When I woke up the day after the Greenville show I felt GREAT. And I do mean great, I mean skipping down the street, high-fiving strangers great.
So I was out of bed by 10:15 or so - plenty of sleep - and Andy headed west around 11:00 or so. I hung around town, working on the house with Rachel and enjoying being in the same place for a few hours. Then, around 3:00, back into the current and west, listening to Sound Opinions (Jim and Greg talking with Frank Black) and calling friends. You know that thing that happens, when you're on the road and your destination isn't closing on you any faster, when you stay on the phone the whole way. Yeah, that thing.
AND ON THE WAY
HOLY SHIT
IN WINSTON-SALEM
I SAW THIS THING AGAIN
Picture above is from late '08, Andy snapped that shot riding with Finn Riggins from Asheville to Wilmington, but it was the same freaking thing! Same truck and all. I had no camera on me, it quickly passed me headed the other way on 40, but I definitely saw it and I took this as a good omen.Only good could come of this show.
So it was a sunny and warm drive until I hit the mountains and I climbed the mountain through banks of thickening fog
haha
For some reason I want to put in a sentence that looks like it means something but really means gibberish like
I grappled, nigh mountebank of fog. Rough strewn carrevan ascendant braketack, like unto propagation amongst great veracity. Verily cartographed abreast of preakness majest!
Or some shit.
Point is, it was really foggy headed up the mountain and when I got to the top I was ready to be done driving. I rolled to Dave and Julie's house where they fixed me FANGODDAMNTASTIC food and we caught up and watched "the State."
What a silly show.
And after a few episodes I headed to the south side of town to get ready for the show.
Rolled across town and landed at Andy's old house - where the Niq and the Adam and the Chad and the Graham roam - I think at one point Chad and Adam were in the same room and I called them Chadam? Had a beer and kicked it, parked my truck and left it there. For the safety.
Shit. The show is starting.
Am I ready? Can I be ready?
It's a packed basement we've created - it's hungry for music.
Let's get it started.
***
A little before 10:00, but not by much, and Blag'ard got started. This was the last I would know of time until 3:30. 5 1/2 hours of noise and oblivion and midair collisions ensued and I rode the wave like I knew what I was doing... because I knew what I was doing. I felt like a skilled surfer, finally encountering the monster wave of legend, and realizing that the wave sized me up as I calmly set board to water.
This was the show. This was us growing up, this was us coming to a point where we felt like we could expect people to take us as seriously as we take ourselves. This was evolution. This was the one individual, of a species that has been changing for years, that scientists would call the moment of divergence. A feathered dinosaur becomes a bird and starts flying, stops gliding. Dig?
Read on.
***
Blag'ard had joined us for a second night and they got started first. The basement was healthily populated to begin with, and more people showed up during the set. Great love was given to Blag'ard - who played a fantastic set.
Double Dragon is a name I came up with for the house under the initial plan. Originally, this was going to be a show split between the Machiavillains' house and Andy's old house, where Niq and Chadam now reside. The two house plan kind of fell apart, but the Double Dragon House name stayed and I hope it remains the name of that house. It fits.
Anyway.
Again, Blag'ard focused on the material from the new record - which I've had long enough to appreciate now. It's a blistering pop record, ten quick tracks. The composition is tight, these guys waste nothing. They use as minimal an arsenal as I've ever seen for a band this wide-open. On hand are two mics, a Strat, two amps, a compression unit, a tuner, and a drumkit and that. is. it.
It's a more serious record than Bobcat. Central to this album is an estranged darkness, barely concealed by a laughing-to-keep-myself-from-crying smirk. Joe's voice crackles with loosely controlled emotion and some very real humanity comes out in the choruses of songs like "R.C.O." and "Babushka," when Adam's belted harmony rides alongside. Joe and Adam harmonize like two friends who don't even need to talk about what's fucked up in the world. Being friends is enough, there's no need to talk it out.
There's a disconnect in a thinking man trying to find his place in a world that changes quickly and without plan, and most of these songs are about that disconnect. Joe expresses cheerful self-deprecation, alternating between a maniacal cackle and a frustrated low rant in his vocal delivery. Listen to the pre-chorus of "R.C.O." to hear the kind of repression he manages to express. The guitar and drum lines are just restrained enough, they're building towards a satisfying go-kart derby of a chorus, but there's still a pent-up energy in this part of the song that never quite erupts... the close harmony of "R..... C.... O....." ties the guitar and drum track down, tightens it without fully hiding the tension beneath. What does "R.C.O." mean? Fuck if I know, but I know it's important.
Did that make any sense? Goddammit. I'm sitting here, listening to the record. I don't have the vocabulary to talk about it. I mean, it sounds so simple - a catchy, 33 minute rock record - but I always flop around like a fish on the shore when I try to write about Blag'ard.
Gotta love those harmonies.
When I was getting to know these guys, the first few times I saw them play, I got a different impression every time. I think all my earlier impressions were correct, but everything I've written about the Blaggies has fallen short. So maybe you tell me what this stuff is.
It's rock and roll. Shouldn't that be enough?
Amen. We'll go with that. Blag'ard was received well. People got CDs, people talked about them and they said very nice things.
***
Andy wore a turntable belt buckle that was powerful medicine and our enemies did cower. PBR and other cheapnesses were flowing. The people did drink, and some were verbing noun. It wasn't even that cold out. Two dudes were firedancing in the yard, which apparently involves a spool on fire and a length of line. The firedancer runs the spool back and forth in the space between their hands and, since it's night, you can't see the line - all you see is this fireball spinning in the air between open hands. They threw the spinning fire up, among the branches of a tree, and it landed in the grass. "Shit, let me try that again."
The second time he caught it. Nothing ended up on fire that wasn't supposed to be on fire.
***
The Machiavillians set up and, since this is their basement and their practice space, it didn't take them long. They've wired mic cables through the basement rafters, so that mics drop down from the ceiling at ideal locations. There's even a drummer mic hanging by the kit, which was perfect for Adam. This was a great PA for the purpose - there was even a monitor! I can't recall the last house show I've played that had monitors! This sentence also ends with an exclamation! I know what they say, that the overuse of exclamations dulls their impact, which is probably true! In fact, it's bad writing technique! In fact, it's probably a bad idea to use more than one per paragraph!
***
I got a proper copy of Dup's CD and he handed me a Lester Bangs book. Sweet.
***
Machiavillains - those guys must listen to a ton of Joe Strummer, but especially their bassist, Patrick. He was channeling middle Clash all night long, but not in a derivative way. Couple that with straightforward drumming and slightly disjointed guitar lines, and you have a good idea of what happens when Machiavillains play.
I was near the back, I'd walked in shortly after they got started and couldn't get very close. Dup was there and the Noise in Print hooligan gang of hooligans were with him. They definitely brought out their friends, the basement was solidly packed. Two bands in, and the night was already a righteous success.
***
Somewhere in here my gear, o my gear, made it into the basement and at some point it made it through the crowd and was set up. We moved the Machiavillains' kit out of the way, set up Ando's, and were soon ready to blast.
The stand was too short and the microphone smelled terrible so I didn't use it. I grabbed the drummer mic, hung it from the ceiling, and used it instead. Note: I want to use mics suspended from the ceiling from now on. It's good shit.
Niq joined us again on bass. He played with us the whole set and holy crap, he has his shit together. We stumbled a little at the Cave last time we did a show with him, coming together at the halfway point. For this show, we played tight as hell, and we did it as a trio!
North Dakota, Missouri,
We skipped "1980" because this was an evening perfect for the loud and the brash. There were some out-of-sight variations on the songs, including Andy's friend Tink joining us on motherfucking trombone during "Dirty Bomb Stratocaster!" That was freakin' cool.
Both during this show, and at the Greenville one, we played "Permafrost" nice and slow... groove-heavy as a mütherfüker. That, and "Wolf Wings," established a bong-rattling thickness that I hope is indicative of songs to come. We have a grunged-out number in the works, based on a progression I wrote in 10th or 11th grade (making it a true '90s song!), so stay tuned.
I can't remember the last time we played this tight
this locked-in
this seriously.
I howled. I ranted. I shouted and I stared down the crowded room, straight into the future, and I swear the walls did move and the people were so locked into the moment... into the very sensation of what we were doing. I felt it, man, we all did, and we held nothing back.
Then, at the end of the night, we closed on the best "Southport" ever. Ever ever ever. At the end I dove into Andy's kit and my tele made that terrifying thunderstorm sound it always does when I make it survive something of that nature. Then Niq was pummeling Andy's bassdrum with his bass. Then Andy was tearing his set apart, throwing drum elements to the ground. Then Niq and I were both hammering away at the head of the kickdrum with our instruments like axes. Then it was time. I turned off my amps (the cab on my Fender tower had nearly been knocked to the floor). Andy threw his kickdrum, face-up, to the floor and pounded a war cadence on it... then he was done and we were done and we finally knew the true nature of the wolf in the works.
***
I've been friends with Dave forever, including but not limited to our time together in Migrations. I can't believe this is the first time I've shared the stage with JUST DIE!, especially considering that the band's been at this for 4 years or so. I've had the shirts (I wore one of their shirts to our Greenville show, actually), the CDs, the stickers... I even got to sit in on a JD! practice in Dave's old house. I finally got to see the show and, holy shit, it was 25 minutes of war!
Intensity has many faces. Our intensity is the intensity of the living world. Wolves alope in the towering shadow of blinding glacial cliffs. A gazelle born with the speed and agility to elude predation before it has seen a single sunset. An eagle glides over a lake, not far over the water. The eagle knows the multitudinous fish beneath the water, but it patiently sails over a hundred - over a thousand - until the strike, and the strike is sudden. The chosen fish is in the talons, is in the air, is on its way to the nest of beaks agape and aimed to the sky in a prayer of instincts. Blag'ard's intensity is the intensity of a stock car on fire, its maniac driver still stomping the gas until the thing either explodes or grinds to a halt. JUST DIE! is the intensity of a severe thunderstorm racing through a modern city, an arsenal of donder and blitzen and hail and slashing rain to deafen and blind and destroy you - and then be gone. It leaves you refreshed, thrilled, fearless.
It's about the raw outpouring of emotion, bay-bee. It's about how good that feels, and every member of this tight quartet is celebrating some kind of release when they play. Dave churns the waters in the sky, slashing the innocent blue to a serious gray, and Josh's bass rolls the big cloud along in a groove-heavy gallop. Heavy crackle from Matt's SG, lethal riff lightning that dances within the cloud and sarcastically backhands the radio towers. All along, Steve - human size and very human - is running down the empty streets of the city in the pouring rain, laughing his ass off in unrestrained joy.
It was kind of like that and it was nothing like that. Lo, the people did mosh and there was one dude who knew all the words and celebrated along with the band - all unrestrained joy and fucking grins and shared microphones and this is what rock and roll is all about, you see? It's a shared experience, and JUST DIE! is a band that loves to share. What they have for the world is more than just hard core - is more than just drums + guitar + bass + ranting - it's release, and they brought enough for everyone.
I even got a song dedicated my way. Love beams.
***
So JUST DIE! were finished and I doubt they played more than 25 minutes. Bless that band... I stepped outside with a stupid, blissful grin on my face and tromped around in the dogshit in the yard. The party was operating on its own steam now, a steady diet of rock music, alcohol, and noun - the fuelstuffs of all-night revelry - and I stepped over to Chadam Manor to verb some noun myself
and I left the planet.
I got on a ship to Tralfamadore and was gone, daddy, gone.
My only regret is that I didn't get to hear U.P.A.S.S. play. Andy caught some of their set, so we weren't total jackasses, but I feel like kind of a jerk for vanishing like that.
Anyway, it's what happened, and we were over at Chadam Manor, sitting around giggling and telling jokes and Blag'adam launched into a cut scene from Charles Dickens - accents and all. Playing piano, playing guitar, babbling at each other, time dilation in full effect... wandering around the room once the people had gone, giving motivational speeches to the furniture and seeking my hoodie.
I like noun, I just don't use it too often, so when I do it reverts me to a giggling child with a water pistol. Shit yes.
***
About 3:30 I curled up on the couch with a comforter and peaced out. That was the first time in hours I'd known the time, and only because I'd bleared "What time is it?" to Chad and he'd smumbled an answer.
***
So we've finally come to the winddown of our narrative. I woke fully jazzed about 10:00 the next morning, and Niq and self quickly aced to Andy & Manita's house. Andy texted us back as we mounted the stairs to his door saying he was awake, so we didn't hesitate to knock as the pantsless bastard made his way to the door (how'd they get here this fast?) and this would have been a much more entertaining scene if we all had cockney accents but we don't.
Andy and Niq proceeded to cook a breakfast of illogical proportions. A dozen eggs, a pound of sausage, a pound or more of bacon, pancakes, toast... and what we got is a breakfast I like to call "The Scoutmaster's Wet Dream."
Don't read too much into that phrase. Just use the surface-level definition. Please.
And then they put a plate in my little chimp hands and I took some of everything and had a hard time finishing it, partially because I had enough food in front of me to feed a hobo camp for six weeks. Andy and Niq playfully made fun as they water buffalo stampeded their way through their bigass breakfasts, I'd eaten about half of mine and was pretty sure I'd had enough. I cracked wise because they sounded like football coaches, and the phrase "If your daddy knew you were eating like that he'd crawl out of his grave and kick you ass!" might have been said.
So I ate and then made my way to Dup's new house. His roomates are nice - even if they do enjoy badmouthing the South (boo!) - but I had a good time there.
***
Seriously, the Southeast gets such a bad rap, but it's all in such an disingenuine, cartoonish way. I'm especially baffled when people move here, then choose to talk shit. If you stop badmouthing the place for a minute, you'll realize that some of the best schools in the nation, a lot of the pharmaceuticals industry, some amazing scenery, and the goddamn space program that landed a man on the fucking moon and that has kept rovers that were supposed to last 3 months wandering around the Martian landscape for 6 years and counting are all based in the South. Blam.
Anyway. Can't abide regionalism. It doesn't have a place in educated discourse. Do people move to the West Coast or the North, just to badmouth the place and pretend it's a haven for two-dimensional yokels and inbreds? There are just as many illiterate people in other parts of the nation and racism is bad everywhere. You sound like a jerk if you go around, riffing on poor illiterates, because those are real people. It's a lot easier to imagine brokedown hollers full up'a toothless Joads (Joads? Oklahoma isn't the South! Oh, wait...) and McCoys and Hatfields levelin' they double-barrels at trespassers and thumpin' Bibles and screwing their cousins or whatever. We're getting a raw deal and it's a tad illogical.
***
The Noise in Print gang showed up, soaked to the balls with the rain that was a-fallin', and proceeded back out to flier. I had some coffee, some good conversation, and was back on the road in time to make it back to Pittsboro before the sun was completely gone from the sky.
It was a fine drive, and for the first time in I have no idea how long, I was satisfied to listen to music the whole way. No desire to pick up the phone and road-dial everyone I know. Nothing to say, I'd said it.
The rain was falling and I was all ears.
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