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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