Tuesday, July 31, 2007
comic reviews
I finally wrote another column for the Kindercore site, available here. I might have more this week, as the France tour made me miss a couple weeks worth of reviews.
I finally wrote another column for the Kindercore site, available here. I might have more this week, as the France tour made me miss a couple weeks worth of reviews.
Friday, July 27, 2007
radioner boner
okay, so I'm back WZBC 90.3 FM today, from 3 to 6 pm. And I ain't counting down to shit, now, as we're staying in Boston. I guess I could be counting down 'til the day I have to find a new job and thus no longer have my Friday afternoons off, but let's not think about that right now.
okay, so I'm back WZBC 90.3 FM today, from 3 to 6 pm. And I ain't counting down to shit, now, as we're staying in Boston. I guess I could be counting down 'til the day I have to find a new job and thus no longer have my Friday afternoons off, but let's not think about that right now.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
gracious what a week: dark's tour remarks part three
More Boston, Manhattan, etc. ...
We got a few hours of sleep in our apt. over in Somerville, everybody except Jeff, who elected to stay in the van. Bad idea, as Elm Street is a fairly popular road, and traffic kept him up all night. Those of us who remained indoors slept in frigid comfort and were awakened by the tender lickings of sweet young Oscar, or potentially by the ceaseless stinkpit of the uncleanable Rigby. Jeff caught up on some Z’s and computer time inside while the rest of us headed down to Harvard Square for lunch, comics, and record shopping. We ate at Charlie’s, reliably awesome as ever, where I forewent my standard double cheeseburger and truly branched out, ordering the triple cheeseburger, instead. Sweet mountains of meat! Robbie and Crews each ate some sort of lobster contraption, while the rest got whatever, I guess. Allyn joined us for lunch, and that was fantastic. Afterward SA and I quickly ran into NEC, where I grabbed my weekly books, and then we hooked up with everybody else over at Newbury Comics. The new Magnet was on the stands, and we quickly found the ad DJ designed for Antenna Farm within. DJ bought that and some crazy kinda doll, and then back to the aptartment. After farewell kisses to Allyn, Oscar, and the cats we mounted up the van and headed back towards New York.
So our sister (offspring?) band Still Flyin’ were kind enough to prepare a detailed day-by-day tour itinerary for us, and Wednesday’s installment was written by none other than Personal, of Personal and the Pizzas. It told us exactly what we had to do on the drive down to NYC. Part of that included watching Jeopardy, which we obviously couldn’t do, stuck in a van, so we started making up our own games. Oh, shit, this might’ve been on Tuesday, on the drive to Boston, and not Wednesday. Whatever. Either way, I made up a Jeopardy round for us to plow through at some point, sticking mostly to topics related to the France and the tour and the dudes in the van, with occasional forays into pop culture nonsense and what-have-you. It was a big hit, so we wound up doing a Jeopardy at least once a day from there on out. Everybody took turns making up questions, and by the end our system had become rather sophisticated and intricate. A much better way to kill time on tour than flippin’ through a Cheri.
While in Boston we got an e-mail from an A&R intern at Columbia Records, saying she was gonna check out our Wed. show at the Cake Shop in New York. What the hell? We didn’t give it much thought, we just kept living the itinerary, and thus blasted Andrew WK’s “I Love New York City” during the final approach to Manhattan. Repeated that thing for like an hour straight, or something. Not as awesome as the non-stop “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper (live)” from Lexington to Bloomington, but still kinda epic. On the way we called the A&R girl, who told us she couldn’t actually make it after all. We imagine sometime between the e-mail and the phone call she actually gave a listen to Afrikan Majik.
We found the club no problem, loaded in all quick-like, lucked out again with a parking spot, and then met Rip for a mediocre burrito at San Loco up at like 10th and A. There were two or three other San Loco’s closer to the club, but whatever. I think Giuliani should have spent less time eliminating sleaze and more time improving the quality of Mexican food in his city, but what the hell do I know.
Back to the club, where everybody was amazingly awesome, bartenders, sound-guy, Andy the booker, everybody. Already we could tell Cake Shop was a great place. More friends showed up, both folks who were at the Union Hall show and then people like Rob Lomblad and Dan Donohue and Joe Abraham who I hadn’t seen in a good while. This was kind of a birthday party for Jeff Gramm, so the place was packed all night, and probably full of people who knew next to nothing about us. We’d make them learn, dammit. The show started with Kevin Barker, from Currituck Co., playing some top notch electric folk stuff. Kevin makes me realize how completely useless I actually am with a guitar. After that came John Lindaman from True Love Always with his new band, I believe called Latin Hustle, also featuring Heather McIntosh and maybe Kelly Clarkson’s drummer. I was already kinda drunk and hazy here, and even though I paid at least as much attention to the band as I did to conversation I don’t quite remember what these folks sounded like. I remember liking it, almost as much as I liked the brews I quaffed with both fists. Somewhere around here Excalibrah and Lil Flip Scoldjah pleased the masses with their requested “shit in a graveyard” song. In Interview came next, with some fine ramshackle indie-pop songs. After them came us, and we were ready, and right, and everything went awesomely. Don’t know if it was the drink or the packed house or if we really were just great but this was easily the best show of the tour. Not only was it the most fun, it was also the best musically, from our vantage point. We learned “Drinkin’ Bone” in the van and jammed it for a bit, and finished up with an absolutely necessary “Never Gonna Touch the Ground’, with about eight guest-singers and dancers, including Richard Baluyut singing Jeff Griggs’ lines. Awesome.
I probably should’ve quit drinking at this point. I didn’t. I flew past the sweet spot and eventually got surly, at one point hollering to the skies outside about what I believed were bad sleep decisions made by representatives of the France. We went to a couple of the most boring and depressing bars ever, eventually made our way down to Rippy’s apartment on the upper 70’s, where I immediately passed out on the hardwood floor while other dudes searched in vain for fresh pizza. Some dudes slept on the roof outside Rip’s room after pounding some additional Miller Chills and watching the sunrise.
I awoke expecting a massive hangover, but instead only had to face the worse leg-cramp of my life. And then we noticed the ticket on the van, along with the giant unremovable day-glo sticker that let everybody know we violated New York’s parking laws. Whatta way to start the trip to DC!
More to come folks…
More Boston, Manhattan, etc. ...
We got a few hours of sleep in our apt. over in Somerville, everybody except Jeff, who elected to stay in the van. Bad idea, as Elm Street is a fairly popular road, and traffic kept him up all night. Those of us who remained indoors slept in frigid comfort and were awakened by the tender lickings of sweet young Oscar, or potentially by the ceaseless stinkpit of the uncleanable Rigby. Jeff caught up on some Z’s and computer time inside while the rest of us headed down to Harvard Square for lunch, comics, and record shopping. We ate at Charlie’s, reliably awesome as ever, where I forewent my standard double cheeseburger and truly branched out, ordering the triple cheeseburger, instead. Sweet mountains of meat! Robbie and Crews each ate some sort of lobster contraption, while the rest got whatever, I guess. Allyn joined us for lunch, and that was fantastic. Afterward SA and I quickly ran into NEC, where I grabbed my weekly books, and then we hooked up with everybody else over at Newbury Comics. The new Magnet was on the stands, and we quickly found the ad DJ designed for Antenna Farm within. DJ bought that and some crazy kinda doll, and then back to the aptartment. After farewell kisses to Allyn, Oscar, and the cats we mounted up the van and headed back towards New York.
So our sister (offspring?) band Still Flyin’ were kind enough to prepare a detailed day-by-day tour itinerary for us, and Wednesday’s installment was written by none other than Personal, of Personal and the Pizzas. It told us exactly what we had to do on the drive down to NYC. Part of that included watching Jeopardy, which we obviously couldn’t do, stuck in a van, so we started making up our own games. Oh, shit, this might’ve been on Tuesday, on the drive to Boston, and not Wednesday. Whatever. Either way, I made up a Jeopardy round for us to plow through at some point, sticking mostly to topics related to the France and the tour and the dudes in the van, with occasional forays into pop culture nonsense and what-have-you. It was a big hit, so we wound up doing a Jeopardy at least once a day from there on out. Everybody took turns making up questions, and by the end our system had become rather sophisticated and intricate. A much better way to kill time on tour than flippin’ through a Cheri.
While in Boston we got an e-mail from an A&R intern at Columbia Records, saying she was gonna check out our Wed. show at the Cake Shop in New York. What the hell? We didn’t give it much thought, we just kept living the itinerary, and thus blasted Andrew WK’s “I Love New York City” during the final approach to Manhattan. Repeated that thing for like an hour straight, or something. Not as awesome as the non-stop “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper (live)” from Lexington to Bloomington, but still kinda epic. On the way we called the A&R girl, who told us she couldn’t actually make it after all. We imagine sometime between the e-mail and the phone call she actually gave a listen to Afrikan Majik.
We found the club no problem, loaded in all quick-like, lucked out again with a parking spot, and then met Rip for a mediocre burrito at San Loco up at like 10th and A. There were two or three other San Loco’s closer to the club, but whatever. I think Giuliani should have spent less time eliminating sleaze and more time improving the quality of Mexican food in his city, but what the hell do I know.
Back to the club, where everybody was amazingly awesome, bartenders, sound-guy, Andy the booker, everybody. Already we could tell Cake Shop was a great place. More friends showed up, both folks who were at the Union Hall show and then people like Rob Lomblad and Dan Donohue and Joe Abraham who I hadn’t seen in a good while. This was kind of a birthday party for Jeff Gramm, so the place was packed all night, and probably full of people who knew next to nothing about us. We’d make them learn, dammit. The show started with Kevin Barker, from Currituck Co., playing some top notch electric folk stuff. Kevin makes me realize how completely useless I actually am with a guitar. After that came John Lindaman from True Love Always with his new band, I believe called Latin Hustle, also featuring Heather McIntosh and maybe Kelly Clarkson’s drummer. I was already kinda drunk and hazy here, and even though I paid at least as much attention to the band as I did to conversation I don’t quite remember what these folks sounded like. I remember liking it, almost as much as I liked the brews I quaffed with both fists. Somewhere around here Excalibrah and Lil Flip Scoldjah pleased the masses with their requested “shit in a graveyard” song. In Interview came next, with some fine ramshackle indie-pop songs. After them came us, and we were ready, and right, and everything went awesomely. Don’t know if it was the drink or the packed house or if we really were just great but this was easily the best show of the tour. Not only was it the most fun, it was also the best musically, from our vantage point. We learned “Drinkin’ Bone” in the van and jammed it for a bit, and finished up with an absolutely necessary “Never Gonna Touch the Ground’, with about eight guest-singers and dancers, including Richard Baluyut singing Jeff Griggs’ lines. Awesome.
I probably should’ve quit drinking at this point. I didn’t. I flew past the sweet spot and eventually got surly, at one point hollering to the skies outside about what I believed were bad sleep decisions made by representatives of the France. We went to a couple of the most boring and depressing bars ever, eventually made our way down to Rippy’s apartment on the upper 70’s, where I immediately passed out on the hardwood floor while other dudes searched in vain for fresh pizza. Some dudes slept on the roof outside Rip’s room after pounding some additional Miller Chills and watching the sunrise.
I awoke expecting a massive hangover, but instead only had to face the worse leg-cramp of my life. And then we noticed the ticket on the van, along with the giant unremovable day-glo sticker that let everybody know we violated New York’s parking laws. Whatta way to start the trip to DC!
More to come folks…
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
gracious what a week: dark's tour remarks part two
Brooklyn, Boston...
Okay, so where was this? Right, driving to Brooklyn, after doubling back an hour or so towards Wilmington. The drive was fine, speedy and uneventful, and we pulled into Brooklyn around 7:30-ish or so that night. Immediately we're greeted by Rippy and Noella in front of Union Hall, the club for the evening. We loaded in our stuff, found a surprisingly close parking spot for the van, ordered up some food, and chatted up old friends for an hour or so. Union Hall had the best bathrooms of any club on tour; each stall was its own separate booth with one of those locks that had a occupied / vacant sign on the outside. I told an employee that the bathrooms were awesome, and he replied that there’d be “a lot of fucking in ‘em” before the night was through. The show itself was a lot of fun, although Crog and I definitely weren’t feeling “Never Gonna Touch the Ground” at the end. We cut “California Rules” to fit it in, which I thought was a bad call. Still, it was a fun show, and we didn’t screw anything up too badly. There’s a video up on youtube of us playing “That Don’t Work That Well For Us” at this show. The Antlers and Overlord played, and both were exceedingly fine. Good music all around.
The show was really early, for some reason, done by like eleven, so there was ample time afterward for drinking with friends and some prime bocce balling. Great to see Jen, Alicia, Christina, Alan Corey and his absolutely amazing ladyfriend Sadia, and folks I barely knew but enjoyed talking to like Jeff Gramm and Heather McIntosh. This night wound up being far more about socialization and drinking than music, and as such was a nice change of pace. It ended on a couple of massive bum notes, though, as Brah and Rip both had shit stolen out of their bags, an iPod each and the digital camera Brah brought along. A pattern was developing, as every time things went well something drastic would happen and noticeably harsh the mood.
We wound up staying at a couple of houses elsewhere in Brooklyn, thanks to the overwhelming generosity of folks like Susie and Heather. On the way to their homes we all got BLTs and grilled cheeses at like four am from some deli at the end of their block. It might be the best meal I had all tour. The next morning we split up some more, as Crews, Griggs and I got some sandwiches from another place and ate them over at Heather’s awesome little garden-deck area. The other dudes all got some ‘za from a place over by Union Hall. After loading up and eating them slices we shoved off for Boston, and a welcome return home for yours truly. Brah elected to leave the tour a day early and sit out the Boston jaunt in order to take in Slint’s show in New York that night. Whatever, dude.
I was hoping to hit the homestead before heading towards the club in Allston, Great Scott, but our lateness made that impossible. I was also hoping to eat dinner with my beautiful wife, but she and her friends had other plans. While we were loading in to Great Scott about 18 fire trucks deafened us forever with their damnable sirens. An apartment building a block or two down from the club was in flames, apparently. Our stomachs were enflamed later on, after we ate at the middling-to-good barbecue joint Soulfire on Harvard Ave. This place is pretty good at times, but it definitely did a few numbers on my digestive track this night. Allyn, Andrea, Stephanie, and Hannah showed up at the end of our meal, and I hung out with the wife for a bit after the dudes returned to the club and her friends got a snack at McDonald’s. I love this wife. We got back to Great Scott right around the time BEARD started; they were even better than their good MySpace songs led me to believe. Frontman was very US Maple-esque. More friends showed up, including Mike, Diane, Darren, his new lady, John Straube from WZBC, etc. Thanks, everybody. The France played a solid if unspectacular set, semi-pro and mistake-free if skimping a bit on the passion. I think perhaps we weren’t quite drunk enough. Still, not a bad show, I don’t think, and definitely not a bad night. Reports made sure of that, as they put on a reliably awesome show full of songs from their great Mosquito Nets album. Boston wasn’t the biggest crowd, but I do believe we sold the most merchandise there, or at least second-most to Atlanta. Also met Bob from the Modern Voice, a local band with a really good heavy-psych cd-r I’ve been playing some on WZBC. Good talking to that guy. But so the Great Scott show was pretty rad, if just a touch more mellow than the shows before and after.
After this nonsense we got back to our place, and, after a couple minutes of uncharacteristic snarling, Oscar proceeded to lick the everlovin’ shit out of every one of us. Seriously, that dog can lick.
More later on this week!
Brooklyn, Boston...
Okay, so where was this? Right, driving to Brooklyn, after doubling back an hour or so towards Wilmington. The drive was fine, speedy and uneventful, and we pulled into Brooklyn around 7:30-ish or so that night. Immediately we're greeted by Rippy and Noella in front of Union Hall, the club for the evening. We loaded in our stuff, found a surprisingly close parking spot for the van, ordered up some food, and chatted up old friends for an hour or so. Union Hall had the best bathrooms of any club on tour; each stall was its own separate booth with one of those locks that had a occupied / vacant sign on the outside. I told an employee that the bathrooms were awesome, and he replied that there’d be “a lot of fucking in ‘em” before the night was through. The show itself was a lot of fun, although Crog and I definitely weren’t feeling “Never Gonna Touch the Ground” at the end. We cut “California Rules” to fit it in, which I thought was a bad call. Still, it was a fun show, and we didn’t screw anything up too badly. There’s a video up on youtube of us playing “That Don’t Work That Well For Us” at this show. The Antlers and Overlord played, and both were exceedingly fine. Good music all around.
The show was really early, for some reason, done by like eleven, so there was ample time afterward for drinking with friends and some prime bocce balling. Great to see Jen, Alicia, Christina, Alan Corey and his absolutely amazing ladyfriend Sadia, and folks I barely knew but enjoyed talking to like Jeff Gramm and Heather McIntosh. This night wound up being far more about socialization and drinking than music, and as such was a nice change of pace. It ended on a couple of massive bum notes, though, as Brah and Rip both had shit stolen out of their bags, an iPod each and the digital camera Brah brought along. A pattern was developing, as every time things went well something drastic would happen and noticeably harsh the mood.
We wound up staying at a couple of houses elsewhere in Brooklyn, thanks to the overwhelming generosity of folks like Susie and Heather. On the way to their homes we all got BLTs and grilled cheeses at like four am from some deli at the end of their block. It might be the best meal I had all tour. The next morning we split up some more, as Crews, Griggs and I got some sandwiches from another place and ate them over at Heather’s awesome little garden-deck area. The other dudes all got some ‘za from a place over by Union Hall. After loading up and eating them slices we shoved off for Boston, and a welcome return home for yours truly. Brah elected to leave the tour a day early and sit out the Boston jaunt in order to take in Slint’s show in New York that night. Whatever, dude.
I was hoping to hit the homestead before heading towards the club in Allston, Great Scott, but our lateness made that impossible. I was also hoping to eat dinner with my beautiful wife, but she and her friends had other plans. While we were loading in to Great Scott about 18 fire trucks deafened us forever with their damnable sirens. An apartment building a block or two down from the club was in flames, apparently. Our stomachs were enflamed later on, after we ate at the middling-to-good barbecue joint Soulfire on Harvard Ave. This place is pretty good at times, but it definitely did a few numbers on my digestive track this night. Allyn, Andrea, Stephanie, and Hannah showed up at the end of our meal, and I hung out with the wife for a bit after the dudes returned to the club and her friends got a snack at McDonald’s. I love this wife. We got back to Great Scott right around the time BEARD started; they were even better than their good MySpace songs led me to believe. Frontman was very US Maple-esque. More friends showed up, including Mike, Diane, Darren, his new lady, John Straube from WZBC, etc. Thanks, everybody. The France played a solid if unspectacular set, semi-pro and mistake-free if skimping a bit on the passion. I think perhaps we weren’t quite drunk enough. Still, not a bad show, I don’t think, and definitely not a bad night. Reports made sure of that, as they put on a reliably awesome show full of songs from their great Mosquito Nets album. Boston wasn’t the biggest crowd, but I do believe we sold the most merchandise there, or at least second-most to Atlanta. Also met Bob from the Modern Voice, a local band with a really good heavy-psych cd-r I’ve been playing some on WZBC. Good talking to that guy. But so the Great Scott show was pretty rad, if just a touch more mellow than the shows before and after.
After this nonsense we got back to our place, and, after a couple minutes of uncharacteristic snarling, Oscar proceeded to lick the everlovin’ shit out of every one of us. Seriously, that dog can lick.
More later on this week!
gracious what a week: dark's tour remarks part one
Pre-Tour, Practice, Atlanta, Wilmington.
Je Suis France finally became a true band last week, ten years into our existence. Okay we've been truly bandish for most of that decade, but with no tour ever lasting more than four days we've always missed out on a vital aspect of bandmanship. Last week's tour helped correct that.Seven eight shows, seven eight days, six seven towns, ten dudes, one van = everlasting infinite majik. Here's what happened.
Week before tour fucking blew. Had to practice, had to clean, had to work late to make up for missing hours on Friday, had to take care of the dog on Thursday and Friday as the wife left for a sales meeting on Thursday, etc. I was hoping to sleep a lot this week in order to preemptively make up for the massive lack of sleep I would most definitely fall prey to on tour. Didn't happen. Got six hours maybe one night all that week. Already operating on a deficit. Shit.
Friday the 13th I went to work for an hour and a half. I'd worked 'til six the four days beforehand to make sure I could get away from work, run Oscar by the kennel, and still make the flight that I thought departed at 2:30. Computer mishaps screwed my workday and kept me logged out of the system 'til 9:45. By that point I had enough time to fill out my time card for that pay period and then log out. Total timewaste, I should've just stayed home and slept in.
So I rush home, grab Oskie, walk 'im, rub his belly, let him lick the bejeez out of me, etc. Ran his little behind down to the kennel out in Watertown. He flipped out, unhappiness incarnate. Sorry little guy, gotta go. Mom'll get you in a couple of days. It hurt, deeply. I don't want to make my dog sad. But things've gotta happen.
I get home, think I'm ahead of schedule, decide I can kick back for twenty minutes or so before calling a taxi. I go to check in for the flight on my computer and notice that departure time is actually 1:50, forty minutes earlier than I thought. It's 12:30 right now. Oh shit. I call a cab, grab my stuff, don't even have time to turn off the computer and unplug all the appliances and stuff. Allyn'll be back tomorrow, no big deal. Cab gets there, takes the city roads to avoid traffic, and promptly gets waylaid by a damn bridge raising at the canal near the Science Museum. Cabbie's no dumbass though, he flips around illegally and hops on the highway. I make it to Logan at like ten after one, charge through baggage check and security, and get to the gate right when they call my zone. I have absolutely no time to grab a lunch.
Flight's uneventful 'til the landing, when the elderly lady next to me barfs her bloody Mary up into a plastic bag.
I grab my shit from the belt, walk outside into the hot Georgia air, and see OJ, Brah, and Crog hopping around like retards out by the median. Awesome dudes, fantastic to see, yeah. We hop in DJ's car and make way to WRAS for an interview. The girl dj is nice, seems to like us, but that station's got some mixed-up rules when it comes to interviews. We had to sign some paperwork, do it taped instead of live, and Brah wasn't allowed into the studio. No idea what the interview sounded like, as it aired the following Thursday, probably as we were on our way from NYC to DC. Hopefully we didn't suck.
After that we drove over to Ice's, got that dude, hit the Dwarf House on the way to Athens, and then got to Nuci's sometime before ten. After hitting Oak Street Package, of course.
So I see Jeff and Jon for the first time in forever, we commiserate, share a frosty brew, and commence to the practicing. It is soul-stirring. "Whalebone" sounds awesome almost immediately. "Wizard of Points" is a drag, though, and unfortunately never gets learned. Suck.
After practice we retire to various locales for sleep and/or further dude time. I crash at the Dude Hospice, a jaunty little hovel somewhere in the heart of Athens. About four hours later we awake to go shoot the video down in Marietta. We grab some biscuits, pick up SA at a MARTA station on the way, and reach the Bergeron estate around ten am, or so. Jais Berg and Ian Cone take us out to a giant clay pit where we spend a few hours shooting the video for "That Don't Work That Well For Us". Jason's mind is a beautiful one, and the video shall most assuredly rank among the highest and most fully-realized expressions of that profligate artform. I get a taco thrown at my face multiple times. It's grand.
After a low-key, half-assed practice in the Bergerons' basement, along with some of Jack's cold Miller Lites and a few rounds of basketball, the caravan returns to Atlanta and then splits for a bit. Most of them head over to Covington for Adrian and Mandy's baby shower, while me, Crog, and Crews take it easy back at Ice's. We take a nap, watch some guy survive in the Everglades, and then walk up to Zesto for a couple of Chub burgers, or whatever. Around seven we reconvene and head over to the Drunken Unicorn for the first show of the trip. Excitement abounds. I'd never been to the DU before. It's a great club, and I hope we can play it more in the future.
Brass Castle starts off the night with some excellent hard-riffin' punches to the gut; these fellas are not just primordial rockers of the greatest order but also gentlemen and true adepts. Thanks, guys! We follow them up with some sloppy, bass-amp-blowing drunkenness that seems to go over well enough with the crowd, many of whom were wearing their workout gear in anticipation of Rump Posse's headlining set. Their grunge feint plus guitar lasers highlight an awesome piece of earnest ridiculousness. Before and after I get to see like 800 people I never ever see anymore, which was beyond rad, and completely made the night. I think at one point Chris Thorn and I were yelling at each other about Identity Crisis, which to be honest I've never even read. Also my brother made it out, which is always a great thing. Thanks, bro! Anyhow, by any measure this was a fantastic start to the imminent proceedings.
Next morning we finally load up the van for real and, after picking up final tourmate Robbie Beers, head off to Wilmington, North Carolina, one of the most beautiful towns in America. I've been going to Wilmington and the outlying Kure Beach since before I was born; we've had a house out in Kury since the late '60's. Wilmington is one of the four or five places in America I actively want to live in. As I mentioned above we blew the bass amp we were renting from Chris Bishop on the very first night. On the drive up to NC we passed the van for Canada, the kids from Michigan we were playing with. We figured we'd ask if we could borrow their bass amp and wrote up a quick note to press against our window. I have no idea if they noticed it or not. We get to Wilmington, find out the club we're playing, Bella Festa, is closed for insurance purposes, and load instead in to the venue next door, the restaurant Tango du Chat. We had no idea until hours later that this was the very last night for Tango du Chat. We also begin to realize that, although the name and business has changed, Tango du Chat is the exact same location we played at back in '98, when it was some form of sandwich shop. But so we set our stuff up and then go for a walk around the city. Unfortunately none of the river cruises were operating on a Sunday night, and all the seafood restaurants down by the river were too expensive. Still, absolutely beautiful area, so much so that I tried to talk the other dudes into cancelling the tour and just hanging out in Wilmington for a week. We grabbed some food from a great japanese / gyro / sandwich shop called Nikki's and return to Tango du Chat. We assumed nobody would be there, as the bill was two touring bands with no locals, and it was in a weird non-venue whose layout was far more fitting for a restaurant than a rock club. The audience was never huge, but the turn-out was surprising, probably about 25 or 30 folks at its largest. We met a few locals, including a guy named Randy who used to tend bar and appear as an extra in locally shot films and tv shows; a marine who lived out on Kure Beach and who hosts a local indie-rock podcast; and a director who lived in Brooklyn who was in Wilmington to visit his parents. Maybe his name was Gary? Either way, some fine and/or entertaining guys. Canada was also a fine group of kids who put on a good show of plaintive folk-rock-esque-ness with strings and such. All around just a surprisingly fun and successful show. Good times, high spirits, etc. Unfortunately that wouldn't last.
We had a long drive at this point, eleven hours from Wilmington to Brooklyn. We decided to cut into that and forego the sleeping problem in Wilmington by driving a couple hours that night up to Crews' house in Durham. Solid plan, horrible execution.
In the confusion of the night before, between the drinks and conversation and large number of dudes moving equipment around, one of our amps and two pedals failed to make their way back into the van. We didn't notice it until Monday morning. We already had a forbidding drive ahead, to double-back would make the entire Brooklyn show questionable. Thank God the club had the equipment, and thank God even more that Nicole, the amazingly amazing lady who booked our show, was willing to grab our stuff and meet us halfway between Wilmington and Durham. She went far above and beyond the call of duty and single-handedly made it possible for us to make our Brooklyn show. Best booker EVER.
So long-ass drive, for real, but actually not nearly as bad as we had expected. In fact the van itself, with ten dudes inside, was still comfortable, and not at all a pain in the ass. A true shock.
More in a bit.
Pre-Tour, Practice, Atlanta, Wilmington.
Je Suis France finally became a true band last week, ten years into our existence. Okay we've been truly bandish for most of that decade, but with no tour ever lasting more than four days we've always missed out on a vital aspect of bandmanship. Last week's tour helped correct that.
Week before tour fucking blew. Had to practice, had to clean, had to work late to make up for missing hours on Friday, had to take care of the dog on Thursday and Friday as the wife left for a sales meeting on Thursday, etc. I was hoping to sleep a lot this week in order to preemptively make up for the massive lack of sleep I would most definitely fall prey to on tour. Didn't happen. Got six hours maybe one night all that week. Already operating on a deficit. Shit.
Friday the 13th I went to work for an hour and a half. I'd worked 'til six the four days beforehand to make sure I could get away from work, run Oscar by the kennel, and still make the flight that I thought departed at 2:30. Computer mishaps screwed my workday and kept me logged out of the system 'til 9:45. By that point I had enough time to fill out my time card for that pay period and then log out. Total timewaste, I should've just stayed home and slept in.
So I rush home, grab Oskie, walk 'im, rub his belly, let him lick the bejeez out of me, etc. Ran his little behind down to the kennel out in Watertown. He flipped out, unhappiness incarnate. Sorry little guy, gotta go. Mom'll get you in a couple of days. It hurt, deeply. I don't want to make my dog sad. But things've gotta happen.
I get home, think I'm ahead of schedule, decide I can kick back for twenty minutes or so before calling a taxi. I go to check in for the flight on my computer and notice that departure time is actually 1:50, forty minutes earlier than I thought. It's 12:30 right now. Oh shit. I call a cab, grab my stuff, don't even have time to turn off the computer and unplug all the appliances and stuff. Allyn'll be back tomorrow, no big deal. Cab gets there, takes the city roads to avoid traffic, and promptly gets waylaid by a damn bridge raising at the canal near the Science Museum. Cabbie's no dumbass though, he flips around illegally and hops on the highway. I make it to Logan at like ten after one, charge through baggage check and security, and get to the gate right when they call my zone. I have absolutely no time to grab a lunch.
Flight's uneventful 'til the landing, when the elderly lady next to me barfs her bloody Mary up into a plastic bag.
I grab my shit from the belt, walk outside into the hot Georgia air, and see OJ, Brah, and Crog hopping around like retards out by the median. Awesome dudes, fantastic to see, yeah. We hop in DJ's car and make way to WRAS for an interview. The girl dj is nice, seems to like us, but that station's got some mixed-up rules when it comes to interviews. We had to sign some paperwork, do it taped instead of live, and Brah wasn't allowed into the studio. No idea what the interview sounded like, as it aired the following Thursday, probably as we were on our way from NYC to DC. Hopefully we didn't suck.
After that we drove over to Ice's, got that dude, hit the Dwarf House on the way to Athens, and then got to Nuci's sometime before ten. After hitting Oak Street Package, of course.
So I see Jeff and Jon for the first time in forever, we commiserate, share a frosty brew, and commence to the practicing. It is soul-stirring. "Whalebone" sounds awesome almost immediately. "Wizard of Points" is a drag, though, and unfortunately never gets learned. Suck.
After practice we retire to various locales for sleep and/or further dude time. I crash at the Dude Hospice, a jaunty little hovel somewhere in the heart of Athens. About four hours later we awake to go shoot the video down in Marietta. We grab some biscuits, pick up SA at a MARTA station on the way, and reach the Bergeron estate around ten am, or so. Jais Berg and Ian Cone take us out to a giant clay pit where we spend a few hours shooting the video for "That Don't Work That Well For Us". Jason's mind is a beautiful one, and the video shall most assuredly rank among the highest and most fully-realized expressions of that profligate artform. I get a taco thrown at my face multiple times. It's grand.
After a low-key, half-assed practice in the Bergerons' basement, along with some of Jack's cold Miller Lites and a few rounds of basketball, the caravan returns to Atlanta and then splits for a bit. Most of them head over to Covington for Adrian and Mandy's baby shower, while me, Crog, and Crews take it easy back at Ice's. We take a nap, watch some guy survive in the Everglades, and then walk up to Zesto for a couple of Chub burgers, or whatever. Around seven we reconvene and head over to the Drunken Unicorn for the first show of the trip. Excitement abounds. I'd never been to the DU before. It's a great club, and I hope we can play it more in the future.
Brass Castle starts off the night with some excellent hard-riffin' punches to the gut; these fellas are not just primordial rockers of the greatest order but also gentlemen and true adepts. Thanks, guys! We follow them up with some sloppy, bass-amp-blowing drunkenness that seems to go over well enough with the crowd, many of whom were wearing their workout gear in anticipation of Rump Posse's headlining set. Their grunge feint plus guitar lasers highlight an awesome piece of earnest ridiculousness. Before and after I get to see like 800 people I never ever see anymore, which was beyond rad, and completely made the night. I think at one point Chris Thorn and I were yelling at each other about Identity Crisis, which to be honest I've never even read. Also my brother made it out, which is always a great thing. Thanks, bro! Anyhow, by any measure this was a fantastic start to the imminent proceedings.
Next morning we finally load up the van for real and, after picking up final tourmate Robbie Beers, head off to Wilmington, North Carolina, one of the most beautiful towns in America. I've been going to Wilmington and the outlying Kure Beach since before I was born; we've had a house out in Kury since the late '60's. Wilmington is one of the four or five places in America I actively want to live in. As I mentioned above we blew the bass amp we were renting from Chris Bishop on the very first night. On the drive up to NC we passed the van for Canada, the kids from Michigan we were playing with. We figured we'd ask if we could borrow their bass amp and wrote up a quick note to press against our window. I have no idea if they noticed it or not. We get to Wilmington, find out the club we're playing, Bella Festa, is closed for insurance purposes, and load instead in to the venue next door, the restaurant Tango du Chat. We had no idea until hours later that this was the very last night for Tango du Chat. We also begin to realize that, although the name and business has changed, Tango du Chat is the exact same location we played at back in '98, when it was some form of sandwich shop. But so we set our stuff up and then go for a walk around the city. Unfortunately none of the river cruises were operating on a Sunday night, and all the seafood restaurants down by the river were too expensive. Still, absolutely beautiful area, so much so that I tried to talk the other dudes into cancelling the tour and just hanging out in Wilmington for a week. We grabbed some food from a great japanese / gyro / sandwich shop called Nikki's and return to Tango du Chat. We assumed nobody would be there, as the bill was two touring bands with no locals, and it was in a weird non-venue whose layout was far more fitting for a restaurant than a rock club. The audience was never huge, but the turn-out was surprising, probably about 25 or 30 folks at its largest. We met a few locals, including a guy named Randy who used to tend bar and appear as an extra in locally shot films and tv shows; a marine who lived out on Kure Beach and who hosts a local indie-rock podcast; and a director who lived in Brooklyn who was in Wilmington to visit his parents. Maybe his name was Gary? Either way, some fine and/or entertaining guys. Canada was also a fine group of kids who put on a good show of plaintive folk-rock-esque-ness with strings and such. All around just a surprisingly fun and successful show. Good times, high spirits, etc. Unfortunately that wouldn't last.
We had a long drive at this point, eleven hours from Wilmington to Brooklyn. We decided to cut into that and forego the sleeping problem in Wilmington by driving a couple hours that night up to Crews' house in Durham. Solid plan, horrible execution.
In the confusion of the night before, between the drinks and conversation and large number of dudes moving equipment around, one of our amps and two pedals failed to make their way back into the van. We didn't notice it until Monday morning. We already had a forbidding drive ahead, to double-back would make the entire Brooklyn show questionable. Thank God the club had the equipment, and thank God even more that Nicole, the amazingly amazing lady who booked our show, was willing to grab our stuff and meet us halfway between Wilmington and Durham. She went far above and beyond the call of duty and single-handedly made it possible for us to make our Brooklyn show. Best booker EVER.
So long-ass drive, for real, but actually not nearly as bad as we had expected. In fact the van itself, with ten dudes inside, was still comfortable, and not at all a pain in the ass. A true shock.
More in a bit.
youtube: France in Brooklyn
Here's us playing "That Don't That Well For Us" at Union Hall in Brooklyn last Monday. We sound kind of off in spots. I really hope some videos of the Cake Shop show start surfacing soon.
Here's us playing "That Don't That Well For Us" at Union Hall in Brooklyn last Monday. We sound kind of off in spots. I really hope some videos of the Cake Shop show start surfacing soon.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
RIP Mr. Butch
I once semi-facetiously called Mr. Butch the "moral compass and backbone" of Allston, and said he was the Big Bird of that kinda dingy and relatively racially diverse area of Boston. He was generally a disarmingly nice and gentle bum, always polite in his requests for change and always willing to talk about whatever. Not that I ever really talked to him for any great length, but the few minutes of conversation I shared with him were far longer than any I've ever spent talking to any other homeless person. But so I'm as guilty as anybody of dehumanizing him, of seeing him as less of a person than as a weird outsized character that helped define Allston's amiable unseemliness. I don't know how bad I should feel about that, as Butch obviously liked the attention, and was implicit in his own dehumanization. And hell, he seemed to truly enjoy his life, anyway, so who am I to second-guess him. Still, it's sad that a guy who obviously had some severe problems was viewed primarily as entertainment by the college kids and hipsters that make up a good chunk of Allston's population.
Anyway, a few weeks ago he acquired a scooter, which pretty much everybody recognized as a horrible idea. This morning he was in an accident and died. Rest in peace, man. I hope Marty's keeps the "Mr. Butch's favorite" placard on the row with the High Life tallboys.
You can find mp3s and video clips of Mr. Butch here.
I once semi-facetiously called Mr. Butch the "moral compass and backbone" of Allston, and said he was the Big Bird of that kinda dingy and relatively racially diverse area of Boston. He was generally a disarmingly nice and gentle bum, always polite in his requests for change and always willing to talk about whatever. Not that I ever really talked to him for any great length, but the few minutes of conversation I shared with him were far longer than any I've ever spent talking to any other homeless person. But so I'm as guilty as anybody of dehumanizing him, of seeing him as less of a person than as a weird outsized character that helped define Allston's amiable unseemliness. I don't know how bad I should feel about that, as Butch obviously liked the attention, and was implicit in his own dehumanization. And hell, he seemed to truly enjoy his life, anyway, so who am I to second-guess him. Still, it's sad that a guy who obviously had some severe problems was viewed primarily as entertainment by the college kids and hipsters that make up a good chunk of Allston's population.
Anyway, a few weeks ago he acquired a scooter, which pretty much everybody recognized as a horrible idea. This morning he was in an accident and died. Rest in peace, man. I hope Marty's keeps the "Mr. Butch's favorite" placard on the row with the High Life tallboys.
You can find mp3s and video clips of Mr. Butch here.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Things That Confound Me
1. How could anybody like Dinosaur Jr's Bug more than You're Living All Over Me? I can understand Guitar Center dudes preferring the major label Dino stuff to the earlier, noisier records, but I can't fathom how anybody would pick Bug over YLAOM.
2. How the hell is mistaking somebody's last name racist?
3. Why does anybody give a shit about the Home Run Derby? It's so amazingly boring.
4. What the hell is up with John Turturro's ears in The Bronx is Burning? Was Billy Martin really the illegitimate son of Dumbo?
5. When does the awesome good time end, and the priapism begin?
1. How could anybody like Dinosaur Jr's Bug more than You're Living All Over Me? I can understand Guitar Center dudes preferring the major label Dino stuff to the earlier, noisier records, but I can't fathom how anybody would pick Bug over YLAOM.
2. How the hell is mistaking somebody's last name racist?
3. Why does anybody give a shit about the Home Run Derby? It's so amazingly boring.
4. What the hell is up with John Turturro's ears in The Bronx is Burning? Was Billy Martin really the illegitimate son of Dumbo?
5. When does the awesome good time end, and the priapism begin?
Monday, July 09, 2007
some stuff to read elsewhere
So I'm writing this comics column over at the new Kindercore site. Maybe you'd like to read it, who knows. If you want to read me ranting about how lackluster the new Thor is for three-hundred or so words, you now know where to go.
So I'm writing this comics column over at the new Kindercore site. Maybe you'd like to read it, who knows. If you want to read me ranting about how lackluster the new Thor is for three-hundred or so words, you now know where to go.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
