Bus Stop, Waiting.....
We are still at the fucking bus wash. Been here for 40 minutes and can't get in and can't get out. I am tempted to hitch to New York with all the money. Please baby jesus, get me off this fucking tour bus and into my apartment.....
Aaaargh! Aaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaaargh!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Bostonia:
So on the way into Canada I was given a hard time by the Canadian Immigration person for basically not phoning ahead to let the Canadian border know that a whopping 10 people were to be crossing into Canadia at Port Huron in the small hours of Saturday morning. The alcoholic (and if it takes one to know one then it similarly takes one to spot another at 50 paces) old crone was annoyed we'd distrubed her cushy graveyard shift and she had to get off her lazy ass to type-in some passport numbers. Kind of ridiculous to think that we were given a hard time because of this. I mean, isn't processing passports as people come through her job? Best line she said to me was, "Because I don't care how long it takes. I'm getting paid to be here."
Yes, I thought, but definitely not as much as I am.
Anyway, that aside, I liked being in Canada.
When we came to the US Border somewhere between Montreal and Boston we were again stopped, quelle surprise. This time the very polite immigration police asked us into the room and then searched the bus. Oh, how we laughed when they came back with someone's toiletries smelling of the kind of herbs used in baking rather than cooking. We all had to empty our pockets in turn (my most incriminating posession was an Ouef Fondant or Cadbury's Cream Egg and some Jurlique hand cream. And no, they're not related items...); everyone's prescription medicines were emptied out onto the counter (said herbacious person also had a couple of pill bottles that looked like they were full of smarties, such was the range of pills that poured out of them. Grave as the situation could have been, it was hard not to laugh seeing fifteen different types of sedative poured out on the counter). In the end they confiscated the controlled prescription medicines people had without prescriptions and gave a certain someone a warning. They were very nice about it and they could have been so much meaner.
Today's show in Boston is the last day we'll be on the bus. From now on we'll be sleeping at home every night and commuting to shows. I've been counting down the hours... Sure enough, everything that could be slow and awkward today was slow and awkward, parking, taxis, etc, etc. And then suddenly the band were offstage and somehow we're on our way home to New York. I'm too tired to be very excited but I am very excited. In six hours I'll be in my own bed.
Update - our driver stopped to wash the bus on the way home along the i-95. We are driving home after being away for four weeks and he choses now of all times to wash the bus. I couldn't care right now if the bus was covered in baby parts and vomit. I just want to go home, to my bed, and get off this fucking bus that keeps attacking me with every sharp corner it has whenever it can.
So on the way into Canada I was given a hard time by the Canadian Immigration person for basically not phoning ahead to let the Canadian border know that a whopping 10 people were to be crossing into Canadia at Port Huron in the small hours of Saturday morning. The alcoholic (and if it takes one to know one then it similarly takes one to spot another at 50 paces) old crone was annoyed we'd distrubed her cushy graveyard shift and she had to get off her lazy ass to type-in some passport numbers. Kind of ridiculous to think that we were given a hard time because of this. I mean, isn't processing passports as people come through her job? Best line she said to me was, "Because I don't care how long it takes. I'm getting paid to be here."
Yes, I thought, but definitely not as much as I am.
Anyway, that aside, I liked being in Canada.
When we came to the US Border somewhere between Montreal and Boston we were again stopped, quelle surprise. This time the very polite immigration police asked us into the room and then searched the bus. Oh, how we laughed when they came back with someone's toiletries smelling of the kind of herbs used in baking rather than cooking. We all had to empty our pockets in turn (my most incriminating posession was an Ouef Fondant or Cadbury's Cream Egg and some Jurlique hand cream. And no, they're not related items...); everyone's prescription medicines were emptied out onto the counter (said herbacious person also had a couple of pill bottles that looked like they were full of smarties, such was the range of pills that poured out of them. Grave as the situation could have been, it was hard not to laugh seeing fifteen different types of sedative poured out on the counter). In the end they confiscated the controlled prescription medicines people had without prescriptions and gave a certain someone a warning. They were very nice about it and they could have been so much meaner.
Today's show in Boston is the last day we'll be on the bus. From now on we'll be sleeping at home every night and commuting to shows. I've been counting down the hours... Sure enough, everything that could be slow and awkward today was slow and awkward, parking, taxis, etc, etc. And then suddenly the band were offstage and somehow we're on our way home to New York. I'm too tired to be very excited but I am very excited. In six hours I'll be in my own bed.
Update - our driver stopped to wash the bus on the way home along the i-95. We are driving home after being away for four weeks and he choses now of all times to wash the bus. I couldn't care right now if the bus was covered in baby parts and vomit. I just want to go home, to my bed, and get off this fucking bus that keeps attacking me with every sharp corner it has whenever it can.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Fell In Love With A Girl.
This rarely happens on tour. I never have the time for one thing, but at the start of the tour I threw a bunch of novels in my bag in a brief, optimistic spasm. I never thought I'd get to read any of them, never mind most of them. I read "Alligator" by a Canadian writer, Lisa Moore. It's amazing. Her writing is so good, so precise, so specific. I finished the book quickly (which has an alligator on the cover too, which is never a bad thing in my book) and tried to find other titles by her, of which there are only two. I couldn't find them in the USA, but in Toronto yesterday I found a collection of short stories called Open and these are also wonderfully written. The first two I finished over an omlette late last night; I couldn't put the book down and ate a whole meal groping for the plate, not taking my eyes off the page. I love it when this happens. Cynical and jaded as I always sound I'm always really waiting eternally to be inspired and amazed; and when it happens it's always the best feeling. Like being in love.
I also read Pat Barker's Blow Your House Down which evokes a certain time in Northern English history. One of those books I fell into - it's a grim world she describes, but compelling and vivid enough for me to smell the damp viaduct arches and the cold northern winter evenings. The Dark Room by Rachel Seiffert is excellent too.
We're in Montreal today. The venue is in a sleazy part of town. The Quebeconians (?) are brusque and dour. It's like being in a crappy part of Paris. I love it. Love. It. And sulky/sultry French-Canadian girls are great, like pouty Parisian women; cute if you don't take them too seriously. Imagine a five year-old giving you evils and attitude while stomping around in her mum's oversized shoes...
Oh and Canada = Cadburys. Thank you Jesus.
This rarely happens on tour. I never have the time for one thing, but at the start of the tour I threw a bunch of novels in my bag in a brief, optimistic spasm. I never thought I'd get to read any of them, never mind most of them. I read "Alligator" by a Canadian writer, Lisa Moore. It's amazing. Her writing is so good, so precise, so specific. I finished the book quickly (which has an alligator on the cover too, which is never a bad thing in my book) and tried to find other titles by her, of which there are only two. I couldn't find them in the USA, but in Toronto yesterday I found a collection of short stories called Open and these are also wonderfully written. The first two I finished over an omlette late last night; I couldn't put the book down and ate a whole meal groping for the plate, not taking my eyes off the page. I love it when this happens. Cynical and jaded as I always sound I'm always really waiting eternally to be inspired and amazed; and when it happens it's always the best feeling. Like being in love.
I also read Pat Barker's Blow Your House Down which evokes a certain time in Northern English history. One of those books I fell into - it's a grim world she describes, but compelling and vivid enough for me to smell the damp viaduct arches and the cold northern winter evenings. The Dark Room by Rachel Seiffert is excellent too.
We're in Montreal today. The venue is in a sleazy part of town. The Quebeconians (?) are brusque and dour. It's like being in a crappy part of Paris. I love it. Love. It. And sulky/sultry French-Canadian girls are great, like pouty Parisian women; cute if you don't take them too seriously. Imagine a five year-old giving you evils and attitude while stomping around in her mum's oversized shoes...
Oh and Canada = Cadburys. Thank you Jesus.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Toronto:
We left the kids on a bench in Royal Oak, Michigan. We tried throwing them into a tree but stopped when we saw we were being filmed by at least 3 CCTV cameras. This being America, we envisioned being pulled over by cops later for littering a tree with bears, which might almost have been worth it. As it was, a passerby asked Duct-tape guy if the bears were ours (it was 1AM) and then suggested they looked like bombs. Frankly, anyone dumb enough to think that someone would bomb the arse-end of Detriot by leaving four bombs disguised as valentine's bears on a bench at 1AM is either a scriptwriter or too stupid to be anything other than an donor for nice bright people with failing organs and terminal illnesses. Cute though, aren't they?
The view from the afternoon. I've noticed a disturbing trend - all over the USA and now Canadia it seems you can go to Meet Donald. Why would anyone want to? He always strikes me as a bit of a tosser. I guess people would like to meet his money--if indeed, he really has any. Me included, as long as I didn't have to touch him.
Now the tour is winding down (12 days left), the days off are actually like days off. Albert and Matt have an afternoon of promotion in Toronto while the rest of us hang around the one hotel room we've kept on for us to hang around in. I went out for breakfast at a place called Eggspectations which had one notable feature - a bilingual bottle of brown sauce.
Brown sauce (delcious, fruity and spicy) is a staple of the english diet, and it is rarely seen outside of the Sceptred Isle (which can only be due to the fact that it's an acquired sophisticated taste and all the other countries in the world are peopled by natives with vulgar palates), that I was happy to see it here. And, as an added bonus, it was labeled in English and French. Despite the centuries old animosity between the two countries there is, I think, a grudging affection between the British and the French. We're both beligerent, haughty, and have a strong sense of independence. Certainly looking at Europe from the viewpoint of spending 10 years in America it seems that Germany, England, France, and Holland all have so much in common that it's almost funny that they view themselves as separate from each other.
And Canadian maple syrup tastes more of maples than American maple syrup. When I toured with Pulp during 1995 I could tell the diffence between different champagnes just by taste (Moet and Chandon was very much considered cooking champagne). 10 years in America and now I'm an authority on syrup. Quality.
Yonge Street, Tronto.
Today's the kind of lazy day where you call friends or email all your ex's because you have time to wonder how all the people you've known are doing. Toronto is rushing through its Monday afternoon outside, everyone looking forward to six pm, or whatever time they knock-off. Our day is more nebulous, check-out at 2PM, bus call at 11PM to go to Montreal.
Time is always so relative, especially on tour, and it never seems more so when you're hanging around in a foreign city watching everyone else's world flash past. Like being in Tokyo, or Xi'an, or Berlin or Perth you see that all over the planet people have similar schedules, similar concerns, similar lives; lives that not only mirror your own but at the same time are completely independent of your world. We're none of us so special nor so unimportant. I think that's one of the things I like most about travel. It makes you get over yourself. Despite language and social status, we are all so alike.
Working in an environment where there's always someone to meet you at the airport, always a rooming list of the the best rooms at the hotel, always a crush of people trying to hang out in your world (not always, I admit, but more often than not. What's a bit of poetic licence, eh?) it's easy to get used to a certain amount of attention - however disparaging I might be about said attention. It's good to be reminded that you're not only not all that, but you're not even any of that in the scheme of things. When I was younger and needier I used to think that Aleister Crowley's quote "Every man and woman is a star" meant that I was (allowed to be) special too (where I come from one was never encouraged in such thinking). And maybe it did, then, but nowadays I think the emphasis for me is on the every man and woman.
We left the kids on a bench in Royal Oak, Michigan. We tried throwing them into a tree but stopped when we saw we were being filmed by at least 3 CCTV cameras. This being America, we envisioned being pulled over by cops later for littering a tree with bears, which might almost have been worth it. As it was, a passerby asked Duct-tape guy if the bears were ours (it was 1AM) and then suggested they looked like bombs. Frankly, anyone dumb enough to think that someone would bomb the arse-end of Detriot by leaving four bombs disguised as valentine's bears on a bench at 1AM is either a scriptwriter or too stupid to be anything other than an donor for nice bright people with failing organs and terminal illnesses. Cute though, aren't they?
The view from the afternoon. I've noticed a disturbing trend - all over the USA and now Canadia it seems you can go to Meet Donald. Why would anyone want to? He always strikes me as a bit of a tosser. I guess people would like to meet his money--if indeed, he really has any. Me included, as long as I didn't have to touch him.
Now the tour is winding down (12 days left), the days off are actually like days off. Albert and Matt have an afternoon of promotion in Toronto while the rest of us hang around the one hotel room we've kept on for us to hang around in. I went out for breakfast at a place called Eggspectations which had one notable feature - a bilingual bottle of brown sauce.
Brown sauce (delcious, fruity and spicy) is a staple of the english diet, and it is rarely seen outside of the Sceptred Isle (which can only be due to the fact that it's an acquired sophisticated taste and all the other countries in the world are peopled by natives with vulgar palates), that I was happy to see it here. And, as an added bonus, it was labeled in English and French. Despite the centuries old animosity between the two countries there is, I think, a grudging affection between the British and the French. We're both beligerent, haughty, and have a strong sense of independence. Certainly looking at Europe from the viewpoint of spending 10 years in America it seems that Germany, England, France, and Holland all have so much in common that it's almost funny that they view themselves as separate from each other.
And Canadian maple syrup tastes more of maples than American maple syrup. When I toured with Pulp during 1995 I could tell the diffence between different champagnes just by taste (Moet and Chandon was very much considered cooking champagne). 10 years in America and now I'm an authority on syrup. Quality.
Yonge Street, Tronto.
Today's the kind of lazy day where you call friends or email all your ex's because you have time to wonder how all the people you've known are doing. Toronto is rushing through its Monday afternoon outside, everyone looking forward to six pm, or whatever time they knock-off. Our day is more nebulous, check-out at 2PM, bus call at 11PM to go to Montreal.
Time is always so relative, especially on tour, and it never seems more so when you're hanging around in a foreign city watching everyone else's world flash past. Like being in Tokyo, or Xi'an, or Berlin or Perth you see that all over the planet people have similar schedules, similar concerns, similar lives; lives that not only mirror your own but at the same time are completely independent of your world. We're none of us so special nor so unimportant. I think that's one of the things I like most about travel. It makes you get over yourself. Despite language and social status, we are all so alike.
Working in an environment where there's always someone to meet you at the airport, always a rooming list of the the best rooms at the hotel, always a crush of people trying to hang out in your world (not always, I admit, but more often than not. What's a bit of poetic licence, eh?) it's easy to get used to a certain amount of attention - however disparaging I might be about said attention. It's good to be reminded that you're not only not all that, but you're not even any of that in the scheme of things. When I was younger and needier I used to think that Aleister Crowley's quote "Every man and woman is a star" meant that I was (allowed to be) special too (where I come from one was never encouraged in such thinking). And maybe it did, then, but nowadays I think the emphasis for me is on the every man and woman.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Columbus, OH
Let us not talk about Indianapolis, IN. Let us not dwell on its endless suburban highways and it's "nearby" Staples that was a 3 mile walk and didn't have any replacement printers in it when I got there. (My printer died for breakfast. And I can't write with hands anymore. It's a kind of devolution. Soon I won't be able to read from paper....). In fact the only interesting thing about Indianapolis, as far as I could tell, was that the promoter's rep came from Hawaii so I got to talk about Hawaii for half an hour at the end of the night. Which was nice.
But Columbus, Ohio, who knew? I took it as a sign that when the very pretty girl went into the North Market that I too should see what food stalls they had in there for me to eat lunch at ( I didn't ever claim to having a sophisticated decision making process) . I found a great vietnamese food counter and got a chicken soup (Pho Ga). After weeks of white bread and potato chips the hot, spicy broth with beansprouts and cilantro tasted amazing and I felt healthy for the rest of the day - I didn't eat a M&M until 7PM. It felt like the first day of spring yesterday, warm and sunny. And just to make us all smile a little more Marc got a ticket for jaywalking. I couldn't get any closer for the photo without risking annoying the cop some more. It cost him $86.00 to cross the road. Actually, crossing the road was free, it was giving the cop some lip that cost $86.
Today we have a day off in Chicago. The rooms were ready early, the sun is shining, the pretty girls are out on the street (There's always a day, every spring, especially in New York, when the weather changes and the girls come out. It's usually an unspoken thing, but every bloke I know knows about it when I've brought it up. Another reason to look forward to going home). I went to the diner I like to visit on Chestnut and read a ton of emails from friends. I felt normal walking around the city--no empty suburban highways here. There's a DVD player in my room too, so $60 later, after a snout around in Virgin's sale bins, and I'm watching Snatch and rewinding to translate Brad Pitt's genius Pikey accent. Life is ok, today. I'll be home in New York in less than a week. And I'm thinking about my friends, which is like spending time with them.
Let us not talk about Indianapolis, IN. Let us not dwell on its endless suburban highways and it's "nearby" Staples that was a 3 mile walk and didn't have any replacement printers in it when I got there. (My printer died for breakfast. And I can't write with hands anymore. It's a kind of devolution. Soon I won't be able to read from paper....). In fact the only interesting thing about Indianapolis, as far as I could tell, was that the promoter's rep came from Hawaii so I got to talk about Hawaii for half an hour at the end of the night. Which was nice.
But Columbus, Ohio, who knew? I took it as a sign that when the very pretty girl went into the North Market that I too should see what food stalls they had in there for me to eat lunch at ( I didn't ever claim to having a sophisticated decision making process) . I found a great vietnamese food counter and got a chicken soup (Pho Ga). After weeks of white bread and potato chips the hot, spicy broth with beansprouts and cilantro tasted amazing and I felt healthy for the rest of the day - I didn't eat a M&M until 7PM. It felt like the first day of spring yesterday, warm and sunny. And just to make us all smile a little more Marc got a ticket for jaywalking. I couldn't get any closer for the photo without risking annoying the cop some more. It cost him $86.00 to cross the road. Actually, crossing the road was free, it was giving the cop some lip that cost $86.Today we have a day off in Chicago. The rooms were ready early, the sun is shining, the pretty girls are out on the street (There's always a day, every spring, especially in New York, when the weather changes and the girls come out. It's usually an unspoken thing, but every bloke I know knows about it when I've brought it up. Another reason to look forward to going home). I went to the diner I like to visit on Chestnut and read a ton of emails from friends. I felt normal walking around the city--no empty suburban highways here. There's a DVD player in my room too, so $60 later, after a snout around in Virgin's sale bins, and I'm watching Snatch and rewinding to translate Brad Pitt's genius Pikey accent. Life is ok, today. I'll be home in New York in less than a week. And I'm thinking about my friends, which is like spending time with them.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
McJob:
McDonalds is objecting (again) to the use of the term "McJob" being used in dictionaries. They object to the definition which is more or less:
"an unstimulating, low-paid job with few prospects, especially one created by the expansion of the service sector". (Oxford English Dictionary).
McD claims this term is "an inaccurate description of restaurant employment" and "a slap in the face to the 12 million men and women" who work in the restaurant industry.
Oh, do fuck off.
I hate McDonalds. Never mind that they sell crappy food and ruthlessly target children with their heinous clown; never mind that their marketing is insidious and duplicitous. They are trying to protect and perpetuate their lie (we care, we sell good food. we are your friend, we are kind people concerned with you and the welfare of your children) by silencing any criticism of their practices in any form. I fundamentally oppose any coporation that tries to silence free speech and that is prepared to bully people who object to their vulgar business practices. While it's impractical, I know, to avoid all the companies who do this (as I'm sure most do/would) I have chosen McDonalds to boycott. I haven't eaten in one for years, and will not give them any money. In n' Out manage to sell burgers of a certain quality; why not McDonalds?
And if there is any doubt about their rapacious, greedy corporate nature, take a look at the McLibel Trial (Below). It's reason enough to not give this company any more money. And I know there's a Quixotic element to boycotting one of a million nasty companies; however, one can but try.
McLibel Case
McDonalds is objecting (again) to the use of the term "McJob" being used in dictionaries. They object to the definition which is more or less:
"an unstimulating, low-paid job with few prospects, especially one created by the expansion of the service sector". (Oxford English Dictionary).
McD claims this term is "an inaccurate description of restaurant employment" and "a slap in the face to the 12 million men and women" who work in the restaurant industry.
Oh, do fuck off.
I hate McDonalds. Never mind that they sell crappy food and ruthlessly target children with their heinous clown; never mind that their marketing is insidious and duplicitous. They are trying to protect and perpetuate their lie (we care, we sell good food. we are your friend, we are kind people concerned with you and the welfare of your children) by silencing any criticism of their practices in any form. I fundamentally oppose any coporation that tries to silence free speech and that is prepared to bully people who object to their vulgar business practices. While it's impractical, I know, to avoid all the companies who do this (as I'm sure most do/would) I have chosen McDonalds to boycott. I haven't eaten in one for years, and will not give them any money. In n' Out manage to sell burgers of a certain quality; why not McDonalds?
And if there is any doubt about their rapacious, greedy corporate nature, take a look at the McLibel Trial (Below). It's reason enough to not give this company any more money. And I know there's a Quixotic element to boycotting one of a million nasty companies; however, one can but try.
McLibel Case
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Picture This
Random photos...
On my way back from the Porn Warehouse in Austin (you'll have to read the previous entries for an explanation. It wasn't for me, it was for a friend. Honest) I saw this guy at an off-ramp to the I-35. He's photogrpahed in the side-mirror to the van I was driving. He was begging at a stop light. On his backpack (which you can't really see clearly) was a sign that said Free Hugs. I felt very guilty that this man was begging while I'd just been entertaining thoughts of buying expensive sex-toys as a throwaway joke. Even though I was sitting in the car with the money and he was begging I felt right then that he had all the dignity in the world compared to me.
'nuff said already. Nashville, who knew you were into this?
This was a sign in the elevator in the hotel in Nashville (which was staffed, incidentally, by the nicest, most polite people in the world. And you know I'm an authority on politeness....). I wondered what prompted the elevator manufacturer to install a sign like this? Lack of confidence? And to be honest, if you got in an elevator and it had an in-built giant sign that said (effectively) "Dont' Panic" wouldn't that kind of undermine the message?
This soldier standing next to a printing press was on a platform about 12 feet in the air outside a printers. At first I thought it was touching how someone had dressed him up as a soldier - this is the heartland after all and they were probably missing someone sent over to invade Iraq - but when I thought about it some more it scared me. Someone had bought a uniform and dressed a mannequin as a soldier then managed to position him on a platform twelve feet up in the air. It didn't strike me as a yellow ribbon tied round an old oak tree as much as it struck me as a big fuck-you. One would have to be quite angry to go to those lengths.
Random photos...
On my way back from the Porn Warehouse in Austin (you'll have to read the previous entries for an explanation. It wasn't for me, it was for a friend. Honest) I saw this guy at an off-ramp to the I-35. He's photogrpahed in the side-mirror to the van I was driving. He was begging at a stop light. On his backpack (which you can't really see clearly) was a sign that said Free Hugs. I felt very guilty that this man was begging while I'd just been entertaining thoughts of buying expensive sex-toys as a throwaway joke. Even though I was sitting in the car with the money and he was begging I felt right then that he had all the dignity in the world compared to me.
'nuff said already. Nashville, who knew you were into this?
This was a sign in the elevator in the hotel in Nashville (which was staffed, incidentally, by the nicest, most polite people in the world. And you know I'm an authority on politeness....). I wondered what prompted the elevator manufacturer to install a sign like this? Lack of confidence? And to be honest, if you got in an elevator and it had an in-built giant sign that said (effectively) "Dont' Panic" wouldn't that kind of undermine the message?
This soldier standing next to a printing press was on a platform about 12 feet in the air outside a printers. At first I thought it was touching how someone had dressed him up as a soldier - this is the heartland after all and they were probably missing someone sent over to invade Iraq - but when I thought about it some more it scared me. Someone had bought a uniform and dressed a mannequin as a soldier then managed to position him on a platform twelve feet up in the air. It didn't strike me as a yellow ribbon tied round an old oak tree as much as it struck me as a big fuck-you. One would have to be quite angry to go to those lengths.
South By Southwest (Absolutely the last time I say anything about Texas)
Where do I begin? Shall I count the ways?
You are a wanker if:
1> You refer to South By Southwest as "South By"
2> You wear your credential (let's not call it a laminate because it's not) around your neck while you're walking around the streets of Austin. These are not cool, and even if it's an all access laminate for God's gig in heaven, it's still wanky to wear your pass outside of the venue. At SBS more than anywhere they don't infer any coolness on you or really give you any special rights, as the guy found out when he refused to move from the side of the stage when it was time for the band to come off. Silly boy. That pass had no effect, did it? More to the point, it didn't give you any special powers or make you invincible either, did it? Wanker.
3> You work at a record company and you try to get extra wristbands off the band you're there to see. You earn more than they do, stop leeching.
4> You work at a record company. *
5> You insist on trying to inch your way backstage to hang out near the band; slow-creeping down the bar, chatting to the arrogant tosser of a barman--who, for one solitary week in March has more than ten customers and finally gets some attention--sliding your way towards the Mexican bus-boys, over to the fire escape and exactly in the way of anyone who's trying to do a 45 minute changeover in 10 minutes. If you were wanted backstage you'd be backstage already. That's how a tiered pass system works. It's not an oversight; you don't have the right pass because you're not wanted there. There's no point trying to ignore this obvious fact while slurping a piss-weak beer and getting slammed in the legs by flight-cases and looking pissy. Apologies if I bruised your sorry-ass with a high speed Fender 2 x 12 Hot Rod Deville; silly me, I was trying to put the gig on. That noisy music stuff? Yeah, that was us. I know, I know--terrid roadies. Don't they know that you've come to South By because you're in the "Music Business"? Don't they know that you're talking to some fucking troll at the bar and it's IMPORTANT? Don't they know that, that, that.....that you've got wristbands, goddammit?!
6> You went to South By Southwest and you didn't need to.**
7> You had anything to do with organising the music programming /production side of this fucking festival. It has so little regard for the music, it's painful to see it billed as such. Only a few years ago it was a destination for indie-minded people to go to see bands that were under the radar and hadn't broken yet, or couldn't get anywhere. Now it's a huge corporate venture with the music coming a sad last to everything else. I felt like the music and the performances were almost annoyances as they're given so little attention compared to say, the cocksuck that's pass allocation or something really significant. And it's not that I don't get that there's a lot going on but really....
For example:
Our soundcheck clashed with an instore performance. Fair enough. I set our arrival time at the gig to 11:30PM as there was no point getting to the venue directly from the instore (at 7PM) to unload our cases and do nothing but wait for 6 hours. This was a big No-No apparently and the day before I got several calls from people wigging out that basically we were being inconvenient (it was such a big problem that no one had thought to call me about it until 24 hours before the show). Bit of bad luck that. Anyway, even on the night I get calls from people asking me to bring the bus in three hours earlier for no reason other than they're fucking clueless. So we turn up at 11:30PM (even though the guy from the label told me the wrong load-in address. Luckily I ignored him, but see note # 4), unload the bus and wait with our gear by the dumpsters out back as there is no room in the club to store gear. if we hadn't been so "inconvenient" then we'd have been sitting outside by the dumpsters for 6 hours, instead of one. Had someone known what they were talking about they would have worried more about managing the stage than whining about us coming in late with a bus that caused no problems whatsoever. And even if it was difficult, so what? Isn't it about the gig? Or am I missing something..?
During our show the stage manager is absent from the stage and Albert's set runs over. The venue starts threatening to pull the power - the stage manager is nowhere to be seen - hiding, no doubt. Had he done his job earlier there'd have been no problem. But why the fuck would he do that? It's South By.... I later heard the venue got fined because we went over curfew. Good. They should have. They were ignorant. But it's nice to see the City Of Austin taking another cut from the festival by way of fining venues for excess noise at 2AM on 6th Street. BFD.
The Stage Manager's advance consisted of telling me what time we had to be there for soundcheck (too early) and then asking us to share gear. When the Mooney Suzuki shared gear as per the Stage Manager's request the following night they had two other bands (after the fact) ask them for money for the privilege (The HooDoo Guru's wanted $75 for use of their bass rig...). We didn't share gear, except when the band before us forgot all their drum parts and a guitar and Albert's band helped them out for free (as you would). We managed the stage during the change-over to hustle everyone out of the way. The Stage Manager wasn't present. A ton of liggers were however, all trying to be special by proving they didn't really need to move out of the way of the crew moving flight-cases. Those fuckers hurt when they clip you, don't they? Sorry about that.
You can only collect your passes in person. What a joke that is - seven people need to go line-up for up to two hours to get credentials because the tour manager can't collect them all. We didn't bother and went credential-less for the whole festival. The writstbands guarantee nothing anyway and for any cool shows the only way you get in is to know someone.
Ironically, Albert played at the Blender Party on Friday night and it was the best-run event I've ever been to at South By Southwest. Someone had invested in proper gear and a realistic schedule. I almost enjoyed doing the show. (Similarly, there was an instore at Waterloo Records and although they had very limited facilities they were at least welcoming and helpful. I didn't feel like an inconvenience at Waterloo, either). Strange how the corporate party got it right but the music festival treats all the bands like shit. At SBS there are limited facilities, limited production, no riders, nothing much of anything. It's like the emporer's new clothes of festivals. Why is that? And if I sound churlish and ungrateful consider that I've been putting on gigs for 20 years in one way or another and I completely understand the problems of managing large groups of uncoordinated people. But if the focus of the festival is as it's pitched, the music; then it needs to be the focus of the festival. Not some aside to a load of wankers getting loaded and jerking each other off; or included in the festival as a barely tolerated inconvenience. I know most bands are crap at dealing with practical matters but treating all bands like they should be grateful for being treated like cattle belies the advertising somewhat, if you ask me. Kind of forgetting the point of it all.
The best thing for me was the SBS staff tee-shirts. They had a stick-man holding up the world as a design. Yeah, that's right, you pompous fuckers; you're really carrying a burden there, saving indieland, keeping the world of music alive. For fuck's sake....get over yourselves. Go to Glastonbury or Virgin (UK) or Roskilde or Hurricane or Big Day Out to see how a proper festival works for a ton of bands. That Texan hippy bullshit vibe is bogus and hypocritical.
However, I loved seeing my friends there. I love my friends and my friends who were there were also feeling sidelined by the whole thing. We hung out a little and giggled at the two most common looks: a> Black skinny jeans and jacket (band person) or b) Jeans & untucked checked shirt (label person). I even have friends from Texas there, although they don't live in Texas anymore. It's something we don't bring up. Like a prison sentence that's been served or something.
For the record, I don't know how the band felt about their visit to South By Southwest. Just because I think it's a bag of sick doesn't mean they do too.
* With the exception of Rough Trade Records or if you're one of my friends and you work at a record company. Being my friend trumps being a wanker from the label - remember this on my birthday. It's november ninth.
** Not strictly true, but it sounds good.
Where do I begin? Shall I count the ways?
You are a wanker if:
1> You refer to South By Southwest as "South By"
2> You wear your credential (let's not call it a laminate because it's not) around your neck while you're walking around the streets of Austin. These are not cool, and even if it's an all access laminate for God's gig in heaven, it's still wanky to wear your pass outside of the venue. At SBS more than anywhere they don't infer any coolness on you or really give you any special rights, as the guy found out when he refused to move from the side of the stage when it was time for the band to come off. Silly boy. That pass had no effect, did it? More to the point, it didn't give you any special powers or make you invincible either, did it? Wanker.
3> You work at a record company and you try to get extra wristbands off the band you're there to see. You earn more than they do, stop leeching.
4> You work at a record company. *
5> You insist on trying to inch your way backstage to hang out near the band; slow-creeping down the bar, chatting to the arrogant tosser of a barman--who, for one solitary week in March has more than ten customers and finally gets some attention--sliding your way towards the Mexican bus-boys, over to the fire escape and exactly in the way of anyone who's trying to do a 45 minute changeover in 10 minutes. If you were wanted backstage you'd be backstage already. That's how a tiered pass system works. It's not an oversight; you don't have the right pass because you're not wanted there. There's no point trying to ignore this obvious fact while slurping a piss-weak beer and getting slammed in the legs by flight-cases and looking pissy. Apologies if I bruised your sorry-ass with a high speed Fender 2 x 12 Hot Rod Deville; silly me, I was trying to put the gig on. That noisy music stuff? Yeah, that was us. I know, I know--terrid roadies. Don't they know that you've come to South By because you're in the "Music Business"? Don't they know that you're talking to some fucking troll at the bar and it's IMPORTANT? Don't they know that, that, that.....that you've got wristbands, goddammit?!
6> You went to South By Southwest and you didn't need to.**
7> You had anything to do with organising the music programming /production side of this fucking festival. It has so little regard for the music, it's painful to see it billed as such. Only a few years ago it was a destination for indie-minded people to go to see bands that were under the radar and hadn't broken yet, or couldn't get anywhere. Now it's a huge corporate venture with the music coming a sad last to everything else. I felt like the music and the performances were almost annoyances as they're given so little attention compared to say, the cocksuck that's pass allocation or something really significant. And it's not that I don't get that there's a lot going on but really....
For example:
Our soundcheck clashed with an instore performance. Fair enough. I set our arrival time at the gig to 11:30PM as there was no point getting to the venue directly from the instore (at 7PM) to unload our cases and do nothing but wait for 6 hours. This was a big No-No apparently and the day before I got several calls from people wigging out that basically we were being inconvenient (it was such a big problem that no one had thought to call me about it until 24 hours before the show). Bit of bad luck that. Anyway, even on the night I get calls from people asking me to bring the bus in three hours earlier for no reason other than they're fucking clueless. So we turn up at 11:30PM (even though the guy from the label told me the wrong load-in address. Luckily I ignored him, but see note # 4), unload the bus and wait with our gear by the dumpsters out back as there is no room in the club to store gear. if we hadn't been so "inconvenient" then we'd have been sitting outside by the dumpsters for 6 hours, instead of one. Had someone known what they were talking about they would have worried more about managing the stage than whining about us coming in late with a bus that caused no problems whatsoever. And even if it was difficult, so what? Isn't it about the gig? Or am I missing something..?
During our show the stage manager is absent from the stage and Albert's set runs over. The venue starts threatening to pull the power - the stage manager is nowhere to be seen - hiding, no doubt. Had he done his job earlier there'd have been no problem. But why the fuck would he do that? It's South By.... I later heard the venue got fined because we went over curfew. Good. They should have. They were ignorant. But it's nice to see the City Of Austin taking another cut from the festival by way of fining venues for excess noise at 2AM on 6th Street. BFD.
The Stage Manager's advance consisted of telling me what time we had to be there for soundcheck (too early) and then asking us to share gear. When the Mooney Suzuki shared gear as per the Stage Manager's request the following night they had two other bands (after the fact) ask them for money for the privilege (The HooDoo Guru's wanted $75 for use of their bass rig...). We didn't share gear, except when the band before us forgot all their drum parts and a guitar and Albert's band helped them out for free (as you would). We managed the stage during the change-over to hustle everyone out of the way. The Stage Manager wasn't present. A ton of liggers were however, all trying to be special by proving they didn't really need to move out of the way of the crew moving flight-cases. Those fuckers hurt when they clip you, don't they? Sorry about that.
You can only collect your passes in person. What a joke that is - seven people need to go line-up for up to two hours to get credentials because the tour manager can't collect them all. We didn't bother and went credential-less for the whole festival. The writstbands guarantee nothing anyway and for any cool shows the only way you get in is to know someone.
Ironically, Albert played at the Blender Party on Friday night and it was the best-run event I've ever been to at South By Southwest. Someone had invested in proper gear and a realistic schedule. I almost enjoyed doing the show. (Similarly, there was an instore at Waterloo Records and although they had very limited facilities they were at least welcoming and helpful. I didn't feel like an inconvenience at Waterloo, either). Strange how the corporate party got it right but the music festival treats all the bands like shit. At SBS there are limited facilities, limited production, no riders, nothing much of anything. It's like the emporer's new clothes of festivals. Why is that? And if I sound churlish and ungrateful consider that I've been putting on gigs for 20 years in one way or another and I completely understand the problems of managing large groups of uncoordinated people. But if the focus of the festival is as it's pitched, the music; then it needs to be the focus of the festival. Not some aside to a load of wankers getting loaded and jerking each other off; or included in the festival as a barely tolerated inconvenience. I know most bands are crap at dealing with practical matters but treating all bands like they should be grateful for being treated like cattle belies the advertising somewhat, if you ask me. Kind of forgetting the point of it all.
The best thing for me was the SBS staff tee-shirts. They had a stick-man holding up the world as a design. Yeah, that's right, you pompous fuckers; you're really carrying a burden there, saving indieland, keeping the world of music alive. For fuck's sake....get over yourselves. Go to Glastonbury or Virgin (UK) or Roskilde or Hurricane or Big Day Out to see how a proper festival works for a ton of bands. That Texan hippy bullshit vibe is bogus and hypocritical.
However, I loved seeing my friends there. I love my friends and my friends who were there were also feeling sidelined by the whole thing. We hung out a little and giggled at the two most common looks: a> Black skinny jeans and jacket (band person) or b) Jeans & untucked checked shirt (label person). I even have friends from Texas there, although they don't live in Texas anymore. It's something we don't bring up. Like a prison sentence that's been served or something.
For the record, I don't know how the band felt about their visit to South By Southwest. Just because I think it's a bag of sick doesn't mean they do too.
* With the exception of Rough Trade Records or if you're one of my friends and you work at a record company. Being my friend trumps being a wanker from the label - remember this on my birthday. It's november ninth.
** Not strictly true, but it sounds good.
Monday, March 19, 2007
The Last Thing I'll Ever Say About Texas, Here*.
So the week in Texas passed more quickly than I expected it to. I think a large part of that was because SBS (to give it its proper acronym) was such a blur of activity that time flew there.
At the Dallas show we encountered our first torrential downpour just after we loaded-in. The sky before the storm was green, it's something I've never seen before. It was a biblical amount of rain, which is fitting for this tour. On this tour since January we've / they've endured fires (x 2), stabbed wheels, thefts, a collision with a runaway villain, and now floods ( in Houston the rain was so heavy the slide-out lounge flooded - a full-on water everywhere flood, not just a drip here and there). I think we're working our way through the ten plagues of Egypt which means, by my reckoning, we've got at least Lice, Rivers of Blood and Unhealable Boils to look forward to.
Erm, actually, I might have two of those covered already.
Under the weight of the approaching storm Josh and Marc played a little wiffle ball in an abandoned lot, laughing in the face of an angry god with their underarm serves and wild, effete swings. They reminded me of a young Hall & Oates playing on the streets of Philly, honing their harmonising chops, before they were swept up up in the yacht rock phenomenom. Just two kids, believing in a dream, hanging out with poor black children and stealing their music, cutting off its balls, and selling it to white people. Hall and Oates that is, not Josh and Marc; Josh and Marc were just bored.
Or maybe I read the Hall & Oates bio' incorrectly?
The venue where we played in Dallas is about to be converted into a Starbucks. It's the first time I think I can say without reservation that it is definitely an improvement. People get very sentimental about all these nasty old club venues, I suspect because they don't know any better. I guess I'm not the sentimental type as I think it would be better to burn them all down and to replace them with a parking lot or a Pottery Barn. Not that I like Pottery Barn per se, but you get my point. Why a venue that caters to live music has to smell of piss and beer and have no facilities (even for a live gig, a flat, safe, workable stage would be nice sometimes, as would a PA system that wasn't wank or a local tech who didn't know everything because he was once a stagehand at a Cradle of Filth gig and still has the sticky pass to prove it) is beyond me. Or rather, it's not (no one invests in the venues and the audience accepts them), but why anyone gets attached to these kinds of toilets I cannot imagine. Maybe these are the Unhealable Boils we're supposed to suffer on this tour (the other ones, not the ones I alluded to above....)? But Yay!- a Deep Ellum Starbucks! Finally something to look forward to in Dallas, besides having a picnic where a president was assassinated through the face in front of his wife.
When I woke up in Houston our bus was parked at the back of the venue. The venue was a converted box / warehouse on the edge of Chinatown. It was an Unhealable Boil. There was no one on the streets except beggars. Across the street was the modeling agency, pictured below. I didn't realise that there was such a demand for a 24/7 modeling agency in Houston. Are people there always putting on surprise catwalk shows round the clock and need models? I am confused and not a little cheered. Who doesn't like a fashion show? Lots of pretty girls walking up and down like giraffes with broken pelvises in clothes.... To think that one could pop up at any moment excited me, even though it didn't happen. Go models of Houston! Go with your crazy surprise Fashion Shows!
The people we met in Houston were very nice though. Except the taxi drivers, who were all wankers or weird. I've traveled in taxis all over the world and these were the worst I've ever encountered. Still, what do I care? They're driving taxis in Houston and I'm....oh yeah. I'm on a bus in Tennessee. That'll show them, won't it?
* Except for South By Southwest, of course.
So the week in Texas passed more quickly than I expected it to. I think a large part of that was because SBS (to give it its proper acronym) was such a blur of activity that time flew there.
At the Dallas show we encountered our first torrential downpour just after we loaded-in. The sky before the storm was green, it's something I've never seen before. It was a biblical amount of rain, which is fitting for this tour. On this tour since January we've / they've endured fires (x 2), stabbed wheels, thefts, a collision with a runaway villain, and now floods ( in Houston the rain was so heavy the slide-out lounge flooded - a full-on water everywhere flood, not just a drip here and there). I think we're working our way through the ten plagues of Egypt which means, by my reckoning, we've got at least Lice, Rivers of Blood and Unhealable Boils to look forward to.
Erm, actually, I might have two of those covered already.
Under the weight of the approaching storm Josh and Marc played a little wiffle ball in an abandoned lot, laughing in the face of an angry god with their underarm serves and wild, effete swings. They reminded me of a young Hall & Oates playing on the streets of Philly, honing their harmonising chops, before they were swept up up in the yacht rock phenomenom. Just two kids, believing in a dream, hanging out with poor black children and stealing their music, cutting off its balls, and selling it to white people. Hall and Oates that is, not Josh and Marc; Josh and Marc were just bored.
Or maybe I read the Hall & Oates bio' incorrectly?
The venue where we played in Dallas is about to be converted into a Starbucks. It's the first time I think I can say without reservation that it is definitely an improvement. People get very sentimental about all these nasty old club venues, I suspect because they don't know any better. I guess I'm not the sentimental type as I think it would be better to burn them all down and to replace them with a parking lot or a Pottery Barn. Not that I like Pottery Barn per se, but you get my point. Why a venue that caters to live music has to smell of piss and beer and have no facilities (even for a live gig, a flat, safe, workable stage would be nice sometimes, as would a PA system that wasn't wank or a local tech who didn't know everything because he was once a stagehand at a Cradle of Filth gig and still has the sticky pass to prove it) is beyond me. Or rather, it's not (no one invests in the venues and the audience accepts them), but why anyone gets attached to these kinds of toilets I cannot imagine. Maybe these are the Unhealable Boils we're supposed to suffer on this tour (the other ones, not the ones I alluded to above....)? But Yay!- a Deep Ellum Starbucks! Finally something to look forward to in Dallas, besides having a picnic where a president was assassinated through the face in front of his wife.
When I woke up in Houston our bus was parked at the back of the venue. The venue was a converted box / warehouse on the edge of Chinatown. It was an Unhealable Boil. There was no one on the streets except beggars. Across the street was the modeling agency, pictured below. I didn't realise that there was such a demand for a 24/7 modeling agency in Houston. Are people there always putting on surprise catwalk shows round the clock and need models? I am confused and not a little cheered. Who doesn't like a fashion show? Lots of pretty girls walking up and down like giraffes with broken pelvises in clothes.... To think that one could pop up at any moment excited me, even though it didn't happen. Go models of Houston! Go with your crazy surprise Fashion Shows!
The people we met in Houston were very nice though. Except the taxi drivers, who were all wankers or weird. I've traveled in taxis all over the world and these were the worst I've ever encountered. Still, what do I care? They're driving taxis in Houston and I'm....oh yeah. I'm on a bus in Tennessee. That'll show them, won't it?
* Except for South By Southwest, of course.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Deaddy Bears Picnic.
A tour bus is a very masculine place, even with a bunch of fey lightweights like us on it. (Jamie pointed out this morning that our obsession with watching Grey's Anatomy and eating at Whole Foods makes us the most un-rock and roll touring party ever...). That said - and I have to be quick as I've just downloaded a new episode and I'm hoping to watch it by stage time; I mean, wtf is going on with Meredith these days?! - with 8 men living in close quarters with one another it can't help but get a bit blokey on the bus. (I bet even Japan's tour bus did the same). So, as if to counteract this, teddy bears started appearing at truck stops - I guess flowers aren't a good option as a humanising touch on a tour bus. We have 5 bears now littering the seats, and in some cases, and I'm naming no names, bunks.
Then one morning in Houston - and it had to be Texas, too, didn't it? - I woke up to find one of the bears stabbed through the heart. This brought out the creative streak in the murderer because later jam was smeared over its chest like blood and the following morning the bear had a skull head. Later still, one of it's brothers was found hanging from the roof.
I don't know whether to be upset that we can't leave anything nice alone, or relieved that we haven't all softened so much that we're no longer men enough to murder a poncy teddy bear when it sits in our seat.
I will say this however, if anyone touches the teal bunny I will fucking maim them.
A tour bus is a very masculine place, even with a bunch of fey lightweights like us on it. (Jamie pointed out this morning that our obsession with watching Grey's Anatomy and eating at Whole Foods makes us the most un-rock and roll touring party ever...). That said - and I have to be quick as I've just downloaded a new episode and I'm hoping to watch it by stage time; I mean, wtf is going on with Meredith these days?! - with 8 men living in close quarters with one another it can't help but get a bit blokey on the bus. (I bet even Japan's tour bus did the same). So, as if to counteract this, teddy bears started appearing at truck stops - I guess flowers aren't a good option as a humanising touch on a tour bus. We have 5 bears now littering the seats, and in some cases, and I'm naming no names, bunks.
Then one morning in Houston - and it had to be Texas, too, didn't it? - I woke up to find one of the bears stabbed through the heart. This brought out the creative streak in the murderer because later jam was smeared over its chest like blood and the following morning the bear had a skull head. Later still, one of it's brothers was found hanging from the roof.
I don't know whether to be upset that we can't leave anything nice alone, or relieved that we haven't all softened so much that we're no longer men enough to murder a poncy teddy bear when it sits in our seat.
I will say this however, if anyone touches the teal bunny I will fucking maim them.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Texas:
Oh Jesus Christ. And they do it all in your name, mate.
Every evening I get to see corridors like the one below as I walk around and deliver my day-sheets (sheets outlining the following day's activities that I type up for everyone so they know what time to get up and be ready to leave, etc. etc. No one reads them and then they spend the next day asking me what was on the sheet). Sometimes walking around a hotel at night can be spooky. This hotel was very quiet.
I can only assume everyone was in their rooms watching the Christian DAYSTAR TV CHANNEL. Almost all of the men on the channel have very trimmed and dyed beards, and weird starey eyes. When I saw a few moments of it (and that was all I could take; my dead black soul unable to bear the presence of such pure Christian love for any longer) I saw a segment in which a man was talking about his wife's 14 year-long battle with depression; depression eventually cured by a dream of Jesus coming down and telling her (I'm paraphrasing) "enough with the depression already." The woman was then able to put 14 years of depression behind her because of her faith. I thought it was interesting that her husband didn't seem to examine why his wife had been depressed for 14 years... to be honest, and I'm taking a wild guess, but being married to a man with an unnatural beard, starey eyes, who couches everything in divine a self-aggrandising context might depress me for 14 years too. But what do I know? I have no soul. Not anymore. I watch everything with blank glassy eyes and try to remember what it was like to feel moved by something. However, I've just come back from South By Southwest so that might have something to do with it.
Seeing as it's such a Christian state, and people take their god very seriously here, if not their adherence to all that tedious religious doctrine, I was surprised to find that the devil had won out on the hotel Movie Channels. There were 49 different channels of full penetration pornography on my TV. Maybe that's why the corridors were so quiet at night?
Tangentally, while shopping for stage props (dont' ask) a few days later in Austin, I had the fortune to visit this fine emporium. Next to the I-35 interstate a few miles outside of town, it is a huge shed full of smut. It has a discreet parking lot around the back and inside it's like a blockbuster video store full of scut. I had to look in the "toy" section and I have to be honest and say I obviously come from a very small town. There were appendages there longer than my limbs, and thicker too. Nothing makes me realise how pedestrian I am than seeing the range of toys, gadgets, titilaters and plain old flesh-wreckers on sale in a porn store. That, and seeing who is buying all this stuff. That's more interesting, to be honest. Especially if you can follow them home and then, later on, back to work where you'll be able to blackmail them, or maybe date them. Or both. Which would be like Christmas and your birthday all at the same time.
Oh Jesus Christ. And they do it all in your name, mate.
Every evening I get to see corridors like the one below as I walk around and deliver my day-sheets (sheets outlining the following day's activities that I type up for everyone so they know what time to get up and be ready to leave, etc. etc. No one reads them and then they spend the next day asking me what was on the sheet). Sometimes walking around a hotel at night can be spooky. This hotel was very quiet.
I can only assume everyone was in their rooms watching the Christian DAYSTAR TV CHANNEL. Almost all of the men on the channel have very trimmed and dyed beards, and weird starey eyes. When I saw a few moments of it (and that was all I could take; my dead black soul unable to bear the presence of such pure Christian love for any longer) I saw a segment in which a man was talking about his wife's 14 year-long battle with depression; depression eventually cured by a dream of Jesus coming down and telling her (I'm paraphrasing) "enough with the depression already." The woman was then able to put 14 years of depression behind her because of her faith. I thought it was interesting that her husband didn't seem to examine why his wife had been depressed for 14 years... to be honest, and I'm taking a wild guess, but being married to a man with an unnatural beard, starey eyes, who couches everything in divine a self-aggrandising context might depress me for 14 years too. But what do I know? I have no soul. Not anymore. I watch everything with blank glassy eyes and try to remember what it was like to feel moved by something. However, I've just come back from South By Southwest so that might have something to do with it.
Seeing as it's such a Christian state, and people take their god very seriously here, if not their adherence to all that tedious religious doctrine, I was surprised to find that the devil had won out on the hotel Movie Channels. There were 49 different channels of full penetration pornography on my TV. Maybe that's why the corridors were so quiet at night?
Tangentally, while shopping for stage props (dont' ask) a few days later in Austin, I had the fortune to visit this fine emporium. Next to the I-35 interstate a few miles outside of town, it is a huge shed full of smut. It has a discreet parking lot around the back and inside it's like a blockbuster video store full of scut. I had to look in the "toy" section and I have to be honest and say I obviously come from a very small town. There were appendages there longer than my limbs, and thicker too. Nothing makes me realise how pedestrian I am than seeing the range of toys, gadgets, titilaters and plain old flesh-wreckers on sale in a porn store. That, and seeing who is buying all this stuff. That's more interesting, to be honest. Especially if you can follow them home and then, later on, back to work where you'll be able to blackmail them, or maybe date them. Or both. Which would be like Christmas and your birthday all at the same time.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
There's a Strat' in Me Kitchen....
What am a gonna' do....? And here's several thousands of dollars worth of guitars ready for load-out. Because the guitars get all sweaty every night on stage, we run them under hot water in the sink to kill the germs and to rinse off the fan flakes that get stuck to them before we put them back in the flight cases. (Btw, imho UB40 were crap after their first single; a cabaret covers band...).
Backstage in San Francisco at Popscene. Yes, that's right, the dressing room was in a fire escape. It was worse for the support band; they had a landing just like ours but without any drinks on it. Living the dream.
And from the ridiculous, above, to the sublime, below. This is the view of Boulder from the van on the way to doing a radio session thirty hours later. The mountains were magnificent and I want to go back to hang out there sometime when I'm not working; maybe to catch and tame some bears? That might be a chuckle. If they don't have bears I'll go catch me some Elk and train them. Can one train Elk to do bank robberies? Please write in with your Bear / Elk-training stories....
What am a gonna' do....? And here's several thousands of dollars worth of guitars ready for load-out. Because the guitars get all sweaty every night on stage, we run them under hot water in the sink to kill the germs and to rinse off the fan flakes that get stuck to them before we put them back in the flight cases. (Btw, imho UB40 were crap after their first single; a cabaret covers band...).
Backstage in San Francisco at Popscene. Yes, that's right, the dressing room was in a fire escape. It was worse for the support band; they had a landing just like ours but without any drinks on it. Living the dream.
And from the ridiculous, above, to the sublime, below. This is the view of Boulder from the van on the way to doing a radio session thirty hours later. The mountains were magnificent and I want to go back to hang out there sometime when I'm not working; maybe to catch and tame some bears? That might be a chuckle. If they don't have bears I'll go catch me some Elk and train them. Can one train Elk to do bank robberies? Please write in with your Bear / Elk-training stories....
Dallas - Spring Is Here:
Yes it is. And I've been staying in my room watching movies, which has been great. Children Of Men was good - Clive Owen is from my hometown so I like him, especially when he swears in a Coventry accent. Jesus Camp was terrifying, truly. Venus was great too. I guess one's old when one identifies with the Peter O' Toole character. The film made me homesick for London too, or rather, for being in London and in love (although not necessarily with a woman fifty years my junior).
It's good to feel the sunshine and with the clocks going forward it's lighter later, which is also good. Texas is wide and vast and flat outside the window; a gothic kind of flat and empty. (Note the poor people's houses right next to the hotel. Across the street from the hotel-not pictured-is a vast Mall with lots of high-end stores. It must fuck with you being poor and living next to giant Macys, Versace & Gucci stores...? I grew up quite poor--I dont' want to exaggerate my ghetto credentials like all us middle-class people are fond of doing; we never went without in our house, for example, becuase my mum worked hard to keep us together after my dad died. But I still carry it with me. I've only just now started to get rid of my prejudice against money and the moneyed. I'm glad our lack of cash wasn't rubbed in my face when I grew up. There was just a posh part of town that we drove through occassionally but I certainly didn't have to look at a giant retail emporium I couldn't afford to shop in every day. That said, that posh part of Coventry I just mentioned? One day I'm going to buy it and turn it into a car-park. That'll teach the buggers....).
Looking at the horizon stretching forever I kept feeling alternately alone and spooked in turn. I am in contact with friends by text and email and very rarely by telephone - I have friends in LA, NY, London, AZ & Berlin that I stay in touch with. All of them are virtual relationships in that I hardly ever see these people although I spend a lot of time thinking about them. I permanently have one pavlovian eye trained on the message light on my blackberry and feel kind of let down when I just get a work email or text. Incoming texts and emails are like tiny sugar hits all through the day.
This is my hotel room in Dallas. In this room, where the dust floats slowly in the sunlight and where the air is very still, if I sit very quietly and don't move, it's like I'm not in it.
Yes it is. And I've been staying in my room watching movies, which has been great. Children Of Men was good - Clive Owen is from my hometown so I like him, especially when he swears in a Coventry accent. Jesus Camp was terrifying, truly. Venus was great too. I guess one's old when one identifies with the Peter O' Toole character. The film made me homesick for London too, or rather, for being in London and in love (although not necessarily with a woman fifty years my junior).
It's good to feel the sunshine and with the clocks going forward it's lighter later, which is also good. Texas is wide and vast and flat outside the window; a gothic kind of flat and empty. (Note the poor people's houses right next to the hotel. Across the street from the hotel-not pictured-is a vast Mall with lots of high-end stores. It must fuck with you being poor and living next to giant Macys, Versace & Gucci stores...? I grew up quite poor--I dont' want to exaggerate my ghetto credentials like all us middle-class people are fond of doing; we never went without in our house, for example, becuase my mum worked hard to keep us together after my dad died. But I still carry it with me. I've only just now started to get rid of my prejudice against money and the moneyed. I'm glad our lack of cash wasn't rubbed in my face when I grew up. There was just a posh part of town that we drove through occassionally but I certainly didn't have to look at a giant retail emporium I couldn't afford to shop in every day. That said, that posh part of Coventry I just mentioned? One day I'm going to buy it and turn it into a car-park. That'll teach the buggers....).
Looking at the horizon stretching forever I kept feeling alternately alone and spooked in turn. I am in contact with friends by text and email and very rarely by telephone - I have friends in LA, NY, London, AZ & Berlin that I stay in touch with. All of them are virtual relationships in that I hardly ever see these people although I spend a lot of time thinking about them. I permanently have one pavlovian eye trained on the message light on my blackberry and feel kind of let down when I just get a work email or text. Incoming texts and emails are like tiny sugar hits all through the day.
This is my hotel room in Dallas. In this room, where the dust floats slowly in the sunlight and where the air is very still, if I sit very quietly and don't move, it's like I'm not in it.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
California Love:
We get to the LA venue. The crew there are talking a good game. The venue is beautiful, an old dance-hall style room with big chandeliers. On the surface, it’s all good. There’s a strange vibe though, and much macho posturing and butch roadie talk; we’re a step up the evolutionary ladder from people wearing all their old laminates or utility belts with every type of wrench and bat-shark repellent attached. Everything is going okay, the doors open, the support band play and then there’s change-over. Suddenly everything goes to shit. The monitor guy can’t remember where anything goes, the lead vocal mic’ is pulling shocks, no one knows how or why but suddenly all these “experienced” guys have all fucked-off, only to come back later when the problem has been solved to dance behind the curtain on stage like twats. Bunch of c***s. I’m not so surprised, it’s LA and everyone here talks a better game than they deliver, but it’s tedious. Frankly, if some wanker wants to stomp around a venue posing and competing in the world’s most roadiest roadie competition I’m happy to let him. I’m not playing. But when they can’t deliver or spend more time competing with their own vanity than they do doing the job at hand it’s a waste of everyone’s time and fucks up the show.
[I am redacting the comments I previously posted about certain people from the Music Business in LA. I think those comments were probably illegal, although the description of someone having the intelligence and finesse of a drunk, spastic moose still stands]. Suffice is to say that I never have any respect for people who work in music with the sole aim of hanging out with the band. It's no surprise that people are like that, it's the other side of the coin of what I do to some degree, but one has to be about the music first. If you're not then you're a bit of twat in my book.
However, I will still admit to the following: At least my enraged feeling is better than last year where there was a lighting guy who’s head I wanted to slam in a car door until it popped every single day when he opened his fat mouth, just like Vinnie Jones does in Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Whatev’s. The world is full of dickheads, right? I’m just meeting all mine this week… But I’m setting myself a personal goal of not slapping [person's name removed] before the end of the tour. I have to remember I’m not in Coventry anymore.
We drive to San Francisco. I always get sad leaving LA. I feel like there’s another life I’m not living there, and that maybe I should be.
I couldn't work there though. I always feel like I need to shower in scalding hot bleach when I leave LA music people.
Heart Of Darkness:
Albert plays a show in San Francisco. The morning after I take the rental vans back to U-Haul and Avis respectively. I get into arguments at both locations. At U-Haul although I’m five hours early for my 24 hour rental, the girl claims I’m 30 minutes late as I said I’d be back at 9AM. Silly moo. At Avis the guy checking the car tells me to tell the office the mileage. The office guy gives me a hard time because I didn’t check the car in correctly. I tell him I gave the keys to the van to a man I met on the street outside who was smoking crack cocaine. He believes me. Eventually he gets the guy from the garage to vouch for me. Fuckwit. By 10AM I’ve had two arguments wile returning rental vehicles back in perfect condition five hours early. Boredom.
My skin is falling off, it's pretty disgusting. I think it’s because I’m biting back lots of bad words I want to say and they’re coming out through my epidermis. It takes so much energy to be so pissed off all the time and not let it out. It’s like having a toothache or trying to hold a basketball under water the whole time. I’ve realized if I hang out with solely the traveling party it helps some.
I had a dream last night about a friend of mine I’m hoping to catch up with at SXSW (A dull, hellish drinking festival in Texas) and I woke up feeling happy. We won't have time to catch up, but I’ll take anything I can get these days by way of a good feeling.
We get to the LA venue. The crew there are talking a good game. The venue is beautiful, an old dance-hall style room with big chandeliers. On the surface, it’s all good. There’s a strange vibe though, and much macho posturing and butch roadie talk; we’re a step up the evolutionary ladder from people wearing all their old laminates or utility belts with every type of wrench and bat-shark repellent attached. Everything is going okay, the doors open, the support band play and then there’s change-over. Suddenly everything goes to shit. The monitor guy can’t remember where anything goes, the lead vocal mic’ is pulling shocks, no one knows how or why but suddenly all these “experienced” guys have all fucked-off, only to come back later when the problem has been solved to dance behind the curtain on stage like twats. Bunch of c***s. I’m not so surprised, it’s LA and everyone here talks a better game than they deliver, but it’s tedious. Frankly, if some wanker wants to stomp around a venue posing and competing in the world’s most roadiest roadie competition I’m happy to let him. I’m not playing. But when they can’t deliver or spend more time competing with their own vanity than they do doing the job at hand it’s a waste of everyone’s time and fucks up the show.
[I am redacting the comments I previously posted about certain people from the Music Business in LA. I think those comments were probably illegal, although the description of someone having the intelligence and finesse of a drunk, spastic moose still stands]. Suffice is to say that I never have any respect for people who work in music with the sole aim of hanging out with the band. It's no surprise that people are like that, it's the other side of the coin of what I do to some degree, but one has to be about the music first. If you're not then you're a bit of twat in my book.
However, I will still admit to the following: At least my enraged feeling is better than last year where there was a lighting guy who’s head I wanted to slam in a car door until it popped every single day when he opened his fat mouth, just like Vinnie Jones does in Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Whatev’s. The world is full of dickheads, right? I’m just meeting all mine this week… But I’m setting myself a personal goal of not slapping [person's name removed] before the end of the tour. I have to remember I’m not in Coventry anymore.
We drive to San Francisco. I always get sad leaving LA. I feel like there’s another life I’m not living there, and that maybe I should be.
I couldn't work there though. I always feel like I need to shower in scalding hot bleach when I leave LA music people.
Heart Of Darkness:
Albert plays a show in San Francisco. The morning after I take the rental vans back to U-Haul and Avis respectively. I get into arguments at both locations. At U-Haul although I’m five hours early for my 24 hour rental, the girl claims I’m 30 minutes late as I said I’d be back at 9AM. Silly moo. At Avis the guy checking the car tells me to tell the office the mileage. The office guy gives me a hard time because I didn’t check the car in correctly. I tell him I gave the keys to the van to a man I met on the street outside who was smoking crack cocaine. He believes me. Eventually he gets the guy from the garage to vouch for me. Fuckwit. By 10AM I’ve had two arguments wile returning rental vehicles back in perfect condition five hours early. Boredom.
My skin is falling off, it's pretty disgusting. I think it’s because I’m biting back lots of bad words I want to say and they’re coming out through my epidermis. It takes so much energy to be so pissed off all the time and not let it out. It’s like having a toothache or trying to hold a basketball under water the whole time. I’ve realized if I hang out with solely the traveling party it helps some.
I had a dream last night about a friend of mine I’m hoping to catch up with at SXSW (A dull, hellish drinking festival in Texas) and I woke up feeling happy. We won't have time to catch up, but I’ll take anything I can get these days by way of a good feeling.
Monday, March 05, 2007
It's Grim Up North (Part ii)
Seattle is wet and overcast. Out hotel is in the middle of University-land, which is a good thing, as it means there are coffee shops and record stores nearby. Normally in Seattle we stay in downtown and although there are plenty of Old Navy and Gap stores around there’s nothing to do or nowhere to go to eat at night (or even anywhere to buy clothes, for that matter). Not that it's so important, we arrive at 11PM and check out the next day. I do manage to find (in Rite Aid) a foam mattress which I use to pad out my bunk on the bus. I also load-up my bunk with about 10 novels and my stuff. I’m living in it for about a month so I might as well make it as homely as possible.
The first show is packed and sweaty. After load-out I set departure time to 3AM so everyone can hang out. We’re only going overnight to Portland and we don’t have a hotel so there’s no rush to get going. At 2:30AM someone bangs on the door of the bus to tell us some wanker has slashed our trailer tyres. Sure enough, someone has. Our driver spends all night on the phone trying to get someone to come out to replace them but in the end he fits the spare tyre onto the trailer instead and drives to a Goodyear garage to get the slashed tyres replaced. There are so many pointless time drains on tour, life you never get back, waiting for tow-trucks in the rain, or, as with the case of Portland the next morning, waiting for cabs who are never coming to take you to the hotel. This seems to be a theme on this trip already. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more this time around?
The ass bone of a Goodyear mechanic repairing our trailer tyres outside Seattle in the rain. Mmmm yes.
In Portland, after a wasteful half hour of trying to park the bus (which was an uneccessary bore because someone had left their van in the wrong place – see previous gripe about wasting time) we go to the hotel to shower. It's a La Quinta, and so basic that I feel vindicated that I’ve brought some of the stolen soaps I’d taken from posh hotels with The Strokes last year. They are perfect travel sizes and they smell nice, which can’t always be said of the hardened cow-fat cubes at La Quinta hotels.
In Portland, at 11AM, I go looking for a diner for breakfast. Twice within five minutes people try to stare me down – I think the venue is in the Portland version of The Tenderloin or The Bowery. It’s a draggy way to start your day after 4 hours sleep. I stare back, ludicrously ready to get into it with anyone this morning. Stupid, I’d probably get my ass kicked (although secretly I'm convinved I'd get a couple of good ones in on my way down that would make it wiorth it. I'm in that kind of mood. What can I say? I'm from the Midlands...).
Later, a waitress in a diner is nice to me and it makes the whole day better. Thank you, Portland waitress. I will never forget you. Although I will, of course, by about tomorrow. I am nothing if not fickle and self-serving.
Outside the diner someone had tied a golden plastic horse to the curb with a short steel cable. I'm glad someone had remembered, I'm always forgetting to do this.
Here is the dressing room in Seattle.
Here is the production office in Portland.
Notice any similarities?
That’s right! They’re both designed to induce suicide. The Portland room had the added bonus of being cold and damp. Bad things had happened in that room – I think people had been killed in there, for real. It felt so bad I had to keep stepping outside so as not to get too depressed. Every time I’ve been to this venue in the past year (3 times) I’ve felt the same thing. I think it’s spooked. And I’m not really one to believe in such things. Even now, lying in my bunk driving through the Southern Californian sunshine, it gives me the willies. Definitely murders or suicides.
The Seattle dressing room was a typical club dressing room.The dressing room in Osaka looked very similar, only it wasn't slimed with disease like this one was. I've seen rooms like this all over the world. It's universal: the shitty seats; the tiresome grafitti by loads of no-mark bands; the giant penises drawn on the walls; the boring logo stickers of bands, most of whom will get no further than this room because they’re crap or more likely, just very average. It’s overwhelmingly dispiriting, and a really common sight. If I never see another room like this it would suit me just fine. This is the glamour of rock and roll the Hard Rock Café doesn’t quite pick-up on. If they really wanted to steep their casino and restaurants in rock and roll verisimilitude then they’d let a load of unsuccessful, unimaginative, bitter egoists run amok with sharpies drawing giant ejaculating penises on the walls and writing “your gay” ungrammatically under each others names in the lobby. Then they would bore you titless with their fucking demos and sour tales about how every other band (esp. those who've had any succes--no matter how miniscule and fleeting) is crap, based on a nebulous criteria that can only be accurately (But never actually) summarised with the credo: "Because they're not me."
This wall reminds me of the stream of headlights driving into Vegas every night to lose, except it's not pretty to look at like headlights in the desert are.
Sunday I slept all afternoon in my bunk. I only went there to read as the lounge was getting crowded and I get really really claustrophobic. I fell asleep. There's something about the curtain being closed and it being all dark that makes it easy to sleep in there during the day - like a vampire or a cokehead. (I did get to enjoy one truck-stop stop where the radio was playing an awful country song where the twat of a singer was reacalling fondly the days when his father beat him for 'diggin' in the dirt' - whatever that might be. I presume this twat is legally allowed to carrry a gun, too, wherever he's from. That's scary). When I woke up at seven pm it was time to book a hotel for the night, just as we were hitting the pass through the mountains and we lost cell-phone and wireless connection.
Eventually we stay at Knotts Berry Farm in Anaheim. We eat in the restaurant of the Knotts Berry Farm resort hotel. It's called Amber Waves, it has all the atmosphere of a dentist's waiting room. The food is defrosted. The kid waiter is stressed out even though we're the only customers. The highlight of the evening for me is when Matt tells me he likes Monkey Movies. It makes me feel better. It's the OC. We've arrived, mum, we've arrived.
Seattle is wet and overcast. Out hotel is in the middle of University-land, which is a good thing, as it means there are coffee shops and record stores nearby. Normally in Seattle we stay in downtown and although there are plenty of Old Navy and Gap stores around there’s nothing to do or nowhere to go to eat at night (or even anywhere to buy clothes, for that matter). Not that it's so important, we arrive at 11PM and check out the next day. I do manage to find (in Rite Aid) a foam mattress which I use to pad out my bunk on the bus. I also load-up my bunk with about 10 novels and my stuff. I’m living in it for about a month so I might as well make it as homely as possible.
The first show is packed and sweaty. After load-out I set departure time to 3AM so everyone can hang out. We’re only going overnight to Portland and we don’t have a hotel so there’s no rush to get going. At 2:30AM someone bangs on the door of the bus to tell us some wanker has slashed our trailer tyres. Sure enough, someone has. Our driver spends all night on the phone trying to get someone to come out to replace them but in the end he fits the spare tyre onto the trailer instead and drives to a Goodyear garage to get the slashed tyres replaced. There are so many pointless time drains on tour, life you never get back, waiting for tow-trucks in the rain, or, as with the case of Portland the next morning, waiting for cabs who are never coming to take you to the hotel. This seems to be a theme on this trip already. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more this time around?
The ass bone of a Goodyear mechanic repairing our trailer tyres outside Seattle in the rain. Mmmm yes.
In Portland, after a wasteful half hour of trying to park the bus (which was an uneccessary bore because someone had left their van in the wrong place – see previous gripe about wasting time) we go to the hotel to shower. It's a La Quinta, and so basic that I feel vindicated that I’ve brought some of the stolen soaps I’d taken from posh hotels with The Strokes last year. They are perfect travel sizes and they smell nice, which can’t always be said of the hardened cow-fat cubes at La Quinta hotels.
In Portland, at 11AM, I go looking for a diner for breakfast. Twice within five minutes people try to stare me down – I think the venue is in the Portland version of The Tenderloin or The Bowery. It’s a draggy way to start your day after 4 hours sleep. I stare back, ludicrously ready to get into it with anyone this morning. Stupid, I’d probably get my ass kicked (although secretly I'm convinved I'd get a couple of good ones in on my way down that would make it wiorth it. I'm in that kind of mood. What can I say? I'm from the Midlands...).
Later, a waitress in a diner is nice to me and it makes the whole day better. Thank you, Portland waitress. I will never forget you. Although I will, of course, by about tomorrow. I am nothing if not fickle and self-serving.
Outside the diner someone had tied a golden plastic horse to the curb with a short steel cable. I'm glad someone had remembered, I'm always forgetting to do this.
Here is the dressing room in Seattle.
Here is the production office in Portland.
Notice any similarities?
That’s right! They’re both designed to induce suicide. The Portland room had the added bonus of being cold and damp. Bad things had happened in that room – I think people had been killed in there, for real. It felt so bad I had to keep stepping outside so as not to get too depressed. Every time I’ve been to this venue in the past year (3 times) I’ve felt the same thing. I think it’s spooked. And I’m not really one to believe in such things. Even now, lying in my bunk driving through the Southern Californian sunshine, it gives me the willies. Definitely murders or suicides.
The Seattle dressing room was a typical club dressing room.The dressing room in Osaka looked very similar, only it wasn't slimed with disease like this one was. I've seen rooms like this all over the world. It's universal: the shitty seats; the tiresome grafitti by loads of no-mark bands; the giant penises drawn on the walls; the boring logo stickers of bands, most of whom will get no further than this room because they’re crap or more likely, just very average. It’s overwhelmingly dispiriting, and a really common sight. If I never see another room like this it would suit me just fine. This is the glamour of rock and roll the Hard Rock Café doesn’t quite pick-up on. If they really wanted to steep their casino and restaurants in rock and roll verisimilitude then they’d let a load of unsuccessful, unimaginative, bitter egoists run amok with sharpies drawing giant ejaculating penises on the walls and writing “your gay” ungrammatically under each others names in the lobby. Then they would bore you titless with their fucking demos and sour tales about how every other band (esp. those who've had any succes--no matter how miniscule and fleeting) is crap, based on a nebulous criteria that can only be accurately (But never actually) summarised with the credo: "Because they're not me."
This wall reminds me of the stream of headlights driving into Vegas every night to lose, except it's not pretty to look at like headlights in the desert are.
Sunday I slept all afternoon in my bunk. I only went there to read as the lounge was getting crowded and I get really really claustrophobic. I fell asleep. There's something about the curtain being closed and it being all dark that makes it easy to sleep in there during the day - like a vampire or a cokehead. (I did get to enjoy one truck-stop stop where the radio was playing an awful country song where the twat of a singer was reacalling fondly the days when his father beat him for 'diggin' in the dirt' - whatever that might be. I presume this twat is legally allowed to carrry a gun, too, wherever he's from. That's scary). When I woke up at seven pm it was time to book a hotel for the night, just as we were hitting the pass through the mountains and we lost cell-phone and wireless connection.
Eventually we stay at Knotts Berry Farm in Anaheim. We eat in the restaurant of the Knotts Berry Farm resort hotel. It's called Amber Waves, it has all the atmosphere of a dentist's waiting room. The food is defrosted. The kid waiter is stressed out even though we're the only customers. The highlight of the evening for me is when Matt tells me he likes Monkey Movies. It makes me feel better. It's the OC. We've arrived, mum, we've arrived.
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