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You
don't have to go home, but you can't stay here...
On
March 6th, the latest line-up of the knievel collective
- Wayne, Dave, Other Dave and I, left Sydney on a JAL 747
bound for San Francisco via a stopover in Tokyo. We spent
the stopover in a hotel a shuttle ride from Narita airport
and settled for sushi and beers in the hotel bar and struggled
to keep our jet-lagged eyes open before retiring to our
rooms to watch some Japanese TV. We'd be coming back on
our way home in a few weeks.
We
had a few hours the next day to wander around the compound-like
hotel grounds in the cool industrial air while diesel smoke
spewed from the shuttle buses at the entrance. I checked
out all the souvenirs in the crappy tourist shop - mass
produced tiny porcelain fu cats curled up in miniature satin
sleeping bags and endless postcards of a serene Mount Fuji
rising majestically against a long lost blue sky.
On
our plane to San Francisco that night, each of our seats
had a personal TV monitor transmitting from a camera mounted
outside on the nose, giving us a pilot's-eye view. It was
way too much information for a nervous flyer but I was transfixed
as we taxied slowly around the airport in the dark. Golden,
green and blue lights flared alongside the tarmac, picking
up the painted lines and markings, making ghostly silhouettes
of other planes parked at terminals while the lights of
others sailed towards us to the left or right. After this
long prelude, like an orchestra tuning up, we came to a
dramatic pause at the end of our runway - camera view steady
on the stretch of tarmac scarred with skid marks from hundreds
of nitrogen filled Dunlops. The engines wound up from a
hum to a full operatic chorus and the screen went blurry
as we accelerated forward at a startling speed. The runway
disappeared beneath us as the plane lurched and leapt into
the air. The lights fell away below and banks of clouds
raced towards us up ahead looking solid as concrete. As
we hit them we were buffeted by heavy turbulence. There
was a sickening, stomach-dropping surge upwards, then downwards.
I looked behind at Dave and Other Dave for reassurance but
they were similarly glued to their monitors with concerned
creases between their eyebrows, willing us to stay up. I
looked back and the turbulence subsided as the clouds on
our screens gave way to a steady image of the stillness
of black space and a few stars.
San
Francisco March 6 (still)
It
was cold and overcast when we arrived in San Fran. With
one stacked trolley each we wheeled over to the car hire
place and picked up a Chevrolet "Blazer", a compact 4WD
a hundred bucks a week cheaper than a van, and filled it
to the roof with all our gear and our time-zone addled,
sorry-assed selves. We navigated our way over the freeways
into town and booked into the Phoenix hotel, cramming ourselves
into one room. I tried to get some heat happening from the
heater before we went out to find a café. I had this
messed up middle ear thing I sometimes get from flying and
every time I stopped to stand still I had the sensation
that I was falling. We tried to order something resembling
a strong flat white and got milkshake-sized containers of
vanilla flavoured stuff and, although we were sitting in
the café, they served everything in takeaway cups
with plastic straws and paper napkins. We created a week's
worth of rubbish in one coffee break. We left and walked
half a block before the waiter came running after us. Both
Wayne and I had left our bags in the café -with our
diaries, tickets, passports, schedules, and contacts for
the entire tour. We didn't think it was safe to leave them
in the hotel room
Every
second car had an American flag, sticker or poster in the
back window, and office windows, apartment windows, even
clothing, all beamed with the stars and stripes. It gave
the impression of being at some nation-sized sporting event,
but generally, beneath the flag-waving, everyone seemed
to be going about their business - stubbing out cigarettes
on the pavement before heading back inside to their desks,
collecting spare change in their begging cups, parking their
cars, picking up the washing from the laundry, or some fast
food in a paper bag, or a milkshake sized container of sweet,
flavoured coffee in a paper cup.
I
looked at a face behind the wheel of a big Suburban with
a "9-11 United We Stand" stars and stripes poster festooning
the back window as it drove alongside us across the Bay
Bridge. I can understand what it's like to love your country
and feel threatened, but I was having trouble with this
image of America as heaven on earth, leader of the free
world, seat of liberty. Especially in San Francisco where
there seemed to be plenty of people on the streets telling
a different story. The homeless, the jobless, illegal immigrants,
war veterans, disabled, drug addicts. And then there are
those just not that adept at coping with the intricacies
of modern life, or not that thrilled about a career in fast
food management or the possibility of maybe, one day, owning
their own franchise.
We
played our first gig at the Starry Plough in Berkeley. We
were in a blind panic because we didn't have any gear. We
crossed our fingers and drove out there anyway and luckily
one of the other bands, called Grain USA, let us use everything
they had.
We
played to a few people and met some nice folks and were
happy to get paid eleven dollars, which partly paid for
our beer. The Starry Plough had kind of an Irish theme and
painted on the wall was this quote from the Irish Rebel,
James Connolly:
"No
revolutionary movement is complete without its poetic expression.
If such a movement has caught hold of the imagination of
the masses they will seek a vent in song for the aspirations,
fears and hopes, the loves and hatreds engendered by the
struggle. Until the movement is marked by the joyous defiant
singing of revolutionary songs, it lacks one of the most
distinctive marks of a popular revolutionary movement. It
is the dogma of the few and not the faith of the multitude."
We
thought this was a good omen because Wayne is apparently
a descendant of James Connolly. I don't know if he inherited
the gene for expressing the faith of the multitude. We were
definitely in 'dogma of the few' territory that night.
Also
on the bill were an all girl Japanese punk band, Bleachmobile.
Someone in our band leaned over to me and said "They're
angry little girls aren't they?" I bit through my tongue
thinking 'six weeks to go, gotta keep the peace.'
It
was after 2 as we left the venue and I led the charge in
search of something to eat but we couldn't find anything
open. We were all pretty hungry when we got back to the
hotel and Dave spoke to the guy at reception and came back
to the room triumphantly and said "Nepalese Pizza. They
deliver and they're open until 3." When it arrived the box
said 'Napoli's Pizza'. Those crazy Italians. Since when
have they been making pizza?
LA
On
the eve of the six-month anniversary of September 11 the
TV networks were all going crazy, running regular bulletins
like "FBI intelligence has confirmed that they have uncovered
evidence of more planned attacks." The 'story' would then
come to an abrupt end and I would find myself sitting on
the motel bed holding the remote, staring up at the bracket
mounted TV incredulously shouting at it "Hello? What
evidence?"
We
played with My Morning Jacket and another band called Swearing
at Motorists at the Café Du Nord in San Fran. It
was an old speakeasy with all original wood panels, little
lights and chandeliers, a tiny stage with granny-floral
carpet, curtains across the front, old cabinetry in the
band room where they kept the liquor locked up, and a sign
in the bathroom asking you to keep your sanitary products
out of the 100 year old plumbing.
Before
leaving we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and through
Sausalito conjuring Rumours era Fleetwood Mac all the way.
It was very beautiful and a nice contrast to the supposedly
great Mission District I had explored yesterday. Maybe I
was in the wrong place but it just seemed like shop after
shop of the same old junk. At best last season's Carhharts
and discontinued Vans, at worst container loads full of
toxic-smelling, velcro-trimmed, foldout luggage, sewn and
moulded into every conceivable, collapsible or expandable
shape for a multitude of travel scenarios. Destination landfill.
Flags
continually waved us on as we drove to LA. As we left SF
two giants flapped in slow motion over the Holiday Inn while
on the street corner underneath them a homeless amputee
on crutches was panhandling and holding up a war veterans
card, and another robust, clean looking guy in a red windcheater,
denim jacket and trucker's cap held a sign "Homeless, Jobless
- Will Work If Asked."
I
was squished in the back of the car between Wayne and the
guitars. Dave and Other Dave sat up front - one driving,
one navigating. Apparently driving a Chevy Blazer doesn't
have the same credibility as an Econoline and some cool
band person at the venue the night before nearly crushed
our big American tour spirit with his comment "You're driving
around in this? Have you ever heard the phrase 'Soccer Moms'?"
We
passed a giant abattoir on the way to LA that was like a
misty cow prison in a shallow valley off the highway, surrounded
by a kind of fog from the heat and sweat and fear coming
off the animals. As we drew near the car was blasted with
the most repulsive, insidious smell. It seemed to last for
miles and ended in an oversized truck stop - an enclave
of about 6 burger joints. When we arrived at Paul's house
in Sherman Oaks I asked his brother Jeff about it and he
said, "Oh, you passed Cowshwitz"
Paul
is Ritchie Cunningham incarnate with a fab condo and acres
of fat comfortable couch for us to sleep on. We ordered
some takeaway Thai for dinner that was more like Chinese,
and the combination of Miller ("the champagne of beers"),
MSG and bad period pain ensured I had a terrible night's
sleep. I lay on the couch looking up at the high ceiling
and watching the yellow flashing light from a passing garbage
truck make random moving squares of colour on the off white
walls, thinking about life, love, death and feeling kind
of lonely and lost. Next morning I was doing some washing,
writing in my diary, it was sunny outside and life seemed
good. What am I like?
Every
band we've met so far has told us stories about flipping
their van on the freeway or doing a 360-degree spin on the
ice, or rolling off the road into a ditch. In truth touring
seems to be mostly about being cold, stressed and tired,
cutting corners and taking insane risks to arrive on time
to play at mostly shitty venues where the door person and
the bar staff don't give a shit who you are or how far you
came, and no one turns up to see you.
Paul
had mentioned that he grew up in Montana and while we walking
back from the shop I asked him about it. He said that his
dad was in the air force and they lived there for a while.
"Was your dad a pilot?" I asked
"Nnnno..."he
said, and sounded a little uncomfortable. I looked at him
until he continued. "He was quite high up ...actually, he
was in the nuclear missile program. He was like, the guy
in the room with the phone."
We
were walking along the neat Sherman Oaks pavement and looking
at our feet and I stopped and turned to him and said, "No
way. Your Dad was finger on the button guy?"
"Yeah,"
he said, hands in pockets, "Well actually, it was a key."
I
had another sleepless night, awake again when the garbage
trucks came around, watching the yellow lights flash into
the condominium.
We
played at Mr T's Bowl in Highland Park not really knowing
if we had a gig. It was a nice drive out there on the historic
Arroyo Seca Drive through an interesting old part of LA,
sort of on the way to Pasadena. The venue was an old bowling
alley. The owner wasn't making any money and someone came
to him with an offer to put bands on and feeling at a loss
about what else to do, he said, 'sure.' He ripped out all
the scoring booths, packed up all the balls, pins and bowling
shoes in cardboard boxes, piled everything up on the lanes
and built a little stage in front of the mess and put curtains
at the side to hide it. It makes for a great and unusual
atmosphere and is one of the more memorable venues we've
played but it felt kind of sad to be sitting backstage on
a beautifully crafted wooden bowling lane with your feet
in the gutter, changing your strings with stuff piled up
around you like a demolition site.
We
got back to Sherman Oaks after 3am. There was no point in
sleeping because we had to pack our gear and leave for the
airport an hour later to be at the airport at 5.30 for the
two-hour, high security check-in before our 7.30 flight
to Austin. I spent the hour showering and packing. We arrived
at the United counter at the required time and they showed
their appreciation by charging us for excess baggage. While
the security was once again intense, I got through with
an AB box and a transformer unchecked in my carry-on backpack.
They went through everything of Wayne's, wiping it down
with that funny instrument that detects explosives and making
him take off his shoes. There were about a dozen people
working on the security including two armed guards carrying
automatic rifles and huge belts of ammo, and wearing camouflage
uniforms which seemed particularly incongruous. If you wanted
to camouflage yourself in LAX you'd be wearing fabric designed
to resemble grey linoleum, not the jungles of Cambodia.
Despite
the fact that every internal flight is packed, the airlines
were in cut back mode. They didn't even feed us on the plane.
It's not that I love airline food but it helps to pass the
time. Later at SXSW, I related this to someone from a Seattle
band who had just driven three days straight to get to Austin.
He seemed not to hear the crux of what I was telling him
which was "...and after all that they didn't even feed us!"
He stared at me and said, "You guys are flying?"
As
we came in to land we made the mistake of tuning in to the
air traffic control station on our headsets.
"Echo
Romeo I should be able to get you through if you can maintain
your speed. Can you do that?"
"Tango
Charlie, you're gonna give way to Delta to the south"
"Okay
...I'm sorry, was that north or south?"
South
By South West (SXSW) Austin, Texas
When
we arrived in Austin, Chris McFarland - a local singer songwriter
and In Music We Trust label mate, was waiting for us. He
escorted us to his beautiful blue Econoline in the car park
and I immediately curled up in the back seat and fell asleep.
When we arrived at his house I managed to utter a few monosyllabic
responses and promptly fell asleep in his grandma's rocker/recliner.
He took us to register at the convention centre and I fell
asleep in the van on the way there and again on the way
back. We went to get something to eat and as soon as we
got back to his place I fell asleep in the recliner again.
When I woke up, his girlfriend Kelly had joined us. She
is very southern, very sassy and they were all having one
of those East Coast verses West Coast conversations. Kelly
said, 'I hate the East Coast. They can blow it all up as
far as I'm concerned. People are rude.' I made a mental
note to mind my manners. Later Kelly drove us all into town
in the Econoline. Turning on to the main street she had
to cross three lanes of traffic and was cut off by a speedy
motorist who honked his horn. Other Dave said, 'You want
me to flip him the bird?'
'We
don't flip the bird in Texas,' said Kelly, 'we just get
our guns. You wanna stop off for some 'Fuck Y'all, I'm
from Texas' t-shirts?'
A
stunned silence was followed by a chorus of 'Hell
Yeah!'
SXSW
features a whole street - streets even, full of bars, which
are full of bands. Bands playing in cafes, windows, everywhere.
Everything's an easy walk away with the main drag closed
off to cars. Most of the bars are in old, high-ceilinged
atmospheric, woody, warm spacious buildings that look like
they should have swinging saloon doors and horses tethered
out the front.
Even
with so much music to choose from we went to see My Morning
Jacket again. They were playing at Buffalo Billiards - a
huge, loft style space with a big central bar under a massive
chandelier made of antler horns, and a big sunken lounge
area strewn with fat old couches and armchairs where we
hung out between bands.
Our
SXSW show was at a venue called Maggie Mae's and after a
couple of days in Austin we had the urge to don cowboy hats
and boogify all our songs. Instead we played our own brand
of uptight aussie indie pop to an appreciative crowd. After
our show we went across the road to see Swearing at Motorists.
At the end of their set they hurled a guitar into the crowd
that smashed into Wayne's head. I was across the other side
of the room when Dave said to me, "did that hit Wayne?"
I barged my way through the punters and found him soaking
through a bar towel with blood saying, 'I'm fine, I'm fine.'
I was just getting to work stabilising my patient when the
barman started hustling us out the door. I was incredulous
as he shouted, 'You don't have to go home but you can't
stay here!' It was around this time that we started to entertain
the idea of bankrolling another tour by suing somebody's
ass.
At
the hospital I had to fill out all the forms and the receptionist
said, 'Is he married or single?'
'De
facto' I said.
'Whassat?'
'It
means 'in fact'. It's what we say in Australia if you live
together but aren't married.'
'Weyell,
I hafta puht one or th'other.'
When
she said 'One or th'other' I heard an echo of the words
"Either you are with us or against us." I was determined
to assert the validity of our partnership, not to be pigeonholed,
and to force her to break her own rules. I prepared for
my Texas showdown, stuck my hand on my hip and proclaimed
loudly and pointedly to the empty waiting room, 'Well, he's
not single.'
She
responded with a belly-laugh loud enough to wake all the
patients in the hospital, and said, 'Weyell...' and with
a big flourish wrote something on the form, 'we jes' got
you married then.'
They
let Wayne go home with some notes on the treatment of concussion
and four little blue stitches in his forehead which Dave
pointed out seemed to spell "SXSW".
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part 2
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