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"Tour Blog"
10/12/11—10/27/11
In which the dirty birds break down on an Indian reservation in the middle of the Arizona desert, press on through Colorado in tandem minivans, reclaim their van in time to make it through Texas only to have their dreams shattered once again in Mississippi.
The land in northwestern Arizona flows with its own color and majesty. The desert can be a stark and peaceful place, solemn with the echos of time. From the road you can sometimes see terraced villages carved into the side of a hill, the ancient habitations of cliff dwellers long since passed from this world. Red and orange dust rising from beneath your tires. The paved road tracing a crooked line through the empty wilderness of rock and brush. I felt very much out of place after being in California, land of green and blue.
JJ with that look.
We made a pit stop in the afternoon to rest and stretch our legs and use the bathroom at a small Indian trading post. There was a cafe and a gas station full of trinkets and woven Navajo blankets for sale. Everything seemed overly quiet, as if no one moved too quickly lest they disturb someone or something unseen. I sat in the shade of a tree outside, the shadows falling across the uneven ground—paisleyed and dancing as the branches moved in the wind. When it was time to leave, I got behind the wheel and pulled back onto Highway 160, the two-lane road that was to take us to Durango, CO for our show that night. But as soon as the engine roared in acceleration, I felt something give, a loss of pressure in the pedal beneath my foot. There was a strange high-pitched whirring sound, a cloud of blackish rank smoke spewed from the exhaust pipe, and all of a sudden the van was working hard to stay at 30 or 40 mph. We were dead in the water. An 18-wheeler coming up fast behind us laid on the horn and I veered to the side as it passed me, stirring up golden clouds of dust in its wake. We made it over the next hill and I let off the gas and cruised down. “Umm, we have a serious problem here. The acceleration no longer works.” “What?!” “Yup, uhhh…” “You think we can make it to Durango?” “Man, I don’t think we should drive it like this. I don’t know if it’ll make it up anymore hills…” “Shit.” “Yeah.” Just then we saw another little gas station ahead, lucky for us since we hadn’t seen any for a few hundred miles and then here there were two within a few miles of each other. Limping slowly, trailing smoke, we swung the van over the deep-rutted dirt shoulder, pulled into the station and ground to a halt, dust rising around us. “Fuck.”
As we later learned, we had blown the turbo part of our turbo-diesel engine. Sorry Ramada, we drove you pretty hard I guess. 20,000+ miles in the past three or four months. The sun was beginning to set, casting long orange fingers across the sky. A squat little dog shuffled up inquiringly. We named her Pigdog. She had enormous, over-engorged nipples hanging down and swinging about, must have just given birth to a litter, and was very relaxed and friendly. This calm demeanor turned out to be cold and calculating, as she hung out with us for the next few hours lulling us into complacency only to steal our giant bag of Fritos and trot off triumphantly into the brush. Ha! We’ll still love you forever, Pigdog, you earned those Fritos.
It was especially fortuitous that we managed to pull into a station because there was little to no (emphasis on no) cell phone reception out there. The nice ladies in the little food store let us use their landline to call AAA, and we learned it would take at least two hours for the tow truck to reach us. The station had no address and apparently wasn’t even on the map. Literally. Like the dispatcher told us there was no gas station at that particular mile marker, to which we replied “well, we’re standing in one talking on their phone…” That’s how middle-of-nowhere we were. Good old Red Mesa, AZ. As night fell, more and more people pulled in to gas up or buy food, all giving us the same bemused, inquiring look, all wondering what in the hell nine scruffy white people in a funny-looking old hotel shuttle were doing broken down way out on the Rez. Real nice folks though. One guy offered to tow us with his tiny Toyota truck, just chain us to his hitch and drag us along, even suggested we stay the night at his family’s home… his wife didn’t seem too enthusiastic about that. Another guy moseyed up to Jackson and warned, “Yup… better hope that tow truck shows up before 8 or so.” “Why’s that?” Jackson asked. “Well, the policemen go home, and then all the crazies come out. You know, racing around and things, causing trouble. Don’t want to be here for that. Nope.” We weren’t sure what he meant exactly, but weren’t particularly keen to find out either.
Red Dust in the setting sun..
Finally, after several hours of waiting, the tow truck arrived. The driver was an older Native American fellow, and his two young grandchildren were asleep in the front seat of his truck. “Sorry, had to watch them tonight and I’m the only truck within a hundred miles. You guys don’t mind, right?” “Of course not, we’re just happy to see you!” Also, Phil’s sister Mary and her husband Bill had driven up to Durango all the way from New Mexico to see us play that night. When it was clear we wouldn’t make the show he called them. Being the gracious souls they are, they insisted on driving the hundred extra miles to meet us just in case we couldn’t all fit in the tow truck and would need a ride. They ended up arriving two minutes after the tow truck. JJ rode in the truck with the driver and his sleeping grandchildren, Phil, Aidan and Johnny rode with Mary and Bill, and Arleigh, Jackson, Sasha, Ryan and I rode in the Ramada van, now perched high up on the flatbed.
Oh Dear God..
(Dirty Birds trivia note: lyrics from the song Road Trip reference a previous such circumstance, eerily similar in fact… Arleigh, Jackson and their sister Lauren once broke down in the middle of Arizona and rode in their disabled car atop a flatbed, drinking Early Times and “singing in the backseat like the Barstow choir…” yeah, no joke.) It was quite a procession, traveling the hundred-plus miles to Durango, deserted desert roads becoming progressively more mountainous, the moon rising high above the land. So picture us sitting nervously high up in our already-tall van, dreading every bump and turn… Also, know that there is exactly one overpass on Highway 160 between Red Mesa and Durango. As we approached it, looming shadow racing closer out of the darkness, I suddenly had the horrid thought that we might not actually clear it… I start doing emergency mental math, even though there’s no way to contact the driver. Does he know our clearance? The van is over 8ft and the flatbed is, well, uh, uh, and shit theoverpasssaysclearance13ftaaahh!! swooooosh! Aaand exhale. That was damn close.
Luckily again, there was a diesel specialist in Durango, the only one within a couple hundred miles. Since we got in super late we just left the van in their parking lot and checked into a nearby motel. Mary and Bill drove a few of us down to Walmart, the only store still open, to get some food (we hadn’t eaten since Pigdog stole our Fritos), and they soon returned bearing what little food they could find. Frozen pizza that we immediately realized was supposed to be cooked in an oven (we had but a microwave), a huge bin of salad greens and veggies, peanut butter and jelly. A mini-feast in the lobby of the motel. That all-too familiar bemused look from the clerk. What a day. The next morning we got the news that the turbo was blown, and that it would take a week to get the part and install it. And it would cost $3,000. Dammit. What are you gonna do though? Stuck out there not even really a third of the way into this great big tour. So we tried to rent us a van down at the local airport—they didn’t have the one advertised so they gave us two mini-vans instead. You should have seen us! Soccer mom stylings! We set out that afternoon for Denver, a six-plus-hour drive through steep mountain passes and across the high plains. I tend to be biased being from California and all, but Colorado is gorgeous! What a beautiful country we live in, America is truly a blessed place—the wonder and grandeur, land shaped and molded of the spent bones of old gods.
On the way to Denver
Sun setting over Colorado mountains.
“You don’t see that in Brooklyn.” “Is that Prospect Park?”
Over the next few days, we played shows in Denver, Winter Park and Evergreen. Marvelous places, friendly people, delicious microbrews. We already knew we’d need to cancel our gig in Lincoln, NE to go back South to Durango to pick up our van, but when we did get back there they informed us there had been a mix-up with the new part (ironically it went to Denver, we could have picked it up!) and it would now be two more days. So we also had to cancel our second show at Bottleneck’s in Lawrence, KS, where we were supposed to play with our good friends Rubblebucket. Which is really too bad because we were all really looking forward to meeting up in the middle of the country, sharing a few drinks a few laughs and a few stories. Oh well, next time.
We left Durango sometime in the late afternoon of Wednesday, October 19th and headed Southeast. We spent the night in Albuquerque at a house generously opened to us by Phil’s relatives, and continued on down I-40 Thursday morning, leaving the West behind us. No more mountains, no more craggy snowcapped peaks. Trees few and far between, endless flat expanse. We stopped for gas at a small trading post just inside the Texas border, cute old post office, sent some postcards to loved ones. Felt the land beneath us change with every Eastbound mile. That night we played The Deli in Norman, OK, just outside of Oklahoma City (where we stayed a second time at Aidan’s folks’ house) and then the next day dropped down South to Fort Worth, TX where we played at the Bass Performance Hall. The Deli was one of the smokiest bars we’ve ever played, and when we took out our instruments in Fort Worth they all reeked of smoke. Ha, even my cymbals! Makes you think about the old days, when every bar was like that. Saturday night was Momo’s in Austin, one of the most fun shows of the whole tour. It was a triple bill with us, The Pimps of Joytime (Brooklyn! What!), and Yo Mama’s Big Fat Booty Band (from Asheville, NC). Man, what an epic night of music, feet stomping, booties shaking… three heavy bumpin and grinding bands funkin it up, just rockin hard all night.
Raging it up in Austin.
Sunday night found us in Houston, playing at McGonigel’s Mucky Duck. Beautiful venue, darkly stained wooden walls, great restaurant, a wide selection of delicious beers on tap. Really intimate, tables right up to the low stage. We had a little over 100 people come out and the place was almost sold out! Very attentive crowd, really listening, hanging on every note. Those four shows pretty much perfectly illustrate the wide variety of venues and audiences we play for: you’ve got your basic bar with a stage (The Deli); a large open theater space with more of a concert atmosphere and a bit of an older crowd (Bass Performance Hall); a hotspot music bar with a younger, drunker crowd who want to dance all night (Momo’s); and an intimate club, mostly sit-down, dinner crowd (Mucky Duck). And we rock them all, bringing our dirt and playing off the energy we get from the crowd. It really is amazing how much the energy in the room shapes the music.
We took Monday off, played Sticky Fingerz in Little Rock, AR on Tuesday and The Bottling Company in Hattiesburg, MS on Wednesday. Nothing much to report, except that I kept looking out for the gunslinger, Brett Favre, the whole time we were in Hattiesburg. Oh yeah and it was Trivia Night before our show at The Bottling Company—we entered as a team (Yamn Dankees) and won a $50 bar tab! Didn’t know what to do with it cause we were already getting free drinks so we just opened it up for the other teams, though they seemed disinclined to accept. Again we had transitioned into a different US region—the Deep South. Deeep. Talk about laid-back. Driving through sleepy towns, watching people walk down the street in almost slow-motion, droopy trees, BBQ and fried food, humidity in October.
We had that Thursday, the 27th off and decided to drive up to Jackson, MS so some of the guys could catch a show by the Dead Kenny Gs. An ultimately fateful decision. A few hours after we got to the hotel (The Jackson Inn… Jackson had a fun time in Jackson), we found that our back left tire was down all the way on the rim—must have gotten a slow flat as we came off the freeway. We had been meaning to change the tire for a few days (it was bare as all hell) but just hadn’t quite gotten it together. Oh well, we had a spare. But no jack, so I called AAA again and had them send someone out to change the tire. One of the lugs was stripped and the guy only had a tire iron so he couldn’t get the wheel off. The next morning I called another tow company and they sent out a truck with a pneumatic powered lug remover. The guy went to work. Boy did he go to work. Take the flat off, no problem. Put on the spare, no problem. Tighten the lugs? Problem. The lugs didn’t seem to want to go all the way in. He spent over a minute on each lug, pushing hard, grinding and driving it into the wheel. Finally they were in all the way, he left and I started the van up to drive to Firestone and get the original fixed. But the back wheel was locked. Wouldn’t move at all. What the…? Called them back. Another tow truck, same company different driver, showed up and we hoisted our poor van onto to his flatbed, the wheel stuck and dragging the whole time. When we got to Firestone, the guy there decided in his infinite wisdom to try to just DRIVE it from where the tow truck had left it into the garage. Halfway there, screeching and leaving tire marks in it’s wake, I heard a loud CRACK as a bunch of twisted metal fell from the wheel well and the wheel started turning freely. Long story short, somehow the tow truck guy drove those damn lugs through the wheel, through the brakes, and INTO THE AXLE. When we got it up on the lift you could see the brakes were shattered. And the axle. And the caliper. Pretty much the whole damn thing was bent and broken. My own spirits mirrored the state of the van. Jesus, could our luck get any worse? So avoidable in so many ways. Why? I informed the band and wandered off, waiting to find out if we could rent a van, found a liquor store, bought some cheap bourbon.
Broken, boarded up window in Jackson.
I found myself wandering half-dazed through some rundown ghetto in Jackson, MS, burnt-out abandoned buildings, junk cars parked in front of long-closed auto mechanics, weeds growing from the open hoods.
Abandoned gas station.
I turned down a random street. It ended after a ways, but a path continued on into a grove of trees. I could hear a train whistling mournfully somewhere hidden behind the trees. I walked into the woods and just sat. Sat and reflected and sipped my whiskey. After a few hours, I finally reemerged into the land of the living and made my way back to Firestone to meet the others. We gathered what gear we could fit into the smaller rental van, leaving behind anything non-essential (such as most of our clothes) and left immediately for Tuscaloosa, AL to make it to our show at Rooster’s. Forever on and onwards always.
Will the Dirty Birds make it back to Brooklyn? What will become of the poor Ramada van? Can our heroes keep this crazy train rolling through the wild wilderness of America? Tune in next week for the exciting conclusion of Uncaged Tour 2011!!!
yr friend,
Bram
Dark Skies.
9/26/11—10/10/11.
In which the dirty birds leave their nest, drive across the country, revisit several of their birthnests, rock with Rebirth and take over California.
Monday September 26th was a glorious day, the first day our first major national tour. It was also the last time we would ever meet up and depart from the apartment at 796 Grand St. in Brooklyn, where Ryan had been living for four years (and lately Jackson as well), where we had come up with all this dirtiness—rehearsing and dreaming in the basement. It was our home base of operations, headquarters, and the site of much revelry. 796, you will be missed. The sun shone down on us as we wheeled our way north, across the George Washington bridge, weaving through Jersey traffic, finding our way back to I-80, driving west towards the soon to be setting sun. There were four of us—Arleigh, Sasha, Jackson and myself—who had taken on the noble task of getting all our gear and the van out west while the rest of the birds flew out to join us later. The first night we made it to Illinois, then turned up North just across the border into Michigan, where we had found a cheap Red Roof Inn. The next day we made it to the middle of Nebraska. Then the following day we got on the road at 10am and drove all through the day and night, until at 8am the next morning we finally pulled into my mother’s place on a mountain above Truckee, CA, near Lake Tahoe. We arrived to the serendipitous sounds of ‘We are the Champions’ busting out from the radio, the sun rising above the early morning mountain fog, illuminating mountain peaks which surrounded us like awakening, kneeling monks. Finally, after cracking a few celebratory beverages and making a tour of the man-made pond and waterfall that Jackson and I once helped build, we slept.
A picture from the sunset later that night.
California is a roughly-hewn palace of nature. A land of mountain and cloud, ocean and forest. The tap water in that house flows directly from an underground stream fed entirely from snow-melt. The previous winter I heard the snow-pack was 40 feet. Well, after a few blissfully peaceful days it was time to leave Tahoe, so the four of us piled back into the van and drove down to my dad’s house in San Mateo, just South of San Francisco. The other birds straggled in over the next few days, flying in from NY. After a full week plus of driving and then relaxing and preparing to start this thing, we finally all met up at JJ’s folks’ house in San Rafael, just North of SF (if you haven’t noticed by now, a bunch of us are from California), and then made our way up to Sebastopol, where we had our first of three shows opening up for Rebirth Brass Band from New Orleans.
A fortuitous start to the tour. 'Sister Parrow & The Dirty Bird'
Man those guys are funtimes. The club in Sebastopol is built in the old train station, and the music room itself (known as the Abbey) is designated as a historic building by the state of California. Beautiful wood-working, an incredibly warm sound, an A-frame roof with exposed beams. Later that night we all drove back and crashed at JJ’s house, somehow finding sleeping accommodations for all nine of us. Air mattresses, couches, back bedrooms. JJ’s room is still decorated with remnants of our shared past—pictures of our old jazz combo Wolfe Canyon that we started when I was in sixth grade and he was in seventh… wow. The next day it was off to Sacramento, where we played at Harlow’s. Ryan’s brother lives up there and came out to the show with wife and friends. And then finally, the show we had all been truly anticipating, Friday night at the Independent in SF. We had received word a day or two before that the night had already sold out. Some 500+ tickets. We were pulling at least 250 or more of those, as it was JJ and Ryan and my first show back in our hometown as part of SSDB and our families and friends came out in droves. Seriously, people I hadn’t seen in ten, fifteen years coming out the woodwork, super excited and ready to rock. Rebirth usually arrives right before the show, so we had the whole place to ourselves in the afternoon. Great guys working at the club, of course rocking the SF Giants black and orange—we felt right at home. And yet it was strange to be home, so much having transpired in the interim, bringing this new explosive dirt back with us that we’d grown back East… Anyways, the show was an amazing success. We played our hearts out, sweating up a storm onstage, dancing and smiling the whole way through, and then Rebirth took the stage and rocked us all until 2 in the morning. All in all, it was a hell of a way to return home as part of this band—swimming in positive energy, surrounded by the people I love. That night we drove down and crashed at Ryan’s folks’ place in Stanford, had a few celebratory drinks and readied ourselves for the next leg.
The next morning we drove down to Los Angeles, where we were playing The Mint later that night. Nothing like a six hour plus drive on less than three hours of sleep after a huge show. Michael, our manager, and Jon, our agent, had flown into LA to conduct business meetings on our behalf and also to see the show, and it was awesome to find ourselves all together suddenly, still more Eastern vibes transposed onto this Western canvas. Lauren Kincheloe (Arleigh and Jackson’s sister and my cousin) has lived in LA for several years working as an actor, and she came through with a serious crowd. Great show, the place was packed. Then the next night we played to about 15 people on a Sunday night in Fullerton, down in Orange County. Yup, we know the ups and downs by now, right? Fortunately, after that five show/five night California run, we had two days off, with only a few meetings thrown in for spice. We spent our time primarily searching for the perfect taco. Phil (our trumpet player) is from LA, so he took us on the taco tour, chauffeuring us from delicious stand to delicious stand, remarking on the subtle differences as only a true connoisseur can. About half of us stayed down there with Phil’s folks and the other half with Lauren, thanks to all birdhosts!
One story from that time that needs to find the light of day goes thusly: the night of the Mint, we were all standing around after the show, packing up and trying to figure out how we were all going to get over to Lauren’s house in Hollywood to party. Jon was standing next to me, and I think I had just turned to him to say something when out of the corner I saw a car roll to a semi-stop next to us. The next thing I knew, there were eggs flying through the air. BAM BAM WHAP. One hit me in the hand and harmlessly splattered across it, one hit the door of the club behind us, and one caught Jon square in the back of the head. “What the…?! Did we just get fucking EGGED?! Seriously?! HAHAAA!!” He took it like a champion, went inside to wash his hair and returned a few minutes later ready to rage. And rage we did… I woke up at high noon the next day on a couch on Lauren’s front porch, where I had apparently fallen asleep at some point during the night. There was an old man walking a tiny dog down the sidewalk, glancing at me suspiciously. The scene inside the house was chaos—JJ sleeping face down on the floor, a giant set of bunny ears laying next to him,
This was taken later that morning..
Jackson on the couch wrapped in a foxskin blanket,
Jackson and Lauren, his sister, my cousin. Actor extraordinaire.
Jon draped over a little love seat in the corner. My phone rang, it was Michael. “Where the holy hell is Jon?” “Hey, he’s asleep in the room behind me.” “ASLEEP?! He’s gonna miss his flight!!” “What time is the flight?” “In like, an hour and a half or something! Shit, what time is it? One? His flight’s at THREE!” I woke up Jon and told him what time it was, needless to say he was not happy. “Oh SHIT ohshitohshitohshitohshit…” He staggered around desperately trying to get ahold of Karleena, an associate of Michael’s who was supposed to have picked him up, but she was already too far away to be of any help. So I ran back inside, woke Lauren up, borrowed her beat up old car and we busted the hell out of there. The clock read 1:11 which I took as a fortuitous sign. Luckily the house where Jon and Michael had been staying, and where all of Jon’s bags and things were, was only about a five or six minute drive away. We rolled up in front of the house, but the gate was closed and there was no one home. Jon made a few calls, shook his head and sighed, and then hopped the fence and raced off towards the house, breaking in through a back door, eventually opening the gate for me. ”I gotta take a shower, jesus, it’s really the only thing that’s gonna keep me alive right now. I still got some damn egg in my hair probably” Jon said and sprinted upstairs. We left the house at 1:44. As fate would have it Highway 101 was completely clogged, so we followed the GPS on my phone, careening down side streets heading South, finally hitting Highway 10 and then off down 110 to westward-running 105. We rumbled our way into the airport at 2:30. “Uhhhh ok, I’m flying, umm… (checking his boarding pass) American! So that would be… shit, which terminal is it?” Turned out it was terminal 4, all the way around the damn circle. Flying around the terminals, cutting off a bus that was pulling over, we squealed to a halt beside the terminal doors with Jon jumping out of the car. “Alright, jesus man if this works you’re a hero” he barked as he ran into the terminal. The clock read 2:36. I honestly didn’t think he would make it, and sure enough, ten minutes later as I was cruising back up the freeway, my phone rang. “Did you miss the flight?” I asked, preparing to turn around. “Dude, DUDE! You are not going to believe this but I’m standing in front of my gate, and the damn plane hasn’t even started boarding yet! Ha! I can’t believe we made it! There’s a Burger King right next to the gate, and I’m gonna get a goddamn BURGER! Ha!” So we sat there and chuckled about how insane that drive had been and then we hung up and I found my way back to Hollywood, driving slowly up 101, stuck in traffic again, smiling in the bright California sun.
Later that evening, we all met up and hung at the beach as the sun slowly sank into the west. A fine time. A fine time indeed.
Stay tuned for more…
yr friend,
Bram
9/8/11—9/24/11
In which the dirty birds get back on the road after some much-needed rest, rock Catskill Chill, return to Camp Jam, play their last show in NYC for a long while, and lose a dear, dear friend.
First, we had a short vacation, during which, I was briefly here:
A view from Martis Peak, near Lake Tahoe CA
We returned well-rested and ready to get back after the proverbial “It.” Our first gig was at Johnny D’s in Somerville, MA, just outside of Boston. We’d been highlighted in the Boston Globe as once of the “shows to check out” that night, right next to Incubus, ha. Great crowd, great club, great food, we had a great time that night. Special thanks to Dana, the sound man. The next day we drove down to Manchetster, CT for a triumphant return to The Main Pub, run by our friend Keith. Great times, as always. It’s really amazing for us as we start to come back through some of these places for a second time, seeing our audience grow—really seeing the ways in which we’re building a community. We stayed up way too late at a friend’s house, talking and playing with his adorable five-week-old kitten,
This isn't creepy at all.. Right?
and then had to wake at 8am to drive to Hancock, NY to play the Catskill Chill festival. Nestled among the mountains next to a beautiful lake, on campgrounds that are also home to the Frenchwoods Summer Music Camp (which, it turns out, our own Johnny Butler had taught at one summer), the environment and the scene were breathtaking. Our manager Michael came up with his sister Emily and her husband Chason, both dear friends and huge fans and supporters of ours (remember we played their wedding back in March at the end of our first Midwest run). We spent the afternoon catching up, sharing stories from the road, laughter and beers. A beautiful day that would turn out to be a bitter-sweet memory, but that part comes later..
That night we stayed with papa John Kincheloe at that old house in Halcottsville where all this dirtiness originated. Of course we made merriment into the wee hours of the morning, as the sun rose on the tenth anniversary of September 11th, 2001. There’s a tiny firehouse across main street from John’s house, and local residents gathered with firemen and policemen to commemorate and remember the events of that day. The bells in the little church across the street rang a couple times, and a few people made speeches as we sat on the porch and watched. Later that afternoon we bid John adieu and drove on to Ithaca for our second show at Castaways, riding backroads the whole way. What a sunset! Mist rising from the mountains, the sun intermittently breaking through the grey, suddenly flaring and cutting brilliant swaths of light on our van, bouncing and weaving through the twists and turns of the hills.
After a few days back at home we awoke on the 15th and drove to Morgantown to play at 123 Pleasant St., our fourth or fifth West Virginia show of the summer—feels like we were there about as much as we were in Brooklyn! Morgantown is the home of West Virginia University, and the blue and gold colors of the school are everywhere. (It’s funny, myself and some of the other birds know a lot of these towns primarily from following college sports—Morgantown, Lawrence, Norman, Tuscaloosa, Chapel Hill… well we haven’t gotten there yet..) Football season had just started, as well as fall classes, and the anticipation and excitement were palpable. Fall coming—trees beginning to turn ever so slightly. The town is built into the hills, next to a river, skyline dominated by a municipal monorail if you can believe that! There are roads that slope down toward the water’s edge and end there without so much as a guard rail—made me wonder how many times someone accidentally cruised right down into the river. The next morning we drove Northwest to Lancaster, PA for a show at The Chameleon Club, a huge old venue in the center of town. The next day, the 17th, was Sasha’s birthday, and we set out through the grey rain of downtown Lancaster in search of a special birthday breakfast spot as a huge Puerto Rican Day parade passed by us on all sides—flags waving, bicycle horns honking, stereo systems attached to rear fenders blaring reggaeton. Finally we found our refuge: On Orange. My oh my, what a delicious feast! Thank you, thank you On Orange for one of the best breakfasts we’ve ever had, you ladies are champions.
Crazy Good Food and super nice people!
We girded our full bellies and made the short drive to Monroeville, NJ, for a much-anticipated return to our festival home-away-from-home, Camp Jam. Lori and John are like family at this point, so welcoming and hospitable. What a great bunch of festival-goers too! Even just walking into the place, Jackson and I, both clad in our “Canadian Tuxedos” (denim from head to toe),
Denim Dans
were clapped onto the field by several clusters of dirty bird fans. It’s still pretty exciting for us to be recognized by people who love our music—all that positive energy really does flow back and forth, on stage and off. The show that night was electric, hundreds of people pressed up against the stage, dancing and screaming and singing along, the music flowing out across the little lake and into the campsites ringing the stage area. As the night raged on, we found ourselves out in the woods among the tents and the campfires, joining in a wild jam session with our friends Primate Fiasco, seemingly everyone joining in somehow, clapping, singing, banging on bottles, playing whatever instruments were around, including a bunch of toy noisemakers we’d picked up for Sasha’s birthday. (note: I’m filming, and I apologize for the lack of proper lighting.)
It was a wild night that turned into a very somber morning. Shortly after we got on the road to Connecticut, I received a call from Michael. He was extremely upset. He said that Emily had passed away during the night. Utter shock. Emily, who we had seen just a week ago, happy and healthy, was gone? How is that possible? It doesn’t make sense. It’s such a struggle even now, writing it, it almost doesn’t seem real. There are no words to describe this loss. She was such an amazing person, such a wonderful friend to us, so full of positivity. We found out later that she was still wearing her festival bracelet from Catskill Chill, hadn’t taken it off all week. Thank you Emily for everything, for being our most fervent believer and supporter from the very beginning. Know that you will forever be in our hearts and our collective soul, your energy is a part of who we are. Love always.
We continued on in a daze—engagements and shows, including Bridgeport, CT and Providence, RI, a photo shoot, putting the finishing touches on the new record—and yet we all felt her absence as well as Michael’s family’s loss so deeply that it made the whole time, well, hard. And surreal. Loss can make everything else feel less significant, like the volume is turned down. It makes you think deeply about what’s really important in life—family, friends, love, music. In the Dirty Birds, we are blessed that all these things intersect simultaneously. On the 23rd, we walked into Sullivan Hall to play our last show in NYC until almost the end of the year, shoot our first official music video, and also to honor Emily with music. Incredibly, Michael and Chason, along with several of her close friends were able to come to the show. We hadn’t seen any of them since her passing, and it was so good to be able to give hugs and words of support before the show. They all made it clear that she would have wanted them to be there, that she wouldn’t have missed it for anything, that she would have been pissed if they didn’t come out. And of course she was there too. Dancing right along with hundreds of other friends and fans, who maybe didn’t know the loss we carried in our hearts, but for sure felt the energy and love we put into the music that night. Our friend Jake Nelson made a music video that night to the song “Make it Rain.” You have to put your all into every moment, no matter how hard it may seem at the time.
The next night we played up in Albany and drove back to the city late after the gig, exhausted but looking forward to the next leg of our journey: our first National Tour. Taking it to the next level. Over thirty or so shows spread out over 7 weeks, thousands upon thousands of miles altogether, from California through the South and back up the East Coast. So look out for the next chapter.
The following pictures are from Emily and Chason’s wedding. RIP girl. We miss you like crazy.
As always, thank for taking this trip with us.
Yr Friend Bram
Sash, Emily, Chason, Arls
Emily and myself
I forgot about this, but at the end of the night, before we all left, we got in one big dance circle and had a little vocal jam. Wow. Love you Em.
8/1/11—8/21/11
In which the dirty birds make a record, get stage-rushed by an insane asylum escapee, triumphantly return to Kansas and spend a glorious moment in time with a shamanistic-type fellow.
So, hey there. This entry may or may not cover most of the month of August. We’ll see how it goes. But first things first: we made a record. Yup, that’s right, our second album is almost a reality. After Gathering of the Vibes, we returned to Brooklyn and hunkered down in the studio for a couple days with our esteemed comrade-in-arms, resident soundwizard Brian Bender. The dude is a freakin scientist at the boards. So, there will obviously be many more announcements and excited banter concerning the release of our long-awaited second album, but just know this much for now: the thing is going to blow yr sweet little minds. 100% Guaranteed. Mark it down. Looking at a late February release date, so keep your ears and eyes peeled way back for that. Anyways, moving on.
After laying down the basic tracks in the studio for three days, our first gig back on “the road” was actually on a boat in the Hudson River. A homecoming of sorts because we hadn’t played a single show in NYC this whole time, the darn thing pre-sold out, which made us birds feel extra warm and fuzzy. It was a truly special night—seeing all our fans and friends who’ve been with us since our golden olden days, or as we like to call them, our “Rockwood Music Hall Stage 1, all nine of us squeezed onto that crazy tiny stage” days. It had been raining on and off all day, and as people began filing onto the boat the clouds really opened up and started pouring down. Sheets of rain obscuring the mammoth skyscrapers, murky clouds and ominous, churning waves. However, we birds were undeterred from the task at hand which was of course to RAWK. So, picture us getting our sea-legs on with our longest-tenured fans, rocking and rolling upon the rain drenched waters of the Hudson, lower Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty and the bridges gleaming in the darkness…
The next morning we drove to Hudson, NY to play a show at Club Helsinki, a beautiful club in a giant, meticulously-restored century-old building that has become a bit of a second home for us, our Northern outpost. Suffice it to say (remember, I promised some modicum of brevity for this particular rambling) that we had a great time with the good people of Hudson. The next moonrise found us in Philly, playing World Cafe Live, and the subsequent sunrise found us driving towards Johnstown, PA, aka Flood City, hence the “Flood City Music Festival”. Really interesting history in that area in general but specifically in Johnstown, which has survived three historic and devastating floods. The festival as a whole was fantastic, capped by a performance by the great Greg Allman, but we had a particularly memorable time due to the antics of one ecstatic fan: So we’re approaching the middle of our set and the audience is getting really into it, hooting and hollering as Jackson shreds his solo on our cover of ‘Roadhouse,’ and there’s this one middle-aged woman drunkenly careening down the aisle to join the melee in front of the stage, swinging her beer above her head and screaming. The beer’s spilling all over the place, on her and the people around her but she doesn’t notice and doesn’t care. Jackson’s wailing, she’s screaming and now pointing at him, slams her beer down on the edge of the stage and rips her shirt off and throws it at him. He grabs it out of mid-air, tossing it aside, never misses a beat. At this point, we see her man-friend, a giant mustachioed biker-type fellow, come lumbering down the aisle after her, yelling “calm yer drunk ass down!” He grabs her and tries to lead her out of the tent, but she spins out of his grasp and runs off to one side of the stage and out of sight… The next thing we know, she’s sprinting up the stairs, past security, past the sound man, up on stage and heading straight for Jackson! I remember screaming “Jaaaaaaacksooooonnnnnn!!!!” (in slow-motion of course) but it’s too late, she grabs him from behind and starts dancing up on him. He looks back, confused as hell, tries to shake her off, still playing the whole time, he kicks his hips back and she finally loses her grip and falls sprawling on the ground. Jax steps forward and finishes his solo as security drags her off stage, the crowd is going absolutely wild, just losing it! Best solo ever. The band kicks in and Arleigh blasts out the end of the song to a standing ovation as we all crack up and try to make sense of what just happened. I really REALLY wish someone had good video footage of that, but as of now we’ve yet to see it. If you or someone you know was there, please ask around, the world needs to see this. Oh, and I almost forgot the best part was as she was being led away from the stage she was screaming, “NO! NO! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME GO BACK TO THE MENTAL HOSPITAL! I WON’T GO BACK!” Sorry lady, not sure that particular call is yours to make.
The next few days were spent in and out of the studio, doing all kinds of arcane musical science—horn science, guitar science, harmonica science… It’s a pretty subtle and delicate process making a record, complicated for us by the fact that we were doing it between road stints. Such is our dedication to our fans! I don’t need to say this again but I might as well, this record is gonna be something else. I’m really proud of the work we’ve all done. As an aside, those six days we spent in the city recording were the longest stretch of time we had been home in over three months. Holy whoa now.
The next Saturday we convened in the early morning and drove to Huntington, WV, an eleven hour drive. It was raining as we pulled in, the sun long ago having set. As we sat in the green room listening to the opening band, a singer and a guitar duo, we heard them go into a familiar strain and slowly realized, to our surprise and delight, that they were covering ‘Hollow Bones!’ First time we’ve heard someone cover a song of ours, awesome feeling to see our music spreading it’s wings across the country. The club had a giant mural of the Good Doctor Hunter S. Thompson in the backyard, a positive sign of things to come.
"We'd be fools not ride this strange torpedo all the way out to the edge."
After we played that time at the Zoo in Wichita, we landed a couple of other gigs in Kansas, one of which was our Friday night show at the Granada Theater in Emporia. What an beautiful venue! Freshly renovated old movie theater. Check it out:
Whoa now.
The owners have teamed up with the local radio station, KISS 103.1, to put on events. So, apparently ‘Freight Train’ and ‘Untie My Shoelaces’ had been busting out of people’s radios for some time. When people have heard us and know we’re coming, it can be really special. I never heard the final number, but there were almost 500 people there, packed into seats and pressed up against the stage. Awesome, awesome show. Later, after we had packed the van, some locals took us down to a bar where an afterparty was already raging, with a great local band funkin it up. When the bar closed, we found ourselves out on the street with about 50 other people, Ryan looked over at me said “come on, let’s do this” and launched into a full-out vocal jam. I joined in and soon all the birds had formed a circle, at first a few and then more and morelocals joining in, clapping and raising our voices to the night.
Aaaaand, this:
Vocal jams are the best way to make new friends. We proceeded to ramble down the street with about 20 people dancing along with us. At one point a cop car rolled up next to us, took one look at us in our general insanity, bemusedly shook his head and just drove away. That night also finally ended with us singing The Band songs in the hotel (recurring theme? yes).
Our second to last show of the run was back in Wichita at The Boulevard, hosted by Mr. Don Bean. It was a great, diverse crowd, full of people of all ages who had seen us at the zoo or elsewhere or read about us in the local paper. A couple of people even drove from Oklahoma City to catch us because it was the closest show we were playing to them. Actually, this had been happening all tour—people driving upwards of three hours, planning little mini-vacations to come see us. Amazing. I’m telling you, things are getting very interesting. A family friend of ours owns a spiritual retreat just outside of town, and we had the following Sunday and Monday off again (well, “off” is a strong word—Monday we drove for 17 hours en route to West Virginia) so we took the opportunity to decompress. Stretched out on buffalo rugs, thinking and smiling, taking swims in his pool. Thank you Richard and Paula, you are amazing beautiful people. Sincerely, thank you for everything. Then, as I said, we drove for a really, really long time and then played at PJ Kelly’s once again (video tour of the crazy basement, liquor running ghosts etc—I would direct you to the first entry at this point, but it accidentally got deleted. Sorry.) Just another raging Tuesday night in Clarksburg, what can I say? Ha. And then back and back and back to Brooklyn. So… Whew! We made it.
As always, thank you for taking this journey with us. More soooon, promise!
Yr friend,
Bram
7/21/11—7/30/11
In which the Dirty Birds play a motorcycle convention, rock Gathering of the Vibes, start recording our second album, and get our feet stuck to the aftermath of a rugby tournament.
The morning after the Columbus show, we woke up and drove back home to Brooklyn. After a blissful night of sleep in our own beds, we woke up and got right back on I-80 East to Bloomsburg, PA where we had been invited last minute to play the annual convention of the BMW Motorcycle Association of America. The heat wave was still in full frontal assault mode, and our AC was still broken (it wasn’t until a week or so later after the heat finally broke that we had time to get it fixed). The festival was being held at the county fairgrounds just outside of town. We pulled up to the back vendor entrance and waited for our liaison, Lee, who turned out to be a wiry man from Birmingham, Alabama. He had a wide smile and spoke with a pronounced Southern drawl. “Wasn’t sure you’d be able to find us! A little out of the way. But here we go, follow me!” hopping on his golf cart, seemingly out of place amidst the sea of motorcycles. A whole tent city stretched before us, motorcycles parked like steeds amidst thousands of people in leather jackets or tank tops, jeans, riding boots.
The heat and humidity reached their true zenith that day. After unloading our gear we had a short soundcheck, then left our stuff in the backstage area and drove the fifteen or so miles to our hotel, where we promptly closed all the blinds, cranked the AC and fell asleep. Some hours later, we woke as if in an igloo and couldn’t have been happier. We still had the show to play, however, so we climbed back into the van and headed back to the fairgrounds, where there was a Zydeco band going full-force. A crowd of a couple hundred sat and stood watching appreciatively from the stage area, while untold more heard from their tents and on their bikes around the periphery, obscured by the darkness. It was still over 90 degrees and humid when we took the stage around 10:30pm, with even more people drawn to the music, pressed against the stage. By the end we were all drenched through, sweat towels strewn about the stage. It was a dirty, sweaty night, true Rock n Roll.
We drove home again that night, our van careening through the Pennsylvania darkness. The next morning, Arleigh, Sasha, Jax, Kim (my fiance), John (one of our best friends) and I all met and drove up to Bridgeport, CT for Gathering of the Vibes. This was Friday the 22nd, and although we weren’t playing until the following day we decided to drive up early, camp out and check out the scene. And what a scene it was: more than 20,000 people camped out up against the shore of the Long Island Sound, tie-dyed shirts and dresses and dreads and hula-hoops and a ferris wheel and swimming at sunset. While Arls, Jax and Sasha stayed behind to deal with the business of getting our van and gear into the festival and onto a campsite (which proved surprisingly difficult), John and Kim and I stole away to see the Levon Helm Band. What a band! Damn, I mean, I’ve seen them before, but every time is truly a blessing. Levon is such a light on this earth. Every time the man opens his mouth to sing, the heavens open up a little bit and I get all wiggly. Such a presence! Throw in the fact that I’ve idolized him as a drummer ever since I was 7 or so, and, well, it was a highlight of my time at the festival to be able to catch some of his set. I hope that someday quite soon the Birds’ll be able to play a Ramble. We’ll see. Anyways, we wandered around the immense fair grounds the rest of the night. Our manager Michael was there, and our booking agent Jon. A big reunion of sorts, dancing to Further on the VIP porch. We fell asleep to the sounds of distant revelry, fireworks being lit, drum circles, the late night set. Here’s a song from our set.
The next morning, we awoke with the sun. One of our tents had no rain flap and Jax ended up getting pretty burned from the sunshine filtering in through the open-air screens. We were scheduled for 3:45pm on the Greenvibes stage, the “up-and-coming” stage. We are up and we are most definitely coming! Some of the crew came and carted our gear over there, and then we hung out backstage drinking ice cold beer while the other Birds arrived from the city. Eventually it was time to rock. We set up, did a quick line check and away we went. Such a good vibe there! (no pun) The Greenvibes stage was right on the water, and there were about a dozen boats anchored offshore full of people dancing, to complement the mostly-shirtless crowd in front of the stage. We gave them our best, getting down and dirty, so much that a few of us (Arleigh, Jax and myself) got heat-stroke. Ha, seriously, it was over 100 degrees when we played. I took a long drum solo at one point, and as I came out of it I felt like I was gonna faint! You know that feeling where you can feel the blood draining from your head and the sparkles all start to shimmer? Light dancing off the cymbals, blurred vision of Arleigh jumping up and down. Anyways, we made it, but barely. Boy, was that a fun set though. Later, we read on some Vibes discussion boards that a lot of people said it was their favorite set of the whole weekend! As we continue to play shows around the Northeast we often run into people who say they heard us first at Vibes, which always makes us happy thinking back to that hot afternoon show.
We spent the next few days in the studio recording our as-of-yet untitled second album, due out this Spring. Can’t tell you how good it felt to get our newer songs recorded after playing them all over the country! Completely different sonically and conceptually from the first album, it’s produced and recorded by our dear friend and resident “Scientist of Knobs,” Mr. Brian Bender. It’s been almost two years since our first album was recorded, and our sound has changed a lot since then, really come into itself through playing together almost constantly, not to mention all our shared experiences. So while we love the first album and love sharing it with people, I can honestly say this new album is gonna blow yr minds!
Getting that classic reverb guitar sound in the bathroom.
As much as we would have loved to hunker down and finish the record all in one stretch, especially after the touring insanity of the past 2 or 3 weeks, we set out again that very next weekend for a run up through Hartford, CT to Burlington, VT and Saranac Lake, NY. Hartford was memorable mostly because Johnny’s cousin Paul and his wife Diana came out to see us, and then put us up at their beautiful house, with the understanding that “everything in the fridge is yours, please, enjoy!” And oh, did we enjoy. When we woke in the morning, there was a very detailed note explaining what food we should take for our trip. The apples. The bread. The hummus. Pretty much everything there, actually. Thank you so much for your hospitality!
We hit Nectar’s in Burlington on a Friday night and raged face. There was a jumping crowd out celebrating the joy of a Summer’s weekend, and we gave them a mouthful of dirt. Awesome show. John Kincheloe (my uncle, Arleigh and Jackson’s dad) was there on furlough from a college rugby reunion (actually, little did we know rugby was about to become a major factor in our lives for the next 48 hours…) with his old buddy Tom. After the show we went back to Tom’s amazing log cabin, which he and his sons built with their own hands over the past few years. It lies on this beautiful piece of land, set off from the road, only a 15 minute drive from downtown Burlington. Amazing, beautiful place. He’s built a golf course of sorts on the property—holes marked by poles with little flags waving in the wind. But we didn’t see that until the morning, mist rising from the green fields. I fell asleep right on the kitchen floor curled up next to his kindly old dog, who reminded me of my own kindly old dog from childhood, Tucker (miss you boy!) We bonded, what a good dog.
The next day we set off towards Saranac Lake, over on the New York side of Lake Placid, which we took an awesome ferry ride to get across.
Our show that night was at a venue called Waterhole Upstairs Music Lounge, and unbeknownst to us, we were to be the sole source of entertainment for some 500 drunken rugby players partaking in an international tournament in nearby Lake Placid. Every year, the Waterhole hosts the big after party for the whole tournament—though the finals games were the next day, most of the teams had been eliminated and were ready to party. And apparently rugby players like to party hard. Our only warning was that the staff of the place looked like they were girding for war—the grim, knowing faces of soldiers about to go into battle. Who knows how we ended up with that gig, but hey we bring it every time, don’t know any other way. We started playing at 10:30 to a half-empty room, but 20 minutes in the place was jam packed. Guys and girls, many teams came dressed in matching garb, some in their uniforms but others in random costumes—cowboy hats and bandanas, leopard-print leotards, there was even a team from Scotland all wearing kilts. Beyond the team atmosphere, there were a few lone-shark type characters drifting in and out of the fray. A couple big friendly guys from Australia really dug us. There was a toothless Russian thug-looking guy who drunkenly grabbed at us as we left the stage, yelling at us to “play Bob Seger! Bob Seeeegerrrr!!” Later in the night he stood weaving back and forth, somehow maintaining his balance, making throat slitting motions at Aidan for some reason. He loved me though, said he was a drummer. “I gotta … gotta twennyfivepiece set in… in my house… do you wannit? I sell it you!” “Umm, thanks, but no, I already have a set,” and then I somehow managed to escape up to the green room/office where we all hid out between sets. What mayhem! Someone lit off some fireworks in the middle of one of Sasha’s solos, smoke billowing up from the crowd. This happened two or three times before the bouncers found the guy and kicked him out. I’m surprised the whole damn place didn’t burn down! But we never stopped playing, ha, we played until 2:30am when they finally kicked everyone out. There was so much spilled beer that my boots clung to the floor of the club with each step I took. In fact, just from walking from the stage to the green room my boots were sticking to my hi-hat and bass drum pedals, making playing much more difficult than usual. Had a few shots with the bartenders, who looked equally relieved the night was over. The owners of the club were awesome—because of the tournament, there were no hotel rooms available within a 50 mile radius, so they took pity on us and let us crash in the green room, where we sprawled out on couches, a futon and the floor. We all stayed up late together recounting the insanity of the last few hours, and weeks, laughing sleepily. A night to remember for sure.
Good work put in by all involved.
Onwards and upwards, Birds!
Yr friend,
Bram
Jackson's pet.
7/13/11—7/19/11
In which the Dirty Birds re-conquer the Midwest, celebrate the fall of the Bastille and a very happy bird-thday, explore Chicago, and stay in a hotel full of old train cars—yup, trains right outside our rooms.
We keep getting offered great gigs in the Midwest, so we keep routing our way out there and back, this being the third time in two months (we know I-80 well). Unfortunately, this time there was a record breaking heat wave sweeping across the nation. Even more unfortunately, our air conditioner had broken a few days before we left. Sh#t. So instead of frequent references to the heat, just imagine us sweating our asses off the whole time.
We rolled into Fort Wayne, IN on July 13th for their annual Three Rivers Festival, complete with rides, endless concession booths, car give-a-ways and of course carnies. We set up under an enormous open-air tent with a huge stage, felt like a stadium, more space than we knew what to do with. My drums were a good twenty feet behind everyone else in the band, felt a bit on my own back there. The stage manager’s name was Brent, completely on top of his business. It’s always refreshing to work with true professionals, makes a huge difference. We had two separate air conditioned Winnebagos to use as greenrooms, but of course we all ended up hanging in the same one, nine of us crammed in there. After sound check there was some time to walk around and admire the rides and booths, quite a festival. After the show, we were hanging out at the merch table, signing cd’s and meeting the kind folks who came out to see us, when two unusual things happened: one guy insisted on buying my drumsticks and had me sign and date them (a true first, ha); and we heard our first reference to these tour blogs: this dude said “I heard y’all had some car trouble on the first leg of this tour, huh?” It took me a second to realize how he would know that, but turns out he read about it in the first entry! Real world meet blog world, circular references abound, a blog within a blog within a… ahem. Later that night JJ yet again found his giraffe in our hotel room. (This is where I would insert a picture. Alas, alas.. I’m sure you guys can imagine it though.)
The next day found us cruising along Lake Erie on our way to Milwaukee to play Bastille Days, a street festival celebrating the storming of the Bastille during the French Revolution and the eventual victory of the people. And it was Jackson’s birthday! Pretty great day to be born, July 14th. The stage was in a square in the center of town, with all the surrounding streets taken over by food vendors and local artisans hawking their wares. People strolling around, drinking wine and beer, eating cheese and crepes, listening to music from three different stages spread around the streets. And there was a giant replica of the Eiffel Tower. The crowd for our show was ridiculously awesome that night, in just about every way you could imagine. Before the show an old man wheeled up to the front with his walker and sat expectantly, waiting for us to start. As soon as we kicked into it he got up and started getting down, danced his ass off ALL NIGHT LONG. That dude had some serious moves. There were hundreds of people sprawling and dancing in the streets, and hundreds more sitting on benches and chairs set up in the park, but the real party was on the dance floor right in front of the stage—maybe 50 people pressed together, twirling around in the lights, feet stomping, hands clapping and general merriment making, a great time if there ever was one.
We drove on to Chicago the next morning, eager to get in early and explore the city, but our hotel was out by the airport and we got caught in some serious commuter traffic. Arleigh, Sasha and JJ went to the hotel to decompress, shower, etc. while the rest of us jumped on the El train and rolled into town. Johnny, Ryan and Phil got off in Wicker Park, where we’d heard there were some cool shops and galleries (and good tacos) while Aidan, Jax and I rode the rest of the way into downtown. Jax went off to meet up with a harmonica customizer he’d become friends with, Aidan went to find a gourmet restaurant his dad had been recommending for years, while I wandered along the lakefront, eventually ending up in Millennium Park. What a tripped-out place. Enormous metallic bean statues
Bean.
and art installations rising from the concrete sidewalk, tourists snapping pictures, kids running around inside giant waterfalls with pixelated facesthat move and smile and blink and laugh.
Face.
What a cool town. I hadn’t ever really explored Chicago, only passed through the train station numerous times during my transient years (aka hobo phase), so I had to go have a drink at the bar in Union Station for old times’ sake. Eventually we all found our way over to the House of Blues, where we thoroughly rocked the house… of blues.
Our next hit was in Bloomington, IL. There are statues and monikers everywhere commemorating various things involving Lincoln. The old courthouse on main street has an informational sign explaining in detail how when Lincoln first arrived there to practice law, he was “dressed like a country bumpkin, with an ill-fitted suit that looked hand sewn and patched, and mis-matched shoes.” The Castle Theater, like several other venues we’ve played, was once an ornate small-town movie house that fell into disrepair before being refurbished and converted into a regionally-reknowned music venue. Snoop Dog was playing there sometime in August (he was actually on the calendar at the House of Blues as well—guess we’re out there blazing the trail for him, making sure everything is up to snuff, etc. etc. haha). The guys at the theater ended up opening the doors and turning it into a free “Beat the Heat” concert (remember it’s been CRAZY HOT this whole time!) The show was hopping, the crowd got really into it and we had a great time. We are truly looking forward to playing the Castle Theater again.
The next morning we once again lifted our weary heads and set sail for Indianapolis. It was Sunday and it was hot. Like, really really hot… Ha, anyway we were playing at a club called Birdy’s that night in Northeast Indy. We went and had lunch at a local brewery, tasted their delicious home-brewed IPA and bought a few growlers for later (which turned out to come in handy). The show was pretty low-key, not much of a crowd (because it was Sunday night), but the three people who were there really liked it. That’s just how it goes I guess—play to thousands and then play to twelve. The rock demands to be rocked hard, every night, no matter what. We had the next night off, so we found a hotel downtown where we could enjoy our free day. Our thinking was that whoever wanted to explore the city could do that while everyone else could hang out in the rooms, take a swim, etc. Little did we know what we were getting ourselves into. Namely, trains. In the hallways.
whoa.
The hotel used to be the central train station, and they held onto some of the cars and converted them into rooms. That night we had an epic poker tournament lasting into the wee hours of the morning, one of those games where by the end of it you can’t really remember who won… Without going too far into the story, suffice to say that Ryan, sometime around seven in the morning, went on a solo exploratory mission throughout the hotel, eventually ending up on an elliptical machine in an exercise room full of middle aged woman. He got cornered in there when they arrived all at once and decided to just go with it—haphazardly riding that machine for all it was worth. That’s why we love him, ha. I spent the whole next day lying around in our air-conditioned room, afraid to face the heat, watching Sportscenter and listening to D’Angelo’s Voodoo on repeat. When we finally emerged from our safe house to get some dinner, the sun had already set but it was still pushing 100 degrees. We found a great restaurant/brewpub down the street and had a serious feast. Without a gig that night it felt like we were on vacation. After dinner we walked over to the “Slippery Noodle,” the oldest bar in Indiana. A former bordello, it’s reputedly haunted and one of the bartenders gave us the full tour. There was an acoustic guitar duo playing on a small stage in the front of the bar, and as an encore they played “I Shall Be Released” by Bob Dylan—of course, all nine of us jumped in on the chorus, rocking the four-part harmonies. Big smiles from stage. Afterwards they came up to us, “Well, THAT’S never happened here before!” Dirty Birds in the house. Most of us went back to the hotel after that, but Jax and JJ and Ryan stayed on and befriended a guy who was either a CIA agent or a gun-smuggler, or maybe both. Upon their return, Ryan took them on a follow-up mission to continue exploring the train cars. Somehow JJ wiggled his tall giraffe body through the window into one of the cars, finding an empty and very dusty room. Jackson woke up with a huge bruise on his hip, we think there was some roughhousing… it’s a miracle we didn’t get kicked out of that place. All in all, we had ourselves a pretty darn good time in Indy.
The last hit of the run was at Woodland’s Tavern in Columbus, OH, the gig we had to reschedule because of van difficulties our first time out. Not a whole lot to report, except that our good friend Annie drove all the way up from Cincinnati to see us. And also that the smoke machine in the club was blowing so hard that I sometimes I had trouble making out Arleigh, much less the crowd. Ha, but it was a fun show. We retired to a local motel, finished the rest of the Early Times and watched Chris Thile videos on youtube. Seriously, check out that link. That dude is one bad dude. Collaboration? I’m completely into it.
So, this entry seems to have come to its own conclusions. As always, keep your eyes peeled for more shenanigans, we’ll be posting the next few entries more frequently until we’re caught up to the present day…
Much love fellow fowls!
Yr friend,
Bram
6/30/11—7/9/11
In which the dirty birds visit an abandoned machete factory, celebrate freedom, and play in an old theatre featured in Friday the 13th.
On June 30th we found ourselves out in the Hamptons, playing once again at Stephen’s Talk House in Amagansett, NY. That place is great, real old and full of history, walls covered in pictures of celebrities who’ve made it a summer destination over the decades. Nothing much to report, except that we found a discarded check for over $10,000 in the parking lot. It was a little torn and had been run over a few times by the passing cars. Guess it wasn’t that big of a deal to whomever misplaced that. The next day we drove up to Northampton, MA for a show at the famed Iron Horse Music Hall. Great little town, we had a time of it walking around main street where I stopped into an amazing bookstore, Raven Books.
Anyway, after the show we drove to Springfield, MA, where we had found some cheap rooms at the Knight’s Inn. If at one point the standard for motel shadiness had been the Motel 6 in Bloomington, IN, the Knight’s Inn created an entirely new category of shady. First of all, it became immediately clear the place was more or less (emphasis on more) a den for prostitution. No joke. Johns were coming and going all night, following scantily clad women into their rooms and leaving shortly thereafter. Second of all, and we’re not 100% sure about this one, it appeared to be a bit of a crack den as well. We got into our room and noticed there was a closet door being blocked by a dresser. Of course we have to investigate these things, not much of a choice there, so Jax pried the dresser away and opened the closet door. Some of the paneling in the closet had been stripped away and then hastily replaced, concealing a wrapped paper package containing a bunch of little wax paper baggies, baking soda and household cleaners… uh, yeah. I wandered off and found these four crazy Russian dudes sitting outside their hotel room, hard at work on a bottle of vodka, celebrating one of their birthdays. Cars came and went all night, circling the empty swimming pool in the center of the horseshoe-shaped complex. It was overgrown with weeds and obviously hadn’t been filled in many years. At some point it came out that my new drinking buddies were the sons of a local, umm, “Man of Importance,” so I probably shouldn’t get into any of the stories they told me… Just another night at the Knight’s Inn.
Morning came none too soon, and we drove on to Collinsville, CT to play Bridge Street Live. Old factory town—if you’ve ever wondered where they made the pick-axes that mined the coal that fueled our industrial revolution, the sledgehammers that drove in the train spikes for the trans-continental railroad, the machetes that helped explorers cut their paths through the Amazon; well, look no further than the Collinsville Company Axe Factory. Bit of trivia for you there.
The town sits next to a beautiful river, and there’s a wooden walking bridge that crosses both the river and also the abandoned grounds of the factory. I felt like I was some visitor from the future, a bit like the character from that Ray Bradbury story (‘A Sound of Thunder’) who travels back in time to hunt dinosaurs but must not stray from a wooden path which floats suspended above the ground. (P.S. If you click on that link, you can read the story. Highly recommended…)
The crowd was particularly enthusiastic that night, dancing and clapping and screaming at the end of every song. After the set, we stayed and chilled with the owner, his son and the rest of their crew. Amazing people, welcoming us into their venue as if they were welcoming us into their home. Our manager, Michael, drove up from New Jersey to see us play, and remarked at the noticeable progress we’d made on the road – “Everything’s gotten tighter, more popping.” There’s no practice like having to put on a killer show night after night—these last few months have been a real study into the science of rocking.
After all that driving and rocking it was high time to take a few days off in celebration of our nation’s birth. Arleigh, Sasha and I drove up to Arleigh’s dad John’s house in Halcottsville to decompress as everyone else went off on their own for a few days. We celebrated Freedom, and then the next day we celebrated Freedom+1, which even spilled over into Freedom+2 a little bit. A fine old time with poppa John Kinch. And then we went right back at it on the 8th, playing our second time at Putnam Den up in Saratoga Springs, NY. Stayed at a sweet old hotel across the street from the venue, had an indoor pool with all the rooms circling it.
The 9th found us in Blairstown, NJ, playing at the Historic Blairstown Theater. Originally built in 1913 as a silent movie house, it has been recently renovated and turned into an amazing venue. Awesome space, awesome hospitality. The green room is literally onstage, right behind the back curtain.
Apparently Blairstown is where the original Friday the 13th movie was shot, the prototypical small-town vibe it would seem. Tidy little main street of about three blocks. Idyllic.
Well, that’s all for now. Check back soon, the next few episodes will cover our second Mid-West tour—a couple of large festivals, including a celebration of Bastille Day (Jackson’s birthday), and lots more driving…
Yr friend,
Bram
6/21/11—6/25/11
In which the Dirty Birds rock a gathering of Vibes people, sleep in a room made of LPs, meet our cutest, littlest fan, and rage the face off of Lake Erie.
After a few days rest in Brooklyn, it was back in the van heading North for a gig at Acoustic Cafe up in Bridgeport, CT. It was raining—a gray, strange day. Felt like autumn, almost. It was our first time playing Bridgeport, and we were especially excited because we had just been booked to play Gathering of the Vibes, an awesome, immense four-day music festival in late July, also in Bridgeport. We were also excited to be sharing the stage with our friend Darian Cunning, a great guy and super talented guitarist who we’d met at Rock N Roll Resort back in April. He’d sat in with us on Bill Withers’ “Use Me” and frickin rocked the house, er, resort. Great to see a familiar face as we rolled up to the club, and to have a helping hand as we unloaded the van in the rain. Main Street was deserted, so there was no way of knowing that we were about to play a packed house of local and semi-local music festival junkies… we should have seen a clue, though, in the bottle of Jameson with a Vibes sticker on the back waiting for us in the green room.
Darian’s solo show was inspiring. He had an EQ-based octave pedal that drops only the lowest frequencies of his guitar, so the effect was that of a bass player playing along. One man band. I was standing by the stage during the last song, wishing like hell that I was up there rocking with him, when he looked over at me and motioned to get behind the drums. This ensued: Unexpected jams are often the best jams. The Dirty Birds then proceeded to bring the house down -- it was a raucous dance party, featuring what felt like a cross-section of the Northeast music festival community… these guys know how to party.
Our gig the next night was in Buffalo, an eight hour drive from Bridgeport, so we just took off that night and drove three or four hours until we got tired, pulled off the road and slept at some roadside motel. Honestly, I can’t even remember where it was or which chain it was—these road stops all start to run together like an unending dream of driving mixed with short nights of sleep. The next morning we woke and drove the remaining hours to Buffalo. There’s a familiar feeling to a lot of these cities that are nestled up to insanely large lakes, some sort of common thread. The feeling of wind blowing off the water, maybe. An unseen expanse of blue just beyond the next building. The visceral memory of a frigid winter. Cleveland. Chicago. Milwaukee. Erie. Buffalo. Our show that night was at Tralf Music Hall—walls adorned with pictures of all the legends that had played there over the years, from Chick Corea to Bruce Cockburn and everyone in between. Needless to say it was an honor to play a stage with such a storied history.
While hanging after the show we were greeted by a smiling woman named Susan. After chatting for a few minutes she told us that she and her husband Marty often have touring bands stay at their house about thirty minutes south of the city, and that they would love to have us if we didn’t already have rooms booked. We didn’t, and of course were taken aback at such a kind gesture. Their house is bordered on one side by a field and on the other by their garden. A lovely, country-feeling home. You can still feel the lake in the distance. “We love having bands come stay here, it’s a special thing for us to be able to just sit and talk and hear your stories.” Such warm and open smiles. It’s amazing how much it means to be welcomed so kindly into someone’s home when we’re constantly whirlwinding our way through so many towns in so many days. Anyways, we made our way downstairs where they had set up a few futon beds, and found… the entire walls of the basement lined with records. Marty’s record collection is massive—over 10,000 of them, I kid you not. Whoa. And there were some real gems. We spent a while just perusing the titles, but there were far too many to even make a dent. What a collection though! Damn. We stayed up late drinking and swapping stories, and in the morning Marty made us breakfast and had us sign the guestbook. Thank you both! By the way, here is the awesome poster they made up for their wedding. My sense of humor!
After breakfast, we took off towards Greensburg, PA, a town about forty-five minutes Southeast of Pittsburgh. We were playing Summer Sounds, a music series at an outdoor amphitheater in the main park downtown.
JJ once again found his giraffe brethren.
We met Gene, a kind, white-haired man who pretty much ran the whole show, along with a team of volunteers. After soundcheck, Gene led us over to J. Corks, the nicest restaurant in town, and informed us that they were a festival sponsor and dinner was on the house. Man, such tasty tasty food: prosciutto-wrapped tiger shrimp, steak with gorgonzola bacon sauce… whew! As we walked back from dinner, people all around us were headed up the hill towards the park, carrying blankets and folded lawn chairs, pushing toddler-filled strollers. It had been raining intermittently all day but had finally cleared, with 1,500 people stretched out on the lawn or perched on the bleacher seats in front of the stage. A perfect summer’s evening for an outdoor music show.
During the second set, after the sun had already fallen behind the hills, a young girl crept closer and closer to the stage, ending up right in front of Arleigh, just staring up at her. Every now and then she would get spooked by something loud and go running off, but she always returned, more emboldened each time. 
Eventually she was literally standing on stage in front of Arleigh, taking it all in. Intensely, unbelievably cute! We’ve never had anything like that happen, but somehow given the atmosphere it made complete sense. Also, nobody came running up to collect her so… what’s cool with you is cool with us. The last time she came running up, she had a camera. As Arleigh smiled down at her, the girl took a picture and then ran off never to be seen again. Would love to see that picture! Sister Sparrow through the eyes of a little girl… There was also a man in the front row drawing crazy caricatured versions of us. Dig it.
They put us up that night at the local Courtyard at Marriott, where there was not only a bar but a pool and hot tub open all night… a Dirty Bird’s paradise! We flocked to the bar and soon made friends with a large group of writers from all over the country who were part of an online correspondence master’s program based at a local college. Interesting people, all of them, especially this one dude who was a ghost investigator and told us all kinds of crazy ghost stories. There was an air hockey table, but the puck was too light and kept flying off, so JJ and Phil made up the rule that the puck was always in play—whenever it went flying, they would both go scampering off after it, falling all over each other. Great times. Everyone laughing. People telling life stories, toasting to little nothings invented just to toast. Good times, Greensburg, good times.
Our last show of this little three-day run was at The Crooked I, in Erie, PA. Pulling up to the club, we were greeted by a little eight year old dude in face paint. “Hey! You guys haven’t been here before right? No? Well, welcome!” Turns out his father Marty owns the club, and they had been at the county fair earlier. Marty’s the coolest dude, and his little dude is just as cool. While we set up, he was out on the dance floor bouncing up and down on his pogo stick. “Look! No hands! Ahaha!” Must be amazing growing up in the daily playground of a sweet music venue next to a huge lake, can’t wait to meet him again in ten years. I walked down to the lake before we played, as the sun was setting. 
An elderly man was giving a “ghost tour” to a bunch of half-interested tourists. We weren’t sure what to expect from the crowd, but by the time we played the club was jumping—by far the most boisterous and enthusiastic crowd we’d had in a while. Our first time in Erie, and we had almost 300 people dancing their asses off, some even knew our songs! Thanks for the warm reception Erie, you rocked our little minds.
Well, that’s it for this episode. I hope you’re all enjoying being on this crazy ride with us as much as we’re enjoying having you along for the fun…
Until next time my fine feathered friends,
Yr friend,
Bram
P.S. I’ll leave you with this:
6/14/11—6/20/11
In which the dirty birds revel in the wonders of Missourian hospitality, do laundry in the middle of the night and get into a noodle fight, rock the pants off a jazz club, play a show for some giraffes and then drive back half way across the country.
We rolled into Paris, MO as the sun began to set on the evening of June 14th. We had the night off and, magically, ended up spending it with JJ’s extended family. After being greeted by cousin Phil (the town commissioner), we rolled over to great-aunt Hazel’s house for family dinner. Hazel is an amazing woman, 93 years old and KICKING! I mean, one of the sharpest, most intellectually involved people I’ve ever met. She lives in a beautiful 130-year-old house near downtown, and pretty much her whole family stills lives within a five minute drive. As more family arrived, we tossed the football around her huge backyard and enjoyed a picture-perfect Missouri evening—cool breeze, sun setting behind the trees, cicadas buzzing, fireflies blinking like little lighthouses. The dinner-smells wafting from the kitchen soon became too much, and we hungry birds filed into the screened-porch and tucked into the best meal I’ve ever eaten.
The rundown of the best meal I’ve ever eaten goes a bit like this:
Fresh pan-fried crappie (Phil caught it that morning in a nearby lake, cornmeal-breaded and fried it up right in front of us)
BBQ pork steak
Potato salad
Pasta salad (two ways)
Baked green beans & potatoes
Cole slaw
Creamed corn
…and more…
My oh my. I can’t tell you what a serious, home-cooked meal does for us weary travelers—the definition of soul food. Our eternal thanks to the Shatzers—know that your generosity kept these birds in flight! Bellies full and spirits rejuvenated, we all sat around the living room and watched as the littlest cousin ran circles around the house, high-fiving everyone (and a chair) on every pass. Check it out, complete and utter cuteness:
Later that night, much to our surprise and elation, we found a 24hr laundromat. Now, how in the world is there a 24hr laundromat in a town with a population of 1,500? Well, we had been on the road for over a week at this point and were in dire need of fresh clothes. In the parking lot outside there were these crazy poles with removable plastic covers. Of course, hilarity ensued.
You really can’t take us anywhere. Or, rather, you can take the hooligan out of Brooklyn but you can’t take the… hooligan out of the hooligan? Something like that.
After a good night’s sleep in an awesome retro-styled hotel (is it still called retro if it just hasn’t changed in 40 years?) we had lunch with Phil and his wife Cheryl at Jonesey’s diner on main street. You walk into this place and are immediately transported back to 1953, I kid you not. There were pictures of Elvis all over the walls, old menus with burgers priced at 25 cents, postcards from even smaller Missouri towns. Half the patrons were middle-aged men in trucker hats, smoking cigarettes—the smoke curling up past the Elvis posters in thin cylindrical spirals. It reminded me of the diner from ‘The Last Picture Show’ by Larry McMurtry, but much less depressing. After lunch we walked over to Phil’s office in the town’s municipal building (housed in a former school), then one last visit to Hazel’s to say goodbye and we hit the road again. 
That night we played Trouser Mouse in Blue Springs, MO, a suburb of Kansas City. A hidden gem of a bar, Trouser Mouse is located in a strip mall behind a Shell station and a McDonald’s, on a street with no sidewalks. Appearances can be deceiving, and even on a Tuesday night we got that place rocking.
The morning of June 15th found us driving to Oklahoma City, Aidan’s hometown, for a gig at the University of Central Oklahoma Jazz Lab. A beautiful venue with great sound, the Jazz Lab provided an intimate Dirty Birds experience for the large hometown crowd that came out. One of our best shows of the tour, it was more of a sit-down environment, people listening intently rather than getting down, but every bit as enthusiastic. After meeting some of the professors and students after the show, and after a short impromptu jam session, we made our way down to the Hi-Lo, a hopping bar full of colorful characters, one of whom gave me his American flag bandanna. It was that kind of night, nothing like having a local to show you the best hangout spots.
The highlight of our trip, however, proved to be our show at the Sedgewick County Zoo in Wichita, KS. They treated us like true rock stars: our own Winnebago parked next to the stage as an air-conditioned green room, a delicious specially-prepared meal, and more beer than we could possibly drink… which is a LOT. Driving into the Zoo was a surreal experience, definitely the most unique load-in we’ve had. In through the service entrance, past compound after compound of various animals, driving right up to the stage, which was located right next to the giraffe area.
Wait, wait, I meant this giraffe… 
JJ, our very own resident giraffe (he’s a tall man) was overjoyed to be able to perform for some distant kin, providing them some musical solace in their captivity. Seriously though it was really fun to perform in that environment—a great all-ages crowd sitting in lawn chairs and on blankets. 700+ people showed up despite the not-so-distant threat of thunderstorms (it stayed dry), along with hundreds of zoo animals. We’ve decided this has to be on our gig rider from here on out: One case budweiser. One full grown giraffe or equivalent. Chips and dip.
As we drove back to the hotel, the storm finally broke. We made it inside just in time, then spent two hours or so just sitting in the hot tub in the covered pool area, having a few drinks and recounting the insanity of the past week and a half as the storm raged around us.
All in all, I’d say it was a pretty darn successful first major run. No fatalities, at the very least, and about as much rocking as was physically possible. A glorious ending to the first leg of Uncaged Tour 2011. We slept well that night. Then we drove for 17 hours. Not joking. Then we slept 4 hours and drove another 9. And then we arrived disheveled and exhausted at a country club in New Jersey to play our manager’s sister (and good friend’s) wedding. It was a great party.
Till next time,
Yr friend Bram
6/11/11 – 6/13/11
In which the dirty birds eat some tasty pizza pies, convince a large man to listen to live music instead of watch the UFC final, return to the motel only to find a very special present in the drawer and pass through the gateway to the west.
“So never whine, he said.
He said, Be content with howling.”
-Peter Mathiessen from ‘At Play in the Fields of the Lord’
Bloomington, Indiana is an interesting town. Hometown of our good friend Brian Bender, as well as Indiana University, its population fluctuates by a third with the coming and going of the school year. Unfortunately for us, school was not in session as we pulled up to Max’s Place on 6th St, but we were (as you’ll see) pleasantly surprised by the people who did come out to support Uncaged 2011. Max’s is a nice large open room pizza restaurant with a back bar and a stage that brings in bands from around the country. In fact, our good friends Orgone were playing there the week after us. It’s owned and run by an awesome dread-headed fellow named Travers who chatted us up about the town/venue and told us all about the various local beers on tap. After setting up we enjoyed a superb family-style meal with as much delicious pizza as we could eat.
The crowd was an interesting multigenerational mix of local residents and students who had holed up for the summer. A few particularly interesting characters, fast friends of the kind the Dirty Birds tend to make. Meet Alex: So Aidan’s out changing in the van when Alex walks by and strikes up a conversation, says he’s on his way home to “watch the UFC final. Gonna be a f**kin crazy fight!” Aidan tells him a little about the band and in no time Alex is waiting in line to get in, “sure hope that this music is worth my damn $6!” And sure ‘nuff, he loved it, stayed for both sets, dancing right in front of the stage and hollering his ass off in gleeful pleasure, a big ol’ smile on his face. That pretty much sums up why we do this. At the end of the set, a little kid who had been there with his father came up and handed Arleigh a napkin, on which he had written “BADASS BADASS MUFIN YOO.”
His dad had crossed out “MUFIN” and written “MUSIC,” but hey, “MUFIN” works too.
After being gifted another two delicious pizzas and a case of local brew (thanks Latti!), we finished loading out, hopped in the van and had ourselves a little spontaneous vocal jam, as we often do. Minutes later we were at a local motel, enjoying the pizza and beer and settling in for the night. Now, one of the peculiar pleasures of touring the country is seeing a lot of different hotel situations (you’ll remember our experience outside Pittsburgh). It’s sometimes rewarding, sometimes “exciting,” always interesting. Well in this particular motel we discovered that a present had been left for us. While looking for the TV remote, I made an unexpected discovery in one of the drawers.
Yes folks, that’s a used cast, lovingly placed in the drawer for the enjoyment of future guests, one can only assume. Lord only knows how long it had been there—the cleaning staff must have missed it. Jesus. Our other room up the hill wasn’t much better—a large puddle of standing water next to the bathroom. Life on the road… Anyway, Jackson managed to make friends with some carneys who were there working at a fair behind the motel. They regaled him with stories of the carney life, riding the road, traveling the country much as we do, though perhaps a little closer to the ground. “You should write a song about us, the carney life!” Sounds like a good song to me. All things considered, not a bad night.
Next morning we woke up, hopped back in the van and set off west on the road to St. Louis.
That night’s show was at a renowned venue called Off Broadway, in the city’s Riverfront District. Great stage, fantastic sound guy named Tom, friendly manager/bar tender named Patrick. Good people. After soundcheck we rolled over to another local bar where we scarfed down some grinders and more tasty local beer, while catching some of game 6 of the NBA Finals. It’s easy to get into a mindset on the road where you forget about the world outside the van, the band, the venues we play and the hotels we sleep in. Nothing like a national sporting event to remind you of that other world. And then it’s back to the club, onstage and doing our thing. Which is ROCKING. Got the small but enthusiastic crowd dancing, and of course we made some new friends, one of whom happened to have gone to high school with Ryan and Jackson’s roommate Kate… small world.
We had the next day off. All we had to do was make the short drive to Paris, Missouri where JJ has some family, and rest our weary wings. Most of us slept in, though I woke at 9 and took a walk, exploring the bleak neighborhood of strip malls and airport motels. And this one huge sports bar that opens at 6am every morning… Whoa. Now that’s some serious day drinking commitment. Proud of those guys. Back at the motel, Aidan went for a swim while JJ, Johnny and Phil worked out a bit in the little exercise room (featuring a treadmill and two eight pound weights). After loading up the van we passed the football around for awhile, as we often do. I wonder if football players sit and fool around on drums or harmonica or saxophone in their free time? It’s definitely safe to say that all of us made the correct career move pursuing a life in music as opposed to football. We hit the road and passed through some strange, boarded up towns/distant suburbs of St. Louis looking for a diner or somewhere to get some breakfast sandwiches. We lucked out and found Merchant’s Lunch, a tiny, tiny little diner in Overland, MO.
Jax found himself a batman pinball machine while the rest of us birds threw some quarters in the jukebox. Van Morrison and Chicago reigned supreme, the music ringing out through the open door and into the quiet streets of small town Missouri.
Well, that’s all for this episode. Stay tuned for the next one (the Birds find themselves in Paris… Missouri, with JJ’s family, including a 93 year old great aunt, still sharp as a tack. Or some sort of very sharp stick or something… awesome woman). More stories to come, my fellow fowls! Onwards…
yr friend,
Bram
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