Thursday, June 9, 1994—French toast greets us in the morning, along with great thrift stores—where Michelle scores some awesome clothes—followed by a pick-up of some much-needed guitar strings and straps at a music shop. On we go to Maxwell's in Hoboken, New Jersey—a town where parking is nearly impossible. It's a nice restaurant with a small club in the back.
Our set is rather dismal, as a cord shorts out, I break a string and my guitar refuses to be tuned the entire time. Yet, somehow, we get a pretty good response. We cross the river into New York City and literally squeeze our truck down into an underground parking garage, the wooden luggage container on top scraping the entrance ceiling all the way in.
Everything's crammed together and jutting skyward in this town—a great big throbbing slab of concrete gristle full of pedestrians and Yellow Cabs bustling at all hours of the day and night. It's just the opposite of California, where everything is very spread out and everyone drives cars. We spend the night on Drive Like Jehu's hotel room floor. Amazingly, no one steals our truck or equipment.
Friday, June 10, 1994—I head on over to the Guggenheim art museum, where the spiral and art are as amazing as expected. I sit through some insane anarchy traffic through Times Square and on down to CBGB in the Bowery. This place was the birthplace of punk rock back in the mid '70s and here it is still going strong—a dark, crusty cave with every inch covered in graffiti.
Amazingly (and fortunately), we play our best set yet tonight—even better than St. Louis and Philly. The crowd response is awesome, a bunch of people buy our records on the way out (including guys from as far away as St. Louis and Poland), and the evening is topped off with a random act of violence in the form of Jamie (the girl from Arlington) covering Rick Fork—and better yet, all four sides and the hood of my truck—with maple syrup.
To top it all off, while pulling away from the curb where we are parked right in front of CBGB, we roll right across a pile of jagged glass and instantly incur a flat tire, which is luckily patched-up just down the street at Texaco for $5. Next, I have to find a car wash to scrub off the maple syrup and then it's back uptown to scrape into the low-ass ceiling parking garage once again for a well-deserved night of slumber.
Saturday, June 11, 1994—Out of New York City we head, with a brief stop in The Bronx for a replacement tire. Adam yells at me over some small matter that I can't recall. Tensions have been building up over time and finally blew open today. Adam is pissed and I begin to notice that he quits taking photos for the rest of the tour. It could be a lot worse—at least he doesn't fly home (which happens to some bands).
I don't blame him for being mad at me, though. Needless to say, touring is pure hell—constant driving, stuck in a little metal box on wheels for hours and hours every day, sometimes playing for non-existent or apathetic crowds, equipment malfunctions, obnoxious girls named Jamie, hunting for motels at 4:00 in the morning when everyone involved is hot, sweaty, cranky, burned out, at the end of their ropes and at each other's throats. But, the awesome sets in front of appreciative crowds and the random moments of unexpected beauty during blurry, dream-like travel are what make it all worthwhile.
Up Interstate 95 we scoot on a four-hour trek to Boston, Massachusetts. Once there, we get lost, driving back and forth through the city a couple of times until we finally find our way to the Middle East. It's a restaurant with a medium-size club down below. A decent-size crowd—including the editor of a zine called Chairs Missing—shows up early and seems to be quite stoked on the Floor.
I fall asleep as Adam drives all night up through Massachusetts, on through New Hampshire and Vermont. I wake up at some ungodly wee hour to find Adam barreling around various sharp curves on narrow rural roads at 90 mph, of course, in the pouring rain. I fall back asleep and hope for the best.
Sunday, June 12, 1994—In the early morning light, I take over driving duties as a bedraggled Adam sacks out in the passenger seat. Westward we lurch into upstate New York. It's so green, serene, lush and beautiful up here in these idyllic farmlands. We rent a little cottage near a small town called Malone and pass out for the rest of the afternoon.
As evening sets in, we cross the nearby border into Canada, where we are detained for an hour or two dealing with guards. We have to pay $187.00 to play our shows in Canada, but at least they don't completely empty out our truck looking for drugs.
Luckily, it's only a half-hour drive to Montreal, because we get there late and have to play after Tanner (who is also on tour with Jehu)—they don't seem to mind, though. Our set comes off really well, the huge crowd seems stoked and we sell a bunch of records. Luckily, a friend of someone offers us a floor in Montreal for the night.
Monday, June 13, 1994—Montreal is well-known for having the best bagels and we pick up some delicious fresh ones in a local shop. Michelle and I spy a sweet Fender Mustang bass in a little guitar store for a decent price and I loan her the money to get it. Then it's off on a ninety-minute drive West to Ottawa and a little shoebox called 5 Arlington.
The place is packed and heated up. Things go well until I break two strings in one song and have to cut the set short. Everyone's stoked anyway and Custom Floor records fly out of the box into eager hands. It's back into the truck, where we proceed to drive like Jehu and sleep in a non-descript motel in the middle of somewhere.
Tuesday, June 14, 1994—During the usual game of "driving chaos", Drive Like Jehu's bass player Mike Kennedy slaps a big firework on the hood of our truck, creating a big, loud, colorful rooster tail for all to see and laugh at. Our next show is in Toronto at Rivoli's on Queen Street, where Adam is spied getting a backrub from some random fan girl. Ah, the perks of being in his "other" band.
After the show, an impromptu jam session forms out back in the alley with John Reis on acoustic guitar, Gar Wood from Tanner on electric guitar (with a mini amp), someone else on acoustic guitar, Dirty (Jehu's roadie) on garbage can percussion and Chris Prescott from Tanner on a little marching drum set—all topped off with a blinking (car head)light show and bottle-breaking accents.
This is a pretty amazing moment of spontaneity and is actually more fun than the "real" show we just finished. Next, we pass through the powerful force of nature known as Niagara Falls in the dark, misty cold of early morning and experience first hand and close-up its mesmerizing roar, followed by an all-night hell drive to Columbus, Ohio.
Wednesday, June 15, 1994—I drive four hours and Adam drives four hours until we arrive in Columbus around noon, where we promptly rent a motel room and sleep away the afternoon. We start the evening by selling a record or two to a local store and getting malts and sundaes at United Dairy Farmers.
The gig tonight is in a little bar called Stache's and there's quite a small crowd—considering that Drive Like Jehu is headlining—and sort of a strange vibe in the air. We embark on a two-hour drive Southwest to Cincinnati to stay at my parent's again—but not without taking a four-hour nap at some random exit on the way. Much needed sleep and showers are underway once we get "home".
