:: tourlog 2002 ::

:: Saturday, January 26, 2002 ::

Springfield, MA - great gig, played in front of a gigantic American flag, though I didn't get why a benefit would have been closed to the public. Still, some friendly faces snuck in, and a guy who was actually at the Old Age Home gig (immortalized in Tboy4) - he picked up a copy, and now will get the whole story. John Lardieri also played - great guy.

I signed someone's acoustic 12 string, next to Zakk Wylde's signature (Ozzy's band, I'm pretty sure), which was awesome. I've never done that before. I'm in good company, now.

Frantically putting shit together in the car. Washing socks (no, not by hand). 14 hr drive over the next day and a half, I'd like to split it up, find a roadside motel somewhere about 5 hrs from here (that's ambitious). It'd be funny to add up the miles at the end. What a number that'll be. Car is loaded down like a galleon. Listing to the leeward.



:: mike 4:36 PM [+] ::

VH1 has finally spoken regarding my theme song for their new show, called "Nevermind the Buzzcocks":
Here are the quotes: "too punk, too retro, ends too abruptly, ends with the words 'nevermind' instead of 'buzzcocks.' Needs to be more rock & roll, less punk. we don't want a tweak - we want a whole new take on it."

Too punk for a show called "Nevermind the Buzzcocks"? Sorry, I can't do "Nevermind the Counting Crows." Not now. I've dyed my hair bright orange and yellow and it's on. Time to tour.

:: mike 10:19 PM [+] ::

Nebraska in February. Deer wander up on the highways to eat cold fries off the shoulder. I totalled a car out there, once, and ended up with a concussion in a motel room in St. Francis, KS, watching They Live, starring "Rowdy" Roddy Piper. Roddy got hold of a special pair of glasses that could discern humans from aliens, and could de-code billboard ads as political slogans about enslaving humanity. I flew out of Denver and got an MRI.
:: mike 11:15 AM [+] ::

tour schedule continues to fill...it's totally insane. Possible opening dates for the Wailers in KS and Robert Randolph at Chicago House of Blues. I've been there once - it is an amazing room, despite the ironic fact that none of the blues players that plaster the walls could afford a night there. (There's a hotel section, too. Each room has official "Blues Brothers" Jake and Elwood hats on the wall, with a price tag attached. I remember it being $12.) Still, they treat artists well at all the HoBlues clubs, much better than most places. Food, a nice backstage, a little something to drink -- not much is really needed, for me, anyway. The night I was there, I opened for Far Too Jones, and then they cleared the room out, and Al Green played the late set. Someone got shot in the parking lot that night, but I didn't find out until the next day.

Mentioned to my tour manager the concept of flying in from NE on Feb. 9 to record the VH1 theme, then flying back on the 10th or 11th. If that worked out, I wouldn't even miss a gig. That is, unless the Wailers thing comes through. "That'd be hardcore," was the response. As if driving to SD in February isn't, already. But fuck it. I can do it. I have a CD player in the car.

This whole life is one of reacting. It's very hard to plan, because something always comes up. It's all contingencies, and suitcases. My sister gave me a rain jacket and a cool pair of cargo pants. I'll probably just pull off the tags and jump on stage with them. I have not even considered packing. Packing will be picking stuff up off the floor and putting it in a bag.

rock





:: mike 7:28 AM [+] ::

concern: VH1 has asked me to write a theme song for a new show. I've done it, but will have to go into the studio with live musicians and really kill it: it's a hard rockin', "Daylight" meets Foo Fighters thing. I got it done over the weekend. They never picked it up. Now they want it, and will want the finished product before I leave. No chance of that happening. Kinda their fault for dragging their feet. But, if we get all the proper approvals, I may have to do something extreme, like bag a few dates, fly in to the city, fly out, and get back on tour.

shit.
:: mike 12:26 PM [+] ::

:: mike 8:37 AM [+] ::

woke up singing.

"Who you gonna get to do the dirty work/ when all the slaves are free?"

It's Joni Mitchell. No idea what it means.

That's bullshit. I know exactly what it means.

:: mike 7:54 PM [+] ::

I went out to see an old friend who told me that friends were coming to the city from SF to perform an Olde Tyme Burlesque. It sounded interesting, kinda historical but also sexy, but it ended up being women who couldn't strip interspersed with singers who couldn't sing, a fez-wearing Marimba-fronted "house band" and a plaid jacket-wearing MC with a combover telling old school jokes about his mother-in-law. From the crowd, ironic wolf whistles, and a guy yelling, "Shake what your mama gave you." So predictable, low rent, highly ironic, unsexy, and kinda sad.

I went back upstairs for a drink, and bumped into a guy who works at a place I used to work at in between tours. His jacket and tie hung loose and wrinkled around him. He was drinking scotch, probably since work ended. It was now 12:45. We hugged, and he turned to his friend and began drunkenly ranting.

"Yo, this guy quit our job to go on tour. How cool is that?"

I tried to deflect. "Well, that's my job..."

"Damn, that's cool."

"Um, I guess. It's actually kinda hard..."

"Yeah, hard. 'The road,' man...cool."

"Well...it's a lot of sleeping in Econolodges and stuff..."

"Yeah-- trashthe place."

"Um...that's kind of a bad idea, since they take a credit card imprint when you check in..."

"Hah! Bastards! They just don't get it, y'know?"

"No, they get it.. they're just in the hotel business, and need the rooms."

"Gotta blow off steam, man -- charge it to the record company."

"Um...that's a misconception, I think. Actually, labels own artists and treat them like slaves."

He thought for a second.

"F-f-f-f-fucking BASTARDS! The MAN. That's what they are..." He was flushed to a weird alcoholic purple, bulging from under his sweaty dress shirt.

"Well, yeah. I'll agree with you, there." By now, the guy he was talking to had gotten himself a scotch, and walked away. My friend continued talking to the air, and turned to me for punctuation.

"And YOU... YOU... you're out there. Doin it, man."

"Yeah. I guess I am."

"Dude. That's so cool. How many can say that? Can harness their own fear and terror, and, and..." he stammered for the word, "RAGE THEIR NAKED SOULS INTO THE GREAT ABYSS?"

Spit was flying.

"Um...not many?" Though I don't believe that.

"Damn right. you're a hero. You're a rockstar." He turned to the goth bartender. "Jenny, lemme buy my rockstar friend a scotch. No. Jack Daniels. Did you know he quit work to go on tour? As in, right on some piece of paper in Human Resources," he motioned with his hands as if typing on a keyboard,

"REASON FOR DEPARTURE: TO GO ON TOUR!!!!!" He slammed the exclamation points into the bar with his index finger. "How cool is that?" He smiled. I smiled back. He smiled back at me smiling back. The Jack Daniels arrived. He raised what was left of his drink, and I followed him.

"Dude, a toast... to TOUR!"

To tour.
:: mike 7:06 PM [+] ::

:: mike 6:51 PM [+] ::

jesus. it's beginning to hit me. alone in a car for a month. hours of driving a day. a gig in the middle of who knows where. weird sheets. strange smells. eggs. eggs. eggs will be a beacon of stability. still, I better get a cell phone. and a haircut.

courage, my man. X wing fighters humming in the dock.
:: mike 11:13 AM [+] ::