END OF THE ROAD (FOR NOW)
We wake up in a puddle of sweat and crusty vomit, none of it our
own. New Orleans has been cruel to us. It took our money at the
craps table and loosened our bowels with shrimp po’ boys and
rabbit stews. As this month of cutting sexual tension and rompery
with Xavier Rudd begins its end and the alcoholic haze becomes
an impenetrable fog, the memories start flooding back…
Minneapolis. First Avenue is the batcave. Springing forth from
Prince’s tiny tiny hips in the mid-eighties, this club brought our
rock to a new level after we were finally asked to leave the venue
by an afro’d stagehand who had enough of us playing fruit ninja
with real knives backstage and filling the parking garage with
Milly Wa Kay. The cavernous Turner ballroom treated us to a
stellar buffet table and slightly apathetic crowd. We tried all the
tricks: playing with no underwear, bringing a live bear onstage and
re-enacting scenes from “ A few Good Men.” Unfortunately we
couldn’t handle the truth and left early to get a head start on the 32
hour journey to Cleveland.
Cleveland was a whirlwind of Italian food, yipping dogs, and a
family reunion that left an anonymous Honey feeling both the
warmth of family and the mystery of whether that cute dude in the
corner could be her cousin.
As a matter of historical record, we would also like to note that
we are responsible for the most punk rock event at the Grog Shop
rock club in the past 10 to 15 years after we sped through an
intersection, hopped the curb and screeched to a halt on the
sidewalk, inches in front of the door. Shouting, “ Gotchya
DC. Best sounding show of the tour.
Niagra Falls. Most Native Americans of the tour. To welcome
Xavier Rudd there was a drum circle and chant by a local tribal
group that left us awed, making it that much harder to choke down
the northern New York Chinese food that exploded like sweet and
sour hand grenades in our stomachs.
New Haven. The Jaffe-est of all the shows, it was also
highlighted by such features as a blinding light, flashed by the old
man wintery looking lighting guy, and sound so bad that it made
Ben’s family question his career choices.
Charlotte was a welcome comfort as we found ourselves back
in the same venue we had previously jammed with our old friend
Gavin DeGraw, the smooth operator and heavy weaponry
enthusiast. It was a good show. Technically solid and creatively
daring as we stuck all of our double axles and added flourish to the
kick-ball-change combination we had been rehearsing all day.
Knoxville. A great show and a successful attempt at getting out of
a parking ticket by yelling, “ we’re broke!” to the Jheri-curled
Isle of Palms. We arrived at the Windjammer nightclub at about
5:00 and proceeded to rush into the ocean as a team, giggling and
holding hands. Still slightly damp, we played our set to a small
crowd and then quickly boned out to reach a Santo family home a
couple hours south. Minutes away from our destination and with
everyone but Mouse asleep, we awoke to the sound of screeching
brakes and the sight of a goddamm real-life alligator who skittered
away fast enough to kill our gator hunting dreams immediately.
Actual size of gator pictured below.
As we lay to rest the final glowing embers of our tour with Uncle
Rudd, we feel fulfilled by the endless adventures we have
experienced in the past few weeks, however sore in the ass we may
be. We miss you terribly. We’ll talk to you soon, and just because
we didn’t call you doesn’t mean we’re not thinking about you.