Here's the tour diary: awoke, and it was over. All a blur. Photos unrepresentative of my experience. Videos too dark. Message boards mixed: some thought us shit, others, Heiddeger's Da-sein sealed in ambiguous perspex. (A gargantuan thank you to all, regardless.) We fucking dug it, however, and that's the extent of our concern. We know when it sucked, and when it did not.
Northsix (9/10) - many strangers hogging our air backstage. Ex-girlfriends crying over recent romantic setbacks. Early dinner with DF, AWK, and Kim Rancourt (After That It's All Gravy), who regaled us with tales of domestic bliss. Nervousness? Non-existant. Wore my specs even; read newly-limned lyrics dashed onto crumpled fliers, Miami '94 all over again. So fucking great to see Ben Wolcott! Unfortunately, as in the past, oscillator perturbation was a constant threat. Not a dreary first outing, more ontological than psychodynamic. (In other words, we were, resolutely, but not yet fully ourselves.) We put the van into reverse and landed outside of...
Tarantula Hill (9/11) - filth, filth, everywhere. Great fucking audience; ideal laboratory conditions. Squalid habitat, but still super-sweet set-up. Hail Nautical Almanac's civic proclivities! (Twig is a seriously cool dude.) AWK and I enjoyed a groovy walk to a "package" store some three blocks from TH. Our ears were opened by the local teen patois, an aggressive, percussive slang which sent our imaginations into hyperdrive.
Southgate House (9/12) - Sonore were blasting upstairs; tried to forge an impromptu collaboration, but there were time limits, somethin'. Few attendees - disappointing, considering the freaks who agreed to participate. I'd like to fuck Irene Moon in a cage full of clamoring crickets and sand gnats. When you see us next, be sure to ask Chris Grier about the after-party.
Empty Bottle (9/13) - worst fucking crowd I've ever seen. Great to hang with Brian McMahon, Magas, Bobby Conn, the Blastitude crew, etc., however. After our Olympian fucking set, Christ, we should have received fifteen million. (We don't ask for what we can't deliver.) At least Bill Pisarri got it all on DVD. Horrid "brutal-prog" groups opened for us... Too insipid for words. I'd rather that Azita'd spun Don Fagen solo boots, anything!
Detroit Art Space (9/14) - another humid, Abu Ghraib-esque detention cell. All I remember is John Olsen standing on a bench in the back of the hall, his arms folded, gears enmeshed in rust and ginseng. And Mike Connelly, going apeshit again (as he did in Newport, KY). His impression of me easily tops Dylan Nyoukis' mimicry, or at least matches it, depending on substances consumed prior to onset of impression. Rat laughed for days after MC launched into "Pictures at an Exhibition"; he sings it far better now than I. Vox no longer screech-supple; I've achieved reverse stasis. (In Euro press, I'm often described as a noise-crooner.) As to the latter portion of the hyphenate, would that it were so. Dilloway really kicked it during his solo set - 'twas awe-inspirin' when he lost control of his reel-to-reel. Lotsa ladies groovin' to his, our performances. Many gowns... I've always liked Detroit; it's got an appropriate euphoria-to-despair ratio. Our piano piece flopped - mics picked up naught but sounds of audience unease. AD and JO warned me about going shirtless into the night post-gig; I caught a sick fucking cold the day after I returned to GA. Should have listened to the Sub Popperz!
More from Hell, soon!