never fails. I take my dog out for her nightly pee before we hit the sack, I look up at the stars, and the same question that I've been asking ever since I can remember rolls through my head. Where does space end??? Sounds cheesy and contrived, but that one gives me the shivers every time. What the fuck? What is this whole deal? where does fuckin space end??

oops, my dog's done pissing, and I've got to do the same.

matt

Fuck. I've never been much of a bruce springsteen fan, but that song, "I'm on fire" (I may be wrong about the title) came on the radio while I was working. I shit you not, it made me a little choked up.
Just reminded me that three chords can still tear a hole in your gut.

My friend Duane and I used to use a term called "The macabre". It was a term we used for the way a really dark and creepy dream could color your whole day. I had a dream that I was supposed to watch over a person while they were dying, be the one to comfort them, and in the dream that person did indeed die. That gave me a heavy dose of "the macabre", and The Boss was a perfect sound-track for that moment.

a subject todd, ben, and myself have discussed. think about it. If you're not "successful" then your name is dumb. What if the real band didn't exist, and I told you my band was called "Led Zepplin"(sp?). How about "Radiohead"-sounds like your older sister's boyfriend's crappy metal band. Pink Floyd? Sounds like a minorly successful drag queen. We've had several people assume we were some sort of death metal band because of our name. Not surprising.

Sure, there are some exceptions, but not many.

To lazy to spell check.....

matt

I need to start doing this whole blog thing. Seems important nowadays. Does it mean I'm getting old when "nowadays" is a popular word in my vocab?

I was talking to a guy at sbux the other day. He was an "industry" guy for many years. He was talking about self promotion and such. I told him that if Eric Clapton were young now, I think he'd have not been a success. I said I couldn't picture him myspacing and blogging, and asking people to be his friend via email. He disagreed. Said something about the Stones peeing on gas pumps.

Guess gone are the days when you could make a career out of being strung-out and hating everyone. But, you can buy clothes at The Gap that make you look a bit drugged and hateful. But not too drugged or hateful.

oops, I just sharted. gotta go.

Matt

The Cocaine is a special place. It's possibly the most unusual marriage of club cultures to be found in Los Angeles, it's probably the club most likely to be shut down by cops, and it is certainly home to the most unique potty-mouthed promoter this side of little Tokyo. We at Death House enjoy playing said club for all the above reasons, and because, shit, we're not that picky. The Cocaine is run by Johnny or Jonnie or Jonny, I have this nagging feeling that he spells his name differently every time I speak with him via email, but this could also be blamed on my poor memory, so for the sake of continuity, I will spell it differently every time I use it, too. How Joni, who you could also call Milkblood, his stage psuedonym for his wacked-out yet stunningly original band, and I mean band is the sense of a guy who sings to a reel-to-reel tape machine about Jesus and Murder and Drinking, how Johny ever found this place is beyond me. He has partnered the Cocaine with a little Tokyo jazz and kareoke bar simply called Live Jazz, which means wednesdays and saturdays you can hear indie bands of all shapes and sizes performing at an otherwise very Japanese venue. The only way you'd know it to be the Cocaine is by the giant Budweiser sign duck-and-clear-taped to the half-propped door that reads in giant letters something to the effect of "King of Beers" then in smaller type (caps re-created precisely) "WWW.thecocaine.com." Is the Cocaine truly sponsored by the King or is some hipster irony at work here or is Jaunito just ripping someone off? I dunno, but's it's awesome any way you look at it. The Cocaine is located one block east of the last dirty fingers of skid row, so prepare to be accosted and if you have warm blood in your veins, a bit bummed at the sight of people living in absolute squalor. They're primarily junkies and war vets from my brief experience, some lucid, some shit crazy, some will sing to you, some will draw your portrait. Don't lie to them because they pick up on it and complain to others willing to listen. Instead bring five bucks in ones and you'll be able to keep the guilt at arms length. Both times we've played here the shows have been mediocre on our part, but this last time i ate some kick ass spicy tune rolls and had me a cocktail or two, so I'm sure we'll play again there in the future. For now, consider this a Public Service Blog and we'll call it even for the amount of times we said "ass crack" on stage. GO TO THE COCAINE!

I am definately in the minority concerning Glendale's own Scene Bar. I hate it. Or at least i did until last wednesday night, when Death House Chaplain tore through. The Scene Bar scores very low on Ben's rating system of clubs. There are a number of different factors that are involved in Ben's system of rating the clubs in the greater Los Angeles Basin, but before i extrapolate, a disclaimer: this system only pertains to the club's worth as it concerns the band playing said club. The system for club-goers is a seperate affair all together, and one that doesn't interest me all that much (except to say that if your band is playing the knitting factory and you invite me, expect me not to come--i fucking hate that place). The biggest bitch about being in a band (and it's really not that big of a deal, so you who were about to groan at the thought of another rock and roll bitch session--do they really have it that bad?! shut up and play!--can breath easy. no sympathy is required for this blog) is this: tearing down the equipment at the rehearsal space, loading it down 2 to 4 floors of elevators or stairs, into one to three cars, unloading it at the club, carrying it to the designated area where set-up is possible, setting it up, moving it from the off stage set-up area to the stage, playing 30 minutes, loading back the way you came, tearing down, loading out to the the curb, getting the car while one guy makes sure no drunk guy pukes on it or some sleaze ball steals something, loading it into the car, loading it back out of the car at the rehearsal space and back up to your room. it's a full night of heavy lifting and humping it up and down and through spaces that were not meant to facilitate bulky items like bass amps and kick drums. So, if your club has an easy load in procedure, then it immediately scores points. The Scene can be hit or miss in this area. There are precisely 2 parking spots in front of the club and no back load-in area, so if you don't have one of those spots, then you have to double park or some shit on Colorado blvd. For those unfamiliar with Glendale (thank your lucky stars, the town sucks) Colorado blvd is one of 3 main drags in the city. There are always cars. Always. And the traffic cops are real pains, too. Loading in is further complicated by the fact that one must load in through a front door that is tucked into a nook in the store-front-like face, creating a myriad of right angles requiring a fucking protractor to safely navigate your equipment through without hitting the gigantic ass bouncer or the door frame. From there, you must frogger your stuff through the bar flys, past the pool table, juke box and photo booth, and up a narrow staircase. From here on out, the load in situation improves dramatically. The Scene can boast the best back room to set up your gear: it's spacious, there's a couch and a bathroom, and only a thick red curtain seperates this room from the playing area. Other clubs have good back areas, too, but they all have flaws that allow the Scene to triumph in this category. The Derby has a nice back room, but there is no easy access to the stage from it. Silverlake Lounge has a back area that you can use as long as the owners don't catch you leaving the door open, then they get mad and yell about the neighbors. But here you run a high risk of stolen gear (Death House already fell victim, losing a bass guitar back in the Afrika days). Spaceland has a shoe box, the Echo has hallways, dance floors, and discarded restaurant paraphenalia. Mr. T's Bowl has an abandoned bowling alley-that's awesome, The Cocaine has nowhere, the Troubador has some bizarre conglomerate of garages, the Knitting factory--fuck that place, Zen Sushi has a shotgun shelter, the Prospector has nowhere, Detroit Bar's is okay when you're allowed to use it, El Cid has a hallway, Tangier has a place where the kitchen employees go to smoke cigarettes, Hotel Cafe has a crack alley, King King is just a big giant room (they had a green room, but this band called End of History pretty much shut that shit down--a story from another time). Other factors that go into the rating system: 1) does the club give drink tickets, and if so how generous are they (Silverlake Lounge gives two per band member--bitchen, Prospector gives us an open tab--bitchener) 2) do they pay you (Prospector wins this one hands down) 3) how's the sound? (Derby and Cocaine are stellar, Spaceland and Silverlake Lounge can be great, but cross your fingers, showcasers, and hire a soundman) 4) location (if your club is located on the sunset strip, you lose. You'll notice there are no sunset strip clubs mentioned here at all, and if you don't know why, then chances are you like traffic, drunks, expensive parking, asshole doorman, stupid ass pay to play joints, quasi-glamorous dress codes, and tons upon tons of people holding on to eras long since gone, searching for a magic long since dead, burn Viper Room, burn Whiskey, burn Rainbow Room, burn Key Club, burn Roxy--you get the picture) This one is also the most subjective of the bunch, since it is based on mitigating factors like where you live and where your rehearsal space is. 5) door policy-do they have free nights or ridiculous covers (congrats to most clubs who now realize that no-cover nights are where it's at. people love to pay for over-priced alcohol as long as it doens't cost a ten spot to get in.) 6) is there a scene? By this, i mean: do people go to the club just to hear music and hang out or do you have to bring everybody in the house. It's somewhat discouraging to look into the audience and know that you have every person there's telephone number in your cell phone. The other extreme is almost as bad (go to Spaceland on a Monday night and notice how many people are actually there to hear music--i submit at least half of you hipsters know it's just a place to be seen, which I'll admit has it's uses, too) 7) staff--this includes bouncers, bartenders, the promoter, soundman, etc. A good room can be ruined if it's run by assholes, conversely, a bum room can be redeemed by a gifted staff (God Bless Lovedrug and the Prospector!) Ultimately these things don't really matter. Most of the time, we're lucky to get a gig and we don't turn gigs down based on this list. Although, in Summer Darling, we refuse to play a few clubs because they score so low, but we're a different bunch. After all, at this level, if you're not enjoying yourself, what the hell are you doing it for? Which brings me back to my reversal of judgement on The Scene Bar in Glendale. I really enjoyed myself wednesday night, so who cares about all the above bullshit? Thanks Monolators for showing us the way.

At this moment a 20 thousand acre fire has forced matthew and his family to evacuate from their home in quiet Agoura Hills, CA. Watching on telvesion, but smelling the barbarque burn through my open window in Silverlake 30 miles southeast, and knowing if i looked out that window i would see the Griffith Observatory framed by dirty plumes of ash rising like a monolith from behind the Hollywood Hills, i cannot help endulging in deep paranoia. This is nothing new, as it's an accepted fact amongst us Chaplains that we share an eschatological fear on a wider scale than the average american. So consider the events leading to this moment: last week's Jet Blue snafu that nearly cost 145 lives (many kudos to the pilot) and the massive power outage that forshadowed a fuck-off panic inherent to the populous of the Los Angeles basin. With no power and no information except a trigger happy media desparate for lawlessness in order to up the ratings--those whores "of what could be happening, but we don't know for sure"--the panic was palpable. You could feel it in the way the traffic surged along with ainless abandon. On our way to the rehersal studio, Matthew and i found ourselves very ready to turn the car around and flee to Agoura. That's the running gag. Nothing ever happens in Agoura, Ben. Grap your wife and come stay in Agoura where all is Care Bears and Pussywillows. But now the canyons surrounding Agoura look enough like Hell to make Dante cringe from the sea of heat radiating in sonic waves off the inferno, Bell Canyon lit up with literal rings of fire, in Topanga flames blazing tall as buildings, people wearing masks, the sky colored like the flesh of a blood orange. I asked Summer what they took from their house, and she answered in her usual woman-of-the-world fashion: do i really need any of this shit? So they grabbed their dog, Abagail, some photo albums, and of course Matthew's guitar, and yes, their one year old, and split at 2 AM. Despite these apacolyptic circumstances I am realitively assured that Matthew didn't panic, which on the whole is the one benifit of being a slave to paranoia and a affecienado of the ethos of death, dying, existence, what we call in the band our "quiet discontent." When you're faced with disaster, it's no surpsrise; it's really what validates our perspective. In the spirit of Aristotle's "Poetics," Death House Chaplain operates as the vehicle of Catharsis, letting the three of us expunge our panicked demons on a daily basis, so when the end comes, we'll be the ones saying, "It's going to be ll right." So Matthew, Summer, Lazarus, Abby, and all the rest of you stranded in shitty red cross shelters and converted junior high schools, you'll be all right.

The thing about playing Visalia, California is this: the pizza. Howie and Son's dough tops the culinary dough scale of every pizza joint in the continental US (except my friend Anthony's dad's pizza joint but his place is in fuck-off New Hamshire so he loses via distance.) To make one good thing even better, the staff is courteous and hands out pitchers of beer with broad, small town smiles. It's family run, with sons, wife-to-bes, mothers, and even a father who wears earplugs and gripes about the noise, all in house making scum bags like us, and the 30-odd people in the place feel as welcome as pepperoni. Hell, they even took a picture of us next to their Ms PACMAN and had us sign it last time we pulled through. A bit queer, but heartwarming, as these qualities are what makes Howie and Sons amazing. Try finding people like these at Spaceland on a Monday night. The second thing about playing Visalia, California is the guy who sets the shows up, Aaron Gomes. Having played shows in a plethora of off-the-beaten path towns all over the United States, I stand by this declaration: Aaron Gomes is the most sincere, dedicated musician and music lover I have ever met. He books shows, builds half-pipes, encourages teens to play music, writes a zine, is a teacher, a husband, father of three, has a kick-ass beard most of the time, and puts Summer Darling and Death House up at his house every time we go through town. A top notch dude, through and through. So with these two points in our favor, the weekend begins as a rousing success. After beer and pie, the show is more of an after thought. I learn the songs and the Death House set goes off without a hitch; in fact, Summer Darling's set is mired with technical difficulties, so much so, that you would've been hard pressed to convince the kids that it was Death House's first show with it's current line-up and not Summer Darling. Oddly enough "things breaking" is a motif that continues the next night at another pizza joint in Bakersfield (yes, that was sarcasm). Here, we play a show in a basement that was once either a) a bomb shelter or b) a satanic temple. Tough breaks happen here which I won't trouble my memory to go in to, except to say that strings break, pedals malfunction, and I cuss out the crowd of 6. The cherry on this shit sundae is the flat tire the Regal Beagal incurred traveling back to Los Angeles. Why would anybody want to do this? Believe me, this is a question I've asked myself a ton. The only answer I can give is to say, go start a band and you'll see. No matter how frustrating, exhausting, expensive, and pointless playing shows and writing music can be, it's worth every second. This was only a brief summery of the events. The events themselves are glorious treasures existing in the collective memory of Summer Darling and Death House Chaplain that I can re-discover whenever I please, experiences unique as the day is long. You see, I didn't even mention the breakfasts, the coffee/smoke breaks, the earmuff fiasco, the woman who lived in the trees behind the Cask N Cleaver, the gang-bangers, why Bakersfield will always be a shit-hole, the Calico Sunset and their damnable amazingness, creepy neighbor who sat in a chair in the dark while we slept on the floor, shivering, and going to the mall to see a terrible movie so that we'd have some place cool to drink our warm beer and kill time. And this was only 2 days! Back in Los Angeles, we all returned home with no other expectations met than the ones we left with: we played music instead of sitting around, going to our jobs, and watching late night TV over a cocktail. I didn't think I was the new Death House Chaplain bassist because I wasn't. I was just Ben, which sometimes, is a pretty incredible thing all by itself.