we had breakfast at denny’s this morning. a new low.
we started the tour with good intentions and promises of stopping at whole foods along the way to spare ourselves from bad road food, but we’ve been getting lazy about finding them lately and we had a lot of ground to travel today, st. louis to omaha, so we had no time to sniff one out. I thought we were just going to stop at a starbucks or something and grab a coffee and a bagel, but eric decided to stop at denny’s instead. I hadn’t been in an american denny’s in probably twelve years, and figured it couldn’t be all bad. I mean, how badly can someone fuck up home fries?
well.
halfway through my food, I could actually feel my blood pressure skyrocketing. the ‘country-fried potatoes’ were just those ubiquitous food service spicy fries cut into square ‘home fry’ shapes. the biscuit was shiny and hardened with hydrogenated oils that I can only guess were supposed to pass as butter, and the sausage patties, I’m convinced, were just brown-colored salt shaped into a discs. the coffee was almost see-through, as if they had used the same coffee grounds three times before my pot was brewed. and the most amazing part? people eat at these places every day.
how? how do they do it? I’m beginning to understand how most of america is fat, but I still don’t understand why. how can this kind of ‘food’ taste good to people? I would rather chew off my own fingernails for sustenance before ever trying to eat in a place like that again.
sunday night we played at the variety playhouse in atlanta with tim easton, buckner, and beirut. I had heard the name beirut buzzing around for a couple months, but I didn’t know much about them. I found them to be a charming, friendly group of young musicians, and had a lovely time hanging out with them before the show, talking mostly with perrin and paul, the accordian player and keyboard/random percussion player, respectively. paul entertained us with a story about getting arrested when he was twenty while wearing hot pink short shorts, (literally) hiding in the closet with another guy at a house party. their music was energetic, eastern-european influenced american pop music, and I enjoyed their set very much.
we had the next day off, which we filled with laundry and napping. I would’ve liked to have gone back to the neighborhood were the club was (I believe it’s called little five points), as I saw some great little shops and thrift stores there, but nobody else was much in the mood and I didn’t reallly feel like getting lost in atlanta by myself. we had dinner that night at the home of the old crooked fingers bass player, jo, and his wife susan. a few of eric’s other friends from atlanta were there, and it was great to have a quiet, relaxing evening at someone’s house. jo built a fire in his backyard after dinner, and while everyone else I visited I sat and stared, drowsy and hypnotized by the flames and the wine, until someone brought up the clermont lounge. I perked right up and insisted that we go there after we left the dinner party. I had just heard of it the night before, and was dying to go- it had been described to me as the place where strippers go to die. their most famous stripper, blondie, is a middle-aged black woman with a blond wig who has been working there for ages and can, apparently, crush beer cans between her tits.
we walked in and were delighted to find mr. buckner seated at the bar with a couple of his old atlanta friends. we sat at bar stools across from them and ordered drinks from the pretty, tattoed bartender. the bar/ stripper area itself is pretty small, a horseshoe-shaped bar that seats maybe twenty-five people with a stage so small that there’s not even room for a stripper pole on it. there’s a walkway all the way around it for the bartenders, so in order to tip the girls you have to stand up and lean over the bar, and they have to stretch towards you, trying not to fall off the stage in their ultra high heels. the wallpaper was yellowing around the raised black velvet design that had been trying, and failing, to lend an air of romance the joint for generations.
blondie was not working that night; when we first walked in there was a woman who had the body of a twenty-five year old but looked to be at least fifty dancing half-interested circles on the stage. she sported a long, curly, black-haired wig and weary smile that suggested that the novelty of her employment was not lost on her.
not long after we sat down, a round of shots was placed in front of us. whiskey. I looked up to see buckner waving at us, and knowing better, did the shot anyway. this is where it all starts to get a little hazy. I remember buying him a shot as payback, and then he bought me another as payback, and before I could trump him by getting the elder statesman of strippers to give him a lap dance he disappeared out the door. we spent the rest of the night getting progressively more drunk, smoking thousands of cigarettes and getting kisses on the cheek from the strippers as thank yous for the dollars.
things have kind of, not really slowed down, but settled in. after the shenanigans of the portland show, we got to seattle and vancouver without incident. well, the sound guys in vancouver were aggravating to the point of comedy (think click and clack, but the arguments and one-upmanships were genuine), but the crowd was pretty full and enthusiastic, and we sold a good deal of merch. we probably would've sold more, but had to leave our merch guy on the other side of the border in bellingham to save ourselves a little time and money (a note of caution to any would-be travelers to canada: dui's are considered felonies in canada and require a pointless $200 fine every time you cross the border).
our next show was in minneapolis, a seemingly endless drive through washington, idaho, montana, north dakota.. beautiful, but painfully boring at times. I kicked myself for not buying a car adapter for my computer, and could only watch three episodes of 'lost' before my battery died. I saw houses pass by in the middle of nowhere and wondered what those people did with their spare time, miles away from entertainment and other human contact. I suppose they do lots of crystal meth and watch tv- they all had satellite dishes, and we saw frequent, homemade signs on the side of the highway warning us of the dangers of meth and imploring us not to do it.
chicago was great fun. I got to see a handful of friends from when I lived there a few years ago, got caught up on the local gossip, met some really nice folks. it made me miss the city a lot. I must've sounded really wistful on the phone with ryan, as I had to promise him that I wasn't going to move there as soon as I got done with tour. we stayed with a friend of lance's, and while I was raring to go when we left the club, the half bottle of wine I drank at the club caught up with me by the time we got back to his house. I crawled into bed and fell asleep listening to the half dozen people there chatting outside, smoking cigarettes underneath my bedroom window.
eric had forwarned us before we even started the tour that the eugene show was probably going to be the most poorly-attended show of the month, and man, he wasn’t kidding. we played at wow hall, and I confused by the roster of great bands who were playing there (next month included mission of burma, band of horses, andrew bird, mobius band...) and the overwhelming hippie population that would seem to have no interest in attending any of those shows.
the one good thing about hippie towns is that it’s much easier to find good food. I’d had a nasty cold since l.a. and was desperately craving vegetables or anything that wasn’t a burger or pizza. I found a place down the street that had organic salads with free-range turkey and these amazing little garlic knot things made with fresh garlic and pesto. but that was truly eugene’s only redeeming quality. doing the books after the show, we discovered that not only had we not made any money, we actually lost 20 cents playing there. literally.
the next day was portland, which we were all looking forward to, but especially kate, since she lives there. we were playing as part of the musicfest nw at a place called the doug fir lounge, a modernist bar’s take on the log cabin. we were fourth on a bill that included dolorean, richmond fontaine, richard buckner and centro-matic. after we loaded in we got $10 food vouchers for the restaurant upstairs, where, after having not eaten all day, I gorged myself on a salad, burger, fries and wine (hooray for happy hour prices!).
most of the night was spent lounging around the green room, drinking beer and occasionally popping out to watch some of the music. I got bored and wandered upstairs to the patio, where I saw eric talking on his phone near a big table where american spirits was giving away cigarettes. eric saw me and I pointed at the table and mouthed “I’m going to go get cigarettes” and turned around quickly and as I did, my forehead hit something very, very hard, and I heard a loud, sharp crack. I stepped back to see a woman with her hands up to her nose.
“oh my god, are you alright?” I asked her.
‘”um, no, I think I have a bloody nose,” she said into her cupped hands.
“lemme see,” I said, and she parted her hands to reveal a bright red river of blood running out of her left nostril.
“here, come to the bathroom with me” I said, and I led her through the crowd to the bathroom in the restaurant. I wet some paper towels for her and we chatted a bit while we waited for her nose to stop bleeding. to my great relief she had sense of humor about the whole thing, and we just laughed about the ridiculousness of it.
after a few mintues she took the paper towel away from her nose and pointed to a dent on the side of her nose.
“I don’t think that was there before.”
“oh my god, are you serious? did I break your nose?”
“maybe, I don’t know,” she shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “I wish I had a camera to take pictures of this.”
“oh! I have one!” I said, and promptly produced my digital camera from my purse. her nose had already stopped bleeding at that point, so she just blew a gust of air out of her nostrils to make it start again, leaving the mirror and one of the sinks covered in a fine mist of blood. a couple of women had come in and out of the bathroom by then, and eyeballed the gore and our laughter warily before cutting a wide circle around us to the toilets. I can’t say that I blamed them. I took a few photos and she asked me to email them to her.
“sure,” I said. “what’s your name, by the way?”
“I’m jane bainter, from jane’s addiction.”
I laughed it off, figuring she was kidding, and introduced myself to her. she gave me email address and I promised I would go put it in my computer right away before I forgot. I asked her if I could buy her a drink, but she declined, saying she had to get ready to go out. I walked her back outside and then went down to the green room to put her email address in my computer. and almost as an afterthought, I googled the name:
“jane bainter”
and article after article came up, explaining that she had been friends with and lived with the band, and that the song "jane says" is about her, and she really had a shithole boyfriend named sergio, etc.
I had no idea there was really a jane. and I broke her fucking nose.
I sent her the photos as promised, and she just emailed me back today to say that the pictures were hilarious and to get in touch with her if we come back through l.a., which is where she lives.
I haven’t been to california since I was fifteen, and I have been largely impressed. I’ve always had a vague disdain for the west coast, and for no concrete reason, really. I just don’t really trust people who live in nice weather all the time. And while the little bit of L.A. I saw completely reaffirmed my groundless belief that the city is just a parody of itself, a backdrop for a guns n’ roses video, I was pleasantly surprised by san diego. of course, the fact that we stayed with the nicest, coolest people on the face of the earth didn’t help. phil and yuko are old friends of eric’s that put him up every time he plays in san diego, and all of eric’s forewarnings of their unbridled hospitality didn’t even scratch the surface. yuko, a japanese woman, had prepared us this amazing curry dinner after the show, and had all of our beds made up before we even got there. kate and I crashed out pretty early, and when we awoke and padded downstairs in the morning, a huge table of bacon, eggs, fresh bread, fruit, yogurt and lattes awaited us. I gave some thought to quitting tour and offering to be their houseboy, but they didn’t offer so I didn’t ask.
san francisco I expected to like, and I wasn’t disappointed. we drove right to and from the show, so we didn’t get to see much of the city, but I could tell right away that if I had the money, I would definitely consider moving here. lovely, cool weather, nice people, good music scene.. but if I’m going to spend three times more than I can really afford on housing, I’d rather do it in new york.
the place we played in san francisco, the swedish american hall, had fantastic, church-like acoustics and a wonderfully quiet, polite audience. I guess it was some kind of legion or something, with white walls and dark wood, very, well, swedish looking. a friend from austin came to show and we had a great time catching up in the green room, eating hummus and talking about the porn industry.
the next day was a day off, which we took advantage of by driving up the pacific coastal highway. it’s a drive every american should do once in their life- you know that road people used to drive off the cliff and plummet into the ocean and die in those movies from the sixties? it’s that road. I do not, however, recommend making this trip in the back of a minivan loaded with gear. six plus hours of swaying back and forth, up and down, back and forth.. I am not particularly prone to motion sickness, but that drive will give any bottle of dramamine a run for it's money. my right arm is quite literally sore from clutching the back of the seat in front of me for dear life. but I willed my coffee to stay in my stomach and managed to enjoy the view. we saw magnificent ocean views, sheeps, cows wandering around the middle of the road, a breathtaking sunset. but by the time we made it to the motel 6 in ukiah, california (that's right- it's haiku spelled backwards), I could've slept on a funeral pyre as long as it wasn't moving.
I'm really too tired to get into it. suffice it to say, that after a long day of trying to figure out what the fuck to do with a broken down van in moab that's not going to be fixed for at least a week, we ultimately rented a u-haul, put all our gear in the back and crammed the four of us into the front (where there's just two captain chairs- we fashioned a seat in between the two with a small folding chair, which is where I sat, and had lance and kate share the other seat), and drove to vegas, which is where we are now. I'm beyond exhausted, and still need to go take a shower and finish this beer. but our spirits are high, and after we dump the u-haul in l.a. and rent a proper minivan for the remainder of the tour, it (should be) will be smooth sailing.
I wrote a song today, just riffing after leaving ben's diner in green river, utah. we've sung it all day, and it pretty much rules. the primary lyric is this:
"cock and balls and shit across the ocean, cock and balls and shit across the sky.."
just ask. I'll sing it for you. it's kinda awesome.
(this is the first entry in an occasional tour diary of my fall tour with eric bachmann.)
half an hour into tour and I chipped my tooth on a bottle of kombucha going over a bump in the highway. it didn’t hurt or anything, just a little fleck of tooth enamel I found on my tongue and studied with mild curiousity for a minute before flicking it to the floor of the van. we were in colorado, just outside of boulder, heading towards tucson. the plan was to stop in flagstaff tonight. we were hoping to reach monument valley before dark, but we left a couple hours later than we planned on so we weren't sure that we'd make it by then. I’ve never seen monument valley, but eric said he’s been there probably thirty times and it’s always amazing to behold. I didn’t know what it was at first, and he explained to me that it was the backdrop of all the roadrunner cartoons. I’ve never been to the southwest; in fact, other than visiting my sister in san diego when I was fifteen, I’ve never been west of austin. I’m excited to see it, not only the southwest but the west coast, the pacific northwest, different parts of canada..
the canyons through I-70W in colorado were beyond magnificant. I didn’t take any pictures, figuring they probably wouldn’t come out anyway, but I kind of wish now that I had at least tried. then onto utah, through moab, where the arches are. we couldn’t see them from the highway. but the scenery is amazing just the same, big red rock formations and such. I’m starting to wish I knew some geology, because I just don’t have the vocabulary to describe what I saw, other than that it was massive, and layered, and beautiful.
and then, hurtling down the highway towards monticello, the wheels came off. literally. well, almost literally. the front left wheel had fallen off a couple weeks ago, and eric had spent a considerable amount of money fixing that and other things on the van to ensure that something like this wouldn't happen, and it went and happened anyway. looks like we lost a bearing in the same wheel. we smoked and watched the sun set against the red rocks while waiting for the aaa guy to come tow us back to moab. we'd been on tour for all of seven hours.
eric and lance sat in the van on the flatbed while kate and I sat in the truck with the driver. we found out the he had grown up moab (I'm not sure how old he was, maybe sixty?) and he told us about how much it had changed, and how it used to be all fruit orchards until the uranium boom of the 50's, and how the population went from a couple thousand to ten or twelve thousand overnight, and that his family had a guy live in a tent in his backyard for two years. the guy was a carpenter that built houses for all the people that had moved there to mine uranium. but then the bottom fell out of the uranium market and the town decided to focus on tourism instead. and now, instead of farms, or uranium mines, it's urban sprawl and brewpubs. I saw a sign for 'dead horse point', and I asked him why it was called that, and he told me that according to local legend, there were a couple of cowboys that had a pen of horses on top of this point, and something happened to the cowboys and they died or got killed, and so there was no one to let the horses out of the pen, and they saw the river down at the bottom of the canyon and jumped for it.
or so the legend goes.
so now we're in the big horn lodge, and we're going to get up early and rent a car and leave lance here to wait for the van to get fixed and drive straight through all day and try to make it to our show in tucson. it's an eleven hour drive. we play at eight or nine.
cross your fingers.
