Europe/Fest/US: Part II

9/14 – Hiedleberg, Germany – Villa Nachttanz

Garrett Carr explains our first night in Germany, stream of consciousness style:

Hallo aun Deutchland!

Strutting through customs picking up guitars escorted by our delightful driver Frank into our new sprinter chariot we are fed fresh fruits and sandwiches to Hiedleburg exiting in search for our venue circling dirt roads and an old graffitied train station building where inhabitants and live music suspiciously spill onto tracks instead we park and walk toward town in between cobble streets and peeling plaster off dimpled brick trying to order coffee and failing bearing right into the ally of a second hand store where a lady between musty suit coats and bowlers tells us of a castle setting forth with a yodel we navigate winding pedestrian channels once where 900 years ago horses and bucket headed soldiers approached the now sited deteriorating castle walls and we climbed steps weaving through neighborhoods reaching the courtyards and paths spanning the tops of walls looking out over red chimneys stuck on black and gray spotted rooftops fast forward we pull up to a set of sliding gates and enter a lot hosting a 3 story mural wrapped building and wooden tower that provides sound and projection for outdoor stage container units lining the perimeter serving function for bathrooms and band bunk beds adjacent to fire pits and a giant pipe and net made 8 person hammock loading into the basement we wander amongst the rest of the house finding themed art string rooms including telephone wire webs and LCD headed manicans we are served rolls with various colored spreads and cheeses fed funny named beers and caffeinated club-mattes followed by a burrito dinner and 60 person packed basement of dancing kids calling for 3 encores the last being for 10 more songs where some quick German math let us off with a few less upstairs the party continued with DJs spinning a punk rock mosh pit while others surrounded a fire handfulls of drink tickets to a spray painted ply wood bar fueled further attempt of speaking German concluding with rejection or making out with handsome dudes meanwhile upstairs the dance party was mixing punk rock into new wave into drum and bass into techno where the few hundred people who once saturated the house and lawn began to fade we crawled into our storage bunker quickly passing out and awaking to a spreaded breakfast and a grip of money followed with “there was too much money – here's more money” and departing.

And since I'm writing this – just to note – this space was entirely collectively run by a bunch of rad volunteers who throw events for the sake of music and art. A venue able to host, feed, alcoholically inhibit, and pay all within a not-for-profit framework. A successful example of what could be with enough dedication, organization, and relentless passion to party.

9/15 – Wiesbaden Part 1

It was sometime around playing our first or second song in Europe that we realized that the prospect of writing 50+ interesting and expansive blog entries was going to seriously inhibit our ability to party, so from here on out, it's going to have to be more concise (re: party friendly).

Our first night in Wiesbaden, I was going to play an acoustic show at our friends Mike and Rufio's flat. These two dudes are rad, punk loving American drunks living in Germany, so we had a sneaking suspicion that shit was about to get drunk. Lo and behold, the small apartment show was packed with rad buddies from America and Germany, socially-lubricated via a bathtub packed full of PBR pinched from the nearby military base, and much better German beer, the name of which escapes me. I played for 45 minutes or so, and then we proceeded to party at a bar some 20 minutes from the apartment called Clatsch (or something). The combination of jet lag and the liquor/beer/wine intermingling in our stomachs meant it was time to get lost as fuck on the way back to the apartment. I asked for directions in German and followed them (Frau France, my old German teacher, would be proud as fuck). I passed out in a Taun Taun shaped sleeping bag and slept soundly to a flourish of beer farts. Nice.

9/16 – Wiesbaden Part 2

Rolling up to a giant graffiti caked warehouse we unload into a the chain dangling decommissioned slaughter house. The room we load into is not the venue, but a place we are told the government said no one is allowed in due to the city rendering the squat's structure unsafe (so instead was paying them 50 million Euro to build a new one). Pretzels and spreads introduced a stuffed pepper lentil entree sided by salad and all the Becks beer we could drink. We chatted with Banner Pilot about their tales of Russia and I took a gleeful walk with their merch guy Joe who repeatedly solicited German teens who spoke little English for weed.

After the show we proceeded to empty the coolers of Becks and a bottle of vodka a nice girl Anka bought for us. We met up with Tim's friends Heike and Benny, the latter who, after consuming the last quarter of said vodka, threw my water away because it was not beer. The night ended in a hopeful drunken entourage that we would find a bar but rather wandered a few kilometers of blocks before settling for convenience store beer and a park across the street.

9/17 – Leipzig Part 1

We arrived into a neighborhood scrolling with punk rock paints spattering what seemed every wall in Leipzig. Streets walking with tattoo faced moms and feral dreaded children showing patronage to their local DIY squatted movie theater or anarchist bar. Along side a park with a giant trampoline and three story slides being played about with drink in hand. Needless to say – we were stoked!

The show was acoustic at a bar called Black Label that resembled an old Irish pub if it were out drank by a bunch of punk rock kids. Out back was a burrito cart called Atacolypse that not only had the best name for a small mexican style joint but had some of the best vegan fake meet burritos any of us has ever had (if you are one of the many who believes Germany has no good Mexican food anywhere – be sure to pack your wrong mouth with the fajitas). It was a pleasant surprise to see Steffi, who is one of the greatest of all Berliners to ever exist. The show was a balanced mix of Elway songs and crowd pleasers including a heavy German-accented Journey cover. Afterward further drinking ensued and we passed out in the care of our friends Zgonne and Jenny.

9/18 – Leipzig Part 2

On our second day in Leipzig, we awoke in the loft of Zgonne and Jenny's apartment to a gorgeous panoramic view of the city. We pointed at various architectural standouts along the morning skyline and hatched a plan to assemble the bleary-eyed, hungover crew of buddies strewn about the floors and go see what all this shit is about. First we checked out Volkerschlacht which, near as this writer can tell, is a monument to Napoleon's defeat at the hands of a large congregation of armies and quite possibly the most badass building ever constructed. It looks like Duane “The Rock” Johnson would live there. Next we saw the Leipzig city hall, which makes San Francisco's usually-beautiful city hall look like a tenement for fecalphiliacs. We saw a few more very tangible examples of how beautiful architecture in Germany can be before heading back to the flat for some mind-destroying vegan goulash, which we consumed with a bestial zeal that brings to mind Jack Nicholson's seminal performance in “Wolf.” Tasty. The show was in a small bar/showspace called Kulturehouse Manfried, and it basically ruled. Openers Sick Times brought just that with a loud and fast, German-accented hardcore set. We played to the apparent delight of about 60 Germans, and kept the momentum going throughout the 90 minute set. Our Fort Collins bestie turned Berliner, Gretchen, whom we had not seen in what seems like eons, along with Berlin promoter and all around awesome person, Yvy drove down from Berlin to surprise us. The look on our faces was pricelessly vibrant with excitement, as if mom just told us that, yes, we can get the super-soaker slip-n-slide. Post show hangs ensued at the Black Label, where most reminisced and told stories of the road to a background soundtrack of Brian Van Proyen and local dingus Michele arguing the finer points of their own intoxication using only loud grunts. We returned to the flat and cuddled the night away. Cute shit.

9/19 – Berlin Part 1

After the standard German tour breakfast of rolls and spreads (perhaps my favorite part of tour), we bid adieu to Zgonne, Jenny, and the still-drunk Michele. We packed the van and headed to Berlin. We came to a halt in Neukon (misspelled) near Steffi's house. First order of business on Yvy's daylong Elway agenda was to macht schnell to a small pub on the corner for clutch A.M. Beers. Good idea. We sat around Steffi's place and talked a bit before heading to Cassiopeia, which it should be noted is a very fucking cool venue located in a former GDR railyard-turned-DIY-show-and-dance-club-bonanza. There is no more apt way to describe it. Before loading in, Yvy and Steffi proceeded to voraciously disembowel and previous notion we may have had about what a good Falafel is. The place we went to is simply lightyears beyond anything we've ever had in the US. Previous falafel gold-medalist Mahmoud's in the east village of New York City pales pitifully in comparison. Jesus Christ... Just Jesus fucking Christ, it was such a good falafel. The show also ruled, and the crowd was warm and receptive, as it typically is in Germany. We played something like 70 minutes, which would be absolutely batshit in the US, but is starting to become routine for us here in Europe. After the show, we ventured back to Steffi's house to sort out details for the next morning's highly-anticipated trip to the Russian Federation.

And that's when shit got fucking real...

9/20 – Moscow Part 1

Before we get into our exploits in Russia, I must first say that there is no possible way that a trite couple of paragraphs about each show can do justice to just how awesome the people in Russia were to us (this excludes police, as we shall soon discuss). The shows were so amazing that it really does make the five years we've been playing seem like the most worth it endeavor ever. Okay, here we go.

We left the Berlin-Tegel airport after navigating the sophisticated and seemingly-senseless minefield of airline bureaucracy that AirBaltic laid out before us. Something in the counter lady's eyes seemed to scream that we were about to get hosed real fucking bad (it's called foreshadowing, folks). We boarded a small puddle jumper and flew to Riga. Now, Riga is in Latvia, and even though the modestly-sized airport is not likely to be a microcosm of the country, I can say with imminent conviction that Latvia is a country populated and run by total fucking babes. Every single Latvian man and woman in the angular, modern terminal carried with them a beauty that was simply crygasm inducing. So by the time babetown the customs lady and hunktown the busdriver led us on our way to our plane to Moscow, we were writing with excitement to get to Russia. We arrived some two hours later in Moscow to the news that one of our guitars had not made it on the plane in either Berlin or Riga (“We have no way to know this” quoth the AirBaltic representative who totally should have had a way to know.). It seemed that I (Tim) would be borrowing from Russian randos for the duration of our stay in Russia. Whatever, no problem... 45 minutes of red tape and wildly gesturing with my hands to try to make up for a language barrier as looming as the iron curtain later, we were in a van with promoter Iliea, bound for Bavasky Zamov somewhere in the massive city center. We arrived nearly 2 hours later (Moscow is massive, and the traffic makes Los Angeles seem like Big Spring, Texas) and were greeted by Russian booking agent, Dima, who should carry a sceptre for being so unrelentingly fucking awesome. We met up with a lot of familiar faces from my outing with Nothington in Russia earlier this year and it became clear that, yesinfuckingdeed, we were about to have a fucking great time. A Russian 'that guy' sauntered up to each of us and offered us some drug unique to Russia that is, we learned later, primarily tobacco filled chicken feces with various chemicals. You are supposed to put it in you lip like chewing tobacco. A hearty “fuck that shit” issued from my now very sour tasting jowels, and I went about making new friends. After consuming generous helpings of vodka flavored with honey and hot chiles (great stuff), Russian cognac (also great) along with a homecooked pasta dish that tasted like what I imagine a reacharound from Adonis would feel like, we headed into the club. 3 very energetic and awesome Russian punk bands opened the show, and there was a very palpable and positive energy in the room. I couldn't imagine a more fitting setting to spend our fifth anniversary as a band (9/20/07 was the date of our first practice). We played our set and shit went absolutely bananas. A constant barrage of crowd surfers and broken English singalongs lit up a small room in Moscow for another marathon 80 minute set. I was sweating like a priest on a playground, and I was so smitten by the exuberance of the show that any worries about my lost guitar or anger toward the supid AirBaltic evaporated. It was perfect. We rode the subway to my friend Pasha's flat, where we were treated to a sort of Latka/Knish operation coupled with rice and vegetables that nicely punctuated the first day of what seemed like was going to be the best time ever. No high is really a high without a low to compare it to though, as we would learn the next day when the atmosphere of excitement and wonderment detoured into squalid shittiness...

9/21 – Kovrov, Russia

We awoke to a mild Moscow morning, some delicious breakfast at Pasha's place, and a 5 hour van ride to Kovrov before us. We loaded into a van driven by the Russian John Candy and headed east. We learned along the way that 1. Kovrov means “Carpet” and the city is the birthplace of the AK-47. Gangster shit. 2. Small kiosks speckle the side of the highways in rural Russia, clusters of them selling the same odd items in seemingly infinite quantities (giant stuffed bunnies, inflatable rafts, lampshades). 3. Russian Pear soda tasted fucking awful and 4. Kovrov is a small town, and because the original plan to have a show in nearby and more punk-friendly Vladimir fell through for logistical reasons, we were going to be one of the only punk bands ever to play there. We arrived in the small industrial town, and after wandering about in confusion trying to find the venue (this included Garrett taking a piss in what he thought was an abandoned lot and subsequently getting yelled at ferociously in Russian and kicked in the ass), we loaded into the small bar on the second story of an old brick building. As local punks began to congregate on the street corner and mingle with groups of kids who drove in from Vladimir and beyond, we decided now might be a good time to meet some seriously cool folks. We set to drinking way too much vodka in an alleyway strewn with broken bricks behind the venue with 15 or so various Russians. The language barrier, though present as ever, seemed negligible when alcohol and music are involved. We returned to the front of the club to discover that another group of people had shown up. The sidewalks around the front of the venue were now occupied by something between 15 and 20 Russian police officers, armed with assault rifles. We were told by Dima that they were there to make sure that everything is civil and that there is no uhh... monkey business going on with our punk show. Nearer to our set time, the small militia of bored-looking Russian cops was joined by a pair of Russian plainclothes immigration cops who looked like the sexy russian equivalents of Daniel Craig and Colin Farrel respectively. They were at the show to ensure that the American band had proper documents to be playing shows in Russia. We played our set and again, people went fucking crazy. The cutting out of everything electronic, the broken microphone stands, even the out of tune guitar couldn't stop everyone in the room from getting stoked. We finished our set and walked off stage to the news that we would be packing everything up and leaving out the back door out of the view of the police in short order. The cadence of Dima's words and the look in the eyes of locals suggested that now is not the time for fucking around, and so we obliged as quickly as we could manage. We loaded our shit into John Candy's van and got in as fast as we could, but before we could get the fuck out, a swarm of cops surrounded the van led by the sexy immigration duo. We were told that we need to come to the police station for questioning. Pants are beginning to be shat at this point. We arrived at the station and were sat down in a hallway in the company of a guy with an AK-47 while the sexy duo and a few other cops talked to the promoter in the adjoining office (I hesitate to call it an interrogation room). It was at this point that we noticed that Joe was beginning his 25^th birthday in a Russian police station. Fuck yes! What followed was a seriously grueling 4 hour process of asking questions of each person and fingerprinting me and Joe because we didn't have our passports. We didn't want to be there and neither did these cops. They seemed sour about it. They asked shit like “What your musics about?” “No singing politic?” “Have heard any Russian bands? (baiting me to say Pussy Riot)” After a while tensions seemed to be alleviated by mutual interest in sleeping. Colin Farrel explained to me with all of the 4 English words he knew that “I guitar, favorite group Dire Straits.” We were given the paperwork documenting that we were in violation of our tourist visas by playing a show, so we would have to pay a fine to be assessed later. Much ado about nothing. All the questions about politics, lyrics, and music were just small town cops trying to root out foreign insurgency or some pitifully conceived notion of doing good police work so Putin will invite them to dinner or some shit. Basically a lot of boredom punctuated by brief moments of either humor or worry. No bother... Back to Moscow to continue to violate the terms of our visas!

9/22 – Moscow Part 2

The van ride from Kovrov back to Moscow seemed much shorter in the early morning, as there was no traffic and it was impossible not to sleep. Russian John Candy delivered us safely back to Pasha's place, where we took a 3 hour power nap in preparation for a day of touristy awesomeness and a rad show. We woke up and took the train to the city center where we saw Red Square and St. Basil's Cathedral, The Kremlin, 0km, and a bunch of ritzy restaurants and shops that would make Marx want to kill the shit out of himself. We ate at a pretty awesome vegetarian restaurant and met up with darling Russian couple besties Anna and Dima, who are seriously the nicest people we've ever met on tour. We went to the museum built in the apartment where Bulgakov lived when he wrote The Master and Margarita and nerded out hard. We then headed to the Konkrete Store. Now, when I was in Nothington and we came to the Konkrete Store, it was bare none the most insane show I've ever played , yet somehow still we were utterly unprepared for the pandemonium that would ensue. The Konkrete Store is kind of like Zumiez, if Zumiez were impossible to come by. The store sits in part of an old factory turned shopping center/art space. On the day we were playing, the whole place was having a huge festival, which meant that our show would be outside on a stage that was nothing more than a stack of wooden palates, and in front of some 250-300 people. Mix that with the usual craziness of Russian punk shows, and shots of vodka chased by garlicy pickles, and you've got a recipe for a crazy time. The combination electric/acoustic show lasted about an hour and consisted of Elway as a 3 piece band (The amp Brian was trying to use blew up) or as a 4 piece where I just frontmanned it, and a night ending acoustic singalong sesh that was epic. Crowdsurfing on an actual surfboard, a move that I saw when Nothington played, was revisited heavily. Enormous circle pits erupted. Fucking people rained down from the roof of the factory into the crowd like the most awesome 9/11 interpretive dance you've ever imagined. Throats were destroyed in singalong glory. It was the best show we've ever played. Glowing with the sweat of victory, we set our course for the train station for the overnight train to St. Petersburg.

9/23 – St. Petersburg

The trains in Europe rule. Transformer dining tables become beds and turn a dismal 9 hour train ride through towns with names like “Nuclear Power” into a gentle rocking sleep. There's a weird feeling when waking up with a bunch of other strangers – a feeling provoked by soft careful movements and heavy eyes that's usually reserved for close friends or lovers. Everyone on that train was our lover.

Arriving in a rainy St. Petersburg we dragged our gear to a taxi that took us to Sveta and her friend Anna's apartment. We spent most of the afternoon there recovering from our former Moscow and Kovrov shows watching the heavy rain run off large concrete sky rise apartment roofs. We set to the grocery store in the evening to show Russia what a real burrito tastes like but were missing about 75% of the ingredients so we settled for some rad pasta.

We again dragged our gear through the rain (including our 50 pound body bag of merch that gained a few pounds of water to the underground) this time to the underground that would take us to our show. Arriving at the first proper venue we played in Russia we were somewhat excited to play on gear that would blow up or fall apart when playing. The show was cool – kids got down – at one point all the way to the ground to form a row boat of sorts. The show ended, we went home, drank some more, sang acoustic songs and passed out in each others arms.

9/24 – Berlin

The morning was abrupt, rising at dawn to take our sorry, sleep deprived asses to the airport. We said goodbye to our friends Dima, Anna and Sveta and filed into a cab. A whole school-year's worth of gold stars were awarded to our cab driver for the stylish track suit and 6am techno jams. We exchanged strong verbs with the Air Baltic check-in employee to not lose our fucking guitars this time, blah blah blah airport, security, we boarded the plane and promptly passed out. We arrived in Lativa, the only thing lifting our weighted eyelids was the chance we would miss the gorgeous visage of every unholy Latvian sex god/goddess. We boarded the plane, relieved to see that our guitars actually made it board. As we delighted in the fact that this would certainly be our last transaction with Air Baltic, the stewardess and head sky-cunt reprimanded Tim for taking a pillow from the business class. We talked her out of a police report and a criminal sentencing to death.

We arrived in Berlin, greeted our beloved Frank and recouped Tim's guitar from a crag-sized entangelment of lost baggage. Sustenance was immediately sought and found at a nearby pizza place. Bellies satiated, Berlin homegurlz Stephie and Evie guided through the streets of Berlin for some warp-speed tourism and sight seeing. Old ass churches, old ass buildings, old ass parks, old ass monuments, we saw it all. It was cool, but we were sober. Time for some mood altering substance abuse.

Flo, the owner and operator of the Ramones Museum, greeted us with some Helles beers. We gathered in front of the marquee for some pictures and sharpied the Elway name on the visitors wall alongside museum guests such as Dead to Me, Against Me!, Nofx, and Blog Author and the Name Droppers.

The acoustic show at Ramones museum went so swimmingly (drunkenly) that I scarcely noticed that 90+ minutes had passed. I played a Radiohead song even... We set our sights on a bar near Steffi's house, but first we had to get robbed real quick... More on that soon.

Alles Liebe,

Elway

Europe/Fest/US: Part I

Before we dive into your regular scheduled Elway blog programming (dick/fart jokes, descriptions of vegan meals, braggadocios [and unnecessarily verbose] explanations of how drunk we got/are getting at shows), allow me to get cheesy for a second.

Sometimes, when the trammels and various ennuis of being a 20-something college student weigh particularly heavy, it can seem like a good idea to forego monetary comfort, professional success, and personal hygiene so that you can play in a traveling rock band.  We all took the plunge, and I am pleased as punch to say that I can earnestly tell this blog's readership (all 8 people) that it has been various shades of totally fucking worth it.  As a good friend of mine says:  "Don't mistake this for complaining 'cause I'm satisfied."  Almost exactly five years ago, on September 20th, 2007, 10-4 Eleanor practiced for the first time.  It might surprise me if I could hear how much we've improved since those days, though I fear that I might be giving us a bit too much credit.  We drank and played shows in living rooms and basements and dive bars, did some touring, recorded a few records, made tons of amazing friends, and so on...  The point is that playing in this band became a sort of cathartic escape from the idea of having to get our shit together, but never did it ever seem like the kind of thing that could take us to another state, let alone another continent.  The very fact that I am writing this from an apartment in Wiesbaden, Germany is a testament to what we've managed to accomplish with what was essentially a distracting hobby.  We have you guys to thank.  If it wasn't for the people interested in our band, I would be handling clinking fistfulls of piss and blood viles, Brian would be stalking some laboratory wearing a respirator over his old Link 80 shirt, Joe would be counting fucking blades of grass on the government dime (a job he actually did), and Garrett would be trying to fix your broken serpentine belt with only bike tubes and shoe goo.  Instead, we get to be across the world for the next 6 weeks or so.  That's pretty cool to me, so thanks.

-Tim

9/8/12: Fort Collins, Colorado

Tour kickoff day.  Our last day in town for 2+ months.  For most of the day, the excitement of playing what was shaping up to be an awesome show at Road 34 was quashed by a towering anxiety monster that seemed to constantly bellow "You're going to forget something, you fucking dick pig!" or "You're going to ruin this tour for everyone and wind up working at the adult bookstore."  Turns out the anxiety monster cowers pitifully in the shadow of the much-mightier booze monster, because once we took to drinking, it seemed like we couldn't fuck anything up.  A.M. Pleasure Assassins opened the show, and I'll be fucked if it wasn't one of the best sets I've seen from a Fort Collins local in what seems like forever.  Think Fugazi+Fifteen+Braid+Flaming Lips.  Huzzah.  Next up were super friends Sour Boy, Bitter Girl.  I spend an awful lot of time hyping these guys, and I will continue to do so forever so long as they persist in exceeding my expectations of what an amazing band should sound like.  Dudes played a great set, jussayin.  We played next and it was truly great to see such an energetic and rad crowd.  One of the very greatest hometown shows we've ever played.  Goodbyes were said, shots were taken, a few tears shed, and we packed our shit into Vanzig and went home for a few hours of sleep beside our significant others, or beside two very drunk dudes who homoerotically wrestle the night away and accidentally break your computer (Garrett), or beside your treasured canister of hair product (Joe).  We woke up bleary-eyed with hungover sights set on Omaha.

9/9/12: Omaha, Nebraska

We arrived in Omaha well ahead of show time, so we spent a while thrift store shopping for last minute tour needs and scoping out a pretty rad skate part where a couple of BMX riders were doing shit that seemed fucking impossible to me.  We jetted across town to Benson, where we met up with Andy and Angie of Hear Nebraska.  We sat in their back yard and drank beers and bullshitted until it was time to go to the show.  The opening band was called The Shidiots, and they played a Guttermouth-y, NOFX-y kind of 90s punk rock peppered with drinking references and lyrical insistence that people who shop at Whole Foods are dicks for some reason.  We played a quick, semi-tight set to a thin crowd consisting of Andy and Angie and our PayPals (They work at PayPal, get it?) and a few stragglers.  Good times and alcoholic beverages were had.  Elway blog alumni Letter Z, a man who gets far too drunk to be a lawyer, yet is still somehow a lawyer, made a welcome appearance, though we were in too much of a hurry to get on the road to stay for a few highly stoned rounds of Jeopardy.  Elway has a storied history with the city of Omaha, in that it has historically been where we stop to play an underwhelming show on the way to or from Chicago.  That, we are continually reminded each time we play there, is an unfair assessment.  Yes, it is true that we've never played to a huge crowd there, and this show was no exception, but we have managed to make some very excellent friends.  To them, we say "thanks, brochachos."

9/10/12: Chicago, Illinois

We found ourselves in that now very second nature Chicago scenario wherein we ascend the stairs to Matt "Shaboy" Marti and Rachel "Richard Gere" Rolfsmeier's apartment in the morning after a drive that could only be aptly described as "total bullshit."  We knew something was amiss when we entered the apartment with the air completely devoid of Thin Lizzy's The Boys are Back in Town.  "What the fuck?" we pondered.  It's the way we've always done things here in Chicago, but Marti and Rachel had job things to do (whatever) and we showed up late because the suburbs decided to take a gigantic traffic shaped shit right there on the 88.  It was time to eat brunch, goddamnit.  When considering the bevy of seriously awesome locales to stuff your face full of delicious vegan brunch in Chicago, I'd say that though there are several other places that are comparably good, the Elway seal of approval goes to Pick Me Up on Clark St.  We gorged ourselves on delicious vegan food, and shit was right again.  The story from there is familiar.  We played our third show at The Beat Kitchen, which is quickly becoming my favorite venue to play ever, with three totally ripping openers.  Devon Kay and the Solutions, Dowsing, and Sass Dragons all managed to nicely sate the musical palate in different ways.  The show was super well attended given that it was a Monday night, and we played yet another super-fun set in America's super-best city.  Post show drinks were practically inhaled at The Gingerman Tavern, courtesy of Katie Jegroote and I'm pretty sure I should have thrown up.  Standard.

9/11/12: Never Forget Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

The incessant honks in support of the Chicago teacher's strike shook us out of a sound, blackout slumber. Our stomachs churning with the unforgivable combination of whiskey and a heart-seizing portion of Wrigdog cheesefries, we skipped over our brunch rendezvous and set our sights on Pittsburgh.  6 hours later, with pockets horrifically gouged by toll fares, we checked in at 222 Ormsby. This we be our second time playing here, and we were amped to revisit the house turned venue complete with plenty of floor space, a lounge, and a loud as fuck PA system.  We dropped off our gear and masterfully steered Vanzig down the narrow hills of Pittsburgh like a Maddog 20/20 sponsored bobsled team. The prize? Some pretty passable vegan grub at Over The Bar, a bicycle/bar food themed restaurant. The show was awesome. Kids sang along and another timid tuesday night in Pittsburgh was transformed into a tantric punk rock noise orgy. Not bad. After the show we slammed some Yeunglings and seared our palates with habanero veggie burgers. The denouement took place alongside the river confluence, our beer bottles glistened in distant city lights while we were consumed by conversation atop the wreckage of an abandoned yacht. Pretty. Fucking. Awesome. 

9/12/12: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Our excitement to arrive in Philadelphia, eat some killer sammies at Govinda's, and hang with hometown heros Luther, Rob Lately, The Holy Mess, and One Win Choice was punctuated by innumerable traffic lights and haunting habanero farts from the previous late night. We received our variable feast of vegan pepper steak and faux chicken Philly cheese subs and ate among bestest friends Drew, Anika, Dave, and Dan who drove down from Brooklyn for the show. Once satiated by good food and great company, we headed to the Cracker Factory in order to drink, sing, and sweat in a musty basement with our buddies. The handsome dudes in Cry Baby played first and set the precedent for a night of rocking tunes. Rob (shaboy) Malloy upped the ante of attractiveness and musical amusement with his solo project Rob Lately as his crooning acoustic songs of new found love provoked gushy sentiments in a 90s-alt rock fashion. Downtown Struts upped the punx with a Rancid cover while the gents in Luther closed out the night spectacularly with their thrashing. The evening that followed was dangerously drunk and fun. Just ask Garrett, who woke up in some random parking lot with dicks and lighting bolts sharpied all over his hungover facade. The next day we woke up at Greg's (of Menzingers fame) and sought out pizza. Our final task before leaving for Europe was to sucker somebody into giving us a ride to JFK. Luckily, stoned to the bone Andy from Luther was kind and stupid enough to brave traffic and bordom to help us out. Eight hours, some inflight boozing, and a handful of Lorazepam later, we made it to Frankfurt, Deutschland.   

To be continued...

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.

-Garrett

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.

THE END.

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!!!

Canada/West Coaster: Part II

7/23: Seattle

After a footed van chase down to the US customs checkpoint due to a hold up of sweet booze dealz at the duty free shop we had arrived back in the land of fountain soda and cheap beer. With freedom ringing in our ears we celebrated our mother land with a Seattle $8.99 all-you-can eat vegan buffet at Araya’s Place. After packing our gullets full of creamy peanut butter sauce drowned pad thai and green curry saturated tofu we thanked our founding fathers and God even though we were unable to pray over a forty-five degree angle. We laid down in a park on the other side of the water providing a beautiful panoramic view of the industrious shores of the city.

Heading over to El Corozon, a rad all-ages club complete with a dirt turkey infested alley and piss soaked carpeted floors, we were greeted by some amazingly helpful and friendly stage and sound folk.  We were also introduced to a heavy handed bartender who felt the need to wish us luck by mixing us cocktail glasses of whiskey. With encouragement and gifts from our new found friends Elway took the stage with mediocrely executed licks and banter equivalent to a high school mall hang after getting your older brother to buy you a 6 pack of mike’s hard cranberry. Dopamines did okay too. TBR followed with clever techniques to rouse audience participation that erupted in pogoing circle pits and projectile beers.

And the make up for 3 days of not drinking $6.50 Molson Canadian cans continued. We were bought beverages from old and new pal’s, including Toby Jeg’s brother who eerily sounds just like him, and Erin and her boyfriend celebrating 11 years with excessively loud eighth notes and conversations carrying globs of spit infused booze. A $100 torso sized bottle of Jamison entered the scene introduced by the Dopamines complete in silver tilting receptacle that served directly into our mouths.

I apparently stole some girl’s cigarette (sorry whoever you were) and continued to dart back and forth yelling over stranger’s conversations as if I were a 6 year old on Christmas morning. I also ended up sitting with a woman who explained that my misunderstood fascination with bodies of water had to do with detachment issues from my father – a conversation that I had almost entirely no part in besides head nods and maybe a few tears. The night ended crashing into the bench seat of the van and waking up to a 7am sun in the shittiest Tacoma motel parking lot.

-garrett

7/24: Portland

Our day in Portland started off right with some pretty epic vegan BBQ that our buddy Ben hooked up.  We then sped our way over to the Backspace, passing Crome-bagged, sideways haircut bo-bos along the way.  Load-in, coffee, and beer happened before we found The Dopamines geeking out at this rad arcade bar called Ground Kontrol.  Don’t judge the place by the unforgiving use of the ‘K’ – the place had mad pinball machines (including a Will Wheaton signed SNG) and a timed NES emulator machine.  I (Brian) used my 90s talent to immediately destroy Mario 3, a feat that is apparently crazier the younger you get.  I was also able to get TKOed by Mike Tyson in the second round after remembering the password (007-373-5963).

Back at the venue we watched some rad openers and played to a group of people working on their bored expressions.  We covered Minor Threat’s “Straight Edge.”  The Dopamines changed their name to The Vegan Cheesesteaks for the evening and TBR followed with clever techniques to rouse audience participation that erupted in pogoing circle pits and projectile beers. Courtesy vegan sandwiches from the backspace were had, more arcadage, and then we proceeded to get the fuck out of Oregon. 

7/25:  San Francisco

We left Portland right after the show under the assumption that our overnight drive wouldn’t be a big deal and that at a lean-compared-to-Fort-Collins-to-Edmonton 650 miles, we would be able to knock it out without issue.  Although our GPS is a lying British accent-having piece of shit that insisted spuriously that it would take us 10 hours (it took 12), we arrived shortly after noon in beautiful San Francisco.  The first stop was at Golden Era, which is among the greatest Vegan Chinese restaurants that exist in this fading republic.  Check it out and get the sweet and sour chik’n.  We followed up lunch with a stroll down Baker Beach for the ultimate in dichotomous vistas.  You really get a sense of the big picture of life when your view of the magnificence of the Golden Gate bridge and the hills of Marin is punctuated by an old creepy dude’s dilapidated nutsack draped down from between his sun-crimsoned thighs like a gunny sack full of ham cubes.  Breathtaking.

Our next stop was the Fat Wreck warehouse/record store, where Teenage Bottlerocket was to do an in-store record signing thing with some exclusive colored vinyl.  We showed up right when we were expecting that it’d start to the news that both Bottlerocket and Dopamines had stopped in the night and would be various degrees of late, citing fatigue and weakness of character respectively as an excuse.  No matter, we drank a bunch of beers and thumbed through the collection of rad shit that Fat has sitting around.  Some notable Elway blog alumni showed up too, which was rad!  Dennis and Erin, our buddies mentioned in a previous blog about Sacramento, showed up to hang with a baking sheet packed full of mini red velvet cupcakes with icing pentagrams on them and a clutch bottle of Maker’s Mark.  Best people ever.

I can remember being a young idiot listening to NOFX records and thinking that it’d be amazing to play Bottom of the Hill someday.  Now that I’m an old idiot, I am pleased as piss to report that actually playing there was just as rad as my constantly-masturbating former self imagined.  Bottlerocket obviously has a storied history of killing it in San Francisco, because the venue was packed.  This show was far and away the best show of the tour so far and the best show on the West Coast.  Sing alongs, high fives, and a good old fashioned circle pit!  Dopamines (sincerely) played a great set and got people stoked.  Just about every friend we’ve ever made in the bay area was in attendance and we made a couple of new buddies as well.  Special thanks to Ramona, Skyler and all of the rad people from the Bottom of the Hill.  We retired to super bro Jay’s abode for nightcaps, illicit substances and sleep.

The Dopamines bought this enormous pig at the Canadian border.

Joe has nicer legs than your girlfriend.  Sorry, but he does.

Drunk.

Yes!

Dude bought an Elway shirt and immediately cut off the sleeves.  Goofball.

When not doing his best Kid Rock impersonation, Ben serves rad Vegan BBQ in Portland.

At the Fat Wreck Record Store in SF.

Bottom of the Hill show.

Clutch Christian rock band-style photo

More from SF.

CONTEST PHOTOS!

Success Brian.  Reference:http://www.quickmeme.com/Success-Kid/

Bad Luck Tim.  Reference: http://www.quickmeme.com/Bad-Luck-Brian

Canada/West Coaster: Part I

7/18, Fort Collins, CO: It was bright outside. Our eyes adjusted to make out dark cement walls lined with framed tour posters and plastic cup capped whiskeys sitting dormant atop glass shelves. Door men and sound guys arrived sheepishly running through routines shuffling gear and instructing backlines designed to seamlessly peel away. Fold out tables were lined with t-shirts and disks stuck with hot pink priced tapes (our hand crafted wood display we spent hours on was too big so we ditched that shit). We set up as quick as we could and set out to find birthday friends and rainbow colored booze slurpees. And the slaying began. People quickly funneled into a free show at the Aggie in Fort Collins arming themselves with tallboys and shots lining the floor. The first band, Head Injuries, was from Loveland and played good punk rock. If this statement doesn’t sound too surprising – check out Loveland sometime. Dopemines followed getting the crowed stoked and detailing the impregnating of a wife. Elway then played one of our biggest shows gracing the audience with a handful of songs off Delusions, a few from our new EP “Hence My Optimism”, and even a very new one we managed not to completely botch. TBR followed with clever techniques to rouse audience participation erupting pogoing circle pits and projectile beers. The kick off forecast a rad tour with rad dudes. Drinks were had, to a point where load out included me crashing down the stairs and into a wall kick drum first. Some more bars happened. And the rest was forgotten.


7/19 – 7/20, Bummer drive and Edmonton: You know, the 1,300 mile journey from Fort Collins to Edmonton seemed daunting at first, but after shedding a couple hundred miles off the journey and witnessing the jarring manmade urban splendor of such cities as Casper, Wyoming, we realized that drive was actually not only daunting, but actually very boring. The saving grace was the never-disappointing natural beauty of Montana. I can’t say I blame all those hill jacks who live there who want to make their 20 acre ranches with all the cars on cinder blocks, the sadly malnourished but loyal hound dogs, and the Ron Paul 2008 and 2012 yard signs into sovereign nations ala Mr. Show. Anyhow, we decided to split our journey to Edmonton in twain by staying in a town called Lethbridge, Alberta, just over the Canadian border. Our border crossing, by the by, was as painless as could ever be expected, as the border guards were stoked to hear that we love Propagandhi and let us through without much of a hassle. I wonder what their favorite song off Today’s Empires Tomorrow’s Ashes is. Garrett managed to find a vegan hardcore kid on a couchsurfing website who said he’d put us up for the night. This was stoking, because his house turned out to be a MTV cribs style mansion and we slept more comfortably than we deserve. Thanks bro! Okay, so we finally arrive in Edmonton, scoped out the venue, and ate some spectacular vegan food from a restaurant called Padmanati. The show was great. Old Wives opened the show and played a well-oiled brand of pop punk that brings to mind the heyday of Lookout! Records. We played and were well received, particularly by the 5 or 6 skids throwing each other around in the pit. The Dopamines killed, per usual. TBR followed with clever techniques to rouse audience participation erupting pogoing circle pits and projectile beers. Garrett, Brian and I(Tim) went on the hunt for some of that famous overpriced Canadian beer, and on our journey helped an elderly woman on her way home from the doctor walk to her apartment building with her groceries. Hooray for helping! As the show came to a boozy end, we hatched a plan with The Dopamines to share a single room in a hotel with a strip club in the basement. We decided to go to said strip club to celebrate The Dopamines’ hardly-working merch guy Dave’s birthday. I have never been a huge fan of strip clubs, but there were certainly some noticeable differences between Canadian and American strip joints that I felt were interesting and worth expanding upon. Canada, like the EU and I’m sure several other countries doesn’t have a $1 or $2 bill. Anything smaller than $5 is represented only with coins. You can see where this creates a logistical problem for dancer and strip club patron alike. The answer lies in posters personalized to the individual dancer, rolled up like a bugle of sorts and held suggestively by the girl as she encourages customers to toss coins into the funnel. Even more interestingly, the coins that miss the makeshift funnel thing are collected by a magnet on a stick operation that sort of looks like a metal detector. They’ve got it down to a science, up here! We wound down the rest of our night steeping in the ironic contraposition of what it was to help that elderly woman with walking down the street versus what it is to help out some young girls by pitching loons ($1 coins) into a paper funnel held between their legs. A line of thought that doesn’t lead to very flattering places… A couple old Simpsons and Golden Girls episodes washed the thoughts from our heads as we drifted off to a drunken sleep.


7/21, Calgary: The Dopamines are a bunch of rich kids. Brutal hangovers left us in shambles as we rolled across their 1 ½ star hotel room floor telling fart jokes and passing Mikey Erg around. Desperate attempts were made to wash away the pungent scent of shame and stripper perfume, decimating what little integrity the hotel’s shower ever possessed. With clean bodies and a clear conscience, another savage craving soon entered out stomachs and hearts. Realizing we had been in Canada for almost 12 hours, the time to consume poutine was nigh. The GPS was set for The Big Cheese Poutinerie in Calgary and away we went. Our veins rushing with gravy lube and stomachs churning cheese curds, we ventured onto “sexy 17th St” in Calgary. We disgusted all these hotties as the temperate Calgary sunlight illuminated our true dirt-turkey physiognomy. We took the “Pepsi Challenge”, and it was just about the saddest thing ever. You ever order a whiskey and Pepsi? Hell no, you would be a virgin until your dying day ordering that horsepiss at a bar. Double-Whiskey COKE, no ice, is what keeps these gents content. We then sauntered into a local park to watch a few locals play Weakerthans covers then jumped in the van to head over to the venue. The Old Wives opened for the second night in a row, engaging the crowd with soaring three piece harmonies and solid punk jams. The Dopamines were too drunk to play and just awkwardly touched one another on stage – I for one, was aroused. TBR followed with clever techniques to rouse audience participation that erupted in pogoing circle pits and projectile beers. Like rabid cats shot up with beer-tranquilizers and corralled into kennels, we finally got in the van, cozied up in our sleeping bags, and prepared for an overnight caravan ride to Vancouver.

7/22, Vancouver: The treachery of mountainous roads forced us to pull over at a rest stop and wait until daylight to continue. We woke up on the fringe of Banff National Forest between a spiked crag and a rushing river -truly a breathtaking way to wake up. We ate a heart-healthy breakfast with our favorite big-gurls, The Dopamines, and teamed up to continue our trek through the Canadian Rockies. The drive was a grueling all-day adventure, and we arrived just in time for load in and sound checks at The Venue. TBR’s tour manager, Cory, came through with a clutch 30 rack that accompanied our delish falafel dish dinners. We stumbled across the street to spend our last of Canadian coinage on arcade games then navigated through a myriad of crusty bo-bo’s to discuss the marvels of modern sea trade we spotted along Vancouver’s river shore. Local sluggers, The Isotopes, were first up to bat that evening and they hit one out of the park. Rocking out several Americana baseball-themed songs, they kept up momentum and lead the crowd in a sing-along of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”. The Dopamines spilled whiskey all over their dirty shirts and choked on fog smoke, all the while playing their instruments like a bunch of thalidomide stricken children. TBR followed with clever techniques to rouse audience participation that erupted in pogoing circle pits and projectile beers. We crashed with some new Canadian buddies and found the bottom of their Jameson bottle and waxed awkwardness under the influence some really awesome weed. I slept in the van and a bum watched me pee on the side of the street at 5 in the morning while I drunkenly tried to keep my footing – it was a bonding moment, his name was Larry.

This.  For 20 hours.

Heh...

Next level delicious technology, player.

Fake-ass spicy ginger beef, that's smart!

The elevation of Edmonton.  Praise his name, dicks.

 The great one lifting the cup above his mighty cranium like it ain't no thang.

 Calgary is a ten from this angle, bro...

 Canadian Rockies.  Shit got real.

 Boredom and pickles.   Boom!

This lethal mixture is called the Barnett Family Haircut.  Tasty bevs.

 Blog Epilogue (Epi-blogue?) Gimmick!!!

Here's the deal.  Because unemployment and general dickery made a bored idiot out of me, I put an Elway-ian spin on some classic internet memes.  All you guys have to do is give these following pics some hilarious captions, and you could win some free shit from us!  Don't be a dick and send them shits to elwaytheband@gmail.com!

 Scumbag Garrett

Reference:  http://www.quickmeme.com/Scumbag-Steve/

Sudden Clarity Joe

Reference:  http://www.quickmeme.com/Sudden-Clarity-Clarence/

SPRING BREAK!!! Part III

We have something of a sordid history with the state of Iowa. The shows we’ve played there on previous tours could be described as spotty if you wanted to be nice about it and total let-downs if you prefer candidness. We always left the hawkeye state feeling like we should have just kept driving. It is, however, pleasing to report that both of our shows in Iowa on this tour turned out pretty well, and our unenthusiastic opinion of the state took a real turn for the better.

The show in Davenport was in a rad diy garage space called the Zam Compound. We knew the show would be a success right away, as there were probably as many people in the room as have ever seen us at all our other Iowa shows combined. Sets from As You Were, Lipstick Homicide, and Philly homegirls Luther were all really stellar. We played well and were received warmly by the 100% awesome crowd. There were even a couple stray hippies, either flail-dancing convulsively to the songs in their jncos and tie-dye or just having a full blown meth freak-out. Either way we were stoked. We awoke the next morning and, along with Luther, were hooked up with free Jimmy John’s by Davenport promoter guru, Mike. On to Des Moines, home of the legendary Slipknot!

Puzzle:

Hint: Shame it was their last.


Fears about how the show would work out, informed by our history with the city and state were again quelled almost immediately at The Gaslamp in Des Moines. It’s a really cool bar with an impressive smattering of pornography sloppily glued(I hope) to the bathroom walls, which I suppose is a nice bonus. We were also provided with all you can drink PBR and Coors, which is both a blessing and a curse. We arrived at the venue some two hours before the bands were to start, and we were on last. You can imagine how the evening devolved into a characteristic Elway-styled buffoonery, with moderation cast unabashedly into the wind. Opening acts Muddy Rails and The Blendours were really great, the former being of the bearded, Hot Water Music ilk, and the latter being some of the best acoustic pop-punk this side of Kepi Ghoulie. We took the stage with a manly, Kate Moss confidence and drunkenly sweated through our set with what seemed like precision. The show was followed by hangs with the promoter of the show, a stand-up dude by the name of Kevan. NHL Open Ice arcade game in the living room, shots of tequila, and only half-consciously watching the first half of V for Vendetta capped off what was a pleasantly positive experience in Des Moines. Iowa was 2/2 this time around! Exciting news!

Puzzle:

Hint: There is no knowledge that is not power.


Another quick note about Iowa, is that we shared the stage with five Iowa bands on this tour, and all of them were really fucking great. No kidding! So if you have a few minutes, check out Lipstick Homicide, As You Were, Strong City, Muddy Rails, and The Blendours. Iowa has got a something going on, dudes. Where you at, Kansas?

Alright… Omaha. A city with great people and places to play this time compounded by the fact that we would be sharing the stage with long-time bosom buddies: the mighty Red City Radio. We arrived in Omaha early, and after perusing a thrift store and Mexican grocery store, we headed to Jake’s cigar bar to watch Red City Radio record a video for hearnebraska.org. The concept was that we were to sit at the tables in the bar while they played their song and look bored and uninterested. The problem with having the attention span of a meth-baby is that when you are supposed to look bored and uninterested, you tend to become bored and uninterested. Tim and tour manager extraordinaire Dave “sweet n’ low” Williams sought after Omaha’s cache of vegan delights. What we found was a pizza place called Night Flight, which made one hell of a vegan pizza. Afucking+! The show was our second time at The Sandbox and was totally decent. The Tuesday crowd was sparse, but several people I was not acquainted with seemed to know the lyrics to a bunch of songs, and the sing-a-longs made the show feel intimate and not just thinly attended and droll. Red City Radio killed it, naturally, and after some tearful goodbyes, we hit the road to make it home in time for Brian to go to work.

Puzzle: (Remember PEMDAS)!!!

Hint: Mr. Grandson of a slave owner himself!


A lot of fun was packed into these 6 days. It’s a great feeling to know that we can hop in the van and play around the Midwest for a week and have good buddies in almost every city who come out to or put on shows that make us feel like this is worth it. So a big thanks to everyone who helped put on a show, came out, bought merch, let us sleep on their floor, or sold us discounted junk food at the Flying J. Cheers!

PS: REMEMBER TO SOLVE ALL 6 PUZZLES AND GET AT US FOR A CHANCE TO WIN... SOMETHING!!!