Thurs Feb 6th – Gooski’s – Pittsburgh, PA
Got up with a sore throat after coming home from rehearsal at midnight, not packed, not ready, getting sick, wandering around my house by 1am looking through piles of paper for the van’s registration which I think is on the windshield but I’m so out of it that I feel like I need a piece of paper to give to the Man if he pulls us over. You know, "License and registration." By the end of the tour I would have neither of these items but I would still be driving.
Read on!
I find the title by accident which was misfiled in my Visa bills (and people wonder how I lost my passport – wait where is my new one? Oh its cool – its in my brown bag!) so I decide to take that which is actually something they recommend you leave at home – but I guess the fates wove some funny tricks into this trip.
I’m generally not to be trusted with stuff – case in point – I promised the other guys in Oneida that I would apply for my passport before we left on tour. Of course I promised this at our final rehearsal Wed night. 7:50am the next morning I start filling out my application and get to line 20 which says "STOP! Do not sign this application unless instructed to do so by a passport application agent." I’m thinking I’ve really fucked up this time – but for kicks I go online and discover that the post office 3 blocks from my house is a passport office and they start processing applications at 9:30am (never mind that we’re supposed to be on the road at 10). So I throw on some clothes and head over to the Adelphi Station Post Office 11238.
The first thing I see when I enter is a sign listing 5 or 6 Brooklyn passport offices. The poster seems to be hung with exasperation and doesn’t list this location as being open. My heart sinks in my chest, I’m starting to get hungry and desperate – the line as usual, is about 15 people deep and moving slowly – all signs seem to indicate that they don’t process passports but feeling stubborn, I step into the line with growing anxiety over the fact that I haven’t even begun to pack for this 3.5 week trip and its getting on 8:30am and I’m supposed to pick up Bobby and Mustang Larry (more on him later) starting at 9:30. The radio was playing Bob Marley and a caller had started telling the DJ that Bob Marley should be considered in the same league as MLK and Marcus Garvey. As I approached the window with my sloppily filled out application, my brain began to exhibit the frenzied symptoms of self-consumption. I was totally resigned to getting to the window and having the officer tell me that they had stopped doing passports and I that I needed to go downtown with an appointment to process this etc. . . I get to the window at about 8:45, glass half empty so to speak, asking or more like telling the teller, "You don’t do passports." Statement. Over. Go on tour and have to go to some fucked up situation in Seattle to get a passport in the middle of a long drive – late, feeling guilty, feeling like I had let everyone down. . .
"Yes, we do passports. Starting at 9:30. Just fill this out and come back then."
Oh my God.
"So I should take this, come back at 9:30 and you’ll take my application."
"Yes."
I rushed back to my place and called Bobby and explained the situation. I think he was a little concerned that it would make us late but I reassured him and started packing.
As I pack for the first time let me give you a quick run down of the things I generally fucked up as we approached this tour:
I slacked off paying the van’s insurance, got my insurance cancelled, had the registration in jeopardy, got the pink envelope from the state with the announcement "OPEN IMMEADIATELY OR RISK FORFEITURE OF YOUR FUCKING US TOUR BITCH" and just left it by the door thinking, "Whoa, that’s something I should deal with right away." I then promptly forgot about it until I was looking for something else 10 days later and was like, "Oh shit, I should see what this says." Opened that letter and it says something like, "Hey man, you fucked up. Either send us proof that your insurance is paid up right now or were gonna cancel your reggie and you’ll have to send us your plates and that would be a drag."
It also said that unless I did this w/in 7 days of the receipt of this letter I was totally screwed. I checked the date on the letter and I was still in the same month, so I got the proof of my new insurance which was sitting in the same pile of unopened mail, stuffed it in the envelope, mailed it out and thought, "OK. I’m cool for now. Where’s the next brushfire?"
So let me tell you about my passport.
I lost it.
Sometime ago.
I think the laundry stole it.
Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Anyway – perhaps you’re familiar with these tour reports and see how this lost passport has caused me much anxiety when we go into Canada. Last time I used my birth certificate and I think I lost that too.
So there’s something seriously wrong when I can find the KROC FM 80’s cassette of LA hair metal hopefuls in five seconds flat – but when I’m trying to remember where I put my passport I’m at sea.
Anyway so I go back to the passport office at the appointed time with a very old passport with me at age 12 in there – the photos I had taken for the new passport had been sitting in my wallet for 2 months and one of them had stuck to the envelope’s adhesive – so that was kind of stupid. Anyway – I felt like I was a barely passing candidate for international travel. I mean I was better than some people probably but if the bureaucrats ever saw my room I think I might be confined to the US for the rest of my life.
But I got the application off and had it addressed to my office which I realized was moving very soon so what good would that be? It seemed as if there was a screw up to be made, I made it. But I needed to get home, finish packing and pick up the other guys.
I think packing went fairly smoothly, we picked up some CDs from Arena Rock and headed out to PGH without much madness.
Mustang Larry of the Crapenters has joined us on this trip with his video camera, digital camera and good humor.
On the way out to Pittsburgh I saw a billboard for this hot dog place Yacco’s. The Yacco’s mascot is a particularly devilish hot dog with one of his brothers speared on a fork over a flame. Why is it that meat places always show an anthropomorphized member of their species as acting chef? Apparently Fergie recently went on a promotional tour for her new line of flatware and asked for a Yacco’s dog for local Lehigh Valley color.
They were good hot dogs, mild and medium textured with chili, onions and mustard included in their "everything." They had birch beer too. It was a good pit stop. Places like this make me mad at the new joint in Williamsburg called HOT DOG which promises some pretentious platonic ideal of the type. Whatever.
When we got into Pittsburgh we stopped off for dinner at Primanti Brothers – starting our meat tour in earnest. As we polished off our hot sausage and kelbasi (their spelling) sandwiches I was introduced to the beauty of Fox’s "Joe Millionaire" and fell in love with the naked exploitation and unintentional parody of romantic representation in film (lots of shots of the moon and crashing surf), and the butler who sits in an easy chair at the end of each show and apparently criticizes "Joe" as being classless. I couldn’t tell what he was saying but I was thoroughly entertained. I like the blonde who did the bondage films but really its just a crush. I’m never going to call her.
We got to Gooski’s satiated and ready for a great show. Gooski’s is PGH’s best place to play these days. Thursday isn’t usually rock night but they made an exception for People of the North (the first leg of this tour ain’t Oneida folks – Jane’s at work still). We played with Alan’s Anita Fix – which is a great ramble through Dylan-esque and Cleveland druggy free-form guitar/drum/vocal numbers. I had heard tapes before but had never seen him live. It was great.
But anyway, when we arrived at the club and tried to open the second rear door of the van, it wouldn’t budge. The latch appeared to be broken. Basically we had let the rust and corrosion which surrounded the lock get out of hand and now we couldn’t open the door. It had started snowing and Bobby had to stand on the rear fender and lift upwards to pull the door open.
Huh.
Interesting.
It took about Bobby 15 minutes to figure out how to open the door. It was then determined that we would have to get that repaired in the morning. Luckily one of our oldest friends in PGH is a total gear head and knows everyone in town. Laurie said she knew a guy who could help us figure out how to weld the door so it wouldn’t get worse.
Anyway – Bobby and I were nervous before this show – it was our first People of the North show ever. We had two originals, two covers, and nothing but time to fill. We figured we could jam out on the covers and maybe finish the set with a final freak out and make it through the night.
We had asked Steve Boyle of Rickety fame to join us on electronics like he used to do with Dead at 24 – the now defunct Ubu/Cleveland-style punk band which referenced Peter Laughner’s death. As he was setting up he was cursing to himself, "What the FUCK?!"
He said he was sure that it would be "totally stupid." But the implication was that that was to be desired. Kind of. That made perfect sense to me.
Steve joined us for Rocket U.S.A. and something we called "Revelation" after the terrible Love song on "Da Capo." He also gave Bobby an Echoplex! Amazing. PGH rules.
Every time I went to the bar these guys in Penguin jerseys kept saying, "Hey drummer! When are you starting?" They were big guys, kind of aggressive and frat-ish so they made me nervous. They were friendly enough before we started playing, but I was sure they would be very angry with POTN, a band which toes the line between mind-numbing repetition and aimless jamming without total commitment. Like Oneida!
The guys kept saying to me that they had been waiting forever to see us play and that they had paid $4 and, "When are you going to start?" But instead of getting my ass beaten at the end of our set, I got a couple of high-fives from the Penguin fan club. Somehow POTN had won them over.
My work was done.
I was starting to feel my pending illness setting in – so when we got to the Rickety House I crashed as soon as I could. It was snowing when I fell asleep and snowing when I woke up. As I write this its snowing still.
Laurie called us hung over at around 9 and lead us to Matt the welding wizard who arc welded some shims onto our door and had us back on the street within an hour. He asked me what I played and when I told him he did kind of a jazzy dance, shaking his arms in an approximation of a drummer messing around with cymbals. Either that or a drunken sea gull. Matt was a good egg – he gave us a crowbar to pry our door open when we needed to.
Later we went to a Tom’s Diner where the waitress Melissa A. Mann uttered the immortal words:
"When mid-afternoon rolls around and you’re shaking with dry heaves – think of me."
I had her sign the quote and told be it would go up on our website. She was pleased and said, "I’m glad to know that my words will be floating around somewhere in outer space."
I liked Melissa. She made me laugh. And she stole a junior fire chief badge from the baby at the next table.
Feb 7th Friday – Chicago – The Empty Bottle
Rolled into Chicago with a four song Rush rock block on the radio. You could hear the city cheer. They have terrible taste in Boston (the band) though – 2 out of 3 of the cuts they selected eschewed the great power balladry for Todd Scholz’s fake boogie. I can’t abide by that.
We entered The Bottle with a country music matinee in full swing – Friday night, weekend starting – the steel player sounded like Speedy West – very surreal.
I was starving and desperate to load in and get food – but it looked like we would have to wait until the band called it quits. No problem – I went to the bar and overheard a gentleman in a cowboy hat say, "Thank you kindly." It rang a little false but I didn’t have time to hate ‘cause they opened the back door and we loaded in.
The main surprise was the label crew from Jagjaguwar showing up to represent for our show in anticipation of their big label night the next evening. The guys regaled me with hilarious stories about their interns – one who shows up every week with new stories about hanging out with The Strokes in NY and LA and doesn’t bother to do any work.
There was another story about a hardcore band from Bloomington called The Opposition. They have a great line I’m stealing:
"We are The Opposition AND SO ARE YOU!"
Many friends were in attendance – one in particular was gleefully telling Bobby that she was a published author now. In the Chicago Reader’s "I Saw You" section (I’m obsessed with this stuff). It read:
"Me full of life with pink scarf. You took me home. I think I left my flask at your apartment. I don’t care about anything else but I really want my flask back! Reward for a response."
Our good friend Plastic Crimewave was there and I was quickly corrected by Joel from WNUR, "DUDE, don’t call him Plastic, that’s not his name! He’s called Psychedelic Steve."
That’s cool because the instant I saw Psychedelic Steve I was like, "Plastic! Do you wanna sing ‘Rocket USA’ with us?" He agreed after a polite second of hesitation – I knew he would be perfect and he was. But I think I left the CDs he gave me at Rob and Sarah’s house the next morning. My bad!
Check Engine, the first band, was very earnest with the saxophone and then we got up to play and I was feeling a little out of sorts – still unsure of how to play the songs. Bobby missed a cue and it totally threw me for a second. I thought he was looking at me but he just had his eyes closed. Oops.
So the contrast was extreme from PGH where the kids were flipping out and dancing to Chicago where our friends were yelling "Fuck you!" and "You suck!" I must admit that this stuff threw me for a little bit of a loop this time. We fucked up some stuff but I think it came across OK.
Afterwards we did an interview with Joel from WNUR and caught We Ragazzi doing "Ghost Rider" by Suicide. The house black cat was avoiding the broken glass backstage.
Later we got to park our van inside Rob and Sarah’s garage and when I went to check my email Rob was like, "Here’s where you can beat off!" I didn’t that night.
I was still sick and we had to get up and drive early the next morning. Bobby’s grandfather had just passed away so he didn’t sleep and flew out of Chicago the next morning after drinking all night at our friend Tom’s. He flew out to Philly, went to a funeral, and then hopped on a plane to Kansas City to meet us.
I’m the only member of Oneida not flying this tour and believe me I’m gonna cash that out.
Feb 8th Saturday, Kansas City, MO – The Brick
So Mustang Larry and I missed the alarm, got a late start, and ate at a mediocre pancake house down the road from Chicago.
We drove like maniacs, stopping only to piss and buy this candy called Cherry Mash which was "excellent" according to Larry. Peanuts, chocolate, smashed up maraschino cherries and a little candy cop mascot. Check out www.cherrymash.com for the history of the candy cop. I think I would be into a world full of candy cops. Bobby isn’t so sure.
We spent the entire 10 hour drive obsessing about getting to Sneed’s BBQ, south of KC, a place we stopped at twice back in 1998 and which has remained a top tier BBQ experience in our collective memory. Larry was buried in our food book, we kept trying to decide between fried chicken and BBQ and for some reason I was very worried that Bobby would mad if we didn’t get Sneed’s so I kept trying to imagine how we could make it happen.
Would we call ahead and order take out?
Just be late for the show?
Get friend chicken (apparently a Kansas City specialty)?
It turned out we got in touch with Brodie Rush from Be/Non who has been spending his Monday nights performing "Brodioke" as Blo-Chi – a perverted alter-ego who can barely stand, holds a Playboy in one hand and a mic in the other. We met Brodie at The Brick, started loading in and Bobby strolled in, back from his cross country plane flight – everything was working like clockwork.
We headed to Arthur Bryant’s BBQ www.arthurbryantsbbq.com – a famous KC joint which didn’t blow my mind but had pictures of presidents all over the walls and was suitably grease soaked. Brodie played us demos from Be/Non’s long awaited second album. Lately he’s been on an ELO kick and at 25 is a KC elder-statesman, a veteran of numerous tours and a buncha releases. The new shit is amazing – I can’t wait for you all to hear it.
Our friends from Columbia, MO had made the trip out to see People of the North. Tripmaker gave us some tapes of his radio show – always appreciated and coveted among us all – and a CDR of his new band I Had a Psychotic Reaction to LSD.
Brodie joined us on guitar on The Suicide cut and Tripmaker sang it to death.
I started the set by going out into the van and burning incense with Brodie and Mustang. Then I started "CMD" with Bobby and just imagined the Missouri road I had just driven. I closed my eyes and the landscape slid by.
After our set I went to the part of Kansas City modeled after Seville. You turn a corner off a standard mid-western main street wide blvd and suddenly a vista of baroque Spanish architecture stretches out before you.
In the mean time back at The Brick, Go Fast, the Little Rock power trio, was entertaining the troops with their banter – intentionally and unintentionally.
"Hello we’re Go Fast, we like to smoke the weed and we like to take the speed. Thanks to People of the North, we’re all gonna go back to the Holiday Inn, room 1313, and party all night. We like to smoke the weed, we like to smoke the speed."
Later they played a rousing version of "Mississippi Queen" and the drummer started the song by banging on the bell of his cymbal. The singer stood up to the mic and said, "As soon as we get a record deal we’re going to get a cowbell for this one."
Some more priceless quotes from Go Fast:
"We’re just a bunch of dumb guys from Little Rock. We don’t play keyboards or nothin’."
"Thanks to People of the North, whatever the hell that was."
"We like fat pussy, we like skinny pussy. Room 1313."
"Our bassist just got out of jail yesterday."
"I ain’t had none today so I’m a little wild."
"This song is called ‘You Don’t Know Much’ and its for the ladies."
You get the idea.
Anyway Brodie was taking me to meet his wife who was dancing the Tango at an art deco hotel in downtown KC. I entered the bar and dance area and was amazed by the crowd of people dancing the Tango – a dance I learned later was originally between a pimp and his whore – an advertisement if you will.
Brodie’s beautiful and gracious wife was sitting when we arrived, wearing a colored glass necklace and all black. She held out her hand and smiled and as I took it and said hello, I finally took in the rarefied KC tango scene.
The band consisted of piano, acoustic guitar, stand up bass and an accordionist who ran leads as effortlessly as Yngwie but without the flames. This was a restrained band and a restrained crowd. But this is no criticism – the lights were low, dark hardwood details and casual formality of the crowd gave the scene a unique refined and unpretentious atmosphere which even accommodated my rancid presence.
I told Laurel that Brodie said she was very good at tango.
"Well it really depends on the partner because the man leads, and I’m a little out of practice."
She stood up and took her partner onto the dance floor. Brodie told me she had been told that she had a vulgar style by an older man – i.e. she stuck her ass out too far. What impressed me were the fluid and stern movements. It was beautiful to watch.
We left the hotel and Brodie drove me to the Kansas City’s Liberty Monument perched on top of a hill overlooking the city. It was a thick column with art deco detailing set at the edge of a sloped and recessed base inset with plaques of names. The column was flanked by two sphinxes with veils over their eyes so they couldn’t see war. I was impressed with the efficient and dramatic design of this monument mostly in contrast with all the crappy ones which litter this country.
Brodie burned incense behind the wheel when no one was passing us and I leafed through Blo-Chi’s Playboy, but then I put it aside.
When we got back to The Brick Jessica was sitting on the sidewalk in the cold, driven out of the club by The People – a local KC band who dressed like they were on break from Bedford Ave. You’ll hear from them on a KROQ in the near future.
A woman stopped Brodie as we walked into the club, "Brodie Rush – why don’t you be a gentleman and take this nice young woman into the club and out of the cold!"
"Oh . . . well. . .," Brodie said.
"It’s a good kind of cold!" Jessica said.
We got paid $40, suffered through some more music and drove out to Brodie’s and Laurel’s to watch Spinal Tap out-takes and burn more incense.
We made the determination that in the realm of music KC, MO is a little square. We all speak the same language but there’s a gap in understanding. Or perhaps we’re square. Here’s to hoping Be/Non blows up and makes all the kids start listening to ELO.
Feb 9th – Denver, CO – Larimer Lounge
I’ve taken to telling most people that we meet, "On Thursday morning I was in Brooklyn, NY."
After a ridiculously long and straight drive we stopped in Burlington, CO and gassed up at the local Texaco. I absent-mindedly picked up a vial of super crazy energy drink which featured a nastied-up exploitation of Calvin with both thumbs raised suggestively. I kind of chuckled and the woman behind the counter said, "That stuff really works!"
"Oh yeah? You’ve tried it?"
"Yeah, back in the summer."
"How long does it last?"
"Well I drank a couple of them and was going for about 5 or 6 hours. Didn’t taste too good but then again, that’s not really the point."
Earlier in the day we stopped off in Salina, KS at a hamburger place (home of the very nice ex-stripper I was to meet in LA – but that’s another story) called The Cozy Inn. It was a six-seat lunch counter which served one thing only: burgers. Or "sliders" as they’re affectionately called. Yeah we know about White Castle, some of us know about Krystal but nobody knows about The Cozy except for some insane burger connoisseurs and the locals. When we pulled off to get some gas I was put in charge of with finding out how to get to the place. Both phone numbers we were given were bogus and at one point recently the landmark was up for sale so I thought that we had reached Memphis after the King had died.
"Have you ever heard of a place called The Cozy Inn?" I asked the woman behind the counter.
"Oh yeah sure. If you want your car to smell for a few weeks get a sack of them."
"Is it far?"
"Three lights down, take a left, right on the corner," a man bent down by the coffee machine volunteered. "My uncle used to own that place."
"Don’t kiss anyone for the next 24 hours," the woman said.
The Cozy Inn is a small white lunch counter with red details and a collection of burger and marketing innovations that White Castle ripped off wholesale. The vintage neon sign announces, "Take a sack of sliders home!"
Anyway, the differences inside are numerous and for the better. The Cozy burger is grilled and hand formed from fresh ground chuck and onions and placed on a small bun. They don’t offer anything besides the burger, pickles, mustard and ketchup. No cheese or any other extras.
A worthwhile stop.
As we approached Denver after a 12 hour drive, I called the club to let them know we wouldn’t be requiring a sound check. The owner Scott answered and said, "The place might be locked when you get here – we’ve been closed and making improvements."
"Uh, OK," nightmare visions of a closed club letting us play on their stage as a favor began to form.
"We’ll be open tonight just so you know."
Feeling suitably reassured and with low expectations we found the Larimer Lounge without trouble. It’s a good place. Scott greeted me with, "So, do you like Pabst?"
"Yes."
"How about a pitcher?"
Heaven arrived within a couple of beers carrying her guitar and amp. My old friend Kunkel wasn’t far behind with his friend Travis, who at this time had no idea he would be hosting People of the North at the one bedroom apartment he shared with his girlfriend. Neither did she it turned out.
Within a few minutes the first band of the night, More than Human, began its synth/drum explorations. I was impressed with the drummer’s technique and the burbling synths which made a perfect soundtrack to the Discovery Channel’s instant classic, "Before We Ruled the Earth – Mastering the Beasts," an unlikely dramatization of this fur clad band of Cro-Mags doing battle with digital Bison and Wooly Mammoths. At one point a homo-sapien arrived on the scene with better weapons and cheekbones. He proved his superior intellect by driving the bison off a cliff. Hey – it’s been all uphill since!
Speaking of superior intellect, during the set change, I approached the stage and overheard the two bands chatting animatedly about comics and Jack Vance sci-fi novels.
"See there’s this store in town where Thurston Moore spent about $100 on pulp novels."
One of the guys in Friends Forever was talking to David from More than Human about Jack Vance, "You know there’s a lot of philosophy in there."
I was setting up my drums and realizing that we were among friends.
Friends Forever were asked to play the bill by our booking agent Erik who is particularly attracted to the perverse novelty side of rock and roll. He told me that they would be absolutely insane.
"They once just brought some nets and basket balls to the club and played basketball for 45 minutes as their show."
It sounded very promising. But tonight Friends Forever ("What a gay name!" announced a defaced show flier) were playing instruments. Or at least that what it looked like before they hit.
When they were ready to start the bassist offhandedly asked the sound man how much time they had.
"About 40 minutes or so," came the reply.
So for the next 40 minutes Friends Forever played the same riff. Once and a while they would stop, consult a clock, and then start again. The drummer would blow a whistle blast every couple of bars. At some point during the set the bassist turned on the house lights bathing the performance area in a harsh florescent glow. He approached every person in the tiny audience and yelled, "Check this out!" This was truly the worst thing I have ever seen and thus it became the best – pure conceptual comedy at its most realized. Friends Forever was a band after our own hearts and they seemed to like us which was gratifying.
After our set to which Heaven contributed some intense looped guitar which sounded like a dive bombing plane, a guy came up to Bobby and was like, "Wow that was fucking amazing! No offense, but I’m really glad you weren’t Oneida. Really glad."
Later he admitted that he hadn’t really heard Oneida but then insisted on telling me the same thing:
"No offense dude but I’m so glad I didn’t have to see Oneida, you guys were incredible."
Whatever dude, I’m so glad I didn’t have to listen to you for long.
Anyway, enough hatin’.
My friend Kunkel was like, "You really impressed some drunks tonight."
So I asked Kunkel to see if we could crash at Travis’ place and he was kind enough to offer his floor – so the three People of the North, Heaven and Kunkel made our way to his place and unwitting girlfriend.
We walked into their apartment, 5 strong carrying all our bags to see her clinging to Travis, shell-shocked with a weak ingratiating smile on her face.
"Make yourself at home," said Travis, "if you need to smoke, please do so in the courtyard."
A few minutes later we were outside burning Heaven’s incense. I had been fighting a cough since the beginning of this tour but I still couldn’t keep away from the pleasant smell. I had to fall right asleep – after insulting Kunkel and inserting some earplugs. I dreamed restlessly.
Feb 10th – Day Off for Driving
After a breakfast at Pete’s Lounge and some record shopping at Wax Tracks, we set out to Salt Lake City – weather was beautiful and Bobby and I were in our shirtsleeves when we stepped out in Ft. Collins to buy some whiskey for Salt Lake City.
We heading into Laramie, had a leisurely lunch, I bought another crazy indie candy bar called a Twin Bing (http://www.palmercandy.com/history.html). Be forewarned – their website doesn’t really show the great design of the package. But the Twin Bing exploits the lascivious elements of two cherries side by side and smothered in chocolate. But maybe I’ve been on the road for too long.
We finished up dinner and headed out of Laramie and into the mountains. We had driven about 20 minutes on Route 80, listening to the Best of Nick Lowe, feeling good about making the final push into Salt Lake. The sun was setting in our eyes and aside from the fucked temperature gauge in the van, things were looking good.
On the horizon we could see the mountains and a bank of blurry clouds rising up into the sky above. The wind started to pick up and ribbons of snow were blowing across the highway. Every few miles were signs saying, "Expect high winds next 5 miles." They weren’t lying. Within five minutes we found ourselves in total whiteout conditions, with about 20 feet visibility. Bobby was driving and asked me to check the radio for weather or call the road condition hot line for WY. I picked up the cell to make a call and noticed the "out of service" indicator.
A couple of seconds later the lights of two police cars pierced out from the wall of white. A small compact had landed in a ditch and two tow trucks had been dispatched to the scene. We crawled by desperate to find a place to pull off and wait out the storm which kept getting worse. As we passed the beached vehicle a gust of wind took the van and started to blow us into a tailspin. We fishtailed across a lane and began flopping back and forth as we headed straight for the gulley in the median. Bobby kept his head and we straightened out slowing to a crawl. Visibility grew steadily worse and we were starting to have trouble seeing beyond the windshield. It was at this point that an exit passed us by before we could take it.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck," Bobby hollered.
Scared out of our minds – we determined the best course was to just continue on until the next exit and not risk backing up in the middle off a snowstorm on the highway. We were steadily approaching a county which had the worst wind of any inhabited area of the country. There were around 200 power generating windmills on the hills working overtime. We passed a hand painted sign which advertised a general store at the next exit so we pulled off and hit pay dirt. The place was open, had beer and allowed us to park along side of the building for the night.
Disaster averted, we stocked up on supplies, bundled up, and settled down for a long night of drunkenness and bad sleep. Hey it’s a band first! Caught in a snow storm in Arlington, WY – it was time for me to start drinking and forget it all.
It got progressively colder as the night wore on. We listened to Michael Savage spout racist diatribes. At one point I woke up and the sky was full of the moon and stars. But the wind never let up. It was still there when we pulled away at 6:30am.
Feb 11th – Salt Lake City – Urban Lounge
So before we got trapped on the mountain I bought the latest Chunklet Magazine and learned that we were listed in the Bronze section for bands they would pay to break up. We would each get $200 from the magazine for the privilege. But that doesn’t stop me from loving Chunklet – and the editor even asked us to play their tenth anniversary party so it’s all love I guess. It’s probably the funniest zine out there about indie rock.
Anyway, we breakfasted at Rustlers which was floor to ceiling accessorized with western wear and artifacts. I was particularly taken with the giant painted buzz saw featuring a rugged mounted cowboy lassoing a pensive calf. The painting’s awkwardness spoke to me after 12 straight hours in the front seat of the van. I was the calf and Chunklet wants us to break up.
Another downer was picking up the weekly rag when we got to SLC and finding that the Urban Lounge had decided to be superior stupid and list People of the North as "ONIDA." When we played SLC in 1998 they spelled our name correctly. If you’re going to exploit the laughable draw of Oneida – at least spell the name right.
We got to SLC very early so we had some burgers at Hines Big H and decided to make for the Temple.
Dude, the Temple ruled. Did you know that the state bird of Utah was the seagull? It’s a Mormon thing, you wouldn’t understand.
When you enter the Temple Square all of a sudden pretty Mormon missionaries start saying hello. Even though I’d heard that Mormon girls were wild, I found the sister who talked to Bobby about the Tabernacle to be a little earnest for my tastes. The Tabernacle is a building designed to magnify the voice of the preachers but has no main entrance – just numbered doors around the entire building.
"Why does it have so many doors?" Bobby asked.
"Well the building holds 1200 people so if there was only one door the lines would be too long."
"I’m a huge fan of doors," was Bobby’s reply.
There was an awkward pause. Then, "The conference center has many doors. Its very interesting."
Bobby assured her we would spend time investigating the doors.
Later I wanted to get into the Temple but we were stopped by a man in a white suit, white shirt and white tie.
"Are we allowed to go inside?" I asked.
"Well, you’d have to be a brother to go any further," he said good naturedly while he ushered us into a wedding waiting room. He began to explain some things to us and then Bobby asked the man if he could tape a greeting for our friend Jane.
"Hello Jane, my name is so and so and I bring you a greeting from The Church of Latter Day Saints. I hope you can put up with these guys. Well . . . they seem like very nice people."
I felt shame my droogies.
We then went to see Biker Boyz at the Trolley House Theater. The movie featured Kid Rock, Larry Fishburn and Lisa Bonet and delivered some serious distraction.
Speaking of distraction I bring you some band-penned descriptions taken from the local SLC music zine SLUG (all grammar mistakes in the original):
Bat’s Brew
Sometime melancholy, sometimes intensely happy . . . the rhythms get mixed up good between hard driving and spacey-mellow.
Knuckles Foley
Thundering bass + insane skin-pounding + dueling guitars + pathetic vocals + knife fights + alcohol abuse = Knuckles Foley
The Madman Chronicles
Never before has anyone seen or heard anything like The Madman Chronicles! With storytelling narratives and powerful and melodic acoustic songs, you will leave with your mind open and your head spinning!
Pagan Dead
Dark, demented thrash horrorbilly from the Stygian Realm.
Road Head
Four guys looking to inspire or to be inspired in Utah’s local rock music scene.
We spent a few delightful hours at The Boiler Room: a bar beneath a laundromat which had a list of CDs available for play that was truly terrible. They did have a few Metallica albums so we played them all, watched The Jazz play Yao and The Rockets. I had a few beers and then fell asleep lying down in a booth. Bobby woke me up when it was time to load into the Urban Lounge, a generic rock club bunker which had neglected to list our misspelled name on the marquee.
Big Pete (said his name tag – he WAS big) behind the bar told us we could have all the Coors Light we wanted.
I was ready to give up on this city – free fucking Coors Light, can’t spell the wrong name right, spreading lies, Mormon insanity motherfuckers. I stalked away from the bar and lay down on the couch to try to shut it all out.
The opening duo, Smashy Smashy spent about an hour getting their gear just-so. I had very low expectations for this band. I loathed Salt Lake City at this point and was expecting another terrible experience that I couldn’t escape. But with a name like Smashy Smashy I should have known better. They were muscle math rock with some improve noise elements thrown in. They played for too long but I enjoyed them.
During our set I managed to get the audience to say, "Hi Jane!" into Mustang’s video camera.
The next band, Le Force, also took a while to set up, but it was worth it for their instrumental metal. They were better than the Champs and played a nice short set. They were also really nice people who offered us a place to stay after the show.
We were all really tired from our mountain adventure but the guys in Le Force had to go and pick up some incense so we happily obliged them.
"I guess you guys must be connoisseurs of the stuff," said Eric, who we later learned was under the impression that we had been in Kyuss and had played Lollapalooza.
"Uh, no," I said, "but I like it."
So we ended up at someone’s house, burning "blueberry" incense and listening to Queen and Heart.
"Dude, I love Queen," said Jud, the drummer of Le Force, "they spent a millions dollars on Bohemian Rhapsody."
They also thought that Silver Scooter was the best pop band ever.
Yes, they were peculiar young people with peculiar tastes for sure but I loved hanging out with them.
At one point during the night I learned that Eric, one of Le Force’s guitarists, was going to jail for 90 days.
"No!" I screamed.
Turns out that Eric had assaulted a cop (they never pressed charges) and also had a couple of minor possession charges under his belt. These dudes were all under 21. UT is fucked. They’ll put someone in jail for underage drinking? Bullshit.
Turns out almost all the kids had had some kind of trouble with the law.
I left them a copy of "Atheists, Reconsider" with the note, "Please reconsider your beliefs." I hope they took me seriously.
They gave us a great steer for breakfast – a place called The Amber Lounge which served deep fried scones – a strange Salt Lake City confection which consisted of a massive pancake-sized lump of deep fried dough that you ate with butter and honey. That’s what I’m talking about.
We had the next day off but we decided to drive to Dillon, MO to get some miles under our belt before Missoula.
So we hit the road and an hour outside of SLC we stopped at an amazing lunch place called The Idle Isle which had us eating beef joints and listening to a digital player piano and getting another video greeting from the woman at the candy counter.
I thought our waitress was cute.
The Paradise Inn in Dillon, MO had an indoor pool, Jacuzzi, a "casino" called The Joker’s Lounge which featured video poker and Keno.
When we arrived at The Paradise we took some pain killers, had some beers and made our way to the hot tub to stop all that pain.
It was good.
We watched Blind Date and Elimidate and then made our way to The Joker’s Lounge which was totally empty. At this point I was having trouble walking straight but I got my complimentary beer and watched Bobby play poker as he taught me the rules. I wasn’t in any state to fully grasp what was going on but I did notice that when you won a hand the machine would play a bar of "Halleluiah" for you. Bobby lost it all.
We went back to the room and watched Volcano. Then I passed out.
Feb 13th – Missoula, MO – Jay’s Upstairs
We woke up to snow and a hot tub that was overflowing into the pool house. Our video session plans averted we breakfasted to the sound of "Halleluiah" and were soon on our way to Missoula.
We drove straight through and headed to the record store owned by the show’s promoter. I listened to the new Suicide which wasn’t primitive enough and we were given a steer to The Dinosaur Café – a place with no street sign in the back of a bar which served decent burgers and Cajun food believe it or not. We drank some beers and watched Moto-X.
I’m always drinking on this trip.
I had a jones for ice cream so we went to The Big Dipper and met a guy who plays in the band Volumen. We swapped tour stories and then headed over to Jay’s Upstairs to load in. I think if there has been a low point to this tour the next few hours would qualify.
Jay’s was cool, the people were friendly, everything seemed alright – there was even a Guns and Roses pinball machine which I managed to play for a while. Axl announced "Welcome to the JUNGLE BABY!" when you put in enough credits. But the loneliness, self-pity and dehydration all conspired against me. It was about 7pm and there was nothing but hopelessness in me. We were nobodies, being nobodies.
My sanity hanging from a thread, I went to take a shit in the men’s room and of course, like many rock clubs across this nation, there was no door on the stall. You just hang out there and wait for someone to burst in on you.
And no sooner had I settled in, the door banged open and a person whose eyes I refused to meet was like, "Sorry Kid," and began to piss. Maybe I’m sensitive but sometimes the world won’t leave you alone.
This gentleman finished up and left the door ajar, giving the patrons a full view of my situation. Pants around my ankles, I stood up and closed the door for a few stolen moments. Seconds later Bobby burst in, "Oh sorry dude." At least he let me be.
So I guess you could say I emerged from the bathroom at Jay’s Upstairs a broken man, not fully healed until we started our set at about 11:15. What didn’t help was Bobby saying, "Hey for the record, the women’s bathroom is pretty nice."
Right up until we actually started playing I couldn’t imagine performing – but it went pretty well. In the middle of "Oscillations" which I had a lot of trouble with for some reason, the bartender approached the stage with a couple of shots perched on a flaming tray. I guess we were making an impression.
The Oblio Joe’s played after us (named after a character created by Harry Nilson) and were everyone’s favorite local band. I enjoyed their long set not only for their rousing performance but also for the fact that the entire audience sang along to every song.
At one point a woman came up to me, gave me a hug and a kiss and asked me if I needed anything. I declined but started drinking heavily. By the end of the night I was being advised against partying with high school girls. I accepted the advice as only a blind drunk is capable, by challenging Fat Bobby to a fight. I knew he was too scared to beat me up again.
We retired to the Volumen’s house for more incense and drinking until I literally fell out of my chair and had to be forcefully led to the basement.
Feb 14th – Valentine’s Day Moscow, ID – Mikey’s Gyros
We met up with John, owner of Ear Candy Records, the next morning by luck. We woke up, everyone was gone, we were trying to figure out where we were and behold, John arrives at the door bearing incense and a great steer for breakfast.
"Total white trash, I love it."
Glen’s Café served home-grown (!) beef and "famous pies" and was the first step in our day of meat. I ate a steak and a huckleberry shake before we pushed onto Moscow.
We had a mission though.
In Coeur D’Alene, ID there was a place called the Wolf Lodge Inn which served bull testicles, aka swinging steak aka calf fries which had been in the conversation buzz bin over the course of the last week. We weren’t hungry when we pulled into the parking lot but we had to make an attempt to eat the balls.
A young man wearing a black cowboy hat and a fluorescent white button-down greeted us at the door of the darkened log cabin restaurant.
"Do you have a reservation?"
"No," it was just 5pm.
"Sorry but I have nothing at all," he apologized.
No balls for People of the North.
But we had backup plan – Hudson’s Hamburgers in downtown Coeur d’Alene – a place which truly sets the bar for burger joints. We arrive at the bright, impeccably clean lunch counter as the young waiter was polishing the salt and pepper shakers. The only thing on the menu at Hudson’s is burgers – the only extras are hand cut pickles and onions. Even though the two guys behind the counter were obviously just college kids, they approached making burgers and cleanliness like master sushi chefs. As the waiter (in a Tooth and Nail Records t-shirt) hovered along the counter, refilling sodas and compulsively cleaning every surface, the cook hand sliced the pickles and onions with the practiced nonchalance of a Zen master – not one movement was wasted and not an ounce of effort was expended. Hudson’s was an oasis of meticulous order and I never wanted to leave.
The drive from Coeur d’Alene to Moscow was terrifying – a single lane of poorly painted asphalt at night in the rain, I had to fight strange compulsions to drift into the headlights of the oncoming trucks. But we made it Mikey’s Gyros a little early – so I went to the bookstore next door and pondered the world of sex magic – the "left-handed realm of aware sex." I should have bought the book but I was scared of the bat woman drawings. I’m just not far enough gone to dwell on the darkness yet.
After some more "I Saw You’s" in the local weekly, more beer, more food, more coffee – we loaded into this college town hangout for the Valentine’s Day Party. The kids keep getting younger out in rockland – Bennett, the promoter and member of the very cool spazz rock band Severed Hand, was very attentive to our needs – which currently involves drugs, liquor, coffee and food.
Most of the kids were dressed up in outfits which referenced formal wear – the flyers encouraged this. I got super confused out in the van before the show with a gift from John from Missoula. I had to ask Bobby if I was OK.
"Oh yeah, you’re fine."
The final People of the North set was received pretty well – there were a couple women dancing right in front of my drum set which assisted my energy level. Mustang Larry helped us by playing drum machine on "Rocket USA" and the Oneida song "People of the North." Bennett choked though – he promised to sing the Suicide and never made it to the mike.
So the final People of the North show of the tour was followed by a dance party a few blocks from the club. I was told that the crowd was early and the place would probably clear out by 2:30am. To be fair, all things had settled down by 3am. I’ve got to say that the young people have a few things to learn about dance parties but Bennett played The Rapture, !!!, Outhud and I Am Spoonbender and all that shit sounded great.
There was a ton of post-modern shit talking among the students at the party – casualties of academia – but all were drinking Hamm’s with abandon.
Over the course of the evening I met a bunch of people who had never left the Northwest. At one point Al and I were calling people back east on his cell and saying, "We’re in Idaho, fuck off!" This seemed to make a party-goer indignant. "20 years of Idaho has been alright for me."
If you wanted me to insult the state I would have been hard pressed – we’d had a great time. But some people assume they are the butt of every comment you make. I chose to ignore his insistent concern, and looked at the moon and stars for a minute.
After ending up on a couch bewildered at about 3am, I found my way to a cold basement couch and woke up periodically to piss in the laundry sink. Bobby woke me up to my first hangover of the tour.
February 14th – Seattle, WA – Graceland – first Oneida show!
The next morning we headed into Pullman, WA for a Scandinavian style breakfast of sausage and spherical pancakes (thanks to Bennett for the steer!). I felt like shit but the sturdy German waitresses and baby’s smiling at Mustang Larry got me through.
I think I need to start brushing my teeth before I go to bed.
Today we met Jane in Seattle – the drive was memorable mostly for my hangover – the east Washington desert landscape rolled by with its austere grandeur – no trees, no radio, no stops – an alien desolation.
Graceland in Seattle was a black box smelling of beer – this proliferation of clubs indicates a lack of imagination in this country. But design does not create people and thankfully everyone was nice there.
We met up with Jane at a bar called Lobo on Lupo a few blocks from the club – and as usual, I was exhausted and went straight for the "I Saw You’s" in The Stranger. We had been given a critic’s pick in the weekly which was nice – but I was more interested in the purity of the "Missed Connections." On the road they seem to capture the simplicity and efficiency of the crush – the ineffable and instantaneous determination of possibility – the pretty canvas. I think I have my own "Missed Connections" every day. I had two or three last night.
Jane arrived with a posse and we had a nice little reunion that Mustang Larry video taped. It was the first time I had seen our friends S+S+L in about 5 years but I had a very hard time bringing myself to engage them in conversation. The exhaustion was crippling my social skills.
We headed back to the club for load in and learned that we wouldn’t be able to even do a sound check – so Oneida would perform our first show in a couple of months without even a run through. We had tried to arrange it in advance but the message never got through to anyone – the only band with a sound check would be the Christian grunge band – nice guys from Seattle who knew the people at Secretly Canadian.
The strangeness of the West Coast became explicit on a couple of occasions before our set – first with the bumper sticker "Born Again Pagan" and then with the terrible experience we had at The Venus Café. I mean – I know its not all about that in Seattle – we had a great breakfast at Nellie’s Soul Food ("Soul Food for the Soul") the next morning – but I think it was a combination of the crazy cult smiles, the bad service and the new age inflected menu which made for a stressful pre-show meal. I was really hungry but since we had to go on in a couple of hours, I decided to just eat enough of the hummus and veggies to stave off a crippling headache. Earlier in the day we had pulled off the highway and eaten some surprisingly decent BBQ. I’m no aficionado but I have had enough good Southern stuff to know that I wasn’t entering hell. Anyway – I was quickly approaching a desperate state of hunger, as was the rest of the band – we waited for an hour for salads and there was much gnashing of teeth. The cook took her time back in the kitchen – and after I had walked the 5 blocks back to the club – I was hungry and desperate again. It seemed as if Oneida’s first show in Seattle since 1997 would be a personal disaster.
As the first band, Lure of the Animal, prepared to play their grunge emo, I shivered in the backstage area and wondered what drugs I would be doing if I were a drug user. Since currently my pallet is pretty limited I looked into getting some coffee at a place called Coffee Messiah – but truth be told – Seattle’s coffee is pure hype. It’s not remarkable and as mediocre as all coffee throughout this country.
Since I wasn’t up for walking in the cold, Bobby and I requested that the grill at Graceland brew us up some java. They doled us out some very, very large cups and I was made whole again. Ten days and I’m so deep in the coffee hole I forgot about the sky.
The next band, Vermillion, had a double LP for sale designed by Roger Dean – Space Needle had done the same thing in 1996 but I think Vermillion got a better cover. Dude – total fantasy. They played an instrumental heavy prog thing which worked with the Dean landscape.
Before they started their set 5 young women dressed in tight white t-shirts and plaid mini-skirts posed for photos on their gear. They explained that they were punk rock pin-up cheer leaders. We braced ourselves for their request to pose with our gear but it wasn’t forthcoming. I allowed myself to fantasize about having 5 cheerleaders in the van with me for a minute before I went back to the pre-show ritual. It goes something like this: set list, getting waters, pissing, wondering when the other band would finish up, stick exercises – the usual mundane stuff. But I was also up on a precarious coffee buzz which would later betray me on stage.
Vermillion ended their epic journey, we set up our stuff, did line checks, exhorted ourselves to have a good time and suddenly I found myself counting off "Each One Teach One" and woefully unprepared to play the song. I had a revelation which went something like this:
"I’m about 20 bars into the first song of our set, I’ve been playing every night for almost a month (preparing for recording, double rehearsals for POTN and Oneida, the nightly POTN shows) and my arms are so tired right now I can’t even execute a fill."
This was going to be a long show.
I played hard, the best I could but had serious trouble playing. It was going to be a difficult couple of days as I became acclimated to the intensity of this shit.
I was completely destroyed after the set – felt terrible – but we were all in good spirits because we were in Seattle and the tour was starting.
We sold some stuff after the show and I had a conversation with Mike McGonigal, the editor of Yeti magazine. I was really glad he came – he gave us a copy of the new issue and asked us to contribute a song for their next CD compilation. Really glad we can be a part of that.
Surprise – it was raining the entire time we were in Seattle.
*February 15th – Portland, OR – Blackbird *
With only a couple hour drive ahead of us to Portland, and two equally lousy shows from ‘97 and ‘98 in memory – we decided to get out to the water with our willing tour guide L.
Before I get to this I wanna tell you a little more about Nellie’s Soul Food "Soul Food for the Soul" wherein Sunday morning gospel music CRANKED out of the speakers at deafening volume. This place was about 5 tables small. Yes I was definitely losing my high end – the Lord interference was making it difficult to understand any conversation so I shut down and ate my corn cakes and fried chicken without engaging any of our friends.
The owner named the place after his mother and kept calling everyone "baby" – very good food but totally empty for Sunday brunch.
Seattle decided to rain on us as we drove out to see the Pacific with L – we arrived at the beach and Bobby ventured out with our only umbrella as I sat in the van and began to fully appreciate the extent of my exhaustion. We parked in front of a bathhouse being restored by the city – and for some reason the constant rain let up long enough for us to go wander among the ducks, look at stones on the shore and wonder if the seals on the warning signs (don’t mess) would ever materialize. Bobby went to get our beach toys which ended up breaking right before the rain came down again. The exhaustion came on more vicious than before but somehow I was at the wheel and Portland beckoned. The drive was rainy and short – we decided to head outside of town to hit a place called Tad’s Chicken N Dumplings for dinner – which served us . . . chicken and dumplings (enough for three meals). It was tucked alongside a river in a state forest-type of place out in the middle of nowhere – but the clientele was yuppie. No matter – we persevered and headed back in to Portland just in time to see The Simpsons at Blackbird – a nice club in southern Portland staffed by friendly and reserved people I couldn’t begin to speak with. An interviewer arrived after The Simpsons and I also found that I couldn’t engage with her either. I retreated when Colin and Tom from usaisamonster arrived. They always make me feel like my entire life is a compromise. They were beginning preparations for a two month US tour in which they were practicing at least 5 hours a day, six days a week. For myself, who is finding it harder and harder to get through a three minute Oneida song in one piece – this pace is both enviable and very out of reach. Both unemployed and living off food stamps and meager savings – the usa guys are the truest realest rockers I know – working and creating without compromise in the face of greater adversity and with less pretense than I might be able to comprehend. Of course they always reveal my own self-imposed boundaries, addictions, assumptions and limitations. In reality – compromise is a choice which though it seems to come from without – is there with everything I do – and must find expression in the results.
The usaisamonster set was raw and loose – it was their first show in eight months – and got me up for our set. Only problem was that one minute into "Sheets of Easter" I was totally dead. I struggled through another Oneida set – ahh fuck – another lousy Portland show. I wanna make good on this shit someday.
There was a guy at the show who was working at the Satyricon the last time we were in town hopped up on ephedrine and deep in the hole financially. A member of a Portland rock band I’m currently forgetting, he told me many horror stories from the road and scared me about El Paso’s criminal element – a place we’re playing in a week.
We headed back to Colin and Tom’s place where they lived with nine people – but it was amazingly clean and neat – these were some bachelors who kept it together. On the way out we ate the indie candy we had brought Jane from our Midwest trek and Colin told me about the current job market in Portland.
"Dude, even KFC turned me down."
Back at the house things degenerated a bit – there was whiskey, incense, chicken N dumplings, Tom cooking up some bacon and a couple of curious and confused dogs.
Colin put on a video of Puppetry of the Penis – an apparently very popular touring show featuring a couple of naked Australians messing around with their dicks. The video showed the duo in front of a very titillated British audience.
"These guys are getting rich doing this," Colin said as one of the guys pulled his scrotum into a gigantic sail, "they’re on tour!" The implication being that as we both tour in obscurity and at great personal sacrifice (or something like that) these guys get up on stage at sold out venues and play around with their dicks for money. At least they’re explicit about masturbating.
When we walked into the house earlier that night, a large black dog tried to push out the door and run into the yard. Bobby asked if we needed to keep the dog from escaping.
"Bury the thing in the backyard, I don’t give a shit," replied a house mate.
Later this guy attempted to feed the dog numerous hot dogs and a frozen pizza, among other things. Some people are assholes and get their kicks this way I guess – it made m
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