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I open my eyes at 4:05 am—an unpleasant foreshadowing of the days to follow. Half asleep, we load up the van, gulp coffee and hit the road. As Chris and I are the band daddies and up the earliest, we take the front seats and try to piece together sentences while everybody else falls asleep. The Oregon landscape is lovely in the pre-dawn light, a rime covering roadside shrubs and forest. Then lunch in the Shakespearean vortex of Ashland—passing "As You Stor-It," an apparently Elizabethan-era self-storage facility—and we cross into California.
We have low hopes for San Francisco, but the show is a pleasant surprise: Lots of friends and family appear, and we play better than can be expected given our exhaustion. I take an air mattress in a friend's apartment while the band treks to a downtown hotel.
Day 2: Los Angeles
I sleep no better next to a hissing radiator than I do next to a crying toddler, and bleary-eyed, we're off to L.A. Massive infusions of caffeine render us serviceable, and again to our surprise we play our strongest set to date, barely pausing between songs and winning over a crowd of wary scenesters. Wovenhand is headlining, and they deliver an affected but oddly compelling mix of '80s goth-rock and Pentecostal gospel. As the night wears on, we catalogue the audience styles on parade, including the "Risky Business" (leggings and oversized oxford shirt) and the popular "Country Times" (bouffaint, sleeveless dress and knee-high boots). Evan whispers, "Tell that guy the war's over, will you?" and I turn to find a skinny, lank-haired 25-year-old rocker in full Civil War regalia sitting next to me. Back at the hotel I shower and collapse into bed, grateful for the six hours till an 8am wake-up call.
Day 3: Los Angeles and Visalia
Spirits are high as we hit the road for a 9 am breakfast meeting with a potential label. I'd printed out directions beforehand, not pausing to wonder why Mapquest rendered the address I'd been given as "Pico Rivera, CA." In retrospect, the traffic did seem unusually light as we headed east, the concrete of Los Angeles fading into suburbs and eventually dusty farmland. Questions and rebuttals start flying: Maybe the rent is a lot cheaper out here? Maybe the address is the guy's house?
As we realize the enormity of our mistake, we hurriedly turn around and swing into triage mode. No one has thought to bring an atlas, so we're calling anyone we know who might be awake at this hour. Though there are four cell phone conversations going at once, no one can help. Where are we? We don't know! Where are we going? We don't know! It turns out that somewhere along the line, "West" was deleted from the address, placing us many miles east of our destination, and now in the tail end of rush hour.
We're approaching the US-101 / I-10 split and no one knows which road to take. The traffic is speeding up while, on the phone with Evan's dad, time is slowing down. "Let's see…Map…Quest…dot…com? Hold on a sec here…" Unable to decide, we make the only logical decision we can and screech to a halt in the taped-off triangle separating the two highways. Cars are whizzing past on either side as we continue our desperate negotiations by telephone—five hostages imprisoned in asphalt. We're so consumed with passing phones back and forth and scribbling notes that we fail to see the tow truck backing towards us. Somehow the driver is waved off without incident or an exchange of money. By this point it's past 9 o'clock and we're so desperate to get somewhere, anywhere, that we shoot off toward the I-10. Fortunately, our lifeline on the phone tells us it's the right road; the only problem is that we're headed in the wrong direction. A turnaround, more phone calls and a few miles of hellacious traffic later, we're bouncing off the freeway, a mere mile from our destination. That's when the van starts shuddering.
More questions. Should we stop? Should we find a garage? Kevin, to his credit, is implacable: "Just. Get. Us. There." And so we continue, trying our best to ignore the smoke now pouring from the wheel wells. We pull up to the office, ready to throw all of our gear onto the sidewalk, but no flames issue forth, just dense and foul-smelling grey clouds. Without a word passing between us, we install our game faces and stride into the label offices as if nothing in the slightest is amiss.
The meeting is positive and we're buoyed once again. After goodbyes and a few armloads of swag, we find a garage willing to check out the van. We sit in the skuzzy lobby as long as we can stand the hyperactive desk clerk ("You guys from Oregon? Cool. Cool. I'm thinking about buying a house there someday. Very cool.") and then head across the street to a deserted Mexican restaurant to kill time. There's no alcohol served but we buy a case of beer down the street, give the staff a few, and enjoy what's left of the afternoon.
Several hours and several hundreds of dollars later—minus a discount for the remainder of our beer—we're back on the road. Tonight we're in Visalia, a cow-and-college town south of Fresno, and we're going to have to make good time if we want a chance to sound check. But it's Friday evening, rush hour is in full swing, and it's starting to rain. Even the sight of a giant truck-plaza sign reading "Gas War!" elicits little comment as we plod northward, exhausted and jangled from the rollercoaster of the day.
We arrive late in Visalia to find that we're booked into a wine bar with a fenced-off central dance area. Fortunately, the staff and promoter are as friendly as can be, and we're soon knee-deep in beer. The opener is an honest-to-goodness, shit-kicking country-rock bar-band, complete with pedal steel, cowboy hats and unpleasant facial hair. They're loud as hell and the crowd of dudes and dudettes is appreciative. I find Chris watching the band and, swallowing my discomfort, say, "They're good!" Chris turns to me with a weird, desperate grin and answers, almost gleefully, "We're going to die!"
Fortunately, by the time we play the crowd his been diluted by indie-rockers and college kids, but just in case, Kevin takes the large American flag from our dressing room and brings it on stage with us. I am concerned that his ploy could backfire, but say nothing. The promoter jumps on-stage to deliver a round of noxious lemon-vodka shots and we're off and running. Sure enough, during "Blue Sunshine," Kevin unfurls the flag and incites an audience member to perform an awkward dance with it. "Don't let it touch the ground!" he bellows, as I imagine an angry lynch mob and a neon sign above my head reading: "Jew."
The rest of the night is a blur. The air is thick with alcohol (later, the bar manager will tell us this was his best night to date) and people are getting goofy. I find Kevin trying to deflect an attractive redhead by pointing to me as I walk by: "THAT'S the real talent in the band right there!" She immediately wraps her leg around me and begins kissing the side of my head. Thankfully, Kevin reverses course and insists that actually, he and I are a couple, and she's not allowed access to his man. Visibly confused, she soon leaves with a suitor and, 20 minutes later, reappears and then leaves with another.
In the motel, we watch a few minutes of Japanese humiliation TV before dropping into blissful slumber. Tomorrow we have a 13+ hour drive if we want to sleep in Portland.
Day 4: I-5
We wake up grateful for bright sunshine and actual warmth. The drive is long but we're happy to be homeward bound. Evan and Anita, typically the quietest travelers, are soon sparring over the relative virtues (or lack thereof) of Steely Dan, and, save for a near-miss with an apparently suicidal seagull, the drive is uneventful, at least until we approach Oregon.
The Siskiyou Summit is the highest pass on the I-5, and as we ascend the south slope it begins to rain. Sitting in the passenger seat, I'm amused by Chris' desperate prayers to the semi trucks leading the way on the very steep, and very long downgrade. It's only when I crane my neck to look out the driver's side that the blood drains from my face—the wiper is barely touching the windshield, and Chris truly is terrified. We make it to Ashland, swap the blades, and refuel on gas-station coffee, though we're all fully awake from the adrenaline.
The rest of the drive is a more restful blur, listening to Portland bands like Red Fang and The Builders & The Butchers to acclimate us to homecoming. Exhausted, we roll into town near midnight and collapse into sleep.
WWeek 2015