Unauthorized Tour Diary: Summer 2K5 Tour:
Hello, T.C. here. This is the brief introduction to the Unauthorized Tour Diary for the Oneida Summer 2K5 Tour. Our motto here is ‘More Diary for you Dollary.’ In the past, Kid Millions has kept a diary of Oneida tours. This tour I’ve elbowed him out of the way and ordered him back behind the drum kit where he belongs. Hell, you can’t record your precious memories and play a shuffle beat at the same time. That right hand is for the ride cymbal, dammit. Anyhoo, Oneida, power trio extraordinaire, are in the habit of taking along a fourth person when they tour, someone to help out hauling gear, driving, working the merch table, and, needless to say, scoring them the high-grade beef jerky that is essential to their success. Beef jerky is like their ‘rock fuel.’ So I’ve always wanted to be the stepinfetchit for the band, and I’d like to think that my endless nagging finally convinced them to let me tag along. In all sincerity, endless thanks to Oneida for having me, it was a blast. And I only hope that this compendium of stupid jokes and trivial (if not downright trite) observations can do justice to how much fun it was. And, the band and their diary-keeping hangers-on being such classy cats, thanks to everyone who came out, put us up, graced us with their hospitality, and asked if we took credit cards at the merch table.
Friday, August 5th: Philly.
I like to think I’m prepared for tour. I’ve got my rubbers, I’ve got my 4-ft. Graphix bong, I’ve got my bail money, I’ve got my harmonica, and I’ve got my pocket calculator. What else can a rock tag-along need, right? Absent a sleeping bag, I’ve taken a cut up mattress pad and an exercise mat and duct-taped them together. You roll it up, add a throw pillow, and hold the entire thing together with a belt. I call it my ‘hobo roll.’
In the days before leaving, I emailed the band to make sure that our van had air conditioning. This was very important to my mental health. Fat Bobby emailed back to say that indeed it did have A.C., as well as four ‘captain’s chairs’ style seating. No bench seats for this outfit. That’s clearly an opening band seating arrangement. So I made the joke that if we had captain’s chairs, I would appreciate it if everyone would refer to me as the ‘tour captain.’ Which they did. I quickly realized that on tour, dumb jokes have a much longer life than expected. Needless to say, about an hour into the trip, ‘tour captain’ was shortened to ‘T.C.’ And thus a road name was born. Instead of ferrying Magnum P.I. around in a helicopter, I ferry Oneida around in a Chevy 500 Mark III van. Um, and I’m not a large black man. Otherwise, the similarities between this T.C. and the ‘80s television action-drama character T.C. are remarkable.
T.C.: Total Commitment.
I’ve spent some time in Philly, but I don’t remember it being this crowded in the ‘nightlife’ district. The area around the club is mobbed. I don’t know what this ‘hood is called (South Street? Congress Street? Benny Franklin Boulevard? We’ve got Big Bells, er, Street?), but it is just crazy with people. We can barely even load the gear in with all the dudes in polo shirts and ladies in camisole tops milling about.
Venue Report: The Khyber Pass:
Drink Tickets: F. The first business scandal! And only 15 minutes into (non-driving) tour! I didn’t ask Oneida much about it, but I came into tour expecting a certain degree of, well, sliminess on the business end of the indie-rock club circuit. Some of those shady dealings are probably more the result of club booker/promoter/manager indifference to details than they are outright graft. But it’s funny how those vague, unconfirmed specifics of food buyout, drink tickets, door percentage, etc., always end up benefiting the club. You’d think that in the world of underground rock, where bands are barely making enough to support themselves on the road (if they are at all), that clubs would be a little more sensitive to the specifics of, say, money. Or beer – at least beer, because with enough of that, it’s easier to confuse the band on the monetary issues. Anyhoo, we load in and Bobby & Jane go to park the van. I’m new on tour, so my inexperience gets me out of such things as finding parking for the van (notoriously difficult in Philly). We’ll see how long I can work that excuse. So Kid and I sit at the bar for a “Here’s to being on tour” beer. Hello kindly bartendress. May we inquire as to our band beverage situation? See, the funny thing about this is that we have a contract, with a rider (yeah, the big time; it ain’t a boiled peanuts and fresh towels rider, but it’s something), which, for some clubs, specifically states our beer situation. Well, this lady tells us that we get three drink tickets each, which can only be used for the two cheapest tap beers. Kid mumbles something about how he’s pretty sure we’re supposed to get something more than that. I mean, they’re not even letting us use tickets for booze. Outrage! So out comes the ‘tour book,’ which has all the contracts, contact info, club directions, etc. for the entire tour. Turns out the Khyber has contractually agreed to four drink tickets per person (redeemable for any beer or booze) as well as a case of beer for the band backstage. Kid has to pull the contract out of the book and show it too her. In the end, we get the tickets and a tub of iced Yuengling backstage (much of which is consumed by a teenaged-looking opening band, which I can’t really complain about, given my long history of stealing backstage beer at the Knitting Factory). I guess much of the confusion came from the lack of communication between the club booking agent and the bar itself, so this could be more the booker’s fault than the bar’s. And Oneida claims these snafus happen quite often. And once it was resolved, the bartendress was quite nice. But still. This being the first issue on the first night, I think the club deserves its failing grade. Booze your way to the honor roll next time, Khyber.
Bathrooms: F- (that’s right, below failing). But it was the first night on tour and we didn’t leave Bklyn until early evening, so it didn’t matter too much.
Space: B. There’s a barroom and a club space downstairs and then there is some weird club/dance space upstairs with a separate admission. Sadly, the admission to go upstairs was more than to stay downstairs and see the show. I think bands should have a certain pride in the fact that a club is charging people more not to listen to you than it is to listen to you. Also, the ‘backstage area’ is some unmarked door in the club area upstairs, so there’s much trooping back and forth and showing of hand stamps and such. Also, one of the bartenders comes backstage and tells us to stop with the recognizable-smell smokables, b/c it is, um, corrupting the fine, clean air of the rest of the club and the cops are out. At least he was nice about it. And the cops were out. They were going through the club checking i.d.’s with a bar-code scanner thingy. I guess that’s just how they roll in Philly on a Friday night.
Sound: B+. Fine.
Merch Table Happenings: Pretty crappy setup. They wouldn’t let us put it in the band room, so we had to be right by the door. Which happened to be where some local radio station had already set up their numerous pamphlets and stuff. They were nice about it, but there just wasn’t the space for four bands and one radio station worth of fluff on one folding table. And it was right at the end/entrance to the back of the bar, so there was lots of moving and ‘please move’ jostling and such. Very annoying.
Someone playing guitar in one the opening bands was actually using 14 pedals. I went and counted while they were setting up. That’s just ridiculous. I’m all for a couple of pedals—your flange, delay, fuzz, whatnot – but 14 pedals is just asinine overkill. I mean, at that point, you might as well just hit a chord to open the set then just spend the next 30 minutes turning knobs and crap. It’s ‘knob rock,’ dude! Fuck playing the instrument, man, just let the machines do it! It must be quite a moment when there’s a ‘gear’ problem for that guy. Hey, it’s probably just a bad patch cord. No worries, the rest of the band will just play a soft jazz jam while the guitarist spends 20 minutes testing ALL 16 CABLES!
Supposedly Oneida never draws well in Philly, but this show was packed and the set was great. The band was obviously psyched to be playing. A good start to things, even if we did see a number of frat-boy fistfights on the packed streets after the show. I’m guessing the Dave Matthews didn’t incite them to such behavior. Must have been the Amstel Light. One dude tried to punch out a newspaper box. The box won in a split-fist decision.
Saturday, August 6th: Pittsburgh.
Had a diner breakfast with friends of band (hereby FOBs) Ernie & Sarah, who also provided us with most hospitable accommodations, and hit the road.
Saw a place called the Turf & Track Motel. That’s a great name. You check in and they ask ‘Do you want to sleep in the grass or would you rather sleep in the dirt?’
There was speculation in the van on the status of the ‘Cougar’ vis a vis John Cougar Mellencamp. We know he started with the ‘Coug’ and then subsequently dropped the ‘Coug’ but I was under the impression, that with a new album out, maybe a greatest-hits thing, he had returned the ‘Coug’ to its rightful place between the John and the Mellencamp. Others disagreed and said the Coug was dead and buried. Whatever the case, it was agreed that when you’ve lost your Coug, you’ve lost your edge.
It was also agreed that, at some point, one has to come to grips with the fact that you’re the kind of person who lets the dvd ‘Hitch’ into your home.
Roll into Pitts, and into a backyard BBQ hosted in honor of Oneida by FOBs Will & Julie. They’re former Brooklynites who decamped to Pitts. It’s widely accepted that in Bklyn you live in a 2 or 3 room apartment and in Pittsburgh you live in a 2 or 3 story house, but it’s still painful every time you’re reminded of the fact.
Venue Report: Gooskie’s.
Bathrooms: F. But we rolled into town early and hung out at someone’s house before the show, so it wasn’t too important. Um, maybe our hosts don’t want to be reading that. Sorry.
Drink Tickets: C. No tickets. There was maybe supposed to be half off or a dollar off or something. There was some confusion about that. This would have been a lower grade, but beer is so damn cheap in Pittsburgh that it didn’t matter. It’s worthless to get a dollar off your $1.50 beer. At that point, you’re tipping more than you’re paying.
Sound: B-. Packed room, but not loud enough.
Space: C+. Also on the bill was local legends The Dirty Faces. That, plus the fact that Oneida has a lot of friends in Pitts and a special relationship with the town means crowds, crowds, crowds. I think there was good promo and write-ups as well. Anyhoo, Gooski’s is a bar with a room in the back for bands. Capacity maybe 150. Not a big place. But this was a packed shows. One of those packed shows where you start taking note of the fire exits. And it was so crowded and unventilated that the walls started sweating. There was some A.C., but it was fighting a losing battle and immediately turning into condensation. Anyhoo, afterwards the door dude told us that the show was the most people Gooski’s has gotten for a show EVER. So Oneida takes its place atop the record books. Hell, I half expected a trophy included with our door take.
Merch Table Happenings: Decent space at the back of the band room. It was really dark and someone procured a clip-on lamp, but it was too crowded to find an outlet. So instead I just pointed the unpowered lamp into people’s faces and yelled “Is the rock blinding you?’ in a snotty tone. Uh, that’s a lie. Anyway, I had a nice conversation with one woman who bought a record for her brother. She was certain he would like Oneida b/c he’s “really into BMX.” Take note of that, Oneida press people. Sold a ton of merch. T-shirt supply becoming a concern on only the second night of tour. Yowzers. One woman, when buying a record, complained that she’s been looking for it in the store for months. I told her it just came out recently, so that might have been the problem. She said her record station had gotten a promo copy like six months ago. I said that was way too early for promo copies to have gone out. I acted very concerned and had her write down the station name so that I could verify it with our press people. I think I said there were some “serious issues” here and that I would definitely have a “serious talk” with the label about this. By the end of the conversation, I had her rather worried and apologetic, but I assured her it was the label’s fault and they were in some deep, deep Oneida trouble. Hey, sometimes you have to amuse yourself at the merch table.
One of the opening bands had a huge glass jug of fake blood with them on stage. The fake blood was homemade out of cornstarch and red food dye. It was supposed to work into their stage act somehow, but before that ‘awesome’ display could happen, the band bouncing around caused the jug to fall off amp it was so thoughtfully placed upon and shatter on the stage. Which created a swampy muck of fake blood that ended up covering all sorts of cords, pedals, gear and ruined a good bit of stuff. The fake blood’s usefulness turned out to be in inverse proportion to its longevity.
Oneida finds its talisman! Due to a bum record deal years ago, Mike, one of the members of The Dirty Faces, vowed not to cut his hair or beard until the band put a record out. Let the diary note that he’s a long-haired and long-bearded man. But follicular redemption arrived in the form of Brah Records. Brah is Oneida’s new record label. Uh, check elsewhere on the site for more details, but one of the first full-length releases is the Dirty Faces record, advance copies of which had fortuitously arrived in Pitts that afternoon. With the arrival of their forthcoming record, it was time for Mike to submit to a little clip-clip. So after the DF’s set, someone came on stage and cut off Mike’s long braided ponytail. He then offered this to Oneida as a token of thanks and we duct-taped it to the radio antenna of the van. It was referred to as our ‘freak flag’ and let people know that when the badasses of Oneida rolled into town, there was always the possibility of a scalpin’.
Well, if you’ve made it this far in the tour diary w/o being bored to tears, then you deserve a prize of something. How about a promise of future concision? It isn’t like I need to go into detail of what I was wearing or anything. But if I do happen to get talking about sweater sets, please don’t interrupt.
Sunday August 7th: Raleigh.
My turn behind the wheel! I haven’t driven yet, so I offer to drive the Pitts-Raleigh haul, one of the longer drives of the tour. The van steering has about 20 degrees of slack in it, so you’re constantly correcting and over-correcting the steering with big pantomime motions. But there is cruise control. You win some and you lose some.
There’s a long conversation in the van that ends with the declaration: ‘The Beatles are the asparagus of pop music. They make your pee smell.”
I won’t name names, but someone in the van admitted to seeing the preview for the movie “Must Love Dogs” and emphatically nodding his head ‘Yes’ in a non-verbal dedication to seeing said film in theatrical release.
There is much speculation about the popularity amongst radio stations of the phrase “Get the Led out.” It seems to this guy like you’d want to keep the Led in. It’s also only three days into tour, but I’ve developed the (some would say annoying) habit, whenever Led Zeppelin comes on the radio, of shouting “Quiet! Zep!” There’s just something about the humorless bombast of the music that makes shouting this in a drill sergeant voice endlessly amusing to me. And probably nobody else.
Venue Report: King’s Barcade.
Space: B. This score would have been better, but King’s billed itself as a vintage video game place as well as a club/bar, yet most of the video games were broken or turned off. How can you taunt me with a non-working Defender? That’s fucking torture. That’s Geneva Conventions Human Rights Abuse, sucker. I did manage to play some Donkey Kong, and for those of you that don’t know, that monkey can throw some mean barrels. King’s was half-owned by FOB (and band member of Birds of Avalon, also on the bill) Paul (the other half owner being a former member of Polvo supposedly) and was a really great space. A former garage type of place, just huge, with half given over to a band area and the other half a huge bar. There was plenty of room for pool tables, etc., and the band half had a big, tall stage and a merch counter, nice band room, and a back entrance by the stage for possibly the tour’s easiest load-in. A really nice place, but sucks about those video games.
Grub: A. Cheetie, also of the Birds, cooked food for the band. I guess there was another possible ‘Welcome Oneida’ backyard BBQ, but we rolled into town too late to catch it. The leftovers, and there were plenty, were backstage and were delicious.
Drink Tickets: A+. There was plenty of beer in a cooler backstage, and Paul was kind enough to give the bartended the nod signaling him to ply us with free alcohol all night. We drank whiskey and shot pool.
Sound: A. Great sound. You worry about those airy, roomy places with lots of concrete and empty spaces, but they were smart enough to keep it loud.
Bathroom: A. Crimeys, what’s with all these As! Who’s the honors student here! I guess Paul and supposed Polvo co-owner being band people, they’re aware of what makes a place pleasant for bands. There were actual stalls in the public bathrooms, and a much-beloved backstage, band room toilet. God bless.
Merch Table Happenings: Minimal. Sold some stuff but nothing exciting happened. I gazed longingly at a dark-screened DigDug.
I probably won’t talk much about other bands on the bills in the tour diary for fear of offending through omission (or, uh, outright criticism). There’s no accounting for taste, so it seems somewhat silly for me to say what I like or didn’t like. But Paul and Cheetie’s band Birds of Avalon was the first act to knock my socks off, and I’m a man who likes wearing socks.
Rockin’ after party at Paul & Cheetie’s house. What is it with all these people owning houses? It makes us New Yorkers feel like we live in dorm rooms or something. The party involves much argument over the merits of Hall & Oates. But hey, isn’t that the case at every party? Keeping with the band-friendly environment of the club, Paul & Cheetie have a rec-room basement with plenty of sleeping arrangements as well as laundry. Glory Hallelujah, I get my first couch.
Monday August 8th: Winston-Salem (Two cigarette brands in one!).
Short drive today so we have some time to kick around. Our hosts have to work, so other FOBs cart us around town. We eat lunch at the Whole Foods. The food seems okay, I had your basic turkey sandwich, but I’m not sure how I feel about actually eating in the supermarket. There’s something weird about the face-cramming instant gratification of it all, as though you can’t even wait to get home to eat your groceries. I also think the name Whole Foods is stupid. I’m vaguely familiar with Whole Foods but they’re all in Manhattan, so I’ve never shopped there. It seems like the hipster supermarket, which is a rather laughable idea. But that name. Shouldn’t they just call if Holistic Foods or Earthy Foods or something? Whole Foods: where the rich people shop. The poor people shop at the Half Foods.
Craig, vocalist of Birds of Avalon, really showed up us Oneiders in the costume department last night, sporting a yachtsman’s cap for much of the show. Duh. We have captain’s chairs, and a tour captain, and pilot the HMS Mark III. Why in god’s good name do we not have yachtsman’s caps? Paul probably thought it was drunken banter when we kept adamantly asking directions to the costume shop where he got his cap. Anyhoo, we found it. They only had two captain’s hats left, so it seems like half the crew is going to be in command and half the crew is going to be on command. Oh well. To make up for it we tried to buy a full NASA astronaut helmet, one that fits over your whole head and has a clear viewing window faceplate thingy. The woman behind the counter (somewhat perplexed by four grown men extremely excited about yachtsman’s caps) said it was ‘for children.’ It looked plenty large enough, so Jane asked if he can try it on. Request refused, which kinda puts a damper on an otherwise successful costume shopping experience. Jane was bummed out, for good reason. The size of the man’s head was just insulted, for pete’s sake. Not to mention that he won’t get to play tonight’s show as a half-dressed astronaut. He’ll just have to wait another day to become a Guitargonaut.
Next stop Sam Ashe. The fake blood incident, specifically the difficulty of its removal and the revolting smell of goopy two-day-old cornstarch, prompted the purchase of some new cables, straps, etc. We take a moment before entering to prepare ourselves for a dozen 14 year olds pounding out Nirvana songs on the practice amps, but the store turned out to be deserted. I spent most of my time watching television. Now I’m not sure if watching a 50 year old bald man play ‘Brown Sugar’ on a guitar instructional video is anything like seeing the Rolling Stones live, but I have a feeling it is.
The best moment at Sam Ashe came right before we left. A 17-year-old hottie came up to the counter with her mom and asked the salesman if they had any 7-string Ibanez guitars. What! The first thing the salesman did was introduce himself and shake hands with her and her mom and tell them he has to finish his current transaction but then he’ll be right back to help them out. Smooth operator, this fella. We didn’t get to see the follow up, but I for one hope that sparks flew and that 7-string Ibanez was just the beginning of a long and fruitful courtship between the two involving all sorts of oddly strung instruments.
Kid got some new drumheads at the music store. You know how you tune a drum? You hit it.
Also, Jane got a fancy tuner to work into his pedal line-up. Yeah, that’s right, there’s a new lady in his life. It turns out to be a big hunk of battleship gray metal. We all assumed it would be plastic. It’s also noted that it has some real heft to it and, in the appropriate circumstances, would be a good instrument to bash people over the head with, especially if their heckling is out of tune.
Oneida stopped and played a college radio station in Greensboro on the way. The band made it a bit of quickie since there’s a BBQ joint they wanted to hit before heading to the club. I spent most of the time reading the “Musician Wanted” adds on the bulletin boards outside the station. Now there’s really no good way to do one of those things. And it’s worth having some sympathy for those lonely people so desperate to rock that they pin up a heavily formatted, lengthy, and highly descriptive plea on a college bulletin board. But a couple of them here really took the cake. On person was seeking a ‘tasteful’ drummer. Example given: Keith Moon. Oh, sure, you mean the tasteful Keith Moon that played sets in a full Nazi uniform, I assume? Another went on for way too long about how depressed and gloomy they’re feeling without rock. The bottom half of the sheet was divided into two columns: one for influential bands and one for ‘ideas I’m currently interested in.’ My favorite example of the latter: ‘Experience in General.’ Oh, you’re currently interested in experience in general are you? Huh. I think we might have something in common.
Venue Report: The Garage
Drink Tickets: B+. I think we got a case of beer, but the bartendress just kept a tab of how many we ordered and we were supposed to settle up at the end of the night if we went over that allotment. I wasn’t involved in the settling, if there was any, so I consider it free beer night.
Sound: B. Good, but nothing special.
Bathrooms: D. Barely acceptable.
Space: B. When we pulled into the parking lot, one whole side of the club had box fans in every window (like 8 of them). That’s a recipe for a sweat party. Turned out not to be too bad. Big room, being a former garage and all, but much of it was taken up by tables, which was lame. And there were only like 4 stools at the bar. They did sell their own beer coozies, though, which gives the club a special place in my heart.
Merch Table Happenings: I sold 2 Sierra Nevadas and 1 Michelob Light. Harhar. The merch set-up was on top of the display case that sold bar t-shirts and coozies and stuff and which extended from the end of the bar. Which made everyone think I was a bartender. There were coolers and barback stuff behind it, so I can somewhat understand the confusion, but I was standing behind a pile of records, cds, stickers, shirts and crap, so really. Eventually, one woman ordered a beer from me and I told her that she couldn’t have anymore b/c the bar was cutting her off and she needed to control her behavior. Huge laughs all around.
Also, shockingly, it turns out the price of cigarettes is a very easy conversation topic
We really wowed the Birds of Avalon (who played again tonight) with our yachtsman’s hats. They received our costume stealing with a mixture of bemusement and ridicule, which seemed about right.
This was the most ass-kicking Oneida show so far. Not that the others weren’t good, but this one had lots of energy and a raucous crowd and my favorite set list yet. It’s pretty awesome to get to see Oneida every night. The opening bands were all good and well received, but people weren’t being too vocal about Oneida. So Baby Jane stepped up to the plate with his own brand of loudmouth freeform stand-up comedy in a radio DJ voice, lots of stuff about being carried aloft by Oneida, which became The Big O, then just The O. The crowd got into it, the set was slammin’ and by the end the entire audience was pumping their fists and chanting ‘O! O! O!’ which was just fall-on-the-floor funny. They will hereby be referred to as The O.
And by the way, can I get a little more tour diary in my monitor, please? Thanks.
Tuesday August 9th: Knoxville.
I’m not sure if the tour van is the best place to drop a Yertle the Turtle reference, but someone tried.
There’s discussion of the phenomenon of ‘WB hair.’ As in the television network the WB. Instead of ‘hair metal’ bands, today we have ‘WB hair’ Jesus bands. Such is the evolution of culture. We went from long, permed hair and hedonism to spiky, jelled hair and religiousness. People are at a loss for what’s next. Curly, mullet hair agnostic rock?
Venue Report: The Pilot Light:
Food: A+. Our gracious host Regina did some home cooking and had a cooler full of make-you-own burrito fixings. Excellent.
Drinks: A. Regina is a dear FOB and plied us with drinks all night. She even apologized for charging me for a pack of smokes. Come on, sure I’m a freeloading tag-along, but I’m not a complete bum!
Sound: B. Regina claimed someone had blown out the p.a. the previous week, but it sounded fine.
Bathrooms: D-. The O had warned that the last time they played the Pilot Light, the bathrooms weren’t even functioning. Well, at least one of the toilets flushed, but otherwise, it was a real ‘refugee camp’ feel in there. We rolled into town early and the club wasn’t open yet, so we had a beer at a sports bar across the street, where everyone made use of the facilities. Sports bars are good for two things: usable bathrooms and the NFL Sunday Ticket. I assume in sports bars of the future you will be able to get the Ticket in your individual toilet stall, at which point sports bars will be good for one thing.
Space: B. We had rolled into town early, so we spent a lot of time sitting at the club bar yakkin’ with Regina while she gave us beer and played us records. It was very chill and very nice. Regina was one of our best hostesses on tour, even if I couldn’t agree to her two thirds beer-one third tomato juice-dash of hot sauce concoction.
Merch Table Happenings: The t-shirt situation has gone from bad to worse. We’re basically out of all sizes except the ones nobody wants. Also, no, friend, we don’t have XXL. Yes, I know you always end up giving the XLs to your girlfriend. Seriously dude, you’re buying an Oneida t-shirt, I know you don’t have a girlfriend.
The show isn’t poorly attended, but it must be difficult to accept, in the rock & roll life, that some of the best sets are played to empty rooms.
Knoxville knows how to party, I guess, b/c after the show we saw some drunk dude pick up a trash can and throw it into the street. Now that’s a street fighting man if ever I saw one. As long as the fighting only involves trash cans. Also, while hanging by the van waiting to leave, some ‘street character’ came up to socialize. He approached with the introduction ‘Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna rob y’all.’ This always amuses me, and you get it quite a bit in Brooklyn. Oh, you aren’t going to rob me? Well I guess I’m not going to run screaming in the opposite direction then. Sometimes, late at night I’m tempted to approach these people and say “Don’t worry, you’re not going to rob me.’ Anyhoo, the dude turned out to only be adequately sociable. He only needed a smoke or two. He also said he was a DJ and actually ended up buying a couple of Oneida records. Who got robbed now, buster!
DOG ALERT! My dog radar (aka my dogar) was going crazy in KNX. Finally some creatures are featured. Regina had a cute little black lab mutt name Mr. Fahey. He was a good dog. There were also two retriever puppies on the back porch that Regina had rescued and were awaiting adoption. The big O gave me the big No upon my request that we take one of the puppies on tour with us. Even after I said ‘Please please please please please!’ They also ignored my complaints that I was sick of feeding the freak flag ponytail, that it made a crappy pet, and whenever I felt like cuddling it was still just taped to the van antenna. Anyhoo, all the dogs were very cute, especially Mr. Fahey when he chewed up a stick all over someone’s sleeping bag. Big laughs.
Wednesday, August 10th: Atlanta.
T.C. (at breakfast): Toast Coordinator.
After breakfast, Jason (Pilot Light owner and all-around good guy) took us the used bookstore where he worked. It was huge damn place and since he got some crazy discount, he just gave us a cart and told us to get whatever. We must have gotten three dozen books, all for free (we did buy Jason lunch, so we’re not total mooches). I got half a dozen fighter pilot books. Hey, it isn’t like you read Faulker and Joyce in the tour van.
We finally hit upon a rock-description for the O. Obviously, reviewers and press and such have a hard time identifying their sound. But from here on, Oneida will only be described as ‘White Power Funk.’
The O are a bunch of chowhounds (which I think is the way to do it on tour), always looking for off-the-track joints and undiscovered gems. I have an indifferent relationship with food, so I’m pretty much along for the ride on that trip. But the one food demand that I issue is that we go to The Varsity in downtown Atlanta. It has a special meaning for us Georgia boys, as well as the finest onion rings ever. I’m pretty sure the O didn’t think too much of the place, but I’m sure that after 5 straight meals of BBQ their stomachs were just a bit sensitive.
Having lived in the ATL for a few years as well as having one side of my family from the city, I offer to guide us on the surface streets to avoid the highway traffic in getting to the club. Needless to say, I get us lost. Not badly lost, but so much for my intimate knowledge of the city. You could just say that I’ve got a redneck’s sense of direction.
Venue Report: The Earl.
Bathrooms: C. Had to use the women’s restroom. Unfortunately the club part of the venue wasn’t open yet, so I didn’t have any company. Hold on, did I just try to make a joke about having female companionship while using the women’s bathroom? Yikes.
Drinks: C. Thanks for very little.
Sound: A. Don’t really know why it sounded so good, but it did.
Grub: A. After hitting the Varsity, free green salads from the bar/restaurant area hit the spot.
Space: B. Not much to say here. We hung out in the separate front bar area beforehand and watched some baseball. On the flat screen register thingies behind the bar they had the screen saver set up so that it scrolled through all these photographs of, I guess, friends of the bar (a different FOB, I suppose), ‘having a good time’ or something. This struck me as really stupid. Here, let me tell you about it. Well you see… But really, if you went to some bar and they were prominently displaying a bunch of pix of people you don’t know, would you feel very welcome?
Merch Table Happenings: Uh, not much here. The big highlight was Crystal the 40 year-old hairdresser who just moved to the ATL from San Diego and came to the show on the advice of her neighbor. She loved the O and was really, really adamant about being introduced to Kid Millions. Hey, I’ll hustle t-shirts for the boys, but hell if I’m going to start hustling ladies too. It’s going to take a lot more drink tickets for that, my friends.
After the show, we were put up by the kindly DJ, aka Cocaine Bref. His house was the spot of a former big O revelry, one supposedly involving a kiddie pool filled with water, meat, booze, and vomit. There was a circle of dead grass in the backyard where the kiddie pool had been located… OVER A YEAR AGO. The O parties so hard, the damn grass is afraid to grow back. That’s right, the O is a bunch of lawn bullies.
Thursday, August 11th: Memphis.
There’s apparently a chain of motels in the S/SW called the Drury Inn. Hey, great job there on the name, fellas. The Drury Inn sounds like a nice, pleasant little place to stay.
Last night I actually had a dream about working at the merch table. I’m not sure if I should be amused by that or utterly terrified.
I informed everyone in the van that we’ve been on tour 5 days now I have yet to get my boner serviced. Sure, the shows are going well, but there seems to be little in the area of boner servicing on this rock & roll tour. I’m getting food service and beverage service, is it really so much to ask for some boner service as well? All I can hope is that Memphis is the capital of boner-servicing related services and is crawling with ladies who are dedicated to the fine art of boner servicing.
Um, can I get a little less tour diary in my monitor?
Venue Report: The High Tone
Food: n/a. My dad was in town, so he took us out to a burger joint. Thanks pops. They also had a preseason football game (Pack nonetheless, Bobby is a cheesehead) so we watched some of that. Supposedly the ceiling at restaurant is covered in toothpicks. There’s a tradition at this place of putting toothpicks in straws and shooting them into the ceiling. But we found out about this afterwards and never looked up while we were there. Opportunity missed. A ceiling covered with stuck-in toothpicks… Must be like the Sistine Chapel… But with toothpicks.
Sound: B+. Big space, but the sound was good. But wait a minute, what’s that ringing in my ears? Oh boy, it’s God! And he’s telling me to start wearing earplugs!
Drink Tickets: B. I think it was half off or something, but cheapwad here stuck to the American swillwater, so that was acceptable.
Bathrooms: C+. The doors locked, but the bathrooms were pretty disgusting.
Space: C. Nice space. Big stage, big space in front of the stage. Tables on the periphery but in such a placement as not to keep people from standing. There was also a semi-separate room with pool tables, which was nice, if un-airconditioned and really sweaty. Actually, now that I think about it, the whole place was kinda sweaty and I had to surreptitiously re-direct the doorman’s fan to blow on the merch table. Sweaty don’t make the merch man happy. That’s a point off your grade, buster.
Merch Table Happenings: Open Letter/Difficult Admission to Oneida: Sometimes people ask which songs are on which records and I don’t really have an answer. Well, it isn’t that I don’t have an answer, I just don’t have the correct one. I don’t know song titles or record line-ups for any band. I probably was correct 60 percent of the time, but I feel bad for telling that one dude that ‘Up With People’ is on the last record when it actually isn’t out yet. I also felt like a real idiot when I got song titles confused TO ONEIDA. It’s one thing to mistake Oneida songs and/or song names to some casual fan, but it takes a special kind of merch-man idiot to mistake them to Onedia themselves. I assured them my ignorance wasn’t impacting merch sales. I used a real convincing voice.
Tonight also marks the first of many nights with Ume on the bill. They’re a kick-ass band and good folks as well.
After the show, our host & FOB Jonas took us pool-hopping in his neighborhood. That was nice, b/c it was damn soupy-hot in Planet Memphoid.
Longest drive of the tour tomorrow.
Friday, August 12th: Houston
We stopped at some random roadside diner that had a signed photograph ‘Wall of Fame’ including signed shots of both Winger and Billy Bob Thornton. What else do I need to say?
T.C. (with map): Trip Cartographer.
There’s a game I like to play that I call the additional-lyrics game. I know, catchy title! With a name like that it’ll catch on faster than sudoku! I debated introducing it to the O, but thought better of it. I’m afraid it might make me look kinda crazy. Anyhoo, this is clearly the forum for this sort of admission. I’m getting real damn diary here. So the idea is to fit as many additional words as possible into a line of song lyrics while still saying the same thing. I call it… Redundancies! If I could only get a dumb pun in there somehow. I call it… Redundanlyricies! For example, the lyric “I was born in a crossfire hurricane” would be turned into “I believe that I happened to be vaginally delivered into the swirling winds of the meteorological phenomenon commonly known as a hurricane.” But you have to fit all of this into the same musical space as the shorter lyric. It can be rather amusing in that sort of dizzy headed way.
Sitting around at the bar before the show, we saw a band listed in the free weekly that goes by the name of Mushroomhead. Their pic made it abundantly clear that this was an evil clown facepaint band. Which provided us with much amusement. It’s good to know that there are bands out there riding Insane Clown Posse’s coattails. Or riding their clowntails, as it were. It’s fun to speculate about how these bands survive on those first few tours playing to tiny crowds in unknown towns and having to put on their makeup in the back of the tour van, (b/c they certainly can’t be seen doing it in the club bathroom before the show lest they loose that precious ‘insane clown’ illusion). There’s probably plenty of “Who the fuck stole my squeaky rubber Satan nose, bitch!” and so on. You’d think that insane clown make-up application would be hindered by the cramped quarters, leading to hideous and/or hilarious results. But on the other hand, it can be argued that if you’re an insane clown, gross misapplication of your clown facepaint might lend some credence to your insanity. It can also be argued that clowns (insane or otherwise) are masters at operating inside a cramped vehicle full of other clowns. This would be the first paper topic in my class “Intro to Touring Philosophy.” Cramped van quarters and small-scale tour budget: Good for rapping insane clown legitimacy or bad for rapping insane clown legitimacy? Incidentally, ICP fans are known as ‘Juggaloes.’ Which I guess makes Mushroomhead fans ‘Mushaloes.’.
Oneida band-name misspelling #3. Instead of Oneida, we get Onedia. Which is fine, I guess, if vaguely STD sounding. But I have to admit that I’m hoping to see at least one version of the misspelling Oneda. How sweet would that be? Oneder. It’s like the greatest boy-band name ever. One Hit Oneda. Dig.
Venue Report: Rudyard’s.
Space: D-. Bar downstairs, big bandroom and bar upstairs. Breaking news: it isn’t fun to lug heavy gear up stairs. But the reason for the grade is the damn tables. Why on earth would you have a big 200 capacity rock space and fill it with tables? Rock and roll is all about shaking your booty (according to my encyclopedia), which is quite difficult to do when you’re sitting on it. Besides, The O are real political activists when it comes to the issue of freeing the sitdowntrodden booty.
Sound: C. Too quiet.
Drink Tickets: Houston we have a problem: Short changed at the bar. I don’t think this High Life and drink-ticket well whiskey cost me $8. Maybe the rest of my change burned up on reentry to my wallet.
Bathrooms: D—. Used the upstairs club space toilets (well, just one of them). It being hours before the show, the upstairs area was empty, so I figured maybe I’d get some privacy. There was a stall, so this isn’t a failing grade, but no lock on the door. Let’s just say a man in a cowboy hat walked in on me. We’ll leave it at that.
Merch Table Happenings: I’ve developed the awful habit of sometimes humming the tune ‘Tax Man’ to myself while standing at the merch table. But instead of ‘tax man’ I change the lyrics to Merch Man. Again, no one ever said diaries were flattering.
Stayed with BAOB (that’s Booking Agent of Band) Erik and his wife Virginia in Houston. They had a band room with bunk beds. These fine people that dedicate however small a part of their domestic life to the comfort of visiting bands deserve our effusive praise. They also cooked us a huge, delicious brunch, let us do laundry, watch cable t.v., and soak their hot tub. It should also be noted that sitting in a hottub in 95 degree weather isn’t as bad as it sounds. If only Erik would book The O into his living room, then we’d never have to leave.
Saturday, August 13th: Austin.
In TX, the anti-DUI road signs read “DUI – You Can’t Afford It.’ Wonderful message there. It isn’t DUI – You Might Kill Someone or DUI – Dead Under the Influence or any sort of terse, snappy message suggesting the more dire consequences of driving drunk. In TX, it’s purely a monetary thing. And honestly, having known people arrested for a DUI, most of us can afford it. Maybe not easily, but still. That’s just a terrible message. DUI – Don’t do it poor people! Drink up Richie Rich!
Also, on a church sign we saw the message ‘There’s no stop, drop & roll in Hell.” I for one consider this a very effective message. Who on earth is going to want to spend eternity in a place without fire safety?
We drove by the Cotton Gin Museum. I tried to convince the band to stop, but everyone was asleep, so most of that argument went on in my head. But I think a strong imaginary argument can be made for museums dedicated to antiquated machinery.
While on the road between Houston & Austin we passed through a small town and saw a place called the Knife & Sword store which, I swear, had the tagline “The Best Little Sword Store in Texas.’ Props to Bobby for getting everyone to agree that there should be a law against considering that tagline and not making it “The Best Little Sword House in Texas.’
We also saw a bar called ‘Shooty’s.’ Needless to say, it was in the same town as the Knife & Sword store. Clearly, they should join teams and maybe open a place on the other side of town and call it ‘Stabby’s.’
And for what it’s worth, I’m guessing that the Knife & Sword store and Shooty’s aren’t exactly located in low-crime neighborhoods.
T.C. (in Texas heat): Tireless Carping.
Venue Report: Emo’s (tonight featuring no emo, just the O)
Drinks: C+. I’m about to start failing these 3 drink ticket venues.
Space: B+. Big place. Nothing notable. Lots of concrete. Big U-shaped bar facing a huge t.v. which was programmed to a redneck comedian doing redneck stand-up comedy. Nothing spoils one’s street-cart TexMex food like having to watch “country boy” stand-up comedy.
Bathrooms: The club’s regular bathroom had attained a level of filth that only Texans can manage. Everything is bigger in Texas, except efforts towards cleanliness. Also, it was the single trough style urinal. I guess the plumbing didn’t work, but the trough was filled with ice. I did not find urinating onto ice to be a pleasant experience. There was a bandroom bathroom, but it was in a separate building and the light didn’t work so you couldn’t close the bathroom door. Poor, Emo’s, very poor.
Sound: B. Fine, given the concrete.
Merch Table Happenings: When Monsieur Drunk-a-lunk paws every damn cd on the table, the merch man quickly understands why customer retail is a sorry business.
The Ume kids knew of a house party post-show, so we rolled over to that. Our first full-scale house party of the tour. There were some dogs at the party. I’m referring to the pets, of course, not the state of the female population in Austin. Not being in the band, it isn’t like people are seeking me out saying ‘Great show. I really like that song somebody else played while you made change for that t-shirt purchase’ so I pretty much ended up talking to whatever member of The O was nearby. We caught up on old times, since we haven’t been seeing much of each other lately. But seriously… I did try to initiate some conversations with the locals, but those went about as far as a Texas steer at feeding time. Hey, I’m just trying to add a little local color here. Anyhoo, the cops came and everyone had to vacate the backyard and continue the party in the house. Which was not large enough for the number of people. Also, for some reason, the kitchen was full of flies, which were not as pleasant pets as the dogs.
Stayed with FOB Angela, who was very hospitable.
Sunday, August 14th: OKC
Got Tex-Mex breakfast. Don’t remember the name of the place, but when we got our table, on the floor was a beer coozie. I guess the previous people had accidentally left it. Anyhoo, it had a haggard, w.t. looking dude with three sets of eyes on it and the question “Who’s Drunk?” We added it to our growing coozie collection. After the Tex-Mex breakfast we hit the Tex-Mex road.
T.C.: Team Coozie.
In OK we passed ‘El Dorado: A Business Park.’ You can’t write jokes that good.
Dear Gwen Stefani, I know you’re not a holler back girl, but I think you’ve hollered that damn song at me about 40 times now, even after I told you to stop. So maybe you could try to be a shuttin’ up girl.
Venue Report: The Conservatory
Drinks: D. They call it Tour Tolerance and it is a viscous and expensive affliction. Get me 200 cc’s of Jim Beam, STAT! On Tour Tolerance Day # 9, those drink tickets don’t mean as much as they used to. Especially when you only get two. Of course, the O in OKC on a Sunday night is a show at which we expected about 5 people, so you can understand their miserliness.
Food: n/a. We knew beforehand there wouldn’t be food, but we didn’t know that every damn place in OK would be closed on a Sunday. So the band went to Subway. Now, if you’re from NYC the subway doesn’t evoke a lot of good feelings. It’s more a reminder of sweating your ass off while waiting 45 minutes for a damn train that will invariably be rerouted onto a line that goes nowhere near your destination. But Subway is a notch above fast food in the same sense that a permanent coma is a notch above death, so Subway it was. The entire band took umbrage at the term Sandwich Artist, which, for one, seems handed out with the careless abandon of a Texas steer at feeding time (from now on all my analogies will involve Texas steers, feeding time, and make little or no sense). Also, I don’t know of any artists that use that much mayonnaise, unless they’re putting crucifixes in it or something. Also, with the term Sandwich Artist, you’re just begging for the slur ‘Sandwich Retardist,” and have only yourself to blame.
Sound: C. The draw was somewhat better than the projected 5 people, but one of the smaller crowds of the tour. Ignoring this fact, and the conservative dimensions of the space, the soundman had the volume so loud that I briefly considered trying to shove a second set of earplugs into my ears. And I’m half-deaf to begin with. Two-thirds deaf now.
Space: C. The only venue of the tour that had an under-age ‘corral’ area. This one was roped off with velvet ropes. Now that’ll hold those teens back! Rope in their raging rock hormones with red velvet ropes! Make them feel contained, yet classy! Um, and no there weren’t any teens at the show. Their raging rock hormones were being contained by an utter indifference to the music of The O. There was a record store attached to the club where we bought some cassette tapes for our kickin’ hi-fi system in the van. The pickings were slim, but you’ll be happy to know that the used cassette section of the record store facilitated the O’s re-acquaintance with one Mr. Yngwie Malmsteen.
Bathrooms: D. No stalls, but there were so few people at the show that you could buddy check the door.
Merch Table Happenings: So I’m hanging at the merch table and one of the opening band dudes is shooting the shit with me. He talks at length about how there are a bunch of hot chicks here. I’m a little confounded and scan the room and note that, including the female bartender, there are currently 4 women IN THE ENTIRE ESTABLISHMENT!
There was also a man at this show who, I swear, had a dreamcatcher earring. It was noted my numerous people, so it isn’t like I’m the kind of person who sees a dreamcatcher earring wherever I go. It was a huge dreamcatcher earring, but he was only wearing it on one ear. Which was odd, but then I thought to myself ‘Well, I guess that’s the ear the dreams come out of.’
OKC was the one time we had to bum a place to stay, but the doorman/club booker was very nice about putting us up. Two dogs, one of which liked to get a running start and jump, full speed, into your lap. I think I’d wear a cup if I ever had to visit the dog again. There wasn’t much floor space in the house, so I ended up sleeping the van, which was fine. If you moved the crap off the floor, you could fit between/beneath the captain’s chairs. For some reason, one of the opening band dudes mistook our van for his van (which was parked right behind ours and was an entire different color and model) and tried to get in the van, which I had locked. He’s lucky I was there to work the band’s merch table and not it’s security detail, otherwise a couple of broken fingers might have compromised his mediocre bass playing. Compromised or helped.
Monday, August 15th: KC.
Dear diary, today I had my first… Oh my God! Wrong diary!
We went back to the record store attached to the club b/c the owner was going to be in (he wasn’t there the previous evening) and we figured we’d sell him some cds/lps which he could use to appease the crushing demands of the 10 people who saw the show the previous evening. Anyway, we walk into the store at about 10am and he walks up, says hello, and asks us if we want to go into the back and smoke up. Which was a kind offer, but it is 10am, dude. We got about 4 hours sleep, have been awake for about 20 minutes, and have to drive to KC. But hey, thanks! Enjoy your Monday morning! If you even know it’s Monday!
While driving we passed the Friendship Cemetery. You know, the boneyard, where you go to make all your friends!
I’ve now ended three straight entries with an exclamation point. Let’s make it four!
On the road to KC we stopped at a gas station/convenience store called the ‘Grab & Dash.’ Now I’m not a businessman here, but don’t you think they should change that name to the ‘Grab & Pay & Dash’?
There has been a long and constant band gripe against the state of indie snacks on the trip. National chip & jerky brands seem to have a stranglehold on the market. There’s the occasional regional brand, but nothing local. And as far as we can figure, we’re in prime jerky country and still have seen no indie chips or jerky. It’s a sick joke. Sure, Jane got that indie pepperoni roll in the Carolinas, but that was a joke of a different sickness. Anyhoo, we’ve decided that it must not be jerky season and every little shack we’ve passed lately has been full of ripening jerky, just waiting for Labor Day, the traditional start of jerky season. That said, in OK we finally find an indie brand of potato chips called Unlce Ray’s. Turns out they’re Christian potato chips, with a very strong biblical message on the back of the bag. You can take it from me, Jesus chips taste like crap.
Venue Report: Balanca’s.
Sound: B. Adequate.
Bathrooms: B. Hung out at FOB Brodie’s house before the show, so unnecessary.
Space: The place was a bar first, venue second. There was basically just a little riser in the corner of the front of the room, which was awkward. However, they did have an air hockey table and I consider myself something of an ace. Some people like to advance their careers, maybe raise a family, make a success of their life and everything. Me, I like to play air hockey. In fact, by the end of the night, the air hockey table was no longer functioning. They said it was broken, but I like to think that word got out and someone turned it off to salvage whatever air hockey ego they had left after coming into contact with this airslinger. This is where I go on an on about my ‘puck skills.’
This might have been the only club we visited where we couldn’t find a “Stipplicon”: http://www.stipplicon.com/ sticker. I know nothing of the band or anything about them, but their reach, as far as stickers go, must extend to other planets. It’s amazing. With enough work, you can find a Stipplicon sticker in any rock club in America. I don’t know about their music, but their stickering is fucking professional, my friend. Stipplicon: it’s sticker rock dude!
Drinks: Dollar off or something, I don’t really remember. The most amusing part was the bartender. Imagine Chris Farley as a coked-up lesbian (and you know you love to). She really loved the exclamation ‘Whoo-Hoo!’ She said ‘Whoo-Hoo!’ every 30 seconds and without any shred of irony. She should be in a museum. Possibly the cotton gin museum, for reasons I haven’t thought of yet.
Merch Table Happenings: We’ve got a little notebook for the band email list thing (also the home of the tour diary. Email: I talk to you; Diary: I talk to myself. Wonderful). Anyway, after seeing lots of people write their addresses, I was very tempted to enter buttlicker@ass.com just for Oneida to find later, but I’m really supposed to have outgrown that sort of thing. Clearly not much happening at the merch table. Also, on the top of the Email sign-up list I’ve written ‘Email: It Happens Now!’ Then Bobby informed me that it usually takes him 6 months to add emails gotten on tour to the mass big O email list. Still, I stand by my statement.
Random observation: There must be some drunk dude curse on rock & roll frontwomen. If you are a woman, and play guitar, and sing, and maybe jump around and rock out on stage, and are moderately attractive, it is guaranteed that after the set at least half a dozen drunk dudes will come up and hit on you. This is the drunk dude curse. It’s as if all rock & roll frontwomen had to make a pact with Satan. Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil to be able to play the guitar (or to be played in a feature film by Ralph Macchio, I forget which), but to be a rock & roll frontwoman you must sell your attentions to every slurred-speech come-on artist in every dank club in every nowhere city. I sure made that sound appealing, huh?
Tuesday, August 16th: Minneapolis
Finally the part of the tour I’ve been anticipating the most: Driving through Iowa!
Actual road sign in IA: “Politicians take note, Hogs don’t vote!” (I have no idea what that means).
We stopped in a cafeteria in Iowa where, on the table with the salt and pepper, they had a shaker of ‘Pleasoning!’ It’s really fun to say Pleasoning! in a loud, squeaky voice. Please pass the PLEASONING! It would be even more fun to film the Pleasoning! commercial. Imagine lots of housewives with bangs and floral-print shirts serving mashed spuds to rosy-cheeked kids in bibs. The dinner bell rings and everyone shouts ‘PLEASONING!’ I was so thrilled by the Pleasoning! that I was tempted to steal the shaker. But then I realized: real men don’t steal Pleasoning!
The club is in downtown Minneapolis and is across from both the Target Center and the Hard Rock Café. Yo, that’s just how the O rolls, bitch.
Venue Report: 7th Street Entry.
Drinks: F. I had to nag to death to get our contractual backstage beer. It was supposed to be two cases for all three bands, which then became one case now, one case some vague, undefined time later, which I assumed would end up being, ‘You need to wash some dishes to pay off those PBRs you drank.’ Some beer did get delivered backstage at some point, but there were three bands and hangers-on and the beer didn’t last long. And beer was about $5 upstairs. All very annoying.
Space: C. One of those rare venues where the audience is higher up than the band, the ampitheater idea, or amplituditheater if you will (and you shouldn’t). It’s a useful layout for checking out the bald spots of all your aging indie-rock heroes. (The O is 100% all natural hirsute, btw). The 7th Street Entry has a large-venue auditorium, but the played in the smaller room. Apparently the larger venue was the theater in Prince’s Purple Rain. Everyone just refers to it as the Prince Purple Rain Theater. Since The O was in the smaller venue, I guess you could call it the Dauphin Mauve Misting Theater. Also, the same drink hassler dude locked me out of the band entrance while I was making a call. Then he hassled me getting back in, actually checking the guestlist and shit, even though he watched me get out of the van and load in gear. That’s some crazy mad power you wield there, buddy!
Bathrooms: Don’t remember. Hopefully it isn’t a forgetfulness forced through extreme psychological tragedy.
Sound: C. The soundguy actually had Ipod earbuds in WHILE DOING SOUND!
Merch Table Happenings: Operative questions to people inquiring about merch table payment methods: Have you seen many Oneida commercials on your television? Do you follow the ups and downs of Oneida’s stock on the Nasdaq? Do you see a wi-fi enabled cash register attached to my crotch? Then what on god’s green earth would lead you to believe that the merch table takes credit cards? Does it really look like we’re set up to facilitate that kind of economic activity? When asked whether I took credit cards I was tempted to answer that we took them but didn’t give them back. Or I thought about swiping them through my mouth and saying in a robot voice ‘Transaction Denied.” Or something involving a credit card and my pants zipper, but that seems a little cruel to my zipper. Someone actually asked if they could pay by check. Sure buddy, just make that out to White Power Funk, Inc. I told him that I wasn’t authorized to approve that kind of transaction and he’d have to talk to a branch manager, er, I mean band member. Jane approved his application for a record, but if you ask me, he gave him too favorable an interest rate. I thought about sending people across the street to the Hard Rock Café’s ATM, but I guess once you get some frogskins in your hand, you can’t get out of that place without blowing it all on some sweet Lenny Kravitz memorabilia.
Before the show, The O did a radio interview in the basement band room. I held back the urge to keep telling them I would have to clear their answers with the lawyers.
READ ON! PART 2 Also AVAILABLE!
East Coast Tour 2005 Part 2 »« Nantes - France