Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Canada/West Coaster: Part III

7/26: Los Angeles

Nothing pairs better with a hangover than early morning government bureaucracy.  Before leaving San Francisco, we had to get all our paperwork together to bring into the Russian consulate, as there isn’t one within 1,000 miles of our hometown.  I’ll spare you dicks the gritty details, but let’s just say we spent a couple of hours navigating the Russian bureaucratic equivalent of the agro crag from Guts.  Hopefully we’ll take home a piece of that radical rock (get visas) and we’ll be in Russia this September.  Stoker.

So after a sweltering and traffic-addled drive southward, we arrived in Hollywood.  Imagine our excitement as we took in all the sights!  We saw a guy dressed up in a homemade (out of vacuum parts) Optimus Prime suit hanging out with probably-homeless Batman on Sunset Blvd, a hobo with business cards, at least 20 Ferraris driven by what we have to assume are total dicks, and I saw a restaurant for dogs
crowded with just an enormous gaggle of trophy wives with fake boobs.  We finally made our way through the topsy-turvy, oceanic swathe of LA douchebaggery to arrive at The Troubadour, which is easily the most rad and legendary club Elway has ever played.  Local bros Margate were by far the best practiced and executed band of the night, tearing through their set with recording-worthy accuracy.  We were up next and by comparison just basically took a shit on the stage.  People were having fun though, and it was great to see some people singing along.  At one point Joe’s bass stopped working, so he set it down and dove into the crowd to start the most crucial of pits.  Sick dicks.  Dopamines played a rad set, and TBR followed with clever techniques to rouse audience participation that erupted in pogoing circle pits and projectile beers.  Big ups to the staff at The Troubadour for giving us our own green room and beers; shit was clutch.

7/27: San Diego
After sweating to hours of disk break harmonies in LA traffic we B-lined it to Ocean Beach in San Diego. Waiting with bare feet on hot gum scuffed pavement we met up with Ryan from Nothington who showed us the shortest route to some of the raddest ocean water I’ve ever been in. Ducking or body surfing the massive warm waves we ventured down the restaurant and novelty item strewn street shores to find some burritoage. We drove south to the venue and walked to a sports bar where we were spanked with a hazing paddle by a nice lady named Kristy.  

The venue was a 100 capacity bar called the shakedown – a venue far smaller than we had been playing with a stage far closer to the ground. For a band that has normally only plays bottle necked bars and basements we felt right at home. In addition when asking the bar tender what our wrist bands got us he gave a sideways look and a half contemplated “…anything.” Needless to say, we were stoked! The show started later than expected which contributed to the pandemonium that was a sold out show with extra names on the marquee such as the Bomb Pops and Tilt Wheel.  Unable to set up and store our gear anywhere near the packed out venue we hauled everything through a narrow body lined doorway and played the first punk show of tour. The crowd was sweaty and stoked jammed wall to bar (granted that
distance was about 15 feet) getting rowdy to all the bands. At one point the bar tender climbed over the bar to jam a bottle in the mouths of the dirt turkey Dopamines so they would quit heckling the audience to buy them shots between every song. The aftermath of the show was the pre-mature conclusion to the whole tour for it would leave us in a 2 day hang over and equivalent to an animatronic chucky cheese band.

Our ears perked to the rumors of “pool party.” We hunted the source and found these fantastical words to be truth. Apparently some great dudes regularly hosted bands at their place and were totally okay with a bunch of bands being obnoxious in their backyard. With Joe sober and annoyed at the wheel the rest of hollered what this pool party forecast only shutting up for the drinking of TBR’s green room salsa and potato chips. The pool had exceeded all of our hopes and dreams. The drunken oasis was one carved out of fake stone, complete with fire pit, basketball hoop, hot tub, and even water slide, accompanied by 2 cubes of cheap bear and the dreaded remains of the torso size bottle of Jameson. Immediately disrobing until our skivvies we managed to pack almost a dozen dudes into a lukewarm hot tub. A combination of body heat, Jamison, farts, love, and someone finding the button to the jets heated it quickly. Some entered the pool, making clutch dunks and provoking a robot pool suction monster. The rest gathered around the fire warming bare skin and trading stories from the road. Upon emptying the cubes and passing the giant bottle via fate of the tub jets we gathered in the kitchen for acoustic cover songs and pretzels. Some lined the carpeted spaces with sleeping bags while dawn shed light on the crushed can and wet clothes wreckage for a few others.


7/28: Scottsdale, Arizona
Our bodies writhing in pain from the previous night/morning’s mission to party harder than anyone else on the entire Earth, we ambled forth using the minimal propulsion from beer and burrito farts that coated our van’s innards with a thin sheen of vile residue.  The infernal heat of the high Californian and Arizonan desert turned our van into an oven which baked the sweat from our pores like the worst smelling sauna ever imaginable.  We arrived in Scottsdale at the venue, unloaded our gear, and proceeded to a nearby vegan spot called Green.  With the lumbering gait of full blown mongoloids caked in thick layers of tour filth, we approached the counter tended by one of the most beautiful women human procreation has ever concocted.  After ordering and consuming one of the best vegan meals of tour (this is saying something) we invited her and her coworkers to the show.  I just can’t imagine why they didn’t show up.  Maybe it was because we looked and smelled like we were steeped for hours in ass sweat and embalming fluid.  Too bad.

The show must go on!  Openers Look Out Look were the most entertaining band that opened the whole tour.  It was awesome to see a band that gets so stoked and impassioned on stage.  We played next and worsened our own hangovers with the sound of our instruments.  Through the pounding headaches and gamble-farts that peppered the set, we were able to pull it together and we played pretty well, despite the demonic wafts of 105 degree Phoenix heat, newly humid from what locals acted like was the first rain in years.  The Dopamines played their first of the last two shows of the tour as a 3 piece, as Mikey Erg had to go whore himself out to another band for another tour.  They were pretty good.  TBR followed with clever techniques to rouse audience participation that erupted in pogoing circle pits and projectile beers.  The show came to an end and we crashed hard on the floor of a small child’s bedroom, courtesy of the wonderfully delightful Erica Harper.

7/29:  Albuquerque, New Mexico
After an abrupt awakening by the cackles and chortles of a rambunctious collection of toddlers, our good friend and FEST super-mom, Erica, fed us a healthy breakfast of fruit, coffee, and KIX. Elway tested, mother approved! Hangover recovery complete, we collected our things and made our farewells until halloween weekend. 

We opened the van door, only to realize the Arizona heat had resurrected recirculated old sweat and gastric inoculations into a thick sauna-like condensation. Given ample time to air out, we clambered inside to enjoy another 8 hour drive through the desert in the absence of air conditioning. The first world has never been so cruel.

We arrived in Albuquerque in time to gorge at a cheap taco cart and take full advantage of a 2 for $4 deal on 40oz Miller High Life's, a true delight for these frugal fucks.  Not to be slowed by atrocious dietary habits, we pick up our frisbee and made a wide spread through the parking lot to give the kids a show of athletic feats. We risked life and limb to catch and once again set assail the circular piece of plastic. Complete with spin-kick catches, front-flip throws, and athletic delusion, we shamed any Olympic competitor and kept the crowd clinging to the edge of their truckbeds. After the endorphins of our performance abated, and the heart burn and indigestion returned, we sauntered inside to watch Stabbed In The Back play a killer set. We hit the stage and played a bunch of unreleased songs that the kids seemed to enjoy. Dopamines made butthole jokes and played perhaps my favorite set of the tour. TBR followed with clever techniques to rouse audience participation that erupted in pogoing circle pits and projectile beers.

Hit with the sharp realization that The Dopamines' and Elway's leg on the tour was finished, we gathered for pictures, hugs, and dick-sentiment. We finished our 40's and sped to the nearest Del Taco with The Dopamines to savor new friendships and nacho fries. Those dudes are the best. We made another round of farewells and drove through the night back to CO.


We'll put a bunch of photos up soon, I'm feeling a bit lazy today, plus I gotta go play a show with Michael Graves from "The Misfits".  #GOPunks4lyfe!!!

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