Just a quick note to those of you that have noticed a few changes along with the obvious additions over the past few days, and to those of you that are or have just checked out the tour diary. The tour diary will be different between the one you may be reading on this site, and the one that will be printed. My goal is to come up with a more comprehensive tour diary by the time the zine goes to print. With that said, there may be additions or omissions to the diary in the print version. Besides, I’m a terrible writer and it takes a lot of editing and revisions to get a (remotely) palatable product. And because I have little to no motivation at this time of year, I have to publish the diary in some form to keep up the momentum…and it gives me a scafolding, if you will, to build on. Bear with it.
Day 1, July 30: Gainesville
The van was loaded, and the plan was to leave by 2:45 PM, pick Stewart up by 3:00 PM, and be in Gainesville by 5:30 PM at the latest. since plans rarely go as, well, planned and knowing full well that our band is more prone to disaster, our dream of getting somewhere on time became more of a pipe dream. The van sputtered and pulled its way to Stewart’s work by 3:30 PM after having stalled out twice, once on the highway in rush hour traffic. Oof. Stewart figured that maybe we should get a new distributer cap and rotor even though I’d just changed it days before. He’s the mechanic, so it was off to the auto parts store…after a couple more stall outs that is. We ended up at Advance Auto by four, changed the cap and rotor by 4:30 PM, after the clerk sold me the wrong cap and rotor, was on the highway by 4:40 PM, back at Advance Auto by 4:50 PM because the driver side caliper had seized shut, back into the store yet again at 5:00 PM since the same clerk as mentioned before sold us the wrong brake set, then finally on the road by 5:30 PM. All the while the van still sputtered, but at least the brakes were no longer threatening to catch on fire. We knew that my buddy Bob could look at the van the next day, so we slowly made our way north.
Arriving to the open doors of friends is a nice thing especially after such a harrowing day. Eventually we arrived at the venue to find that the folks that booked the show hadn’t gotten any other bands to play nor had they fliered; thank god for idealistic kids that really don’t go out of their way to make a show special. Needless to say, since there were no local bands to attract some people, a handful or two showed up to gawk at the band no one had heard of before.
The show started at 11:00 PM. Alligator played, followed by us playing to a room of 15 bewildered folks all, asking the eternal question: Why the fuck is this band on tour? I’m assuming that they also thought that we should probably have stayed in our town instead of infiltrating theirs with our brand of shenanigans. I’m still a little jealous, no envious, at how great Alligator was especially considering how terrible we were. We loaded the van with our proverbial tails between our legs, and made our way across the street to the Laboratory for $2.50 pitchers of PBR served in 500 ml beakers. Drink to forget, for christ sakes…drink to forget.
After last call we were back at Anne’s by 2:15 AM, asleep by 4:00 AM, and up again at 8:00 AM to take our van to Bob’s shop for a once over, and to see why it was a compulsive staller. If I were to find out that there was a betting pool started for us not being able to finish tour, I’d gladly have bet against us. Sad but true.
Day 2, July 31: St. Augustine
8:00 AM comes quickly especially when you’ve only had four hours of sleep. But the van was running, excuse my English, like shit. 15 minutes later the van was at Bob’s shop, and 15 minutes after that we were back at Anne’s house. As much as I tried I couldn’t get back to sleep. Bob called within 30 minutes of our return. The van was fixed, and it seems that two wires were crossed from the spark plug to the distributor cap. One one hand I was embarrassed, why hadn’t we noticed that before? On the other hand, at least it was nothing that would cost any money to fix.
Back to the shop yet again, this time to pick up the van, then to the discount tire shop for two used front tires. Over $150 between brakes, cap and rotor, and new tires was spent on the van in the course of not even one whole day. My head was spinning and my fingers were crossed that I’d not be spending anymore on the van. Lil’ Reliable wasn’t living up to its moniker. At least we had all day to rest and relax before we’d have to hit the road by 7:00 PM. First order of business: sleep.
The rest was needed. The prior day found me riddled with stress and worry. A huge weight was taken off of my shoulders, and though worries of doom and gloom still flowed through my brain, I was a bit more confident that maybe I’d make it through this debacle alive. Did I mention that I am irrationally fearful all of the time?
It was time to hit the road, and no matter how much I’d like to stay we had to go. Goodbye Gainesville…well, after a stop at the auto parts store for a new headlight that is, and hello Hawthorne Rd, Palatka, St. John’s River, and eventually St. Augustine.
Riding in the van can be tense. Every-ones individual quirks and bad habits are inevitably going to come out. Being crammed in the van only magnifies those quirks, tending to exacerbate their effect for the worse. On pins and needles, I always worry that I am going to be the one that evokes the ire and ill feelings from the others. Also, knowing how I am and how easily I can become annoyed with others, I found myself reiterating over and again that I need to not let the little things get to me. Never the less, we arrived at the venue, a sports bar, in one piece.
We again would be playing with Alligator as well as the Winslows. And after eating one of the worst meals of my life, a hackneyed version of a Greek salad that was to say the least horrible, it was time to return to the venue. In fact, horrible does not do justice for how absolutely horrendous this salad was. But it was sustenance, and that’s something. Or at least that’s what I’d like to tell myself.
Returning from the restaurant I found Alligator playing yet another incredible set, followed by mediocrity (us), and then the Winslows. I’m not quite certain why the first two shows didn’t seem to go as well as I’d like to hope they would have. Was I not playing well enough? Was I not giving it my all? I thought I’d been playing well and giving it everything I had, but somehow I still noticed a disconnect. Am I trying to take the blame because I don’t want to point fingers at others? There are so many different things it could have been, different factors that could make or break the show. Who’s to say, but it could have been the crowd as well. Whatever the case, I feared that maybe we made a bad decision to leave and put ourselves out there only to be scrutinized by those that had the luck, fortunate or otherwise, to watch us. My only hope was that we’d eventually get tighter and tighter with every show.
The show was over. We had to make the decision: start driving at 1:00 in the morning to cut our driving time to Charlotte in half, or stay and party only to wake up early to drive seven hours in one fell swoop. We chose to drive to Savannah, find a hotel, and sleep. Tired but wired from caffeine, road weary, three and a half hours later we arrived at a dumpy one bed hotel room attached to a Circle K. Two Tylenol PM’s to counteract the caffeine, and a pair of earplugs was all it took to drown out the overbearingly loud sound of Bill’s snoring. I didn’t find sleep, it found me.
Day 3, August 1: Charlotte
“If they take away our rights as cigarette smokers, what’s next, them taking away our right to bare arms?” I thought my head was going to explode. Did I hear Bill’s question correctly? Did I honestly just hear someone trying to make a correlation between the degrading rights of cigarette smokers AND gun owners? I responded sarcastically, “What’s next, big brother taking away a woman’s right to choose?” I probably shouldn’t have responded, but I did. I egged him on and now I’d have to sit through this conversation. Not only would I have to sit through it, I’d have to participate since I opened my big mouth. I could have been doing something better with my time, a mere five minutes before we’d load in, and only about 15 minutes before we played. But I digress….
I woke up as well and refreshed as I could after having spent the last six hours sleeping on the hard astro turf like rug covered floor. There comes a point when one no longer feels the sleeping bag, when ones sleeping bag ceases to be comfortable. Thusly, I am thankful for the inventor of Dyphendramine, for the point where sleeping bag and astro turf like carpet merged and become one in the same came when I was sound asleep in my drug induced slumber. My Dyphenhydraminevacation if you will. This is not to say that I preferred sleeping on the newly married sleeping bag covered, hard astro turf like carpet covered floor because I’d have gladly given my spot up for something more comfortable. But in the end, I may have gotten the better end of the bargain. Why? Bill snores. Loudly. Very VERY loudly. I had three things on my side: ear plugs, the aforementioned sleeping aide, and a pillow to cover my head. Stewart and Jeremy had neither, and though Bill had the bed, I had the advantage. Besides, the bed was as hard as the floor anyway. Ultimately having the luxury of having somewhere to sleep with a warm shower, and a continental breakfast of stale banana muffins and burnt coffee by and far deterred me from any pre-madonna like whining. I just wanted to get out of Georgia and as quickly as I possibly could. Did I mention that I’m not too fond of Georgia? We hit the road. Breakfast or lunch be damned; we’ll get something from the gas station to hold us over, and get lunch when we arrive in Charlotte.
Traveling in the south, everything looks the same until you get into the mountains. Though the gas stations, restaurants, roadside trucker rest stops/strip clubs, and firework super stores are different and maybe even slightly more or less unique than the last, they all look the same after a while. Haven’t I already seen that Black Cat Fireworks, or Wilco super station before? Are we just going in circles? Then the stark realization sets in; we’ve got a three and a half hour drive from Savannah to Charlotte, and in that time I will change the song playing on the stereo over and again, or crack open another mouthful of sunflower seeds. But ultimately all I am doing is biding my time en route from point A to point B. In that, I’m quite literally watching my life slip by with every passing farm, gas station, second, minute, and hour. One more firework super store closer to death…one more poorly spelled, hand-scribed sign advertising ones wares or goods closer to death. Hey, maybe we should stop for a couple of “onoins” or “peeches”. As much as I want to be where I am with my friends playing music, a part of me can’t help but feeling a little bit sad because these boring seemingly similar moments in life are bringing me closer to my ultimate demise. I could have held my girlfriend a few more times in thetime spent traveling from the exit with the Wilco to the exit with the Waffle House. That’s the rub with traveling especially with a band. More time is spent getting from point A to B than is actually spent in either point A or B. Point A or B certainly looked pretty cool, how I’d love to explore either place. Some things just aren’t meant to be. We finally arrived in Charlotte. Hot, sweaty, and sticky, I jumped out of the van and made my way into Lunchbox Records. I couldn’t wait to soak it all in.
The record store was amazing, and it literally had one of the best selection of records I’ve ever seen, and indeed had the best selection of books and zines that I’ve seen since Sound Idea was in its heyday. I wanted to purchase everything, and know full well that if given the money and opportunity I would have. But our stomachs were grumbling, and I desperately wanted to walk around. So we did. We’d be back at the record store soon enough.
Charlotte seemed like one of those weird cities that treads the line between modern and traditional. Generally, you usually see the skyline off in the distance and the smaller more historic buildings right in front of you or on the periphery. The modern glass and steel marvels of engineering and the old bombed out warehouses and factories that line the train tracks. Where the old meets the new, the struggle for the city or community to find its identity becomes evident. The skyline was looming in the distance, yet next to me, I could hear the sounds of traditional music as we made our way slowly on the sidewalk and then again as we made our way along the train tracks. The music blared from a cookout next to a bar. The people that were at the cookout played corn-hole and and engaged themselves in conversations while drinking beers. I wanted to join them if only to get some sort of feel of community that was lacking, from both the trip and from living in a town that finds people detached from the real activities that create a sense of belonging in both the punk or mainstream communities. I wanted to get a feel of what those folks were like; and idea of where they saw themselves in the scheme of things in the struggle of tradition vs. modernity. But in all honesty, I don’t even know where I fit in the scheme of things. Who am I to ask them?
Our walk ended in the pool hall across the street from Lunchbox Records. A friend called to let me know that a mutual friend of both Stewart and I killed himself. He took a friends shotgun into the street in front of his girlfriends apartment and shot himself. We were trying desperately to get in touch with him the night before. We hoped that maybe we could stay at his place instead of some dumpy hotel and catch up with one another. Then the phone call. It made me evaluate things a bit. We, the punks, became friends with others like us when we realized the we didn’t fit in society. We bonded with people that were like us because of our affect. We became each others extended family when our real families thought we were freaks. Knowing that there were others like us was comforting. And though we created a mutual community based on what made us different from the rest of society, our worries and insecurities never got dealt with and those worries never went away. Some of us drank to forget, and some of us used drugs for the same reason. Some of us created tough outward appearances as defense mechanisms, but that never helped what was going on inside. Many of us took our own lives, be it intentionally or accidentally, because the feelings and insecurities that drove us away to form these bonds never got dealt with in the end.
Back to the venue, time to unload the van. A younger band is setting up and getting ready to start. There’s no time like to the present to get the van unloaded and our gear ready to go so when it’s time to load in and set up, we can do so quickly. The younger band starts, and they sound OK. I’m not a big fan of their style, but I’ve got to hand it to them for putting themselves out there. And then I hear it: “If they take away our rights as cigarette smokers, what’s next, them taking away our right to bare arms?” I thought my head was going to explode. Did I hear Bill’s statement correctly? Did I honestly just hear someone trying to make a correlation between the degrading rights of cigarette smokers AND gun owners? I responded sarcastically, “What’s next, big brother taking away a woman’s right to choose?” I probably shouldn’t have responded, but I did. I egged him on and now I’d have to sit through this conversation. Not only would I have to sit through it, I’d have to participate since I opened my big mouth. I could have been doing something better with my time, a mere five minutes before we’d load in, and only about 15 minutes before we played. The conversation digressed into something about gun control and how, according to Bill, that citizens should have high powered, and automatic or semi-automatic guns. My mind was spinning. A friend shoots himself and I just find out about it, and then a few minutes later Bill makes a less than thought out argument supporting his position on why we should be able to own the same things the military or police own. And it was so easy for me to get inflamed and angry, but what took me a bit to remember was that this was his opinion, whether I chose to agree with it or not. Similarly I had my opinion whether he chose to agree with it or not, and we’d have to agree to disagree which is how things ended. No harm, no foul.
The first band finished, we loaded in, played, unloaded, and then the headlining band who sounded like, and I’ll quote the owner of Lunchbox, a “young band that you’d see in a Guitar Center commercial” played. Oof. We played well and sounded better than we did the last two night, though I still can’t understand why the kids that were there at the show all stood outside while we played. What is the attraction to standing outside a venue, when bands are playing inside? If you’ve already paid, why not stick around? Though we had a few offers to stay in town, and that would have suited me just fine, we made the decision to drive to Yadkinville, about an hour north of Charlotte, where a bay area transplant and friend of Stewart and me currently lives, and away we went.
Day 4, August 2: Raleigh
I woke up in a haze. Another long night of drinking into the wee early hours of the morning, and another night of sleeping on the floor with my trusty sleeping bag. Though I was lucky enough to have an air mattress as the conduit between the floor and my sleeping bag. And it can’t hurt that I had a bedroom to myself to sleep in.
I always feel a bit weird writing letters, or writing in my journal in the company of others. Sometimes writing seems to be so private and personal, this being one of those times. There’s the feeling that the others surrounding me are going to, in a sense, sit back and wonder if I am writing anything about them. They’d wonder If I am going to scrutinize their actions, or am I holding back a little in my conversations only to have something to write about. To be honest, I do write about the things I may not talk about; the everyday frustrations of being cooped up in a van that’s approximately half the size of my bathroom when empty, or the seemingly innocuous observations that are meaningless to anyone but myself. In reality everyone else could probably care less what I am doing or what I am writing about, and I probably am being a little more than paranoid. Never the less it was nice to have the solace of my own room so I could do such things, especially being such a private person that enjoys having alone time.
The sounds of the morning filled the house: pots and pans on the stove, the sizzle of scrambled eggs, that crackling and popping sound of bacon for the folks that eat it, and the quiet but lively conversations in the kitchen. It was wonderful waking up in a manner that was close to that of waking up at home. The stress that accompanies staying at a hotel was absent and since there was only an hour and a half drive to Raleigh I could soak it all in…take my time. I’d much rather have the luxury of time than the feeling of being rushed. I think most people would. The agenda for the day: eat breakfast, take a quick jog, clean myself up, finish writing a letter, and hit the road.
I decided to take a jog with breakfast on the verge of being digested. Yadkinville: how can I describe it. From what I understand about this little southern town, it at one point or another was quite a large farming area in the rolling hills of North Carolina. Yadkinville’s main crop was tobacco. But something had to be done to keep those farmers from losing everything with tobacco farming going the way of the buffalo . The solution was to grow grapes with the intent of eventually becoming a major player in the wine industry. Apparently the wine isn’t the best, nor is it the worst. At the same time they are still relatively new to growing grapes and producing wine, so setting the industry standard is probably the last thing on their (farmers and wine producers) minds. I guess the intent is to have an area in the east that would rival Napa Valley sometime in the distant future.
I think it’s great that the farmers have a way to supplant the old with the new, but at the same time North Carolina has a long way to go if they are going to rival Napa Valley. I’m not talking about the quality of the grapes or wine per se, more so about the general affect or attitude of the community. It would be pointing out the obvious to say that a red state or non progressive attitude permeates everything. I couldn’t help but feel the ghosts of the past lingering with every confederate flag or sticker that I saw. Though I am used to seeing confederate flags all around me in Florida, it’s a bit different seeing them in a place like North Carolina where, generally speaking, that mindset has been a dominant one for some time. It’s easier to pass things off in Florida as being the rumblings of a few stray nut-cases that pine for the days of old. But in many places in the deep south those ideas never really went away. The was never really any pangs for returning to the glory days of the past because many of those folks still lived it. Of course some cities stand as exceptions, Asheville being an obvious one. Though I will say Yadkinville is really pretty and quiet…peaceful.
After spending a little more time hanging out with old (and for some of us new) friends, it was time to hit the road. And from one set of friends to another we would go. We’d have more comfortable digs to look foreword too since we were staying just outside of Raleigh, at a good friends house. We’d have plenty of time to take it easy before our show. A win win situation if I may say so. We said our goodbyes and set forth east toward the Triangle area, or Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill.
To put it bluntly, I had no positive expectation about playing in Raleigh. Bear with me on this one. Up until that point we played at a DIY record store in both Gainesville and Charlotte, and a dive bar in St. Augustine. Those three venues suited us well. In setting up the tour I tried desperately to get shows in Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill. I tried record stores, punk houses, art spaces, bar, and restaurants. And every place failed except one: The DIVEbar in Raleigh. Wow, not just any old dive bar, “Thee one and only Dive Bar.” I felt honored. Go ahead, look it up…I’ll give you a moment.
I’d heard that The DIVEbar, similar to the Brass Mug in Tampa, was a metal bar that booked other genre’s of “aggressive music”. I must say, it was very easy to get a show there as well, yet it was under the pretenses that the show would be free, and we’d get paid from money made at the bar only if the bar made $600 or more. You see where this is going. Reluctantly, against my better judgement, I said yes since no one else would book us. All the while knowing full well that the folks at the venue wouldn’t promote the show since they sent us a list of alternative radio stations and weekly publications to send our listing to.
I have an enormous problem with venues and promoters not doing their jobs and asking bands to step up in lieu of their incapability to do their job. This is especially so with bands that are on tour and really have no concept of what the respective cities are really like beyond the little bits and pieces of picked up from talking to people, or doing a little research on the internet.
Granted, it is easier to book a tour now than ever. Hell, it’s even easier booking a tour now than it was a mere seven years ago. If anything the internet has made it much easier. At the click of a button promoters have instant access to mp3’s, pictures, and other important information regarding a band. At the click of a button a promoter can send out mass emails to people on their email list, radio stations, record stores, and weekly publications. Ideally these things should make the lives of the promoters easier so they could have more time getting local bands to play. Promoters, now that they have more time, can put out the posters that a band or label makes, or in the least, they can put the fliers that they make in more places than the door of the venue hosting the show. I digress.
We arrived in Fuquay, got where we’d be sleeping sorted out, and took it easy for a little before the search for food would consume us. Fuquay, I noticed, was similar to Brandon with lot’s of strip malls and chain restaurants. We ate lunch and took it easy for a little. After, we made our way to the venue to find that the promoter did nothing to promote the show, AND wouldn’t even be attending the show. One word: Asshole. To add insult to injury, the driver side window wouldn’t roll up.
For better or worse, we were in Raleigh to play a show, so we had to make the best of the situation. Truth be told, I would have been content walking around Raleigh all night. Raleigh, from what I could tell, was similar to Charlotte with a bit more of a big city feel. In short, I liked Raleigh. I liked that though Raleigh was a relatively large city, it is divided up into smaller diverse neighborhoods. I liked walking from one area to another without seeing the stock standard strip malls inhabited by chain stores and restaurants. Had I spent more time there I may have had a different impression, but this is the impression that I got from the limited amount of time that was spent there. And I’m more than happy to walk around in willful ignorance until I find otherwise. We made it back to The DIVEbar around 10:00, and all of my worst suspicions had come to fruition.
With no opening band, it was up to us to be the sole entertainers for the evening. We figured that we would give it thirty more minutes before we’d start playing. Maybe the venue would fill in a bit more beyond the ten or so friends of the bartender that had shown up. I was mistaken. I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. Give me the two drinks promised by the MIA promoter, let us play as short of a set as possible, and let me get out of there. The same general attitude was shared by the rest of the band. Oddly enough, the people attending the show felt the same: one by one they made their way out the door as we played. At least we were all on the same page about something. Here here to consistency.
Thank you and good night. We were at The DIVEbar long enough after to finish our drinks and load the van. On to bigger and better things, namely driving back to the house and taking it easy. Having the opportunity to sleep upstairs in a room with an actual bed was a plus to boot. We’d have a long drive to Baltimore the next day and a little rest was in order.
Day’s 5 and 6, August 3 and 4: Baltimore
Pt. One
9:00 AM wake up calls do not bother me in the least when they follow an early night in, and I had more than enough sleep since I fell asleep around midnight. It was actually nice to fall asleep relatively early seeing as I’d not fallen asleep before 4:00 AM since tour began. Actually, I’d been burning the candle at both ends well before we loaded the van and hit the road. There was also something nice and calming about waking up before everyone else. And with the exception of Bill chopping wood in his sleep, the house was silent. That silence was abbreviated though; the rest of the guys would wake up sooner than later because of the long six hour trek we had in front of us. A hot cup of coffee, a jog, and a shower were in order.
One by one, everyone woke up finding us one person closer to the hot, long drive to Baltimore with the inevitable waking of Stewart, Jeremy, and Bill. On one hand, staying in North Carolina was something I craved. I wanted to explore. I wanted to see the mountains. I wanted to see the stereotypical little old Appalachian man with the corn-cob pipe and shotgun, protecting his stereotypical still or stills…Sort of like Snuffy Smith. Hell, I wanted some moonshine from said stereotypical Snuffy Smith like old Appalachian man. Though I know that the stereotypical Snuffy Smith like old Appalachian man does not exist in real life or at least in this day and age, I wanted to find out for myself. I was torn. As much as I wanted to stay, we were in North Carolina for a reason; a reason that would carry us later in the day to Baltimore, and then in the forthcoming days to DC, Richmond, Asheville, Atlanta, and then home.
I convinced myself that I would parish at the hands of the rattle-trap like beast that we called our van, though I knew (actually, I had to reinforce this idea time and again) that I’d come out this alive and able to travel up here again sometime shortly thereafter. With that slightly consoling thought I dropped off the spare key in the mailbox; we rearranged our personal belongings among the amps and guitars, merch and drums, and made our way east on 40 toward I-95. Goodbye Raleigh/Durham/Chapel Hill, hello open road.
40 led to I-95 and we sped north past the North Carolina state line into Virginia. We sped north past Richmond and eventually into DC. We sped north into Baltimore County, and then Baltimore minutes later. Every fissure between slabs of asphalt, random bump, and Beltway exit sign closer. I wanted out of the van. I was tired, hot, and hungry, and oddly enough anxious. Not anxious like I can’t wait, more so like I am really nervous.
I have some great friends in that city and mulled over moving to Baltimore for quite some time, at least until the last time I visited. Ivy, our old drummer lives there. She’s the one that helped us with a show after the show previously booked at the Charm City Art Space fell though. She is one of my nearest and dearest friends, but unfortunately time and geography have not been kind to our friendship. We still keep in touch, but unfortunately not nearly as much as we used to.
In a manner of speaking it boils down to this: we, in general (you know…as humans), move different places and surround ourselves with a different set of friends. We visit and keep in touch as much as we can, but slowly our lives begin to change little by little. Not necessarily in the manner that we become completely different people, but we surround ourselves with new friends that we have something in common with. To these friends, we grow close. We create bonds with these friends similar to those of the ones at home. It makes perfect sense. Humans are social creatures and we need some sort of support group to help us through things.
Inevitably those weekly or bi-weekly phone calls turn into a monthly or bi-monthly phone calls, then random text messages or emails, and so on down the line. Contact on the phone is great, but it only goes so far unless you choose to never leave the confines of your dwelling. No, as social creatures we like to go places in the company of others, or ask for the support of that company.
It’s silly to even predicate this with “we” that move away because we all do this at one time or another whether we move or not. I guess it’s just easier to blame time and geography. It’s easier to take the responsibility from your hands and place it firmly into to the hands of the abstract. Maybe I extrapolated things too much. Maybe I should just have said people move and eventually we all grow apart. Whatever the case, the friendship is never lost, it’s just different. Unfortunately Ivy and my friendship, though not a casualty, is different.
I can’t help but to feel a great amount of guilt surrounding her and me. We started this band together after our old band ceased to exist. Somehow the band became an extension of our friendship. We wrote songs together, played as a two piece, and even though (later when we became a three and eventually a four piece) we had a revolving door of band mates while she was still in the band, it never stopped being an extension of our friendship. Then Ivy moved to Baltimore, but we had every intention to keep the band going. Though it was a long distance thing, she’d come down every few months to practice and we’d try to cram a run of shows in, or I’d fly up and practice. In the end our personal and work lives took a greater hold on each of us, and those trips to and from our respective areas became few and far in between, and it became harder to organize. When things got too difficult to function as an active band (and with the blessing of Ivy) Jeremy joined.
On one hand we really wanted to write new songs and play shows and we couldn’t be a functioning active band the way we were, but it was really hard to get past the fact that this was more than a band to she and I. I felt like our friendship, once defined by the band in a manner of speaking, was dealt a blow. The songs we wrote were ours, and as a means to an end we’d (with the sans Ivy lineup) never play those songs again. But I’ve still the lingering guilt of hurting my friend. And as inane as it may sound, I’ve the guilt of havening the same moniker since in a manner of speaking, we’re a different band. Then there’s the stress and worry, the wonder if am I at least carrying on with the same spirit that she and I instilled in this beast? Would she like the songs?
Am I making something out of nothing? Maybe so, but I can say that some things are different than they used to be, and because of that I was uneasy and nervous.
From my past experiences in Baltimore, a common theme regarding traffic has presented itself: Driving in Baltimore is hell. I’m sure it can’t compare to driving in New York, or rush hour in LA, nor can it compare to the maniacs that drive in Miami. It does however have its own numb-skull manic drivers, and driving down narrow roads that are paved poorly adds no consolation. With every pot-hole we hit, feels like the van is going to rip apart and we’ll die in a comical (at least to some) manner, strewn out in the middle of Charles Street bludgeoned to death by our own amps and guitars. The mass transit system that runs smack in the middle of the road is scary to say the least, to drive next to. In short, I hate driving in big cities to begin with, and Baltimore just adds a myriad of examples why that is the case.
Our show was booked at a pretty great restaurant located in Hamden called Golden West. Ever see any John Waters films that take place in Baltimore? Yeah, well they took place in that area of Baltimore. Ever see any of the locals in those movies? Well yeah, the depiction of them in those movies, in reality, hits the nail on the head. What Williamsburg is to New York, Hamden is to Baltimore because the cost of living is relatively cheap. Why? The locals in north Baltimore are a tad, how do I say, eccentric yet relatively harmless. Oh north Baltimore….
OK, now have you ever seen the show “The Wire”? Well that show takes place in east and west Baltimore. And in similar fashion to the characters in John Waters films, “The Wire” is a fairly good depiction of east and west Baltimore. You want to avoid that part of town when the lights affixed to the cameras at the top of light poles, or the side of buildings are blinking very quickly, or are just solidly lit. Yeah, well we inadvertently ended up there later in the night. But that’s neither here nor now. The city seems kind of bleak, and I can’t for the life of me figure out the attraction that it held for me, but attract me it did and it’s here that we’d be for a couple of days.
This show would also serve as Stewart’s last of tour since he’d have to fly home for work the first thing in the morning. In the spirit of camaraderie, and after a trip over my friend’s house, we made our way to a Mexican restaurant in Hamden. While we waited for a booth, a couple were gleefully making out in the corner. It wasn’t quite as endearing, charming or cute as it sounds, rather quite the opposite. They were wasted, it was 6:00 PM, we were repulsed, and finally escorted to our table. And we ate, and all was well, until through the open window we heard a scream. The better half of the said drunk couple felt the urge to relieve herself, and the gutter turned out to be the most appropriate place to do so. Lovely. Welcome to Baltimore boys…
We made our way to Golden West after a trip to the liquor store and back to my friend’s house for a few pre show cocktails. The first order of business when we arrived? Unload the van? Hardly. More pre show cocktails were in line, and this time they were free. It was Stewart’s last show after all. We drank then unloaded, then drank and set up, then drank and played, then drank and hung out with friends, then drank some more. All the while Stewart stayed sober since he was driving tonight, and had to wake up early to fly out.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk about the show though. It went well…really well, the best of tour so far actually. And it only stands to reason if we’d been playing every night that we’d get tighter. The Mishaps were the headlining band and they were pretty great. Though to be quite honest, and potentially full of myself, I am pretty proud that we held our own.
The night was quickly coming to an end, and we’d soon have to drive 15 minutes south to the hotel we’d be staying at. I know, it sounds pretty opulent, but it really isn’t. We just wanted to be able to stay somewhere close to BWI (the airport) so that Stewart could take the 6:00 AM shuttle, and eventual red eye flight home. As sad as I was to say good bye to my friends, it wasn’t all bad: the rest of us would be able to hang out in Baltimore the day following this. Heading out of town was not that big of a deal…well at least in theory. Getting out of town, in the literal sense, ended up being a bit more of a harrowing task than we’d ever assumed or imagined.
A friend of Bill’s from Tampa happened to be in town for the night, and drove her rental car to the show. She’d be flying out the following day as well. She may or may have had too much to drink, so she asked Bill to drive. Now, neither of them had much, if any, experience in Baltimore. They led the way. We missed a freeway exit and ended up in east Baltimore in route to west Baltimore. Those flashing lights I mentioned before? They were flashing pretty fast. Oops.
Bill called my cell phone and we made plans to lead this wayward caravan since I had more recent experience there, and felt more confident. May I also mention that I’d been drinking a bit, and my co-pilot skills weren’t top notch? Jeremy didn’t think that that area looked any worse than the bad areas in St. Pete. He also didn’t know that at that point in the year there had been approximately 200 unsolved deaths in Baltimore, many of which coming from this area. After a few drunken phone calls to friends that were also drunk, we made our way to the highway, and eventually to the hotel. Stewart would leave, and the rest of us would soldier on. But things would be different. At least there’s tomorrow.
Pt. Two
I’d not noticed when we arrived at the Microtel the night before that the wall behind the bed was covered with one seemingly continuous mirror which stretched from wall to wall, and rose from waist height to the ceiling. The mirror gave the impression that this was a sleazy hotel, and not one in which families would stay in. I couldn’t help but wonder how many business men “slept” in the left bed of room 235 prior to my arrival. I felt dirty.
Check out was at noon, and from there we’d drive back in to the city to the 31st Street house. Though we were on the road for only six days at that point, a day off was definitely a nice change of pace.
With nowhere to be at no specific time, we got in to the Charles Village area of Baltimore at around 12:30 PM, parked the van, and proceeded to sit on my friends front porch for about an hour until we mustered up enough motivation to walk to a cafe. Coffee was definitely needed…coffee is always needed. It was definitely nice to take things at a snails pace. As much as I like being on tour, I also like to take things slowly; take time to smell the roses as it were. We walked back from the cafe to the 31st Street house, more specifically the front porch, where we’d sit for the fair majority of the day.
We watched some of the neighbors come and go, while others worked on their porches or walked their dogs. The all too familiar buzz of the police helicopters filled the air as they flew overhead. Busy stopping crime in all of the sectors of the city I suppose. I did mention that there were approximately 200 unsolved deaths in Baltimore, right? On the porch we sat draining bottles, all the while hatching plans of starting our own intensive community for thirty somethings that have more in common with the 60-90 year old demographic. The disaffected youth have got to have somewhere to go when they get “older,” right? It was a beautiful day as the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky, and a cool breeze swept through.
Ivy came by and plans were made to do something else, namely go to Camden Yards to watch Orioles play the Tigers. Though I’m not a fan of either team I am a fan of baseball so it was a no brainer. Yes, we’d love to go to the game! That is I’d love to go, and I guess Jeremy and Bill really had no choice but to as well. Sorry guys. A few more beers were set up and knocked down. We packed in to Ivy’s car and made our way from Charles Village toward the Federal Hill area where the stadium is located.
Very quickly we realized that we wouldn’t be able to go to the game unless we flew to Detroit, nor would we be able to watch the game unless we went to a bar. What we didn’t know until we were en route, was that the game happened to be an away game. To a bar we went instead.
Though there was still a bit of nervous anticipation in me, it was definitely nice to spend time with my good pal doing something normal. It seems like the last few times Ivy and I hung out things were weird, and fortunately this time things were normal which was nice. One by one pint glasses were drained, peanuts were eaten while their shells were discarded on the floor, and the game (though on the bar TV) was all but forgotten.
Eventually we got food, went to another bar for more drinks, and stories of times long gone were shared. A few more friends arrived and more chairs were pulled up to our curbside table. After a few more drinks, and a few more stories and laughs were shared, an odd later thirty something man came up to bum a smoke. Though we’d probably leave sooner than later, the talk of odd late thirty something man about the band Tool put us on the fast track (to leaving), and leave the bar we did. Back to the house, and more specifically back to the porch we went to wind the evening down.
Before we even arrived back at the 31st Street house, some discussion as to where we’d be staying arose. Bill’s friend in Silver Spring offered her apartment, and that seemed to be his choice. I preferred staying in Baltimore since we already had a place to stay. That, and the urge spend whatever time that we had left with my friends compelled me toward staying in town. Jeremy didn’t care either way. Bill preferred sleeping somewhere with air-conditioning, and wanted a hot shower in the morning. Though there would be no air conditioning at the 31st Street house, there would be hot showers. There would also be no worry of having to sober up since all of us passed the time drinking glasses of our preferred vices. Reason defeated comfort this time.
Still, the idea of comfort being a luxury weighed on my mind. I’ll be the first to admit that I am a creature of comfort. I love sleeping in a comfortable bed, and I love having the opportunity to take a nice hot shower in the morning. I also preferred a nice hot cup of fresh coffee in the morning to the watered down swill I’d been consuming up and down I-95 for the past week. These luxuries in life have undoubtedly spoiled me to an extent, but they have not made me feel as though that I deserve such things, especially when away from home. I couldn’t blame Bill for desiring the comforts of home but, again, these comforts are luxuries…privileges. By no means are they inalienable rights, and any (and all) conversations on the subject were wearing thin. All I cared about was having the opportunity to sleep somewhere, and it would be a plus if there were some sort of creature comforts included in the package. If not, no big deal; my good friend diphenhydramine would be by my side to take care of any less than desirable sleeping locales.
Back at the house, exhaustion set in and we all decided to call it a night. Bill and Jeremy took the downstairs room with the couches, and I took the upstairs room with the door secluding me from the world, and buffering me from the lumberjack below. They had a cooler room and relative comfort, and I had the room with absolutely no circulation of cooler air. The room was hot, though I was warned of this prior too claiming it as my sanctuary. Still, the prospect of peace and quiet by and far outweighed the prospect of dehydration. Propping a fan into the open the window offered little to nothing toward cooling things off. To say this room was sweltering would cheapen how hot it actually was. On the plus side, I’d not have to hear snoring. You win some and lose some I suppose.
Day 7, August 5: Washington, DC
Rested, refreshed, and maybe just a bit hot (though surprisingly things could have been much worse as hot as it was) I woke up and put my shoes on. A cool breeze hit my face the instant I made it out the front door. All summer long TV meteorologists spoke of the unusually cool summer for the mid Atlantic and northeast regions, and I was bound and determined to at least feel some semblance of the cooler weather before being cramped into the van again. Everyone else in the 31st Street house was still asleep, so around the neighborhood I went. I jogged then showered but still the restless thoughts ran over and over in my head that after today and tomorrow, the majority of my time would be spent in the van driving. I’d not have the luxury of stretching my legs or having cool breezes on my face, nor would I have the quiet contemplative moments where I could just sit and think. So back on the streets this time for a leisurely jaunt around the neighborhood, which led back to that little café (that we’d eaten at the day before) followed by drinking coffee on the porch.
For one reason or another Charles Village felt cooler than anywhere else in Baltimore. One of my friends mentioned that a small river used to run through the area, a river that was filled in to make room for more buildings in the ever expanding city. Though the river was filled in, the cool breezes that accompanied the flow of the river, for one inexplicable reason or another never faded away. The feel of that breeze took me back to when I was a child. Back to when cool spring breezes swept across the city from the Gulf of Mexico. Back to when my brother and I would run around the front or back yard of our house, or hang out beneath the orange trees picking, peeling, and eating those oranges. Back before the days of work and worry.
I often find myself staring out a window at work on days like this, dreaming of being somewhere else. For once I wasn’t at work or trapped in my house, I was somewhere else and outside taking everything in: from trash strewn streets to gardens brimming with overgrown tomato plants. It’s in these times that I remember what it is to be me, not just what is expected of me by the external forces that have found their ways into my everyday life. And the wildflowers grew between the cracks in the sidewalk and in the alleyways between sets of row-houses.
Time wore on, and our eventual departure was imminent. Soon we’d be to jumping back into the van and heading south. It’s funny, I came to Baltimore with a certain amount of trepidation and anxiety, and now soon I’d be leaving but not really wanting to go. I liked the downtime and I liked seeing the friends that I hardly ever get to see. And if the road was going to take me somewhere else today, it wouldn’t do so without a fight…or at least lunch. With that we ate our lunch, packed our things into the van, said our goodbyes, and made our way south on I-95 toward Washington, DC. South through the city and county of Baltimore (respectively), and into Silver Spring, MD just outside of Washington, DC. We arrived at Jackie’s Restaurant, which had a back room where our show was supposed to take place, around 1:45 PM. After which we found our way to the Metro station to have a look around DC.
Talk about a convoluted situation. A week or so before tour I received an email from the owner of the venue that initially was going to have us. The venue was called the DC Mini Gallery, and it seemed like a pretty amazing DIY show space/gallery. Judging by the shows that were booked before and after ours, the Mini Gallery also seemed like a pretty solid show space. Not so. The email made mention that neighbors of the Mini Gallery called the cops one night complaining of underage show attendees being served alcohol. From there the cops shut the space down, and you can probably guess the rest.
The owner of the Mini Gallery was able to move all of the Mini Gallery shows to Jackie’s which seemed amazing in theory, but you know how it goes sometimes. Unfortunately this happened to be more in the “you know how it goes” range. Though I really cannot fault the venue on matters like this. Those of you that have gone to shows for a while now can attest to what I am speaking of. Though I will say that when we arrived at Jackie’s, no fliers were to be found, nor were the tour posters that we sent out posted anywhere. Red flags abound.
Sorry, but I’m not the biggest fan of DC. Though to be fair, I’ve never really spent much time in DC. The time I have spent, previous to this trip, has left a relatively sour taste in my mouth. It would probably be better for me to say I don’t hate DC, but in a world of places I’d rather go, DC ranks toward the bottom just above Miami. Perhaps if I spent more time seeing things beyond the federal buildings or Smithsonian museums my opinion would be different. And I can honestly say that the other (very few keep in mind) restaurants and bars I’ve been to have been cool. But the traffic and the tourists, oy vey!
We took the metro into the heart of the most touristy area in DC to see the sites. Similar to being desensitized by violence on TV, in movies, and in video games, seeing the capitol building and the like didn’t really foster any strong emotional responses in me. Maybe it had something to do with seeing them the last time I was in DC. Then again it may also have something to do with the overly entertaining aspect of this particular area of DC. It almost seemed as though we were walking through Disney with the over priced food carts that sat at the steps of many attractions, and tour guides pointing out all of the important sites to take in. In a sense, an air of entertainment by and far superseded the feeling of importance that the city is to represent. To be fair though, the Smithsonian Institute of Air and Space was pretty interesting.
Before we knew it, we were back on the metro heading back toward Silver Spring. After a good six stops on the Metro, and a very random and rather scary conversation between Jeremy and a (more than) seemingly unhinged gentleman, we were back at the Silver Spring Metro station. And we walked. We were supposed to be at the venue for load in at 7:00 PM, and the show would start around 8:00 PM. After a brief 15 or so minute walk from the Metro station we were where we should have been, right on time. I was pretty excited. The next two nights would find us playing with our good friend Joe and the band Landmines, both from Richmond. Unfortunately that excitement would fade away only to be replaced with the sinking feeling of disappointment.
At the door of the venue we were met by the kid that would be running the show for the night. Apparently the owner of the Mini Gallery, who booked us, in the first place would not be making his presence felt on this fine eve, I guess even he didn’t want to touch the looming debacle. There weren’t any obvious attempts to get any promotion, or any word about the show out there. At least none that I could see. I did hear that someone in northern VA made fliers for the show, but couldn’t confirm that rumor. “Do you know if any fliers were made and passed out anywhere?” To which the young kid in charge for the night replied “I don’t know.” Great, it’s going to be one of those nights.
We loaded in, moved the van, and then went our separate ways. Joe and Jeremy did their own things, and I made my way to Landmines’ van to drink beers with Joe and the rest. Every now and then one of us would check back in at the venue to ask what time should we start, only to hear the same ole trite response of, “Let’s give it a little more time to see if people show up.” The minutes accrued and became an hour, yet no one showed up. And hours past. The folks from Richmond were getting restless, and a general attitude of “If we leave now we can get back to Richmond before last call” started to permeate. In their eyes, what was the point of playing to no one when we’re all playing together the following night? To be honest, I couldn’t disagree with their line of reasoning.
As much as I wanted to play because after all, that’s why we were in DC to begin with, I couldn’t help but feel as though there really was no point. Logistically, all of us would be playing together in Richmond, and the folks working the show didn’t even seem as though they wanted to be there themselves. It wasn’t our fault that there wasn’t any promotion, nor was it our fault that no one was there. Not one person came to the venue, not even bar patrons from the connected restaurant stopped by and feigned interest. Demoralized, we were asked what we wanted to do by the people running the show, and everyone came to a general consensus: let’s count our losses, pack up our respective vans, and reconvene the next day in Richmond.
We left once the van was packed, leftover beers were choked down, and any other business was attended to. With that we made our way to Bill’s friends house for an evening filled with “The State” and some weird green Argentinean liquor that tasted weird at first but ended up being quite delicious when mixed with Coke. I couldn’t help but feel that we could be spending more time in Baltimore and wished we were, but in an apartment we sat getting shitty, and watching re-runs of 90’s sketch comedy. Such is life I suppose, over and out.
Day 8, August 6: Richmond, VA
The time to depart could not come soon enough. It’s not as though Bill’s friend was unaccommodating, because she was indeed very accommodating, nor was it that I was unappreciative of the hospitality, because a comfortable rest is always a valued rest in my book. I felt like we’d had too much down time and this wasn’t one of the times where I wanted to take time to smell the roses, I wanted to play. I wanted to sweat and scream out any frustrations that I may have been experiencing, and too much down time seriously did nothing to lull those frustrations. And there were many.
Admittedly things could have been worse; the van could have broken down, or I could have lost my voice. Even worse, I could have caught the swine flu or something just as shitty yet just as highly ironic in the scheme of things. No, an extra day off was the least of my worries nor was it that big of a deal, yet I still had a sour taste in my mouth due to the pretenses from which that extra day off came to be. DC, you have failed to impress me yet again.
Somewhere along the line I realized that I have issues controlling my anger. With a short temper and a hot head, it’s easy for me to lose my faculties. It’s too easy to tear into someone then the next moment wonder what the hell just happened. Does that mean that at times my anger is not justified? Of course not, that would be silly. Though, I’d be lying if I said that I handle myself with tact and respect one hundred percent of the time. I’d also be lying if I were to say that I don’t need help with expressing myself in a positive manner. In short, this is not an attribute that I am particularly proud of, and I want to do something about it.
I can remember being scared of my father as a child. Let’s not make a mistake; I wasn’t beaten by my father, but his anger that scared the living shit out of me. And I was scared for good reason, he was loud and intimidating. I swear I saw smoke come from his ears a few times, and on more than one occasion my mom had to grab my brother and me only to take us somewhere else while he calmed down. So what does that have to do with me? I’ve noticed that I’ve started reacting the same way when I get angry and I certainly don’t want to put my loved ones through the same sort of power trips that I was subjected as a child. I can also say that there were a few times in the van that I wanted to explode, and it took a great amount of patience and will to keep myself in check.
It was the little things that had the greatest impact on me in and out of the van; the obligatory statements of preemptive necessities, or the pressures put on me self imposed and otherwise, or the lack of common courtesy also known as “the lack of willing to lend a helping hand.” It could have just been me, but in too many cases it seemed as though Jeremy and I were taking the fair share of the responsibilities including, but not limited to, the loading and unloading the van and driving. Even though negative things weren’t being uttered at the moment, the actions compounded with things mentioned days before implied that maybe the three of us weren’t on the same page. In the end, it is OK to have differing objectives, views, or goals. Though, it does get a bit tense when those differing objectives, views, and goals act as a means to polarize the others. I bit my tongue on more than one occasion.
Showers were taken and caffeine was consumed. We were on the road again after a quick stop at the gas station for fuel and yet more caffeine. On the plus side, we were making enough money where we wouldn’t have to pay for gas out of our collective pockets. Unfortunately we were starting to get a bit strapped for cash with no show the night before. I know it’s been discussed a great many times before by people, both more and less eloquent than I, so I won’t get too much into the subject.
When you’re on the road, it becomes that much more apparent that we (as a whole) in the underground music community need to get our collective heads out of the 1980’s punk economic ethos. It really is unfair to assume that a $3.00 to $5.00 show will suffice when gas costs anywhere from $2.30 a gallon to $3.00. It’s ridiculous to assume that $50.00 made from a show is enough when a van’s gas tank holds 30 gallons, and gas is $2.50. It does help though.
The argument could also be put in a different manner, and the responsibility could be put on the bands for clogging things up, making it harder for bands that are ready to tour to do so. In a nutshell, if you’ve not even recorded a demo you probably aren’t ready to hit the road. Essentially, the more bands there are on the road, the less willing the public at large is going to be to come out and see your band play. Bands are a dime a dozen, and because of that shows really aren’t that special any more. Whatever the case and no matter the argument, we would be terribly low on funds if our Richmond show turned out to be a bust.
The drive south on I-95 was a wet one. At the helm and uncomfortable, I drove Lil’ Champ toward Richmond. Have I ever mentioned that I hate driving in the rain? That ever consuming and irrational fear that maybe there wasn’t enough tread on the tires filled me. What’s even worse was that the tires were in good shape and Lil’ Champ was running well, actually it ran better than I thought it would. I must say that if I have to drive in the rain, a drive like the one from DC to Richmond is preferable; the roads are relatively straight, they’re flat, and at roughly only a two hour drive it wouldn’t take too long to get there.
The show was originally booked in the basement of an Indian restaurant called Ruchee Express, but had to be moved to a basement of an apartment complex, lovingly dubbed Safe Haven, for one reason or another. Because it was in the basement of an apartment complex, the show had to start and end early which was fine by us, we’d have to leave after to start our drive toward Asheville. After a quick jaunt into the land of the lost, Tony from Landmines met us at a 7-11 and led us to our buddies (Joe) house where we’d waste the day away taking it easy.
Joe and Jeremy (who happened to be visiting from New Jersey) are good friends from way back. I used to book their band in the bay area before they signed to a decent indie label and started playing bigger shows, and going on bigger tours. They in turn booked my old band at the Lombardy St. house where they live some time ago. I haven’t been back to Richmond since my old band played there, so it was definitely nice to get the chance to play there again. Lately it seems like the only times I’ve been able to hang out with either of them (or the rest of the band for that matter) have been at the respective weddings of our mutual friends. To say I was excited would be understating things. Jeremy and Bill watched a movie inside, and I sat with Tony, Joe, and Jeremy in the screened porch reminiscing while they smoked. We willed the day away in this manner until 6:00PM when it was time to make our way across town to the venue.
We were to be at the Safe Haven by 6:15PM, but the person who booked the show wasn’t there when we arrived. He did, however, show up shortly thereafter. The apartment complex where Safe Haven was located was directly across from the freeway in a fairly quiet neighborhood. Richmond, like Baltimore or Savannah, is one of those cities where you have a decent neighborhood butted up against a fairly high crime neighborhood. We figured the show would get busted almost instantly since this area of town was quiet, and because the show was taking place in the basement of an apartment complex. Nevertheless we were there to play a show, and play a show is what we were bound and determined to do.
The entrance to the Safe Haven was around back, and we had make our way down a set of narrow wooden stairs to get into the tiny basement. The apartment complex’s fuse box was on one of the walls that surrounded the area that we’d be playing which was a bit scary to say the least. I couldn’t help but visualizing one of us, sweaty, bumping into it, thusly killing he who bumped into the box, and blowing Richmond’s entire power grid. I can see the headlines, “Crappy Punk Band From Florida Takes Toll on Richmond’s Infrastructure.” I always had a secret dream of burning out in a grand manner, not unlike the Billy Idol video for “Dancing with Myself.” Then again I never really thought that that dream could come to fruition. Apparently it could, and I felt as though I was staring my inevitable and eventual demise right in the face.
It had that stale, musty smell that is always indicative of a basement. The area where the show would go on was roughly the size of a small storage unit or a large walk in closet. It would be tight enough for us to get our stuff in, and I completely empathized with Landmines who happens to be a five piece. Oof. After waiting around for a bit, Our New Nation took the, uhh…stage, and proceeded to play an amazing set of scrappy basement, early Lookout or Too Many Records style of punk. The packed basement wore a collective smile on its face, myself included. It was our turn to navigate the dark narrow stairs with our equipment when they finished.
Jeremy and I started to unload the van, we had an organized system that worked. Bill came into our organized fray and started to unload the amps as well. But he smacked my amplifier with the bass cabinet. I cringed and my heart broke a little. “Bill, do you think you could move stuff out of the way before you start to take anything out?!?” I asked curtly. I was angry though, and for good reason after, all I paid good money for my amplifier and I’d like to keep it as nice as I possibly could. “I never thought about that,” he replied. I envisioned myself doing something stupid, but walked away mumbling instead.
The room was hot, dank, and cramped when we loaded in, but none of that mattered when we started playing. We played a fairly lively set of songs, though we didn’t play as long as could because of the stifling heat which when combined with the dank, stale air made it almost impossible to breathe, much less sing. I was extremely nervous; this being our first show without Stewart though I’d like to think we held things together well. We loaded the van and made our way back down into the basement where Landmines followed us, and then Joe came after. Both Landmines and Joe made us look like amateurs, though I’d like to think we did well.
Joe offered his house for us to stay the night, but the trip from Richmond to Asheville was a good seven hours and we decided to hit the road for a few hours to make up some of the time. Just before we hit the road someone offered me ‘shrooms. I chuckled. We said goodbye and see you soon to our Richmond friends, and made our way to I-395 which would eventually run to I-95, and from I-95 we’d merge with I-85…the proverbial yellow brick road to Hendersonville, NC where we’d get a hotel for the night. But before we’d make it that far a middle of the night argument followed by dinner at Waffle House was in line. All of this would be followed by two more hours of driving through the fog and mountains in the middle of the night. Jacked up on coffee I was mentally aware, yet physically exhausted. I probably could have driven but Jeremy offered to do so, and that he did.
Day 9, August 7: Asheville, NC
Pt. 1
Henderson, NC is nothing but a blip on the map where I-85 meets I-40, the route which would take us across the great state of North Carolina, into the mountains, and into Asheville. Henderson also happened to be the Podunk blip of a city on the map that would save our sanity, and grant us a place to sleep for the night. Be damned the fact that the hotel we slept in lost its air conditioning in the middle of the night (I was dead to the world asleep anyway and didn’t notice) and be damned the fact that musty smells and water-soaked carpet among a variety of unseen critters inhabited the place. The hotel cost a mere fifty dollars which easily split three ways. I awoke to humid southern air both inside and outside of the hotel room, and the need to go for a run.
Henderson offered nothing culturally to the world unless you consider the used tire shop and the fry shack pinnacles of culture. Then again St. Pete, Florida is the home of the genius who created a set of balls that hangs from ones trailer hitch, and such cultural hotspots as the hippie hangout known as the Blueberry Patch, or the Pier. At least the roads were in relatively good shape making my morning jog almost pleasant. I returned to a cup of watered down hotel coffee and a cold shower. The rest of the guys woke up and took part in their morning rituals. The day was well underway, and in similar fashion after a brief check of oil and other important fluids, our trip across the state was underway too. Goodbye Henderson, hello open road.
With the exception of a few bathroom runs, no thanks to the previous nights late trip to Waffle House, our drive across the state was pleasant. With zine in hand, the otherwise boring drive (at least until we hit the mountains) was punctuated with news from home that Jannus Landing (a longtime venue which also happened to be the locale of my first punk show), was pretty much kaput. The person who owns Jannus owes somewhere in the neighborhood of $200,000 in back taxes. Needless to say he needed a miracle to even keep his head above water, much less save the much loved courtyard venue. And though he had bids from interested investors, he turned them down. I guess not wanting to save the cherished hallmark of youthful rebellion (and St. Petersburg’s only major live music venue), as well as his ass never really factored into his line of thinking. Such is life. Sometimes the most reasonable answers to life’s problems aren’t the best ones.
We hit the mountains. Though we wanted to valiantly traverse the peeks of the mighty Appalachians in our steed of steel, the van had a wholly different set of wants. It seems the van wanted to leisurely take on the inclines forcing us to make up time on the slopes. The van rattled and shook, and we laid our praying hands upon her in hopes that she’d pick up steam. Just when things looked to be their worst, she broke from her rut and charged ahead. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the van is a Dodge since you know, if you can’t dodge it then ram it. Or maybe it had something to do with the first incline being the worst and things smoothing out from there. Nevertheless we were back on track racing up, over, and west. The mountains were such a welcome change of scenery from the flat southern terrain that I’d grown accustomed to driving north, south, east, and west on the past nine days.
Not since I was younger had I been to Asheville; I was maybe 15 the last time. Over the span of a few days my mom, step-dad, and I took a trip up north to see snow. We went as far as Asheville, and we headed back south when it became apparent that we were out of luck. We did, however, see a few patches of ice on the rocks where snow had once been, and a slew of textile outlet shops yet neither of which seemed like anything to write home about. It’s easy to be underwhelmed when you’ve this preconceived notion or hope in what will be experienced. And when those notions or hopes don’t pan out, well then you leave with a taste of sour grapes in your mouth. It took me years and years to realize that I hadn’t appreciated that initial trip into the Appalachians, probably because it was attached to my step father whom I wanted nothing to do with. I did inevitably realize that I wanted to go there again.
Earlier in the year my girlfriend and I were supposed to go up there, but (regrettably) that trip failed to pan out. I ran out of money when my cats got sick and my car, conveniently, decided to break down.
Two sick cats and auto repairs: $1,800. Sitting at home grumpy wishing I was somewhere else with my girlfriend: priceless. It’s funny though I wasn’t as excited as I could or should have been about coming back to Asheville even after the amazing propaganda put out by my friends and beer enthusiasts alike, who all declared Asheville to be the mecca of everything Florida isn’t, and to be the land of beer and honey. Why? Because I knew that this is the place my girlfriend and I were supposed to explore and discover together. Though we (the band) wouldn’t be doing as much intensive exploration, pangs of guilt shot through me. Granted at most, we would be getting a bite to eat, visiting a few record stores, hanging out at the venue, maybe getting a few drinks, and crashing at a friends house, I still felt unsteady. The last thing I wanted to do was to step on someone else’s toes which, in the end, I did anyway. Same old me.
The show was booked at a space called the Firestorm Cafe. A friend of mine suggested that we try to get the show there and mentioned that it was a pretty cool place. Firestorm is a worker owned cafe/alternative space/bookstore that hosts speakers, musicians, and the like and seemed right up my alley. The show was booked easily, and here we were on the way to Asheville, a little uncertain about the show, but on the way nonetheless. Uncertain? Well yes, for two reasons: A) What I’d mentioned before, and B) The people who booked the show, though they assured me things would be OK, never found a local band or bands for us to play with. Anyway, it was a Friday night, and by logic (failed or otherwise) people would have to show up, right?
Five O’Clock rolled around, and we coasted into town. We found a place to park after what seemed like five trips up and down the main drag in downtown Asheville in search of roads that existed on paper but not in reality, and a huge bout of cabin fever on my part. I wanted out of the van, and was willing to jump out of the window to escape the confines of the seemingly ever shrinking space that we inhabited. Hot and sweaty, I wanted nothing more than the freedom to stretch my legs and breathe fresh air. “Give Me Freedom, or Give Me Death?” Ha! More like, “Give Me the Freedom to Stretch My Legs, or There Will Be Hell to Pay!” We parked the van in the knick of time and every iota of stress and pent up anxiety manifested itself in the blood lust that is record shopping and finding something to eat. Traffic, stop in your tracks! Make way Asheville or I’ll get all Incredible Hulk on you and your hippie citizens! And with that I flipped three cars, threw an old ladies walker through a drum circle, and punched a hole through a cement wall of a bagel shop. Or, I went to a gift shop, got something to eat at a relatively famous vegan restaurant (at least according to Jeremy), met up with a friend, and then to a couple of record stores. Your choice: reality or alternate reality. Choose.
We made our way back to the van after my foray into cabin fever induced violence, or cabin fever induced spending. Then we heard the earth-shaking sound of drums. No, not like the random guy who plays a drum set or buckets on the corner for change, and not like the Sunday night drum circles on Sunset Beach. This shook the ground. This brought a fear of that sent chills up and down my spine, though it probably sent vibes of euphoria through the spines of those creating it. Was this the sound of a militia beating the drums of war? Hardly. This was bigger…much bigger. More like the biggest drum circles that I’d ever had the opportunity (or misfortune) to experience.
There’s just something about drum circles that makes my skin crawl. Maybe if I had the chance to experience a drum circle in the 1960’s my opinion may be different. But no, I was born in the 1970’s, grew up in the 1980’s listening to punk and new wave, and cut my teeth on the early 1990’s handed down punk and indie rock tapes and records, at a time in which drum circles, were…umm…a bit out of touch with the times. Sure, there was definitely a certain sect of people that saw drum circles in a different light than I, but since I was far removed from those people I couldn’t help but to feel an air of cheesiness in a group of people banging on drums en masse. And that feeling of disdain for all things drum circle were never as intense as this fine day in Asheville. The Firestorm Cafe happened to be located directly across the street from the park where this giant, neigh, massive drum circle was taking place, putting us right in the line of fire of stray “drummers” and effectively making it impossible to move the van when the time would come to do so. So we walked to the venue to check in.
Pt. 2
The Firestorm seemed like a pretty inspiring place though I must admit, it gave me flashbacks to eight years ago when I was involved in a local collective that opened an info-shop back in 2001. The time spent in that collective soured the taste in my mouth for much of the local activist community. That collective ended in a hierarchical power struggle which is ironic, because collectives (by nature) aren’t supposed to be hierarchies. Go figure. To be fair though, I cannot think of many activist groups or collectives that have lasted longer than a handful of years in my home town. It probably doesn’t help that many of the activist groups in St. Petersburg had a revolving door of the same characters so, in a sense, it was just the same collective just under a different name each time, making the same mistakes and failing each time.
Through the many glaring similarities between our failed collective and the Firestorm, a big difference presented itself: this place is successful. I have to hand it to the people of Asheville because the Firestorm is yet another great example (out of the many I’ve not touched upon) of a healthy community, activist or otherwise. Every city has their amazing qualities and less than stellar qualities. I’m sure Asheville is the same. Looking through the eyes of a tourist tends to greener the pastures, but it is outwardly evident that a sustainable community is extremely important to the people that live in Asheville, and because of this, work is put into the community to assure that it is sustainable.
Granted I may hate drum circles with every fiber of my body, but that doesn’t take away the validity or the fact that they are a great way for people to rub shoulders with others. The last time I experienced a mass gathering at home was a year ago when the Ray’s went to the World Series. This mass gathering seemed to be a bit opportunistic in nature. As annoying as they may be, drum circles are gatherings based on cooperation and culture, and not something as frivolous as people having pride in a team that was hated and mocked for the nine years prior to them being contenders.
If anything, the drum circles, worker owned businesses, collectives, organic farms, independently owned breweries, so on and so forth are a testament to a community driven city as opposed to the lifeless city driven communities. Sometimes you have to embrace the culture given and build around it, and not try to make every little beach community like Miami beach, or every moderately large urban area into the next New York. If anything, a community like Asheville should be recognized as an example of what the American dream could and should look like. But I digress.
As much as I liked The Firestorm and my first impressions of Asheville, one thing stood out: With regards to punk or indie rock shows, the Firestorm’s workers were clueless. I’ve learned a few things from my years of booking bands at local venues, and playing in bands: A) If you book a show, promote it. To that end I will say that Firestorm had their whits about them. Besides the fact that they confused us for a local U2 influenced band made up of pharmacists that happened to have the same name as us (which is forgivable and funny), they put out posters out and placed our concert listing in the local weekly publication. B) If you book a band, go out of your way to find local support that will bring the people in. They by an far expelled little to no energy in finding a local band to play leaving us to our devices. C) If you are the promoter of a show, don’t just pawn off your responsibilities on someone else. Enough said on that one. But the coffee was free and delicious, and I took full advantage of that!
We loaded in to a less than full cafe of coffee drinkers, people surfing the web, and others engaged in conversation. None of the people looked as though they were there for a rock n’ roll show, and the odds were good that the moment the first chord was struck they’d make a b-line toward the front door.
“Excuse me, what time should we start the show,” I asked.
After all, it was a fairly reasonable question to ask considering that it didn’t look as though people were beating down the door to watch us play. I knew that the show would have to be done by 11:00, and it was a good idea to find out the flow of things with it being 8:30 at that point.
“Well, the drum circle gets out at 9:30 and people usually start filtering in after that so maybe then,” said the pirate like barista at the counter.
“Pirate like” based on looks alone; his speech was more akin to a southern dialect crossed with Madonna speaking in a faux British accent, and his mannerisms breathed an air of southern gentleman. A far cry from the arrgghh’s and matey’s of the stereotypical pirate or pirate enthusiast. He was definitely a very nice gentleman, though I was a bit taken aback when he referred to my first cup of coffee as “rhythm juice” for the “drum master.” I was the “drum master” yet still for the life of me I can’t figure out how I obtained my new nom de guerre.
A great many cups of coffee were served by our pirate friend and consumed as we sat, whittling time away as we waited for the throngs of enthusiasts of mediocre rock n’ roll to come. But we waited and waited…and waited for the amorphous mass of people to come, banging down the doors of the Firestorm Cafe. We waited until 9:30, yet our delusions of faux Beetle-mania had yet to pan out, and looked as though that it probably wouldn’t. A few wayward homeless people made their way in as did a few others looking to take advantage of the free internet. 10:00 came and when the ever enthusiastic audience never did show, we decided that there was no time like the present to start. Asheville Rock City, this is for you!
It’s funny in both the “ha ha” and ironic senses, that we played our best show to an audience composed of two friends, and a handful of others that seemed as though they didn’t want to make that awkward trek to the door while we played; afraid we’d catch them sneaking out.
Our friends heckled, and we joked back. We played until our limbs and voices gave out, and then called it a day. All the while the lyrics to “Tour Song” by Jawbreaker ran through my head, “Funny how no one knows we came, they wouldn’t come anyway. Should I feel grateful to play? I’m living life my way.” Every band has gone through the same experience at one time or another, and it’s a right of passage at this point. The only thing that you can do is laugh it off and be grateful for the time spent with friends. We loaded the van, and headed to the bar for a few (too many) drinks, where we met up with a few other friends. And as the night started to wind down, we made our way to a gas station with the best micro brew selection of any gas station I’ve ever seen, for a few sudsy beverages to wind the night down. At our friends house around, a bonfire we drank, shared stories of times long past until 5:00 AM when it was time to call it a night.
Day 10, August 8: Atlanta, GA
Pt. One
I woke up in a sweat from a dream or a nightmare that I couldn’t remember. Heart racing and in the throes of a panic attack; worried over something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. This was a terrible way to wake up to the last day of tour, especially after only four hours of sleep and considering the marathon day of driving to Atlanta, playing, and then driving through the night back home.
Over and over in my head ran the words, the end is nigh and no amount of denial or worry could change that. It was unavoidable, this was it. In less than twenty-four hours we’d be back home, and back to the mundane tasks and responsibilities that, unfortunately, have such a tight grip on our lives…the same set of tasks and responsibilities that made Stewart’s bit part of the tour all too brief.
For Jeremy, it was back to the life of a student. For Bill it was off to grad school in New York. And I’d be back to work early Monday morning. No matter how the stresses of the road affected me, I’d gladly take those stresses over the ones I’d sadly begin to incur yet again come Monday. This isn’t to say that there wasn’t a bright side to coming home; after all I did miss my girlfriend and some of the comforts of home. Nevertheless those comforts could easily be found elsewhere and I think my time would be better spent traveling and experiencing the new, or re-experiencing the fantastic with my girlfriend. The nomadic life would suit me well, me thinks.
Thoughts of everything and nothing ran through my head. I planned on getting a lot of sleep the night before because of this marathon day, yet there was no way I was going to fall back asleep. Panic attacks happen all too frequently and at most the only thing I could do was to suck it up and deal with it. This time was no different. I went for a jog, came back slightly less manic, and read for a spell. My friend called and mentioned that he’d be coming over with breakfast tacos and two growlers of beer for Jeremy and I, so I gave him directions to the house we were staying at, showered and waited.
Shortly thereafter he, my friend, showed up on his way to the local community organic farm with both breakfast tacos and a couple growlers of beer. It was great to see him again, because lord knows we’d see each again. Everyone eventually woke up, and we all shared the company of each other if only for a little while longer until my friend had to leave.
With more than a few hours to kill, we all did our own things. The van needed a bit of attention; a couple of bolts needed a little tightening and some fluids needed to be topped off. Really though, I wanted to get out of the ever warming house. Wound up and tense, I needed some alone time to sort some thoughts out, and I also really wanted to take in as much as I could…from the lush green tree covered hills and mountains, and the sweet, smokey smell of the barbecue pit of the restaurant just a few short blocks away, to the peace that surrounded me.
Our time in Asheville was waning, and soon enough we’d have to say goodbye to Asheville, and hello to the Blue Ridge Mountains that we’d drive through on our way through North and South Carolina, toward that deep oppressing feeling that I always associate with Georgia.
Though our departure was nigh, the road wouldn’t take us just yet…not at least until we met and exceeded our quota of sweet tea, corn bread, Cole slaw, and the smokey sweet goodness of the barbecue restaurant down the road. For the second time of the day, we ate until our belts tightened, until our pupils constricted from an overdose of corn syrup from sweet tea, until the tryptophan made us wish we were going to take a nap instead of jump into that sweatbox. We could prolong leaving as long as we wanted, but the truth, sad or otherwise, was that we had to hit the road and we did. First driving shift from Asheville to Atlanta: me.
I was more than happy to drive during the day. Even though I preferred staring out of the windows at the mountain scenery to the active role I willingly placed myself in, I also preferred getting us from point A to point B alive. I could not guarantee a safe arrival home if I were to take the night shift. The van roared down I-26 and Cleveland Bound Death Sentence blared from the speakers. I turned it up. Jittery and a bit unsettled, listening to the tales of woe and missed opportunities seemed was the only thing that seemed to settle me down.
Eventually the mountains became hills, and eventually those hills morphed into the same boring terrain that I’d grown accustomed to over the last ten days. A pang of sadness fell over me as we crossed over the North Carolina boarder into South Carolina. I never really gave much thought about how great North Carolina could be or was. Maybe the “grass is always greener effect” had a, well, effect on me. Maybe I wasn’t really putting things into their proper perspective. Nevertheless, I had a great time in North Carolina, surprisingly so.
In a daze, we cruised into a gas station in southern South Carolina, near the boarder with Georgia for fuel and bathroom breaks. The promoter of the show was hard to get a hold of, and we honestly didn’t know whether we had a show or not. It’s always a warm consoling feeling when the people that book shows don’t return phone calls. We knew the show was booked because we happened to speak with two of the other bands that were playing as well, but beyond that we were clueless. The promoter finally answered his phone.
“I won’t be at the show tonight because I have to work a bike race, Chris will be your contact.”
That disconcerting feeling that I felt all too often throughout bubbled up yet again. I guess I never will understand why people book shows for bands, especially bands that are on tour, especially when they pass the buck or shun the responsibility on to someone else. I can understand the want to help bands out with a show. At the same time I cannot fathom why anyone that pins them self as a promoter, would be willing to book a show when they’ve no intention of even being there. It’s true, things can get a bit overwhelming with so many bands being on the road during the summer, but if you can’t physically get behind a show, then don’t.
Hungry and tired, we really wanted to find somewhere to eat before we’d get to the venue. We mulled over our food options, yet the promoter was kind enough to end all debate in the matter; there were no places to eat around the venue where we’d be playing. To top that off he mentioned that the venue happened to be in the worst area in Atlanta. Wonderful, I guess we’d eat something after the show. With that we kindly let him know that we’d be leaving right after we play so we could get home quickly.
We drove for another hour. Looming south in the distance, a faint image of downtown Atlanta became visible. The area as a whole seemed to be obscured by the residual smog and pollution from the work week that preceded our arrival. I would really consider this to be a red carpet welcome to north west Georgia. Never having been the biggest fan of Atlanta, our proximity offered no sense of comfort, well…with the exception of the comfort that our time therein would be brief.
As much as I loved going to a new town and taking everything in, our time in Atlanta was thankfully brief and more akin to a two hour layover. If we weren’t going to be able to leisurely enjoy our time, then I’d be more content with spreading my legs for a bit before we jumped back in the van for another seven hours.
Our trusty van chugged south on 85 over and past the tangle of roads that wove in and out of the city. We were close; Close to the venue, close to the last show of tour, and seven hours closer to the assumed normalcy of home. Exit 18-A took us away from downtown, toward the industrial unincorporated area of Atlanta; past Fulton County Stadium and toward the area of town filled with dilapidated, bombed, out abandoned warehouses.
Pt. Two
The venue was a non de-script warehouse in a series of warehouses that, from the outside, looked like the rest that came either before or after. The barely noticeable address was tiny, and located along the side of the building. Save for the 20 or so people standing outside, we probably would not be able to discern it from the other warehouses. We passed the Wells Street warehouse, and quickly made a U-turn.
Two vans were already parked in front; one with a Vermont license plate, and the other with a Florida license plate. The people standing out front were either in a band, or fixed gear enthusiasts either in town for, or participating in the race.
We met the bands that we’d be playing with, who were both very young, idealistic, and excited. Both of which were at the end of their tour as well. One band had to drive all the way to Vermont after their last show the following night in Tallahassee. I envy them not for that drive.
Unbeknown to us, a rave was slated to occur in one of the other rooms of the Wells Street warehouse. All the activities, our show and the rave, revolved around the bike race that our promoter attended.
Though the warehouses facade seemed to look like the rest, inside (presumably) was much different. All told, it was a pretty cool space and from the looks of it lots of stuff happened there. Scattered about were random bicycles in various states of completion, artwork, a rag-tag makeshift bathroom and many other telling clues that hinted at the importance of this place in the community, punk or otherwise. It was also an all too painful reminder of what St. Petersburg is sorely lacking. It’s always inspiring when something beautiful grows out of something ugly and let’s face it, the industrial area Atlanta was ugly, bombed out, and largely abandoned. Yet the Wells Street Warehouse was seemingly the proverbial flower that grows from the pavement. I can only hope that the people involved with this place maintain the motivation, and the people that utilize this place for shows or whatever else it may have to offer don’t get spoiled and take it for granted. I’ve seen it all too often, and it’s always, well, shitty when positive community projects fall by the wayside.
Am I over simplifying things a bit? Yes. I mean, we never really did get an opportunity to make our way around Atlanta, so I really am basing things on assumptions since I’ve nothing really to compare the warehouse to or with. And to be fair, I never did check the whole place out…it easily COULD have been a shit hole. I believe in the world of journalism this is called piss poor research. Oops.
One thing that the warehouse was…one thing I was none too impressed about that is; that place was hot. Really hot. All I wanted was some reprieve from sitting in a hot van all day long. But what can you do? Complaining wasn’t going to call a HVAC installer. It’s best to just suck it up. As much as I love air conditioning, I really don’t fashion myself a spoiled individual, and I do believe that I made mention sometime prior to how I detested prima donna like behavior.
Two more bands showed up, and from all counts five bands were now playing. In the back of my mind I couldn’t help but think that this was going to be one of those shows where we’d end up playing to the bands.
One of the promoter’s friends was in charge of the show because the promoter was MIA. The minutes became hours as we waited for him to arrive, much to the chagrin of the other bands as well. It was safe to say that all of us wanted to get the show started, but we couldn’t because the person running the show wasn’t there. And even when he did show, it was safe to say he was a bit unclear about the goings on of tonights event, so we waited longer. We set up our amps and instruments on one side of the room, and another of the bands did the same, directly across from us. We’d be playing first so it just made sense to bide our time productively by setting up so when things did get started, all we’d have to do would be to flick a couple of switches and play.
Eventually the sun set, and a few handfuls of people streamed in. It was finally time to start the show, the roll away doors on the loading dock were closed in an attempt to drown out the sound from the inside.
We played. We played our hearts out until we were crumbled on the ground. We played until both our bodies and instruments were covered in sweat. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t hear anything, because the music echoed off the walls of the cavernous warehouse. Nor did it matter that only a couple dozen or so people watched us. It was just nice to play to people that paid attention. I was sweaty by the first song, drenched by the second song, and dehydrated by the last song. And then we were done. This would be the last time we’d have to break down the equipment and load the van on tour. This would also be the last time we’d play with Bill. When everything was broken down and loaded, we said our goodbyes to the two younger bands, and made our way to the van.
I wish we’d have stayed around to see them play, but we couldn’t. Bill wanted to be home and with that we drove. I took the first leg of the drive so that I could sleep the rest of the way home. Selfish? Maybe, but I drove earlier in the day from Asheville to Atlanta with the intent to sleep on the way from Atlanta to St. Petersburg. So through the tangled web of city streets we drove until we found the south bound 75 entrance ramp, and then, accordingly, headed south toward Florida.
We drove hot and sweaty, seven hours into the night. I don’t remember much after my hour and a half leg. In the back of the van I slept, or at least tried to. More so I was somewhere between unconsciousness and consciousness. Eventually we made it home at 5:00 AM Sunday morning.
Afterword
The hot summer days have given way to the cooler, less humid days of fall. Time has passed and my memories of tour (ha, memories of everything unfortunately) have faded, slowly, but faded none the less. Bill moved to New York shortly after we returned home. We’ve since found a new bass player. It’s really not as though I expected less, I mean I knew full well when Bill joined he’d be exiting shortly thereafter. With that, maybe he never saw the band as his, and accordingly maybe he had no real attachment to things with us. Really though, no harm no foul; we saw things similarly in that respect. We played our last show of tour as a three piece with Stewart playing bass on the Wednesday after we returned. Maybe I’ll include that as well, though that’s neither here nor now.
As mentioned way at the top, I am planning on adding more to the journal and releasing it as a zine proper. So even though the arduous task of combing through the notes and scraps of paper to have something relatively coherent published on this site is over, a new task of combing through those notes and pouring over what I’d already written to add more has begun. Wonderful.
