Category: diary

All the celebration and amplifiers and beer and jokes and conversation from the weekend had whittled themselves down to this quietness, this next 827 miles. Back to just the four of us, the hum of the road running beneath. The winter sun was setting already, and I think there was an overall sense of satisfaction coursing throughout the van. I’ve noticed this kind of quiet at the end of tours before, and it’s one of the best sensations one could ask for in the wake of such efforts.
-Will

It’s Weaver D’s day. Thirty five minutes and one chicken and gravy special later, the magic had kicked in and I had fallen madly in love with the idea of a two-hour nap-

I grabbed my slippers and stole an abbreviated version of the nap I so desired and we rolled back to the club to check in and get ready for the last night. I fetched some dinner and caught up with the Summer Hymns friends over a few PBRs, and minutes later found myself intertwined in Southern Bitch’s rock greatness. Scotty and I played with them a couple years back at Smith’s in Atlanta, and as much as I dug ’em then, I enjoyed tonight’s set even more. [We] shuffled around for a few minutes, tuned up and settled in for one last show. It was a spirited and loud one, and I think our cause was transmitted sufficiently.
-Will

We sped eastward underneath sunshine on 20, enjoyed a Jimmy Lewis record, and dodged all the holes and bumps and construction that sits between Birmingham and the Georgia state line. Is that project eternal? It was not without a predictable dose of Atlanta congestion that we finally made it to the nurturing bosom of Athens. Kudzu’s hibernating for winter, but the hills are still just as beautiful to me.

We loaded in quickly, celebrated our reunion with the Truckers, soundchecked and scattered in various directions in search of sustenance. Upon return, and after sitting on a Jackson Street bench giving my liver a gentle coaxing about what the weekend had in store, I grabbed a PBR and proceeded to soak up all of Thursday opener Garbage Island’s majesty.
-Will

It was a 16-hour run today, up to Denton from Austin, then across I-20 to this Motel 6; no Priceline luxuries tonight, just a browbeating from a wiry night clerk, some tiny soaps that turn your skin to chalk and some undersized towels.

This time tomorrow we’ll be starting a three-night campout with our friends the Drive-By Truckers at the 40-Watt. Once we get there, it’s genius routing. Three nights with a band we love, at a club we love, in a town that I’ve never been too tightlipped about my crush on. I had a dream about Weaver D’s two nights ago, and I suppose there’s a reason for that. This room smells a little like old fish and shoes, and that night clerk’s attitude could stand a recalibration, but those things can’t come close to killing the good feelings I’m about to go to sleep on.
-Will

Heart break en-route to Phoenix, as we watch our beloved Dallas Mavericks get eliminated from the NBA playoffs by the Sacramento Kings 119-118. I am still a bit shaken up about it. I guess I need to stop watching once the playoffs and defense begin to be played. Some of us recovered a bit when Calgary fanned the flames of our false hopes, with the Redwings beating them 5-2.
-Mark

1021 miles- who knew Phoenix was so far away? I guess we did. We also knew that the last ever Little Grizzly show at Rubber Gloves in Denton the following night. It was not possible to miss our friends swansong, so as soon as the show was finished we began our preparations to drive overnight back to Denton. The Grizz went out in a majestic blaze of glory, and it was well worth the sleep deprivation it cost us to make it back in time. The folks in Tempe were wonderfully kind to us. We haven’t spent nearly enough time there to deserve the reception we received, so thanks for listening and sharing such encouraging words. We will try to make it back real soon, friends. This was way too short a run.
-Mark

Speaking of the House of Bourbon (please note the use of the heavy-handed segue way), I allowed myself to be over-served by tender cousin Jim Beam. I can’t remember if I did the caterpillar or any other such dance moves, but I definitely remember pogo-ing on the balcony while singing along to Death Cab and BK. If my unbridled enthusiasm for our tourmates distracted anyone from their own attempts to enjoy the evening’s proceedings, then I do apologize. Can’t take me anywhere.
I sure had fun, though.
-Mark

A bit of advice for aspiring stagehands- do not plug the lights and the PA into the same circuit-thingy. (I hope I am not being too technical here.) Bad things will happen. Rock shows will not happen. Hundreds of fans waiting for hours in the rain did unfortunately happen. I must say that if the same thing had occurred at a nu-rapmetal show, the crowd would not have been anywhere near as gracious in their drenched defeat. It sucked not being able to play after driving down to H-town, but we salvaged the evening by drinking margaritas and Mexican beer with Scott’s folks. (They always make a Houston roadtrip worthwhile, and Steve Danbom knows more about rock than all of us put together: http://www.danbomgeophysics.com/.)
-Mark