Tuesday, September 18, 2007

PACIFIC FINALE

four posts in one here, so get comfy:

VAN-TASTIC
While we still don’t have groovy visuals to show you just yet (and sister, they are groovy so just be patient.), it seems that some of you are actually dissatisfied with the breadth of this commentary—that some want more information than descriptions of our stops and all the highlights that they offer—that you actually want to hear about all the stuff in-between as well, about all the time spent in this van. Granted, the overwhelming majority of the time passed on tour has been time spent in dave’s mom’s plush ride; and yes, we’ve gone unprecedented distances to get to all these wonderful cities and towns, but is the road-time really necessary to describe? Are you sure? Do you really want to know how we all chant these grim words ‘…Back in the van…’ with irony and resignation after each local adventure and gig? Do you really want to know about all gas stations we’ve visited, about our comparisons of fuel prices and all the various procedures there are to pay with cash? Area you proud of our hyper-efficient and strangely-satisfying loading/unloading procedure? Is a rest-stop comparison that crucial? Do you really want to hear about long long hours of no conversation and the frustration of the Ipod shuffle playing the same songs over and over while ignoring whole abums? Do you really want an explanation of my rinky-dink accounting system and the fluctuating balance of gas-money cash-proceeds that have kept our vehicle well-fed? Really? Honest? Are you that interested in knowing who fits best in the floor of the back seat when sleep is the only option? Do you really care that some of has have discovered that we can actually read (and write) in a moving vehicle without spraying the entire passenger compartment with vomit? Do you really need a description of the dorky road-side yoga done at rest stops in yoga-suspicious states? Do you really want to know who has the smallest and most inconvenient bladder? Do you really want a tally of all the people in other cars who have stared with suspicion at the stickers on our roof-box, or the daily countless identical white grand caravan minivans we seem to encounter? Do you really want confirmation that—on the interstate—there are the same jackass idiots in huge shiny pickup trucks cutting people off left and right, the same sleepy truck drivers, and the same (understandably) resentful foreign-born gas station clerks, that this country is basically the same wherever you go, and therefore essentially fucked from the inside out? Really? Really? Really? I didn’t think so.


TOUR DE RIBS
Once in san diego the king hen again wallowed in luxury, hospitality, local color and way too much good food. And actually played a pretty darn fun show at SCOLARI’S OFFICE on Friday night.
This time the luxury was provided by the aforementioned pilot-man dan. We never saw him but we sprawled in his house while he was out somewhere flying fed ex packages over vast oceans. At this point I’m not sure he exists but he’s got a great house and an unmatched liquor cabinet.

The hospitality and good food were all taken care of by dan’s next door neighbor and our true local benefactors, the superhero dynamic duo of DOCTOR GUS and MARVELOUS MITA. They gave us coffee, took us surfing, charmed us with their upber-cute daughters (come on, just a baby and a toddler—don’t get any ideas, you perverts), conjured up a local audience posse for us, and fed us and fed us and fed us. We had YET AGAIN another transcendent rib fest, and damn if it wasn’t better tnan Memphis/texas/everywhere else!

SCOLARI’S OFFICE is a great little joint with no stage to think of, but with a built-in crowd ready to rock in a cozy little space that feels like the drunken captain’s cabin on a ship run aground in north park. We were anticipating our favorite position in the line-up—the middle of three—until wouldn’t you know it, we arrived to a FIVE band list, with us batting dead last. Luckily it was TGIF-niight and said built-in crowd swelled to claustrophobic move-sideways-with-your-drink-in-the-air capacity.
It was a veritable salad bar of music that night, what with the glam-metal band who’s bass player had to sit to accommodate a broken leg, the satanic Johnny rotten-looking keyboard player and his plastic skull microphone stand, and my two favorite bands, of the evening, both of whom will be in Portland next week. You will be well served by paying them a visit. Openers PONY PANTS from philly, pa. actually gave the drum-machine a good name, as they fronted a pre-programmed rhythm section with sweet math-pop-metal grooves and a vocal attack that kind of reminded me of the yeah yeah yeahs, but actually not really. I gues what I’m trying to say is that they can’t be categorized too easily, and it’s always a welcome sight to witness such invention. When it works. Equally inventive but about 35 times more searing and mutherfrigging INTENSE was tel aviv israel’s ironically-named instrumental quartet LABANON. These four very friendly, shaggy fellas blasted out something beautul, intricate, abrasive, and so ballistically loud, thaq you have to ask is that what it sounds like to live in isreal today? After all the exploded skulls were cleaned up following lebanon’s set, it was after 1 am and time for the king hen to entertain the dazed survivors—at this point a comfortable but still healthy half-capacity crowd.

Dr. gus and his cheering section kept the house on our side, and all was noise and warmth, with only one technical hitch: a broken bass string! I didn’t know that was possible without a pick, but thank heavens for the replacement-bass, senor mexi-fender.

The rock-train adjourned to pilot dan’s house where local fan mark was the latest person to use a touring band to his advantage, to party like a rock star himself and entertain the bejeezus out of the rest of us. Mark, drew’s a pretty lucky baby to have a dad like you. He’ll be the funniest bully on the block.

Add this to your list of things you Shouldn’t Do With a Hangover: drive straight through los angeles’ 2-hour stop-and-go traffic up I-5 on a Saturday afternoon. Just don’t do it. Trust me.



DON’T CALL IT FRISCO
No offense dear reader, but I’m about as tired of writing this missive as I am of waking up with a hangover and ringing ears. So please forgive your humble journalist for burning through this last report on our last—and best stop here in the birthplace of beat poetry, the grateful dead, journey, faith no more, primus, and yours’ truly.

We had high hopes that back-to-back weekend shows in the dirty bustling heart of the tenderloin district would provide a suitably entertaining finale to our little traveling circus of rock-weirdness—and at last this city did not disappoint.

It certainly helped that we had a rock-solid faithfull cheering section in friends and family, from erik’s sister Kristina, and friends darla, joe, Kristin, neal, and garrett’s dad and stepmom his sister jenny, her quick camera-work, her boyfrend Kevin, roommate chris of sonicfrontiers.net (both displaying the hilarity of a 20-something approach to holding one’s liquor), aaron’s dear friend, old band-mate and truly genuine rock star morgan, and once again, his ever stalwart twin leaning-tower Emily.

Saturday night’s show at the EDINBURGH CASTLE was unamimously our best-received and most rocking show ever. Never mind the new bass string going out of tune, its resultant technical difficulties, or the rivers of stinky man-sweat pouring through that hot little room: it was all agreed that we killed it. We were followed by the PARANOIDS, a tight combo playing interestingly constructed songs reminiscent of good bowie, but I’m afraid they suffered from a room-clearing intensity-letdown as we did when following Lebanon the previous night. Their substantial san fran hipster local supporters hung in there however, and kept things festive for them. Darla / joe and Kristina provided dual accommodations for the night, ensuring a fine finish to our lucky string of luxury lodging. Madison? What’s that?

Speaking of festive, most of the following day’s afternoon was spent up the slopes of marin’s mount tamalpias at some german club lodge chalet at their pre-oktoberfest…er, fest. Think erik becker’s version of heaven. Think summer camp with beer and lederhosen. Yes, there was polka. Yes, there was sausage. Yes, there were hordes of typically, painfully healthy and smugly good looking nor-cal types getting gobnoxiously drunk in the early atternoon. Yes, there was bratwuust. And bockwurst. And sauerkraut. And more lederhosen. And a long, hazy afternoon accordion-soaked beer buzz under the redwoods.

Some of us sobered up at darla / joes’s and some of us joined old high school friends for seafood on the bay, before heading to the HEMLOCK TAVERN for our final night. With a reduced crowd on a Sunday night, we were unceremoniously shoved into the opening slot, but I think we more than held our own and gave the half-full room a show worthy of any tour wrap-up. It may not have been as crowded and well-received as the previous night, but the room sounded better, we played perhaps a little better, and erik finished in style with his well-executed swan-dive across dave and all his drums.

We were followed by the BAD DUDES, an unfortunately-named but amazingly talented and pretty much perfectly executed poster-child for all that is math-rock, last on the list was our new dear-friends, those shambolic israelis called LEBANON, sounding—if anything—more clear and more intense than ever. Mr bass-player-whose-name-i-can’t-even-pronounce-much-less-spell, you can borrow my amp any time you wish.

We finished our last night with a final last-call toast of maker’s mark, listened to a homeless man recite sweet love-poems out on polk street; and I learned a valuable lesson: a sure-fire way to get your bartender to hate you is to steal the maraschino cherries.

….it is now currently 75-degreesF and mit. Shasta is dead ahead and partially obscured by clouds. The trip odometer is at 9960, dave’s jar of Louisiana quail eggs is leaking slightly and Portland cant approach us quickly enough.

REMINDER, ALERT: HOMECOMING SHOW!

for those of you with short attention spans and a distain for calendars, remember:

the king hen will show off their tour prowess at the TONIC LOUNGE in portland this thursday, the 20th of september. we're slated to go on last, so bank your sleep and start the weekend early.

Friday, September 14, 2007

UPSTAGED BY SATAN?

another photo-less post, i'm afraid. the camera adapter is still being held hostage by the winning new orleans postal system.

your humble scribe sits here in san diego, salt-stained and taco-fuelled in the house of mythical dan the pilot man. we're on the cusp of the last stage of this trip, three weekend shows on the west coast, and ready to put our las vegas show behind us for good.

one of the things we've discovered is that all sorts of unpredictable events must line up in unison to make that 'perfect gig'. not like we've been even close to perfect, but it seemed like our show at the DOUBLE DOWN SALOON in las vegas was going to go pretty far in that direction. we rested up nicely in luxury after the epic three-state trucker-haul; we were well-fed by jessica-the-generous with yet again another amazing barbeque spread; the venue was a divey little bar OFF the strip, apparently catering to locals and punk rockers 24 hours a day we were instantly greeted by that particular brand of friendly and happy drunk we've known to love these past weeks, (scary looking, but sans attitude and only a danger to themselves) and the bar seemed to be pretty packed with these folks.

so what happened?

well, things seemed to peak about an hour before we went on stage. about a half-hour before we went on stage, half the happy drunks seemed to evaporate, and our companion act, DJ BOZO--spinning great 60's garage and surf-tunes--was joined by 'szandra', the cranberry-haired apparent-satanist burlesque hula-hoop dancer. watching her do her thing, we knew that she was an impossible act to follow. but follow we did, and we played a set that could only be described as 'intense'. we didn't chase too many people out, but it was quite awkward playing about two feet away from a couple of very bored-looking german punk rock girls who did their best to look occupied with their cell phones or away in the middle distance.

so even when everything looks like it'll go right, all it takes is one or two unforseen acts of satanic hula-hoopery to thwart that 'perfect gig'. needless to say we drowned our sorrows in 'ass juice' and further spectation of the weirdest bulresque act i've ever seen, deep into the night.

if you all are looking for those 'what happens in vegas...' stories, there are no more to tell. honestly. no gambling, no deviancy, no (unusual) debauchery. just watching satan's little helper spin her hoop, barefoot on a dirty dirty floor. the king hen felt no need for all the strip-action out there in the land of the competing colossus'.

note to las vegas: nature will always win. eventually.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

further adventures in the big empty

Things got progressively sputtery with the van after an anfternoon swim in the SOUTH LLANO RIVER, and we had to abort our cannonball run to el paso and put in for the night here at the HILLS MOTEL in junction, TX. We have a date a mechanic in the morning in this classic dusty little town in the middle of…well, texas. All the typical visions you may have in your head are pretty much true, including the 1-story motel surrounding a pickup-trucked parking lot and little pool, to the dude riding his horse down the main drag. Not yet spotted are the dog sleeping in the sun and the chainsaw massacre.

After a debate worthy of the iraq senate, it was decided we should stay in the town of junction for one extra day while we waited for a crucial part to be delivered to the mechanic's shop--our van's current motel. seems that the corpse of the freshly-dead air conditioner was some kind of a zombie eating away at the engine proper, or so it was explained to me in highly technical terms. this caused a hectic day of napping, reading, swimming, avoiding thousands of crickets, and searching unsuccessfully for a wireless signal.

The fallout from all this west texas relaxation was a straight run to las vegas. for all you map-fiends, that's a long way.

over the course of 18.5 hours we drove from the middle-of-nothing to the middle of less-than-nothing, through a huge city that just appeared from all this nothing (el paso/juarez), and across two more states in darkness, through the airspace of the best-yet radio station encountered (93-X, gallup, nm) and across the hoover dam in pre-dawn darkness, to stagger at into our current lap of luxury here in a gated community just outside of las vegas. i think we all aged just a little bit from this drive. but this is the first place we've stayed that includes statuary, so at least we've got that going for us.

tonight the adventure continues at the DOUBLE DOWN SALOON, a certified dive near the hard-rock hotel. their website advertises something called 'ass juice', so we're hoping we'll regain our youth with this magic elixir.

Monday, September 10, 2007

FUCKED BY FOOTBALL

A few facts for you:

The most dangerous place to drive is apparently coming through Houston from the east. No less than four near misses and one recent aftermath of stupefying motor vehicle idiocy plus one apocalyptic thunderstorm flood serenaded our drive in the space of about 35 minutes.

The boudin balls at the BOILING POINT restaurant somewhere among the pines off route 10 at the louisianexas border are delicious and gamy but the seafood gumbo is better. Than anything on this planet! And there were more and fatter and slower enormously fat people than ever I have before seen in one room.

Football is big in texas if you didn’t already know by now. Its enormity unleashed the above mentioned F word upon the king hen as well as upon a decent part of the indie and punk music scene in Austin. O don’t get me wrong; Austin was happening all over the place, all blocks of juke joints and restaurants and very good looking women and men of all interesting ilk cruising around.

And the capital building is impressive at night in its park all aglow in a halo of butter light and bats.

But back to the previous fact. Half the people in Austin were in that huge stadium watching their ‘horns' beat TCU in I think the home season opener. Austin was pretty and loud in its barbeque-scented air, all vibrant with people everywhere, but they weren’t here for the music at BEERLAND. Despite the club’s solid reputation, despite the recommended pick in the local weekly, despite that fact that our headlining acts were playing a benefit for some local important guy who was in the hospital without insurance, these people were here to cruise the streets to shout ‘how bout them horns!’, than go to clubs to see live music.

Various folks at the club explained how the all live music fans huddle in their houses when the football people fill the streets—for whatever reason you can make up on your own, I suppose. The place sort of reminded me of Portland more than the previous cities we’ve been to in many ways, but mostly in the way sometimes there seem to be so many clubs and bars with live music, you wonder how there are enough patrons for all the bands in all these places, all at the same time. Or maybe we just got fucked by football.

So we played a great set to about six people, slightly bitter that nobody showed up for us the first band, but things didn’t improve for the remaining four (!!!) bands, while the streets outside throbbed with humanity. And for the first time, we completely struck out in finding a local benefactor to put us up for the night. Local bands have come through for us everywhere we went up until Austin, but that streak is over. Oh they were friendly enough, but just not as generous as elsewhere. Are we starting to look that ugly?

Thinking about the end of another streak--how our surprising run of luck through the music-city segment of our trip ended on a down-note--we drove in silence out of the happy mayhem about 20 miles into the night towards a nondescript moto-lodge.

Fact: nothing soothes the soul of a king hen back to good spirits like a big plate of slow cooked meat. The SALT LICK in the town (?) of ‘driftwood’ was our Sunday salvation, preaching the gospel of barbeque like preaching only can be done in texas.

The further you drive west through texas, the longer it seems to take to get you through the state---especially in a meat-stupor. It’s a huge hell of a lot prettier than I expected, but it’s doing something janky to the minivan’s engine.

And the A/C just gave out with more than 500 miles of texas yet to get through…hmm.

picture time again

so i'm supposed to be the organized one on this tour, the one who is in charge of the merchandise and the money, as well as the photo-documentation and public relations via this medium. (oh yes, i play bass too.)

so why am i the only one who has left things behind? adding the to 'sport-chamois' towel and notebook/accounting ledger i left in boston, i seem to have absent-mindedly donated the camera upload cord-thingy in our new orleans hotel room. they are graciously mailing it to our las vegas destination as this goes out to you, but in the meantime, these are the last images you will see for a while:



me and marie, proprietress of the nashville rock and roll hotel. we're much happier than we look, honest.












ever wondered what tuscaloosa looks like? now you can die happy.












rock star manicure, or an explanation why aaron gets blood on everybody's guitars











mississippi vanishing point














hang a right at the what?












in from houston, liz and lance.
"being in the military is just like the department of transportation, but with guns."











the richest people in the french quarter: the impound lot. sorry, but we didn't kill em, T-bone.











you know you're in the tropics when...














j.c. doing his best wizard of oz
















post-gumbo crab-carnage













98 bucks a night, 2 huge beds, top floor, just one block off bourbon street, but quiet!

















there are a lot more people in these cities than in the living ones.









oh and lastly, i'm $28 off in my accounting versus the cash we have on hand. who trusted me with this?

Sunday, September 9, 2007

NEW ORLEANS NEEDS YOUR MONEY

and will apparently get it by all means neccessary. the king hen made its donation through the parking/tow truck officials.

after a gruelling 10-hour drive through--but without even setting foot in--mississippi, our welcome to the crescent city was finding the van missing from its french quarter parking spot after a short walk around. apparently it doesn't matter if the rules are not posted and there are no markings on the street or curb: just don't park within 20 feet of an intersection. and make sure to bring cash because the tow / impound folks don't mess around with any of that check or credit garbage.

we were supposed to play CHECKPOINT CHARLIE'S in the french quarter that night, but retrieving our rolling home and all its possessions ate up our time-slot. the--much friendlier--people at the club assured us we could probably wedge ourselves in between the two bands the next night (friday) and it would be just as good, as the saints were currently being slaughtered in their NFL season opener, and nobody really had the gumption to go celebrate.

that gave us a night off in this city, as beautiful and delicious as it is dangerous and screwed up. we got a great deal on a sweet hotel room right in the thick of things, and bore witness to all the sleaze and revelry that occupies these amazing environs at night. we were joined by aaron's childhood pal lance, and his good-humored girlfriend liz, our local designated court-jesters.

what can one say about the french quarter that hasn't been said a million times before? there were rows of bars all blasting well-executed cover songs all night long (choose your familiar genre) there were well-dressed and predatorily drunk nascar dads, and their vomiting sons staggering around in anticipation for some big weekend football event; there were many Girls About To Go Wild, and everywhere there were the folks who were desperately--and effectively--taking their money. it smelled like gumbo and puke and flowers and human shit wherever you went. we decided that observation was safer than participation, and made it to bed safely before the sun came up on friday

after self-guided walking tours, a visit to a classic n.o. cemetary, amazing down-home gumbo, and a drive through several still mostly-abandoned neighborhoods, we gratefully slipped our 35-minute set between the two 3-hour bands back at checkpoint charlie's. here we discovered another new orleans entirely: the one made up of musicians who seem to be here in order to stay playing the blues and stay stoned most of the time. very haggard, but very good people. and of course music-wise we were the kids wearing water-wings at the olympic swimming event. we didn't quite fit the new orleans music typology, but were warmly received and entertained by T-BONE STONE AND THE LAZY BOYS first; and SLEWFOOT & CARY B. after us. these guys are better than the stereotype, and i must confess i fell madly in love with bass-player/singer cary b's left hand. and developed a deep crush on everything it was attached to.

meanwhile the debauchery escalated down on bourbon street, and once again the king hen escaped disgrace and embarrassment just enough to get out of town the next morning with all but a percentage of our livers intact.

Friday, September 7, 2007

through the music state and back again

MEMPHIS:

i think memphis might have a screw loose. or at least from the narrow view memphis afforded us.
after back-to-back-to-back locations where we got to relax and wander a bit between gigs, the king hen got back into the guerilla-strike routine of this tour's early days. this made our entire experience of tennessee seem like quite the soggy blur.

these kinds of days have developed something of a formula: the companion-bands, the crazy drunks at the bar, the benefactor, the random and surreal variable.

the companion bands in memphis pretty much schooled us with regard to musicianship and professional gear. there is obviously tremendous talent oozing out of air in the hometown of elvis and b.b. king--even in divey little rawk clubs like murphy's. ORGAN THIEF opened the set and blew our minds all over the club. this quartet was easily the best band we've been teamed up with so far, and so much better than those crusty old cover-artists down on beale street.

suitably intimidated, the king hen took the stage and at least kept the house surprisingly crowded and happy and loud for a rainy tuesday night. this would be only a weekend crowd in portland. despite the depths of musical awesomeness that we found ourselves floundering in, everyone was very nice and complimentary. valerie--companion to organ thief's guitar-acrobat brian--took up a collection for us during our set and managed to drum up more than $35 in single dollar bills. we felt like strippers, but grateful nonetheless. later, brian and valerie put is up at their house with very expensive guitars everywhere, and the most amazing 70's funk video on the dvd

the random and the surreal? geeze, where do we begin? was it the scary but happy metal-dude trying to get a homemade roman candle lit off the top his bald head? was it the blind-drunk woman screaming lewd manifestoes out her car window peeling out of the bar parking lot and across the lawn? was it her friend who tried to eat broken glass? was it the strange and disturbing sounds in the night? was it the offer to sleep on someone's ping pong table?

NASHVILLE:

we could have taken brian and valerie up on their offer to make us hash-browns in the morning but the hen had to get back across the length of the state to nashville's 'voted #1 punk club 2 years running': the SPRINGWATER SUPPER CLUB that night.

another racous crowd greeted us at the little dive right across from the giant replica of the athens parthenon. this place and its people were much more your basic hard-rock crowd, a tad scarier and more road-weary looking than in memphis, but ultimately less freaky as well. the back door smelled like vomit and barbeque sauce all-in one, and the men's room was a horror to behold, but--in true punk rock fashion--it was a very friendly and unpretentious vibe.

once again we were the middle band of three--rapidly becoming our favorite spot in the lineup. our colleagues didn't have quite the pro-grade talent that we experienced the night before but they made up for it in other ways. the first band was FOX CULT, all L.A. metal-style with skinny torsos in tanktops, long hair, headbands and eyeliner. the lead guy played a ricky bass like mine but got some amazingly chunky sounds out of the thing and left me feeling extra not-worthy. they had a strut and a sound and an attitude onstage, but were the sweetest and friendliest fellers offstage, all encouragements and compliments. the band after us, the FLASHCUT PINUPS made up for a seeming lack of practice and an un-heard bass (with an 8x10 speaker nonetheless!) with a strangely appealing sound with 2-part vocal girl-harmonies and a woman-drummer who sang and played a full drum kit all while standing up. you don't see that every day.

our benefactor of the night was the amazing marie feldhaus, my step-aunt. we didn't party like rock stars that night, but it was just as well. she had 4 beds for us, and coffee, bagels, bananas, orange juice, and great conversation for us early the next morning. this sweet lady and her entire family are the very definition of southern hospitality. thanks for marrying my dad, edie! we acted like normal people for once and actually hit the road at 8:30, staring a 9.5 hour drive to new orleans in the face, and an early 7pm show.

A (possible) PORTLAND HOMECOMING SHOW

so we figured we'd cash in on all this live-show practice out here in u.s.a-land and give you a taste of what we've been up to. we're TENTATIVELY booked to play thursday, 20 september at the good old TONIC LOUNGE (3100 n.e. sandy blvd, portland, or), so start your weekend early! more info as this gets confirmed....

images: dc through nashville






rockstar macdonald at the galaxy hut, arlington virginia













window-display dave











what film school professors get up to when you give them your camera













post-gig tempest with leena at the eye of the storm












when you really know you're in the south













memphis politics














memphis philosophy












memphis economics


















nashville hospitality

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

virginia is for truckers

The king hen hit the 5000 mile-mark in Lexington, the creepiest cute college town on this planet. We were on the search for our first ‘authentic’ southern food and only found penne pasta and grilled turkey sandwiches in the village tucked between the last bastion of all-male old-money higher education and the Virginia military academy.
Sorry pops, but it was dark by the time we got close to the martin ancestral fort at the Cumberland gap, and the hardware restaurant in Abingdon was closed for labor day.

Knoxville = super-8 motel and a midnight BLT from the waffle house for the king hen. Today we cover the length of Tennessee on our way to tonight’s gig in elvis’s hometown. We stopped for lunch in Nashville and finally found what we were looking for, recommended ad hoc by a pretty street-urchin. Thanks for the tip on rippey’s ribs, meth-girl.

ANNOUNCEMENT:
At least one of the members of this band will attempt to dine on nothing but fried catfish and sweet tea until we reach texas. A possible exception will be made in new Orleans for obvious reasons.

…another all/mostly photo post soon. Promise.

THE F WORD

There are a few words in the English language that officially mean one thing but are used to describe so many other different things. Our short stay in Washington DC was packed full of so many different experiences, encounters and escapades, but all of them can be summed up easily enough with one word: FUN. To the king hen, Washington DC was f***ing fun.
We rolled up the beautiful rock creek parkway hung-over from a week of east-coast urban exploration, the hospitality of new and old friends, and—oh yes—a handful of shows at under-attended clubs. The hair of the dog greeted us at erik’s friends leena and sean’s house in the form of grilled burgers, chicken, franks, ice-cold coronas and my new favorite beer, pannsylvania’s own yuengling lager.

It’s funny how everywhere we go people have happily rescued us from the privations of the road with food and comfort—so much so that all this food and comfort have actually turned out to be the rule, not the exception.
That said, the good times and hospitality provided by lina, sean, leena’s sister seema, and court-jester jerry were truly exceptional.

Post-barbeque the DC fun machine crossed the river into Arlington and settled at our next venue, the GALAXY HUT. What appeared to be a small cafĂ© was actually a bar and music venue, and the hen was squeezed into the smallest ‘stage’ yet, our backs to the storefront but facing a happy crowd.

After the all-around sparseness of our boston and new york shows this one turned out to be quite the warm oasis, with jerry cheer-leading the house and actually pretty good money from the door and from our merchandise. The sweet pop band ARDENNES headlined the show, and we should probably thank them for bringing the crowd that welcomed us equally. But for us they provided more base pleasures, such as coburn dukeheart (yes, that’s her real name) the drummer everyone fell in love with, and singer-tina’s bass, which I not-so silently coveted. Suitably heartbroken, we dutifully drank the shots bought for us by leena & co. at the bar down the street, before heading back to their place for nightcaps and more entertainment provided by good old jerry.

If that wasn’t enough we awoke to eggs, pancakes, sausage, hash-browns and coffee. Here’s to leena, the coolest Indian punk-rocker/filmmaker/photography professor/hostess/pug-owner I’ve ever met!
Needless to say things were pretty somber and subdued on our endless drive through Virginia the next day.

Now that labor day is past it’s back to school for all you kids and back to work for the king hen. After so much….er, fun over our past week in the big cities of the east coast it definitely feels like this tour is moving into a third chapter. Like everything before us we have no idea what it will entail, but I have a hunch there will be a lot more driving..

Monday, September 3, 2007

*secret blog entry*

[Editor's Note: This entry was written in Arlington, VA by Aaron, who stayed up late by himself drinking.]

hold on

so it burned when i peed just now.. and that's pretty fucking hilarious considering i haven't done anything untoward (ever) as far as i can tell. co-incidence, perhaps, because i just saw emily in new york city (!) and moments later played a show in arlington, virginia. too strange great applause, labor day weekend and gorgeous weather and friends and all.

pleasently lit in arlington v irginia, perhaps. or maybe D.C. proper.. rockridge way express prkway, or something. an awesome three story house amongst lesser houses, with more than enough scenic decks to 'go around'. our hosts are awesome rock/roll kids made good, and they were plenty generous..

it's too much to fathom, at points/pints.

i drink a l ot. but i also enjoy it a l ot. ha!

litlttle joke there, you see. (?)


jerry was also nice, and i ended up thinking a great deal about old tom an jerry cartoons:

at least one french revolution/three musketeers episode (with a cute younger mouse with grey skin)

the ice skating episode, where jerry floods the kitchen and freezes it, by leaving the freezer open.. fuck yeah, tom and jerry.

tom had some wings one time... he made them from some pink material with batwing like features.. that was always on eo fmy favorties. strupid letters, stupid words.

arlington, virginia might have ruind my heart. 'cause it's for lovers. the most intriging women live here.. jaw dropping stupefying accidental charmers,l it's a good time. the days are ours, and i chew my nails. this guy named jerry (i think) wins the prize,. huzaah h e wins he wins.

tom and jerry are animated characters, a distinct record of my emotinoal identity. violence and wounds and sound all married under a complex polyamorous agreement, i should'nt bore yo9u. fuck off any how, eh>?


maybe more french revolution/three musketeers episodes (with a cute younger mouse with grey skin) 'cause i liike thinking about those. i think they're hungry in one episode, nd have a giant thanksgiving dinner.. could that be true? sounds too good to be.

ha!


tom and jerry cartoons a(o9had)r ( 910)e pretty good.. a lot of music, you know. puppet theater of a sort, and i compose puppet operas. but i don't have any puppets.

i love that shit

ha
11!!
!
.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

new york is such a sensory overload that there is an inevitable emotional crash upon leaving, and no place is better for this feeling than the new jersey turnpike.
over three days we all seemed to go in opposite directions, so there are just way too many small stories to tell to sum up the rest of our time in nyc. so i'll just squeek out some 'snippets' then overload this post with pictures.

dubpies.com: don't ask any more questions, just go and you'll be well taken care of.











75% of the band got old-school russo-fied at the 10th st. baths, sitting in an old-school tile sauna and getting flogged with birch branches by gentlman named alexandr, while aaron exercised his lone-wolf perogative and walked all the way from houston street to central park!





there was also the incomparable jay, our host/room-mate in red-hook: professional graffiti artist, amateur odd-job driver, and full-time extra-chill cat.





there was authentic russian herring salad in brighton beach, and an even better recipe volunteered by an elderly latvian woman with orange hair and a poorly concealed black bra beneath her enormous tank swimsuit.
reid and alex fed me a delicious meal of burgers and dogs in their stylish brooklyn house while juggling two tiny children and the latest new york archi-gossip. elanora, i still don't know your favorite color...
aaron joined emily once again, but only briefly as she came into town with her parents to see 'wicked', a new show playing on broadway. but still, that's better than the rest of us got.
there was valerie, an old college buddy of erik's--ex supermodel and our local superfan, gamely putting up with our rudeness, bad jokes, and wide-eyed tourist stares, and filling out a large percentage of our audience at both our shows.
we walked miles and miles in flipflops, rode many more miles in subways and L-trains, executed illegal u-turns in the van like seasoned new yorkers, and did nothing to keep our biological clocks from shifting ever later in the evening.
oh yes, we played music, too. the lit lounge in manhattan's east village (2nd ave. between 5th and 6th streets) was a much more friendly venue. we were still the early band and there weren't too many people in the stony cavern we played in, but the people who were there were very supportive and complimentary, including the band to play after us--columbus ohio's very cool MELTY MELTY--and 'james', the sassiest sound-girl we've encountered yet, and the only one i've met who liberally uses the word 'snippet' when talking to bands. i think we played a much better set than the night before in brooklyn, so we all felt pretty good afterward, all stage-buzzed in the belly of the beast. we didn't really stick around for the last two bands, what with long-lost relatives and late night pizza slices to attend to. of course once the clock turned to midnight people started to arrive by bridge and tunnel for the DJ dancing--the wal-mart of nightlife entertainment. but hey, the paid us 15 whole dollars. waHOO!






secret boston beach-side community














our new york welcome












ok, that's better.












giddy-on up, you brooklyn space-cowboy, you!



















BQE vanishing point














our brooklyn 5-star hotel. i got the best three nights' sleep of the entire tour so far.














jay's dog, billy: he looks innocent enough but he kept trying to hump dave's arm in the middle of the night.












soon after this photo was taken aaron was eaten and spat out by a gigantic sea-coney dog.













brighton beach vanishing point















the fabled 'flat white': delicious, and effective.

















richard serra vanishing point

















melty melty, shiny sparkly













nyc fixed-gear bike commuting = a lifetime of long explanations at airport metal detectors. good on yer, val!














two heads are better than one. (this bar was actually an 'irish pub' with its entire back wall projecting kubrik's '2001 a space odyssey'. sounds and looks more interesting than it actually was...)












the work of jay:













































the best thing i can think of about the new jersey turnpike is a cloud-spotted sky that looks like the wallpaper of a little girl's bedroom. and that's it.