through the night. Now I don’t know about other bands, maybe they’re made of more durable, rugged fibers. But all of us were train wrecks by the time we reached Seattle.
We took shifts driving. Josh and I did the midnight to 6 AM portion. I sat with nerves frayed as we narrowly averted disaster at every turn up the black winding highways of northern California into southern Oregon. It was mountainous, treacherous terrain, with hulking logging trucks racing by us as if we were an old woman with a walker. How we survived I do not know. Perhaps it was listening to hometown boy Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska on repeat, preceded by multiple listenings of Three Mile Pilot’s mesmerizing Another Desert, Another Sea. Because of that experience we vowed to never again drive overnight.
This time we make that path back south in broad (albeit rain soaked) daylight. The show in Seattle last night was a welcome respite from the glut of lackluster ones. We spent the day in that wet, gloomy city. As soon as we entered its border, it began to rain. I walked around for a long time alone, which was refreshing. You need room to breathe, to think sometimes. I noticed hordes of panhandlers. I bought a magazine and ate falafel-, which the girl did not charge me for. Did she forget? Am I that cute? Who knows, I saved $5.
As for the show, I was apprehensive to return given news Billy imparted upon me prior to my arrival back at First Avenue Pizza. Allegedly, a girl took the bus from Spokane to Seattle, just to meet yours truly. Apparently she was a fan of my zines. I concede that it is flattering to hear that someone found some worth in my creative pursuits. And I conveyed as loudly as many other zinesters during the 90s that the whole intention was to communicate, to engage in dialogue, to construct a personal dialectic that could perhaps make us better people and potentially change the world. Or something. Those were heady, idealistic times. I feel sad for the kids of today who completely missed that phenomenon, since the internet is a piss-poor proxy.
The problem with this scenario is that I am not a social butterfly. When it comes to interacting with someone who only knows me via a zine or a band, I feel like I have to live up to a persona that doesn’t exist, or I am not comfortable to let exist to a complete stranger. Needless to say, I took my sweet time in the drenching rain making my way back to the show.
Upon returning, I was told that the opening band did not bring most of their equipment. They evidently live just outside Seattle in the burbs. C’mon, common sense- bring your gear! Don’t rely on bands who’ve driven across the entire country to supply it. Our gear has already taken a serious beating on the way to your town, and it has to last us the whole cross-country drive of shows home.
I saw Josh. He told me a prostitute accosted him in the parking lot. He relayed the brief encounter, “She said, ‘I’ll suck yo’ dick fo’ six dollas and twenty fi’ cent.’” He shrewdly declined the offer.
I entered First Avenue Pizza. As soon as Greg saw me, he approached, grinning: “Dude, have you met her yet?” He loved having something to goad me with, since I always keep quiet and don’t let much out in the open. During the show, he would commence yelling my name, “Here he is!” I had to chuckle, though I was in no mood for laughs.
We played and had fun. A lot of kids showed up wearing costumes for some reason. They danced and sang along and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, for a change. As soon we finished, the girl introduced herself. She said that she loved my zine. Turns out, the zine she referred to was from seven years ago. As if anything I scribbled when I was 21 has any bearing on me at 28. Well…who am I kidding, I am not much different. She seemed like a nice enough person, and after a few scant minutes of discussion, we were off to our next location.
We drove a half hour outside the city and stayed at another hotel (since lodging is much cheaper beyond metropolitan city limits). I slept on a bed this time. I am quite content with the floor. Give me a six by three feet swath of good, carpeted floor and I will sleep soundly.
10:30 AM
Just finished reading interviews with Ian MacKaye and Q and Not U. Inspiring. Inspiring to me in my quest to operate bands in non-traditional and uncompromising ways. But I understand why bands choose to use the tools of the rock biz. I see those reasons everyday on this tour. Bands existing at our level get just as fucked as any major label band, if not more so. Some show promoters feel the need to do as frighteningly little as possible: no flyers, a crappy or no PA, putting every one of their friends bands on the bill so someone like us finally play after six hours of unendurable music for a total of 10 minutes since the place needs to shut down due to the late hour. These circumstances reoccur with dependable frequency on this entire tour. It should come as no surprise that bands see that hope of a better way, of solidly booked tours by music professionals, of guarantees and food, of maybe, just maybe, receiving some paltry financial reward for the time and the effort.
I love playing non-rock club spaces. But I also love being able to sing through a functioning microphone. The only times we have been fed on this tour have been by promoters at more traditional rock venues, with the exception of Daniel in L.A. Still, I want to find that middle ground. Though rare and fleeting, I’ve experienced tiny moments when this is something special, particularly in Oakland and last night. Small spaces of time when every element clicks. Again, they are uncommon moments. They are ideal types and they are hardly detectable. But when they occur- when they decide to grace us with their presence- all of this just might seem worth it.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Portland
10:31 AM
It’s been rough. The past two shows have been sub-par. We played on this arena-sized stage in Portland. I hated it. I just stood there. As soon as we finished, I packed up my equipment and fled the scene. I walked around the bizarre factory area, desolate and lonely. Fittingly it began to gently rain.
I settled in front of a café a block away from the venue, the only other sign of life in the area. A bluegrass band plugged away inside. The musicians looked in their 40s or 50s. They wore wide smiles. The two dozen people inside clapped after every song. The scene laughed at me, stuck up its middle finger at me, aired its hairy naked ass at me. It was the perfect polar opposite to everything I felt. I wanted to quit, to go away, to crawl into the back of a trailer like Rollins and not see anyone the entire 3,000 miles to New Jersey.
When I finally wandered back to the show I stood and watched the last band. They were actually good. What they played certainly wasn’t the most innovative sound, but they were passionate. I watched wearing my sweatshirt pulled tight over my head, hoping no one would notice me. I wanted to be invisible, just another body. But a girl passed by and said, “Great show.” I looked at her, stunned. I responded, hesitantly, “Thank you.” I talked with her for a few more minutes. She looked the part of a bike punk in an indie film. It struck me as odd since most bike punks do not like my band. We tend to appeal more to kids with dyed black hair wearing Every Time I Die T-shirts. “You know, you guys should be playing this basement in Portland.” She went on to sing the praises of said basement, that most kids would prefer to experience us there and not in this venue. Given the sheer girth of the place and the cruel lack of kids, I had to concur. Somehow I started asking about Portland, about how she liked it, about vegetarian restaurants. I enjoyed having an actual conversation. But soon the band packed up and departed.
I should mention the LGS episode. They went on and did their thing, which of course involved Alexander doing his thing. He pulled a kid from the audience up on stage. Said kid donned fishnets and a sleeveless black shirt. He looked thoroughly confused. He tried to jump off the stage, but Alexander wouldn’t let him. The kid asked for earplugs. The band tore into the next song. Later we were told the kid was “slow” and “mentally challenged.”
Next day found us in Bellingham, WA. It seemed quite a bohemian town, very clean and very green. We ate at Bandito Burrito, which featured a heavy anarchist motif. The food was great. The show was ho-hum. We crammed into a musty basement. 30 kids stood and yawned.
The most amusing part of the night was Jamie riling up a member of my band. My band associate made some claims about him being the least high maintenance guy on the tour, to which Jamie burst out: “YOU are the most high maintenance guy here!” “No way, you are wrong.” A game of yes-you-are, no-I’m-not ensued.
Otherwise, I yearned to wander around, but there wasn’t a whole lot to wander around in that residential neighborhood. We hit the road after the show for Seattle. This is tour, soaring highs and crippling lows and a whole lot of the mundane in between. What choice do I have? I’m thousands of miles away from home. I hate my job. I don’t want to go back to school. No answers.
It’s been rough. The past two shows have been sub-par. We played on this arena-sized stage in Portland. I hated it. I just stood there. As soon as we finished, I packed up my equipment and fled the scene. I walked around the bizarre factory area, desolate and lonely. Fittingly it began to gently rain.
I settled in front of a café a block away from the venue, the only other sign of life in the area. A bluegrass band plugged away inside. The musicians looked in their 40s or 50s. They wore wide smiles. The two dozen people inside clapped after every song. The scene laughed at me, stuck up its middle finger at me, aired its hairy naked ass at me. It was the perfect polar opposite to everything I felt. I wanted to quit, to go away, to crawl into the back of a trailer like Rollins and not see anyone the entire 3,000 miles to New Jersey.
When I finally wandered back to the show I stood and watched the last band. They were actually good. What they played certainly wasn’t the most innovative sound, but they were passionate. I watched wearing my sweatshirt pulled tight over my head, hoping no one would notice me. I wanted to be invisible, just another body. But a girl passed by and said, “Great show.” I looked at her, stunned. I responded, hesitantly, “Thank you.” I talked with her for a few more minutes. She looked the part of a bike punk in an indie film. It struck me as odd since most bike punks do not like my band. We tend to appeal more to kids with dyed black hair wearing Every Time I Die T-shirts. “You know, you guys should be playing this basement in Portland.” She went on to sing the praises of said basement, that most kids would prefer to experience us there and not in this venue. Given the sheer girth of the place and the cruel lack of kids, I had to concur. Somehow I started asking about Portland, about how she liked it, about vegetarian restaurants. I enjoyed having an actual conversation. But soon the band packed up and departed.
I should mention the LGS episode. They went on and did their thing, which of course involved Alexander doing his thing. He pulled a kid from the audience up on stage. Said kid donned fishnets and a sleeveless black shirt. He looked thoroughly confused. He tried to jump off the stage, but Alexander wouldn’t let him. The kid asked for earplugs. The band tore into the next song. Later we were told the kid was “slow” and “mentally challenged.”
Next day found us in Bellingham, WA. It seemed quite a bohemian town, very clean and very green. We ate at Bandito Burrito, which featured a heavy anarchist motif. The food was great. The show was ho-hum. We crammed into a musty basement. 30 kids stood and yawned.
The most amusing part of the night was Jamie riling up a member of my band. My band associate made some claims about him being the least high maintenance guy on the tour, to which Jamie burst out: “YOU are the most high maintenance guy here!” “No way, you are wrong.” A game of yes-you-are, no-I’m-not ensued.
Otherwise, I yearned to wander around, but there wasn’t a whole lot to wander around in that residential neighborhood. We hit the road after the show for Seattle. This is tour, soaring highs and crippling lows and a whole lot of the mundane in between. What choice do I have? I’m thousands of miles away from home. I hate my job. I don’t want to go back to school. No answers.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Oakland
1:48 PM
I’m gazing out upon the mountains of northern California or southern Oregon. Last night was a much needed kick ass show. Santa Cruz was an atomic bomb of a disaster and Goleta was forgettable. My girlfriend made a surprise visit from the east coast. She showed up in Santa Cruz. I had no idea she arranged this, apparently quite meticulously with everyone behind my back. We left that show with Jamie, his wife Heather and a guy named Mike. They left us in Berkeley.
My girlfriend rented a room at a hotel on Durant, just up from Telegraph. The room left much to be desired. It was narrow and claustrophobic. The shower sprayed water in a wide circumference that managed to almost entirely miss the body beneath it. When I opened the curtains, I found a panoramic view of a brick wall with a bear painted on it. The next morning we happened upon a cozy (though more expensive) bed and breakfast down the street.
Wandering the streets of Berkeley brought back past illusions of wanting to go to grad school to study Political Science. Yeah, as if I could have gotten into a school that is routinely ranked in the top five.
Jamie and Heather retrieved us later that day. We hit up a bookstore before the show. I made the mistake of reading one of those household medical books, in particular the entry on Lyme’s disease. Let’s see, soar neck? Yes. Cough? Yes. Irritation at the tick bite? Yes. I am fucked. Less than three weeks left of tour. Last night was Gilman. Always a fun time. Went to sleep at 3 and woke up at 6. My girlfriend flew home and the band got me. That leaves us back on the road en route to Portland. I enjoy the Bay Area, actually California from there south is all cool to me. But the good times are behind us. 340 miles to Portland.
5:56 PM
I just devoured left over seitan like a savage. The spicy juices dribbled in thick, brown gobs down my chin and fingers. I tore at it like a lion just upon an impala. My body craved a quick protein fix. Touring reduces you to the primal basics. Your concerns are eating, sleeping, shitting, showering and of course, rocking. Josh was right: after the first week and a half, everything begins to fall into place. The cavalcade of pain begins to subside, the appetite disintegrates and sleep upon a steel floor suddenly feels like a tempurepedic mattress. I’ve never been gone this long and I am not homesick. Despite sporadic and reliable bouts of despair, I love this. Shit shows and weird moods threaten to subvert it all, but when I evaluate the forest and not just the trees, I see what makes me happy, excited, alive. Sitting at home chained to a routine, a job, a schedule robs me of joy. I rot there.
I don’t know how long I can hang on to my job. We’re planning a ten-day tour of Canada in July, a six-week tour of Europe in the fall, a two-week tour in November and another with our friends Transistor Transistor in December. That leaves barely three months of wage slavery for the rest of the year. Too bad the band won’t pay the bills. And kids call us sellouts? Hee-haw hee-haw.
I’m gazing out upon the mountains of northern California or southern Oregon. Last night was a much needed kick ass show. Santa Cruz was an atomic bomb of a disaster and Goleta was forgettable. My girlfriend made a surprise visit from the east coast. She showed up in Santa Cruz. I had no idea she arranged this, apparently quite meticulously with everyone behind my back. We left that show with Jamie, his wife Heather and a guy named Mike. They left us in Berkeley.
My girlfriend rented a room at a hotel on Durant, just up from Telegraph. The room left much to be desired. It was narrow and claustrophobic. The shower sprayed water in a wide circumference that managed to almost entirely miss the body beneath it. When I opened the curtains, I found a panoramic view of a brick wall with a bear painted on it. The next morning we happened upon a cozy (though more expensive) bed and breakfast down the street.
Wandering the streets of Berkeley brought back past illusions of wanting to go to grad school to study Political Science. Yeah, as if I could have gotten into a school that is routinely ranked in the top five.
Jamie and Heather retrieved us later that day. We hit up a bookstore before the show. I made the mistake of reading one of those household medical books, in particular the entry on Lyme’s disease. Let’s see, soar neck? Yes. Cough? Yes. Irritation at the tick bite? Yes. I am fucked. Less than three weeks left of tour. Last night was Gilman. Always a fun time. Went to sleep at 3 and woke up at 6. My girlfriend flew home and the band got me. That leaves us back on the road en route to Portland. I enjoy the Bay Area, actually California from there south is all cool to me. But the good times are behind us. 340 miles to Portland.
5:56 PM
I just devoured left over seitan like a savage. The spicy juices dribbled in thick, brown gobs down my chin and fingers. I tore at it like a lion just upon an impala. My body craved a quick protein fix. Touring reduces you to the primal basics. Your concerns are eating, sleeping, shitting, showering and of course, rocking. Josh was right: after the first week and a half, everything begins to fall into place. The cavalcade of pain begins to subside, the appetite disintegrates and sleep upon a steel floor suddenly feels like a tempurepedic mattress. I’ve never been gone this long and I am not homesick. Despite sporadic and reliable bouts of despair, I love this. Shit shows and weird moods threaten to subvert it all, but when I evaluate the forest and not just the trees, I see what makes me happy, excited, alive. Sitting at home chained to a routine, a job, a schedule robs me of joy. I rot there.
I don’t know how long I can hang on to my job. We’re planning a ten-day tour of Canada in July, a six-week tour of Europe in the fall, a two-week tour in November and another with our friends Transistor Transistor in December. That leaves barely three months of wage slavery for the rest of the year. Too bad the band won’t pay the bills. And kids call us sellouts? Hee-haw hee-haw.
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