After our illustrious show in Iowa it was time to head again to the most beautiful of the United States: Colorado.  I fell in love with the Centennial State as soon as I had my first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains as we approached from Interstate 70 in the summer of 2008.  The flat horizon turned jagged and menacing in the blink of an eye, and a raw sense of awe and intimidation tumbled through my veins.  I had never witnessed such an impressive feat of natural, earthly creation.  It is one of few things in this world that can make you feel equally significant and insignificant in the same breath.

This year we took a more northern route into Colorado.  Our first stop there was Steamboat Springs, a ski town not far from the Wyoming border.  We didn’t have a show booked there, but we had a few days off and wanted to see our friend Andy who has been living there for the past year or so.  Andy works for the company that owns the ski mountain, as a good number of the locals there do.  The company owns all the ski resorts in town, as well as the myriad shops, restaurants, bars, and attractions around the mountain.  Right now Andy’s position is manager of the coffee shop at the bottom of the mountain, though he just received a promotion and will be managing one of the bars at the top of the mountain.  Envious, we were excited to see what a day in his life was like.

Turns out it’s phenomenal.  The first night we were there, he took us to Buffalo Pass, an area of national forest just outside Steamboat Springs proper that is a hot spot for local campers.  It was a 45 minute drive up the mountain.  The sight of our two vans skillfully manuevering up the mountain path was a majestic one.  You are all familiar with our 2002 Chevy Express, but Andy’s ‘89 Dodge Ram Van is even more impressive.  Still in great condition (he babies the thing), it has been fully customized to be the ultimate camping van.  In the back he has a raised mattress, leaving just enough room on top to lie down and not smack your head on the roof if startled.  There is also a small fan hanging from the roof to help you get to sleep in the summer heat.  The mattress is propped up so that there is room for storage underneath - we used the space to gather firewood.  Behind the driver’s seat is a storage cabinet with drawers filled with camping and van supplies.  My favorite piece of equipment was the broiler basket, which we later used to grill bratwursts to perfection over the fire.

Spending our first night in the high altitude outdoors camping and hiking around the national forests was beneficial.  The air is noticeably thinner at 1.5 miles above sea level.  You can feel with each breath that your lungs are working harder to maintain their usual level of oxygen intake.  We made sure to stay active to let our lungs get acclimated with their new surroundings.  It helped in the long run.  Seldom during our Colorado stay were we short of breath or feeling any ill effects from the lower supply of oxygen.  Supposedly your body fully adjusts in a month or so, but we weren’t able to hang around long enough to find out.  Andy’s dog Sadie led us through the forest, keeping one eye on us and one on the path in front of her, as we blasted Steely Dan’s entire discography (pre-Two Against Nature) for the pines to absorb.  No one else was around to hear it - the forest was ours for the night.  We imbibed on beer and brats and life was good.

The next day our plan was to go to the natural hot springs, also located just outside of Steamboat.  If we were simple tourists, we would have gone in the main entrance right next to the springs and paid the $10 fee.  However, with Andy’s local knowledge, we were privy enough to park one van at the main entrance and drive the other all the way back through Steamboat and around the mountain (about 30 minutes of driving) to a path created by the locals as a more andventurous and cost effective way to get to the springs.  We planned our journey so that we would be able to do the hike in daylight and then have the sun setting just as we approached the springs.  Unfortunately we got off to a late start, and the sun set halfway through our hour-long hike.  The two-foot wide path was treacherous, and with only one flashlight between the four of us we took it slow.  Sadie, however, was not phased as she again led us through the darkened forest in quiet confidence.

We arrived at the springs in the pitch black.  The only light we saw was the light of the moon dancing on the ripples in the water.  Andy explained to us that the springs were naturally too hot to swim in, but in the 1940s some brave Steamboaters took it upon themselves to redirect a nearby river to cool the springs down.  Stone pools were made on different levels so that the ones closest to the springs themselves were the hottest, and they cooled down as you got closer to the river.  Each pool was between 104-115 degrees, slightly hotter than the average jacuzzi.  We basked in the warmth of the water - the night was cool, but calm.  I abandoned my corrective eyewear for the time being, and the blurred outlines of the pine trees against the night sky were surreal - different shades of black permeated my vision, contrasted only by the brightness of the moon, now nearly two miles closer and ever more present.

From Steamboat we headed to Denver.  We met up with our second couchsurfing host of the trip, DJ, a flight paramedic who works for Flight For Life, giving medical assistance to people in the mountains.  It’s not an easy gig.  He works basically three days on and five days off, but those three days are intense start to finish, sometimes 12 hours or more.  He often sleeps at one of the hospitals nearby.  I have the utmost respect for what he does.  DJ is the kind of man we should all hope to be.  And not just because of the feats of greatness he routinely performs at work.  But also because on his off-days, the man knows how to have a good time.  He’s always got a fully stocked bar in his apartment.  One of his living room walls is covered with select posters from the hundreds of concerts he’s been to over the years.  The man’s even got a candy drawer.  And to top it off, he’s got a balcony with a sweet view of the city.

We hit it off with DJ immediately.  We’ve gotten very lucky with couchsurfing hosts.  All of them have been very chill.  I attribute it to the code of the beard.  Beards seem to indicate a higher chance of the person being a nice, down-to-earth guy.  They seem to be eager to have fun, accommodating, and undaunted by life’s twists and turns.  And these are the kinds of people you want to be hanging out with when you’re on the road.  Sitting on DJ’s balcony, not more than 30 minutes after our arrival, the sky suddenly opened up - it went from a bright, cloudless sunny day to quite possibly the biggest thunderstorm I had ever seen in a matter of moments.  Lightning ripped through the skyline, as thunder followed almost instantaneously.  We were very close to the action.  Rain poured down as if being released from a 20-mile wide bucket.  I heard my first live tornado siren.  It was the most exciting welcome we could’ve asked for.

Over the next few days in Denver, we went to visit Red Rocks four times.  Red Rocks is the most beloved venue in the Denver area, located in between to large rock formations that form a natural amphitheater.  The venue holds nearly 10,000 and there is not a bad seat in the house.  We didn’t actually see a show there, though twice we were there during concerts.  Once to see if we could go in and walk around (we couldn’t) and once tailgating before a Dr. John performance with DJ before we had to head to our own gig.  While tailgating we also met a girl who was visiting from Canada and went to Red Rocks to see Kings of Leon.  Unfortunately, she was there a day early by accident.  Since we weren’t there to go into the show, and neither was she, we ended up hanging out for a while, and invited her to our show in nearby Golden later on that evening.  She came along and we had a grand old time - grand enough to invite her to the Rockies-Cubs game we had an extra ticket for the next day.  We were drawn to Red Rocks because of its aura - we wanted to feel its vibe as much as possible.  Because, you know, someday Bad Apples will be on that stage.

We had a day to kill, so we went to the Coors Brewery in Golden after a hike at Red Rocks.  Due to our late planning, we arrived just after the last tour of the day had left.  We were told we could take the “short tour,” which consisted of walking down a hallway to the bar and getting your allotted three free beers.  Worked out well, since that’s the only reason we wanted to take the tour in the first place.

Near the brewery in Golden was a point called Lookout Mountain, which as you can imagine, has a splendid view.  We drove up and found a great spot to watch the sunset.  Apparently we weren’t the only ones who were thinking to do this, as within minutes we met and befriended 10 other passersby, and before long a party erupted on the side of the mountain.  Some folks came upon the scene and immediately bolted, but most joined right in.  Only in Colorado.  By now Dave’s road beard was neatly massive, and locals kept asking him if he was someone they knew.  I couldn’t blame them, he looked like a bona fide mountain man.  And on this day, he was.

It was off to Telluride once we left Denver.  A gorgeous ski town in a valley 10,000 feet above sea level, Telluride boasts some of the most amazing views in a state full of them.  Though because of its beauty and seclusion, it is difficult to find anything cheap to do.  It is, however, free to ride the gondola, which runs from downtown Telluride to one of the ski mountains and then to the Mountain Village, a section of town a little higher up and on the other side of the ski mountain.  The locals use the gondola for their commute to work.  We took it to the first stop and decided to make our own hiking trail back down to Mountain Village.  During the hike we went a little off the beaten path and found a rather large fort, complete with bedding and a couple seats.  Looked like a cozy place to go when there is snow on the ground - it would certainly be hidden under the blanket of white.

After Telluride we had to backtrack to the eastern part of the Rockies.  Our next stop was Nederland, a very quaint town.  We were playing at a pub downtown and needed to use the phone.  None of us had service, so I asked the bartender if I could use theirs.  “Only for local calls.”  Ours weren’t.  He said we may be able to get cell phone service inside the inn down the street.  Sure enough, just outside the inn, underneath a telephone pole, we found service.  Funny how some places just haven’t gotten up to speed on that kind of thing yet.

The show there was the best we played in Colorado.  The crowd was abundant and excitable.  We fed off their energy and played one of the most aggressive sets of the tour.  One of the bartenders got up and played sax with us.  Turns out he was sax player and lead singer in a local band, and when he learned that we didn’t have a place to stay for the night, offered up his house for us.  We played pool and partied till the sun came up.

Our final Colorado stop was Breckenridge, another beautiful ski town (Colorado has plenty of them, if you couldn’t tell).  We played another great show, and were accompanied by another local sax player named Naked Pete, who ripped it up on a bunch of tunes.  Not sure why they called him Naked, though.  Once the show was over, we made our rounds of “Do you know where we can find some free camping around here?” which always leads to someone offering up a place to stay.  This time it was Naked Pete who layed out the offer.  And it was a good one.  His wife’s boss owns a mansion in Breck, and he puts up a sign up sheet for his employees to stay there while he’s gone.  And whenever Pete has work in Breck, he gets to stay there.  We got lucky.  This place was the nicest home I have ever stepped foot in.  Apparently the architect designed it for himself, then decided later on to sell it instead.  Everything inside was custom designed for the house.  The kitchen was beautiful.  There were as many bathrooms as bedrooms (we all slept in a bed for the first time the entire tour).  We spent a good amount of time in the jacuzzi before retiring to play foozeball in matching “Jedi robes,” as Pete referred to them.  In the morning we were able to see the Breckenridge ski slopes from the back porch.  It was a most incredible experience, and the most rockstar thing that has ever happened to us.  Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

-Albis

St. Louis was next.  One of our favorite cities from last year’s tour, we were excited to come back.  This time would be different, though.  Last year we camped at an RV Parque about 15 minutes outside the city, setting our tent up on the gravel spot provided for us, wedged between a highway and train tracks that never ceased to be busy.  Our current trip to St. Louis was destined to be more comfortable, and much more interesting - it was our first 2009 tour experience with couchsurfing.com, a website where users can sign up as a surfer, host, or both as they travel the world.  Each user creates a profile, and you can easily search for people in the area you’ll be traveling and find someone with similar interests and who is just fun to hang with.

I initially found our eventual host, Nate, because his profile indicated he was a musician.  It seems like a fellow musician would be a good choice, but you never know for sure until you meet in person.  We arrived at his house at midnight.  Since he had to get up early, we chatted for a few minutes and then retired.  Turns out Nate was a drummer in multiple bands (including a funk band), and worked at an arts center that reached out to individuals with disabilities.  He also happened to bear a striking resemblance to Dave.  After this brief meeting we could tell we’d get along pretty well.

We stayed with Nate for about four days.  In that time, we learned a lot from him and his roommate Ian - about croquet, stenciling, and death metal.  We shared stories of music, food, and travel.  Two nights we were there, parties spontaneously erupted at the house.  During one of these parties, a bandmate of Nate’s told us, chuckling between gulps of beer, that we had picked the right place to stay in St. Louis.  By the time we left, we felt like old friends more than couchsurfers.

During one of the many food conversations, Nate informed us that there was a pizza place nearby called Pointers which had a pizza eating contest.  They made a 12-pound, 74-slice pizza that, if consumed by no more than two people in under an hour, would yield a prize of $500.  Being from New Haven, we are obviously pizza aficionados, and are no slouches when it comes to eating pizza either.  On more than one occassion we have gone to Pepe’s or Sally’s and eaten an amount of pizza most people would classify as obscene.  Doing a little research, I found some pictures of this pizza, and to Dave and I, it seemed like $500 in the bank.  One of the stipulations was you had to have either two meats or four vegetables on the pizza.  This was never in doubt between the two of us (sausage and bacon, obviously).

On our last day in St. Louis, Dave and I trained all morning by chugging glasses of water to expand out stomachs.  This proved interesting when we had to go out and do some errands (find new camera battery, go to bank, etc.).  Luckily Best Buy had a bathroom.  Most of the other stores did not.

We kept chugging water until it was go time.  When Nate first heard we were actually going for the challenge, he jumped up in excitement.  He was as ready as we were.  We drove to the restaurant, but were extremely dissapointed to find that they only do the contest once a day BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.  What the hell?  This was a most frustrating turn of events.  I’d like to think they were just afraid of losing $500 when they saw a large red-headed man with matching sunglasses burst into their tiny establishment demanding to eat a 12-pound pizza.

We left St. Louis for a show in Lee’s Summit, Missouri, just outside of Kansas City.  The next day we had to be in Iowa to headline a Jerry Garcia birthday festival, and we didn’t know where we would be staying for the night.  Usually if we’re playing a show and the people there know we are a traveling band, by the end of the night somebody will offer us a place to crash.  So we went into this show figuring we’d scope out the scene and maybe score a place to set up our tent.

The venue was a bar/restaurant called Jerry’s Bait Shop, apparently named after a large fish that was swimming in a tank near the stage, weaving in and out of a marching drum that was placed in the tank.  The menu was a mixture of American, Mexican, and Italian, and they specialized in pizza, though it was more reminiscent of Papa John’s than anything else.  It was somewhat of a hot spot.  Though I can’t imagine there’s much else to do in Lee’s Summit.

We played about an hour and a half set in between two cover bands.  Despite being the odd band out, the crowd was into us, and people were dancing.  But our set was done early.  Once we finished the place started crowding up, and by the time the last band started there was hardly any room to walk around.  Their set consisted of classic rock covers.  Bill Withers’s “Ain’t No Sunshine” and and Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” were highlights for me.  But the vibe we were catching was that we weren’t going to find a place to stay.  It was 10:30, still pretty early by musicians’ standards.  We decided it was time to head to Iowa.

Arriving at the Hidden Acres Music Farm in northwestern Iowa at 4:30 am, it was hard to tell that a festival had started the day before.  There was a firepit with no more than four people standing around it.  The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the purr of the nearly idle van engine.  One of the men by the fire came up to us as we pulled in.  He was happy to see us, as they had had a few last minute band cancellations.  We set up our tent underneath a tree, next to the only other tent in view, and got some much needed shuteye.

The scene was much the same when we woke up.  A few more tents appeared in the daylight, and several of us drank coffee around the fire, which had now been going strong for over 24 hours.  There were mostly locals in attendance, but it appeared that the festival had gotten some pretty good press and the word was spreading.  We met food vendors from Arizona who were on the road, traveling to different festivals and setting up shop.  They heard about this one online and happened to be passing through, but were not holding out too much hope for making much money with such a small number of attendees.

As the afternoon progressed, some people filtered in, but not enough to write home about.  There was a woman who showed us a newspaper clipping talking about the festival, and there were some kind words written about us too.  But she didn’t end up staying for the night after witnessing the nothingness that was happening all afternoon.  Most people weren’t about to leave, though.  Even though they paid a hefty fee to get in and were put off about the lack of liveliness, there was nowhere else to go.  Cornfields surrounded us on all sides.  They were sticking it out.

The festival organizer was becoming more dejected as the day went on.  His mood trickled down to the guests, who by now were mostly hardcore festival goers who found out about this 11th annual fest online on jambase or in the newspapers.  Everyone was peeved.  We tried to tell them that we would rock out no matter what, but no one had any reason to believe us.  Their virgin ears couldn’t have known how serious we were.

The setting sun was our cue to get ready to play.  The price of admission also dropped significantly at sundown, so there was a sudden influx or attendees as we were setting up.  The crowd was now up to a respectable 50 or 60 unsuspecting heads, all of whom were still unsure of the validity of the festival.  Our work was cut out for us.

But, as history shows, Bad Apples thrive in times like these.  Channeling whatever negative energies were being tossed around the farm, we played each note more ferocious than the last.  The intesity was worthy of a crowd of 10,000.  The people in the audience sensed this and grooved along with us.  No one could stay sitting.  It could have been because of the cold, but the vibe from the crowd said it was because of the funk.  Bill, the festival organizer, came on stage with us to sing a couple Dead tunes in honor of Jerry, “Samson & Delilah” and “St. Stephen.”  We also played an inspired version of “Casey Jones” later in the night.

After a two-plus hour set, the festival had been deemed a success.  The arduous boredom that had plagued the farm earlier was now a distant memory.  The crowd was now being sociable instead of holing up in their own tents.  The festival organizers and attendees thanked us profusely.  As we sat by the fire, drinking beers and listening to the late night jam sessions, we couldn’t help but think that this is destined to become a trend.  It already has to a degree.  We have an uncanny ability to bring people together.  Someday, this will prove to be our most valuable asset.  But until then, all we can do is keep rockin.

-Albis

Well, despite the severe lack of Internet for the majority of the time, our tour has been going very well so far.  After Ohio we hit Chicago.  Dave’s brother Scott was in town checking out a possible grad school, planning his trip around our show.  Luckily, that meant we had a place to stay (hooray for hotel crashing).  Last year we were only in Chicago for a night, and couldn’t find a place to stay, so we just parked the van next to Lake Michigan, put blankets over the windows to block out the sun, and called it a night.  I’ll take hotel floor any day.

We got into town a day before our show with the intention of setting up on the street and playing some acoustic numbers to promote the show and maybe make a few bucks for food.  For the most part, this proved to be fruitless.  We did make a five spot playing for a couple who appeared to be on their honeymoon.  But in all the places we chose to set up, we were approached by security and told we had to pack it up.  They were apologetic in every instance, you know, “Oh it sounds great, but…”  And finally we got the boot from the CPD.  Set up on a street corner, we played one note and two female officers appeared out of thin air.  “Got a permit for that?”  Well, no.  They let us go without a ticket and without impounding our instruments, which they threatened was what they should do in this instance.  Lucky for us, we are good guys and not the troublemakers our brand name suggests, so we obligingly packed up and called it a day (for now).

Later that night we met up with Scott, and went out for more street performing.  One of the problems with our earlier attempts was that we went to highly populated (and thus highly regulated) areas of the city, right in the middle of downtown Chicago, including Millennium Park and the Navy Pier.  This almost guaranteed us that we would be hassled.  So at night we made our way toward the Lincoln Park district, where we had played a show on last year’s tour at Lilly’s.  During the walk to find a place to get settled, BJ remembered that in his research to find open mics in Chicago on Tuesday nights, Lilly’s was among those venues on the list.  Thinking we might have a slight advantage in familiar territory we went there to scope out the scene.

There were a couple other bands lined up to perform, but the guy running the open mic was happy to have another.  And with $5 pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon as a Tuesday special, we knew we had made the right choice.  Turns out we had made no more than $6 from the street performing.  It couldn’t be more perfect - just enough for a pitcher and a tip.

We kept a semi-low profile as we sipped our beers.  On hand we only had a snare drum, acoustic guitar, and saxophone.  With full bands performing on stage before us, this would not be enough.  Now that we were here, we knew we had to go balls to the wall.  The bar had a decent upright piano, and not getting a chance to play a piano live much (and not wanting to empty the entire van just to procure the Rhodes from the bottom of the pile) I was happy to play it.  Dave went to get the van so that we could grab BJ’s rig and some drums.  Scott bought another pitcher.

The act that went on right before us was also a funk band.  Good, I thought, these people are definitely ready to be assaulted with our power funk.  No one knows what they are in for when they happen to stumble into a Bad Apples performance.  But oh, they were ready.

So ready that we ended up playing two four-song sets.  The first was all originals and the second was all covers.  By the time we were done we had at least two full pitchers to our name, courtesy of the assaulted listeners.  “It’s good to be the king!” I said to BJ with a wide-mouth grin.  The tour had been seriously lacking in Mel Brooks references.

After a successful show at the Darkroom in Chiacgo, it was off to Oshkosh, Wisconsin.  It sounds made up, but it’s not.  Apparently “Oshkosh” is the baby boomers version of “Bumblefuck” (or maybe just the censored version) because my dad kept trying to make jokes out of it, saying that’s where people used to claim they were going when they were going to the middle of nowhere.  “So I heard you have a show in Oshkosh tonight,” he chuckled.  “Well Dad, as a matter of fact…”

Despite this premonition, Oshkosh was actually a fairly large town, and not really in the middle of nowhere.  Located on Lake Winnebago, it is mainly a college town, but some areas were bustling in the summer.  There was a large park (on South Park Ave - I giggled to myself every time I saw the sign) with picnic tables and a little pond in the middle.  All in all it seemed like a nice place to be year-round.  There were a bunch of bars near the highway, all of which flourish when school is in.  We were playing at one that did not quite fit this mold - The Reptile Palace.  It was more of a dive, but as such had some personality.  The ceiling fans had cymbals hanging down from them, and the reptilian theme was apparent in the decorations behind the bar.  Arriving a day before our show, we noticed that our name was not listed for the next night’s performance.  There were two other bands listed, but not us.  Clearly, this was not a good sign.

Though the owner wouldn’t be in for half an hour, we gathered from talking to the bartender that the person we had booked the show through (way back in January) had since been fired.  Of course.  This has happened to us before.  It’s a classic case.  But it was most unfortunate that this happened so far from home.

When the owner got there, he was very understanding.  Apparently, this isn’t the first time this dilemma has occurred since the previous booker was fired.  So we were guaranteed a set, pay, a couple drinks, and a place to sleep for the next two nights - he and his wife owned an empty grassy lot next to a house they rented out.  It was tree-covered, too, so the sun wouldn’t be beating down on our tent in the morning.

Hanging out for a couple days was fun.  We went to another bar, Wingers, cause they had drink specials ($1 Miller Lites), and found out they had a raggae band playing.  We decided to stay for a while.  The band was good, playing a mix of covers and originals.  I mentioned to them that I played sax and they let me sit in on Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition.”  We ended up staying the whole night.

Our show at the Reptile Palace was a good one considering the circumstances.  The crowd was responsive, and the other musicians were accomodating, letting us use one of their drumsets.  We made a lot of friends in Oshkosh.

Next stop was JB’s Speakeasy in La Crosse, yet another Wisconsin college town waiting for school to get back in.  We arrived early, set up our gear, and played setback to pass the time.  Got to watch some of the Brewers game, also - a theme for the past few days.  And, there were half-off pitchers for the band.  Should turn out to be a good night.

We played two sets to a crowd that was steadily filing in, and very interested.  As any band finds when they go on tour, they get a lot tighter.  That has surely been happening to us, especially with our vocals.  The harmonies have been crisp, and this night was no exception.  Songs were really clicking.  Some friends of Jeff, the bar owner, who were in another band came in after their own show and were thoroughly impressed.  So impressed that they invited us to their house next door to party after the show.  With Jeff’s okay, we left our equipment set up so that we could take care of it in the morning.  The band was Moon Boot Posse, an area group whose drummer showed us one of his inventions - a bass drum speaker that fits inside the bass drum, where the front head would be.  Check out the band and ask him about it, it’s really quite unique.  Sometime between him showing us this drum and him passing out, his bandmates raided a pile of trash outside and found a bunch of old kids’ toys.  My favorite was a wind up Big Bird sitting at a piano that played “Across the Universe.”  Good times.  We partied till the sun came up.  It’s good to be the king.

-Albis

It started like any other day - waking up on a couch in a rural Ohio basement owned by some kind folks we had met the day before.  The hour was early considering how late we were awake the previous night.  But we had a decent drive ahead of us.  Our next stop was an afternoon gig in Painesville, Ohio (a stone’s throw from Lake Erie), so we could not enjoy the luxury of sleeping in.

After some quick coffee and donuts we were out the door.  We’ve been bringing along a large container of Maxwell House and a percolator wherever we go.  Otherwise we’d clean our hosts out of coffee.  I don’t know when we all became coffee fiends (somewhere between Jersey and Philly?), but now we drink it like our lives depend on it.  And maybe they do.  The way I look at it is that drinking all that coffee is much better than the Red Bull we once consumed at an alarming rate.  For last year’s tour we picked up a super mega case of Red Bull for $60.  This year it’s a jug of Maxwell House for $7.  Better for body, mind, and balance sheets.

In Painesville we were playing at the Party in the Park, Ohio’s largest free festival.  It was a slightly bigger version of our hometown East Haven Fall Festival, complete with local food and merchandise vendors, small rides, and a stage in the middle for music.  Two local radio stations had booths set up for contests.  Station 102 point whatever had a lone slot machine with a jackpot prize of $102,000.  Being a man who could sure use that kind of money (I kid you not), I gave it a go, but only came away with a free round of mini-golf that I would never be able to play.

My luck was better at the other radio booth.  It was a spinning wheel - think Wheel of Fortune, but with classic rock album covers where the different sums of money would be.  One slot was a jackpot.  The prize for anything but the jackpot was a lousy bumper sticker.  Now, I already won one thing I’m not gonna use, I don’t want no stinkin bumper sticker too.  I took a deep breath and with one well-timed spin I had hit the elusive jackpot.  “Choose anything from the table!”  There weren’t many enticing prizes - posters, keychains, more stickers.  I chose the most useful thing on the table - a blue and white Cleveland Indians baseball cap with a small Miller Lite emblem on the side.

We hung out at the festival for a small while after our set with Trevor, Amanda, and Dees from the night before.  They had made the trek for the show, though only caught the very end due to a series of unfortunate circumstances.  We had told them our set started at 2, when it in fact started at 1.  On top of that, they got lost on the way.  Their Bad Apples doubleheader was not to be.

From Painesville we headed west to Morral.  Now, I said we woke up in rural Ohio earlier, in retrospect I realized that 99% of Ohio is rural.  But Morral is really as middle of nowhere as it gets in the Buckeye State.  Corn and soy fields stretch across the horizon and enclose the often deserted roads.  Only one or two neighbors are within eyeshot at any given moment.  The nearest grocery store is ten miles away.

We were in this lonesome place to visit Glenn, fellow East Haven native and former guitarist in BJ’s band Fuzebox.  He moved to Morral with his wife, Morgan (originally an Ohioan), and sons Logan and Hayden nearly two years ago, and live on farmland owned by Morgan’s family.  This was our second time visiting - they put us up during last year’s tour as well.

We arrived at the farm to a greeting from Matt, the landowner.  “Haven’t seen you boys around these parts in a while!” he said, suprised to see us.  I wasn’t expecting him to remember us, but I’m certain he did because of the tractor-pushing display Dave put on last year, which prompted Matt to offer him a job.

“Glenn’s not here right now, was he expecting you?”  Of course he was.  We talked to him earlier in the day!  Why wouldn’t he have told us he was going out?  They even had a babysitter for the kids.  We tried calling again, but he wasn’t picking up his phone.  Matt found out from the sitter that Glenn was playing a benefit show tonight with his cover band at Trotters in Marion, about 8 miles away.  One thing I’ve noticed about people in this particular area is that they always refer to miles instead of minutes when talking about the length of a drive.  In the places where I’ve put some time in, I have almost always heard drives referred to in minutes.  In more urban areas, a 10 mile drive could be less than 15 minutes, or it could be well over half an hour.  But among the cornfields traffic does not exist, and rarely will you see a stoplight.  Mileage can be used with more certainty in time.

Excited to be able to see Glenn’s band we went over to Trotters.  The venue appeared to be a community building that was made to be rented out for various functions.  It had a patio in back where this particular event was stationed.  Pulling into the parking lot we could not see into the patio - it was boarded up on all sides, save an entrance on the far side just big enough for one person to go through at a time.  Glenn met us as we approached the entrance.

“I could have sworn you guys were coming tomorrow!” was the first thing I heard out of his mouth.  To be fair, we did initially tell him that we would probably be coming through on the 19th, but plans had changed since then and we were there a day early.  We had certainly told him this, but he had the 19th stuck in his mind.  No worries, we told him.  It worked out fine.  And as a bonus we get to see his band.

“Nice hat,” Glenn said to me with a smile.  In honor of being in Ohio I was sporting the Indians cap I had procured earlier.  Glenn was a fan of all things Cleveland sports, complete with a tattoo of a Browns helmet on the top of his right arm.  The event tonight, he explained, was a benefit for a local woman who had cancer and did not have much longer to live.  She was in such bad shape that she was not able to attend.  But there were two bands alternating sets, and there was plenty of booze.  “I’ve been drinking since noon,” Glenn smirked, can of Busch in hand.

Glenn’s band had recently been practicing some Pink Floyd tunes with the ultimate goal of being a Pink Floyd cover band.  They were to play a whole Floyd set later in the night.  “You guys gonna play ‘Shine On’?” I inquired.  According to Glenn, that song was out of reach for the band.  “How about ‘Money’?”  Jackpot.  “Mind if I lend my saxophone services for that song?”  He was all about it.  I wonder when he had last heard live saxophone.

We finally went in to investigate the scene, but could not possibly have been able to brace ourselves for the culture shock that was about to hit us.  The instant we walked in we were out of place.  The stares hit us hard.  Sets of eyes pointed at us like shotgun barrels as we weaved through the crowd.  Glenn introduced us to his bandmates and told them I’d be playing sax on “Money.”  They seemed to perk up a little when they heard that.  Good sign, I thought.

The three of us sat and chatted with Glenn and Morgan for a bit.  Glenn was saying how there is no original music in the area - only cover bands.  Even then, the musicians are generally lacking in skill.  When he first moved to the Ohio farmland a couple years ago, Glenn blew everyone away with his guitar proficiency.  Morgan claimed he’s the best guitarist in the state.  “Oh come on, you know I’d never agree to something like that.  I’m probably top five though.”

The other cover band took the stage, playing songs by Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, Foo Fighters, and a bunch of other bands that I did not recognize nor did I care to recognize.  As seasoned musicians and live performers, we tend to listen very critically and often notice mistakes made during live shows.  Usually it’s something subtle - a transition that was slightly gaffed or a missing part.  This stuff happens all the time.  We would be lying if we said we never make mistakes on stage.  But good musicians can recover quickly and cover their tracks.  This band, however, was in no position to do so.  Tempos were volatile, rhythms were guessed, and wrong notes were abundant.  It didn’t sound like any of them were listening to the other guys in the band (an essential part of the process).  It was also clear that these guys did not care to practice the endings of songs.  The end of literally every number was a free-for-all, with no cues and no rules.  Sometimes the drummer would be done with the song and the guitarist would be playing for another 30 seconds.  It was mayhem.  No one knew when to applaud.

We were still being reticent, feeling completely out of place.  I couldn’t muster up the courage to start conversations with many people.  Glenn had bought us a round of Bud Lights.  While on normal occassions we would rather be caught dead than drinking Bud Light, for these we were gracious.  “You won’t find any fancy beer here,” said Glenn.  “It’s all Bud and Busch.  They love it.”

The stares were still piercing my skin.  Despite being on the road many miles from home and unable to be as, well, meticulous in terms of keeping ourselves groomed, our beards were the most well-kept of anyone’s there.  We have a joke about a grocery store that we used to frequent in Philly.  For some reason, there are hoards of below-average looking people in this store at all times.  Now, we are well aware that we are not the most handsomest set of gentlemen walking this earth, but going to this grocery store made us feel like supermodels, and we would kid that we went there to feel better about ourselves.  There was a similar sensation at Trotters, though I wasn’t feeling good about it.  Our city accents were not helping the matter - they did not match well with the gravely, near-Southern drawl of the natives of the region.  The Indians cap that I intended as a salute to Ohio was undoubtedly not winning me any points.  If anything it made me look like a poser to these people.  And on this night, I suppose I was.

Looking around in calculated silence, it was clear to see that the main objective of this so-called benefit was to get everyone completely plastered.  Tables had round after round of empty beer bottles and cans.  Jell-O shots were passed around family style, in buckets.  Everyone was imbibing to the max.  I saw 50-year-olds sucking down Jell-O, and a number of people double-fisting beers.  For the first time I took notice of the protruding beer guts of every man and most of the women in attendence.  Morgan approached us, bearing gifts.  “Want some Jell-O shots?”  Well, we’re here, so we’d might as well join the fun.

There were a couple women going around selling raffle tickets.  One of them asked BJ if he’d like to buy a ticket for $5.  “Sorry, I don’t have $5.”  She asked me the same thing, and I gave her the same truthful answer.  Then she asked if we were twins.  “No, we’re just in a band together.”  The significance was lost on her.  “We’re really poor,” BJ clarified.  I wonder what she thought of us, how these three snakes from the east slithered their way into this party and refused to donate.

I was starting to regret bringing up the possibility of playing saxophone.  Would the rough-around-the-edges rural Ohio be able to appreciate the jazzy riffs coming out of my alto?  Or would I further the rift already visible between us?

Before I knew it I was several Jell-O shots deep.  Glenn’s band was getting on stage, though I wouldn’t be going up until later on in the set.  I just noticed a banner hanging on one of the walls.  “Welcome to the Trotters Patty O.”  Was this a joke?  If so, I didn’t get it.  The night was getting colder.  I wouldn’t even consider putting on a sweatshirt.  I didn’t want to show even the slightest sign of weakness.

The crowd was thinning out a little.  Glenn’s band opened with “Another Brick in the Wall” (part one I think) and the people that were still there were starting to get rowdy.  Morgan, who claimed she was cutting herself off shortly after we arrived hours earlier (she didn’t), was now in rare form.  She came over to us with a case of beer.  It was regular Budweiser instead of Bud Light.  A slight upgrade.  Nevertheless, we were ecstatic.  “We’re going heavy tonight!” BJ spurted as he quickly grabbed a can for each of us.  Was he talking about the beer or the whole scene we had become a part of?  I wasn’t sure.

Glenn’s band was pretty on.  You could tell he pushed the other members of his band to play some of these songs, but they were making it work.  And Glenn himself was ripping every Gilmour solo to a tee.  We cheered loudly for him.  Morgan bought us delicious pulled pork sandwiches with barbeque sauce, and more Jell-O shots.  During a jam on stage, the rhythm guitar player went off on an impromtu monologue about the government.  Through the mumbling I could make out him saying that “anyone is better than who we have in there now.”  Even though Ohio went to Obama in the 2008 election, I am fairly certain that wasn’t because of this crowd.

The band started playing songs from Dark Side, my cue to set up my horn.  With the crowd dieing down I felt a little more comfortable, though in the back of my head I knew that they still probably wouldn’t understand the sounds coming out of this city boy’s saxophone.

I nervously got on stage next to the guitar player who had bad-mouthed the president.  As the riff to “Money” began, I went over my mental notes, reminding myself to keep it simple.  The more notes I play, the higher the chances of offending someone in the audience, I figured.  When Glenn gave me the go-ahead to start playing, I closed my eyes to forget about the surroundings.  I did a trick that all musicians know, but in this case could make or break me.  I started my solo the same way it starts on the original recording.  From there it’s okay to veer off, but sometimes you need to get peoples’ attention right away.  It was really quite necessary.  After the initial riff or two I pushed myself to be restrained.  I heard hooting and hollering from the audience.  I kept milking the high notes, and they kept eating it up.

Glenn gave me a thanks at the end of the song and I waved to the crowd.  The drummer was beaming.  The guitar player next to me gave me a big, friendly handshake and smile, and, if just for that moment, two men from opposite worlds met in the middle and saw eye to eye.

I got off stage and packed up as the band’s set continued.  A woman came up to me.  She may have been in her 30s, maybe her 40s.  Like most people in attendence, it was kind of difficult to tell.  She mumbled something, motioned to the table I was sitting at and crushed the empty beer can in her hand, and put it down in the spot she had pointed to.  Not knowing how to respond, nor wanting to try to converse with her over the loud music that was directly in front of us, I just smiled.  She winked back at me.  I don’t ever want to know what she actually said.

Once the band was finished they came to me with very kind words.  “They’ve never seen anything like that in person,” Glenn mused later that night.  “They’ll be talking about that for weeks!”  From social outcast to local legend, you know that’s how the Apples roll.

-Albis

When it comes to getting an album done, the only way to make sure you actually finish it is to set deadlines. Otherwise you can listen and listen and you’ll just find more things to add or change. Can this part use another vocal harmony? Should we bring up the volume of the horns here? You can listen to the same mix for days and days and start hearing things that aren’t there, and you try to fix them anyway. So we set a date for mastering knowing we had a lot of work to do.

Mastering is the final step of the whole process to make the music ready for album duplication. It entails bringing levels up to “album quality” sound, smoothing out the edges, and really making everything sound clear. It gives each instrument a little more personality. You are able to hear the crispness of the hi hat and the sheer force of the horn section. But you must have all the right mixes before you get to the mastering session. If there’s something too loud or too soft, chances are mastering isn’t going to be able to solve it. Everything’s got to be perfect before mastering makes it even better.

Our session was the day after Memorial Day. After a long weekend of barbequeing, then mixing, then barbequeing, then mixing some more, we sat down Monday night and listened to the most recent mixes. With mastering in 12 hours, we had our work cut out for us. Two listens on two different stereos yielded a bunch of things that needed to be changed. Most of it was minor, but important. We wanted everything to be just right. Notes in hand, we sat down at the studio, knowing there would be minimal sleep.

The time ticked away. Soon it was 3 am. The headphones had not left our heads for three hours. But each song was sounding better and better. Just a few more tweaks, and we’re there. Normally in these situations we function on coffee. This night was adrenaline.

It was now 5 am, and we were listening to the final track. Everything was falling into place. We drifted into an excited and oddly fulfilling sleep, which only lasted until our 7 am wakeup call.

As musicians we hardly ever see the light of day this early.  But our roommate/biggest fan, Danielle, sees it every morning as she gets up for work.  Unfortunately, being a nine to fiver, she isn’t able to function on the same schedule as us.  But it works out on days like this.  She let us borrow her car on the condition that we drove her to work and picked her up at the end of the day.  The drive to her place of employment in Princeton, New Jersey was quiet, save the cursing of traffic.  For the most part we were comatose, staring blankly out the windows, fixated on nothing except the task at hand - staying awake long enough to get to New York and be able to make it through the rest of the day running on the palpable energy from working with a living legend.

New York City was bustling when we arrived. We paraded down 8th Avenue with hard drive in tow - funny how that little box can contain our entire essence, embodying everything we’ve been working toward for the past two years.

Entering DB Plus on W 57th St. was a familiar sensation.  We had Home mastered there as well.  The whole operation consists of three modestly sized rooms - a waiting area, an office, and a studio.  The waiting room has a few pieces of eye candy - a collage of black and white photos of musicians past and present (I recall a particularly heartwarming picture of a grinning Otis Redding with microphone in hand), a “wall of fame,” as we call it, containing CD cases of various artists they have worked with recently (Norah Jones, Hugh Masakela, and Rick Moranis included), and, the most impressive piece: the gold record for Average White Band’s 1974 self-titled album, engineered by Gene Paul, son of Les, and the man who was about to master his second Bad Apples album.