Chapter 3: West Coast
1/23 – San
Diego, California (Joe)
Was it the
psychosomatic manifestation of compounded anxieties brought about
from the recent trials and tribulations of the beloved Beelzebus, or
potent amalgam of cheap beer and even cheaper tequila that was
voraciously corroding my stomach lining? The answer lies in shadows,
but the fiery acid-bath burning in my abdomen seemed to be a fair fit
as we navigated the arid Arizona hellscape. Eyes wide, ears acute,
buttholes fully clenched, every vibration and low rumble was brought
to question and all for naught, for the dauntless Belezebus carried
us safely to the temperate oasis of San Diego.
Hearts and minds
at rest after our nerve racking sojourn, we shifted gears and engaged
in a debate that has plagued mankind since time itself began: Where
exactly does one find the best burrito? San Diego's star scumbag,
Ryan Donovan, met us for our inaugural California burrito at Pokez.
The delicate balance of avocado, refried black beans, and the San
Diego secret weapon, french fries, were encased in a lightly fried
tortilla and smothered in Ranchero sauce and artery-clogging handfuls
of cheese. Engorged and shameless, we rejoiced in the exceptional
display of burrito mastery.
The arduous
digestion process left us with little ambition and barred any
undertaking that connoted even the illusion of productivity. `We
checked in at Til-Two, collected homies Ryan and Annie, and retired
to the bus to ingest substances that make heartache forgettable and
life more tolerable. San Diego super pal, Matt Williams, opened the
show with his new band, Caskitt, and tore it up despite an
unappreciative crowd. Clever song structure and catchy anthems has
made their album a regular play in the bus. Fuck yes, tight power!
Direct Hit followed with a “Jock Jams Vol 3” like set and Elway
drank and did stuff. RCR full-force approach got some bodies moving
and made for a memorable show.
The party moved
to a small apartment where three unsuspecting girls had made obvious
efforts to create a warm and inviting home complete with plush
furnishings, clean bathrooms, and scented candles. We ruined
everything. In a palpable cloud of febreeze, the party gained
momentum as 30 racks and party favors were consumed with unrepentant
alacrity. The sun was peeking over palm trees and our defeat was
imminent. The remaining beers were placed in the cooler for breakfast
and we laid our soon to be throbbing heads to rest.
Vindictive
consciousness, we woke and cursed the day. Sustenance was sought in
the only acceptable caloric-currency, burrito. While the bus was
left at the auto-shop for a routine oil change, we stumbled across
the street to a family owned and operated taqueria. Schizophrenics
circled the patio like delirious buzzards, ranting and raving without
ever making a cognizant word. I devoured the burrito in a
one-hot-sauce-cup-for-every-two-bites fashion while the encroaching
bum-scent lingered in the sweltering sun. The juxtaposition of simple
indulgence and the vulgar display mankind's frailty and lack of
empathy left me with a vacuous despair. I'm certain Los Angeles will
offer some sort of solace, right?
We're all fucked.
1/24 – Los
Angeles, CA (Garrett)
The I-5 into LA
tells a lot about the city. Slabs of concrete puzzle pieced and
tarred together leaving small evenly spaced chasms to pound a slow
rhythmic thump in the tires. A noise that seemed to serve as a
knotted gauge reminding a crew of merchants that they are following
the shittiest of trade winds while grid locked with rosary beaded
Camaro and chromed out lifted SUV ships. An orchestra of rattling
license plates and billowing exhaust with the fine silk-like veneer
of Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and the dream that you're “going to
make it” cresting the horizon.
We arrived at our
buddies Jen and Neil's house for some pre-show beers and home-style
kitchen hair cuts. Joe, our resident hair sculptor, equipped himself
with buzzer and beer and proceeded to give the usuals – the Jared
Street Fighter Zangief buzz cut, the Tim Hitler-esque swoop along,
and the utterly uninspiring same-haircut-as-your-uncle-David for me.
New dews, a thirty-rack, and some of southern California's finest
inspiration later we were ready to head due west for the show.
An appropriately
themed colonial sailor bar called The Redwood seated right in the
heart of the city was to host the rocking tonight. After load in I
ventured forth on a walk to be reminded of what I missed about LA. A
catered movie scene in an alley scooting me quickly across the
sidewalk for another take. A retail store smelling a fresh Indonesian
freight container with two armed men guarding six dollar hats. A guy
with striped leggings making airplane noises while pulling a wheelie
suitcase not pedaling his bike but propelling himself with just his
lace-less shoes and the ground. LA seems to be a circus to perceive
in either in a fascinating anthropological “so this is the epitome
of human kind, a place presenting the uncensored triumphs and
tribulations of a species” sort of way or just a “oh what the
fuck” sort of way.
Waiting for the
show to start we indulged further in some drinks, burgers,
inspiration, and cigarettes. At some point in the first twenty
minutes of being in the venue we noticed a large illegible tag spray
painted the entire height and width as the back of the bus. Shrugging
our shoulders in a “well I wish he could have at least spend some
more time and done something nice” kind of way we calmly returned
back to our vices and awaited the show to begin.
The show was good.
People sang. People danced. It ended with us being able to leave all
of our still erected gear because of a matinee show at the same bar
the next day – in so relaxing more responsibility and further
giving us an excuse to drink near violently. Driven back to Jen and
Neil's apartment somehow we capped the night with streaming religious
overdubs of nineties rock songs such as “Enter Samson” and “Every
Crown has its Thorns” and passed out.
1/25 – Los
Angeles and Pomona (Tim)
In this new LA
morning, the tour so far had seemed hectic to the point of madness.
As the list of touring priorities congeals into a work-like routine
and obstacles present themselves and are dealt with between spats of
worry and anxiety which are later manifested in temporal outings with
the malignant barnacle of existential woe, it becomes easy to see the
in-between moments of this lifestyle as a continual theater of trauma
and triumph in which you are not involved. It was amid a 10am
staredown with these darkened passageways of waking thought that I
stepped outside into the sunshine. Everything slowed down. For a
moment, the city static was rendered innocuous and the small gift of
the universe was it's own reward as it beat down on my face and
gorgeous new haircut. It was a beautiful 77 degree day, and that was
just fucking fine with us.
Burritos were
sought out at a local Highland Park taco truck and were consumed with
a trollish zeal. Delicious stuff. We drove the now almost familiar
freeway back to The Redwood, where we were slated to play a 3pm
matinee show. Wasting no time, and without need for load in (we did
that last night) we leaped liver-first into a frenzy of alcohol
consumption. The way we abused alcohol before 3pm is beyond analogue
in the mortal sphere; we are so fucking stupid. The show is pretty
rad and well attended by a crowd of half familiar faces and half
woefully hungover strangers. Hours later, we load our things into
our freshly-tagged whip and set sail for the inland empire and an
awaiting Pomona, where we would play the second show of the day.
Arriving in
downtown Pomona after navigating the entanglement of highways and
sub-highways and sub-sub-highways wrapped around the black heart of
greater Los Angeles, we are greeted by the always-jovial Party Marty.
It is always a pleasure to be a part of any show he puts together
and tonight's outing was no different. Though we were competing with
“1996: the show (A lineup featuring Narcoleptic Youth, JFA, Angry
Samoans, etc... A virtual who's who of 'who gives a fuck?')” at the
nearby Glass House, the show was pretty full and very fun. I can
scarcely remember chiding some sexist shit pile in the audience
through the scratched mirror of alcoholic hindsight, but I do know
that I had a blast. We finished up and set out to drive overnight to
San Francisco, but not before conscripting our buddy Ariel to come
with to hang for a day (without so much as a toothbrush or phone
charger). She doesn't know any better and is made of party
particles, so she hopped in the bus. Leaving LA, we stopped for gas
and were given an envelope full of the devil's lettuce by a lone
skateboarder stalking the parking lots of the San Franando Valley by
night, looking for cheap thrills. We got high and drunk on a newly
acquired bottle of cheap whiskey and Beelzebus rumbled gaily into the
California night.
1/26 – San
Francisco (Tim)
I've never seen a
miracle, a revelation, or anything that seriously lends credibility
to the existence of the supernatural, but I have seen downtown San
Francisco appear after passing through the Treasure Island tunnel on
I-80 over the bay. It is one of, if not the most picturesque and
gorgeous thing I've ever seen. Combine the unique architectural and
geographic beauty of the city with the fact that we have some of the
best friends ever here, and we were primed to have a great fucking
day. The bus came to a halt at pint-sized darling, Jordyn's house in
Lower Haight and we set out to make the most of our short time in the
city. We started the day the way any passer-through worth their salt
would: with a Mission style burrito from El Castillito in the Castro
district. (Now might not be the time to bring this up, but San
Francisco's burritos are the very best and most consistent IN THE
WORLD. There's a lot of talk around the touring punk band sewing
circle about this, and you'll just have to trust us on this one.
Look at OUR ENTIRE BLOG for evidence. Burrito judging is what Elway
does. Okay...) After finally recovering from a night of difficult
sleep at awkward angles, we cruised down to the BART stop in the
Mission district to pick up east bay bestie Sarah. Another quick
stop in the inner Richmond neighborhood to pick up Nothington
mastermind Chris Matulich, and we were on our way to Baker Beach; a
longstanding Elway tradition. The dense fog rolled in from the
mighty pacific and hung thick sheets across the hills of Marin across
the quickly-fading Golden Gate Bridge. We stuck around for an hour
or two and caught up with bay buddies atop the dew-drenched rocks,
watching the bridge and mountains fade in and out of view. With load
in time approaching, we left for the Mission district to eat our
second burrito of the day at Tacqueria Cancun – the undisputed
champion of the Mission-style burrito and a real credit to the scope
of humanity's ability to brighten the Earth we spend so much time
destroying. The Cancun burrito has philosophical connotations tucked
into it's floury folds that make taste seem like only a small
component of the concept at large. It is no ordinary meal.
Our third outing
at the mighty Bottom of the Hill. YES! This is easily in my top 3
places to play in the world. The sound, the hospitality, the people
who show up, the bartenders, the owner are all top notch. The show
was characteristically wonderful, and all of the bands were warmly
received by the sizable audience. It was great to see a bunch of
familiar faces, including Elway blog alumni Danielle Bailey, who is
as delightful as the fucking day is long. During the course of the
show, we decimate our beer allowance, along with the provided bottle
of whiskey. We top it all of with the magnum-sized bottle of Evan
Williams that was literally the only thing that Ariel brought up from
Pomona. Just about everyone was acting all Hasslehof by the time we
had to start our drive northward for Portland. We said goodbye to
Sarah and Chris, dropped Ariel and Jordyn off at Jordyn's place (it
took her 5 full minutes to open the front door) and lamented not
being able to spend an eternity hanging out in that incredible city.
Onward we went across the lightless central-Californian landscape.
1/27 – Portland,
OR (Garrett)
It's hard to
distinguish at what point a day start and begins when intermittent
half hours of sleep are dictated by gas station stops, the
consistency of the road, and how long you can keep your head upright
before your neck goes limp and tries to roll off your shoulders. I
suppose we can begin at sunrise. Neon reds, oranges, and yellows
pushing the sphere of darkness away from the rolling ridge of thick
snowy evergreens. A low hum of the tires pulling the wet pavement
behind us whose yellow dotted lines now visible beyond the
headlights. Sleepless bodies pulling heavy sleeping bags further over
their heads as if to say “Fuck you day, I'm not ready for your
bullshit again.”
A long day of
groggy fast food stops, video games, and fart jokes later we arrive
into the vanguard of the revolution – a progressive utopia complete
with coffee shops, other coffee shops, and really cool hats –
Portland, Oregon. Our GPS takes us to a fantastic arcade dubbed
Ground Kontrol where we spend the better part of an hour dunking
hoops, flying jets, and killing zombies. After some delicious vegan
pizza we arrive at the Slabtown with a green room almost the same
size as the bar/venue itself offering air-hockey, ski-ball,
basketball, and one of those punching machines where you get to prove
to your friends just how much you would absolutely lose a fight if it
ever came down to it.
Our good friends
Josh and Britney arrived with more pizza, hugs, and positive
attitudes. We set to find booze but after some smooth talking we
managed to use our $50 bar credit to at-cost behind the bar credit
and managed 48 tall boys and a bottle of William's finest. A greater
number of people than previously imagined shuffled into the show and
commenced in dancing. Red City Radio's van lay wounded 7 hours south,
and they didn't make the show. That bummer aside, Direct Hit and
Elway were warmly welcomed with intense foot shuffling, fist pumping,
and shouting of lyrics/whatever they decided to make up for lyrics.
Danny blew his finger up on the snare drum rim and it was gross.
Sweat, rock, and a
huge dent in our behind the bar credit later we mingled with the
crowd to ask them how great they thought we were. A new friendship
was formed after some brilliant strategic plays assisted by my good
friends Matt and Dennis. A previously “more of a coffee shop rock”
assumed town proved us assholes again with stoked high fives and
rounds of bought beers. It goes to show that the shit you love to
hate is probably because there are parts you secretly think are
pretty fucking choice. A sloppy load out and best wishes lead us to
Josh and Britney house where we met the most adorable French Bulldog
in the world - Boris. We all passed out.
1/28 – Seattle
(Tim)
Garrett Dale has
always been something of a hero of mine. Elway and Red City Radio
have a long and involved history as good buddies. I can remember the
first time we played together at Surfside 7 in Fort Collins (It was
in 2008), and the magnanimous way that Garrett presented himself
could have sold me on just about anything. His personality seeps
into every facet of the band's performance. He is a beacon of
optimism in a scene where ennui and disenchantment are standard modes
of operation. I love the dude. This only bears mentioning right now
because, as was mentioned in the Portland entry, Red City Radio broke
down in Northern California and was forced to cancel their appearance
at the Portland show. In order to make today's Seattle show, the had
to finish the repairs to the van and drive a grueling 10 hours to
arrive just in time to jump on stage and play. We arrived in Seattle
still unsure if they would make it.
We showed up at El
Corazon and loaded in. Wristbands, drink tickets, buyouts,
backlining, etc... Good friends and Elway blog alumni Erin and Shawn
showed up along with Portland power couple Josh and Brittany to whisk
us away to a very reasonable vegan restaurant called Veggie Grill.
We returned to the venue in time to witness an impressive influx of
people. Locals Poke Da Squid and Success! both killed. The crowd
was excited and vibrant for Direct Hit. Moments ahead of our set, I
learned that Red City Radio was mere miles away. We got on and had
an excellent show, due in large part to barkeep Benny's heavy-handed
insistence that we never leave El Corazon sober. The man is a
legendary bartender who has without fail delivered on this mission.
He is 3/3 with Elway. During the set, Joe wastedly fell through a
window concealed by the stage curtain and landed his ass on the
ground in the entryway mid-song. This Houdini-styled disappearing
act went nearly unnoticed by me. Garrett said he noticed Joe
disappeared and just followed the instrument cable out the window and
pieced it together from there. After taking a long time to shame Joe
on stage, we continued through our set. Red City Radio showed up as
we had 3 songs left, and I met eyes with Mr. Dale. He walked in and
seemed to read the whole vibe of the night and I could see him
mentally preparing to dominate the show. Little did he know that on
stage I instructed the audience to act with complete disinterest as
Red City started their set, but to afterward go fucking nuts. I
threatened their cooperation with a Seahawks superbowl loss, but the
crowd obliged explosively. Red City Radio played with a zeal that
can only come from bouncing back after being fucked by the road such
as they were. Best show of tour thus far. We retired to our buddy
Chris' place and drank ourselves to sleep well satisfied by the day's
events.
