Sitting in a parking lot outside the Palace Cinemas in Le Roy, Illinois, waiting for our movie to start. In an hour and forty minutes. Though this has been a really good tour so far, man, it's a lotta fucking downtime to play to little or no people for little or no money. No classic rock on the radio even, when Jim Spoiler and I drove through the Midwest five years ago on our way to NYC, we heard "Honky Tonk Women" about four times every half hour. Nu-metal's the new classic rock, thanks a fucking lot, Clearchannel.
Last night was a low point. When we showed up, the place was fucking packed, the windows all fogged up. Apparently, a local nu-metal band called "Index Case" had gotten a major label deal and was playing their last local show. I probably don't need to point this out, but what the fuck is an index case? Like a Rolodex? Or do they mean a Fil-o-fax? Okay, so it's a made-up thing, but what the fuck does it signify? It denotes nothing; it connotes nothing. I swear to fucking God, nu-metal/ rap-rock/ Green Day punk bands all get their names from the same computer that spits out names for new fabrics and drugs. Zycam is a much better name for a nu-metal band. Fucking Index Case, eat a dick. We had to wait for all of the aforementioned band's fans to leave before we could even load in. By the time Danny and I took the stage, the crowd had thinned to only about twenty tattooed punks and old drunks sitting at the bar. A couple of them wandered over to Hairy Mary's cavernous live room (well, cavernous compared to most of the places we've played, where they've had to dismantle and move booths for us to set up) to check us out, but by the end of the set, we had pretty much cleared 'em out. Even the Giraffes, who have been pretty consistently boisterous and supportive during our sets-Drew's 'yeah, bitch' has been particularly prominent-are so beat and hell, probably bored of it by now that even they can't fake being a big enthusiastic crowd. The Means really fucked us by bailing out on this show. I'm worried about what's up with Jason, because he didn't come to our show in Chicago, he's 'aked out on a bunch of shit and he still doesn't have a phone. I hope nothing's seriously wrong. Or rather, something better be seriously wrong, otherwise he's just fucked us.
When we get off stage, I'm ready to just crawl in the van and go to sleep. Physically and emotionally, I'm at my lowest ebb of the tour so far. But when the Giraffes take the stage, Danny grabs a stool and walks right up to the front, sets his ginger ale down on the stage, and sits on his stool within spitting distance of the Giraffes (when you're dealing with the Giraffes, 'spitting distance' is a literal measurement). Shit, he's right, that's how we have to be. So I set up camp beside him with my pitcher of beer. Which proves to be a big mistake. Aaron is really sick, he looks like hell and can hardly speak. He's been an incredible good sport about all the unsolicited needling advice I've given him over, shit, I guess over the last year or so. But he's belligerent on stage tonight, first he flicks a lit cigarette at me and it drops unnoticed onto my stool and quickly scorches through my jeans and into an unfortunate spot of my flesh. Later, he walks over and ropes my neck with the mic cord, grabs the back of my hair and starts tugging hard.
I try to smile through it and punch him a couple times, not too hard, but just to let him know "okay, you've had your fun, now let me go." Unfortunately, motherfucker keeps shaking my head by my hair and it fucking hurts. Finally, I'm in enough pain that I start throwing big haymaker movie punches at his legs and gut like I'm chopping wood. I land a couple good ones, and then I feel him ease his grip on my hair. I land one more good one and suddenly he can't get the mic cord off my neck fast enough. Later, when we're loading out, he makes me feel his leg. He has a big, hard welt on one leg, raised up like a fucking ping-pong ball.
I take significant damage, too, I manage to jam both thumbs while I'm punching him. Right now, 24 hours later, I can still hardly move 'em and they're aching steadily. It would be a grievous error to write about Hairy Mary's and not give big ups to Gus, the booker, bartender, heart and spine of the club. He's a big dude, maybe six feet, but thick with a long black ponytail. He could be Latino, Native American, Samoan or some lethal combination of the three. The first thing he said to me when we showed up was "Took you motherfuckers long enough. Want a beer?" When I asked him what the deal was with drinks, he just said "what do you want?" When I asked him where we could get food, he said "Well, I could order you motherfuckers some pizza." We swill PBR and Bud Light all night, Gus literally forcing it on us, and he makes us a couple of awful shots, Jagermeister and Red Bull. It tastes like cough syrup, but it's coming from a friend so I'm glad to drink it. At the end of what by all accounts is a pretty quiet night, Gus pays us sixty bucks and gives the Giraffes more. What a fucking guy. After loading out, Damien gags himself and pukes on the hood of my van. Jon follows by pissing on the grill. Christ. Danny and I follow the Giraffes on a wild goose chase to a Motel 6, which doesn't pan out, so we just drive out of Des Moines to a rest stop. We both climb into the bunk and, wonder of wonders, I don't freak out. Danny beats me to sleep, but not by much. I wake up first, around ten and end up driving almost the entire way. It's tough driving on such little sleep, but it feels good to drive and let Danny sleep the whole day. I'm tired, but I'm not hungover or fucked up from ephedrine. Around three, we stop at KFC, then land a beautiful campsite with minimal difficulties for only eleven bucks. I hit the bunk, hard.
Posted by Mishka at September 14, 2003 12:46 AM