And the conclusion:

..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Saturday, July 21, 2001: On the Merrit Parkway
I realize that it's a good time to write, because I'm totally wired on caffeine, and I keep haranguing everyone in the van. I really have a problem: Sometimes I simply can't shut up. I never did well with "quiet time" in kindergarten; I still wouldn't today.

It's a beautiful day today; tons of suburbanites are making their way to their Catskill retreats for the weekend. Wish it could be me. The Middle East Café doesn't sound all that sexy to me, but I'm sure my feelings will change once I get a bit of hummus and a couple of Rolling Rocks in me.

Here's a nice factoid that not too many people know: The Blake Babies were the first band to ever play at the now-famous Middle East Café in Cambridge, Mass. I'm sure several of you are throwing your hands up in the air in outrage, having heard something different, but bear with me—this is a true story. When I went to school at Berklee there was a place across Mass Ave. from school called the Café Bouquet. It was a Middle Eastern sandwich and coffee place and I went there every day for a falafel and a cup of their excellent French roast coffee (the place is now a Starbucks, but we won't get into that tragedy now). I had a friend who worked there named Moody (not sure about the spelling), a Lebanese guy with a little patch of white hair in his beard. He would talk to me everyday, asking about my band, etc. One day I came in and he said, "John, my friend, I have had an excellent idea. Your band will play at my restaurant in Central Square." "Oh, sure," I said, and forgot about it. Anyway, he persisted, going on to describe this great little room with a P.A. and a stage with desert motifs painted on the walls. He said they only used it on weekends for their Lebanese band and sometimes they had belly dancers. He said we could even have the belly dancers perform if we wanted. Finally, just like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, I decided to say "What the fuck."

We called our friends the British Norberts (featuring John Dragonetti from Jack Drag) and planned a private party. We charged one dollar at the door to fifty or sixty of our friends, and the restaurant only charged for the food and drinks. Joseph (the owner) was really freaked out about the noise, fearing that the bowling alley downstairs (now part of the venue) would complain. Anyway, one of our friends in attendance was none other than Boston rock impresario Billy Ruane, and he loved the place. He decided to have his thirtieth birthday party there and the rest is history. Billy continued to book the place for a number of years, booking mainly side projects for popular local bands for the first few years. I remember one particularly memorable performance where Evan Dando billed himself as "the Eagles" and accompanied himself singing Eagles and Al Stewart songs with only a drum set. Great shit.

Speaking of Evan, I actually got to spend some quality time with him in NYC, but I'll get to that in a minute. I realize I'm seriously behind, so I'll quickly catch up with myself. We played in Philly, and I think we acquitted ourselves admirably. The North Star Bar is a swell little place on the edge of a very dodgy neighborhood. The house soundman directed us to a fantastic pub called Brigid's, where we dined on some truly exceptional British Isles-influenced fare. Actually mine was Cajun, but who's keeping score? When we returned to the club, the guys from Wheat had arrived, and I realized why we were so depressed in Hoboken. Thank heavens for those guys. Anyway, they played the best set I've seen them do yet, absolutely spot .. that, we had to deliver the goods, and I feel that we did.

We drove back to Phil's house after the show and crashed hard. I had a fantasy that we'd get up in time to have breakfast, but I slept until noon—probably a good thing. I had my usual breakfast of a fudge brownie Clif bar (highly recommended), and a family-sized pot of green tea. We were then hustled uptown to the CBS studio to do a syndicated radio interview with a real sweetheart of a woman who was beamed via satellite from Los Angeles. The time actually flew by for once (in an interview, that is). After a quick but excellent bowl of noodles in Union Square, it was off to the Bowery Ballroom.

Here's another interesting coincidence: The co-owner of the Bowery Ballroom (and the Mercury Lounge) is a good friend of mine who lives in Birmingham. He has been trying to get me to play there for several years, so I'm very happy to have finally done it. It's really an excellent room, perhaps my favorite NYC club ever (beats the shit outta CB's). After sound check I high-tailed it down to Wall Street, where Mr. Evan Dando resides. I'm convinced that he has selected that particular neighborhood for purely ironic reasons, but I can't be sure. Once you get past the very corporate façade, it's pure Dando: tons of guitars everywhere, weird trinkets and mementos, hippy-ish flourishes. Somewhere between proper grown-up apartment and crash pad. In short, not very different from where I live (I sense the same sort of tug o' war that goes on between my wife and me between Evan and his wife).

When I arrived, Evan was blasting Culture Club's "Karma Chameleon" at full blast and playing along on a Moog synthesizer. Without exchanging the usual pleasantries, he immediately sat me down and insisted that I jam with the song myself. I happily obliged. After several crazed minutes, Elizabeth emerged fresh from the shower and mellowed the vibe considerably. I finally convinced Evan to play me the new recordings he's been working on with composer/multi-instrumentalist Jon Brion, and I was completely blown away. Even in their somewhat skeletal form, they are easily the best recordings Evan has done in nearly a decade. He will rule the airwaves again soon, mark my words.

When we arrived back at the club I realized that I'd forgotten to eat. I tried to make a meal out of carrot sticks and dip but it didn't work, so I began drinking beer. That worked rather quickly, thank you. I sat out the Wheat set, since I wanted to hang out with Evan and Elizabeth and several of my other friends, including Andrew and Susan from Alabama. He works for Good Morning America and she is a model, and they are truly delightful folk. A buncha other people as well, you know who you are.

Our set went smoothly, including the bit where Evan sang "Brain Damage." After a quick, very civilized hangout session we returned to Phil's place, but this time along with Phil. He had actually returned from the comfort of the Chateau Marmont in L.A. to the discomfort of an air mattress on his floor just to see us play! I love Phil. I really do.

I told Phil that his place seemed very grown-up, with its designer furniture and austere bookshelves. He said that's good; that's what he's going for. He said that he still feels a bit like a kid and he thought having a grown-up place would catapult him into adulthood. I think that's a universal feeling. Anyone who actually considers himself to be a proper grown-up is most likely a royal pain in the ass. This morning Phil and Mark and I had a pleasant breakfast at a place called the Bagel, and then we hit the road. Phil gave us a hilarious CD called "May I Help You (Dumbass)," which is a reverse prank phone call thing from one of the guys in Upright Citizen's Brigade (people accidentally called his number thinking it was Internet tech support and he took their calls and taped them). Best prank call tapes since the Tube Bar.

Well, this is really it. The last show. I guess I'd better start my formal meditation practices to get in the mode. Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.........................

Monday, July 23, 2001: Safe at home
I apologize for the delay in the posting of my last couple of entries. I promise that I wrote them straight away; Mark just took his time in sending them along. Before I get started on this final entry, I'd like to take a moment to thank all of the people who made this tour a joy and a success, including all of the fans who came to the shows (many of whom came to multiple shows), the wonderful bands who played with us, our friends and family peeps along the way, and most of all Stacee Sledge, without whom this tour diary (and Web site) would not be possible. We are truly blessed to have received such an outpouring of support from so many wonderful people.

Now then, on to the dirt. When I last checked in, we were rolling down the Merrit Parkway, en route to Cambridge, Mass. When we pulled up on Brighton Ave, a flood of memories washed over me. So many amazing things have happened to me over the years on this block, so many awesome Saturday nights at TT the Bear's and the Middle East. I vividly recall how terrified I felt just before taking the stage for the first time with the Lemonheads back in 1987, and I remember the rush of excitement before our first Blake Babies headlining show the following year. I can picture Freda and myself, nineteen years old, showing up early and hiding in the back at TT's, praying the doorman didn't notice us, so we could hear our favorite band, the Volcano Suns, play live for the first time. It all comes back as we load our gear into the unfamiliar side entrance to the unfamiliar downstairs of the Middle East. This block has become so successful as the center of the Boston Rock Universe that it has been virtually consumed by one huge, sprawling venue. My memories are alive there, as are those of so many others; but the future remains rife with rock n' roll possibility. For at least one fantastic evening we can reserve our space in the annals of history, but become completely in the moment. This is what I am hoping for as I descend the steps.

The staff at the club remains as friendly and helpful as ever. Upon entering, I am given a message to call my wife and ushered to a private phone. I am in a mild panic, thinking that a crisis has occurred at the home front, but I am relieved to learn that she just wants to shoot the shit. Fair enough, it's a perfect time to talk, when Mark is busy tuning the P.A.

After a buffet supper of slightly disappointing Middle Eastern chow (not as good as it used to be—they seem to have left a few key ingredients out of the hummus, such as salt and lemon juice, and maybe even garlic), we set out to check out how dramatically Cambridge has changed. After checking out Juliana's pad—a typically Spartan affair—Freda and I walked to Inman Square, which has really come into its own. We hit a coffee shop called 1369, which used to be a great jazz club, and took our teas to go so that we could continue to enjoy our stroll through the cool, breezy Cambridge dusk. Both of us felt a little bit emotional about the tour ending, and began to discuss the previous several months.

We agreed that the time had come to put the band back on the shelf for at least a while, if not for good. Both of us had felt unsatisfied by the way the band had ended, or I should say fizzled out, ten years ago. While we could recall why we decided to stop playing, we couldn't previously conjure up the emotions that accompanied the decision. Now it became clear why we had ended the band before; the same strange tensions and conflicts that destroyed the band before were beginning to emerge again, like clockwork. Ten years ago, we came to the decision that we were all better suited to pursue our own projects, and once again we reached the same conclusion. But this time we all felt good about what we accomplished, and we felt confident not only that we could easily slide back into our previous creative lives, but also that the Blake Babies will always be something we can revisit if we so desire. If we had had the sense to shelve the band back in the day when we began to feel unsatisfied with it, we might have even resurrected it sooner.

I don't mean to overstate the interpersonal tensions; we actually get along very well. But anyone who has ever played in a band or worked closely with a small group of people will tell you that things become magnified in such close quarters. Unlike governments, bands tend to work best when there is an absolute, undisputed leader who commands respect and compliance either through exceptional ability or by writing the checks (or, hopefully, both). Why did the Beatles break up? Because a single band cannot contain that much talent without eventually imploding for personal reasons. Mind you, I'm not comparing us to the Beatles; I'm simply trying to make a point about working with people. The rub is that along with the tension and conflict often comes a level of creative output that transcends what the individuals could come up with on their own. This is true of us, at least to an extent. And we will all have to be content to allow whatever magic we can generate to occur Saturday, July 21, 2001, downstairs at the Middle East Café.

When we returned to the club I felt supernaturally wired from the enormous cup of tea I had consumed. Juliana told me that the 1369 coffee shop is famous for making their tea very strong, and that she always removes her tea bag after only a minute or so of steeping. I had left mine in for over an hour. Yikes. I nervously wiled away the hour before Wheat went on talking to Scott and Brendan, along with their usual sound man Dave, who used to play in the band Small Factory. We have become excellent friends over the course of this tour, which I consider a true blessing. When they took the stage, I sat onstage next to the monitor board. I joked with Ricky that I would be his guitar tech for the evening, and I'm afraid I cursed him right then and there. On practically the first chord of the first song, he broke his fourth string and had to play the rest of the song out of tune. I quickly changed his string, for which he seemed grateful, but I couldn't help feeling like I'd meddled with the powers that be. Despite the setback, they sounded amazing, and they had the hometown crowd in their hands form the start.

By the time Wheat finished, the place was packed to the rafters. A strange energy flowed through us as we locked in a group embrace before taking the stage. This might be our last chance to really shine as a band, and this would determine how we would be remembered in Boston, our home base and most important market. Not surprisingly, the set felt effortless from the first note. The love coming back from the audience was palpable, and we fed off of it. From the unique vantage of the middle of the miasma of swirling guitars and pulsing drums, I felt like we were channeling something bigger and better than the sum of our parts. We were hard-wired into what our early mentor T.W. Li used to call the "psychic energy track." The P.E.T. is, according to T, a place where you lose track of the passing of time and achieve absolute mental clarity and focus. It's where you're thinking about things just enough, but never too much. He also added an element of pop spiritual mumbo-jumbo, which I reject. I believe that it's about ordinary humans transcending a situation by being at the top of their game, and just doing what comes naturally. So for that hour and a half, I felt like all of us, along with a significant portion of the audience, were in that place, sharing space and time in the best possible way, and I found it profoundly satisfying. I found it satisfying enough to be able to say, "Okay, that's good for now. We've done something with this and now we can all go our separate ways."

And go our separate ways we did. After a typically anti-climactic after-show scene, Juliana dropped us off at the airport Hyatt to eventually dispatch to our respective homes. The rest is mundane to the extreme. Now that I'm home and I can think about the experience in its entirety, I feel very satisfied. This touring has been affirmative on many levels. We know that people actually do really care about the band, past and present. We know that we can still make good music together. And, perhaps most importantly, we all know that the Blake Babies is something that continues to exist with or without our consent: a thing we can drift in and out of as it suits our and our fans' needs. In short, the band actually is bigger than the lot of us, with a personality and a soul all its own. As it sits on the shelf, I have the distinct feeling that it won't be collecting any dust.

So once again, thank you for the love and support. Perhaps we will see you out there again, when we get a wild hair. Certainly we will be out there on our own, in our respective bands. Either way, please remember us at our best, and keep seeking out the great new music that keeps the world fresh and interesting. God bless.

© John P. Strohm

Here you go:

..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Sunday, June 10th, 2001: En route to Minneapolis
If you like to read tour diaries (I can't be bothered, but that's jus' me), you should check out Mike Watt's ongoing tour diary on www.hootpage.com. It's really funny and well-written, but what made me think of it is that every time he is upset about something that happens, he follows the description of the events with a big "Arrrrrrrgggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!" For example, he'll go "Popped [woke up] 8:00 a.m., 8:15 check out at Mo Six. AAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!" Well, obviously I do read tour diaries after all. All's I can say is thank God for Watt. If it wasn't for him I might be a lawyer or something.

Chicago is OUR town, dude. Rock-friendly in a way that the supposed Rock City can only dream about. I felt the love emanating from Chicagoland from the moment we exited onto the Skyway in my beloved Hoosier State. MMMMM, beautiful steel mill smell of Gary, lovely lakefront sludge of Hammond, attractive housing flanking the southern stretch of the Dan Ryan. I love it up down and sideways. Our first stop was a loft apartment/recording studio where we taped the rollingstone.com piece. Lots of hipster dudes hung out, either working, hanging out, or a nebulous combination of the two. The owner of the studio was a kid who looked about eighteen but might possibly have been as old as twenty. He had an appealing, laconic way about him that put me at my ease. Everyone there seemed pretty damn cool, as a matter of fact. Except these two conspicuously uncool-looking people, who turned out to be a middle-aged couple who won a radio contest where the prize was they got to hang out with a rock photographer for a day. Whippee! Well, if they looked uncool to us, I'm pretty damn sure we looked uncool to them. "This is a rock band? They look like a bunch of graduate students!"

Our next stop was the Double Door, the slightly smaller cousin to perhaps the most splendid mid-sized rock venue in the country, the Cabaret Metro. We might've played the Metro, but the capacity is around 1,200 people, and we felt a little more comfortable with the approx. 600 capacity of the D.D. Well, we sold it out easily, so perhaps we should have had a bit more cajones about the whole thing. But when we arrived at the venue, you would never have known that we sold the joint out. The jaded-ass employees of the joint treated us like a local band on audition night (that is, I hasten to add, with the exception of the front-of-house and monitor engineers, who were cool as hell). The barkeeps and whatnot were decidedly unfriendly. Oh well, who do we think we are? Fuckin' rock stars? Anyway, when the promoter rep showed up, he turned out to be very friggin' cool too. We went to a nice pan-Asian place, where Tom says that he later saw a man walk a giant pig named bacon (no kid) who walked right into the restaurant and tried to mow some sushi. The woman who ran the place had to chase the pig out, screaming (with heavy Asian accent), "No Bacon, no Bacon!" We had a nice meal and then went for a walk, eventually ending up back at the club. When we knocked on the door (the only way to enter our home for the evening), at first the people working at the club totally ignored us. Then, finally, a tattooed woman came up and violently yanked the door open, treating us to a truly hateful sneer, and whipped around and began walking quickly away, letting the door swing closed in our faces. Hmmm…I thought. Can we add civility to the hospitality rider? Will they charge us for it? I finally says to meself, "She obviously doesn't want some rockless pansy like me in her club, I'll go looking for kindred spirits." I walked back out and immediately ran into my dawg Brian Francis from Birmingham, walking with his girlfriend. Looked at my watch, 4:20 on the dot. They drove me to Brian's pad, that he shares with Andy, my other B'ham pal now in Chicago.  Daniel already draped on the couch, we drank ginger ale and watched the Stanley Cup finals.

When we got back to the club it was already packed to the rafters and Wheat wasn't even on yet. I went out to find my friends and instead ran into many, many, many very sincere fans. Nice folks indeed, but I finally found my high school buddy the Northwestern Professor; my cousin the web designer; my friend Jeanne the photographer (took the Sunburn cover); and…my mom! What the hell was she doing here? "OOOhhh, just thought I'd come see a rock show." Nice to see ya, Mom. When I got downstairs, Freda's dad was chillin' with his work chums. This is not your typical rock show crowd.

I missed Wheat's whole show. Hate to do it, but I needed my QT with my pals. We played to a fantastically enthusiastic crowd, nailing practically every tune. A certain punk-era celebrity brought us back for the encore and then treated me to a certain souvenir from his recent trip to Humboldt County, California. After a huge fuckin' party that lasted for about 25 minutes, we hit the road. Notables in attendance: Ivan, the guy who is on the cover of the Lemonheads' Creator album; the music director from WXRT; Bob Weston from Shellac (my former roommate); and the dudes from Local H. Sad to leave, I could have enjoyed another day or two, for sure. Listened to Al Green the whole way to Madison, very nice late-night drive, thanks to the good tunes, good company, and, oh yeah, that one thing...

Monday, June 11th, 2001: In a thunderstorm near Fargo
Not only a thunderstorm, but a severe thunderstorm. Rod Stewart is singing "I'd Rather Go Blind," and the rain is trading licks with hailstones against our formerly filthy windshield. Alright, it's chillin' out a bit now. We're leaving Minneapolis now, which makes me a bit sad. I really love that town, used to live there and I miss it now and again. My best mate, Ed Ackerson, lives there, and I get to see him only too rarely.

We turned up a bit late to First Avenue, the friendliest damn club in the Western Hemisphere, and they were very forgiving. That place rules, dude. You know, Purple Rain and all that. It really is a great place. Okay, we've been treated pretty well all told. But the best treatment was definitely there. They gave us lights so we could read backstage, which was great, because I'm neck-deep in Continental Drift by

Russell Banks. Great stuff. Anyway, we were a bit tired, but we made it through the show and people seemed pleased. Freda lost her sticks in Chicago, so she had to borrow these huge logs from Ed, but at least she had sticks. After signing around a hundred assorted autographs, I got with my buds and went to a place called Bryant Lake Bowl, a very hep bowling alley/bar/gourmet restaurant. After that we made our way to Ed's Shangri-La, Flowers Recording Studio, where he recorded Vestavia, among other illustrious projects (including the wonderful new Jayhawks album).

Flowers is in a large, formerly commercial building, which houses the studio and Ed's bachelor living quarters. It's tricked out in the absolute height of style, all gutted and redone in retro-chic. Ed took me aside and, nearly in tears, confessed to me that one of his beloved cats had become ill and that he had to put her to sleep. Cat lover that

I am, Ed knew that he would find a sympathetic ear (not to mention the bond I had established with those cats from having been Ed's houseguest at least a dozen times over the past dozen years). Then we gathered on the porch, accompanied by ace producer Paul Q. Kolderie and various members of Ed's rock combo, Polara, and proceeded to drink an ungodly amount of beer until the wee hours.

I woke up in the Best Western in downtown Minneapolis the next morning feeling like a hundred bucks, ready for anything (as long as it didn't involve eating food or moving my arms and legs). Having made a lunch date at noon with Ed and Paul, Freda and I set out around eleven to purchase assorted toiletries and drumsticks. On the way out we stopped to ask the desk guy where to go and — lo and behold — I totally recognized him. It was John Freeman, lead singer/guitarist from the Magnolias, a seminal 1980s-early '90s Minneapolis band. Since he was not in his rock star mode, I decided to give him the opportunity to say something, because I wasn't quite 100% sure it was him and I knew that he would know that we were staying there — hotel people just know stuff like that. And, as I am about to explain, I have crossed paths with Freeman on tour before.

Back in 1992, Antenna was touring without Freda, opening for Cracker. We were playing at a club called Mississippi Nights in St. Louis and we saw that Grant Hart (from Hüsker Dü) and the Magnolias were playing across town at a pizza place called Cicero's. Well, Freeman came to see our set, and we met him briefly. Later, when we were loading out, he turned up again, this time very well lit. He explained to us that his band had abandoned him after their gig and he was wondering if he could crash with us. Puzzled and a bit stumped and rather mystified, we said okay, we guessed so. But we had a drive the next day so we were gonna crash right away at the Motel 6, where we had a single room for the three of us. He ended up sleeping on our floor with no blankets or pillows, fully clothed. We checked out at 9:00 am, leaving him fully crashed out, hoping his band would manage to find and retrieve him.

On our trip to town, Freda and I found a very classy drum shop called Thompson's, where an ancient guy harangued us about how he doesn't have any time for rock n' roll — too damn noisy. Unless it's done tastefully, like this band he once saw at the Holiday Inn in Fall River...When we got back to the hotel we had a message from Freeman: "Hey, man, didn't recognize you, you guys playing tonight?" Went and said hello and he said, yo, his guys finally picked him up in St. Louis, after a few hours…During that St. Louis thing, in his drunken state, he managed to coin one of my favorite tour catch phrases, which I use to this day. When Jake Smith tried to throw away a two-day-old baggy full of Chex Party Mix, Freeman grabbed it out of his hand and said, "Hey, don't throw that away. There's lots of nutritions in there." Also to this day (including when Freda called him that same day, Jake calls Freeman "drunkie.")

After a nice lunch and studio tour with Paul and Ed, we went to a place called the Electric Fetus for supplies and there I ran into my good pal Jennifer from Polara (the 'niffer). We hit the road at two o'clock for our first of three all-day drives towards Seattle.

Wednesday, June 13th, 2001: Finally in Washington state
How do you provide an eloquent description of absolutely fucking nothing for three entire days? Well, let's give it a shot. We've been driving the northern cross-country route — I-94 to I-90 through Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, and Washington, en route from Minneapolis to Seattle. It's beautiful country — especially the Rockies — but so damn many hours.

When we first set out, while I was driving, Daniel spotted something pretty cool. A guy was driving a black Cadillac SUV and his woman was splayed out over the two front seats on her stomach, very obviously giving the guy a blowjob — in broad daylight! We all missed it, so I hauled ass to pass him again and, sure enough, there was the guy, blissed out, head thrown back, while missy had an intimate conversation with his joystick. Ha ha ha ha. Funny stuff.

Our first rest stop was in Bismarck, N.D. North Dakota is (along with Alaska) among the last two states I'd never visited, so I was excited. Tom decided to pull into Bismarck to search out a nice restaurant, but we might just as well have not bothered. The town (the state capitol, remember?) was amazingly dead. Tom coined a new on-tour phrase — bismarcked — for when something proves totally fruitless. We ended up at the Cracker Barrel, where the waiter insisted that the proper way to eat fried okra is dipped in ranch dressing. Dude, I live in the South. I can tell you that we invented that shit. Nobody in the South eats okra dipped in ranch dressing.

That night I was opening Daniel's spicy ginger ale with a cigarette lighter (a true talent of mine — I can make the caps literally fly across the room) and I did it with too much force and the cap skidded across my face and left a very cool cut on my right cheek. It bled like crazy for a minute but then stopped, much like a shaving cut. I checked it out this morning — I look like a badass.

The next morning we popped in Billings, Montana, not too spectacular just yet. I spotted some kinda hip looking women and they came up and introduced themselves as a rock band called the Hissy Fits. I've never heard of them, but maybe you have. They were playing all sorts of second world locales like Big Fork, North Dakota, or was it Huge Fork? Anyway, my heart went out to them. They couldn't imagine how we could just drive through the great states of Montana and North Dakota without stopping to rock. Maybe we should have played, cuz our big stop in Bozeman, Montana, was truly inspiring.

Tom's birthday is today, so we decided yesterday that when we stopped for lunch we would let him take us wherever he wanted to go and we'd pick up the tap. We pulled into the very quaint, touristy-seeming town of Bozeman and drove down the very quaint strip as Tom described all of the potential lunch places. He'd just been there for two days with Martin Sexton, so he knew the layout. We settled on a place called Fred's Mesquite Grill, a sort of semi-rustic place a little north of the main strip, and we were treated (or I should say Tom was treated) to what I consider to be the finest meal we have had on this whole tour. These really nice outdoor-type guys cooked it up just for us and the caesar salad with a generous piece of medium rare grilled tuna delicately placed on top was simply AWESOME. Everyone seemed equally happy, especially Tom with his Cobb salad. We hit the road with full bellies and contented smiles.

After Bozeman, we drove through an amazing amount of bad weather, including several real snowstorms in the high mountain passes (snow — in June!!!) After about seven albums we hit Spokane, where we settled into the Holiday Inn with a fresh bottle of Absolut Citron to celebrate Tom's birthday in style. Hatfield is fighting off a cold so she retired immediately to her room and emerged looking fresh as a daisy this morning. I think I can speak for all of us when I say that it's gonna be nice to play some rock again. Seattle is now only 50 miles away.

Top five for the drive:
1. Bob Dylan/The Band: The Basement Tapes
2. The Band: Box Set (disc one)
3. Teenage Fanclub: Bandwagonesque
4. Bonnie Prince Billy: Ease On Down the Road
5. Songs of Leonard Cohen

Thursday, June 14th, 2001: Just south of Olympia, WA
Ugh. Can I just go ahead and say it? Seattle SUCKED ASS. Let me first mention that we had the distinct pleasure of seeing some good friends, including Freda's and my bud from Bloomington Mike Whybark, a web designer, and his wife; Juliana's brother Christian; and the famous Stacee Sledge from blakebabies.com. Also the people who actually came to the show were great, very enthusiastic and friendly. All of that stuff was great. Now let me vent.

It seems that there are two weekly arts papers in Seattle, the Stranger and the Seattle Weekly. The Seattle Weekly actually sponsored the show. Both papers totally slagged us off in the most hateful, venomous way imaginable. But that's not what pissed me off. What really got me pissed is that they BOTH slagged off Wheat as well. Anyway, all of the cool people in Seattle clearly realized that our show was not cool, and they'd better go somewheres else to be cool on that particular night. All we were left with were our compadres and kindred spirits, the uncool people, the ones who actually give a shit about music.

I will now get a bit personal here and discuss my life outside of the Blake Babies. One of the many things I get up to at home is that I am one of a couple of people who previews shows for the hip local weekly paper in my town. I really enjoy doing it; it pays a few bucks and I can really tell that it helps out bands coming to Birmingham, which is typically a tough market. However, I have one hard and fast rule that I will always stick to: I don't ever write anything completely negative about a band. If I don't like a band I either decline to preview their show, or else I look for something positive about the band to focus on. But I never, ever slag them off.

If you become a recording artist/musician you absolutely have to develop a thick skin, because, unfortunately, eventually everyone becomes the target of hateful, mean-spirited press. The reason is obvious, as is the reason that I don't write hateful articles myself. Many rock journalists, especially the most bitter and hateful among them, are either frustrated musicians who haven't ever gotten a break or people who fancy themselves rock stars although they've never had the balls to really put it on the line and give it a try. So basically they totally hate musicians because, like so many people out there, they totally buy the myth that musicians live these charmed lives while, I can tell you from experience, no one gives a rat's ass about music journalists (except the most successful among them, who generally have their egos satiated and don't need to write hateful articles).

Whew. That said, I can't say for sure whether or not the writers for the Seattle papers are frustrated musicians. But they clearly have an agenda that goes beyond their purpose, which is to let their peeps know what's going on in their city. Oh, so they did their good deed for the day — they warned everyone away from our terrible show that we drove 35 fucking hours to play. Thanks.

So what did we do in Seattle? Well, we checked into our Motel 6, fifteen miles south of town. My first room smelled like the Cleveland dressing room so I got another room, which was about ten feet from the interstate. We went to the club and did a quick soundcheck, after which we hooked up with Stacee, Mike, and Mike's wife Vivian, and we all had dinner at the Crocodile Cafe, which is a nice joint. I ended up acting like a total prick because they tried to give us these half-assed band member menus, with only sandwiches and stuff. Well, I wanted the damn tofu and veggies so I got everyone to stand up and turn in their menus, announcing that we were walking out in protest of the band menus. Well, they didn't call my bluff and they caved instantly, allowing us to order anything off the menu. Hey, I choose my battles wisely, and that is one I will stand behind. The tofu was excellent, by the way.

We hung out in the backstage waiting for Wheat to go on, and it was more pictures of cocks and balls, just like every backstage. The best quote among the great quotes on the wall was one that said, "I shit in your mom's pussy." I thought that was both creative and funny. Wheat played an amazing show as usual, then we totally tanked.

Freda insists that the show was great, but I'd beg to differ. I broke a string, which I never do, and it threw me off my game. Daniel "accidentally" got completely shitfaced drunk and played a bunch of clams, which threw it further in that direction. The people in the crowd were so cool, I really wanted to give them a good show, but it was uphill all the way. We did "Sanctify" for Stacee, who took a bunch of cool, candid shots for the site. After the show we saw Christian Hatfield, Juliana's older brother, who had just had laser eye surgery and was either squinting at everyone or wearing these badass Yoko Ono shades. He is much friendlier than the last time I saw him — about fourteen years ago.

Well, I'm gonna shake off Seattle, and it should be easy with SF coming up. I know for a fact that we got a really good feature in the SF Weekly, which is the standard bearer for West Coast arts papers. Also the Great American Music Hall is a great venue. And, finally, I'll get to hang it with my brother Jake, who is coming to L.A. with us. It's off to Grant's Pass with us, sayonara.

Friday, June 15th, 2001: Approaching Sacto
I've been filled with such gratitude since about a hundred miles north of Grant's Pass, Oregon. This is such beautiful country. We've been driving for most of two days, but I've hardly noticed. Sitting, staring out the window, gabbing: This life is easy.

I drove us into Grant's Pass, where we stopped for a proper meal. Tom used The Force to find an excellent Thai restaurant (Thai BBQ), where we totally refueled. I sacrificed my free ice cream for the rare opportunity to catch my hard-working wife on the phone and we were off. I wonder who ended up eating that ice cream…Tom caught an amazing mullet with his camera — the first truly great one of the tour — on a homeless woman picking a cigarette butt off the street. Hey, even when you're totally down and out, it's good to have a rebel haircut.

As we crossed the border into California, something was clearly afoot. The air became thick with smoke and the telltale campfire smell filled the air. We were heading straight for a forest fire. About ten miles in we passed the real shit: acres and acres of beautiful forest engulfed in flames. Airplanes hovered around, dropping their loads on the fire in a seemingly vain attempt to control the beast. We stopped at a rest stop just a few miles past the blaze and the whole valley was thick with brownish smoke.

As night fell and the smoke gradually began to thin out, Mt. Shasta gradually came into view, with Mars rising just above the summit. Daniel, Freda, and I all shared a quiet epiphany while Juliana barreled straight for our third and — thank God — final Mo 6 of the tour. Juliana is a good, safe driver, but she never speeds.

When we finally did arrive at the Mo, we all congregated in Tom's room for a sip of the Absolut Citron and a peek at our fave show, the totally repellent Real Sex on HBO. This time the subject was a bunch of girls who live in a house that is constantly viewed through dozens of cameras by a bunch of perverts on the Internet. Among other choice views, they had one camera that points directly up the ass of whomever happens to be taking a shower. I'm so glad that technology is opening up such opportunities for people. The pervs get to jack like never before, and the girls get free tuition for doing nothin' more than totally debasing themselves. Oh, also there was a bit about $500 Pyrex dildos, the granddaddy of which was called "the juicer." I fear my eventual obsolescence.

I had an anxiety dream about this math class I took last spring — I was taking the final exam and I didn't know how to work any of the problems. I got a fuckin' A in the class already, you'd think I'd be able to shake it off. I think it might be post-traumatic stress syndrome, I'd spent years thinking about finishing my degree, but I knew I'd have to take a math class, which I'd feared since high school. I hope I don't have these math dreams for the rest of my life; the nightmare is truly over. I'll never again have to figure out the exact odds of being dealt three of a kind in a game of five card draw poker — I'll just place my bet and hope for the best.

I shared a room with Freda last night and I put my watch on the table so that we would know what the hell time it was (Mo 6 apparently doesn't trust its guests with actual clocks). Well, Freda woke up, looked at the watch, and decided it was still on Central time — 6:30 am, to be exact. She then figured out that, since we were in California, it must be 8:30 am, a half-hour from our wake-up call. Anyway, she called her husband and kids in Indiana and just talked on and on for about twenty minutes. I'm lying there with my pillow on my head thinking, What the hell? Why is she doing this to me? When she got off the phone she said, "Well, I guess we missed our wakeup call. Do you want to take a shower first?" I'm like, "Yo, it's friggin' seven in the friggin' morning!" She suddenly realized her error and was like "Woops." This time change stuff, I'll tell ya...

We're striking distance from San Fran now. If this one isn't fun, I'll be surprised. We're gonna meet my brother to shop at the Levi's superstore — lookin' forward to it.

Saturday, June 16th, 2001: In the basin
My head feels like it is stuffed with cotton right now. I didn't completely blow it out last night, but I gave it my best shot. San Fran was indeed a good time, as expected. Nothing spectacular or life-changing, but definitely groovy.

We checked into the Commodore Hotel, our second choice after the very rock-friendly Phoenix, but a fair substitute, complete with stylish decor and hip-looking neighbors. We all went to the Levi's superstore as our obligatory tourist event, where they have a tub where you can soak with your shrink-to-fits on and then stand in a drying machine. Funny stuff. Lots of Japanese tourists but not many locals in the joint. On our way to soundcheck we ran into some dudes from MTV who wanted to work us into some bit they were doing featuring some comedian who wants to be in a band — like that will actually happen.

Thanks to the very prominent, very cool article in the SF Weekly, the show had a nice buzz, and by the time we finished soundcheck there was already a nice-sized line outside the door. Some friends showed up, including Freda's best friend Jennifer, a professor at a state college in Hayward and her husband, Phil Morrison (our former videographer and now superstar filmmaker), Steve Michener (from Big Dipper, now an RN), and my brother Jake. Some of us took advantage of the surprisingly good catering at the Great American Music Hall and before we knew it, it was rock o'clock. Right before set time this dude named Luis, who drums for Pansy Division (among other projects), came back to say hello. He has been writing me and sending me records for years, nice to finally meet him.

The show was fast and furious, with a large and very responsive crowd. As we launched into the third song ("From Here to Burma"), I looked out and saw my good pal and former Lemonheads singer/guitarist Ben Deily rocking in the front. He has always been really into that song, and he just looked so happy. That made me really want to play my best, which I didn't, but it's the thought that counts. Afterwards we got the mad rush backstage, and I also got to meet these two women who have been writing to me since around '91, and they gave me a nice little present. I like presents, I really do.

After the gig, my friend Nick Tangborne, who works for Napster, threw a party. Everyone from my posse said they were gonna make it out, but only I actually made it. Daniel was a bit upset because he left his cell phone in a cab. When he found out that his phone was missing, he tried to call his number from the Great American's phone, but it doesn't accept long distance. So he ended up unknowingly dialing a local number similar to his own and accusing the poor foreign fella on the other end of stealing his phone. Sample: "Hey, dude you've got my fucking phone, and I want it back NOW!" "No, my friend, this has my phone been one year. I have bought it in one year ago!" "LOOK, I just want my damn phone back! I'll pay you!" "Yes, my friend. It is personally my own phone. I have paid my own Yankee dollars..." Anyway, I went stag and it worked out for me.

I spent a considerable amount of time at the party telling stories to my brother's friends about what he was like as a kid. My brother is a very popular fella in San Fran, everybody's pal. I saw some old pals and had a few laffs. Around 3:00 am Ben Deily finally showed up, a bit 'faced, and told me the story of his life since I last saw him, last September. Harrowing shit, I might add. Anyway, after a bit of a rough patch, he seems to be springing back on his feet. Good for him. After Ben dropped me at the Commodore, I tried to slip quietly into the room, but I found Freda bolt awake. She said, "I can't get to sleep with all this noise and the bright red light from outside. I've been trying for hours." I said something like, "Why don't you try closing the curtains and shutting the window?" She was like, "Oh yeah..." Then we both went to sleep.

Los Angeles looms on the horizon — can't hardly wait.

Sunday, June 17th, 2001: Near Barstow, California
Once again: UGH. Not for the show last night in L.A., which was easily the best of the tour, but for the 35 hour drive that lies ahead. At least we're taking I-40 instead of I-10 to Birmingham, so we won't have to spend twelve hours in Texas. I must say, though — I do love this desert landscape. My favorite part of the country, perhaps the world, is the northern Arizona/northern New Mexico/southern Utah region. It's SO beautiful, truly breathtaking. I'm trying to think what part of the world that I've seen compares to that, and I'm drawing a blank.

It's just Juliana and Tom and me on this ride — Freda and Daniel bought plane tickets so that they could get back to their respective offspring (oh, before I forget, a guy is mailing Daniel his cell phone — we are truly blessed). It reminds me of our first real tour, in 1989, when we came out here in a fucked-up, breaking down Chevy that really started to fail us around Flagstaff and totally gave out in Death Valley. It would only go about 20 mph up hills and it constantly overheated. At one point we were temporarily immobilized alongside a cliff, and Juliana spent at least an hour smashing bottles against the cliff wall. Eventually we got the van back as far as NYC, but it broke down for real outside of a restaurant called the Keiv on First Ave. in the East Village. Our pal Phil Morrison actually went out at 4:00 am and found us a van to use, on loan from Das Damen. We drove to our next show, a triple bill with Sonic Youth and Yo La Tengo, and found out that the van had previously belonged to Sonic Youth. They were like, "What the hell?"

Okay, where was I? Los Angeles? We checked into the legendary Roosevelt Hotel, a Hollywood landmark and site of the first Academy Awards. Well, it's still a relatively nice hotel, but it sure ain't hip. It seemed like almost all of the guests were German tourists. It's right in the most grim, touristy stretch of Hollywood Blvd. Not my scene, although I do enjoy L.A. as a city.

My brother Jake and I went straight to the David Hockney pool where we had a pleasant dip in the bright 4:00 pm sunshine. I noticed a hilarious character sitting opposite from us around the pool. He wore a novelty T-shirt and faded jeans rolled up to mid-calf. His large, red sunglasses were partially obscured by a tangled mess of black hair. He had a pack of Marlboro Lights, a latte, and a Martinelli's apple juice lined up next to an ashtray on a plastic table as he chain-smoked, talked loudly on his cell phone, and dipped his bare feet in the pool in the shade of the cabana. "Holy shite," I said to my bro, "I think that's Ryan Adams."

Although I've met him several times, I decided not to out him as he held court. On my way to the lobby later, just behind my (older) brother, Ryan and Daniel (who happen to be good friends) came out of the elevator and I heard them run into Jake. As they were walking, still around the corner from me, I heard Daniel say, "That was John's brother," to which Ryan said, "My God, he looks just like John." At that moment I popped around the corner and they both jumped back a few inches. I greeted Ryan and we all went to the van to drive the .5 blocks to the gig.

We wanted to get a care package for Wheat, so Ryan took us to some hilarious stores, regaling us with some hilarious patter along the way. He took us to a junk shop where they had lots of 1980s souvenir ashtrays for $40 and used porno mags for $25. In the end we decided to play it safe and just get them a bottle of Bailey's, Scott's favorite nightcap. After a very decent catered meal at the Knitting Factory, rock o'clock drew near.

The Knitting Factory was the one wild card gig of the tour, since none of us had ever been there and we had heard mixed reports about the sound, facilities, etc. Well, much to our joy, it's a totally amazing venue: great PA, nice wooden stage, classy design, etc. It truly is a top-notch club, perhaps my favorite club I've ever played at in L.A. We played really well, too. It felt like we had finally shaken loose our tight white-people asses for once. We played "Downtime" for about ten minutes, complete with a space jam in the middle. I left the stage feeling like I could close this one out with pride.

After the show, we had a handful of friends come back to wish us well, including Juliana's old drummer Todd Phillips, Walt from the Pete Yorn band with his girlfriend, Tim from Old Pike, Scott Litt, Ryan, and my friend Jeff Colvin from Birmingham and his girlfriend (they won the cool prize for bringing a bottle of Rosemont Shiraz, a personal fave of mine). We tearfully bid adieu to the Wheat guys, giving them the care package, which they gratefully accepted. I'm gonna miss hanging with those very cool guys, as I'm going to miss their amazing shows (though they did do the same exact set EVERY NIGHT). They are going to do some more shows over the next week, including Nashville, which I might drive up for, if my wife lets me.

We took it fairly easy after the show, having a quick Absolut Citron nip before we crashed. Today has been a whole lot of fun already — we're heading into Needles right now — and it can only get funner.

Monday, June 18th, 2001: An endless ribbon of highway...
It's 4:44 pm Central time right now: That means we've been driving for 32 hours, minus meals and seven hours in the Days Inn of Moriarty, New Mexico. Well, it's been pretty uneventful, no big tales to tell. Juliana and Tom are both remarkably quiet while I am a bit of a talker, so to avoid feeling like a loudmouth I immerse myself in my books. Every once in a while my verbosity gets the better of me and I just spontaneously start spinning a yarn to whoever will listen.

To anyone who has never driven the old Route 66 way across America, I strongly recommend it. It's especially exciting when traveling from east to west, because the change in landscape is so dramatic (Interstate 40 is analogous to Route 66 in the West, btw). Unfortunately, there is no mystery or surprise to this drive for any of us. I have now driven across the country at least a dozen times, using the northern, central and southern routes. I will say, though, that practice makes long drives easier. The trick is to think only in terms of the next stop, not the whole trip. You can sit there and think, "80 miles to Amarillo, where we will have lunch." But you can't think, "Holy shit, 1,400 more miles to Birmingham; I'm going to be doing this for the rest of my life."

As any touring musician will tell you, the most difficult aspect of the experience is returning to everyday life. I once toured for an entire year with the Lemonheads, and I really thought I had gone insane when I came home. That's the extreme, but it can be difficult even after only a couple of weeks on the road. I used to deal with it by continuing to live like I was on tour — going out every night and eating every meal at a restaurant. But eventually you sink into some sort of depression, and you just have to ride it out. It's science: You hurtle yourself through space at a rapid speed, and the pace of life seems to quicken. When you finally come to rest, it's as if your body wants to continue moving. It's best to rent some good movies, make some comfort food, and sit on the couch for a couple of days.

The weirdest thing about touring, which I may have already addressed, is the fact that days seem to be flying by, but when you think of what you were doing only days ago, it seems like an incredibly long time ago — weeks or even months. I don't really understand why that is, but when I think about loading into the club in Columbus and meeting the guys in Wheat for the first time, it really seems like forever ago. Part of me wants to stay out and keep playing shows forever, but I'm growing more and more into the part of myself that totally misses my wife and my simple, sometimes mundane home life. I never thought it would happen, but I can foresee a time when I will have little or no desire to ever go on tour.

I don't mean to get all dark here; I'm really in great spirits. I feel blessed that people still care about our little band after all these years, and that we've had the chance to become the great band we always could have been. Maybe four more shows in July will be enough to close this chapter of our lives forever. Then again, maybe it won't.

Thursday, July 19, 2001: New Jersey Turnpike
Oh, the sweet smell of sulphur. This section of North Jersey is truly hell on earth. We're back in our original red rental van with Mr. Mark J. Mayer back in the helm. Last night's Hoboken show was a little disappointing on several levels, but with Wheat rejoining the fold tonight in Philly, I'm feeling optimistic about the future.

But let me backtrack a bit. I am, as usual, getting ahead of myself. I flew out to Boston from Birmingham on Monday, well prepared after three weeks of not much at all to get back into it. On my flight, I sat next to a touching couple in their seventies who had only been married for two years (their respective previous spouses were deceased). The guy, who strongly resembled Rodney Dangerfield, was a real cut-up. He explained that they had met ballroom dancing in Sarasota, Florida, where they both lived, and they still danced at least once a week. He then went into a lengthy harangue about how the big bands of today are too fancy; you can hardly find the beat. I rarely speak to people on airplanes, but I found those two to be very charming and conversed with them for most of the flight. Before I knew it I was at Fort Apache, awaiting the arrival of my band mates for practice. I waited, and waited, and waited…

Freda and Mark's flight had been delayed, but Daniel had flown in earlier. He and Juliana arrived around seven, four hours after me. We learned that the Pernice Brothers were playing at the Middle East, and of course we had to go to that. Freda wouldn't be in until after ten, so we opted to forgo the proper band practice in favor of a quick run-through with just the three of us and then went to the concert. I can't say I regret it, but this turned out to be the doom of our Hoboken show. The Pernice Brothers were fantastic, but they suffered from a horrible mix. I immediately went to the front, where I could hear their stage sound, and I could hear everything perfectly. And what a fantastic band! Joe Pernice looked and sounded like the reincarnation of the lean n' mean Elvis Costello, and the band locked in beautifully. The Posies followed them, and I kind of wanted to stay to hear them, but Juliana and Daniel wanted to leave, so we did.

The next day was generally uneventful, but we did make excellent time down the Merrit Parkway. Freda didn't bring her cymbals from Bloomington, so we called Tom Dube, who had just returned from a tour with Ivy, and he hooked us up. Maxwell's in Hoboken, just across the Hudson from Manhattan, hasn't changed much since we used to play there in the late eighties, but Hoboken itself sure has. It used to be a bit of a boho community, with artist-types and locals living side by side, but lately it's become just another commuter community, full of yuppies. The music scene there has always been healthy, with bands like Yo La Tengo from there, plus studios and record labels every which way. Well, it still has a vibe, although the Maxwell House plant, which used to scent the air with a rich coffee aroma, seems to be no more.

We had a nice time before the show, since our friends Mike Leahy (former Blakes guitarist and currently a booking agent) and Bob Lawton (Blakes and Juliana booking agent since the eighties) came out. Maxwell's serves wonderful food, so we seriously hunkered down, and then sat around the table shooting the shit for several hours. Many of the people at the show seemed like serious fans; I even signed a couple of rare vinyl Nicely, Nicely's.

When it came time to make a set list, we realized that we weren't feeling all that confident about playing a number of the songs from the last tour, so we ended up playing a rather short concert. Also, there isn't anywhere to go after you play there, so I feebly tried to explain why we weren't going to leave the stage and do an encore, but I don't think people understood. After we went downstairs, out of songs, people expected us to come back. I feel bad disappointing people, but we were a bit rusty. Hopefully the next few will be better.

After the show we drove to Manhattan and settled into our digs for the next few days: our friend Phil Morrison's apartment. Phil is a film and commercial director who is working in Los Angeles at the moment, and his place is nicer than any hotel we could ever afford, so it's a total coup. It's a very stylish flat overlooking Washington Square Park; nice to fantasize about someday being able to live in such an amazing place. I wasn't tired yet so I watched an incredibly surreal and entertaining documentary on Tammy Faye Baker called "The Eyes of Tammy Faye," narrated by Ru Paul. Truly incredible stuff. Now I'd better wrap this up, because we're arriving in Philly and I don't want to miss anything.

Back now; we're lost. A quick word about Phil, while I'm on the subject. Phil is an excellent guy on many levels, but he's mainly famous in my world for a single, incredibly selfless act back in 1989. We were on our first ever tour, in a very shitty van that had been breaking down regularly since we got it (have I already talked about this?). Anyway, our van broke down for good outside of the Keiv Restaurant on First Avenue, not the greatest neighborhood at four in the morning. Phil and his roommate and pal Dave actually went out at that hour and found us a van to use. They borrowed it from Das Damen, who lived in Hoboken. We actually made it to our next show, which was a gig opening for Sonic Youth in Boston (also on the bill: Yo La Tengo, World of Pooh and Christmas). When we arrived, the people from Sonic Youth were scratching their heads, looking at the van. Thurston asked, "Where did you guys get this van?" "From Das Damen." "Yeah," he said, "We sold it to Das Damen. This used to be our van." Weird coincidence.

Now I'm really gone.

9:47 PM 

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Well, I learned I couldn't post it all, so here's part 2 of the diaries:

..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />March 26, 2001: Home to stay (for now)
After concluding our tour at South by Southwest, we reconvened the following weekend in Charleston, West Virginia, to tape an episode of the NPR syndicated show Mountain Stage. Daniel and I flew in to Charleston late Saturday evening, the night before the taping. A nice fellow named Andy, who is one of the Mountain Stage producers, picked us up at the airport. Another Mountain Stage employee named Michael Lipton had contacted me via email earlier in the week about us possibly performing at a place called the Empty Glass following the taping, and I asked Andy about it. He said, "Yeah, it's just about the only gig in town," and offered to take us by there on the way to the hotel. He said Hasil Adkins—aka "the Haze"—was scheduled to perform that night, and my heart literally skipped a beat. Hasil Adkins is a West Virginia rockabilly performer I have been following for many years. He is known for his drunken exploits and random acts of insanity and I have wanted to catch his infamous act for about as long as I can remember.

The very large, bemulletted doorman waved us in and Andy inquired about the Haze. "Rescheduled," grunted the doorman. Second biggest disappointment of my life. Dejected, we opted to check in to our kicked-down rooms at the Marriott (thank you, MS) and call it a night.

When we arrived, all BB's personnel had already become as one with the massive luxury hotel, except for one Juliana Hatfield, who had driven from Boston (fear of flying) with her dog Betty (fear of solitude, jus' kidding). Juliana checked into the dog-friendly Ramada in the stinky, factory-laden section of town. We descended en-masse upon Freda's room because she had the only sliding door that actually opened onto the balcony (all doors had been fitted with governors to prevent furniture from being hurled from great heights. Pretty funny that they decided to forget to seal the room they rent to the one rowdy punk rock band in the whole hotel: the Blake Babies).

Things got very rock n' roll very fast in room 1006. First we watched Radiohead on a rerun of SNL and vehemently disagreed about the worthiness of their performance (Jules gave it the thumbs way down; I gave it the thumbs way up. No one else dared to offer an opinion). Then Daniel ordered a massive ice cream and fudge brownie concoction and stuck me with the bill. Discussion question: Why would Daniel be so hungry at such a late hour? Well, pharmacological enticements aside, I think he thought we would all help him with his 8,000 calorie nightmare.

But hey, we're all, like, into health food and stuff (remember this detail—ironic twist to follow shortly). After taking exactly three bites, he let his dessert turn to soup (later Mark J Maher actually ate the melted ice cream—ewww. That's the danger of The Demon Weed, kids).

The actual taping of the show was a truly great experience. Mountain Stage, for those (like yrs. trly.) unlucky enuff to not have their local NPR station carry the program, is an eclectic music show hosted by Larry Groce, a legend for many reasons, but mainly because he composed the chart-topping 1976 hit "Junk Food Junkie." Alright, there's your ironic twist, now you can stop thinking about it. They have a crackerjack house band featuring mister Michael Lipton on the hot-doggin' guitar and a very soulful pianist named Bob Thompson. The guests included the seemingly borderline-psychotic murder balladeer Johnny Dowd, a bland new-agey band called Equation (woooooo....deep), a mind-blowingly original violinist named Andrew Bird plus his band Bowl of Fire, and an unassuming-yet-talented singer songwriter from Boston named Megin Toohey. The finale, which we spent a good 45 minutes rehearsing, was a group singalong of the Bobby Fuller classic "I Fought the Law," with every hot picker amongst us playing his or her flashiest eight bar solo in tandem.

We never gave Lipton an answer about whether or not we would play the club, thinking he would forget or something, but he persisted in asking us. Although we never gave an official answer, the matter was settled when Larry announced to the rather large studio audience that we would be performing at the Empty Glass following the taping. We said, like, what the hell, but we had to eat first. Potato chips and Jones soda had proven to be a very unsatisfying evening meal, so we hit the only place in the entire city that serves food on a Sunday evening: the Marriott. Well, it took forever, but we did get a free bottle of Rosemont Shiraz after they screwed up Daniel's twenty dollar filet mignon (ever the healthy eater). We drank a toast to a successful first leg of the tour and retired to our rooms to mentally prepare for the inevitably weird evening awaiting us at the Empty Glass.

After a short conversation with my wife, I hung up the phone to find the message light frantically blinking. Who could be calling me at this late hour, I thought. Well, it was none other than Freda Love Smith, and she was having another of her weird allergy attacks. "Strohm, get the hell down here. I'm getting those weird spots again, and my tongue feels fuzzy!" Sure enuff there she was, covered in hives. Once Freda's condition stabilized (we're thinking she might be allergic to sulphites, more later), Juliana and Daniel decided they didn't really want to go without Freda. It was up to me to represent whether I liked it or not, which I didn't. Dude, the Oscars were on, and my room had heat, running water (hot and cold), and a shoe mitt, whatever that's for. This was no Red Roof, I promise you. Mark J Maher stepped up to the plate and off we were, at approximately 12:30 a.m. on Sunday night.

Things were jumpin' at the Glass, thanks to Larry's announcement. I felt self-conscious right off the bat as I realized people were pointing and saying "there's ONE of them." The bartender kicked us down a couple of Makers Marks and we tried to remain inconspicuous, to no avail. After five or so minutes people started coming up to me and asking if we were going to play, where's Juliana, stuff like that. I had Lipton, whose blues band was in mid-set, announce that Freda had fallen ill, but that didn't stop the interrogation. I met some pretty cool people, but they only seemed to want to talk about me. I'm sure that if push came to shove, they would have to admit that they were more interesting than me. They are from West Virginia after all. Finally I sat in with Lipton's band for two songs, and people who came to see the Blakes seemed to be willing to call it a night at that, although someone did keep yelling for "Girl in a Box." A blues version might be interesting, come to think of it...

I escaped with only minor bruises and a few odd phone numbers. The genius drummer from Dowd's band seemed to have hooked up with one of the local women, so I guess the evening wasn't a wash for everyone (come to think of it, it might've been his girlfriend). Lipton's band was actually very good, and like tennis, sitting in with good bands forces musicians to play at the top of their game. The generally good vibe at the Empty Glass served as a continuation of the generally good vibe of the entire weekend. I will go back and play a proper show at that club someday, and I'll look forward to it.

The rest of the trip isn't really worth addressing, except that the prop plane journey Daniel and I took from Charleston to Atlanta won the prize for the most terrifying plane ride of my life—and with over ten million frequent flyer miles to my credit, that is saying something. Now that the first leg of the tour is finally over, I can't imagine what I'll do with myself until June (except graduate from college, for chrissakes). This memoir will be continued, and until then I wish you all the best.

April 1, 2001: 24 hours of torture for six minutes of rock
First, to conclude a certain unresolved story line: Freda finally received her wallet in the mail. All credit cards, ID's, and every penny of the nearly one hundred dollars have been recovered. Faith in human nature has been fully restored, thanks to the Racetrack convenience store in Gaffney, South Carolina (or was it Greenville?).

We found out in the airport on the way home from Mountain Stage that the CBS Saturday Morning show had invited us to perform the next Saturday—in five days. It took nearly two full days for all of us to clear our schedules, so travel plans were made hastily, to say the least. We all ended up on Southwest flights into Islip, Long Island, a one-hour drive from Manhattan with zero traffic. The only way we could afford to do it without losing our asses was to fly in on Friday evening and then fly out immediately after the shoot on Saturday afternoon. Soundcheck and rehearsals for the shoot began at 5:30 a.m., for chrissakes. Woo hoo, this is gonna be fun, we all thought to ourselves.

Daniel and I both worked a half-day on Friday at our respective day jobs (sorry to break it to ya, folks: We're not really rock stars; we just play them on TV). After wolfing down a semi-foul burrito from a certain corporate taco joint I have come to rely on when time becomes an issue (hint: It rhymes with HELL), I waited for Daniel to pick me up to go to the airport. And waited. Watched a couple soap operas, changed my guitar strings, wrote a few letters to various editors, and finally, he showed up. In Birmingham we refer to it as "Daniel time," meaning approximately as late as one can possibly be and still, just barely, get you there. Sometimes I believe he and my wife are part of some kind of a conspiracy to unhinge me. I am pathologically punctual, by the way. I don't know where that comes from. It's very un-musicianlike.

Ordinarily I wouldn't be so anally retentive about time, but our tickets were on the dreaded Southwest Airlines (God bless 'em for keeping the fares down, but let's be honest: They suck ass). For anyone who hasn't had the pleasure of flying Southwest, they have a few quirky customs. For one, they encourage their employees to act goofy, which I find very annoying, since pilots and flight attendants are rarely clever, funny, or charming. But the real crux of the problem is that they give you a boarding pass with a number on it, indicating your turn to board the plane.

Overzealous punters line up hours before the plane boards clutching their low-numbered passes, while people like me, who absolutely have to carry on their electric guitars because they know for a fact they can't trust the maniacs who handle checked bags, sit down with their guaranteed last seat on the plane. I ended up sitting between two very stout German guys and my guitar, luckily, ended up in the coat closet.

On a layover in Baltimore, I met a woman from Birmingham who recognized me from my illustrious Career in Rock. I hastily offered her a ride in our rental car that awaited us in Islip, then began to wonder if she was in fact some psycho. She hastily accepted, then certainly began to wonder if in fact Daniel was some psycho (um, I mean, if I was some psycho). She turned out to be very pleasant, making the drive seem shorter by grilling us about our marriages the whole way. "It must be hard, traveling all the time. Your wives must hate it." Stuff like that. "Naw, they love it. Gives 'em time to date eighteen-year-old skateboarders, keeps things fresh," we said, poker-faced. I think she bought it. Coming out of the Midtown Tunnel, we ended up alongside a car driven by none other than Anthony DeLuca, corporate attorney and former Blake Babies drummer (when Freda sat out our last European tour in early '92). We made it to the lovely Roger Smith hotel shortly before ten. Gorgeous room, too bad we couldn't stay more than seven hours.

Our wonderful publicists, Mary and Carla, actually went out and got carryout dinner from Freda's favorite restaurant, Angelica Kitchen, since she wouldn't have time to get there herself (in a plan originally hatched by Melissa at Fort Apache/Geronimo Management). I quickly tore into the hijiki sandwiches and bizarro vegetable maki, enjoying most of it, but Daniel gave it the old Heisman in favor of a salad from the all-night deli. Southern by the grace of God; forget all that hippy shit. Freda, on the other hand, sat on the floor of the elegant suite of rooms and made little cooing sounds over every single bite. She was truly in heaven. We rounded out our night with more group bonding activities: watching some retard and his retarded girlfriend have a menage-a-trois with a $5,000 sex doll in a hot tub on HBO's fabulous "Real Sex 22." Catch it if you can, but make a point of leaving the room when the Dutch swingers come on.

D and I finally fell asleep around 2:30, so it came as a bit of a shock when the alarm went off at 4:30. I bounded out of bed like Paul Bunyan (like I do every morning, of course), and totally freaked Daniel out. We made the 5:00 a.m. lobby call and actually had to wake up the concierge. What happened to "the city that never sleeps?" The sun had begun to consider the possibility of rising when we pulled up to the midtown studio in the very fly Lincoln Navigator they sent for us, ready for whatever. They sent us straight to hair and makeup, and I tried to decide if I should be offended. I tried to slip the hair woman a fifty to give Juliana a mullet, but her sense of professional responsibility got the better of me. Maybe I should take the visit as a compliment, because while they troubled over Freda and Juliana for fifteen minutes apiece, they only slapped some powder on me and Daniel. I guess we were just born beautiful...

They kept showing stills of Jerri from Survivor while we were doing our soundcheck and I began to get very excited. I've had something resembling a crush on her ever since she sang that Fiona Apple song around the campfire on the only episode of that show I have ever watched. I just felt so bad for her—she made herself so vulnerable and ended up showing her ass so completely. Kind of like going on live network TV at 6:00 in the morning. Anyway, her piece was taped, so it was not meant to be. They had this real den mother-type woman giving us cues, who Freda very accurately likened to a wedding director. She was fifty-ish, a bit on the butch side, and bitchy as hell. She had it together, though, and we followed her cues as best as we could (although the notion of cuing us to stop on the beat seemed beyond her). After playing our first of many "teasers" (ten-to-twenty second song snippets going into or coming out of commercials), we retreated to the green room to sweat blood.

When we actually did our bit, both Juliana and I will swear that the monitors had changed completely. When I heard the segment later in the day, my fears were confirmed, because neither of us actually sings that badly. Despite the disproportionately loud, rather off-key vocals, the segment went well. We did truly squeeze out five minutes of rock from all that hell. The people on the show were super nice, really making it a great experience. Our luck has been great as far as getting to work with friendly folks lately—let's hope it continues. I especially liked the very classic heavyset, smart-alecky weatherman. Why are local weather guys always such choads, while network weather guys are so damn cool? I want to be him when I'm an old fat guy.

Five minutes after the show wrapped, Freda, Daniel and I were back in the Midtown Tunnel heading back to Strong Island. Only then did it occur to us how weird that all had been. Daniel asked how many people did I think just watched us and I said, "I dunno, maybe, like, five or ten million?" Then we all kind of said "Holy shit, that's weird." Then we started calling people on Daniel's cell phone to see if they'd seen it. Turns out it was just coming on. Then it seemed even weirder. All those people didn't just see us; they were just about to see us. In fact if we weren't so damn busy trying to catch a plane we could see us ourselves.

I tried to sleep on the plane, but I sat next to a very nice woman who just happened to feel like sharing her life story, and who was very interested in hearing mine. Tuff break, cowboy. When I finally did get home I had to go finish my previous day's work, so when I finally got to pass out, I dreamed John Cougar Mellancamp wanted to buy our apartment. He seems so much shorter in real life, I mean in a dream. Sleep is never so sweet as when you've had to do without for a day or so. Now it's back to everyday life for awhile. Adios, see you in June.

Friday, May 18th, 2001: Between Nashville and Athens, GA
Okay, I'll confess in all honesty that we're not really "on tour." We're only doing three shows: Nashville, Athens, and a big-assed festival in Birmingham called City Stages. It feels like a tour, though—fits like a glove.

There's Mark J Maher, sitting next to me driving the van, me shotgun as usual, Freda in the first bench seat. The quirky thing about this van, though, is that the asshole rental car company (from Indiana, of course) actually locked down the front and back benches, so we had to take out the middle two benches and pile up all of the gear in the middle of the van and stash at least one passenger in the WAY back of the large, 15-passenger van. Daniel and Juliana having been slumming it back there, being that they are the only two people who can stand each other. I fear that my turn is coming up soon. I just hate to be out of the action, and shotgun is not only the death seat, it's the center of the action. By the way, if you haven't gotten used to my sense of humor yet (which some of you obviously haven't, especially employees of a certain division of a certain multi-national corporation), I was joking about Daniel and Juliana.

If you're in a band and you want to play Nashville, be sure to play the Exit Inn, we had such a great time there last night. That was another obscure joke that I will now proceed to explain. We actually played 12th and Porter, but I was such a drunken asshole last night that I actually thanked the Exit Inn, a competing Nashville venue, from the stage for treating us so well. Boy did I ever show my ass. The manager, a really cool fella named John, kept giving me a hard time about it after the show, in a good-natured way, of course. But I'll get back to the hilarious events at the end of the evening later, first I need to discuss a couple of hilarious events that transpired earlier in the day.

After a quick trip to the Mars music store and a bunch of corporate bullshit like having to get the guy with the mullet to sign my receipt on the way through the security gate, we were off and running from my own beloved hometown of Birmingham, Alabama. Our first stop in Nash-Vegas was a decent and very friendly radio station called Lightning 100, perched high atop a rickety, 1950s skyscraper. We were allowed to go on the ledge, and I felt the pit of my stomach sink like an anvil when I looked over the edge.

Outside the interview, in the parking lot, we ran into a friend of Mark J Maher's from Bloomington, Indiana, named Tony. Tony is famous for playing the Theramin, a primitive one-oscillator synthesizer invented in the 1930s, best known for making that zany sound on "Good Vibrations." I tried to get him to bring his Theramin to the show to sit in on "Nothing Ever Happens," but he chickened out. Juliana later admitted that she hates Theramins. Sometimes things just work out the way they ought to.

While driving around Nashville wondering how to spend the hour before our load-in, Freda and I were discussing modern sculpture, especially one called "Seedbed" by Aconsi. In Seedbed, the guy actually masturbates into a shoebox that is hidden underneath a table. That's it. Anyway, that provided some fuel for discussion. Suddenly I saw a homeless man wearing hospital scrub pants and slippers on the side of the road peeing into his pants. "If Seedbed is sculpture, then I suppose that's sculpture as well," I said. Then we went over by the Vanderbilt campus and had a nice cup of tea while some music industry stiff read a contract next to us and acted pissy that we had the nerve to actually be talking to each other in a coffee shop. Finally we made our way back to the Exit Inn, erm, 12th and Porter.

We were way early, so I sat on the stoop reading The End of the Affair by Graham Greene, when who should come stalking up to the club but the modern sculpture dude, still fishing around in his pants. I went inside to tell Mark J Maher and Daniel and when we went back outside to check him out, he had taken off his pants and shoes and stood in the street completely naked.

While Daniel sprinted for the van to load up his Polaroid, a dude from the club came outside to convince the guy to put his clothes back on. The guy, obviously recently discharged from some institution or other, explained that he had a snake in his pants. He finally put his pants back on, just as Daniel was finishing loading up his camera. Another missed opportunity. The club guy turned to me and said, cartoon style, "I've been working here for ten years. Now I've seen everything."

The club served us an outstanding dinner, mine consisting of grilled salmon over linguini with a nice pesto sauce. Freda's cousin Craig, a twenty-year Nashville resident, came and joined us for dinner. Nice fella. He told me that he actually read my tour diary and that he was looking forward to the next installment, so I'll take this opportunity to say hello. Hello, Craig.

He also told me that he had a dream where the riff from "Picture Perfect" was playing, and something about Pablo Picasso having a Campari and soda with John Lennon on the back of a flatbed truck. You know it must be catchy when it makes the soundtrack to people's dreams. We also met two of Freda's father's childhood friends, Phil and Jackie (Freda's dad is from Nashville, and Freda was actually born there). F tried to shake P and J down for dirt about Pops, whom they had known since age 9. "He was an angel, an absolute angel. Nothing to tell at all," they said with a smirk. We knew better.

The show happened, and was over. As I mentioned before, I was a little over-served with the Stoli, but we made it through a rather rusty set. Afterwards we were thoroughly bum-rushed by both cool and annoying folks, many of whom really wanted us to come party with them. The opening band, the Bees, was really great. I met Josh Rouse, which was a high point, but I think I might've come off a little fannish. Oh, some people offered us a "special" tour of Mammoth Cave, where they worked. Next time.

Saturday, May 19, 2001: Athens, GA
Athens, Georgia, has long held a mythical place for Freda and me (I don't really know how Juliana feels about it; I never asked). When we began playing here in the mid-to-late '80s it was a truly special place. As everyone in our circle was at the time, we were massive REM fans—it's clear from our records that, regardless of who we claimed as our influences, we were basing our sound almost entirely on the first four REM albums. Before I go into detail about the strange events of last night I will tell a bit about our first few trips to Athens to establish context.

We had a good friend from Providence, Rhode Island, named Michael Wegner, a.k.a. Rudu Wedgehead. He played in an excellent (though criminally undiscovered and tragically undocumented) band called Coat of Arms, and he was also a classmate of Juliana's and mine at the Berklee College of Music. Rudu took a road trip to Florida in 1987 with his drummer Paul, and on the way they decided to check out Athens on a lark. They fell in love with the place and basically never left, except to go back to Providence to get their stuff. When we decided to do our first tour in the fall of 1988, we asked Rudu to do the booking for us, for no reason other than the promise that he could get us a good show in Athens.

I remember riding shotgun all night from Charlotte in Evan's station wagon with Freda and Juliana asleep in the back, U-Haul in tow. The sun was just coming up as we came into Athens, and the first light of the morning sun poured down like honey through the muted fall foliage. Stately houses with generous porches strewn with comfy chairs lined the wooded streets, and I remember thinking, This feels like home. We arrived at Rudu's house, which he shared with Linda Stipe (Michael's sister) and her boyfriend, both of whom Rudu played with in the band Hetch Hetchy. Their house was large, cold, and rather damp, but we each claimed one of the many couches in the shared room and decided that this would be a perfect place to spend our three days off. We spent our days hanging out with all sorts of cool, artsy types in a variety of cozy, informal settings, including the old 40-Watt, the original Bluebird Café, and the Downstairs, a coffee house/performance venue run entirely by people our own age. In fact, it seemed that the entire town was run by cool indie rock kids in their late-teens or early-twenties.

We kept going back at every opportunity, and Freda and I often discussed the possibility of moving to Athens. It was a bit like our hometown of Bloomington, Indiana, except cooler. And we didn't really know anybody, which is exciting when you're young (and terrifying when you're old). Eventually we decided to move to Bloomington; it was definitely easier. And besides, we didn't really know anybody: Did we really want to have to make all new friends? Slowly, over the course of many tour stops over the next decade, the myth of Athens we had created started to break down. We drew better in Charlotte and Atlanta, and the Bluebird Café moved and wasn't really as good any more. But on the other hand, the scene seemed to become more entrenched, and kids seemed to steadily flow into the town in search of jangle-pop glory, or maybe even a chance meeting with Peter Buck. Slowly we all became slightly hostile to the snobbery of the local scene. "We have our own music here," they said with their complacent eyes. "What do we need with your trite, over-the-hill sounds?"

Maybe that long-winded explanation will serve to explain the mixed feelings we had as we pulled into Athens. We came from the Atlanta Highway this time, the more familiar route to me since I usually arrive from the west these days. While our first drive into Athens inspired us, this drive is your typical 21^st century Americana: a hideous stretch of gaudy corporate franchises, the architectural equivalent to magic rocks. Still, we were heartened by the familiar sights as we pulled into town: the UGA campus, the Georgia Theatre, Wilson's Soul Food, and of course, the (new as of 1990) 40-Watt Club. We immediately found the club to be as friendly as ever—more so, even. As we wandered around town, it seemed exactly the same but paradoxically completely changed, like some sort of corporate neutron bomb had wiped out any real local culture but left all of the facades intact. We sought refuge in the one sure thing in Athens: The Grit.

The Grit is a vegetarian restaurant in a beautiful, historic building owned by Michael Stipe on the outskirts of downtown. We took the opportunity to fully recharge our slightly depleted batteries with some fantastic vegan fare, highlighted by a genius hoppin' John and an absolutely transcendental slice of blueberry pie. Freda and I killed an hour walking around the campus, which was in full bloom and rife with the sweet smells of springtime. Eventually we all ended up in the Manhattan (?) bar around the corner for bottles of their spicy ginger ale, which goes very nicely with a shot of Maker's Mark. Finally, it was time to face the bleak prospect of playing a show in Athens when school is not in session.

When we arrived back at the club we encountered something strange: In the record store in front a pair of Mormon elders in full shirt and tie were engaging in a spiritual debate with a pair of former Jehovah's Witnesses who had become local scenesters (both Witnesses were attractive women). When one of the Witnesses tried to hug an elder, he gave her a quick Heisman, explaining that his religious mission forbade him to physically touch a woman for three years. What kinda bullshit is that? Three years! Not even a hug! Well, sounds like a bonanza for Internet porn merchants to me. Their debate had spilled out to the street by the time we left, and we retreated to the comfy backstage to kill a half-hour as the female folk singer opening act did her thang. Finally, when the time came to play, both the turnout (not packed by any means, but not a disaster), and the enthusiasm of the crowd actually pleasantly surprised us.

After the show, Mark J Maher came back and announced that a guy from Time magazine wanted to do a quick interview. Mark brought him back and we were like, what the hell? He seemed both nervous and a little drunk and he actually asked us the same question three times. Juliana totally freaked him out by saying, "Are you really from Time magazine? As the interview went on, this girl who seemed either totally wasted or mentally deficient or both kept sticking her head in the door, saying, "Mamie wants to SEE you guys! Don't you remember Mamie?" Mamie used to be Rudu's girlfriend, back in the early '90s. Sure, we remembered her, but we were supposedly doing an interview with Time. Couldn't you give us a minute? After three such intrusions, Mamie herself, soused to the gills, barged in, saying, "Okay, I get it, you big rock stars. I know I'm just some small potatoes, but, you know, I thought the past counted for something…" Finally she took in the scene, seeing an actual interview taking place, and shut up. Seconds later the first girl came in, pretending to gun Juliana down with a machine gun. I said, "Are you pretending to kill her? Do you really think that's funny?" And she said, "Hey, I'm not killing her. I'm a positive flow ! Look at me, I'm a positive flow!" When I finally came out of the dressing room, Rudu was there, waiting patiently to apologize for the drunken behavior of his ex. She was there also, saying something about how it's good that I'd finally learned how to carry a tune.

I guess the moral of the story, if there is one, is that one should let go of the past. REM signed to Warner Brothers for $80 million. The Downstairs became a Starbucks. Rudu gave up indie rock to join a massively successful children's band. And we never moved to Athens, never tried to fit in with the Elephant Six collective, never tried to hang with Stipe, never collected junk or built a kudzu sculpture, never released an album of four-track recordings. Now when we go to Athens, it seems like a really friendly place, a nice tour stop where one can get a damn fine vegetarian meal. But it doesn't feel like home. All you have are hard facts and numbers: I have three friends in Athens (Maria, Orenda, and Rudu). We sold 6 CDs (less than a quarter as many as our second-worst-selling stop). And finally, it takes three and a half-hours to drive to Birmingham from Athens, too much to drive just to see a rock show when you're 34. Bottom line: Just another gig. Better than Columbia, SC, but not as good as Austin. We are all blessed: We pursued our dreams and, more or less, they came true. And we didn't have to move to some sleepy Southern town to do it. Then again, though, maybe we should have…

Wednesday, May 23, 2001: From the desk of John P. Strohm in Birmingham, AL
I wrote an entire entry for this day before, but it got lost. Boo hoo. Actually it's a good thing, because the entry I wrote was full of rage and venom. It would certainly have gotten me in a heap of trouble, and this journal has caused me enuff trouble as is. I might come off as a jerk sometimes, but I'm really a good joe. I just have a pathological need to, as the say in England, take the piss.

We had to drive after the Athens show because I had to be at an awards ceremony in Birmingham at 1:00 on Saturday. I received two departmental awards at my university, further evidence to support Heather's assertion that I am the class nerd. I am now three class meetings away from being a college grad. The honest truth is that I had to finish my degree eventually, because I couldn't face being the first person in three generations of Strohms not to finish. I don't want to be held responsible for turning the corner that sent my entire family henceforth down the proverbial crapper. Also now I can give my kids shit if they fuck up in school (when I have kids, that is).

By the time I freed myself from the monkey suit and put on some rock n' roll duds (we rock n' rollers like to wear a uniform consisting of platforms, spandex, and tuxedo shirts with ruffles), we were off to City Stages, the massive annual festival in downtown Birmingham. Last year City Stages was a bit of a stiff, so they had to pull out the big guns, hiring huge acts like the Beach Boys, Nelly, Wynonna Judd and the Blake Babies. You know—huge, larger-than-life acts. Big time. Blake Babies, Live, Earth, Wind & Fire. John Prine, Blake Babies. Big stuff. Okay, enough with that tired joke. We weren't the biggest, but at least we're better known than the battle of the bands winners. Last year the real problem was lousy weather (okay, and shitty acts), so as the thunderheads gathered overhead, people began to get a bit nervous.

We were playing the big rock stage (one of approximately nine stages), and all of the acts leading up to us were ear-punishing metal bands. By the time the final band before us came on—an old-school glam metal band consisting of members of various old-school glam metal bands—the rain had started and lightning was flashing. But as we set up our stage, the clouds parted and the setting sun became visible. Also the crowd suddenly increased exponentially and they proved highly supportive. We made it through our set without a hitch.

Pete Yorn followed us, and his set lived up to the lofty expectations established by his amazing debut album. Some girls up on their boyfriends' shoulders set off a melee of tit-flashing, which kept even the staunchest metal fans amused throughout the early evening's rather subdued fare. We made fast friends with Yorn and his band after the show, sharing swigs of tequila and cans of Miller Lite in front of our shared trailer after the set. But just when we thought the evening was nearly perfect, the bad monster called the band Live came and stomped all over our collective buzz.

Live were indisputably the headliner of our stage. Let's face it, the fact that 20,000 people were gathered in front of the stage had little to do with either the Blakes or Yorn. I just wanted to get that out of the way so that I could start complaining in earnest. While we were standing there on the concrete front yard of our lovely mobile home having our food-free bar-b-cue, the tour manager from Live came up and said that we would have to go back in our trailer, because the guys in Live don't like to have to see anyone while they take the stage. He was also a total dick about it. I'm not kidding about this, folks. We had to get in our trailer so that LIVE WOULDN'T HAVE TO LOOK AT US!!!!!!!!! I've played many festival gigs with many huge bands before, but I've never run into anything like this before. I'm not even going to bother to analyze it, because I don't want to insult your intelligence. Suffice it to say that we were all completely speechless, and we were wishing for Evan Dando to magically appear so that he could fuck with them as only he can do. Our own front yard, in my own hometown. Yeesh.

After checking out a bit of John Prine (and ignoring Live completely), the Yornsters and Freda and Mark J Maher and I all went to visit a couple of late-night dives. We made it back to chateau Strohm around 4 am, just in time for F and M to get a good, solid four hours' sleep before heading back to Bloomington. Oh, wait, I didn't mention Juliana this whole time. Juliana looked really cute, played well, and ate fried catfish. That's all I know. That wraps up the May shows, I'll see you all in June. Hasta la vista.

Thursday, June 7, 2001: Driving from Columbus to Cleveland
I just screwed up big-time and trashed my entire tour diary entry for today (typing on a laptop on a bumpy stretch of road can be treacherous). I'll try to quickly reconstruct what I had written, although I can safely guarantee you that it won't be as good or as funny as the previous one.

Columbus has taken a turn for the weird at some point since I last played there, in 1993. Maybe it's the neighborhood that Little Brother's (the venue) is in. L.B.'s is managed by a guy named Dan Dougan, an old school rock guy that used to manage (and own, I believe) this really great venue called Stache's. Stache's was in a slightly dodgy neighborhood, but I don't recall it being as weird as the neighborhood of L.B's. We checked in and got directions to a natural foods restaurant called Dragonfly and carelessly set out into the mean streets of Columbus, four decked out gangbangers lookin' for a couple a rocks and a couple a laughs — uh, I mean four skinny-assed white people looking for some daikon and hijiki.

The neighborhood is what one could generously refer to as "transitional," but I'd put it a bit more bluntly. I'd say it's about 30% hipster and about 70% the 'hood, which could only mean one thing: the drug trade. The streets were rife with real live gangbangers sippin' 40-ounces on the stoops of bombed-out buildings, while fly-by-night hipster S&M shops existed alongside Korean produce markets and old-fashioned beauty salons. We all got a little bit nervous when a couple of hard looking guys started following us, but when they were alongside us, one of them, of indiscriminate ethnic origin, wearing a red Aunt Jemimah-style bandanna on his head and munching on an untoasted pop tart, said, "Hey, do you guys like poetry?" How does one respond to a question like that? After a prolonged, stunned silence, I finally said, "Why, are you promoting a poetry reading or something?" "No, I'm selling a book of my poetry," he said. I said "What's it cost?" He said, "It's called The Answer to All of the Questions of the Universe," or something like that. "No," I said, "How much does it cost?" "Oh, it's twelve bucks." Twelve bucks. I could go buy a hardbound volume of Ezra Pound at Borders for twelve bucks. As they continued to follow us, I seriously considered bargaining with him. There's always a small chance that it's actually good — and a good chance that it's really funny.

When we finally arrived at the one gentrified block in the whole neighborhood, we quickly found the very trendy joint called Dragonfly. The host wore a crisp, immaculate, most likely designer label wifebeater and had a tattoo that covered about half of his shaven head. The well-lit, feng shui-conscious room seemed to have sprung directly from the pages of Wallpaper magazine, but the proprietor also seemed to have taken a moral stance against air conditioning, as the heat from the kitchen combined with the humid air to create a most uncomfortable ambience. Daniel bummed but hard when he saw the strictly vegan menu, but he dealt with it well, ordering several glasses of Stoli and fresh orange juice, leaving with a healthy, completely macrobiotic buzz on. The rest of us happily munched on various sorts of creative, highly trendy vegan fare, including a massive plate of my personal fave, grilled asparagus. My supposedly Mexican entree eventually became a massive bowl of straight olive oil, which I poured over my head in an effort to look more like Nick Cave.

Back at the club, they had given us nice little slices of cucumber, which we all placed over our eyes to retain our youthful appearance. We were all sort of first date-nervous, because it was our first of eight shows with the amazing band called Wheat. We had met them briefly on the last tour, but you know, back stage at the rock n' roll club...hard to get a feel. Anyway, we found them to be very pleasant and Good God Damn can they ever kick out the jams. Heather had seen them in NYC last fall and said that they were the best band she'd seen since Spiritualized and, coming from her, that is no joke. I truly felt transported to another realm by their gorgeous instrumental sections, that is until someone would want me to sign something, which happened, like, every two minutes.

Now I don't want to sound like some crotchety-ass dude, complaining that people actually want to meet me and stuff. On the contrary, it's really cool. But sometimes, like when my favorite band is playing, I just want to swoon. Anyway I met some cool folks in Columbus, and what a great, enthusiastic crowd. In a nutshell, I'm glad to have re-connected with the finest rock n' roll city in the great rock n' roll state of Ohio (well, Dayton could give it a run for its money, what with the Breeders and of course the great GBV and well...Cleveland is pretty damn good too. Come to think of it, Ohio fuckin' rocks. And drive-thru liquor and porn stores, you can't beat that with a stick, and…).

Friday, June 8th, 2001: Betwixt Cleveland and Detroit
Did I mention that we have a new Mark J Maher on this tour? His name is Tom Dube, and he's a vet of several Juliana tours, an excellent soundman, and an all-around righteous dude. Mark is out with the Red House Painters, so if you see him, say hello (to quote his royal dudeness himself). Tom is hilarious, an inspired comic genius. He's also listening to some jazz fusion right now and bobbing his head like a chicken. I trust him with my life, what else can I do? No, seriously, we are in good hands, although I must admit that I miss my bro Mark J Maher. Tom definitely has a way cooler computer, though.

I'd never been to Cleveland Heights, and I was pleasantly surprised. Cleveland has always seemed like a bit of rough going before, but funny shit happens there every time. The last time I went there with the Lemonheads the (temporary) bass player was such an asshole at a seafood restaurant that the waiter actually came out and told him that he was the biggest asshole he had ever met in his life and refused to take any of our dirty money. That was funny (albeit a little bit humiliating). But, now that I think of it, I can remember an even funnier Lemonheads story, if I may seriously digress.

In 1987, we went on our first ever tour and we were, like, a bunch of wiry little 18-year-olds looking for whatever trouble we could drum up. We were also sort of popular on the punk circuit, so we found trouble everywhere we went. Anyway, we played a show in Cleveland at this place called (I think) Twister's, which doubled as a dinner theatre place. We were opening for a popular local punk band called Starvation Army who were, well, sort of...dirty, for lack of a better word. They were all at least a decade older than us and very, very punk. Evan and I were playing pinball when these two teenaged girls came up and started talking to us. Evan told them we were in the band and they said bullshit and he said, "Yo, I can prove it." Anyway, he started working his magical charm and soon they were not only convinced that we were in the band, but they were game for seemingly almost anything. (This is sounding like a Penthouse Forum letter, but I promise it won't go that way). Evan brought them backstage and started really flirting in earnest. We found all of these costumes for the dinner theatre and Evan pulled out a cummerbund and said, "Hey, do you know what this is for?" The girls said, "Um, no, what is it for?" Evan explained that it was kind of like a bra and that, for certain dance numbers, women wear them to (sort of) cover their breasts. The girls were like, "Really? I never knew." Anyway, he convinced them both to go into the bathroom and put on the cummerbunds in that fashion. Once they were obviously putting them on, Evan went and assembled all of the members of Starvation Army in the dressing room and told them to be really quiet. When the girls finally burst out of the bathroom, sporting nothing on top but these very narrow, tight cummerbunds, all of the guys from Starvation army started cheering. The girls then went back into the bathroom and refused to come out for the rest of the evening.

Well, nothing that funny happened in Cleveland Heights last night, but some funny stuff happened nonetheless. Let's see, at one point I was strolling down the very nice, upscale shopping street that the Grog Shop is on, and a very rhythmic, annoying car alarm was going off. Suddenly a middle-aged black guy with a beard and horn rimmed glasses came dancing out of a doorway, Fred Astaire-style to the rhythm of the car alarm and danced right up to me and said, "I'm feelin' it!" That was pretty damn funny. I met a guy who had me sign his Fender Jagstang, which was interesting. I've never signed a guitar before. What else? Oh yeah, the big highlight of the Grog Shop — the backstage.

Truth be told, there really is no backstage to the Grog Shop. If it's a big, superstar band like, you know, the Blake Babies, they let them hang out in the promoter's office. It's very cramped and, to put it bluntly, it smells like poop. No, to say it smells like poop doesn't begin to actually capture the nature of the aroma. There seemed to be an open sewer in the basement, which opened into the office, and wafting from it was a diabolical smell that combined the aromatherapeutic elements of vomit, baby shit, diarrhea, rotting animal carcass, camembert cheese, and, well, just plain ol' poop. We shared with Wheat, and you'd get a bit used to it, then someone new would come in and go, "Jeeeeeesus, that smellllll!!!!!!!" For reasons that I won't disclose, we kept having to descend into the actual basement, and you just had to laugh at how foul it smelled. Well, we were sittin' back in the office when Scott from Wheat said, "Hey, have you guys checked out that poster?" The poster, which covere

The following is my complete, unedited tour diaries from two Blake Babies tours: one in 1989 and the reunion tour in 2001.

Sunday, December 3rd, 1989: Patterson, NJ
We are at Freda's brother Zirk's apartment: thirty minutes from ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Manhattan—very cozy and plenty of burnt toast for everyone. We played in NYC last night as well as the night before at CBGB and the Pyramid club. CB's was kind of rough—we followed this horrible mainstream guitar wank band who bussed fans in from Philly and played before these limey speedfreaks Birdland, who stormed offstage after only one and a half songs. The Pyramid set was really tight and we played in the disco part so a lot of the people were there to dance and had a hard time doing that to our music. I think we won some fans, tho—especially this old black guy with a green acrylic knit hat and hiking boots who kept on grabbing my foot or making a fist and saying "right on, man!!!" They had a Velvets cover band (who sucked) and transvestites dancing on various parts of the bar. By 4:00 I was pretty sick of it, so we drove here listening to Coltrane's "Crescent."

Current rotation in the van:
1. Stooges—Fun House
2. Nirvana—Bleach
3. Spacemen 3—Sound of Confusion
4. assorted Coltrane

Monday, December 4th, 1989: Driving to Raleigh
The cold is like a festering wound. It was 12 degrees last night in Philly and windy. It is still fucking cold even this far south. We just listened to "Vanna Speaks"—a book on tape that was chock full of quotable bits. "I'm a Barbie doll—and Pat Sajak is Ken—we're just Barbie and Ken." also: "I'd like to do a Woody Allen film—that's my ultimate goal."

Tuesday, December 5th, 1989
The sun is just beginning to set over interstate 85 near the South Carolina/Georgia border—it hurts my eyes to look up but I keep doing it to take in the beautiful yellow/orange glow cast over everything. North Carolina was relaxing and pleasant. Jay Faires [Mammoth president] took us out to dinner and we didn't have to talk business at all. Steve [Mammoth] showed me some of our recent press and it made me very psyched. Finally it is warm and that is too great for words to express.

Rotation:
1. Fugazi—Margin Walker
2. Bill Evans & Jim Hall—Intermodulation
3. Joni Mitchell—Clouds

Thursday, December 7th, 1989
Tuesday night we played to a good and receptive crowd at the 40 Watt. We played an hour plus two encores. It felt a little lacklustre—Juliana was getting sick (now she has a full-blown cold).

The staff at the 40 Watt were as nice as any club people I've met—the sound man kept offering Jules various cold remedies, such as spraying the mic with Lysol (to prevent infecting the opening band, five eight), and slugging brandy. Wednesday we drove to Sparta to go to a junk store and I bought some shitkicking boots and some hats. Freda got these amazing red cowboy boots she was wearin with pride.

Saturday, December 16th, 1989: Patterson NJ
The best show of the tour so far was Charlottesville, VA. Our record received heavy airplay at the UVA station and the record store pushed it like mad. Also there was no cover charge. The promoter, Thane, was a wonderful man and he treated us incredibly well—fed us, paid in advance, then got us a free room at the Holiday Inn. The club was run by this totally uptight little bearded fucker who paced around the club throughout the opening band's set and ours, muttering and bitching to the soundman to turn it down. Anyway, I'd say only about 2/3 of the people there (full club) had any idea what we were about, but everyone was very responsive and we played about 1 1/2 hours—everything we know. Washington was also nice—we supported Alex Chilton at the 9:30 club—full and very well received. It was good to meet Alex and he played well—albeit a little too long. Last night in Hoboken we were supposed to play with Bullet Lavolta and the Gibson Bros. but Lavolta canceled. Zirk came out and so did Phil from our booking agency. We played extremely well and felt that we had improved very much over the past couple of weeks. Gibson Bros. were playing with Jon Spencer and Christina from Pussy Galore and it was fun to meet them. Jon thanked me about six times for lending them my amp, but in a way that seemed like one would apologise for throwing a rock through their neighbor's window—kind of too sincere and, like, staring at the ground. I have much respect for that man. Christina can't drum worth a shit but she smiles good.

Monday, January 29th, 1990: Champaign, IL
Played Chicago last night—it was excellent. We actually have real fans there now. We did a lengthy interview with about 20 people from the U. of Chicago radio station. The show itself was rusty at best but the audience was very receptive and we played 1 1/2 hours. We hooked up with Dan Epstein from Vassar (boyfriend of Rebecca from Love Child) and slept for about four hours on his floor and then went to an interview with a woman from Rolling Stone who had a very cute 16 month old daughter who took to Freda immediately. I also visited my uncle in Winnetka, who became an instant celebrity when he insisted on jogging 3 miles with Freda and Juliana in his suit, raincoat and wingtips.

Champaign found me in quite a foul mood. The Meat Puppets canceled so instead we supported this horrible band called Breaking Up With Ginger or Riding the Fat Hog or something like that. They played awful Police-sounding fusion jazz and as I said before, they sucked. The club is just like one of those stupid clubs in Bloomington, with pictures of R.E.O. Speedwagon and Pat Travers all over the place. These guys Adam and Mark drove down from Chicago, which was cool. Weirdo Adam said our record "makes love to him." Guess he likes Juliana.

Thursday, February 1st, 1990: Bloomington
I saw a TV show last night about how Paula Abdul's album is breaking sales records worldwide, and the New Kids on the Block have three albums in the top twenty. It really upset me—I mean this is what we're up against! (I wish). The public are suckers for the most boring, mindless crap record companies can churn out.

Last night (night off) in Bloomington was like my nightmare come true—"blue brew" night at the Bluebird (nickel beers at the local frat bar). This cover band with a hideous "island" motif was playing. Now we're on the way to Milwaukee, site of the worst ever Lemonheads show (we played to the promoter and his girlfriend. Did a 20 minute "Luka," complete with instrument switching). I hope it's better tonight.

Friday, February 2nd, 1990: En Route (learning the facts of life in the Cheese State)
Last night we spent in Milwaukee—at the radio interview we insisted that they play this Facts of Life star's Christian record and the drunken promoter woman (in striped pants) wouldn't stop talking about it and trying to get Juliana to sing the theme as she had at the station. We were all walking around in a daze and had to play two sets. The audience was intimate to say the least, but they liked it okay I guess. Adam and Mark from Chicago showed up and I guess we bid adieu for the rest of the tour. F & J were getting kinda sick of Adam's pushyness, but I thought they were okay. I guess I am still and will hopefully always be at the stage where, when somebody loves our music, then that's enough unless they're REALLY annoying (like someone with striped pants who doesn't eat "oriental food" may or may not be). We occupied the honeymoon suite at the mo six last night and I slept the solidest, most dream-laden sleep of my life. I dreamt that I saw Red Wagon [local Boston band] on MTV news and Kurt Loder said "forget Eleventh Dream Day—here's a band from Boston who sound just like them but they're better looking—Red Wagon!!!"

Saturday, February 3rd, 1990: Wisconsin
Madison is 100 times cooler than Bloomington. They have enough going on to keep everyone interested. We hung out at various coffee shops today and read all approx. 1,000 local newspapers. We are now on the way to Minneapolis to play at 7th Street Entry with the Didjits. A bad match, yes, but I have a good feeling about the show. I think we might unload some shirts. My last Minn. experience was short and very weird. We [Lemonheads] drove all night from Iowa and I woke up in the Garage D'or Records parking lot. We played with Grant Hart from Husker Du, and much Night Train wine was consumed. We left town at 4:00 a.m. with Grant and good lord what a nightmare that turned into.

Sunday, February 4th, 1990: Minneapolis
The highlight was dinner at the Sri Lanka Curry House. Their food is supposedly the hottest on earth. We ordered medium and it was so hot some of us were breaking into sweats and collapsing and becoming delirious. We picked up some schwag from Twin Tone and I'm listening to the Magnolias right now. It's not too bad.

Wednesday, February 7th, 1990: St. Louis
St. Louis is a pain in my ass. I ate some bad pizza and it made my tummy ache last night. The opening band sucked worse than you could imagine. The meatball lead singer was wearing a skinny tie and sang R.E.M. songs real bad with his face all contorted. I hated them so much I couldn't make eye contact with them after they played. We're coming into Mark Twain's home town now. It's a perfect day, not typical in early Feb. I remember thinking Iowa is gonna suck dick in February. Supposedly we're selling some records in Iowa City. We'll see.

Thursday, February 8th, 1990: Iowa
Yes, Iowa City did live up, but first let me tell you this. I just talked to Steve at Mammoth and he said the dj at the St. Louis radio station said I was a dick! I think it's cuz I went into the bathroom to shave and some guy walked in on me. When I came out I said to the dj, "he acts like he hasn't ever seen anyone shoot up before!" I guess he took me seriously. Some folks you just can't joke with.

We had a really good crowd last night. They were very nice and a lot of people came up, but amazingly we sold no shirts. Even at shitty shows like St. Louis we sold more. From here on out it's all new places and only four days til California!!!

Saturday, February 10th, 1990: finally leaving Kansas
Missouri/Kansas was kind of a down phase. We played with a band called Psychowelders, who are into this real '80's kind of post-Joy Division, white magic kind of shit. Sitting through that was a little rough. This guy Mike Wolf, who we met in Minneapolis, is now traveling with us as far as San Francisco. He is really funny and he takes away some of the tension which has started to fester between the three of us (close proximity).

Friday, February 23rd, 1990
Sorry I haven't written for so long! Being in California was so exciting that I couldn't waste a minute of my precious time writing in my journal!

Delirious from three days non-stop in the van as we arrived in the Bay Area we were pulled over at 4:00 a.m. by some pigs who just wanted to hassle us—they kept asking if we played that satanic heavy metal (do we look like we do?) The van is breaking down, one nightmare after another.

We spent the next day just walking around S.F., checking out whatever shit was going on. Jake's [my brother] neighborhood is cool—right at the cross of the Mission and the Castro. We met up with the guys from Mammoth to talk about what to do about the van, and had dinner at my favorite restaurant in the world—Henry Chung's Hunan in Chinatown. Our show at the I Beam was great, but Nirvana was playing across town and we were bummed we had to miss that. They are all of our favorite band at this point; un-fucking-believable.

We rented a U-Haul truck in case our van didn't make it, which I drove. Freda and I made up an opera on the way down, or I should say we only communicated by singing opera style. Juliana wouldn't have stood for that for one minute. We arrived at Club Lingerie in L.A., missed our soundcheck and were treated like shit. We met Henry Rollins—with whom Juliana has been corresponding—who is really nice. The first band featured Harry Dean Stanton and we missed their set, but he and Dennis Hopper hung out all night. I felt too stupid to meet them, even though they are my two favorite actors. All our friends from Indiana were flipping out because Charlie [Black] from the Pixies was there also. A lot of A & R people were there, which is too bad cuz we sucked worse than ever.

We went home with Rollins and stayed up late drinking herbal tea and getting acquainted. The next day we spent in Venice at Henry's house and he went crazy playing us records and telling stories and being an amazing host. We met with David Kahne [Bangles producer] from Columbia for lunch to discuss our upcoming demo session for him.

Stuff I taped at Henry's house/current top rotation:
1. Charles Manson's demo tape for SST
2. Tons of Albert Ayler shit (he is God)
3. Amazing early demo for Public Enemy's "Yo, Bum Rush the Show"
4. Lightnin' Hopkins singing about the Armageddon.
5. Some awesome live Stooges with Ron Ashton on guitar

Wednesday, February 28th, 1990: Freda has started learning how to play guitar
I know my writings have been few and far between lately, but it's because I've been having fun, not because I'm burned out. I've got a great new guitar (if I can get it back from F) —a '68 Les Paul Custom, and I'm reading a great book (Maltese Falcon by Dashell Hammett).  We're in southern Georgia now, very green and beautiful. In an hour we'll be in Tallahassee. Did Billie Joe McCalester jump off the Tallahassee bridge? That song still confuses me. What really happened on that bridge? Does anyone really know? I just read an article in Rolling Stone about how hip '70's schlock hits are. Well, I guess we can kiss that fun time goodbye.

I'm kind of getting to like this absence of any real human interaction outside of my bandmates. My usual conversations with people go like this: "Nice show." "Thanks." "Where are you from?" "Boston." "Austin?" "No, Boston, with a 'B.'" "Oh, right." About a hundred times a day.

Wednesday, March 7th, 1990
We were stuck in a traffic jam in Georgia and the entire bottom of the van fell onto the highway. We tried to re-attatch it ourselves to no avail, then we walked for a mile in the traffic and the rain with these awful little gnats everywhere. We almost missed the show in Columbia, S.C. The frat crowd didn't seem to mind us too much, to our amazement. The next night we played with the Connells in Chapel Hill to a huge crowd in a big auditorium. We handled it well I thought—it's more fun playing big places than clubs.

David Kahne flew out to see us and we had breakfast. He told us we had two choices: to stay indie and keep touring and building it up that way, or we could sign with him and do what he wants, to make a "hit" record. His offer is going to come next week. I hope we get other offers, because I'm convinced we shouldn't work with him. I don't think he'd listen to what we had to say—I think he'd just make the record he wants to make.

Later that night we had an acoustic jam with the band Big Wheel from Kentucky (featuring Peter Searcy from Squirrel Bait). I played guitar while Peter sang on the Squirrel Bait classix "Sun God" and "Kid Dynamite"—definite high point. We are coming into Athens now to play at the Georgia Theatre with the Feelies.

Back in Boston
The van died its final death last night outside the Kiev restaurant in the East Village. We had played with Tiny Lights—it was awesome. Our buddy Phil from the booking agency managed to find us another van, which he borrowed from Das Damen. We had to get home because we had a show opening for Sonic Youth—my real favorite band. When we got to Boston the guys in Sonic Youth were looking intently at the van, kinda puzzled. Turns out it was theirs and they sold it to Das Damen! Weird fuckin world. Anyway they were good as usual. Yo La Tengo played as well and they were pretty good too. Fun show, too bad about the van. I guess we'll just leave it for the homeless to pick over.

Saturday, March 10, 2001
Traveling from Boston to New York feels very familiar. All of us (except Daniel, the red clay rambler) cut our teeth on this Eastern Seaboard circuit. The familiarity of it paradoxically decreases and increases the weirdness of it at the same time. On the subject of weirdness…we played our Boston show last night. Time sped up exponentially from the moment I stepped off the plane. Thank God for boring van rides or I wouldn't have time to reflect on how much fun this is, let alone write about it.

Under threat of a second blizzard in a week, the good people at Geronimo Management talked me into taking a 5:00 a.m. flight from Birmingham. I went to bed at 1:00 after a desperately disorganized packing melee, only to wake up in a panic ten minutes before my alarm went off (set for 3:30). Good thing, because Heather slept through the chaos of me lugging tons of heavy gear in a sleep-deprived daze. Adrenaline, strong tea, and sheer panic carried me through the rest of the day.

I don't remember much from the show except that it felt good to finally play, especially on a nice-sized stage to an appreciative audience. Before the set, when I was setting up my pedals and stuff, this guy named Jorma came up and greeted me. Jorma is a sort of Grateful Dead ethic, free-spirited music fan who likes to archive concerts by an eclectic array of artists, including Hatfield and the Blakes. He needed me to tell Mark that it was cool for him to tape the show. I guess I bumped into this woman down in front of the stage, because she said, "Hey, watch it, you asshole!" Welcome to Boston. Other than that, I felt nothing but pure love from the audience, which made it easier to take the songs to the next level when necessary.

By the end of the show I felt completely delirious, but I enjoyed the cocktail party ambience of the after-show scene. Many old friends made their way backstage, in addition to a wide variety of well wishers. The guys from the band Wheat came back (having been very cordially invited by Yrs. Truly) and I have to admit I found myself a bit tongue-tied and star-struck. Their album Hope and Adams is easily my favorite of 1999. Juliana and I each independently invited them to come on our tour this summer, but they said they had to find their drummer. Who knows what that's all about? Anyway I hope that works out. I also met the people from Rounder Records and found them very pleasant. They're the kind of smart, ideological music biz types that I would actually choose to hang out with. That might have been common ten years ago, but most of the people who got into this business for the right reasons have been driven out by the insidious corporate influence of recent years. I'm not going to try to argue that that's a new thing in the music business, but there were a few years there when "alternative" music existed almost completely outside of the corporate world. You can trace the corporate takeover almost to the day: just try to remember the first time you heard the phrase "alternative rock."

We're on the Merrit Parkway now, listening to Ryan Adams. Freda's freaking out; she's hearing it for the first time. There's still nothing better than hearing that life-changing record for the first time. That's still what keeps us all doing this—the striving to someday make that perfect song or album. And I'll tell ya one thing kids: it ain't the money.

Monday, March 12, 2001
Good God, NYC was a mess. Both shows at the Knitting Factory sold out and the crowds were obviously well prepared to like us. The problem wasn't the shows—we acquitted ourselves admirably. The problem was our friends.

New York shows always seem to degenerate into chaos backstage, and this one proved no exception. We all invited our friends (heavy on the B'ham contingent) and they all chose to hang out backstage for most of the night (several parking their asses in the comfy chairs for literally hours). Evan showed up with his wife and mother, both of whom had that "I'm sorry" look in their eyes. Ev was on a bit of a drunken tear, apparently not typical behavior these days. He immediately seized the center of attention and held onto it for dear life. At one point he was standing on a table in the little 10' X 10' room singing Styx and Kansas songs at the top of his voice. At some point we abandoned the room completely and hung out with the Starlight Mints on the empty stage. We really like them, by the way, as a band and as people.

We drove after the show—good move. We made Philly by 5:00 a.m. and had a nice, guilt-free sleep until 1:00 or so.

Philly is a legendarily tough town for anyone connected to this band. Things were lookin' grim as I checked all the indie stores on South Street and none of them had the new CD. Despite the grim signs, the crowd was very friendly and decent-sized for a Sunday night. I ended up on the band shit list for being partially responsible for Daniel's bag being left in the dressing room after the club was locked up. Oh well, if we managed to completely avoid conflict it wouldn't be a rock n' roll tour.

Daniel is working out wonderfully as our bass player. I wanted to get him in the band mainly because he's so mellow and easy to get along with, but he's also been playing really well and understands what we're doing. This tour feels very familial already, with soundman/tour manager Mark Maher rounding things out nicely with his quiet competence and subtle humor. We're already in Washington—this tour's going by too quickly. That's the best way to leave 'em (and ourselves): wanting more.

Tuesday, March 13, 2001: Stuck in a rainstorm in Richmond
I wish I had some more tales of debauchery for you today, but…we actually all partied down last night for the first time. The 9:30 Club gave us a bottle of Cuervo so we had a nice 2:00 a.m. cocktail hour at the Fredericksburg, VA Holiday Inn. We watched some stripper show on HBO and had a good laugh. It reminded me of something funny: When Evan, Juliana, Freda and I toured together in 1988, we had a ritual where we would pass around a copy of Penthouse and we'd all read the Forum letters out loud. Juliana would usually do the reading, and it was so funny to hear her girlish voice with its hint of a lisp saying things like "my girlfriend is a beautiful redhead with huge, 36 double-D tits and I'm a good-looking, muscular guy with a massive package," or whatever they say. The only problem was that Freda and Juliana refused to buy the magazines themselves (although they were the ones who most enjoyed the ritual), so they'd make me go buy it. I had to play the pathetic loner going into the Starvin' Marvin to buy a pack of Camel lights, a Gatorade, some beer nuts, a comb, some pork rinds, and, ummm…why don't you throw in one of those Penthouse magazines while you're at it?

The Washington show exceeded all expectations. The club is huge—1,200 capacity—so we sort of expected to play to a mostly empty room. When we got there, though, they had pushed the stage forward about twenty feet so the 400–500 people looked like a packed house. Not bad for a rainy Monday. Our crowds are so friendly—it's almost overwhelming. The DC crowd seemed especially hip and smart—like people who have real jobs, but make an effort to keep a foot in the door of the indie rock culture. I met some guys in their 30s after the show who wanted me to sign some CD's and one of them was sort of gloating to another because he'd gotten to see the Blakes "back in the day." I said, "Dude, that's nothing to gloat about. We're at least ten times better now than we've ever been." He remained unconvinced. I'll tell ya, buddy, back then we could barely make it through a song—I have the videotapes to prove it (and no, I won't make copies).

We're heading to Chapel Hill, NC now. We just stopped for hot water for our green tea (how rock is that?) and we ran into the Avail/Propaghandi tour! They all immediately descended on our van, recognizing us as fellow rock tourists. There was some all-female punk band with them and one of them said, "hey, rock stars!" with an undeterminable amount of sarcasm. They seemed to be reattaching the door to their van—a bit odd for the biggest punk tour this side of Blink 182 (if you're generous enough to call them punk). They seemed cool enough—seemed to have some idea who we are. They said they'd come to the Atlanta show after their show at the Masquerade. Maybe they'll start up a mosh pit.

Wednesday, March 14, 2001: 85 South between Greenville, SC and Atlanta
We just passed the Mints on the Interstate—most of them seemed to be asleep. Maybe they had a bit of fun last night after we split. Another funny, coincidental thing happened on this drive. This guy was passing us in a Range Rover and he was looking really intently into the van while he talked on his cell phone. We all took note of it, but no one commented. Then a few minutes later he passed us again on the right. He honked his horn and held up a copy of God Bless the Blake Babies in the window and gave us the devil horns. We all felt like supastars for a passing instant.

The Chapel Hill show sucked on many levels, but we got through it. It was the middle of spring break so attendance was a bit off—maybe 250 or 300. Also, we couldn't quite get connected musically. We did have a nice dinner, though, at Crook's Corner, our favorite old CH haunt. The audience was about 95 percent dudes, many of whom seemed to particularly favor my songs, which was totally weird. They kept shouting out for Antenna songs, and one guy kept screaming "Mysteries of Life!" Anyway, I'm sure the show went fine. I really like the Cat's Cradle and Frank Heath, the booking agent. But I think we might still suffer from the Mammoth curse there in Chapel Hill. Mammoth is so universally hated in CH that any band associated with the label is held in contempt by the cool indie rock scene. This may have been reflected in the lousy press coverage of the show as well. I read an incredibly condescending, assholish piece about us in one of the arts papers written by some turd named Mark Slagle. If you're reading this, Mark—and I hope you are—no, we're not doing this for the money. We happen to enjoy what we do. The other arts paper didn't even mention the show. First stop of the tour without awesome press.

Speaking of Mammoth, Steve did come to the show and he stayed to chat afterwards. I don't think he was made to feel all that welcome across the board, but I did my best. After we left, Freda and I went to a bar called Local 506 down the street to say hi to our old friend Jack Whitebread. He's a guy we've known since our high school days and he's now the doorman as well as a legendary Neil Diamond impersonator. When we got there a guy had just lunged over the bar at him and attacked him with a knife. He was waiting for the cops as a posse of local musician types held the guy down. I guess we need to get away from the clubs where we're actually playing to find any real excitement or drama. Eventually we ended up staying at a Red Roof Inn in Charlotte that seemed to double as a brothel. I felt dirtier coming out of the shower than I did going it. Despite the fact that we all want this tour to end up in the black, we're going to graduate to the next level of motels for the rest of this tour. >From now on it's going to be Holiday Inn Express all the way.

March 15, 2001: I-20 en route to Birmingham
Weird things first: Yesterday we were at a truck stop in South Carolina and Freda left her wallet in a rest room. She didn't figure out that it was missing until we arrived at the Echo Lounge and, of course, she totally went into a panic. After attempting to reach her husband to cancel her credit and ATM cards to no avail, Mark J Maher swung into action. He went online and found the truck stop and Freda gave them a call. A woman had found her wallet and turned it in. The woman working there wouldn't even take any cash out of the wallet to pay for shipping the wallet to Austin. Yes, kids, I said cash. Our faith in human nature has been restored, not that it ever really went away.

There's a mother of a rainstorm following us about, and we connected with it big time in Atlanta last night. Heather, my wife, just happened to be working in Atlanta yesterday so she had a really nice hotel room at the downtown Courtyard. Of course, when it came out that I was going to be staying in the luxury hotel, everyone became completely jealous and had to stay there as well. Okay, they didn't really get jealous, but we did all end up staying there. We'll probably hear about that one from management, but I feel that we deserved it after the hellish Red Roof of the night before. We all needed a proper sleep, not that we all got one or anything…

I love the Echo Lounge in Atlanta. The guy that books it, Cole Skinner, is a real swell guy, a true independent music fan and supporter. Cole gave us a bottle of Silver Patron tequila, 100% agave. You'd think, given that, that we would be the ones tying one on last night, but in fact the shitfaced band crown of the night goes to our beloved Starlight Mints. Except for their TM, every member of the band seemed to be having trouble staying prone after a short while. Mark J Maher claims to have had to help Charlie carry his acoustic guitar downstairs because he couldn't stand up when he tried to hold it. Javier, the camcorder-wielding bassist, gave me a T-shirt from his high school cross-country team (Edmond, Oklahoma, population ?). I was touched. I'll miss that lot.

Our set may well have been the best of the tour so far. We played every song a little bit faster than normal and that seemed to pump up the energy a notch or two. After the somewhat disappointing show in Chapel Hill it was a nice surprise. After the show, we encountered a bit more fanaticism than any previous stop, with many people bum-rushing backstage. I did meet some nice folks, though. I'm reminded of the fact that this band has never had much of a female fan base. It's a sea of dudes out there, night after night. At least they don't show up with bouquets of flowers for J & F anymore. That was annoying, especially since the object of their desire was frequently my girlfriend. Anyway, it's a good thing I'm married now or I might be a tad disappointed by the conspicuous lack of women. C'mon, girls, these songs are meant for you!

We had a nice Birmingham contingent last night, because I pulled a few strings to get my homeys 13 Ghosts on the bill (they're playing tonight as well). They did really well. Their music is a sort of potent blend of 60s psych with 70s power pop, with strong vocals and melodies. Their drummer Mikey, a B'ham legend to be sure, can be a bit excitable. He flailed away so full-on behind his kit that he looked like a cross between Keith Moon and Animal from the Muppets. Rock me, Amadeus.

We're coming into the 'Ham now (as we like to call it). Touring becomes especially surreal when you end up sleeping in your own bed for a night, which is something that's not going to happen this time, unfortunately. We'll be driving on to Austin tonight so we can catch Ryan Adams and Lucinda Williams at the Austin Music Hall. I'm trying to think if there are any more interesting tales to tell, but I'm afraid that's it. I can only promise, my faithful readers, that I will have some shit to report tomorrow after the quasi-hometown show tonight. Birmingham is the sort of city where crazy shit happens, so we'll do our level best. If the example of the Lemonheads' last few stops is any indication, I'll need a few pages (of course there's no Dando in this band, so don't get yr hopes up).

March 16, 2001: Somewhere in rural Louisiana
I guess I'll have to face up to the fact that no one is ever going to get really shitfaced and show his or her ass on this tour. We're all too old and mature for that. Maybe I'll make up a story to keep this interesting.

Last night I took the van to the projects to score some crack cocaine and some dude sold me some soap so I cold-smoked his ass with my nine then I drank a forty and got arrested and killed a guy in jail who tried to mess with me. Then I got a good night of sleep at the Four Seasons and woke up to a lovely eggs benedict served to me in bed. Wait a minute, I'm slipping back into the realm of fantasy.

One sort of funny thing did happen in Birmingham. We had a bunch of cash money that we had to unload (almost all of it will end up paying salaries, credit card bills, etc., btw). Anyway, banks require you to have an account if you want to do a wire transfer, so we went to my local branch of my bank. We walked in about ten minutes before they closed and I told the woman that we wanted to do a transfer. She told Mark J Maher and me to wait in the lobby and we immediately started counting the cash into bundles of $1,000. She came in and saw these two dirtass looking guys just off a long van ride literally surrounded by loose cash. One can easily imagine what she must have thought. They let us know what a pain in their ass we were, and of course they found a reason not to be able to do the wire transfer.

I think by the time we pulled into Birmingham we had all become a bit crispy from the solid week of shows. I was so tired at the show that I was having trouble remembering people's names who I see practically every day. That's the first thing that seems to go away for me when I get tired, my memory. You really need a good memory on tour! One constantly finds oneself in that nightmarish situation where you're standing there with two people you know but can't remember either of their names and the time comes when proper etiquette requires for you to introduce the two. "Um…so…this, uh, is umm…yeah. Frank? Oh, sorry. Fred. This is, uh…Bob? Oh, sorry Bill. I know we all graduated high school together and I was best man in your wedding but, um, it's all that soap I've been smoking lately."

The odd thing about the show last night was that it was just a typical night out at Zydeco. Zydeco is Daniel's and my local hang, where we know everyone who works there and always get in for free. The show lacked that element of fanaticism that has followed us about on this tour. Everyone seemed attentive, responsive, but oddly a bit blasé. There were a few true keeners in front, but mostly the crowd consisted of all the Birmingham barflies and n'er-do-wells that I have come to know and love. While I am somewhat well known in town from my music, Daniel is a true local celebrity. In addition to Verbena, he's been in countless local bands, and he's just simply that guy who is everybody's good pal. He and I have a band together called Cutgrass and the shows always pack out with Daniel's massive local fan club. Daniel went up to the mic for the first time last night and introduced us all. It was probably the best response we got all night.

We left after the show and drove deep into the Mississippi night. We stopped in Vicksburg for a four-hour kip and now we're getting close to New Orleans. Heather is with us now, taking a day's vacation from work for South by Southwest. We're planning to make it to Austin in time to catch a show or two. We're torn between the Black Crows/David Garza show and the Ryan Adams/Lucinda Williams bill, but we have to get there first. Part of me hopes that we just go to the hotel and get a good night's rest before the sick day that awaits us tomorrow. That must be the lame assed, too-old-to-rock part of my personality. Fuck it, we're hittin' the town tonight, baby!

March 18, 2001: Homeward bound
My dear friends, it's been so long I don't know where to begin. Did you ever hear that Misfits song that goes "Texas is the reason that the President's dead (ride, ride, ride Jackie-O!)? Cuz it's been in my head this whole weekend. Tons of hilarious shit has happened, I think I'll begin with Freda's litany of misfortunes (not that misfortune is, in and of itself, funny—but let's be honest—all humor has an element of tragedy in it).

First of all, Freda never got her wallet back. The woman at the gas station supposedly sent it, but it never made it to the Red Roof Inn in Austin (yep, can't get away from the eternally dodgy Red Roofs). Secondly, before the Birmingham show Freda fell on some steps and injured her leg (nothing funny about that, but it'll figure into the story later). Finally, when we got into Austin we went to this wonderful restaurant called Manuel's, where the good folks at Rounder picked up our tab (God bless 'em). We all had a couple of margaritas and we were relaxing and having a nice, post-dinner chat when all of a sudden I noticed that Freda's neck was getting red. I pointed it out, and Heather said yeah, she'd better go have a look. By the time she got to the bathroom, she had these large, slightly raised red areas all over her neck and face, obviously some weird sort of allergic reaction.

After Manuel's, we piled into the van to go to the Ryan Adams show, all of us strongly encouraging Freda to do something about her increasingly bizarre skin condition. She said that she thought she was all right, so we parked and headed off towards the Austin Music Hall. All of a sudden Freda became aware of the hilarity of her state, and she said "Jesus, look at me. I don't have any money or ID, I'm limping around, I'm covered in some weird rash, and I don't even have a cute outfit on!" She jumped into the first cab she saw and headed straight back to the Red Roof. The truth is, Freda has had fantastically bad luck on this tour, but she's also remained in an excellent mood throughout, unlike some of us (myself included). Freda simply loves to play drums, and that really comes across night after night. She beams and glows, and lays down some fat, funky shit, God bless her. By the way, she quickly recovered from her rash, her leg is better, and she caught her flight home without her driver's license; but she still doesn't have her wallet.

The Ryan Adams show is a whole other story. First, a quick lesson in SXSW logistics: At the showcases the people with laminates (