Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
tourblogblogblogblog
This is my account of being on tour with Worn in Red for the first half of January 2008. Just for clarity, I wrote most of everything Prior to the Atlanta to tampa drive while we were actually driving to Tampa. I finished up the rest of it since I have been home, and then re-read everything and put in the footnotes. Also, the Prolouge and Epilouge during the same sitting. I am not sure if that matters, but, it seems like something that should be said
Prolouge
Wise Men and the lack thereof
A wise man once said that when there is nothing better to do, complicate things[1]. I suppose this has been my mantra as of late, as I am a recent college graduate who will be spending the next 14 days in a van with some dudes, traveling all over the eastern half of the untied states playing music. What makes this situation even more hilarious is that I am not even playing music; I am merely riding along with some friends as they play for people all over this side of the country. For the next 14 days, I will be abandoning real life just so I can fucking sell merchandise for a punk rock band from Charlottesville, VA. Remember, I have a fucking Bachelors of the Arts in English with a minor in Film while doing this. I have no income, and only a loose chance at landing a decent job upon my return. I am fairly certain that if my parents knew this is what I would be doing 15 days after receiving my degree, they would have seriously reconsidered putting me through college. I mean, if they knew they were going to waste some cash, I am sure they would have liked to of wasted it on something, I don’t know, fun.
I am not sure really how I became such good friends with Worn in Red. I met them because they were going to be on tour through Atlanta, so, a mutual friend asked us to help them out with a show. We did, and we both enjoyed eachothers bands, and, one thing led to another, and we became the best of friends that two bands can be. In quickest terms, Worn in Red sort of sounds like what Planes Mistaken For Stars would have sounded like if they had grown up in DC in the early 90’s. My band (Benard) will actually be putting out a split 7” with these Virginians in the coming months, and, well, since I have nothing better to do with my fucking college degree, I asked if I could ride along on their winter tour. They said yes, and the complication of my first year of “Adult Life” has truly begun.
Day 1 – Pittsburgh, PA
Brittle Toes
I hate the cold.
Let me repeat myself, because this is a very important facet in understanding today’s events: I hate the fucking cold.
In Smyrna, GA, winters never feel this cold. While my cellphone informs me that it is just as cold at home, I swear to god there is no way that Smyrna, GA feels nearly as cold as Pittsburgh, PA. There is just no way. Not fucking possible. No goddamn way
This is probably because there is at least two feet of snow all around me no matter where I walk in this godforsaken city. It does not regularly snow in Smyrna, and while seeing white landscape is without a doubt a novelty, that novelty is fleeting. In fact, as my toes began to feel brittle and I almost slip and fall on my ass outside of a Taco Bell in northern Pittsburgh, the winter-wonderland novelty is long fucking gone.
The venue also has no heat.
God hates me. He really, really does.
Being on tour is what it is. Musicians whom have never been on tour (or at least have never spent substantial time on the road) seem to over-romanticize touring; in reality touring is no more exciting that it sounds. Today I spent four and a half hours in a van, crammed between two other dudes as we hiked our way from Charlottesville, VA to Pittsburgh, PA. In the past 24 hours I have eaten anywhere from 3 to 6 Taco Bell bean burritos, and will soon spend half an hour hauling heavy speak cabinets, amp heads and guitars through a foot of snow into a run down DIY venue that has no heat. I have no idea where I will be sleeping tonight. This is my existence for the next twelve (12) days. This process will be repeated almost identically in 12 different cities before I fly back home to Atlanta. There is a reason why bands eventually “sell-out;” DIY touring is pretty fucking exhausting.
Tonight, Worn in Red is playing at the Mr. Robto Project in some Pittsburgh Neighborhood whose name I have already forgotten. Before the show, Brendan, Matt, Joe and I spent forty five minutes curled up under blankets in the van with the heater on full blast. The heater would eventually stop working, and I have a feeling I am in for a long week and a half.
Because I hate the fucking cold.
Day 2 – Cleveland, OH
Tourist
Matt Neagel snores, and snores very loudly. Do not get me wrong, Neagel is a total sweetheart that I am very happy to be spending my days with, but when it is time to turn in for the evening, I sort of want to kick him in the jaw. Just saying.
Last night a couple of the fifteen something guys in the band Endless Mike and The Beagle club were kind enough to lend us their couch and floor space. While I wasn’t there to witness it, apparently, while Joe, Brendan and Matt were trying to help one of the roommates move her dead car, they were accosted by an unnecessarily angry neighbor, whom I can only assume was an old man. I feel safe in this assumption because it seems as though the only quote that everyone seems to cite from the exchange with this unnecessarily angry neighbor was Matt Negeal yelling “Fuck you, Old man!” The neighbor also called us tourist, which seems to baffle everyone, simply because of the accuracy of this statement.
It is still just as cold in Cleveland, which means I now hate Cleveland just as much as I hate Pittsburgh. No one showed up to the show other than the bands playing (save for maybe 5 bar-goers), but we still had to not only carry heavy equipment through even more snow, but also down a flight of stairs and through what felt like a football fields worth of hallways.
I did eat some fantastic cheesy-bread and carried on an interesting conversation with the proprietor of the pizzeria above the Davenport. So I suppose Cleveland is not nearly as useless as I would like you to believe.
Every so often I allow myself to stumble into this ass-backwards thought that the DIY Punk scene that inhabits the east side of America is a really big entity. It is not. Case and point: Joe dated Sarah in highschool in Marayland (I think), but I only know Sarah because she dated a friend of mine in Atlanta, but we will be staying with here tonight in Cleveland. This whole exchange strikes me as bizarre. We are all connected in one way or another, but completely separated geographically (among other separations). I have known Joe longer than I have known Sarah, but up until this tour, have probably spent more time hanging out around Sarah (before she moved from Atlanta back to Cleveland). This kind of thing happens more than you think. My band once played a fairly forgettable show in Clemson, SC. About a year later, we played with a band from Gainesville called Dirty Money, whose “tour manager” was said Clemson promoter. My band once played a show in Charlottesville, VA with some dudes from Brooklyn, NY, who told us to talk to a band from Albany, NY, whom (unknown to the Brooklyn band), we had just played with back in Atlanta a month prior. People all over the place know everyone else, and I suppose that is a good thing. Better that then having to meet any new people.
It’s only day two and I already need a haircut. Sigh.
Day 3 – Cincinnati, OH
Phil
What is Ohio’s deal with the letter “C?” When naming their three biggest cities in their mediocre state, why pick the most useless letter of the alphabet to start each name? If you are going to stake claim in the middle of the mid-west (arguably the most boring region of the United States), why not spice up some of your cities names? I think naming your capitol city after a known rapist says a lot about the kind of state you choose to be and the inhabitants that will dwell there.
I am willing to concede that this is a very mundane thing to be talking about; this is just about the only semi-interesting thing I can find to say about this whole goddamn state.
There are still scant traces of snow around Cincinnati, and that makes my blood boil. But not enough to keep my body warm from the 27 degree weather outside. The Midwest is fucking stupid.
The show tonight is at the Poison Room is in downtown Cincinnati, and it bobbles my mind that kids actually come out to shows here. I have always been under the assumption that every scene is pretty much exactly like the Atlanta scene, only in a different state. Shows in Atlanta happen on the outskirts of the city, which I think is directly related to the fucking atrocious traffic in downtown Atlanta. As it turns out, kids in Atlanta are just fucking lazy. Because tons of kids came out to see a handful of bands whose collective record sales MIGHT top 1,500 records in the heart of downtown Cincinnati, all on a 37 degree winter night. Having said that, I’ll still take Atlanta over Cinci’ any day of the week.
Tonight we are staying with Pat, the drummer from Lost Hands Found Fingers, who lives with is girlfriend and their 35 year old ex Marine named Phil. Phil is covered in tattoos, which include a crosshair on his left temple and pitbull on the back of his skull. Phil also tells us that he only has three loves in life: drinkin’, smokin’ and fightin’, and he has given up on the first two.
Note to self: When in Cincinnati, Always stay on Phil’s good side.
Tonight I will be sleeping on a recliner that smells like the house’s Pitbull, Scotch. So much for that shower I took last night.
Day 4 – Louisville, KY
Plaid
It’s the little surprises that make touring (and life in general, I suppose) worth doing, and Louisville, KY is without a doubt one of those surprises. I have never been particularly proud (or excited) to be from the South, but there is a certain southern charm and hospitality that is inescapable on this side of the Mason-Dixon Line, and the kids at Skull Mountain certainly embody that notion. It’s always nice to be hours from home, but to still feel like you never left.
Skull Mountain is the name Chuck, Duncan, Chubs, Micha and the missing Paul have dubed their house. The basement of Skull Mountain (Skull Dungeon?) is where the show will be taking place tonight. In and of itself, that doesn’t seem like anything noteworthy; basement shows have been the backbone of the DIY punk community for as long as it has existed. However, the Skull Mountain Basement is about the size of two and a half (2.5) king-size mattresses. This actually worked to my advantage, because Hot Iron, the band from Columbus, has a really cute lead singer. Casually making eye-contact and inducing conversation with the cute girl lead singer from a pretty decent band is a lot easier when 30 kids are crammed asses to elbows in a room the size of Orson Wells’ stomach[2].This is also the second time on this tour where having an iPhone has come in handy, although this time it merely served as a catalyst to flirt with the cute lead singer from the aforementioned band. She is easily the second cutest front-person from a modern pop-punk band, with Hayley from Paramore being a moderate distance away in third, and Sheena Ozella from Lemuria being in an untouchable first. She also seems at least mildly interested in me when I get through my “most impractical-practical thing I own” spiel, which is, again, a good sign. When I ask her for a copy of their CD, she shows me the cornucopia of packaging designs, and asks me what kind of packaging I want. To be cute, I tell her to pick out the packaging that she thinks best fits me; she picked plaid, and, for some reason, I am in love. Within an hour I was putting together my plan to finagle my way to sleeping next to her after the show (I made the assumption that since they were a touring band more than 4 hours away from their home that they too would be staying at Skull Mountain). Before I knew it, the show was over, and she parted with her band, out of Louisville, and out of my life forever.
I suppose I luck out when it comes to sleeping arrangements on the road[3], and although Stephanie has probably already forgotten about me, tonight seems to be no exception; Duncan has informed me that Micah is gone for the night and that his bed is all mine. This is, without a doubt, an incredibly nice gesture, but I still set my alarm clock for 10:30AM and move to a fairly small couch in the living room. Micha coming home and finding a dude he has never met asleep in his bed and the exchange that is sure to follow it is not a conversation I was really interested in being a part of. It was a sweet gesture nonetheless, and those 6 hours I did sleep in his bed were fucking killer.
Day 5 – Knoxville, TN
Monsturd
Tonight Worn in Red played with an Isis rip-off band that was really good at ripping off Isis, and we watched a movie called Monsturd.
All and all, pretty satisfying day to say the least.
Day 6 – Clemson, SC
Smokey Fucking Mountains
One of the tragic flaws of GPS systems (or at least cheap ones[4]), is that they have no way of knowing the kind of automobile will be traveling the paths it lays out. This became an issue when making our way from Knoxville, TN to Clemson, SC, as our GPS sent us straight through the Smokey Fucking Mountains. A normally three and a half hour drive became a five (5) hour trek through the Mountains of east Tennessee, North Georgia and Western North Carolina. Climbing through the mountains in an early nineties conversion van filled with dude and equipment is a lot more stressful than it sounds. It was quite a sight to see the Tennessee river and the vast mountains, but, much like the snow, we were all over it pretty fucking fast. Brad, the only man brave enough to man the ship during this whole quest literally had white knuckles from gripping the steering wheel during the quest.
While our lives were (technically) in Brad’s hands, Joe drank until he passed out, Brendan slept or played emulator Nintendo Games on his computer, Matt Neagle slept with his feet kicked up on the dash, and I read celebrity gossip blogs on my phone.
We’re some good friends, if nothing else.
Tonight’s show was supposed to take place in Charlotte, NC, but we learned in Pittsburgh that the show had to be cancelled. That is one of the only major downfalls of house shows: sometimes they can be really unreliable. When Benard was planning a short southeastern jaunt for this past December, we had two house shows fall through within 24 hours of eachother. Houses get shut down, kids get evicted, cops start to show up, and before you know it, touring bands are shit out of luck. House shows are often the most fun shows, but sometimes they can be flaky as shit.
Luckily, Cam[5]] in Clemson is not one of those flakes. Somehow he had was able to put together a rad show for us, complete with a keg and enough drunken college students to justify our 5 hour voyage through the southern wilderness.
I also told a girl that I had a wife, just so she would stop talking to me.
Sometimes, I am just a wretched, wretched person.
Day 7 – Athens, GA
Burritos and Smiles
This is without a doubt the most baller tour I have ever been on. I have showered every other day, have not had to starve myself, and, due to the fact that the generous drunks in Clemson donated well over $100 to us, Brad has given every member of the tour a $5 per-diem for the day. This means for the low price of 36 cents, I will eat the biggest (however over-hyped) burrito I have had in a long, long time. There are few things on this whole stinking planet that make me smile (apparently in Atlanta it is a big deal if you somehow obtain photographic evidence of me smiling). However, a quality burrito for 36 cents will stretch a smile from ear to ear on this sad bastards face.
I just, I just really like quality burritos.
Athens is without a doubt where the metaphorical doctor would stick the metaphorical tube if he was going to give the state of Georgia a metaphorical enema, which is quite the statement given the fact that our state also takes claim to towns like Brunswick, Dalton, and other inherently redneck sounding cities. What makes Athens so appalling is that it houses the absolute worst of both ends of the douche-bag spectrum: The city consists of the worst lets-party-every-night-and-watch-our-football-team-play-some-other-team-that-is-exactly-like-us-but-we-hate-them-because-they-are-from-somewhere-else college douche bags, and then almost prototypical I-hate-everyband-that-has-ever-had-a-fan-or-sold-even-one-record-ever-as-well-as-all-styles-of-music-that-can-be-classified-within-any-kind-of-genera-but-oh-yeah-come-check-out-my-band-we’re-palying-this-Friday-night-at-that-hipster-bar-that-we-all-hate-but-all-go-too pretentious indie snob douche bag. It’s like there is a voting panel, and the top 90th percentile of both of these forms of douche are elected to inhabit Athens, GA, in order to not only spare the rest of civilization from there douche supremacy, but to also punish the unfortunate souls who are subjected to spend any extended amount of time in the city. If you live in Athents, GA and you are not interested in Beer, College Football, or Shitty Indie Rock, then you have made some seriously terrible life decisions, and you will spend the your entire tenure within the city ruing the mistakes made.
Needless to say, the show tonight kind of fucking sucked.
Day 8 – Atlanta, GA
Home(ish)
It definitely feels a little weird to be on tour but in your hometown. You ask the people at the house show to donate to the touring band, and even though I was playing that night with Benard[6], I am still asking people to give money that will eventually end up paying for gas for the van I am riding in. It also feels very awkward because because this is the first time Benard has played together in three weeks. Our actual last practice was a month ago to the day of tonights show. Lucky for us (and I suppose everyone else, but by 12:30 on a Thursday morning, I don’t think anyone really cared) we are actually a kind of sloppy band by nature. This actually works to our advantage as, even though we record our records as tight as possible, we have a history of shows that involve beer being slung around, people crowd surfing in an 10x10 dining room and footprints on ceilings. I suppose people have gotten use to seeing us play a little sloppy, so, tonight, when that was the situation, no one seemed to care.
But then, I don’t think anyone would have given a shit if we would have been recording-tight either. Oh well.
I have always heard people bitch about how Atlanta is a small city. This is actually a lie because Atlanta is pretty fucking huge. This statement is usually said in the abstract or metaphorical sense, which is really just an overt way of saying that everyone in this city has a big mouth. This has never been an issue for me until tonight, but that is a whole other story for a whole other time[7].
Day 9 – Tampa, FL
Fish Sandwiches, 3EB and Beards
The drive from Atlanta to Tampa is just ungodly. The only thing that makes this drive slightly more bearable is that for the price of a fish sandwich back in Louisville, I get to sit in an actual seat for the duration of the ride.
Allow me to explain…
Worn in Red’s van, Jailbreak, is a simple early-90’s conversion van. To fit of all of their gear, they removed the back bench seat, leaving only 4 captains chairs in the main part of the van. Because there are four members of Worn in Red, my seat is made up of a couple sleeping bags jammed in between the back two captains chairs. This is not nearly as bad as it sounds; sometimes I could find the right positions and create a chair/pallet combo of unrivaled comfort. This does get old, however, so, when Joe began to run out of many only a couple days into the tour, I began to start making deals: I was more than willing to loan him money food, however, for every dollar I spotted him, he would have to take my spot on the floor for an hour. And when Joe’s growling stomach saw Brendan’s grandiose fish sandwich Sunday night at some bar and grill in Louisville, he just couldn’t hold out any longer.
So for the next 7 hours, Joe will get hammered on the floor of Jailbreak, and I’ll watch the majestic[8] Georgia and Florida countryside from the comfort of a padded seat.
Best seven dollars I have ever spent.
One of my absolutely favorite things about touring is all the stuff you find out about your tourmates. Being trapped in a van and in constant company of the same people day in and day out yields itself to learning the little nuances that make up a persons character. For example, after going on tour with Fox Trotsky, I now know that Conor Quinn just really, really loves female breasts[9]. So while sitting in this van as Brad and Neagel conduct us three-fourths of the way down the most phallic state in our great country, I thought I would create a brief character profile of the people on this tour:
Brad Perry: Every band has that guy, the guy that books almost every show and “manages” the band. That is Brad Perry. Likes to keep his finger on the pulse of everything going on. Food connoisseur, yet, somehow, a food snob. One of the nicest people on the whole planet. It does not surprise me one bit when my mom said that she really liked Brad.
Matt Neagle: May be 30 in age, but 18 at heart. Brad’s food nemesis; Matt has never encountered food that he didn’t like. Matt is essentially a 30 year old mutton-chopped Teddybear.
Joe: I actually don’t know Joe’s last name[10]. Joe loves to drink. Joe also spends close to 30 minutes on the John, which he almost always needs to visit when we don’t really have 30 minutes to spare. Joe can drink a handle of old crow whiskey and, aside from the occasional slurred word or stumble in logic, does not ever convey any signs of inbrehation. Naturally big-haired, which astonishes me, for some reason. Incredible distaste for the “dumpy”
Brendan Murphy: Of all the people on the tour, the person I am most similar too. Quite and soft-spoken, but can be a total wise/smart ass. Killer impersonations, quasi-gear nerd, very irish.
If I had to pick which one of the members of Worn in Red would win in a four way fight to the death, I would tell everyone that the smart money would be on Matt Neagle, but would secretly place my life savings on Joe, but only if he had been drinking. I once saw Joe fall face first beside a concrete pool in Gainesville, FL, only to keep on drinking. But I suppose all of this is neither here nor there.
When we finally reach Tampa, we learn that one of the bands features the drummer from Third Eye Blind. Apparently, 3EB is just his moneymaker, and some shitty southern cock rock band is his true artistic expression. I’ll take “Jumper” and “Semi-Charmed Kind of Life” over this garbage any day.
Tampa is without a doubt one of the most hospitable places I have ever been to. Benard was just down here a month ago, and all the people I met either remember the band I played in, or also, sometimes recalled my fucking name. That shit never happens. I have been called so many different names and had to tell people that we have already met so many times that it is unsettling. We were also offered places to stay by three separate people, all of which have beards.
Tampa likes their beards.
Day 10 – Gainesville, FL
Pizza and Fiddles
Brad Perry as a serious love-hate relationship with the GPS system. Brendan and myself have this theory that once you jump the hurdle over the age of thirty, your ability and willingness to trust technology becomes very limited. James Sears (guitar player from Benard) is also over the age of 30 and habitual has problems understanding our GPS. Brad distrursts the the GPS in most circumstances, constantly insists that it told him to do something wrong, and generally second-guesses a lot of what it tells us to do. However, when Brad has been lost down the same three (3) or four (4) roads in Gainesville, FL, trying to get to Tony and Prat’s house (both of whom are too drunk or passed out to provide us with decent directions), the GPS becomes Brads best friend.
Gainesville, FL has produced some of my favorite bands and records, ever. I have never had a bad time in Gainesville, FL. It is also mildly weird that Brad and Brendan all sort of kind of know everyone in this city. We ate lunch at a killer Pizza place with Jon Gaunt, the dude who played the violin (fiddle?) on all the Chuck Ragan, Whiskey and Co., and Fake Problems records. Brad and Brendan grew up with him, which, for some reason seems odd to me.
Day 11 – Savannah, GA
Infoshops and Homeruns
The Infoshop of Savannah is, in reality, a pink house that has a table in its entrance way that houses at most 10 very liberal (and very terribly made) pamphlets. I don’t know how other Infoshop’s compare to this, but, I can only assume that they are all practically the same. Worn in Red played to about a dozen people, two of which were friends of mine that I brought to the show, and it appears that Joe’s drinking has finally caught up with him. Every show can’t be a homerun, I suppose.
Day 12 – Durham, NC, Charlottesville, VA, Richmond, VA
Literal Gunshots
Before tonight is over, I will decide to never go back to Durham, North Carolina ever again.
Somewhere along the massive stretch of I-95 in the MiddleOfNowhere, North Carolina, Brad begins to figure out that tonight’s show, the last one of the tour, will not be starting promptly at 7:30 as he once thought. This is a problem, because Brad has to be on a flight leaving the Charlottesville airport at 6:30 Monday morning.
By 7:00 tonight we will arrive at Bull City Head Quarters, a little DIY Space and Bike Shop that is quite literally on the wrong side of the tracks. By 7:15 we will hear a gunshot, but 7:20 we will be told by the kids who set up the show that, because of the location, no kids ever come out to shows here, and by 7:30, we will be on the road back to Charlottesville. Some things just aren’t worth doing, I suppose
An hour away from Charlottesville, VA, I learned how to construct an incredibly comfortable bed out of two sleeping bags, a pillow and Brendan’s guitar cabinet. I have been sitting on the floor of this stinking van for every our of this whole tour, from Pittsburgh to Tampa, back up to Charlottesville (sans the hours I traded to Joe for food), and only now, an hour away from our final destination, I figure out how to create a comfortable bed.
I usually say that God hates me, but I really think that a more accurate statement is that I sort of sub-consciously hate myself.
After we got to Charlottesville, I parted ways with Brendan, Brad and Joe, and Matt and I trekked back to Richmond. Now, I am laying on the couch in the downstairs living room of Matt Neagle’s apartment, and I can hear him snoring all the way upstairs. This actually bums me out more than anything, because it is a reminder that in 6 hours, the one consistent and unifying aspect of the past twelve days my life will be done and gone.
Epilogue – Atlanta, GA
Home Sweet Home (Sort Of…)
I have been home from tour for almost two weeks. Not a lot has changed over those fourteen days, and the more I think about it, I think that the only improvement in my life since I got home was the increased number of hours sleeping. Over the past couple weeks a strange situation with a female that I thought I had left behind has died down and then slowly started to revive itself. I am in the process of landing a job at a PRICK Magazine, which appears to be a pretty good “set for life” kind of career. Essentially, I am 22 years old and have my entire life in front of me; I should be landing a killer job that will allow me to continue to get tattooed and fund my unhealthy record collecting session, while still allowing opportunities to travel. I play in two really killer bands and have an awkward situation with a female that constantly keeps me on my toes. Even while laying on my couch watching Season 4 of Scrubs while listening to the new Lemuria record, life is never dull.
I don’t want to over romanticize touring; it honestly isn’t as great as some people make it out to be. All I can say though, is that every time I come home, I find that I have not only learned a little something about myself or the world around me, but also learned a little more about what it means to call a place home. Within 10 hours of being back in the city, I was surrounded by my best friends and thrust back into the afore mentioned situations.
It always feels incredible to be home, but, having said that, every time I get settled back in, I always wish I was heading back out in a van with some dudes. Life is defined by the memories that you make, and I still have a lot of memories to make in basements, DIY venues, bars and highways all over this planet.
[1] No wise man has ever, or will ever say this.
[2] Upon second reading, I’m not sure if this metaphor really works. Oh well.
[3] The first time I went on tour, I spent two nights in Chicago sleeping in a bed with a model. I tried to shotgun a couch two nights later and everyone involved in the tour (all nine of them) collectively told me to “fuck off.”
[4] And mine most certainly was.
[5] The previously mentioned Promoter and Tour Manager
[6] Who is certainly not on tour
[7] As do most stories worth telling, this involves a girl. But that is all I am going to say
[8] Word used ironically
[9] Which gave way to a much larger realization I had over the whole tour: Conor is kind of sleazy.
[10] And over the scope of the whole tour never even heard anything that bared any semblance to something that could be construed as a last name. Remember what I said about being a wretched person?
Wise Men and the lack thereof
A wise man once said that when there is nothing better to do, complicate things[1]. I suppose this has been my mantra as of late, as I am a recent college graduate who will be spending the next 14 days in a van with some dudes, traveling all over the eastern half of the untied states playing music. What makes this situation even more hilarious is that I am not even playing music; I am merely riding along with some friends as they play for people all over this side of the country. For the next 14 days, I will be abandoning real life just so I can fucking sell merchandise for a punk rock band from Charlottesville, VA. Remember, I have a fucking Bachelors of the Arts in English with a minor in Film while doing this. I have no income, and only a loose chance at landing a decent job upon my return. I am fairly certain that if my parents knew this is what I would be doing 15 days after receiving my degree, they would have seriously reconsidered putting me through college. I mean, if they knew they were going to waste some cash, I am sure they would have liked to of wasted it on something, I don’t know, fun.
I am not sure really how I became such good friends with Worn in Red. I met them because they were going to be on tour through Atlanta, so, a mutual friend asked us to help them out with a show. We did, and we both enjoyed eachothers bands, and, one thing led to another, and we became the best of friends that two bands can be. In quickest terms, Worn in Red sort of sounds like what Planes Mistaken For Stars would have sounded like if they had grown up in DC in the early 90’s. My band (Benard) will actually be putting out a split 7” with these Virginians in the coming months, and, well, since I have nothing better to do with my fucking college degree, I asked if I could ride along on their winter tour. They said yes, and the complication of my first year of “Adult Life” has truly begun.
Brittle Toes
I hate the cold.
Let me repeat myself, because this is a very important facet in understanding today’s events: I hate the fucking cold.
In Smyrna, GA, winters never feel this cold. While my cellphone informs me that it is just as cold at home, I swear to god there is no way that Smyrna, GA feels nearly as cold as Pittsburgh, PA. There is just no way. Not fucking possible. No goddamn way
This is probably because there is at least two feet of snow all around me no matter where I walk in this godforsaken city. It does not regularly snow in Smyrna, and while seeing white landscape is without a doubt a novelty, that novelty is fleeting. In fact, as my toes began to feel brittle and I almost slip and fall on my ass outside of a Taco Bell in northern Pittsburgh, the winter-wonderland novelty is long fucking gone.
The venue also has no heat.
God hates me. He really, really does.
Being on tour is what it is. Musicians whom have never been on tour (or at least have never spent substantial time on the road) seem to over-romanticize touring; in reality touring is no more exciting that it sounds. Today I spent four and a half hours in a van, crammed between two other dudes as we hiked our way from Charlottesville, VA to Pittsburgh, PA. In the past 24 hours I have eaten anywhere from 3 to 6 Taco Bell bean burritos, and will soon spend half an hour hauling heavy speak cabinets, amp heads and guitars through a foot of snow into a run down DIY venue that has no heat. I have no idea where I will be sleeping tonight. This is my existence for the next twelve (12) days. This process will be repeated almost identically in 12 different cities before I fly back home to Atlanta. There is a reason why bands eventually “sell-out;” DIY touring is pretty fucking exhausting.
Tonight, Worn in Red is playing at the Mr. Robto Project in some Pittsburgh Neighborhood whose name I have already forgotten. Before the show, Brendan, Matt, Joe and I spent forty five minutes curled up under blankets in the van with the heater on full blast. The heater would eventually stop working, and I have a feeling I am in for a long week and a half.
Because I hate the fucking cold.
Tourist
Matt Neagel snores, and snores very loudly. Do not get me wrong, Neagel is a total sweetheart that I am very happy to be spending my days with, but when it is time to turn in for the evening, I sort of want to kick him in the jaw. Just saying.
Last night a couple of the fifteen something guys in the band Endless Mike and The Beagle club were kind enough to lend us their couch and floor space. While I wasn’t there to witness it, apparently, while Joe, Brendan and Matt were trying to help one of the roommates move her dead car, they were accosted by an unnecessarily angry neighbor, whom I can only assume was an old man. I feel safe in this assumption because it seems as though the only quote that everyone seems to cite from the exchange with this unnecessarily angry neighbor was Matt Negeal yelling “Fuck you, Old man!” The neighbor also called us tourist, which seems to baffle everyone, simply because of the accuracy of this statement.
It is still just as cold in Cleveland, which means I now hate Cleveland just as much as I hate Pittsburgh. No one showed up to the show other than the bands playing (save for maybe 5 bar-goers), but we still had to not only carry heavy equipment through even more snow, but also down a flight of stairs and through what felt like a football fields worth of hallways.
I did eat some fantastic cheesy-bread and carried on an interesting conversation with the proprietor of the pizzeria above the Davenport. So I suppose Cleveland is not nearly as useless as I would like you to believe.
Every so often I allow myself to stumble into this ass-backwards thought that the DIY Punk scene that inhabits the east side of America is a really big entity. It is not. Case and point: Joe dated Sarah in highschool in Marayland (I think), but I only know Sarah because she dated a friend of mine in Atlanta, but we will be staying with here tonight in Cleveland. This whole exchange strikes me as bizarre. We are all connected in one way or another, but completely separated geographically (among other separations). I have known Joe longer than I have known Sarah, but up until this tour, have probably spent more time hanging out around Sarah (before she moved from Atlanta back to Cleveland). This kind of thing happens more than you think. My band once played a fairly forgettable show in Clemson, SC. About a year later, we played with a band from Gainesville called Dirty Money, whose “tour manager” was said Clemson promoter. My band once played a show in Charlottesville, VA with some dudes from Brooklyn, NY, who told us to talk to a band from Albany, NY, whom (unknown to the Brooklyn band), we had just played with back in Atlanta a month prior. People all over the place know everyone else, and I suppose that is a good thing. Better that then having to meet any new people.
It’s only day two and I already need a haircut. Sigh.
Phil
What is Ohio’s deal with the letter “C?” When naming their three biggest cities in their mediocre state, why pick the most useless letter of the alphabet to start each name? If you are going to stake claim in the middle of the mid-west (arguably the most boring region of the United States), why not spice up some of your cities names? I think naming your capitol city after a known rapist says a lot about the kind of state you choose to be and the inhabitants that will dwell there.
I am willing to concede that this is a very mundane thing to be talking about; this is just about the only semi-interesting thing I can find to say about this whole goddamn state.
There are still scant traces of snow around Cincinnati, and that makes my blood boil. But not enough to keep my body warm from the 27 degree weather outside. The Midwest is fucking stupid.
The show tonight is at the Poison Room is in downtown Cincinnati, and it bobbles my mind that kids actually come out to shows here. I have always been under the assumption that every scene is pretty much exactly like the Atlanta scene, only in a different state. Shows in Atlanta happen on the outskirts of the city, which I think is directly related to the fucking atrocious traffic in downtown Atlanta. As it turns out, kids in Atlanta are just fucking lazy. Because tons of kids came out to see a handful of bands whose collective record sales MIGHT top 1,500 records in the heart of downtown Cincinnati, all on a 37 degree winter night. Having said that, I’ll still take Atlanta over Cinci’ any day of the week.
Tonight we are staying with Pat, the drummer from Lost Hands Found Fingers, who lives with is girlfriend and their 35 year old ex Marine named Phil. Phil is covered in tattoos, which include a crosshair on his left temple and pitbull on the back of his skull. Phil also tells us that he only has three loves in life: drinkin’, smokin’ and fightin’, and he has given up on the first two.
Note to self: When in Cincinnati, Always stay on Phil’s good side.
Tonight I will be sleeping on a recliner that smells like the house’s Pitbull, Scotch. So much for that shower I took last night.
Plaid
It’s the little surprises that make touring (and life in general, I suppose) worth doing, and Louisville, KY is without a doubt one of those surprises. I have never been particularly proud (or excited) to be from the South, but there is a certain southern charm and hospitality that is inescapable on this side of the Mason-Dixon Line, and the kids at Skull Mountain certainly embody that notion. It’s always nice to be hours from home, but to still feel like you never left.
Skull Mountain is the name Chuck, Duncan, Chubs, Micha and the missing Paul have dubed their house. The basement of Skull Mountain (Skull Dungeon?) is where the show will be taking place tonight. In and of itself, that doesn’t seem like anything noteworthy; basement shows have been the backbone of the DIY punk community for as long as it has existed. However, the Skull Mountain Basement is about the size of two and a half (2.5) king-size mattresses. This actually worked to my advantage, because Hot Iron, the band from Columbus, has a really cute lead singer. Casually making eye-contact and inducing conversation with the cute girl lead singer from a pretty decent band is a lot easier when 30 kids are crammed asses to elbows in a room the size of Orson Wells’ stomach[2].This is also the second time on this tour where having an iPhone has come in handy, although this time it merely served as a catalyst to flirt with the cute lead singer from the aforementioned band. She is easily the second cutest front-person from a modern pop-punk band, with Hayley from Paramore being a moderate distance away in third, and Sheena Ozella from Lemuria being in an untouchable first. She also seems at least mildly interested in me when I get through my “most impractical-practical thing I own” spiel, which is, again, a good sign. When I ask her for a copy of their CD, she shows me the cornucopia of packaging designs, and asks me what kind of packaging I want. To be cute, I tell her to pick out the packaging that she thinks best fits me; she picked plaid, and, for some reason, I am in love. Within an hour I was putting together my plan to finagle my way to sleeping next to her after the show (I made the assumption that since they were a touring band more than 4 hours away from their home that they too would be staying at Skull Mountain). Before I knew it, the show was over, and she parted with her band, out of Louisville, and out of my life forever.
I suppose I luck out when it comes to sleeping arrangements on the road[3], and although Stephanie has probably already forgotten about me, tonight seems to be no exception; Duncan has informed me that Micah is gone for the night and that his bed is all mine. This is, without a doubt, an incredibly nice gesture, but I still set my alarm clock for 10:30AM and move to a fairly small couch in the living room. Micha coming home and finding a dude he has never met asleep in his bed and the exchange that is sure to follow it is not a conversation I was really interested in being a part of. It was a sweet gesture nonetheless, and those 6 hours I did sleep in his bed were fucking killer.
Monsturd
Tonight Worn in Red played with an Isis rip-off band that was really good at ripping off Isis, and we watched a movie called Monsturd.
All and all, pretty satisfying day to say the least.
Smokey Fucking Mountains
One of the tragic flaws of GPS systems (or at least cheap ones[4]), is that they have no way of knowing the kind of automobile will be traveling the paths it lays out. This became an issue when making our way from Knoxville, TN to Clemson, SC, as our GPS sent us straight through the Smokey Fucking Mountains. A normally three and a half hour drive became a five (5) hour trek through the Mountains of east Tennessee, North Georgia and Western North Carolina. Climbing through the mountains in an early nineties conversion van filled with dude and equipment is a lot more stressful than it sounds. It was quite a sight to see the Tennessee river and the vast mountains, but, much like the snow, we were all over it pretty fucking fast. Brad, the only man brave enough to man the ship during this whole quest literally had white knuckles from gripping the steering wheel during the quest.
While our lives were (technically) in Brad’s hands, Joe drank until he passed out, Brendan slept or played emulator Nintendo Games on his computer, Matt Neagle slept with his feet kicked up on the dash, and I read celebrity gossip blogs on my phone.
We’re some good friends, if nothing else.
Tonight’s show was supposed to take place in Charlotte, NC, but we learned in Pittsburgh that the show had to be cancelled. That is one of the only major downfalls of house shows: sometimes they can be really unreliable. When Benard was planning a short southeastern jaunt for this past December, we had two house shows fall through within 24 hours of eachother. Houses get shut down, kids get evicted, cops start to show up, and before you know it, touring bands are shit out of luck. House shows are often the most fun shows, but sometimes they can be flaky as shit.
Luckily, Cam[5]] in Clemson is not one of those flakes. Somehow he had was able to put together a rad show for us, complete with a keg and enough drunken college students to justify our 5 hour voyage through the southern wilderness.
I also told a girl that I had a wife, just so she would stop talking to me.
Sometimes, I am just a wretched, wretched person.
Burritos and Smiles
This is without a doubt the most baller tour I have ever been on. I have showered every other day, have not had to starve myself, and, due to the fact that the generous drunks in Clemson donated well over $100 to us, Brad has given every member of the tour a $5 per-diem for the day. This means for the low price of 36 cents, I will eat the biggest (however over-hyped) burrito I have had in a long, long time. There are few things on this whole stinking planet that make me smile (apparently in Atlanta it is a big deal if you somehow obtain photographic evidence of me smiling). However, a quality burrito for 36 cents will stretch a smile from ear to ear on this sad bastards face.
I just, I just really like quality burritos.
Athens is without a doubt where the metaphorical doctor would stick the metaphorical tube if he was going to give the state of Georgia a metaphorical enema, which is quite the statement given the fact that our state also takes claim to towns like Brunswick, Dalton, and other inherently redneck sounding cities. What makes Athens so appalling is that it houses the absolute worst of both ends of the douche-bag spectrum: The city consists of the worst lets-party-every-night-and-watch-our-football-team-play-some-other-team-that-is-exactly-like-us-but-we-hate-them-because-they-are-from-somewhere-else college douche bags, and then almost prototypical I-hate-everyband-that-has-ever-had-a-fan-or-sold-even-one-record-ever-as-well-as-all-styles-of-music-that-can-be-classified-within-any-kind-of-genera-but-oh-yeah-come-check-out-my-band-we’re-palying-this-Friday-night-at-that-hipster-bar-that-we-all-hate-but-all-go-too pretentious indie snob douche bag. It’s like there is a voting panel, and the top 90th percentile of both of these forms of douche are elected to inhabit Athens, GA, in order to not only spare the rest of civilization from there douche supremacy, but to also punish the unfortunate souls who are subjected to spend any extended amount of time in the city. If you live in Athents, GA and you are not interested in Beer, College Football, or Shitty Indie Rock, then you have made some seriously terrible life decisions, and you will spend the your entire tenure within the city ruing the mistakes made.
Needless to say, the show tonight kind of fucking sucked.
Home(ish)
It definitely feels a little weird to be on tour but in your hometown. You ask the people at the house show to donate to the touring band, and even though I was playing that night with Benard[6], I am still asking people to give money that will eventually end up paying for gas for the van I am riding in. It also feels very awkward because because this is the first time Benard has played together in three weeks. Our actual last practice was a month ago to the day of tonights show. Lucky for us (and I suppose everyone else, but by 12:30 on a Thursday morning, I don’t think anyone really cared) we are actually a kind of sloppy band by nature. This actually works to our advantage as, even though we record our records as tight as possible, we have a history of shows that involve beer being slung around, people crowd surfing in an 10x10 dining room and footprints on ceilings. I suppose people have gotten use to seeing us play a little sloppy, so, tonight, when that was the situation, no one seemed to care.
But then, I don’t think anyone would have given a shit if we would have been recording-tight either. Oh well.
I have always heard people bitch about how Atlanta is a small city. This is actually a lie because Atlanta is pretty fucking huge. This statement is usually said in the abstract or metaphorical sense, which is really just an overt way of saying that everyone in this city has a big mouth. This has never been an issue for me until tonight, but that is a whole other story for a whole other time[7].
Fish Sandwiches, 3EB and Beards
The drive from Atlanta to Tampa is just ungodly. The only thing that makes this drive slightly more bearable is that for the price of a fish sandwich back in Louisville, I get to sit in an actual seat for the duration of the ride.
Allow me to explain…
Worn in Red’s van, Jailbreak, is a simple early-90’s conversion van. To fit of all of their gear, they removed the back bench seat, leaving only 4 captains chairs in the main part of the van. Because there are four members of Worn in Red, my seat is made up of a couple sleeping bags jammed in between the back two captains chairs. This is not nearly as bad as it sounds; sometimes I could find the right positions and create a chair/pallet combo of unrivaled comfort. This does get old, however, so, when Joe began to run out of many only a couple days into the tour, I began to start making deals: I was more than willing to loan him money food, however, for every dollar I spotted him, he would have to take my spot on the floor for an hour. And when Joe’s growling stomach saw Brendan’s grandiose fish sandwich Sunday night at some bar and grill in Louisville, he just couldn’t hold out any longer.
So for the next 7 hours, Joe will get hammered on the floor of Jailbreak, and I’ll watch the majestic[8] Georgia and Florida countryside from the comfort of a padded seat.
Best seven dollars I have ever spent.
One of my absolutely favorite things about touring is all the stuff you find out about your tourmates. Being trapped in a van and in constant company of the same people day in and day out yields itself to learning the little nuances that make up a persons character. For example, after going on tour with Fox Trotsky, I now know that Conor Quinn just really, really loves female breasts[9]. So while sitting in this van as Brad and Neagel conduct us three-fourths of the way down the most phallic state in our great country, I thought I would create a brief character profile of the people on this tour:
Brad Perry: Every band has that guy, the guy that books almost every show and “manages” the band. That is Brad Perry. Likes to keep his finger on the pulse of everything going on. Food connoisseur, yet, somehow, a food snob. One of the nicest people on the whole planet. It does not surprise me one bit when my mom said that she really liked Brad.
Matt Neagle: May be 30 in age, but 18 at heart. Brad’s food nemesis; Matt has never encountered food that he didn’t like. Matt is essentially a 30 year old mutton-chopped Teddybear.
Joe: I actually don’t know Joe’s last name[10]. Joe loves to drink. Joe also spends close to 30 minutes on the John, which he almost always needs to visit when we don’t really have 30 minutes to spare. Joe can drink a handle of old crow whiskey and, aside from the occasional slurred word or stumble in logic, does not ever convey any signs of inbrehation. Naturally big-haired, which astonishes me, for some reason. Incredible distaste for the “dumpy”
Brendan Murphy: Of all the people on the tour, the person I am most similar too. Quite and soft-spoken, but can be a total wise/smart ass. Killer impersonations, quasi-gear nerd, very irish.
If I had to pick which one of the members of Worn in Red would win in a four way fight to the death, I would tell everyone that the smart money would be on Matt Neagle, but would secretly place my life savings on Joe, but only if he had been drinking. I once saw Joe fall face first beside a concrete pool in Gainesville, FL, only to keep on drinking. But I suppose all of this is neither here nor there.
When we finally reach Tampa, we learn that one of the bands features the drummer from Third Eye Blind. Apparently, 3EB is just his moneymaker, and some shitty southern cock rock band is his true artistic expression. I’ll take “Jumper” and “Semi-Charmed Kind of Life” over this garbage any day.
Tampa is without a doubt one of the most hospitable places I have ever been to. Benard was just down here a month ago, and all the people I met either remember the band I played in, or also, sometimes recalled my fucking name. That shit never happens. I have been called so many different names and had to tell people that we have already met so many times that it is unsettling. We were also offered places to stay by three separate people, all of which have beards.
Tampa likes their beards.
Pizza and Fiddles
Brad Perry as a serious love-hate relationship with the GPS system. Brendan and myself have this theory that once you jump the hurdle over the age of thirty, your ability and willingness to trust technology becomes very limited. James Sears (guitar player from Benard) is also over the age of 30 and habitual has problems understanding our GPS. Brad distrursts the the GPS in most circumstances, constantly insists that it told him to do something wrong, and generally second-guesses a lot of what it tells us to do. However, when Brad has been lost down the same three (3) or four (4) roads in Gainesville, FL, trying to get to Tony and Prat’s house (both of whom are too drunk or passed out to provide us with decent directions), the GPS becomes Brads best friend.
Gainesville, FL has produced some of my favorite bands and records, ever. I have never had a bad time in Gainesville, FL. It is also mildly weird that Brad and Brendan all sort of kind of know everyone in this city. We ate lunch at a killer Pizza place with Jon Gaunt, the dude who played the violin (fiddle?) on all the Chuck Ragan, Whiskey and Co., and Fake Problems records. Brad and Brendan grew up with him, which, for some reason seems odd to me.
Infoshops and Homeruns
The Infoshop of Savannah is, in reality, a pink house that has a table in its entrance way that houses at most 10 very liberal (and very terribly made) pamphlets. I don’t know how other Infoshop’s compare to this, but, I can only assume that they are all practically the same. Worn in Red played to about a dozen people, two of which were friends of mine that I brought to the show, and it appears that Joe’s drinking has finally caught up with him. Every show can’t be a homerun, I suppose.
Literal Gunshots
Before tonight is over, I will decide to never go back to Durham, North Carolina ever again.
Somewhere along the massive stretch of I-95 in the MiddleOfNowhere, North Carolina, Brad begins to figure out that tonight’s show, the last one of the tour, will not be starting promptly at 7:30 as he once thought. This is a problem, because Brad has to be on a flight leaving the Charlottesville airport at 6:30 Monday morning.
By 7:00 tonight we will arrive at Bull City Head Quarters, a little DIY Space and Bike Shop that is quite literally on the wrong side of the tracks. By 7:15 we will hear a gunshot, but 7:20 we will be told by the kids who set up the show that, because of the location, no kids ever come out to shows here, and by 7:30, we will be on the road back to Charlottesville. Some things just aren’t worth doing, I suppose
An hour away from Charlottesville, VA, I learned how to construct an incredibly comfortable bed out of two sleeping bags, a pillow and Brendan’s guitar cabinet. I have been sitting on the floor of this stinking van for every our of this whole tour, from Pittsburgh to Tampa, back up to Charlottesville (sans the hours I traded to Joe for food), and only now, an hour away from our final destination, I figure out how to create a comfortable bed.
I usually say that God hates me, but I really think that a more accurate statement is that I sort of sub-consciously hate myself.
After we got to Charlottesville, I parted ways with Brendan, Brad and Joe, and Matt and I trekked back to Richmond. Now, I am laying on the couch in the downstairs living room of Matt Neagle’s apartment, and I can hear him snoring all the way upstairs. This actually bums me out more than anything, because it is a reminder that in 6 hours, the one consistent and unifying aspect of the past twelve days my life will be done and gone.
Home Sweet Home (Sort Of…)
I have been home from tour for almost two weeks. Not a lot has changed over those fourteen days, and the more I think about it, I think that the only improvement in my life since I got home was the increased number of hours sleeping. Over the past couple weeks a strange situation with a female that I thought I had left behind has died down and then slowly started to revive itself. I am in the process of landing a job at a PRICK Magazine, which appears to be a pretty good “set for life” kind of career. Essentially, I am 22 years old and have my entire life in front of me; I should be landing a killer job that will allow me to continue to get tattooed and fund my unhealthy record collecting session, while still allowing opportunities to travel. I play in two really killer bands and have an awkward situation with a female that constantly keeps me on my toes. Even while laying on my couch watching Season 4 of Scrubs while listening to the new Lemuria record, life is never dull.
I don’t want to over romanticize touring; it honestly isn’t as great as some people make it out to be. All I can say though, is that every time I come home, I find that I have not only learned a little something about myself or the world around me, but also learned a little more about what it means to call a place home. Within 10 hours of being back in the city, I was surrounded by my best friends and thrust back into the afore mentioned situations.
It always feels incredible to be home, but, having said that, every time I get settled back in, I always wish I was heading back out in a van with some dudes. Life is defined by the memories that you make, and I still have a lot of memories to make in basements, DIY venues, bars and highways all over this planet.
[1] No wise man has ever, or will ever say this.
[2] Upon second reading, I’m not sure if this metaphor really works. Oh well.
[3] The first time I went on tour, I spent two nights in Chicago sleeping in a bed with a model. I tried to shotgun a couch two nights later and everyone involved in the tour (all nine of them) collectively told me to “fuck off.”
[4] And mine most certainly was.
[5] The previously mentioned Promoter and Tour Manager
[6] Who is certainly not on tour
[7] As do most stories worth telling, this involves a girl. But that is all I am going to say
[8] Word used ironically
[9] Which gave way to a much larger realization I had over the whole tour: Conor is kind of sleazy.
[10] And over the scope of the whole tour never even heard anything that bared any semblance to something that could be construed as a last name. Remember what I said about being a wretched person?
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Say It Ain't the Afterglow
A couple nights ago I got into a light-hearted argument with a friends (sortof) girlfriend about how Weezer's "Say it Ain't So" is, without question, one of the most over-rated songs of the 1990's. Most people my age seem to have this assumption that the blue album is simply perfect. That is why most people my age are wrong.
While their are many exceptions to the following statement, I think that most Weezer fans love Weezer because they feel it says something about them. These are the most annoying kind of music fans; essentially, Weezer is the best copout in the history of rock Music. Saying that Weezers blue album is perfect is like saying that Citizen Kane is the best film ever made; casual fans wont argue with you for fear of looking uninformed, purist and nerds will say that it is indeed great, but their are certainly better works out there that most everyone has overlooked. And then there are assholes like me who just dont give a shit.
If you wonder if your friend uses music taste as a judgment of character, simply ask them their opinion on Everclear's "Santa Monica." If your friend responds to your question negatively or in any kind of condescending manner, they are the type of person that thinks musical taste says something about the type of person you are. However, if they genuinely enjoy the song, then they obviously don't give a shit about a persons musical taste, nor do they care what anyone thinks about their personal taste. People who love Weezer are the type of people who will berate you about your musical taste, even if you didn't ask them what their opinion was on the current LP you are listening to. "Say it Ain't So" fans constantly control the radio while driving, "Santa Monica" fans will listen to whatever with no little to no complaint. That is because there is nothing cool about liking Everclear. Everclear essentially wrote one song during their whole career, that they re-hashed over and over again. But that doesn't mean that it was a bad song to start with. "Santa Monica" is just as good of a pop song as "Say it Ain't So," the only defining line is that claiming that you love Weezer says something about the type of person you are, and enjoying "Santa Monica" basically means that you just dont give a fuck.
And that is why "Santa Monica" is my second favorite radio single of all time.
My number 1 is, without question, "The Impression that I Get" by the Mighty Mighty Bosstones.
While their are many exceptions to the following statement, I think that most Weezer fans love Weezer because they feel it says something about them. These are the most annoying kind of music fans; essentially, Weezer is the best copout in the history of rock Music. Saying that Weezers blue album is perfect is like saying that Citizen Kane is the best film ever made; casual fans wont argue with you for fear of looking uninformed, purist and nerds will say that it is indeed great, but their are certainly better works out there that most everyone has overlooked. And then there are assholes like me who just dont give a shit.
If you wonder if your friend uses music taste as a judgment of character, simply ask them their opinion on Everclear's "Santa Monica." If your friend responds to your question negatively or in any kind of condescending manner, they are the type of person that thinks musical taste says something about the type of person you are. However, if they genuinely enjoy the song, then they obviously don't give a shit about a persons musical taste, nor do they care what anyone thinks about their personal taste. People who love Weezer are the type of people who will berate you about your musical taste, even if you didn't ask them what their opinion was on the current LP you are listening to. "Say it Ain't So" fans constantly control the radio while driving, "Santa Monica" fans will listen to whatever with no little to no complaint. That is because there is nothing cool about liking Everclear. Everclear essentially wrote one song during their whole career, that they re-hashed over and over again. But that doesn't mean that it was a bad song to start with. "Santa Monica" is just as good of a pop song as "Say it Ain't So," the only defining line is that claiming that you love Weezer says something about the type of person you are, and enjoying "Santa Monica" basically means that you just dont give a fuck.
And that is why "Santa Monica" is my second favorite radio single of all time.
My number 1 is, without question, "The Impression that I Get" by the Mighty Mighty Bosstones.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
Atlanta Airport
your hand caught in the train doors...it seems as though a loss of a
limb is a pretty severe punishment for extreme idiocy
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