TOUR DIARY, INSTALLMENT ONE!!!
Hello. I'm back. And it's been a couple days of decompression with the loveliest of friends. Between the studio session, and both the planning and execution of this tour, I haven't been really the best of friends lately. My true-blue buddies understand this. And my true-blue buddies will see me in the very near future.
Anyhow, as I promised, here is my Tour Diary! No, I didn't write this as it was happening as I was too fucking busy to do so. That, combined with the knowledge that I usually speak what's on my mind with zero consequence in mind, I came to the conclusion that I'd rather give all of this a couple days before I went into juicy details...
And speaking of juicy details, STOP FUCKING READING THIS RIGHT FUCKING NOW IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ VERY VULGAR DESCRIPTIONS OF THE EVENTS WHICH TOOK PLACE DURING THE WRECKTALS' FIRST TOUR! Seriously. I will protect the names of the innocent, and I will mention fluids that are secreted from genitals. This is a no-holds-barred review of the best week of my fucking life. All the little details are necessary, motherfuckers! So quit reading now if you're a close relative of mine, or faint-of-heart, because you're not gonna wanna hear it...
Keep reading if you're fucking rad. Or if you want to learn from my mistakes.
(Also, it if seems like I'm being a little too over-explanatory or analytical about some menial things, that's because this piece is also going to be published in a place where people don't know who the fuck I am and what I do, and it's written for them to learn from my mistakes. So deal with it.)
Here we go:
Being in a very open-minded, intelligent punk band has its benefits. It also has its downfalls. One of these downfalls, is that no matter how intellectual, professional and diligent one may be, the association with the word "punk" has some negative connotations paired with it. Especially when it comes to booking shows. When the promoter asks "What kind of music do you play?" The two reactions you get the most (despite what they actually say to your face) are A) "Aah fuck... A punk band? They're going to shit on stage and smack around three chords all night and wreck stuff... Been there, done that. Fuck 'em. Nobody will show. And if they DO show, they'll be reckless hooligans! No way! Not in MY bar!" or B) "Cool! Punk rockers are accustomed to failure, so I can fuck these guys around with complete disregard for consequences!" So as a punk band, you'll have a shit time trying to book shows, and when you do, it's easy to assume the worst. Murphy's Law, bitches.
LESSON LEARNED: Learn to present yourself in the best, most professional way possible. Let your contact know that no matter how fucked up your lyrics or tattoos or character on stage may be, you're in this for the same reasons they are. Do unto others. And let them know that you know this.
This tour was our first tour. This tour was meant to be a two-week'er. I started booking this tour in September of 2008. The tour kickoff was for March 13th, 2009. I won't get into specifics, but out of the dozen shows we had confirmed, all but two fucked us over within mere weeks of kickoff. All because of a lack of professionalism with a lot of "promoters" and bar owners. I guess it's punk as fuck to stomp on peoples' dreams and obliterate their ambitions. Haha! Shows were dropped, venues were shut down, promoters suddenly felt "uneasy" letting a band who doesn't spread the assimilating words of Christ around in to play a show... Luckily, I'm unemployed, and I scrambled my ass as best I could to fill in a whole week. I worked my ass off. And I succeeded. The tour was still happening.
LESSON LEARNED: Hard work pays off. How badly do you want to succeed? I find a good measurement system for this is to get yourself a measuring cup. Pour all your blood, sweat and tears into this cup. For every ounce of brown-ish, red-ish fluid in that fucker, people will appreciate you for another month.
Fuck the kickoff shows that were supposed to happen. The promoter who royally fucked us for those dates won't ever work in this town again. Everyone knows what a fucking hack he is now. I won't go into details of what "could have been", but I will say that if someone in this industry isn't honest and professional enough to let you know the factual situation, their intentions are not good. Do not associate with this scum.
LESSON LEARNED: Try to discover the intentioned and reputation of a promoter or bar owner before you start doing business with them. Put your ear to the ground and ask around if you can. It was only after the fact did I hear "Oh, he blocked your number? ...Yeah... He tends to do that sometimes." If only I asked beforehand...
So instead of two, huge, kick-ass tour kick off shows on a Friday and Saturday- one at a punk house, and one at an all-ages/bar-with-ID venue that has since been shut down - we scrounged up what we can get: The Cobalt (an extremely hardcore punk bar, with an extremely loyal audience) on Monday. We had mere weeks to promo the fuck out of this so we can afford gas to get to the next venue. That's what the internet is for. I used The Ridge Radicals (a group I created to promote other local, unsigned, un-backed, hardworking, deserving artists) to boast the show like mad, and I was personally contacting all of my friends, and calling in all of my favours and debts to get everyone out to a bar that was an hour out of town, and on a Monday.
And it was fucking phenomenal! The kickoff show was fucking insane! The two bands going on tour together, The Wrecktals and North Or Die, were joined by ATF, and every band was so well received. That was the best local Monday show I've ever been to, and I'm fucking honoured that it was one I was playing. To everyone who came out, THANK YOU! Even my fucking parents came out (and my mom endured her first over-excited-fan-groping)! I fucking love each of you! You guys are not just fans... And although most of you know this, you are friends. We are seriously grateful to have each and every one of you! You guys are relentlessly supportive, and we couldn't have asked for anything more. Everything we do, we do for you. Thanks.
LESSON LEARNED: Hard work pays off. Now... how long before our hard work pays off enough that people call us sell-outs? Haha!
As soon as North Or Die went up on stage, I pulled out my bass to change the strings, stretch 'em out, and slap them around so I'm ready to kick major fucking ass on stage. I found a quiet, secluded spot at the back of the bar, and started the process. By the time I got to my second new string, there were about a dozen people around me, being the super supportive, super friendly people they are. I needed to work, but I wouldn't bitch them out for being friends. They didn't know they were being distractions, and I focused my attention on the task at hand. Now, a overly helpful friend came over and noticed one of the saddles on my bridge was a little low (mind you, this is how I like it). I was fastening the string to the peg and making sure it was in the nut properly, so I didn't see what exactly happened... And the friend swears they didn't touch a damn thing... And I sure as hell won't start pointing fingers, but by the time I fastened the string, the whole fucker was resting on both my pickups and the neck. Something was fucked. I didn't have an Allen-key. I was on stage in fifteen minutes. Slight panic. Even if my friend did fuck up my saddle, they meant well, so I wasn't about to bitch them out. I found another quiet spot in the bar, did the best I can with my fingers alone (Hooray for injured fingers on stage!), and put the fuckers back into place.
LESSON LEARNED: No matter how helpful or eager, don't let friends touch your shit. And that way if something is still fucked up, you won't be fighting the urge to punch them in the mom. Your shit is your shit. Your sound is your sound. Only you know how fucking peculiar you like your shit, so only you are qualified to fuck with it... Unless you have a trained crew man by your side.
The last couple shows The Wrecktals played, I've been a little drunk. At the Cobalt show, I tried my damnedest to stay sober. But it was a big night for us, and everyone was buying us drinks. We didn't turn any down, and I went on stage with a bit of a buzz. By the time I reached the slap-pop riff in Holy Shit Part One (the kickass, non-stop inclination of a song we open with most these days), I realized I was fucked. I bit the bullet, concentrated as best I could, and missed almost half my notes. Luckily the sound system on a Monday night a bit shitty, so not too many people noticed the fuck ups in the mix.
LESSON LEARNED: Learn your limit and play within it. I'm good with a two drink maximum before we hit the stage, and maybe some drinks during our set... Hmmm... I sound like Fat Mike from NOFX... Haha! Also, if people want to buy you drinks, request they do so AFTER you're done using your motor skills, hand-eye-ear co-ordination, and concentration to impress them.
We pulled our shit together, like we always do, and played a killer set. At the end of the night, we sold shitloads of merch, got our pay, and the promoter said she fucking loved us and can't wait for us to do it again. I apologized about fucking up, and she said nobody noticed.
LESSON LEARNED: Don't apologize for a fucking thing. Nobody noticed until you called attention to it. For all they know, that note you missed and that bar you started late was a super intricate, free-jazz-odyssey time-signature. You're not playing to a crowd full of just musicians. In short: Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again.
Score!
Now it was time to test out our new road crew. Tyler, the handsome, fucker with the mohawk that looks a little-too-much-like-mine, was kind enough to loan us his van, and drive when he was sober, and work the merch booth half the time. I've known Tyler for years. Tyler likes to drink. So the other half of the time for both driving and merch booth duties, went to an even handsome-r Grimm. Grimm's been around the dance floor a couple times, and has done this before. I've seen Grimm interviewing people on the internet before and he looked like a pretty rad, knowledgeable and friendly dude. I was super surprised when Grimm offered to assist us on this tour, knowing full well that the majority of it will be a struggle, and I'll probably be dipping into my own pockets in order just to get by (meaning the high probability of no pay for anyone). But after a dinner date with all parties, the road crew seemed to be flawless. Also, for this dinner date (about a week before the tour), I prepared a spreadsheet with all the pertinent details of the trip on it. I made copies for everyone. For each night, it looked a little something like this:
Tuesday, 17 Mar 2009 - The Grateful Fed w/ North Or Die
Other Bands/Events/DJ's: None
Ticket Price: $5.00
Load-in Time: 7:30pm
Sound Check: 7:30pm
Show Time: 8:00 according to MySpace
Form/Type Payment: 100% of the door
Phone: 250-860-4633
Bar/Secondary phone number in case of emergency: 250-862-8621
Exact Address: The Grateful Fed; 509 Bernard (Corner of Bernard and Ellis)
Accommodation: N/A... Manager said he'd try to find something for us though.
Guest List: Tyler, Grimm, Brita, Sian, Kelly
Additional: Contact is Chris from Goats From Above Productions (goatsfromabove@gmail.com), This place serves food. Eat there.
It was good that everyone was up to par with the information. This way, if anything fucks up, someone gets lost, I'm not available at that very second, or if curiosity is at an all-time high, everything anyone needs to know, is right there.
LESSON LEARNED: Make sure everyone has the fucking sheet. Make sure you have the fucking sheet. Make a sheet for fucking everyone. You will see why later, but for now, sometimes the only person in the venue is the merch person, because everyone's out eating or running from cops. So it's important that every member of your crew knows as much as everyone else, just in case they're the immediate contact person for whatever situation.
It was also the first night for our hometown merch girl, Elizabeth. She did a good job flaunting her squishy bits with some customized Wrecktals merch, and sold a good deal of swag, and packed up our shit for us. We made a big sign board that evening, which made it really easy for people to see the prices from far away. This was a bonus for the people who just want to come up, point at something, pay, and the fuck off, because they either didn't know us, are unsociable pricks, were shy, were intimidated by our big mohawks, or were intimidated by Elizabeth's good looks.
LESSON LEARNED: Make a big sign board. Make the prices easy to read from over 15 feet away. Some people dread being talked to by people who want to sell them shit. I know people who refuse to enter some stores in the mall for the exact reason, no matter how much they really need the product that only that store can provide them with. For these people you have to have the option of "that one, here's the money, goodbye". This helps prevent anxiety attacks. Oh yeah, and the fucking obvious part which is people don't want to have to wait in line, and then ask how much, only to find out they don't like it anymore or don't have enough. That too.
The van was packed, and a kind, drunk gutterpunk was serenading us with Choking Victim, Leftover Crack and Dead Kennedys songs as we loaded the van. Not really thinking about it, a couple of this joined it. Little did we know, each and every time you use your vocal chords whilst touring, that's another word you're going to regret you spoke. Especially if you're in a band with very aggressive vocal stylings. A lesson will be learned the hard way. You will read about that later. And although we didn't fuck up, and nothing got stolen, I'm gonna chuck one of these right here...
LESSON LEARNED: When loading and unloading the van, make sure that members of the crew and band take turns standing watch, getting ready to haul in, or haul out the next piece of equipment until they someone joins them at the van. Then they can leave knowing that whoever just showed up is watching the van until they are accompanied by another member to relieve them of watch, so they can go get more equipment, and so on, and so forth...
Braden went home to have sex with his lovely Polya. Andrew went home to have sex with his lovely Jess. I went home. But that's not all! I went home to almost get grounded by my fucking mom for tuning on stage! Haha! That's right! I'm twenty-two, still living in my parents' basement, and I come home at 3am after a show to a "Get you fucking ass up here right now, mister... Have a seat... I got a bone to pick with you." And then we got into an argument over when an opportune time to tune up is. My strings were new. Better safe than sorry. I stretched 'em and worked 'em as best I could, but I just replaced them half an hour before I was on stage, so I had to tune. Oh yeah, and then there's that song we do in drop-D. There was no convincing her though. My mom's a punk from another time. Tuning on stage to her is sacrilegious. I haven't been grounded in a fucking decade, and I felt it coming for tuning on fucking stage. Haha!
LESSON LEARNED: Never upset your mother. And never argue with your mother. Tune, but keep it mondo-minimal. Mom's always right.
I enjoyed the last time I was guaranteed a shower for one full week. I slept exceptionally fucking well. Got all my poop in a group, kissed my mom goodbye and hit the road with all the faces I saw mere hours prior. Along the way, as I was polishing off Martin Atkins' book, "Tour:Smart", we talked about what we could do to make our show better. This is something we've always done. This is something we'll always do. This isn't even for the fans. We do this because we feel if the last time see us, isn't the best you've seen us, we feel like we're not doing our jobs as entertainers. We discussed the pro's and the con's, and the do's and don't's. We especially discuss the holy-fuck-did-you-see-that's.
Someone asked me how long the drive was. This was something I should have put on my spreadsheet. Where did I put that sheet anyhow? Hmmmm... Can I borrow yours?
LESSON LEARNED: Good thing everyone had a sheet. In the chaos of everything, you lost your sheet. Bonehead. Next time, put distances and estimated travel times in the sheet as well.
I saw a lot more frozen lakes than I thought I would, and a lot more snow than I would have enjoyed. But hey, if it ain't the suburbs or the city, I suppose it qualifies as sight-seeing.
After many boring hours on the road, we hit our destination. A funky little place called The Grateful Fed. Sweet! A play on words! My band does that every chance they get! The place served burgers that were all named after (mostly) deceased musicians. This place picked up our show with mere weeks notice, so we were super grateful. It was Saint Patrick's Day... It was Spring Break... We noticed beautiful, bright green posters all over the city promoting this show. It was going to be fucking awesome!
We loaded our shit in, and I met the people who worked there. I thought I might have offended the promoter with my T-Shirt. "There are two people fucking on the back of this shirt..." I got a "Hey, can I see the two people fucking?" And on my back was a giant picture of Jesus laughing under the words "Just kidding! Believe in Jesus!" There was an awkward silence and a bit of a stare. The promoter went off to smoke a joint, and the venue agreed to feed us for free. I ordered the Bob Marley. I thought this was a good idea, as I love Bob Marley and I love jerk chicken. I now know that the reason this is called the Bob Marley, because the feeling this burger gives you, hours after eating it, is similar to the feelings our beloved Bob Marley felt before he passed away.
Some casual internet acquaintances of mine showed up. A couple promoters I begged for help a couple weeks prior showed up. A girl I know from our hometown and has since moved to a nearby-buttfuck-nowhere showed up. Now if only I had that fucking sheet, I would have avoided the awkward situation of forgetting to guestlist several of these people. Fuck. I feel like such a douche. And I apologize sincerely to the lot of you, who I forgot to guestlist. Being the tour manager for these bands, and the full-time manager for this band, and a vocalist/bassist for this band... You forget a lot of shit. I owe you all.
LESSON LEARNED: Make sure you make several of those fucking sheets, so when you lose the one that was loaned to you by your helpful drummer, you have one to refer to. When you DO have a sheet, refer to it once a fucking hour. It sounds like a lot, but in the shitfest that is touring, you will be thankful you did. The little things that you thought you'd never forget, are suddenly missing from your brain once you realize you're on stage in fifteen minutes...
The promoter hit us up with the proposal of an acoustic set before we play a huge set "because people are still eating, and we don't want to clear the tables from the floor just yet, and we don't want to kick their ass with a full band just yet..." Now there are things to take into consideration here. Are you going to reap any benefits for this? Or is the promoter just trying to entertain the five guests-who-are-still-eating instead of the fifty that showed up and are waiting for you to play? How's your voice? Did you bring an acoustic? What songs can you translate to acoustic? How many covers do you know? Oh man... We weren't ready for this. But we love to perform. So we did it anyhow.
My apologies to Andrew. When touring, you want to pack as light as possible, and there was no time for pleasantries, so I gave him shit when he said he wanted to bring his acoustic. When in reality, I should have brought mine. That little room we did have could have been utilized by an acoustic bass and an acoustic guitar. This would have made sense, but there was no way to know this until after the fact. Busking didn't seem like it was going to happen, what with all the preparations and travel each day required, and there was no mention of acoustic sets before the tour launched. How was I to know? I guess that's touring though. The unexpected happens, and it's best to be prepared for it. My acoustic bass is my fucking life. If I had that stress reliever with me, no matter how cumbersome its presence, I wouldn't have complained.
North Or Die killed an acoustic set. Then we played a couple songs. The mood was strange. The promoter was happy we were doing this, but the rest of the place seemed to not really give a shit, and were waiting for us to go up and really kick the shit out of them. It's a delicate process, weighing the pro's and con's of doing something such as this, especially when you're being handed a guitar. In the end, we shouldn't have done it. You'll see why.
After the acoustic set, I poked around the bar. There were some very kind ladies there. Some drunk guy named Mr. Awesome showed up, someone handed him some random acoustic guitar. Turns out it was Matt Currie's guitar (the frontman of North Or Die). Mr. Awesome did his shit, and stumbled off into the night. Apparently that fucker's on Mr. Plow's label? Hmmm... Same caliber of music. Motherfucker had a song about Bon's Off Broadway! That was enough to sell me! Booyeah!
Brita, Sian, Kelly, and "NayNay" were there. Internet acquaintances! They were... quiet. Lovely, smiley bunch. But goddamnit people... Learn to talk! Haha! Brita's boobs are not as exaggerated in photos as she will have you believe. Brita's eyes are not as exaggerated in photos as she will have you believe. Brita is a fucking pretty lady. Her friends weren't too bad either. They laughed at my stupid jokes! Huzzah! And when she said she was awkward... She was half-right. It was like she was shy, but not bashful. I wish I had more to time to break the ice, but damnit, I'm a performer. And perform is what I will do! I bought a drink or two for the lovely Brita as a thanks-for-coming-out. I can't remember, but one of them better have been green for the occasion at hand.
It was our turn to hit the stage. Still sure if the promoter was offended or not by my shirt... But when we hit the stage he did go up and talk about how Saint Patrick's Day was when the Christians slaughtered all the Pagans. Don't know under what tone. But this made for a perfect introduction to our first song (again, Holy Shit Part One), which features the lyrics:
"It's really plain to see,
And a little bit funny,
It's the root of all evil,
But churches run on money.
Thinking for yourself,
Yeah, that's a fucking fright.
Kill and starve and threaten a hell,
Until they think you're right.
You wanna pray in our school,
But not let us think in your church,
Pray in one hand, shit in the other,
You'll see what fills up first.
Donate all your blood and sweat and tears and love and hurt.
That'll never be enough, to quench that fucking thirst.
Get down off the cross,
Use the wood to build a bridge,
And get the fuck over it.
We're not fallen angels,
We're risen fucking apes.
The only light I see,
Is learning from your mistakes.
You say God created Man,
I say Man returned that favour.
Who the fuck is Jesus?
I am my own savior."
So the place went fucking insane. They loved us. We were very, very well received. Uh oh... What's that feeling?
LESSON LEARNED: Don't order the Bob Marley.
I had to code-brown it, and take a super-emergency shit. My god. My whole fucking lower half was on fire. Not just my asshole when something left it, but it felt like I was pregnant with a baby Ifrit. One of the benefits of playing in a punk band is that if you're in a situation like this, and you announce "Code Brown!" into the microphone and apologize and explain the reason, you very rarely hear people bitch about how unprofessional that was. Not because people are used to shitty performances... But fans seem to be more empathetic, understanding and forgiving in this genre of music.
The place went pretty fucking insane. The most responsive crowd we've ever had. We'd ask them if they wanted to dance, skank or mosh for the next song, and they told us. We were able to compose a very suiting setlist and deviate from the one we had planned, depending on what mood they were in. And it worked beautifully. There were two very beautiful punker chicks in the front row who seemed to have dug us pretty well. Even the awkward friends in the back were bobbing their heads up and down (yeah, I was watching you, fuckers). And dude! The fucking promoter was in the front, throwing down way the fuck harder than anyone! Hahahaha! Do you have any idea how rewarding that feels?! It was fucking awesome!
A complaint I had was with either the soundguy or the sound system. I don't wanna point fingers, but something fucking sucked. I don't know what happened for sure, but it seemed almost as if every time I screamed, I was being turned down. So when a less-screamy, more-singy part happened, I was really, really fucking quiet. Which means I had to overcompensate. In the midst of the shit, and punk kids going through tables, and a bar full of people thrashing and dancing, you don't really stop to take a moment and assess the situation. In retrospect, I should have fucking done something. I over-exerted myself, and my throat, for the remainder of the tour, suffered tremendously.
LESSON LEARNED: Don't do what I did this night, and please keep in mind that although you're supposed to kick some fucking ass like this is the last show you're ever going to play, take longevity, endurance and health into play. Had this been the only show for a weekend or something, I wouldn't have changed a thing. But the shitty sound of the evening, coupled with the acoustic set, and then multiplied by how fucking hard I was rocking out... Equalled days of excrucuating pain and struggle. My voice, and ultimately, my performance suffered for the remainder of this tour, due to one night.
Tyler, fifty-percent of our non-band crew, met up with some friends while we were eating and socializing. He was gone for maybe two hours. When we parted ways, he was healthy, fit and fine. When he came back, he sounded like Beetlejuice. I don't know what the fuck he did in that short period of time, but he had by far the most haggard voice I've ever heard by the end of it. He says he was only having a short conversation with one friend, but it sounded more like her visited a black-market surgeon for a dick extension, and came out with a laryngectomy-gone-wrong. His voice was mutilated. It was awesome.
Tyler really likes Toxic Narcotic. Toxic Narcotic does a song called "Asshole". This song is fucking balls-to-the-wall. We know how to play this song. When we do decide to play it, we call Tyler up to the stage to fuck shit up. Some dude with a moustache kept screaming "play faster" and "play harder". So I dedicated "One Dementianal" to him for not being open minded enough. I also made some jokes about his moustache, and how only pedophiles and gypsies have moustaches. And that how this guy probably likes NASCAR and collects plates of such that have pictures on them depicting other men with moustaches. He laughed, but I'm pretty sure he didn't get it... But he still wanted it faster and harder. So we called Tyler up.
During the thrashy guitar intro, Tyler fucking tackled the whole front end of the crowd and moshed the shit out of them. They didn't see it coming. Neither did we. Tyler jumps out of the shit with perfect timing, and catches the microphone as soon as the lyrics start. The crowd went fucking insane! We beat the royal shit out of our instruments. And needless to say, the guy who wanted it harder and faster shut the fuck up after this.
We finished our set, throats throbbing, and people loved us. We were very well received. We could not have asked for a better show. We were so happy! And the promoter came over, and started rowling up the crowd to beg for "One more song! One more song!" But we played all the good shit that matters! Luckily we had a prototype up our sleeves. We played "D-Emo-Lution Of The Species". We were hoping we'd be able to bust it out with a full horn section, just like on the album, but if the crowd's begging for more than what you gave them, the show must go on. We played it. We even threw a little improvisation in there, faded out the ending until we were almost playing nothing... and then FIRED IT UP! To full blast chainsaw-your-face-off-riff! It was fun! The crowd dug it. We were done!
The promoter was nice, and fucking dug us, but he definitely made us work for our pay. Between the acoustic set, and the long set and the encore, we pumped out over two hours, easy. I fuckin' love that guy, and I look forward to working with him again, but I really gotta ease up on my voice.
LESSON LEARNED: "When". There's a couple things Andrew's taught me and helped me understand in this band, is "knowing when". As a musician, there's a definite "when" to start, "when" to stop, and "when" to extend. I should have know when to stop. My voice was done long before I was due to a large number of circumstances. And although I don't regret a goddamn thing, I should have done something to preserve my voice. So in short "KNOW WHEN!"
We used our last seconds on the microphone to beg for a place to sleep, and our lovely friend from back home said (she asked her mom and it's okay that) we can all sleep at her house! Anikah, you're a fucking Goddess! And I apologize for every time I said I'd dedicate a song to you, and then forgot to. I swear I'm not a dick. I'm not even forgetful. Just in the fray of things, it's hard to remember all the little details. Next time this happens, don't be afraid to remind me of what I promised. I'll dedicate a song to you post-haste! Haha! I promise!
LESSON LEARNED: Let the crucial shit (such as the necessity for a place to sleep) be known through the P.A., the the super friendly and helpful people know your current status and needs. There are fucking awesome people willing to help you at every turn, all you gotta do is ask. And remember your please-and-thank-you's.
As we were packing our shit, Matt Currie discovered his guitar has disappeared into thin air. The last person anyone saw with it was Mr. Awesome. Mr. Awesome was a drunk. No matter what his intentions, he was so gooned, it was a likely probability that he either fucked off with it, or misplaced it so bad, that someone else probably fucked off with it. There was sheer panic. After much freak-out and scatter-searching, it turns out that a very stoned member from North Or Die put it in their van, and forgot about it. Hearts stopped pumping so hard, and all was well.
LESSON LEARNED: Keep a vigilant eye on your shit. Not because everyone's out to screw you, but because the easiest of mistakes are often avoided if you do. That, and feelings are less likely to get hurt. I'd rather someone think I was a prick for not loaning someone my equipment instead of me-thinking-they're-the-prick for stealing it. I'd rather make an asshole out of myself than worry, and inadvertently accuse you of something as malicious as fucking with, stealing or misplacing my equipment.
So we all piled into our vans, and convoyed to the lovely Anikah's house. We parked our vans, and implemented excessive security systems. And although we didn't learn the hard way, I will be doing one of these here...
LESSON LEARNED: Thieves don't assume. Trust me. I am one. Nobody breaks into a car for something they cannot see. There's too many risks. There might be an alarm. You might get caught. And for what? The assumption that there MIGHT be something in there? Not worth it. That being said, do as we did, and make customized cardboard cut-outs for the windows. Make 'em fit just right, and you can simply press them into place. Done properly, this will multiply the safety of your gear thousand-fold, and will take a total of thirty seconds each evening. Better safe than sorry. Nothing beats the security of knowing you're that much less likely to be robbed and ultimately fucked over. You'll sleep better knowing this.
A big, open, clean hardwood floor met us with open arms that night. And we were fortunate enough to have the option of blankets, and showering if we wanted to! What a generous family this was! Bottled water was even handed out! Anikah's lovely mom, Lori, is a sweetheart! Thanks Tour-Mom! It's a shame I ate that fucking chicken burger... Because the amount of pain in my stomach was so unbearable, I couldn't sleep. I got maybe 2 hours of sleep that night.
LESSON LEARNED: Really... Really don't order the Bob Marley.
Luckily Shme (North Or Die's rad-ass bassist) was awake, and shared stories about how Currie's a heavy fucking sleeper. So much so, that one time, he was asleep in his own bed, and a tree came smashing through his house, right into his bedroom, and smashed him in the face... And he didn't even wake up! Or maybe it knocked him out in his sleep? Who knows... But he stayed unconscious. That's what matters. Everyone was snoring. (Lucky fucking bastards. I still had to give birth to a demon. Nothing would come out of me though. I fucking tried!) Everyone, save Cotter - the cute, runted puppy that protects Anikah's family from danger. Cotter was on high alert all evening, and freaked out at even the slightest of movement we made. It took a good half-hour to get that pooch to even look at me without squealing. By the end of the night, I was petting her every now and then.
Dick jokes ensued. Fart jokes ensued. Farts were expelled by those who were able to actually fall asleep. Giggles ensued. And then I passed out as well.
THIS CONCLUDES DAY ONE (...and a little bit prior, I suppose.)
I was hoping to have this whole tour written in one go, so you can all read all that happened in one sitting, but I highly fucking doubt any of you have that sort of attention span. Instead, I'll write more later about each day, at later dates. I'm really excited to talk about the next day! It ended fucking beautifully! You'll see. I'm really excited to share this with you! I get lucky AND I get a part of my body severed... AT THE SAME FUCKING TIME! Hahahaha!
So stay tuned for the next episode! I'll be writing it with all my free time! I promise this will be the longest one! I look forward to your guys' response! Much love!
- Your Beloved Christoph/Slut
Hello. I'm back. And it's been a couple days of decompression with the loveliest of friends. Between the studio session, and both the planning and execution of this tour, I haven't been really the best of friends lately. My true-blue buddies understand this. And my true-blue buddies will see me in the very near future.
Anyhow, as I promised, here is my Tour Diary! No, I didn't write this as it was happening as I was too fucking busy to do so. That, combined with the knowledge that I usually speak what's on my mind with zero consequence in mind, I came to the conclusion that I'd rather give all of this a couple days before I went into juicy details...
And speaking of juicy details, STOP FUCKING READING THIS RIGHT FUCKING NOW IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ VERY VULGAR DESCRIPTIONS OF THE EVENTS WHICH TOOK PLACE DURING THE WRECKTALS' FIRST TOUR! Seriously. I will protect the names of the innocent, and I will mention fluids that are secreted from genitals. This is a no-holds-barred review of the best week of my fucking life. All the little details are necessary, motherfuckers! So quit reading now if you're a close relative of mine, or faint-of-heart, because you're not gonna wanna hear it...
Keep reading if you're fucking rad. Or if you want to learn from my mistakes.
(Also, it if seems like I'm being a little too over-explanatory or analytical about some menial things, that's because this piece is also going to be published in a place where people don't know who the fuck I am and what I do, and it's written for them to learn from my mistakes. So deal with it.)
Here we go:
Being in a very open-minded, intelligent punk band has its benefits. It also has its downfalls. One of these downfalls, is that no matter how intellectual, professional and diligent one may be, the association with the word "punk" has some negative connotations paired with it. Especially when it comes to booking shows. When the promoter asks "What kind of music do you play?" The two reactions you get the most (despite what they actually say to your face) are A) "Aah fuck... A punk band? They're going to shit on stage and smack around three chords all night and wreck stuff... Been there, done that. Fuck 'em. Nobody will show. And if they DO show, they'll be reckless hooligans! No way! Not in MY bar!" or B) "Cool! Punk rockers are accustomed to failure, so I can fuck these guys around with complete disregard for consequences!" So as a punk band, you'll have a shit time trying to book shows, and when you do, it's easy to assume the worst. Murphy's Law, bitches.
LESSON LEARNED: Learn to present yourself in the best, most professional way possible. Let your contact know that no matter how fucked up your lyrics or tattoos or character on stage may be, you're in this for the same reasons they are. Do unto others. And let them know that you know this.
This tour was our first tour. This tour was meant to be a two-week'er. I started booking this tour in September of 2008. The tour kickoff was for March 13th, 2009. I won't get into specifics, but out of the dozen shows we had confirmed, all but two fucked us over within mere weeks of kickoff. All because of a lack of professionalism with a lot of "promoters" and bar owners. I guess it's punk as fuck to stomp on peoples' dreams and obliterate their ambitions. Haha! Shows were dropped, venues were shut down, promoters suddenly felt "uneasy" letting a band who doesn't spread the assimilating words of Christ around in to play a show... Luckily, I'm unemployed, and I scrambled my ass as best I could to fill in a whole week. I worked my ass off. And I succeeded. The tour was still happening.
LESSON LEARNED: Hard work pays off. How badly do you want to succeed? I find a good measurement system for this is to get yourself a measuring cup. Pour all your blood, sweat and tears into this cup. For every ounce of brown-ish, red-ish fluid in that fucker, people will appreciate you for another month.
Fuck the kickoff shows that were supposed to happen. The promoter who royally fucked us for those dates won't ever work in this town again. Everyone knows what a fucking hack he is now. I won't go into details of what "could have been", but I will say that if someone in this industry isn't honest and professional enough to let you know the factual situation, their intentions are not good. Do not associate with this scum.
LESSON LEARNED: Try to discover the intentioned and reputation of a promoter or bar owner before you start doing business with them. Put your ear to the ground and ask around if you can. It was only after the fact did I hear "Oh, he blocked your number? ...Yeah... He tends to do that sometimes." If only I asked beforehand...
So instead of two, huge, kick-ass tour kick off shows on a Friday and Saturday- one at a punk house, and one at an all-ages/bar-with-ID venue that has since been shut down - we scrounged up what we can get: The Cobalt (an extremely hardcore punk bar, with an extremely loyal audience) on Monday. We had mere weeks to promo the fuck out of this so we can afford gas to get to the next venue. That's what the internet is for. I used The Ridge Radicals (a group I created to promote other local, unsigned, un-backed, hardworking, deserving artists) to boast the show like mad, and I was personally contacting all of my friends, and calling in all of my favours and debts to get everyone out to a bar that was an hour out of town, and on a Monday.
And it was fucking phenomenal! The kickoff show was fucking insane! The two bands going on tour together, The Wrecktals and North Or Die, were joined by ATF, and every band was so well received. That was the best local Monday show I've ever been to, and I'm fucking honoured that it was one I was playing. To everyone who came out, THANK YOU! Even my fucking parents came out (and my mom endured her first over-excited-fan-groping)! I fucking love each of you! You guys are not just fans... And although most of you know this, you are friends. We are seriously grateful to have each and every one of you! You guys are relentlessly supportive, and we couldn't have asked for anything more. Everything we do, we do for you. Thanks.
LESSON LEARNED: Hard work pays off. Now... how long before our hard work pays off enough that people call us sell-outs? Haha!
As soon as North Or Die went up on stage, I pulled out my bass to change the strings, stretch 'em out, and slap them around so I'm ready to kick major fucking ass on stage. I found a quiet, secluded spot at the back of the bar, and started the process. By the time I got to my second new string, there were about a dozen people around me, being the super supportive, super friendly people they are. I needed to work, but I wouldn't bitch them out for being friends. They didn't know they were being distractions, and I focused my attention on the task at hand. Now, a overly helpful friend came over and noticed one of the saddles on my bridge was a little low (mind you, this is how I like it). I was fastening the string to the peg and making sure it was in the nut properly, so I didn't see what exactly happened... And the friend swears they didn't touch a damn thing... And I sure as hell won't start pointing fingers, but by the time I fastened the string, the whole fucker was resting on both my pickups and the neck. Something was fucked. I didn't have an Allen-key. I was on stage in fifteen minutes. Slight panic. Even if my friend did fuck up my saddle, they meant well, so I wasn't about to bitch them out. I found another quiet spot in the bar, did the best I can with my fingers alone (Hooray for injured fingers on stage!), and put the fuckers back into place.
LESSON LEARNED: No matter how helpful or eager, don't let friends touch your shit. And that way if something is still fucked up, you won't be fighting the urge to punch them in the mom. Your shit is your shit. Your sound is your sound. Only you know how fucking peculiar you like your shit, so only you are qualified to fuck with it... Unless you have a trained crew man by your side.
The last couple shows The Wrecktals played, I've been a little drunk. At the Cobalt show, I tried my damnedest to stay sober. But it was a big night for us, and everyone was buying us drinks. We didn't turn any down, and I went on stage with a bit of a buzz. By the time I reached the slap-pop riff in Holy Shit Part One (the kickass, non-stop inclination of a song we open with most these days), I realized I was fucked. I bit the bullet, concentrated as best I could, and missed almost half my notes. Luckily the sound system on a Monday night a bit shitty, so not too many people noticed the fuck ups in the mix.
LESSON LEARNED: Learn your limit and play within it. I'm good with a two drink maximum before we hit the stage, and maybe some drinks during our set... Hmmm... I sound like Fat Mike from NOFX... Haha! Also, if people want to buy you drinks, request they do so AFTER you're done using your motor skills, hand-eye-ear co-ordination, and concentration to impress them.
We pulled our shit together, like we always do, and played a killer set. At the end of the night, we sold shitloads of merch, got our pay, and the promoter said she fucking loved us and can't wait for us to do it again. I apologized about fucking up, and she said nobody noticed.
LESSON LEARNED: Don't apologize for a fucking thing. Nobody noticed until you called attention to it. For all they know, that note you missed and that bar you started late was a super intricate, free-jazz-odyssey time-signature. You're not playing to a crowd full of just musicians. In short: Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again.
Score!
Now it was time to test out our new road crew. Tyler, the handsome, fucker with the mohawk that looks a little-too-much-like-mine, was kind enough to loan us his van, and drive when he was sober, and work the merch booth half the time. I've known Tyler for years. Tyler likes to drink. So the other half of the time for both driving and merch booth duties, went to an even handsome-r Grimm. Grimm's been around the dance floor a couple times, and has done this before. I've seen Grimm interviewing people on the internet before and he looked like a pretty rad, knowledgeable and friendly dude. I was super surprised when Grimm offered to assist us on this tour, knowing full well that the majority of it will be a struggle, and I'll probably be dipping into my own pockets in order just to get by (meaning the high probability of no pay for anyone). But after a dinner date with all parties, the road crew seemed to be flawless. Also, for this dinner date (about a week before the tour), I prepared a spreadsheet with all the pertinent details of the trip on it. I made copies for everyone. For each night, it looked a little something like this:
Tuesday, 17 Mar 2009 - The Grateful Fed w/ North Or Die
Other Bands/Events/DJ's: None
Ticket Price: $5.00
Load-in Time: 7:30pm
Sound Check: 7:30pm
Show Time: 8:00 according to MySpace
Form/Type Payment: 100% of the door
Phone: 250-860-4633
Bar/Secondary phone number in case of emergency: 250-862-8621
Exact Address: The Grateful Fed; 509 Bernard (Corner of Bernard and Ellis)
Accommodation: N/A... Manager said he'd try to find something for us though.
Guest List: Tyler, Grimm, Brita, Sian, Kelly
Additional: Contact is Chris from Goats From Above Productions (goatsfromabove@gmail.com), This place serves food. Eat there.
It was good that everyone was up to par with the information. This way, if anything fucks up, someone gets lost, I'm not available at that very second, or if curiosity is at an all-time high, everything anyone needs to know, is right there.
LESSON LEARNED: Make sure everyone has the fucking sheet. Make sure you have the fucking sheet. Make a sheet for fucking everyone. You will see why later, but for now, sometimes the only person in the venue is the merch person, because everyone's out eating or running from cops. So it's important that every member of your crew knows as much as everyone else, just in case they're the immediate contact person for whatever situation.
It was also the first night for our hometown merch girl, Elizabeth. She did a good job flaunting her squishy bits with some customized Wrecktals merch, and sold a good deal of swag, and packed up our shit for us. We made a big sign board that evening, which made it really easy for people to see the prices from far away. This was a bonus for the people who just want to come up, point at something, pay, and the fuck off, because they either didn't know us, are unsociable pricks, were shy, were intimidated by our big mohawks, or were intimidated by Elizabeth's good looks.
LESSON LEARNED: Make a big sign board. Make the prices easy to read from over 15 feet away. Some people dread being talked to by people who want to sell them shit. I know people who refuse to enter some stores in the mall for the exact reason, no matter how much they really need the product that only that store can provide them with. For these people you have to have the option of "that one, here's the money, goodbye". This helps prevent anxiety attacks. Oh yeah, and the fucking obvious part which is people don't want to have to wait in line, and then ask how much, only to find out they don't like it anymore or don't have enough. That too.
The van was packed, and a kind, drunk gutterpunk was serenading us with Choking Victim, Leftover Crack and Dead Kennedys songs as we loaded the van. Not really thinking about it, a couple of this joined it. Little did we know, each and every time you use your vocal chords whilst touring, that's another word you're going to regret you spoke. Especially if you're in a band with very aggressive vocal stylings. A lesson will be learned the hard way. You will read about that later. And although we didn't fuck up, and nothing got stolen, I'm gonna chuck one of these right here...
LESSON LEARNED: When loading and unloading the van, make sure that members of the crew and band take turns standing watch, getting ready to haul in, or haul out the next piece of equipment until they someone joins them at the van. Then they can leave knowing that whoever just showed up is watching the van until they are accompanied by another member to relieve them of watch, so they can go get more equipment, and so on, and so forth...
Braden went home to have sex with his lovely Polya. Andrew went home to have sex with his lovely Jess. I went home. But that's not all! I went home to almost get grounded by my fucking mom for tuning on stage! Haha! That's right! I'm twenty-two, still living in my parents' basement, and I come home at 3am after a show to a "Get you fucking ass up here right now, mister... Have a seat... I got a bone to pick with you." And then we got into an argument over when an opportune time to tune up is. My strings were new. Better safe than sorry. I stretched 'em and worked 'em as best I could, but I just replaced them half an hour before I was on stage, so I had to tune. Oh yeah, and then there's that song we do in drop-D. There was no convincing her though. My mom's a punk from another time. Tuning on stage to her is sacrilegious. I haven't been grounded in a fucking decade, and I felt it coming for tuning on fucking stage. Haha!
LESSON LEARNED: Never upset your mother. And never argue with your mother. Tune, but keep it mondo-minimal. Mom's always right.
I enjoyed the last time I was guaranteed a shower for one full week. I slept exceptionally fucking well. Got all my poop in a group, kissed my mom goodbye and hit the road with all the faces I saw mere hours prior. Along the way, as I was polishing off Martin Atkins' book, "Tour:Smart", we talked about what we could do to make our show better. This is something we've always done. This is something we'll always do. This isn't even for the fans. We do this because we feel if the last time see us, isn't the best you've seen us, we feel like we're not doing our jobs as entertainers. We discussed the pro's and the con's, and the do's and don't's. We especially discuss the holy-fuck-did-you-see-that's.
Someone asked me how long the drive was. This was something I should have put on my spreadsheet. Where did I put that sheet anyhow? Hmmmm... Can I borrow yours?
LESSON LEARNED: Good thing everyone had a sheet. In the chaos of everything, you lost your sheet. Bonehead. Next time, put distances and estimated travel times in the sheet as well.
I saw a lot more frozen lakes than I thought I would, and a lot more snow than I would have enjoyed. But hey, if it ain't the suburbs or the city, I suppose it qualifies as sight-seeing.
After many boring hours on the road, we hit our destination. A funky little place called The Grateful Fed. Sweet! A play on words! My band does that every chance they get! The place served burgers that were all named after (mostly) deceased musicians. This place picked up our show with mere weeks notice, so we were super grateful. It was Saint Patrick's Day... It was Spring Break... We noticed beautiful, bright green posters all over the city promoting this show. It was going to be fucking awesome!
We loaded our shit in, and I met the people who worked there. I thought I might have offended the promoter with my T-Shirt. "There are two people fucking on the back of this shirt..." I got a "Hey, can I see the two people fucking?" And on my back was a giant picture of Jesus laughing under the words "Just kidding! Believe in Jesus!" There was an awkward silence and a bit of a stare. The promoter went off to smoke a joint, and the venue agreed to feed us for free. I ordered the Bob Marley. I thought this was a good idea, as I love Bob Marley and I love jerk chicken. I now know that the reason this is called the Bob Marley, because the feeling this burger gives you, hours after eating it, is similar to the feelings our beloved Bob Marley felt before he passed away.
Some casual internet acquaintances of mine showed up. A couple promoters I begged for help a couple weeks prior showed up. A girl I know from our hometown and has since moved to a nearby-buttfuck-nowhere showed up. Now if only I had that fucking sheet, I would have avoided the awkward situation of forgetting to guestlist several of these people. Fuck. I feel like such a douche. And I apologize sincerely to the lot of you, who I forgot to guestlist. Being the tour manager for these bands, and the full-time manager for this band, and a vocalist/bassist for this band... You forget a lot of shit. I owe you all.
LESSON LEARNED: Make sure you make several of those fucking sheets, so when you lose the one that was loaned to you by your helpful drummer, you have one to refer to. When you DO have a sheet, refer to it once a fucking hour. It sounds like a lot, but in the shitfest that is touring, you will be thankful you did. The little things that you thought you'd never forget, are suddenly missing from your brain once you realize you're on stage in fifteen minutes...
The promoter hit us up with the proposal of an acoustic set before we play a huge set "because people are still eating, and we don't want to clear the tables from the floor just yet, and we don't want to kick their ass with a full band just yet..." Now there are things to take into consideration here. Are you going to reap any benefits for this? Or is the promoter just trying to entertain the five guests-who-are-still-eating instead of the fifty that showed up and are waiting for you to play? How's your voice? Did you bring an acoustic? What songs can you translate to acoustic? How many covers do you know? Oh man... We weren't ready for this. But we love to perform. So we did it anyhow.
My apologies to Andrew. When touring, you want to pack as light as possible, and there was no time for pleasantries, so I gave him shit when he said he wanted to bring his acoustic. When in reality, I should have brought mine. That little room we did have could have been utilized by an acoustic bass and an acoustic guitar. This would have made sense, but there was no way to know this until after the fact. Busking didn't seem like it was going to happen, what with all the preparations and travel each day required, and there was no mention of acoustic sets before the tour launched. How was I to know? I guess that's touring though. The unexpected happens, and it's best to be prepared for it. My acoustic bass is my fucking life. If I had that stress reliever with me, no matter how cumbersome its presence, I wouldn't have complained.
North Or Die killed an acoustic set. Then we played a couple songs. The mood was strange. The promoter was happy we were doing this, but the rest of the place seemed to not really give a shit, and were waiting for us to go up and really kick the shit out of them. It's a delicate process, weighing the pro's and con's of doing something such as this, especially when you're being handed a guitar. In the end, we shouldn't have done it. You'll see why.
After the acoustic set, I poked around the bar. There were some very kind ladies there. Some drunk guy named Mr. Awesome showed up, someone handed him some random acoustic guitar. Turns out it was Matt Currie's guitar (the frontman of North Or Die). Mr. Awesome did his shit, and stumbled off into the night. Apparently that fucker's on Mr. Plow's label? Hmmm... Same caliber of music. Motherfucker had a song about Bon's Off Broadway! That was enough to sell me! Booyeah!
Brita, Sian, Kelly, and "NayNay" were there. Internet acquaintances! They were... quiet. Lovely, smiley bunch. But goddamnit people... Learn to talk! Haha! Brita's boobs are not as exaggerated in photos as she will have you believe. Brita's eyes are not as exaggerated in photos as she will have you believe. Brita is a fucking pretty lady. Her friends weren't too bad either. They laughed at my stupid jokes! Huzzah! And when she said she was awkward... She was half-right. It was like she was shy, but not bashful. I wish I had more to time to break the ice, but damnit, I'm a performer. And perform is what I will do! I bought a drink or two for the lovely Brita as a thanks-for-coming-out. I can't remember, but one of them better have been green for the occasion at hand.
It was our turn to hit the stage. Still sure if the promoter was offended or not by my shirt... But when we hit the stage he did go up and talk about how Saint Patrick's Day was when the Christians slaughtered all the Pagans. Don't know under what tone. But this made for a perfect introduction to our first song (again, Holy Shit Part One), which features the lyrics:
"It's really plain to see,
And a little bit funny,
It's the root of all evil,
But churches run on money.
Thinking for yourself,
Yeah, that's a fucking fright.
Kill and starve and threaten a hell,
Until they think you're right.
You wanna pray in our school,
But not let us think in your church,
Pray in one hand, shit in the other,
You'll see what fills up first.
Donate all your blood and sweat and tears and love and hurt.
That'll never be enough, to quench that fucking thirst.
Get down off the cross,
Use the wood to build a bridge,
And get the fuck over it.
We're not fallen angels,
We're risen fucking apes.
The only light I see,
Is learning from your mistakes.
You say God created Man,
I say Man returned that favour.
Who the fuck is Jesus?
I am my own savior."
So the place went fucking insane. They loved us. We were very, very well received. Uh oh... What's that feeling?
LESSON LEARNED: Don't order the Bob Marley.
I had to code-brown it, and take a super-emergency shit. My god. My whole fucking lower half was on fire. Not just my asshole when something left it, but it felt like I was pregnant with a baby Ifrit. One of the benefits of playing in a punk band is that if you're in a situation like this, and you announce "Code Brown!" into the microphone and apologize and explain the reason, you very rarely hear people bitch about how unprofessional that was. Not because people are used to shitty performances... But fans seem to be more empathetic, understanding and forgiving in this genre of music.
The place went pretty fucking insane. The most responsive crowd we've ever had. We'd ask them if they wanted to dance, skank or mosh for the next song, and they told us. We were able to compose a very suiting setlist and deviate from the one we had planned, depending on what mood they were in. And it worked beautifully. There were two very beautiful punker chicks in the front row who seemed to have dug us pretty well. Even the awkward friends in the back were bobbing their heads up and down (yeah, I was watching you, fuckers). And dude! The fucking promoter was in the front, throwing down way the fuck harder than anyone! Hahahaha! Do you have any idea how rewarding that feels?! It was fucking awesome!
A complaint I had was with either the soundguy or the sound system. I don't wanna point fingers, but something fucking sucked. I don't know what happened for sure, but it seemed almost as if every time I screamed, I was being turned down. So when a less-screamy, more-singy part happened, I was really, really fucking quiet. Which means I had to overcompensate. In the midst of the shit, and punk kids going through tables, and a bar full of people thrashing and dancing, you don't really stop to take a moment and assess the situation. In retrospect, I should have fucking done something. I over-exerted myself, and my throat, for the remainder of the tour, suffered tremendously.
LESSON LEARNED: Don't do what I did this night, and please keep in mind that although you're supposed to kick some fucking ass like this is the last show you're ever going to play, take longevity, endurance and health into play. Had this been the only show for a weekend or something, I wouldn't have changed a thing. But the shitty sound of the evening, coupled with the acoustic set, and then multiplied by how fucking hard I was rocking out... Equalled days of excrucuating pain and struggle. My voice, and ultimately, my performance suffered for the remainder of this tour, due to one night.
Tyler, fifty-percent of our non-band crew, met up with some friends while we were eating and socializing. He was gone for maybe two hours. When we parted ways, he was healthy, fit and fine. When he came back, he sounded like Beetlejuice. I don't know what the fuck he did in that short period of time, but he had by far the most haggard voice I've ever heard by the end of it. He says he was only having a short conversation with one friend, but it sounded more like her visited a black-market surgeon for a dick extension, and came out with a laryngectomy-gone-wrong. His voice was mutilated. It was awesome.
Tyler really likes Toxic Narcotic. Toxic Narcotic does a song called "Asshole". This song is fucking balls-to-the-wall. We know how to play this song. When we do decide to play it, we call Tyler up to the stage to fuck shit up. Some dude with a moustache kept screaming "play faster" and "play harder". So I dedicated "One Dementianal" to him for not being open minded enough. I also made some jokes about his moustache, and how only pedophiles and gypsies have moustaches. And that how this guy probably likes NASCAR and collects plates of such that have pictures on them depicting other men with moustaches. He laughed, but I'm pretty sure he didn't get it... But he still wanted it faster and harder. So we called Tyler up.
During the thrashy guitar intro, Tyler fucking tackled the whole front end of the crowd and moshed the shit out of them. They didn't see it coming. Neither did we. Tyler jumps out of the shit with perfect timing, and catches the microphone as soon as the lyrics start. The crowd went fucking insane! We beat the royal shit out of our instruments. And needless to say, the guy who wanted it harder and faster shut the fuck up after this.
We finished our set, throats throbbing, and people loved us. We were very well received. We could not have asked for a better show. We were so happy! And the promoter came over, and started rowling up the crowd to beg for "One more song! One more song!" But we played all the good shit that matters! Luckily we had a prototype up our sleeves. We played "D-Emo-Lution Of The Species". We were hoping we'd be able to bust it out with a full horn section, just like on the album, but if the crowd's begging for more than what you gave them, the show must go on. We played it. We even threw a little improvisation in there, faded out the ending until we were almost playing nothing... and then FIRED IT UP! To full blast chainsaw-your-face-off-riff! It was fun! The crowd dug it. We were done!
The promoter was nice, and fucking dug us, but he definitely made us work for our pay. Between the acoustic set, and the long set and the encore, we pumped out over two hours, easy. I fuckin' love that guy, and I look forward to working with him again, but I really gotta ease up on my voice.
LESSON LEARNED: "When". There's a couple things Andrew's taught me and helped me understand in this band, is "knowing when". As a musician, there's a definite "when" to start, "when" to stop, and "when" to extend. I should have know when to stop. My voice was done long before I was due to a large number of circumstances. And although I don't regret a goddamn thing, I should have done something to preserve my voice. So in short "KNOW WHEN!"
We used our last seconds on the microphone to beg for a place to sleep, and our lovely friend from back home said (she asked her mom and it's okay that) we can all sleep at her house! Anikah, you're a fucking Goddess! And I apologize for every time I said I'd dedicate a song to you, and then forgot to. I swear I'm not a dick. I'm not even forgetful. Just in the fray of things, it's hard to remember all the little details. Next time this happens, don't be afraid to remind me of what I promised. I'll dedicate a song to you post-haste! Haha! I promise!
LESSON LEARNED: Let the crucial shit (such as the necessity for a place to sleep) be known through the P.A., the the super friendly and helpful people know your current status and needs. There are fucking awesome people willing to help you at every turn, all you gotta do is ask. And remember your please-and-thank-you's.
As we were packing our shit, Matt Currie discovered his guitar has disappeared into thin air. The last person anyone saw with it was Mr. Awesome. Mr. Awesome was a drunk. No matter what his intentions, he was so gooned, it was a likely probability that he either fucked off with it, or misplaced it so bad, that someone else probably fucked off with it. There was sheer panic. After much freak-out and scatter-searching, it turns out that a very stoned member from North Or Die put it in their van, and forgot about it. Hearts stopped pumping so hard, and all was well.
LESSON LEARNED: Keep a vigilant eye on your shit. Not because everyone's out to screw you, but because the easiest of mistakes are often avoided if you do. That, and feelings are less likely to get hurt. I'd rather someone think I was a prick for not loaning someone my equipment instead of me-thinking-they're-the-prick for stealing it. I'd rather make an asshole out of myself than worry, and inadvertently accuse you of something as malicious as fucking with, stealing or misplacing my equipment.
So we all piled into our vans, and convoyed to the lovely Anikah's house. We parked our vans, and implemented excessive security systems. And although we didn't learn the hard way, I will be doing one of these here...
LESSON LEARNED: Thieves don't assume. Trust me. I am one. Nobody breaks into a car for something they cannot see. There's too many risks. There might be an alarm. You might get caught. And for what? The assumption that there MIGHT be something in there? Not worth it. That being said, do as we did, and make customized cardboard cut-outs for the windows. Make 'em fit just right, and you can simply press them into place. Done properly, this will multiply the safety of your gear thousand-fold, and will take a total of thirty seconds each evening. Better safe than sorry. Nothing beats the security of knowing you're that much less likely to be robbed and ultimately fucked over. You'll sleep better knowing this.
A big, open, clean hardwood floor met us with open arms that night. And we were fortunate enough to have the option of blankets, and showering if we wanted to! What a generous family this was! Bottled water was even handed out! Anikah's lovely mom, Lori, is a sweetheart! Thanks Tour-Mom! It's a shame I ate that fucking chicken burger... Because the amount of pain in my stomach was so unbearable, I couldn't sleep. I got maybe 2 hours of sleep that night.
LESSON LEARNED: Really... Really don't order the Bob Marley.
Luckily Shme (North Or Die's rad-ass bassist) was awake, and shared stories about how Currie's a heavy fucking sleeper. So much so, that one time, he was asleep in his own bed, and a tree came smashing through his house, right into his bedroom, and smashed him in the face... And he didn't even wake up! Or maybe it knocked him out in his sleep? Who knows... But he stayed unconscious. That's what matters. Everyone was snoring. (Lucky fucking bastards. I still had to give birth to a demon. Nothing would come out of me though. I fucking tried!) Everyone, save Cotter - the cute, runted puppy that protects Anikah's family from danger. Cotter was on high alert all evening, and freaked out at even the slightest of movement we made. It took a good half-hour to get that pooch to even look at me without squealing. By the end of the night, I was petting her every now and then.
Dick jokes ensued. Fart jokes ensued. Farts were expelled by those who were able to actually fall asleep. Giggles ensued. And then I passed out as well.
THIS CONCLUDES DAY ONE (...and a little bit prior, I suppose.)
I was hoping to have this whole tour written in one go, so you can all read all that happened in one sitting, but I highly fucking doubt any of you have that sort of attention span. Instead, I'll write more later about each day, at later dates. I'm really excited to talk about the next day! It ended fucking beautifully! You'll see. I'm really excited to share this with you! I get lucky AND I get a part of my body severed... AT THE SAME FUCKING TIME! Hahahaha!
So stay tuned for the next episode! I'll be writing it with all my free time! I promise this will be the longest one! I look forward to your guys' response! Much love!
- Your Beloved Christoph/Slut
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
nexttuesday:
I mish you...jus sayin
nexttuesday:
Way to go lovey! 