This show is some kind of weird matinee: three bands play before us and, predictably enough, most of the crowd splits before we play—leaving five or ten people to check out our set. We score a token $50 gas fee once again and try to set-up an impromptu show later that night at a bar called 7 South to no avail. The promoter claims there isn't enough time—even though it's obvious there is. We could easily set-up in front of the other band, but he shuts our asses down.
We sashay our way a few miles South into the suburbs to stay at a friend of Adam's (from San Diego) parent's house. Our hosts are more than accommodating—pretty nice of them to open their home to a gaggle of bedraggled cross-continental travelers for the night.
Tuesday, May 31, 1994—It's back into downtown Denver to a little guitar shop, where we pick up a $5 case for the steel spring guitar. I play it and the steel rod guitar for a couple of employees who are way stoked. We call a million places looking for leaf spring installation, but every shop is backed-up with labor.
Miraculously, we finally find a place that will do it—some old man and his helper out on the edge of town. The leaf springs we bought in Salt Lake City are too short, so they end up installing two longer, reclaimed leaf springs for $100, including one hour of labor (charged at one-and-a-half). They were really nice to install them on the spot, though, since they had a bunch of other things to do.
We hit the road and drive all evening, on into the plains of Kansas—through hail, high winds, and the bolting lightning of beautiful electrical storms. Not to mention a tumbleweed or two crossing our path. It's awesome—you just don't experience real weather like this in Southern California.
We sneak into another one-man room in a creepy little dump in Salina, Kansas—near the middle of the state, two hours West of Lawrence. We're beat, so it's straight to sleep with the three of us.
Wednesday, June 1, 1994—Michelle forgets her pillow in the motel. No matter, we're on our way to Lawrence, an old college town and William Burroughs haunt. Across the prairies, the sides of the freeway are dotted with weird-ass billboards (wish I could remember exactly what they said) and other random sights. A guy named Mark (sporting a bright green crew cut) from a band called Stick somehow becomes our unofficial guide in town. Michelle promptly discovers a matching bright green inchworm hanging out on her shirt.
We proceed to the Bottleneck—a nice, medium-size club with a big stage (for once), pool tables and (strangely enough) bleachers. Since college has just vacated for the summer, about ten people turn out for the show. To our amusement, those people are actually members of the other bands. One of them, Wade, is really stoked on our set and we trade records. They play a nice set themselves with pretty female vocals, electric violin and lots of reverb and other effects from the guitarist, who really goes off at times.
Somehow, we score $50 from the promoter anyway, who is pretty dang cool and apologizes for the low turnout. Mark Stick tells us the Bottleneck is usually a crowded place when school is in—dang it. He is nice to let us sleep on his floor. Turns out that his band, Stick, is signed to Arista, for laughing out loud. He shows us some live video footage and a TV interview of Stick before we drift off to dreamland.
Thursday, June 2, 1994—We hit Interstate 70 for five hours to St. Louis. The venue is an Italian restaurant called Cicero's, where bands play in a bar down in the basement on a tiny stage crammed into a corner. Adam's mom actually shows up and video tapes our set in front of a good-sized crowd of forty or fifty people.
House Of Large Sizes headline and rock pretty damned hard and straightforward with an incredible bass player. She is small and skinny, donning a long, homely dress and two ass-length Wednesday-style braids flying around all over the place as she jumps up, down, around and wildly about the tiny stage for the duration.
Obviously, this is the best show of the tour so far. Wow...an actual success. What could be next? We collect our $100, pack up our gear and head on out to Adam's parents' house two hours Northeast in Decatur, Illinois, where we arrive at 4:30 a.m.
Friday, June 3, 1994—We enjoy a bright, sunny afternoon at the Willard Family's scenic estate situated on the shores of pleasant Lake Decatur. Nice views, boat rides and mom's video show of our set the night before occupy our time. Funny (and expected) that most of the footage would be trained on Adam.
I visit a hardware store in town to find a soldering iron for my Big Muff (which is having problems), then we're off on another four-hour jaunt, this time to Muncie, Indiana (hometown of David Letterman) on the far East side of the state. This is quite an old, eerie Twilight Zone-looking Midwestern town. I walk about the deserted nighttime streets looking for a phone booth, half expecting to bump into Rod Serling at any given moment.
Another college town empty for summer, we play for a disinterested group of twenty people in the Dead Pigeon [insert groan here] creative center—which, despite it's name— boasts some nice interior design with circular neon ceiling lights and old car hoods arranged in a corner above the stage.
Amazingly, we somehow collect our $100 and quickly make our way down back country roads in a beeline for Cincinnati, Ohio to spend the night—or morning, rather—at my parents' house, where we arrive at 4:30 a.m., as usual.
Saturday, June 4, 1994—We sleep in until 1:30 in the afternoon and spend the afternoon hanging out with my mom and dad, my older brother Larry, his son Josh, daughter Jessica, my niece Tina and her mom Wanda. Apparently, since my appearances at home are very rare, indeed, my mom made some phone calls and relatives have descended in droves.
I play guitar with my dad for a spell and he enjoys checking out my steel spring and steel rod contraptions. Michelle and my dad have a grand time talking the afternoon away as Adam and I cruise around the neighborhood in my mom's 1970 Chevy Chevelle muscle car, which Adam is pretty stoked to drive.
It's always kind of strange for me being back home—the old neighborhood seems kind of eerie and "dead" compared with the lively activities it was filled with in my childhood. Maybe it's just a slow day. Michelle says she loves my parents.
