Dear Adam,
Sad but true department: There are actually people in this world whose lives are so empty that they are up in the middle of the night creating blank LiveJournal profiles just so they can post snarky comments to mine. Which makes twice now in the last year I've had to say: Haters, take your shit elsewhere. Your sniping will not be countenanced.
I am forced to take the horribly lame but horribly necessary step of making this journal friends-only. Starting now. Everyone who has friended me, I am friending you. Anyone else who wants in: you need only ask and provide sufficient evidence that you are not a chickenshit hater motherfucker.
Sorry if you have to go and create a LJ account of your own now, man.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
20 most recent
Thu, Jun. 23rd, 2005, 09:47 am
Holiday Inn Express, Redding
Wed, Jun. 22nd, 2005, 11:59 pm
Holiday Inn Express, Redding
Dear Adam,
My old friend and housemate Fiona who I hadn't seen or talked to in five years at least (probably more like seven) was at the show in Eugene last night. Sooo great to see her. And where do you suppose Fiona, one of my favorite people ever, is moving in two months' time? But of course: Urbana. For fuck's sake. She couldn't have moved, like, oh, last year. No. How bizarre though to be in Eugene freaking Oregon with someone I went to school and lived with in Irvine freaking California fifteen years ago talking in considerable geographical detail about a small town in eastern central Illinois with which we are now both intimately familiar. Go figure.
I never met Franz Kafka, Adam, and I don't expect I'll ever meet Ingmar Bergman or Joe Frank or Morrissey. I'm not sure that I'd even want to. But if I had or if I do, I know what I would say. I'd say, thank you. Your work is profoundly important to me. That's it! What else matters? What more is there to say?
I did meet Peter Hook once. Irvine Meadows, 1986, and the vacationing adult Liverpudlian who'd struck up a conversation between opening sets by the Durutti Column and The Fall (really!) directed my attention to the sound booth. I couldn't not go over, so I did. Sixteen years old and utterly awe-struck. The conversation went as follows:
Peter Hughes: Are you Peter Hook?
Peter Hook: No, mate, don't know who you're talking about!
I walked back to my seat, beaming, completely satisfied with my encounter and confident that it would still make for a good story decades later. Yes?
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
My old friend and housemate Fiona who I hadn't seen or talked to in five years at least (probably more like seven) was at the show in Eugene last night. Sooo great to see her. And where do you suppose Fiona, one of my favorite people ever, is moving in two months' time? But of course: Urbana. For fuck's sake. She couldn't have moved, like, oh, last year. No. How bizarre though to be in Eugene freaking Oregon with someone I went to school and lived with in Irvine freaking California fifteen years ago talking in considerable geographical detail about a small town in eastern central Illinois with which we are now both intimately familiar. Go figure.
I never met Franz Kafka, Adam, and I don't expect I'll ever meet Ingmar Bergman or Joe Frank or Morrissey. I'm not sure that I'd even want to. But if I had or if I do, I know what I would say. I'd say, thank you. Your work is profoundly important to me. That's it! What else matters? What more is there to say?
I did meet Peter Hook once. Irvine Meadows, 1986, and the vacationing adult Liverpudlian who'd struck up a conversation between opening sets by the Durutti Column and The Fall (really!) directed my attention to the sound booth. I couldn't not go over, so I did. Sixteen years old and utterly awe-struck. The conversation went as follows:
Peter Hughes: Are you Peter Hook?
Peter Hook: No, mate, don't know who you're talking about!
I walked back to my seat, beaming, completely satisfied with my encounter and confident that it would still make for a good story decades later. Yes?
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Tue, Jun. 21st, 2005, 04:45 pm
Quality Inn, Eugene
Dear Adam,
Dude. Was that sick or WHAT. You poor mofos are probably still on your way home. JD and I are chillin' in our Quality Inn suite dontcha know. (Less posh than it sounds, laughably so. But still okay. Like going to Sizzler and ordering the filet mignon. It was all they had, though.)
It's a beautiful afternoon in Eugene, and I'm feeling altogether pretty good, none the worse for last night's madness. Damn that was fun. What a show, what a show. Great hangin' with you and Jeremy man, wish we could do it more often. We'll get that indie rock/minor league ballpark tour going soon enough.
I think I need to shave now.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Dude. Was that sick or WHAT. You poor mofos are probably still on your way home. JD and I are chillin' in our Quality Inn suite dontcha know. (Less posh than it sounds, laughably so. But still okay. Like going to Sizzler and ordering the filet mignon. It was all they had, though.)
It's a beautiful afternoon in Eugene, and I'm feeling altogether pretty good, none the worse for last night's madness. Damn that was fun. What a show, what a show. Great hangin' with you and Jeremy man, wish we could do it more often. We'll get that indie rock/minor league ballpark tour going soon enough.
I think I need to shave now.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Mon, Jun. 20th, 2005, 10:53 am
Red Lion Hotel Fifth Avenue, Seattle
Dear Adam,
Yes, I realize that yesterday's post was essentially a shopping list, too. Here is a list of things I just woke up from dreaming about instead: a young Iraqi describing daily life in his town and saying how quiet and peaceful it is at night under curfew; riding around the Inland Empire in the Double's tour van pointing out points of historical interest; examining exotic noodles and produce at a grocery store and contemplating purchase of same; Kalefa Sanneh is a handsome man. There were a couple more random bits but that's all that survived. Slept good.
Last night's show: awesome. This will sound very diva, but I cannot emphasize enough how great it is to have a dressing room that is something more than a closet with four hundred sets of cocks and balls scrawled on the walls. I felt like dancing last night. That's how much I loved the accommodations at Neumos. So good to see my old pal Billy and spend most of the evening chillin' too, even if he was wearing his Dodgers cap instead of the White Sox one I sent him.
Brownies from the underage girls who were inspired by my story of being eighteen years old and standing outside the back door of a 21+ club in Costa Mesa listening to Sonic Youth, my first time "seeing" them. They went home after soundcheck and baked brownies, came back, listened to the show from outside the door, and gave them to us. We brought the brownies back to our hotel room and ate them. That is how we roll.
Unrelatedly: If you get a call from the person who lost a black pair of panties last night, we found them.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Yes, I realize that yesterday's post was essentially a shopping list, too. Here is a list of things I just woke up from dreaming about instead: a young Iraqi describing daily life in his town and saying how quiet and peaceful it is at night under curfew; riding around the Inland Empire in the Double's tour van pointing out points of historical interest; examining exotic noodles and produce at a grocery store and contemplating purchase of same; Kalefa Sanneh is a handsome man. There were a couple more random bits but that's all that survived. Slept good.
Last night's show: awesome. This will sound very diva, but I cannot emphasize enough how great it is to have a dressing room that is something more than a closet with four hundred sets of cocks and balls scrawled on the walls. I felt like dancing last night. That's how much I loved the accommodations at Neumos. So good to see my old pal Billy and spend most of the evening chillin' too, even if he was wearing his Dodgers cap instead of the White Sox one I sent him.
Brownies from the underage girls who were inspired by my story of being eighteen years old and standing outside the back door of a 21+ club in Costa Mesa listening to Sonic Youth, my first time "seeing" them. They went home after soundcheck and baked brownies, came back, listened to the show from outside the door, and gave them to us. We brought the brownies back to our hotel room and ate them. That is how we roll.
Unrelatedly: If you get a call from the person who lost a black pair of panties last night, we found them.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Sun, Jun. 19th, 2005, 03:39 pm
Red Lion Hotel Fifth Avenue, Seattle
Dear Adam,
If you know anyone who'd be interested in a ten-year-old red Mexico-built Fender Jazz with a small gash in the bottom, a big Swedish vehicle ID sticker on the back, and a Barack Obama for U.S. Senate 2004 campaign sticker on the front, tell 'em there's one they could probably pick up pretty cheap at Capital City Guitars on 4th Avenue in Olympia. I traded up, yo!
Very mellow and fun show last night at the Clipper, exactly what we needed. The Double, they are awesome. Sarah Dougher, she is awesome. This tour, it is gonna be awesome. Very excited.
The Shell station just off the exit at Plum St. in Olympia remains the only place I have found in all our travels these last few years that still sells Uno candy bars. I bought out the store.
Before leaving Oly this morning I Pricelined us a Red Lion for tonight. Here is how sad we are: we get excited about staying at a hotel we've never been to.
Peter: Have we stayed at a Red Lion before?
John: I don't think so, no.
Peter: Yeah, I don't think so either.
John: Cool!
It's kinda nice, actually. Right downtown, a mile from the club. I'm gonna go walk around and get me some lunch. See you tonight!
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
If you know anyone who'd be interested in a ten-year-old red Mexico-built Fender Jazz with a small gash in the bottom, a big Swedish vehicle ID sticker on the back, and a Barack Obama for U.S. Senate 2004 campaign sticker on the front, tell 'em there's one they could probably pick up pretty cheap at Capital City Guitars on 4th Avenue in Olympia. I traded up, yo!
Very mellow and fun show last night at the Clipper, exactly what we needed. The Double, they are awesome. Sarah Dougher, she is awesome. This tour, it is gonna be awesome. Very excited.
The Shell station just off the exit at Plum St. in Olympia remains the only place I have found in all our travels these last few years that still sells Uno candy bars. I bought out the store.
Before leaving Oly this morning I Pricelined us a Red Lion for tonight. Here is how sad we are: we get excited about staying at a hotel we've never been to.
Peter: Have we stayed at a Red Lion before?
John: I don't think so, no.
Peter: Yeah, I don't think so either.
John: Cool!
It's kinda nice, actually. Right downtown, a mile from the club. I'm gonna go walk around and get me some lunch. See you tonight!
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Sat, Jun. 18th, 2005, 11:18 am
Best Western Lakeway Inn, Bellingham
Dear Adam,
Dude I love Seattle. I never did explain the "we got stoned at Denny's" thing though. We were at a Radisson down by the airport night before last. Yesterday morning we wake up too early, and too tired to do anything more ambitious for breakfast than hit the Denny's across the street. Cool. Whatever. Go inside, stand there for five minutes being ignored and forced to stare at an incredibly unappetizing display of a Grand Slam breakfast rendered in plastic, look at each other, walk out. There's another Denny's half a mile down the street. There's no fake food, but we wait in vain for another ten minutes ... what the fuck? So we get in the car, drive into town (starving now) and have breakfast at that crumpet place instead. Which completely ruled. And then the gelato. And then to your joint. Thanks for the help with the shirts and merch, man.
Driving up to Bellingham afterwards I got to thinking. Us sitting around talking about ideas for fall, would that sound any different to an outsider than that conversation I overheard at O'Hare the other day? I mean, it's business, right? It wasn't so much that that guy was rude -- he wasn't, really: he'd found a suitably remote place in the airport to conduct his business, and his manner was neither excessively loud nor particularly obnoxious. It was just the content of his business that horrified me. And made me wonder: how could he possibly care about any of the things he's talking about? I came up with three possible explanations: 1. He's been brainwashed into thinking that what he does for a living has any importance to anyone whatsoever outside of its own corporate self-sustainment; 2. He genuinely loves what he does for a living; 3. He hates what he does for a living, but likes getting paid. I found all three possibilities equally depressing. But I digress. Meantime, let us know what you hear back about capacities and guarantees in New York, will ya?
We were butt-ass tired last night in Bellingham, man. Real nice venue, very friendly people, but it got eight o'clock and suddenly we both felt like we'd just stepped off a nonstop from Tokyo or something. Crowd seemed not to notice, luckily. Or maybe they were too polite to say anything. "Hey, you guys fuckin' tired or something? Wake up! I paid eight bucks to watch your sorry asses!"
We'll do better tonight, I promise. The ferocity of a caged wolverine.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Dude I love Seattle. I never did explain the "we got stoned at Denny's" thing though. We were at a Radisson down by the airport night before last. Yesterday morning we wake up too early, and too tired to do anything more ambitious for breakfast than hit the Denny's across the street. Cool. Whatever. Go inside, stand there for five minutes being ignored and forced to stare at an incredibly unappetizing display of a Grand Slam breakfast rendered in plastic, look at each other, walk out. There's another Denny's half a mile down the street. There's no fake food, but we wait in vain for another ten minutes ... what the fuck? So we get in the car, drive into town (starving now) and have breakfast at that crumpet place instead. Which completely ruled. And then the gelato. And then to your joint. Thanks for the help with the shirts and merch, man.
Driving up to Bellingham afterwards I got to thinking. Us sitting around talking about ideas for fall, would that sound any different to an outsider than that conversation I overheard at O'Hare the other day? I mean, it's business, right? It wasn't so much that that guy was rude -- he wasn't, really: he'd found a suitably remote place in the airport to conduct his business, and his manner was neither excessively loud nor particularly obnoxious. It was just the content of his business that horrified me. And made me wonder: how could he possibly care about any of the things he's talking about? I came up with three possible explanations: 1. He's been brainwashed into thinking that what he does for a living has any importance to anyone whatsoever outside of its own corporate self-sustainment; 2. He genuinely loves what he does for a living; 3. He hates what he does for a living, but likes getting paid. I found all three possibilities equally depressing. But I digress. Meantime, let us know what you hear back about capacities and guarantees in New York, will ya?
We were butt-ass tired last night in Bellingham, man. Real nice venue, very friendly people, but it got eight o'clock and suddenly we both felt like we'd just stepped off a nonstop from Tokyo or something. Crowd seemed not to notice, luckily. Or maybe they were too polite to say anything. "Hey, you guys fuckin' tired or something? Wake up! I paid eight bucks to watch your sorry asses!"
We'll do better tonight, I promise. The ferocity of a caged wolverine.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Thu, Jun. 16th, 2005, 12:25 pm
Chicago O'Hare Hilton
Dear Adam,
A rare visit to the Terminal 3 L Concourse here at O'Hare little while ago. Find a seat at a sparsely populated gate to eat my airport lunch. Ten feet away there's a guy on his cell. He's my age, though he looks a little older, and our dress isn't all that dissimilar -- business casual, I believe they call it -- though he scores major demerits for the iPod in a black leather pouch on his belt (ugh). Here's the thing, though. He's saying things like, "We'll just have to leverage the resources we have." At one point he actually uses the words "paradigm" and "execute" in the same sentence. Is it luck or sheer force of will by which I've managed to avoid this fate, Adam?
Ridiculous number of hours to kill before my connection to Seattle. Have wandered over to the airport Hilton where I can at least jack an hour of wi-fi for $2.50, and sit in an elevator vestibule listening to more conversations about database management. Whoo!
You've arranged to have a driver pick me up, right? I only do Mercedes now; Town Cars are so gauche. Favorite R. Kelly couplet at this moment: "We should all be ashamed of ourselves / Because if we don't love ourselves, tell me how can we love somebody else?" Wait, what?
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
A rare visit to the Terminal 3 L Concourse here at O'Hare little while ago. Find a seat at a sparsely populated gate to eat my airport lunch. Ten feet away there's a guy on his cell. He's my age, though he looks a little older, and our dress isn't all that dissimilar -- business casual, I believe they call it -- though he scores major demerits for the iPod in a black leather pouch on his belt (ugh). Here's the thing, though. He's saying things like, "We'll just have to leverage the resources we have." At one point he actually uses the words "paradigm" and "execute" in the same sentence. Is it luck or sheer force of will by which I've managed to avoid this fate, Adam?
Ridiculous number of hours to kill before my connection to Seattle. Have wandered over to the airport Hilton where I can at least jack an hour of wi-fi for $2.50, and sit in an elevator vestibule listening to more conversations about database management. Whoo!
You've arranged to have a driver pick me up, right? I only do Mercedes now; Town Cars are so gauche. Favorite R. Kelly couplet at this moment: "We should all be ashamed of ourselves / Because if we don't love ourselves, tell me how can we love somebody else?" Wait, what?
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Wed, Jun. 15th, 2005, 03:38 pm
Paradiso, Urbana
Dear Adam,
Reading through other peoples' LiveJournals I realize how out-of-step this one must seem. I spend so little time talking about shopping triumphs, for example. No more. Last weekend Wanette asked if I wanted to come with her to "North Prospect," our local mall-and-big-box-retail district, the less said about which the better. It was time to take the leap and add the Basic White Dress Shirt to her wardrobe (interviews looming and all). First stop, just in case: TJ Maxx. 'Cause ya never know.
Now, from what little I have said about my shopping habits in here, you might get the idea that the only clothes shopping I do happens in New York, at my pousty-but-beloved Zara. And this idea is about 97 percent accurate. There might be the odd thrift-store find here and there, but as far as new stuff goes, Zara is it. Nowhere else can I find clothes that actually fit my long-arms/long-legs/skinny-ass frame. And so every time you send us to New York -- about twice a year, seems like -- I make the walk up Broadway from the Knitting Factory and spend a hundred bucks or so on a shirt and a pair of pants. Worth it. And that's my shopping.
Back to TJ Maxx. TJ Maxx in Champaign freaking Illinois, mind you. Wanette's browsing, and I wander off towards the men's section. Idly looking through clearance stuff. A pair of funky jeans catches my eye. Dark grey, weird diagonal pinstripes, almost herringbone. Effin thirty waist. Turn 'em around, and my gaze lands on the label: they're Zara. Dumfounded. Incredulous. Fumble for the tag, stand staring in disbelief: $11. ELEVEN DOLLARS. Same rack, right beside them: black Zara jeans, kind of a cotton twill, exactly like the grey ones I've been wearing for the last two years. Also $11. I got two pair of perfectly-fitting Zara pants in bumfuck Illinois for twenty fucking bucks. Yesssss!
Anyway.
Feeling very much like the last days of school around here. Not so much in the literal sense -- U of I let out a month ago, the kids are all long gone -- as one having more to do with a general emotional tenor, that mixed bag of wistfulness and relief I remember distinctly from my last weeks of high school, for example. Silent good-byes to places and people regarded with indifference at best (more often bemused contempt), interspersed with flashes of recognition and appreciation for what will be missed. These long afternoons at the caff, for one. The spectacularly pleasant walk home, for another. I'll be back, of course, maybe once or twice a month from now, but there's no getting 'round the fact that after today any semblance of my normal life here will have been consigned to a fuzzy past, and future visits will be revisits of sorts: This is where I used to hang out. See? I sat right there! Remember that?
Next month and a half is gonna be crazy for me, Adam. Crazy good, but crazy nevertheless. S'alright. I am ready! Mostly ready. I still have to go home and print out the tour book and some other stuff. Laundry. Pack. Leave a rent check for Sarah. Find the fuckin' battery charger I somehow managed to misplace. But I've been good this time. No last-minute madness.
So stoked to see you, man! This'll be a good one.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Reading through other peoples' LiveJournals I realize how out-of-step this one must seem. I spend so little time talking about shopping triumphs, for example. No more. Last weekend Wanette asked if I wanted to come with her to "North Prospect," our local mall-and-big-box-retail district, the less said about which the better. It was time to take the leap and add the Basic White Dress Shirt to her wardrobe (interviews looming and all). First stop, just in case: TJ Maxx. 'Cause ya never know.
Now, from what little I have said about my shopping habits in here, you might get the idea that the only clothes shopping I do happens in New York, at my pousty-but-beloved Zara. And this idea is about 97 percent accurate. There might be the odd thrift-store find here and there, but as far as new stuff goes, Zara is it. Nowhere else can I find clothes that actually fit my long-arms/long-legs/skinny-ass frame. And so every time you send us to New York -- about twice a year, seems like -- I make the walk up Broadway from the Knitting Factory and spend a hundred bucks or so on a shirt and a pair of pants. Worth it. And that's my shopping.
Back to TJ Maxx. TJ Maxx in Champaign freaking Illinois, mind you. Wanette's browsing, and I wander off towards the men's section. Idly looking through clearance stuff. A pair of funky jeans catches my eye. Dark grey, weird diagonal pinstripes, almost herringbone. Effin thirty waist. Turn 'em around, and my gaze lands on the label: they're Zara. Dumfounded. Incredulous. Fumble for the tag, stand staring in disbelief: $11. ELEVEN DOLLARS. Same rack, right beside them: black Zara jeans, kind of a cotton twill, exactly like the grey ones I've been wearing for the last two years. Also $11. I got two pair of perfectly-fitting Zara pants in bumfuck Illinois for twenty fucking bucks. Yesssss!
Anyway.
Feeling very much like the last days of school around here. Not so much in the literal sense -- U of I let out a month ago, the kids are all long gone -- as one having more to do with a general emotional tenor, that mixed bag of wistfulness and relief I remember distinctly from my last weeks of high school, for example. Silent good-byes to places and people regarded with indifference at best (more often bemused contempt), interspersed with flashes of recognition and appreciation for what will be missed. These long afternoons at the caff, for one. The spectacularly pleasant walk home, for another. I'll be back, of course, maybe once or twice a month from now, but there's no getting 'round the fact that after today any semblance of my normal life here will have been consigned to a fuzzy past, and future visits will be revisits of sorts: This is where I used to hang out. See? I sat right there! Remember that?
Next month and a half is gonna be crazy for me, Adam. Crazy good, but crazy nevertheless. S'alright. I am ready! Mostly ready. I still have to go home and print out the tour book and some other stuff. Laundry. Pack. Leave a rent check for Sarah. Find the fuckin' battery charger I somehow managed to misplace. But I've been good this time. No last-minute madness.
So stoked to see you, man! This'll be a good one.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Sat, Jun. 4th, 2005, 06:23 pm
Rubber room, funny farm, Urbana
Dear Adam,
Conor is right. I'll do it for the kids.
Sorry for being such a fucking drama queen, man. You've now seen the absolute worst of me. I can promise it doesn't get any uglier. Mr Hyde has gone away now, though, and I'm feeling better today. Am herewith deleting that entire last post and its responses not out of shame but simply because it doesn't belong here. I'm glad I posted it though, and grateful for the replies it generated (all of them). But it's time to put this nag out to pasture.
I'll see you in a couple weeks.
Love to you,
PPH
Conor is right. I'll do it for the kids.
Sorry for being such a fucking drama queen, man. You've now seen the absolute worst of me. I can promise it doesn't get any uglier. Mr Hyde has gone away now, though, and I'm feeling better today. Am herewith deleting that entire last post and its responses not out of shame but simply because it doesn't belong here. I'm glad I posted it though, and grateful for the replies it generated (all of them). But it's time to put this nag out to pasture.
I'll see you in a couple weeks.
Love to you,
PPH
Tue, May. 17th, 2005, 05:29 pm
Paradiso, Urbana
Dear Adam,
Flash back with me to the dead of winter. I'm driving home from the east Urbana post office, where I had to go to pick up what turned out to be my mastered copy of The Sunset Tree, sent from Abbey Road registered mail for some reason. It's cold as a motherfucker, I'm having a good old time pitching the Miata sideways in the slush, blasting "This Year" and fantasizing about how great it could sound on the radio someday. I am giddy.
Fast forward to yesterday. Top-down, glorious sunshine, doubling back to Schnucks 'cause I forgot I'm out of Tabasco and I'm making dinner for Wanette and her mom and sister. The radio is tuned to our local commercial alterna-indie station, and it's time for their daily most-requested-songs segment. First up, making its debut at number seven, "This Year." Well, fuck me. It does sound great. I am giddy, again.
That was a bitch of a tour, Adam. Funny that the better they are they harder they are, but I guess that explains why Metallica hires a therapist. We hire a cellist and pay for JV's hotel room. Cheaper than that weasely shrink, and more fun, too.
Chicago ended up being a good time. When the guy doing monitors used to do sound for Van Halen you have to believe everything's gonna be alright, and it was. Most people we've ever played for? Might have been. I think it worked. I think we're ready to make the jump to the arena circuit, Adam. Just make sure we get to go back to Kalamazoo and St. Augustine.
Missed the NPR thing next morning, first account I heard of it came later that night at Wanette's grad party at her advisor's house, from a Ph.D.-candidate acquaintance who caught it quite by accident it seemed. Makes me wonder who else might have been listening. Wife's lawyer? Heh. Speaking of which, I totally forgot to mention: that hearing a couple weeks ago resulted in yet another continuation. Ordinarily this would be cause for weeks' worth of mirthful gloating. Such have things been of late that it barely registers a blip. Not complaining.
Too many heroes this time out to list. But fuck it, I'll try: Wanette, for toughing it out down the home stretch all by her lonesome (congratulations, babee!). The Shearwater posse: Jonathan, Kim, Thor, Travis, Howard, Ryan and Matt, with special recognition for Kim who twice (!) flew home mid-tour to defend and resubmit her master's thesis. (I don't know what the fuck you grad-school people are thinking, but god bless you.) JV. Erik Friedlander and family. Jeff Hanson. Charlie McAlister. Miwa and Sonya and everyone else pimpin' for us at Beggars. Lauren at NPR, and Linda too. Sasha. Frere. Motherfucking. Jones. Natalia. Sarah Wilmer. DAN. Herman and Danielle. Liz and Jeff, for toughing out as tough a hand as life can possibly deal you: all love and strength to them both. Ryan and company at Cafe Eleven. Val at the Kraftbrau. Whoever tossed the "In the Kitchen Remix" CD-R onstage in Boston. The Rochester dudes in Orlando. The Canadian border patrol. And, of course, you, Adam, for being the wind tunnel at our backs.
Death bus: That mean, mean woman in New Hampshire, the dick at Budget in Raleigh who spent twenty futile minutes trying to trick me into paying $20 a day more for a Grand Caravan when that was all he had on the lot anyway, the proud shit-for-brains in lower Manhattan two weeks ago desecrating the memory of three thousand dead by turning their gravesite into a venue for idiotic jingoism, and any hotel anywhere that has the unmitigated gall to charge ten dollars for internet access. How's about FUCK YOU.
See you in a month, man.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Flash back with me to the dead of winter. I'm driving home from the east Urbana post office, where I had to go to pick up what turned out to be my mastered copy of The Sunset Tree, sent from Abbey Road registered mail for some reason. It's cold as a motherfucker, I'm having a good old time pitching the Miata sideways in the slush, blasting "This Year" and fantasizing about how great it could sound on the radio someday. I am giddy.
Fast forward to yesterday. Top-down, glorious sunshine, doubling back to Schnucks 'cause I forgot I'm out of Tabasco and I'm making dinner for Wanette and her mom and sister. The radio is tuned to our local commercial alterna-indie station, and it's time for their daily most-requested-songs segment. First up, making its debut at number seven, "This Year." Well, fuck me. It does sound great. I am giddy, again.
That was a bitch of a tour, Adam. Funny that the better they are they harder they are, but I guess that explains why Metallica hires a therapist. We hire a cellist and pay for JV's hotel room. Cheaper than that weasely shrink, and more fun, too.
Chicago ended up being a good time. When the guy doing monitors used to do sound for Van Halen you have to believe everything's gonna be alright, and it was. Most people we've ever played for? Might have been. I think it worked. I think we're ready to make the jump to the arena circuit, Adam. Just make sure we get to go back to Kalamazoo and St. Augustine.
Missed the NPR thing next morning, first account I heard of it came later that night at Wanette's grad party at her advisor's house, from a Ph.D.-candidate acquaintance who caught it quite by accident it seemed. Makes me wonder who else might have been listening. Wife's lawyer? Heh. Speaking of which, I totally forgot to mention: that hearing a couple weeks ago resulted in yet another continuation. Ordinarily this would be cause for weeks' worth of mirthful gloating. Such have things been of late that it barely registers a blip. Not complaining.
Too many heroes this time out to list. But fuck it, I'll try: Wanette, for toughing it out down the home stretch all by her lonesome (congratulations, babee!). The Shearwater posse: Jonathan, Kim, Thor, Travis, Howard, Ryan and Matt, with special recognition for Kim who twice (!) flew home mid-tour to defend and resubmit her master's thesis. (I don't know what the fuck you grad-school people are thinking, but god bless you.) JV. Erik Friedlander and family. Jeff Hanson. Charlie McAlister. Miwa and Sonya and everyone else pimpin' for us at Beggars. Lauren at NPR, and Linda too. Sasha. Frere. Motherfucking. Jones. Natalia. Sarah Wilmer. DAN. Herman and Danielle. Liz and Jeff, for toughing out as tough a hand as life can possibly deal you: all love and strength to them both. Ryan and company at Cafe Eleven. Val at the Kraftbrau. Whoever tossed the "In the Kitchen Remix" CD-R onstage in Boston. The Rochester dudes in Orlando. The Canadian border patrol. And, of course, you, Adam, for being the wind tunnel at our backs.
Death bus: That mean, mean woman in New Hampshire, the dick at Budget in Raleigh who spent twenty futile minutes trying to trick me into paying $20 a day more for a Grand Caravan when that was all he had on the lot anyway, the proud shit-for-brains in lower Manhattan two weeks ago desecrating the memory of three thousand dead by turning their gravesite into a venue for idiotic jingoism, and any hotel anywhere that has the unmitigated gall to charge ten dollars for internet access. How's about FUCK YOU.
See you in a month, man.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Fri, May. 13th, 2005, 12:37 pm
Radisson Plaza Hotel at Kalamazoo Center
Dear Adam,
Sorry about the surliness of that last missive. You caught me at a bad moment. "Angriest lesbian in New Hampshire"? Did I really say that? Jesus. My apologies.
Believe it or not, my mood actually got worse before it got better, despite the remarkably painless and even kind of pleasant (!) border crossing. Traffic coming into Montreal was shit sandwich, and it took me a while to figure out the trick to dealing with it, which is just to accept that every driver is making his own lane as he goes and I will too. Trés Euro. We loaded in and I left immediately for the hotel, a very swank Hyatt I'd Pricelined for cheap, where I took a bath and lay down in the cool dark for a couple hours while John dealt with merciless label representatives.
At that point, finally, I started to feel better. That Montreal was experiencing its first real day of spring helped, as the urban tableaux corresponded precisely to my previous experience of this most continental of North American cities. Which is to say, nobody was wearing any clothes. Me likee Montreal. The show was good, but weird, and again in a most European way: the crowd was polite and attentive and provided almost nothing in the way of feedback until we were done, at which point they demanded two encores. Not coincidentally, we played poorly, our worst set in a good long while, until the very end, which was (surprise) pretty great. An odd night.
Long drive next day to Toronto, where traffic was again shitty, but at least they drive like Americans (badly, but predictably). And we heard "Safety Dance" on the radio. It was a good omen. The Toronto show ruled, Adam. Lee's Palace, where I saw Soundtrack of Our Lives a few years ago, is as good a venue for playing as it is for watching, it turns out. Great sound, great people, great crowd, and our best set since the Knitting Factory. A wonderful night. And we got to see our old friends Liz and Danielle and John finally got to meet Herman, who was in top form. Toward the end of the night, I actually heard Lee's production manager Gordon, who could have walked straight off the set of Strange Brew, actually say "Beauty!" Too perfect.
Another ball-busting drive to Kalamazoo yesterday, where we arrived on empty, literally and figuratively both. Which was too bad, because Kalamazoo punches all my buttons. It is so Rochester. And the hospitality provided by the people at the Kraftbrau was of a sort we've rarely encountered outside of St Augustine, Florida. They sent us away with jugs of brewed-on-site beer! Jugs, Adam! Good show, too. How is it that we draw twice as many people in Kalamazoo, Michigan as Montreal, Quebec? WTF?
Phone call from Wanette at three in the morning last night informing me that her mom and sister, who were originally going to show up on Saturday for W's commencement, were in fact on the road already and due to arrive this morning, and that her mom, indeed, is intent on coming up to Chicago for the show tonight. Why is the entire world conspiring to give me a nervous breakdown, Adam?
My phone was useless in Canada for anything but text messaging, and my email was down for three days. It was a fucking blessing. When I get home I am going to bury my phone and computer under a pile of laundry and retreat into the woods for a month. It is going to be awesome.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Sorry about the surliness of that last missive. You caught me at a bad moment. "Angriest lesbian in New Hampshire"? Did I really say that? Jesus. My apologies.
Believe it or not, my mood actually got worse before it got better, despite the remarkably painless and even kind of pleasant (!) border crossing. Traffic coming into Montreal was shit sandwich, and it took me a while to figure out the trick to dealing with it, which is just to accept that every driver is making his own lane as he goes and I will too. Trés Euro. We loaded in and I left immediately for the hotel, a very swank Hyatt I'd Pricelined for cheap, where I took a bath and lay down in the cool dark for a couple hours while John dealt with merciless label representatives.
At that point, finally, I started to feel better. That Montreal was experiencing its first real day of spring helped, as the urban tableaux corresponded precisely to my previous experience of this most continental of North American cities. Which is to say, nobody was wearing any clothes. Me likee Montreal. The show was good, but weird, and again in a most European way: the crowd was polite and attentive and provided almost nothing in the way of feedback until we were done, at which point they demanded two encores. Not coincidentally, we played poorly, our worst set in a good long while, until the very end, which was (surprise) pretty great. An odd night.
Long drive next day to Toronto, where traffic was again shitty, but at least they drive like Americans (badly, but predictably). And we heard "Safety Dance" on the radio. It was a good omen. The Toronto show ruled, Adam. Lee's Palace, where I saw Soundtrack of Our Lives a few years ago, is as good a venue for playing as it is for watching, it turns out. Great sound, great people, great crowd, and our best set since the Knitting Factory. A wonderful night. And we got to see our old friends Liz and Danielle and John finally got to meet Herman, who was in top form. Toward the end of the night, I actually heard Lee's production manager Gordon, who could have walked straight off the set of Strange Brew, actually say "Beauty!" Too perfect.
Another ball-busting drive to Kalamazoo yesterday, where we arrived on empty, literally and figuratively both. Which was too bad, because Kalamazoo punches all my buttons. It is so Rochester. And the hospitality provided by the people at the Kraftbrau was of a sort we've rarely encountered outside of St Augustine, Florida. They sent us away with jugs of brewed-on-site beer! Jugs, Adam! Good show, too. How is it that we draw twice as many people in Kalamazoo, Michigan as Montreal, Quebec? WTF?
Phone call from Wanette at three in the morning last night informing me that her mom and sister, who were originally going to show up on Saturday for W's commencement, were in fact on the road already and due to arrive this morning, and that her mom, indeed, is intent on coming up to Chicago for the show tonight. Why is the entire world conspiring to give me a nervous breakdown, Adam?
My phone was useless in Canada for anything but text messaging, and my email was down for three days. It was a fucking blessing. When I get home I am going to bury my phone and computer under a pile of laundry and retreat into the woods for a month. It is going to be awesome.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Tue, May. 10th, 2005, 12:46 am
Comfort Inn, St Johnsbury, Vermont
Dear Adam,
You know, tour would be great if that were all there is. I.e., if you could just give yourself over to it completely, and not worry about anything else. Alas, the rest of one's life continues to exist, and that complicates things considerably.
I had a really shitty night last night in Boston, our last with both Erik and JV, shitty despite getting to see my oldest friend J. a. Godfrey, talking Factory history and baseball with Dan Cohen, and decrying the hideousness of the Airbus 380 over dinner with The Pilot. I was up until six in the morning, and there was nothing remotely debauched about it. Just me in the bed not sleeping, letting the shufflepod pick and choose from the predictably downbeat playlist I'd stuffed it with, cracking a smile only occasionally when something from Pixel Revolt came on and I could look over and see JV all cute as a bug, his head sandwiched between two pillows just like me.
Headache-filled morning and afternoon today taking care of border-crossing precautions, shipping merch ahead to Michigan, sending money home, etc etc. Miserable traffic for hours out of Boston. When the road finally opened up, I got a ticket, my first in five years, presented to me by the angriest lesbian in New Hampshire. In the words of Masters of the Obvious: You don't have to be a dick about it. Christ.
Here now at the Comfort Inn in St. Johnsbury, Vermont -- the 2003 Comfort Inn of the Year, no less -- where there is no cellular service and where I just spent the last four and a half hours working. Work work. Remember when I thought getting this laptop would be a great idea because it would allow me to work while on tour? I have shit for brains, Adam.
Were it not for Dan's timely present I would be preparing to slit my wrists at this moment. Instead I will go to bed, at last. We did see a bear crossing the road today. That was cool. And the New Yorker thing, too. They better not try any funny business at the border tomorrow though. I'm not in a mood to be fucked with.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
You know, tour would be great if that were all there is. I.e., if you could just give yourself over to it completely, and not worry about anything else. Alas, the rest of one's life continues to exist, and that complicates things considerably.
I had a really shitty night last night in Boston, our last with both Erik and JV, shitty despite getting to see my oldest friend J. a. Godfrey, talking Factory history and baseball with Dan Cohen, and decrying the hideousness of the Airbus 380 over dinner with The Pilot. I was up until six in the morning, and there was nothing remotely debauched about it. Just me in the bed not sleeping, letting the shufflepod pick and choose from the predictably downbeat playlist I'd stuffed it with, cracking a smile only occasionally when something from Pixel Revolt came on and I could look over and see JV all cute as a bug, his head sandwiched between two pillows just like me.
Headache-filled morning and afternoon today taking care of border-crossing precautions, shipping merch ahead to Michigan, sending money home, etc etc. Miserable traffic for hours out of Boston. When the road finally opened up, I got a ticket, my first in five years, presented to me by the angriest lesbian in New Hampshire. In the words of Masters of the Obvious: You don't have to be a dick about it. Christ.
Here now at the Comfort Inn in St. Johnsbury, Vermont -- the 2003 Comfort Inn of the Year, no less -- where there is no cellular service and where I just spent the last four and a half hours working. Work work. Remember when I thought getting this laptop would be a great idea because it would allow me to work while on tour? I have shit for brains, Adam.
Were it not for Dan's timely present I would be preparing to slit my wrists at this moment. Instead I will go to bed, at last. We did see a bear crossing the road today. That was cool. And the New Yorker thing, too. They better not try any funny business at the border tomorrow though. I'm not in a mood to be fucked with.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Sat, May. 7th, 2005, 05:19 pm
Embassy Suites Hotel, New York
Dear Adam,
Greetings from the Embassy Suites Ground Zero. We are literally a block from the big hole in the sky. What does this mean in 2005, some three and half years after the towers fell? Well, it means that on a cloudy Saturday morning in May one is likely to be awoken by the roar of several hundred Harley-Davidson motorcycles outside one's hotel window accompanied by the strains of "Coming to America" and "Born in the U.S.A." blaring from a P.A., followed by what could very well have been Lee Greenwood himself singing "I'm Proud to Be an American" and then exhorting the crowd of red-white-and-blue bandanna'd bikers to join him in chants of "U.S.A.! U.S.A.!" and "What do we want? FREEDOM!" for another half hour. I wish to god I were making this up, Adam. I am not.
I am in a shitty fucking mood now on account of this, which is too bad, because the last several days have been pretty amazing. The D.C. show was off the hook. Erik: astonishing. Shearwater: fantastic. The Mountain Goats: pretty damn great, thanks largely to contributions from the above and JV who all joined us at various points throughout the set to beautiful effect. We did a version of "Your Belgian Things" with Thor on vibes and Jonathan on melodica and JV on electric guitar -- was that everyone? It's getting hard to keep all this straight -- that was just gorgeous. I've always wanted to play in a band with a ton of people, each of them intent on playing just a little less, a little quieter than everyone else -- a shared aesthetic of collective restraint. That's exactly what this was. So beautiful.
Next morning the four of us -- Erik, JV, JD and I -- headed over to a massive and immaculate studio at NPR (nice to know my annual pledge is going to good use), where we spent an hour or so doing a session with Linda Wertheimer that'll air on Weekend Edition a week from today. Weekend freaking Edition, Adam. Great moment when, after being introduced and exchanging pleasantries -- during which time each of us had the identical experience of trying futilely to fit the voice to what we're accustomed to hearing on the radio -- Linda sat down for her mic check and started reading from her prepared script, in the precise, measured, impeccably enunciated cadences that are NPR's signature: "Since nineteen-ninety-one, the Moun-tain Goats..." and it was like, holy crap! It's HER! Totally cool.
Afterwards we headed up to Philadelphia, which was good but not quite on the same level as the night before, mostly on account of us just being beat from the session and the drive. Still, a great crowd and wonderful sound made it a fun one, and JV was a trooper taking over the merch table for me afterwards so I could hang out with my old Rochester friend Mary who I hadn't seen in two-plus years (yay!).
Then to New York. I didn't see New Order after all. And while I confess to feeling a pang of regret (no pun intended) when I read the setlist online this morning, I gotta say, I don't know that I'd've wanted to miss a minute of our night at the Knit. I've seen a lot of Mountain Goats shows over the years, Adam, both as spectator and participant. I mean, a fucking lot, as in, like, hundreds. I don't know that I've ever seen a better one than what went down at the Knitting Factory this time around. Friedlander, Travis from Shearwater, Thor, Jonathan, JV all coming and going throughout, playing the best versions of these songs that have ever been played. I became acutely aware of it straight away, maybe twenty seconds into the opener: Jesus, we sound good. New York shows are always intense. This one felt like walking up to the plate in the bottom of the ninth with two out and two on and knowing, just knowing, that you're gonna drive 'em home. We won. It was awesome.
Yesterday JV and I walked around the city all day, making stops at the Beggars/Matador offices and at JSM, a huge jingle house where JV's old friend and a guy I've been hearing about from people forever, Adam Cohen, has an amazing studio for recording the stuff you hear in the background during Chevy and Gatorade commercials. Adam used to play in the Mommyheads. These days he's putting his formidable production skills to work with some of the heaviest session guys in the city. Wild.
From there we took a cab and met JD at Erik's place in Soho, where, in the company of Erik's lovely wife, Lynn, and six-year-old daughter, Eva, we were treated to a wonderful dinner and one of the most thoroughly pleasant evenings I can remember. Erik Friedlander = MENSCH. And the most extraordinary musician I'm ever likely to play with. I can imagine myself fifty years from now, my musical career long over, looking back on this tour like the journeyman ballplayer who once got to spend a season playing alongside Willie Mays.
Which brings us to the present moment, which finds JD and I gathering up our crap to head over to Brooklyn for tonight's show. I would've liked to do more shopping in New York, Adam. How did I not get to do more shopping, with a full day off and most of today as well? Too much to do, too much to do. Gotta go.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Greetings from the Embassy Suites Ground Zero. We are literally a block from the big hole in the sky. What does this mean in 2005, some three and half years after the towers fell? Well, it means that on a cloudy Saturday morning in May one is likely to be awoken by the roar of several hundred Harley-Davidson motorcycles outside one's hotel window accompanied by the strains of "Coming to America" and "Born in the U.S.A." blaring from a P.A., followed by what could very well have been Lee Greenwood himself singing "I'm Proud to Be an American" and then exhorting the crowd of red-white-and-blue bandanna'd bikers to join him in chants of "U.S.A.! U.S.A.!" and "What do we want? FREEDOM!" for another half hour. I wish to god I were making this up, Adam. I am not.
I am in a shitty fucking mood now on account of this, which is too bad, because the last several days have been pretty amazing. The D.C. show was off the hook. Erik: astonishing. Shearwater: fantastic. The Mountain Goats: pretty damn great, thanks largely to contributions from the above and JV who all joined us at various points throughout the set to beautiful effect. We did a version of "Your Belgian Things" with Thor on vibes and Jonathan on melodica and JV on electric guitar -- was that everyone? It's getting hard to keep all this straight -- that was just gorgeous. I've always wanted to play in a band with a ton of people, each of them intent on playing just a little less, a little quieter than everyone else -- a shared aesthetic of collective restraint. That's exactly what this was. So beautiful.
Next morning the four of us -- Erik, JV, JD and I -- headed over to a massive and immaculate studio at NPR (nice to know my annual pledge is going to good use), where we spent an hour or so doing a session with Linda Wertheimer that'll air on Weekend Edition a week from today. Weekend freaking Edition, Adam. Great moment when, after being introduced and exchanging pleasantries -- during which time each of us had the identical experience of trying futilely to fit the voice to what we're accustomed to hearing on the radio -- Linda sat down for her mic check and started reading from her prepared script, in the precise, measured, impeccably enunciated cadences that are NPR's signature: "Since nineteen-ninety-one, the Moun-tain Goats..." and it was like, holy crap! It's HER! Totally cool.
Afterwards we headed up to Philadelphia, which was good but not quite on the same level as the night before, mostly on account of us just being beat from the session and the drive. Still, a great crowd and wonderful sound made it a fun one, and JV was a trooper taking over the merch table for me afterwards so I could hang out with my old Rochester friend Mary who I hadn't seen in two-plus years (yay!).
Then to New York. I didn't see New Order after all. And while I confess to feeling a pang of regret (no pun intended) when I read the setlist online this morning, I gotta say, I don't know that I'd've wanted to miss a minute of our night at the Knit. I've seen a lot of Mountain Goats shows over the years, Adam, both as spectator and participant. I mean, a fucking lot, as in, like, hundreds. I don't know that I've ever seen a better one than what went down at the Knitting Factory this time around. Friedlander, Travis from Shearwater, Thor, Jonathan, JV all coming and going throughout, playing the best versions of these songs that have ever been played. I became acutely aware of it straight away, maybe twenty seconds into the opener: Jesus, we sound good. New York shows are always intense. This one felt like walking up to the plate in the bottom of the ninth with two out and two on and knowing, just knowing, that you're gonna drive 'em home. We won. It was awesome.
Yesterday JV and I walked around the city all day, making stops at the Beggars/Matador offices and at JSM, a huge jingle house where JV's old friend and a guy I've been hearing about from people forever, Adam Cohen, has an amazing studio for recording the stuff you hear in the background during Chevy and Gatorade commercials. Adam used to play in the Mommyheads. These days he's putting his formidable production skills to work with some of the heaviest session guys in the city. Wild.
From there we took a cab and met JD at Erik's place in Soho, where, in the company of Erik's lovely wife, Lynn, and six-year-old daughter, Eva, we were treated to a wonderful dinner and one of the most thoroughly pleasant evenings I can remember. Erik Friedlander = MENSCH. And the most extraordinary musician I'm ever likely to play with. I can imagine myself fifty years from now, my musical career long over, looking back on this tour like the journeyman ballplayer who once got to spend a season playing alongside Willie Mays.
Which brings us to the present moment, which finds JD and I gathering up our crap to head over to Brooklyn for tonight's show. I would've liked to do more shopping in New York, Adam. How did I not get to do more shopping, with a full day off and most of today as well? Too much to do, too much to do. Gotta go.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Tue, May. 3rd, 2005, 02:04 am
La Quinta, Durham
Dear Adam,
Dammit man how many times do we need to tell you: NO TOUR DURING NPR PLEDGE DRIVE. This is like the fourth time in a row! Is it so much to ask that we be able to listen to Terry Gross without having to sit through the local yokels trying to flatter us into forking over our hard-earned cash every ten minutes? Good grief.
Finished off the first leg in fine fashion the other night in Tallahassee, fun show, good crowd, no complaints. Spent last night in Santee, South Carolina watching baseball and the better part of Starsky & Hutch (which is to say, the "Do it!" part) at the exit 98 Hampton, resting up for the madness to come.
Got our first taste of it tonight at the Cat's Cradle. I don't know what the final count was, but it sure seemed like a hell of a lot of people, Adam. JV: in the house. JV's bro: in the house. JV's mom: in the house. Perry, Alex, Daniel from Prayers and Tears: in the house. Mac: in the house. Is it totally lame that I'm still starstruck around Mac? What can I say, I've loved Superchunk for-fucking-ever. If I had a dime for every time that band has redeemed my faith in the entire enterprise of rock'n'roll, I'd have fifty cents at least. Seriously.
Anyway, effin great show tonight. We brought up JV for the last four or five songs, and Thor from Shearwater for all but one of those, and they brought it, man. Very beautiful, very powerful. Fun as hell. Tomorrow up to DC where we'll hook up with Erik and roll four-deep on up the seaboard. It's gonna be goo-hoo-hood.
Hey, you don't know anyone who can get me into the New Order show Thursday night, do you? I'm hoping to weasle my way in for at least a couple songs before I have to head back to the Knitting Factory. You know where to reach me.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Dammit man how many times do we need to tell you: NO TOUR DURING NPR PLEDGE DRIVE. This is like the fourth time in a row! Is it so much to ask that we be able to listen to Terry Gross without having to sit through the local yokels trying to flatter us into forking over our hard-earned cash every ten minutes? Good grief.
Finished off the first leg in fine fashion the other night in Tallahassee, fun show, good crowd, no complaints. Spent last night in Santee, South Carolina watching baseball and the better part of Starsky & Hutch (which is to say, the "Do it!" part) at the exit 98 Hampton, resting up for the madness to come.
Got our first taste of it tonight at the Cat's Cradle. I don't know what the final count was, but it sure seemed like a hell of a lot of people, Adam. JV: in the house. JV's bro: in the house. JV's mom: in the house. Perry, Alex, Daniel from Prayers and Tears: in the house. Mac: in the house. Is it totally lame that I'm still starstruck around Mac? What can I say, I've loved Superchunk for-fucking-ever. If I had a dime for every time that band has redeemed my faith in the entire enterprise of rock'n'roll, I'd have fifty cents at least. Seriously.
Anyway, effin great show tonight. We brought up JV for the last four or five songs, and Thor from Shearwater for all but one of those, and they brought it, man. Very beautiful, very powerful. Fun as hell. Tomorrow up to DC where we'll hook up with Erik and roll four-deep on up the seaboard. It's gonna be goo-hoo-hood.
Hey, you don't know anyone who can get me into the New Order show Thursday night, do you? I'm hoping to weasle my way in for at least a couple songs before I have to head back to the Knitting Factory. You know where to reach me.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Sat, Apr. 30th, 2005, 06:38 pm
All Saints Cafe, Tallahassee
Dear Adam,
Six o'clock and I'm at the caff sipping a cup of coffee with the laptop in front of me catching up on email and taking care of tour logistics. In other words, pretty much exactly what I'd be doing at home. I'm in Tallahassee though, where it's pissing rain and thunderstormin' away outside my storefront window table.
Yesterday in St Augustine an absolute blessing. You've heard me say it before, Adam, but I'll say it again for the benefit of anyone in a band who might be reading: A more pleasant tour stop than Cafe Eleven is something I cannot imagine. Are you a rock star? Do you typically make many thousands of dollars a night playing before thousands of people? It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that the venue is small. It doesn't matter that it is, after all, a cafe. They will feed you delicious food. They will put you up. They will put you up at the beach. They will be all kinds of friendly to you, as will all of the smiling beautiful people who come to see your show. Everything about it is easy, pleasant, gracious, restorative, wonderful. It is precisely the antidote to tour.
There are also pelicans.
So yeah, St Augustine was bitchin' ass, as always. What else? Finally got what felt like a decent night's rest last night even if it still wasn't quite long enough; for once I'm not having any problem getting to sleep but instead my cursed body is doing the John thing where it just wakes up after six hours and politely refuses the opportunity for any further slumber. Still feel like I've had little time for customary tour pleasures like zoning out with cable TV for hours at a stretch or just spending some quality time with the iPod (though I could be doing that now, I guess). Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure we'll get in some Cheaters and Law & Order. After that we'll have JV to entertain us, and tour will have begun in earnest.
Crazy lightning outside, Adam. You're missing it, man.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Six o'clock and I'm at the caff sipping a cup of coffee with the laptop in front of me catching up on email and taking care of tour logistics. In other words, pretty much exactly what I'd be doing at home. I'm in Tallahassee though, where it's pissing rain and thunderstormin' away outside my storefront window table.
Yesterday in St Augustine an absolute blessing. You've heard me say it before, Adam, but I'll say it again for the benefit of anyone in a band who might be reading: A more pleasant tour stop than Cafe Eleven is something I cannot imagine. Are you a rock star? Do you typically make many thousands of dollars a night playing before thousands of people? It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that the venue is small. It doesn't matter that it is, after all, a cafe. They will feed you delicious food. They will put you up. They will put you up at the beach. They will be all kinds of friendly to you, as will all of the smiling beautiful people who come to see your show. Everything about it is easy, pleasant, gracious, restorative, wonderful. It is precisely the antidote to tour.
There are also pelicans.
So yeah, St Augustine was bitchin' ass, as always. What else? Finally got what felt like a decent night's rest last night even if it still wasn't quite long enough; for once I'm not having any problem getting to sleep but instead my cursed body is doing the John thing where it just wakes up after six hours and politely refuses the opportunity for any further slumber. Still feel like I've had little time for customary tour pleasures like zoning out with cable TV for hours at a stretch or just spending some quality time with the iPod (though I could be doing that now, I guess). Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure we'll get in some Cheaters and Law & Order. After that we'll have JV to entertain us, and tour will have begun in earnest.
Crazy lightning outside, Adam. You're missing it, man.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Fri, Apr. 29th, 2005, 02:12 am
Hampton Inn, Alamonte Springs
Dear Adam,
Holy crap, dude. It's 1:30 in the morning and we're at a Hampton Inn somewhere on the outskirts of Orlando and I feel like I just got off a George Jetson treadmill for the first time in seventy-two hours. Too much driving, man! Shows that go too late! Too little sleep! Not complaining per se -- such is the nature of tour, and I'm well aware there's nothing you can do about that -- so much as explaining why you haven't heard from me in a while.
Recapping, briefly: Charleston: first show of this leg and also, as you may have noticed, the day our record came out. Somebody said something about CNN Headline News? What's up with that, man? How does that shit happen? Could an AirTran fuselage be in our future? The Redux was great, a very cool art studio/gallery/printshop with lots of nice people and good sound. Shearwater are awesome. And our old friend Charlie McAlister not only made an appearance, but opened the show with a startlingly cohesive and thoroughly entertaining set of his own. So that was cool. We got a room at a Wingate (?) on the way outta town, which kicked John off the internet when "questionable content" was detected on his computer. He swore up and down he was only reading the Village Voice, and his browsing privileges were soon reinstated.
Last night was Atlanta, where they screened the Jandek documentary before the show and left a bottle of Jack Daniels backstage for us. Lethal combination. Great show though. Horses had a night off from their tour with Iron & Wine and were kind enough to grace us with their presence, which was cool -- nice guys, good band. (And they're from Seattle, man -- you should be booking them! We talked you up real good, don't worry.) Ever-lovable Ryan Williams from the Baptist Generals has been filling in on bass for Shearwater these last three shows, and last night was his birthday. We got him up onstage during "The Best Ever Death Metal Band from Denton." He said it was his best birthday ever. He also ate cheesecake for dinner. I sat there and watched him. Amazing.
Brutal drive today down I-75's infinite tableau of hideous billboards, but we were rewarded handsomely for our trouble. For now we are in Florida, where our cares are inevitably washed away. We're restocked on shirts (girlie sizes now!) and those crazy guys from Rochester who drove all the way to Chicago last year to see us live here now and brought me a bottle of chartreuse inscribed with a dedication: for surviving Rochester, from a couple of fellow expats. I hope they don't want it back in a few months. The show was ruling. Will's Pub = good times. And we were out of there by 12:30, remarkably. Which means it's not killing me to write this right now. Even though I should be proofing Wanette's thesis for her. Oh well -- there'll be plenty of time tomorrow in between swims.
Speaking of Wanette, did I mention that this week marks two years that we've been together? The corollary to that of course being that it's two years now since I left my wife. Causes for celebration both. Relatedly, tomorrow in a county courthouse in downtown Pomona, California, my wife's and my lawyers will be again arguing our marital status before the court. I can only hope she'll be there too, stuck in a stuffy room in the armpit of the Empire, gnashing her teeth. Me, I'll be at the beach. Thank you for that, Adam. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The beard is gone, by the way. In its place, the controversial Graham Hill 'stache. Actually comes off, as John pointed out upon seeing me, slightly more Ron Mael, which I'll take too. "A lady gets a lot of things/ She gets the twenty carat ring/ She gets the alimony too/ She gets to look good in the nude/ But there's one place where they've been licked/ Between the nose and upper lip/ Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!"
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Holy crap, dude. It's 1:30 in the morning and we're at a Hampton Inn somewhere on the outskirts of Orlando and I feel like I just got off a George Jetson treadmill for the first time in seventy-two hours. Too much driving, man! Shows that go too late! Too little sleep! Not complaining per se -- such is the nature of tour, and I'm well aware there's nothing you can do about that -- so much as explaining why you haven't heard from me in a while.
Recapping, briefly: Charleston: first show of this leg and also, as you may have noticed, the day our record came out. Somebody said something about CNN Headline News? What's up with that, man? How does that shit happen? Could an AirTran fuselage be in our future? The Redux was great, a very cool art studio/gallery/printshop with lots of nice people and good sound. Shearwater are awesome. And our old friend Charlie McAlister not only made an appearance, but opened the show with a startlingly cohesive and thoroughly entertaining set of his own. So that was cool. We got a room at a Wingate (?) on the way outta town, which kicked John off the internet when "questionable content" was detected on his computer. He swore up and down he was only reading the Village Voice, and his browsing privileges were soon reinstated.
Last night was Atlanta, where they screened the Jandek documentary before the show and left a bottle of Jack Daniels backstage for us. Lethal combination. Great show though. Horses had a night off from their tour with Iron & Wine and were kind enough to grace us with their presence, which was cool -- nice guys, good band. (And they're from Seattle, man -- you should be booking them! We talked you up real good, don't worry.) Ever-lovable Ryan Williams from the Baptist Generals has been filling in on bass for Shearwater these last three shows, and last night was his birthday. We got him up onstage during "The Best Ever Death Metal Band from Denton." He said it was his best birthday ever. He also ate cheesecake for dinner. I sat there and watched him. Amazing.
Brutal drive today down I-75's infinite tableau of hideous billboards, but we were rewarded handsomely for our trouble. For now we are in Florida, where our cares are inevitably washed away. We're restocked on shirts (girlie sizes now!) and those crazy guys from Rochester who drove all the way to Chicago last year to see us live here now and brought me a bottle of chartreuse inscribed with a dedication: for surviving Rochester, from a couple of fellow expats. I hope they don't want it back in a few months. The show was ruling. Will's Pub = good times. And we were out of there by 12:30, remarkably. Which means it's not killing me to write this right now. Even though I should be proofing Wanette's thesis for her. Oh well -- there'll be plenty of time tomorrow in between swims.
Speaking of Wanette, did I mention that this week marks two years that we've been together? The corollary to that of course being that it's two years now since I left my wife. Causes for celebration both. Relatedly, tomorrow in a county courthouse in downtown Pomona, California, my wife's and my lawyers will be again arguing our marital status before the court. I can only hope she'll be there too, stuck in a stuffy room in the armpit of the Empire, gnashing her teeth. Me, I'll be at the beach. Thank you for that, Adam. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The beard is gone, by the way. In its place, the controversial Graham Hill 'stache. Actually comes off, as John pointed out upon seeing me, slightly more Ron Mael, which I'll take too. "A lady gets a lot of things/ She gets the twenty carat ring/ She gets the alimony too/ She gets to look good in the nude/ But there's one place where they've been licked/ Between the nose and upper lip/ Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!"
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Tue, Apr. 26th, 2005, 01:52 am
On tour, America
Dear Adam,
There is a giant Elton John face on the side of this airplane. I'm fairly certain that if you were looking from the outside, given the location of my seat (16A, yo), you would see my tiny face peering out from somewhere within the twelve-foot-wide expanse of Mr. John's forehead.
Elton John, most recently heard bitching out Georges Boy and Michael in print, attributing their failure to appreciate Eminem's genius (in a Rolling Stone piece which finds John comparing Mr. Mathers favorably to the likes of Jagger, Bowie, Dylan, et al) to their lack of intelligence. I dunno man, I got love for George Michael, Boy George, and Eminem, and I also think the former two have reason aplenty to find fault with the latter. In fact, the only person among the above whose intelligence I would call into question would be Mr. John himself, who looks more and more these days like a sad old queen and the straight-up fucking hack he's always been, however many airplanes he's got his grill on the side of.
Anyway the Elton-John's-face-on-the-side-of-the-pla
So yeah, here we go again. Eased into tour mode by driving up to Chicago with Wanette the other night to see the Crystal Skulls playing with the Wedding Present. One word about the Wedding Present, Adam, who in their prime were pert near my favorite band, period: sad. Or two, maybe: cynical and sad. There but for the grace of god ... (no, no, we'll know when to stop). Crystal Skulls were great though and it was cool hanging out and catching up.
[many hours later] Which is what I just got done doing here in Durham with Perry from Prayers and Tears over beers, leaving me, at two a.m., tired. So I'm going to go to bed now, Adam. More tomorrow from ... wait, where are we playing tomorrow?
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
There is a giant Elton John face on the side of this airplane. I'm fairly certain that if you were looking from the outside, given the location of my seat (16A, yo), you would see my tiny face peering out from somewhere within the twelve-foot-wide expanse of Mr. John's forehead.
Elton John, most recently heard bitching out Georges Boy and Michael in print, attributing their failure to appreciate Eminem's genius (in a Rolling Stone piece which finds John comparing Mr. Mathers favorably to the likes of Jagger, Bowie, Dylan, et al) to their lack of intelligence. I dunno man, I got love for George Michael, Boy George, and Eminem, and I also think the former two have reason aplenty to find fault with the latter. In fact, the only person among the above whose intelligence I would call into question would be Mr. John himself, who looks more and more these days like a sad old queen and the straight-up fucking hack he's always been, however many airplanes he's got his grill on the side of.
Anyway the Elton-John's-face-on-the-side-of-the-pla
So yeah, here we go again. Eased into tour mode by driving up to Chicago with Wanette the other night to see the Crystal Skulls playing with the Wedding Present. One word about the Wedding Present, Adam, who in their prime were pert near my favorite band, period: sad. Or two, maybe: cynical and sad. There but for the grace of god ... (no, no, we'll know when to stop). Crystal Skulls were great though and it was cool hanging out and catching up.
[many hours later] Which is what I just got done doing here in Durham with Perry from Prayers and Tears over beers, leaving me, at two a.m., tired. So I'm going to go to bed now, Adam. More tomorrow from ... wait, where are we playing tomorrow?
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
Mon, Apr. 11th, 2005, 05:28 pm
I forgot...
Two best tour quotes from people not actually affiliated with the tour:
1. Re: Omaha, "WHOA PETER BIG TIME ROCK STAR WHO YA GONNA TURN DOWN NEXT??? MUNGO JERRY???" (Herman)
2. Re: Memphis, "Maybe you should have played 'the blues,' I understand they enjoy it down there." (Franklin)
Thanks, guys.
1. Re: Omaha, "WHOA PETER BIG TIME ROCK STAR WHO YA GONNA TURN DOWN NEXT??? MUNGO JERRY???" (Herman)
2. Re: Memphis, "Maybe you should have played 'the blues,' I understand they enjoy it down there." (Franklin)
Thanks, guys.
Mon, Apr. 11th, 2005, 04:48 pm
Paradiso, Urbana
Dear Adam,
Something tells me I am not the first person to walk through Louis Armstrong International still feeling the effects of the night before. Still, that was brutal. I made it home, though, and fourteen hours of glorious, in-my-own-comfy-bed sleep later it is all good.
Rewinding: Baton Rouge continued our streak of P.A.s wholly unsuitable to the admittedly sometimes difficult task of projecting Mountain Goats music at high volume, least of all back at us through the monitors, but that hardly mattered. The folks at the Red Star were very cool, the crowd ruled, and the concert was a jam.
I also met a CODA -- child of deaf adults -- the first such person I've met without first having been introduced by my CODA girlfriend. Her name was Natasha, she was about the same age as Wanette, and she works with people afflicted with Usher's, a congenital disease endemic to Cajun populations in Louisiana that causes people born deaf to gradually go blind in adulthood, the same disease that was the subject of the Oliver Sacks documentary I saw many years ago which first opened my eyes to the expressive potential of nonverbal language and the existence of what I now know (thanks to Wanette) as capital-D Deaf culture. I felt bad ganking the conversation away from Alex, but not too bad, as the Prayers and Tears crew had done an effective job of diverting the attention of pretty girls and boys away from us all tour. And I wasn't about to miss the opportunity to employ what little ASL I've learned and retained over the last two years to sign "nice to meet you" to someone who'd actually appreciate it. Unfortunately we didn't get a chance to exchange email addresses before she left, so if you or anyone in Baton Rouge knows how to get in touch with CODA Natasha who goes to LSU lemme know!
New Orleans was off the hook. We pulled the Grand Prix into the barricade right behind Keb' Mo's bus in front of the House of Blues (he was playing the big room across the hall) and left it there until after the show, when the action moved down the street to the mod dance party at the Circle Bar where we all got proper drunk and danced our asses off. Michaela requests that all future Mountain Goats tours terminate in New Orleans, and I must say this seems an agreeable proposition. It was downright Swedish, man. Good times.
Home now, just in time to see spring transform my neighborhood, the loveliest I've ever lived in. It's something else, Adam. My new tires are on order from Tire Rack, my new pants are at the tailor, and my Amex is clear. Life is good. Two weeks and we get to go out and do it all again.
Thanks for a killer tour, Adam. Big ups to Black Mountain, the Crystal Skulls, the Prayers and Tears of Arthur Digby Sellers who brought the rock for us every fucking night, to everyone who helped put on these shows (bonus thanks to Marc in Omaha for having our backs and telling it straight to the World Herald), to anyone who brought us gifts of tasty food and drink (or anything else for that matter), and to everyone who came out to see us, often over great distances and at considerable expense. Thanks for making it possible for us to do this. You are appreciated.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
( p.s., I am not ignoring you! )
Something tells me I am not the first person to walk through Louis Armstrong International still feeling the effects of the night before. Still, that was brutal. I made it home, though, and fourteen hours of glorious, in-my-own-comfy-bed sleep later it is all good.
Rewinding: Baton Rouge continued our streak of P.A.s wholly unsuitable to the admittedly sometimes difficult task of projecting Mountain Goats music at high volume, least of all back at us through the monitors, but that hardly mattered. The folks at the Red Star were very cool, the crowd ruled, and the concert was a jam.
I also met a CODA -- child of deaf adults -- the first such person I've met without first having been introduced by my CODA girlfriend. Her name was Natasha, she was about the same age as Wanette, and she works with people afflicted with Usher's, a congenital disease endemic to Cajun populations in Louisiana that causes people born deaf to gradually go blind in adulthood, the same disease that was the subject of the Oliver Sacks documentary I saw many years ago which first opened my eyes to the expressive potential of nonverbal language and the existence of what I now know (thanks to Wanette) as capital-D Deaf culture. I felt bad ganking the conversation away from Alex, but not too bad, as the Prayers and Tears crew had done an effective job of diverting the attention of pretty girls and boys away from us all tour. And I wasn't about to miss the opportunity to employ what little ASL I've learned and retained over the last two years to sign "nice to meet you" to someone who'd actually appreciate it. Unfortunately we didn't get a chance to exchange email addresses before she left, so if you or anyone in Baton Rouge knows how to get in touch with CODA Natasha who goes to LSU lemme know!
New Orleans was off the hook. We pulled the Grand Prix into the barricade right behind Keb' Mo's bus in front of the House of Blues (he was playing the big room across the hall) and left it there until after the show, when the action moved down the street to the mod dance party at the Circle Bar where we all got proper drunk and danced our asses off. Michaela requests that all future Mountain Goats tours terminate in New Orleans, and I must say this seems an agreeable proposition. It was downright Swedish, man. Good times.
Home now, just in time to see spring transform my neighborhood, the loveliest I've ever lived in. It's something else, Adam. My new tires are on order from Tire Rack, my new pants are at the tailor, and my Amex is clear. Life is good. Two weeks and we get to go out and do it all again.
Thanks for a killer tour, Adam. Big ups to Black Mountain, the Crystal Skulls, the Prayers and Tears of Arthur Digby Sellers who brought the rock for us every fucking night, to everyone who helped put on these shows (bonus thanks to Marc in Omaha for having our backs and telling it straight to the World Herald), to anyone who brought us gifts of tasty food and drink (or anything else for that matter), and to everyone who came out to see us, often over great distances and at considerable expense. Thanks for making it possible for us to do this. You are appreciated.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
( p.s., I am not ignoring you! )
Fri, Apr. 8th, 2005, 04:35 pm
Holiday Inn, Baton Rouge
Dear Adam,
I should like to nominate for the distinction of Most Significant Technological Advance of the 21st Century not wireless internet, nor dashboard GPS displays, nor the mapping of the human genome, but the bowed shower curtain rod. Total fucking genius, man. Why did it take until now?
Back where we started, or close enough. Jackson last night was awesome. On the small side, due in part to a last-minute venue change and the corresponding fact that the old venue for some reason was telling people who called for info that the show had been flat-out cancelled instead of just moved next door, but whatever. The new place was a hot dog joint, of all things, which was rapidly being transformed into a hot dog joint/bar/pool hall/nightclub and bore the marks of said transformation wherever one looked. In other words, it was kind of a mess. But a good mess. Not to get all hippy dippy or anything, but sometimes the vibe of a place is just right. Last night felt like the kind of show we might have played on tour ten years ago. Totally random, kinda chaotic, less than ideal circumstances in a lot of ways, and everyone ends up having a great time anyway. Big ups for the people in Jackson, Adam. That's gonna be a reliably fun tour stop for anyone you're booking once they get that venue up to speed, and from the sounds of it they've come a long way in a very short time.
So what else? We apparently missed the tornado in Mississippi a couple days ago, damn it all to hell. I was really hoping to see one on this tour, three weeks driving the full length and breadth of Tornado Alley at this time of year. Closest we got was Wanette telling me one afternoon that there was a tornado watch in C-U. Alas, we were in Lawrence at the time.
We are now at a Holiday Inn in Baton Rouge. Our room looks out onto a lushly foliated courtyard with three swimming pools. It is sunny and warm and beautiful outside; blue sky, green trees. It's all very Melrose Place. Any minute I expect Perry from PNTADS will be calling to tell us that they're at the venue and nobody's there, or that somebody is there but they don't know when the soundguy's showing up, or that the soundguy's there but we don't need to show up for another hour because they're still waiting on the bass cabinet, or something. Perry cracks me up. Fun being out with those guys for sure though, and they've been winning friends at every stop, which is what happens when your band is as good as theirs is.
Alright man, I slept for shit last night so I'm gonna rest and read some magazines until somebody makes me do something else.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH
I should like to nominate for the distinction of Most Significant Technological Advance of the 21st Century not wireless internet, nor dashboard GPS displays, nor the mapping of the human genome, but the bowed shower curtain rod. Total fucking genius, man. Why did it take until now?
Back where we started, or close enough. Jackson last night was awesome. On the small side, due in part to a last-minute venue change and the corresponding fact that the old venue for some reason was telling people who called for info that the show had been flat-out cancelled instead of just moved next door, but whatever. The new place was a hot dog joint, of all things, which was rapidly being transformed into a hot dog joint/bar/pool hall/nightclub and bore the marks of said transformation wherever one looked. In other words, it was kind of a mess. But a good mess. Not to get all hippy dippy or anything, but sometimes the vibe of a place is just right. Last night felt like the kind of show we might have played on tour ten years ago. Totally random, kinda chaotic, less than ideal circumstances in a lot of ways, and everyone ends up having a great time anyway. Big ups for the people in Jackson, Adam. That's gonna be a reliably fun tour stop for anyone you're booking once they get that venue up to speed, and from the sounds of it they've come a long way in a very short time.
So what else? We apparently missed the tornado in Mississippi a couple days ago, damn it all to hell. I was really hoping to see one on this tour, three weeks driving the full length and breadth of Tornado Alley at this time of year. Closest we got was Wanette telling me one afternoon that there was a tornado watch in C-U. Alas, we were in Lawrence at the time.
We are now at a Holiday Inn in Baton Rouge. Our room looks out onto a lushly foliated courtyard with three swimming pools. It is sunny and warm and beautiful outside; blue sky, green trees. It's all very Melrose Place. Any minute I expect Perry from PNTADS will be calling to tell us that they're at the venue and nobody's there, or that somebody is there but they don't know when the soundguy's showing up, or that the soundguy's there but we don't need to show up for another hour because they're still waiting on the bass cabinet, or something. Perry cracks me up. Fun being out with those guys for sure though, and they've been winning friends at every stop, which is what happens when your band is as good as theirs is.
Alright man, I slept for shit last night so I'm gonna rest and read some magazines until somebody makes me do something else.
Yr hmbl & obt svt
PPH