Our show is at the House of Blues; though the fake roadhouse look seems like gilding the lily in New Orleans, it actually seems like a well-designed old theater in the Vegas context.
After the show, we are allowed to visit the VIP lounge on the 32nd floor. Oddly, in this land of ubiquitous AC, it has an outdoor terrace with an incredible view.
(photo: Max Chow)
The next day Tracy, Mauro, and I ride bikes to the old center of town — Freemont St. — which is now a theme park of olde Vegas. One of the casinos has a large video screen advertising deep-fried Twinkies for 99¢. A pretty woman is shown taking a big bite as the cream filling overflows her mouth.
As an attraction, it's hardly the Eiffel tower or the canals of Venice, but it's an attention grabber.
On the way back, I peel off to visit Jennifer and Max, who are at the Magic convention, which has nothing to do with magic. It is a convention of all the clothing manufacturers in the country; it's massive. We are guests of Bill at Tannis Root, the company that prints and vends our t-shirts and those of some other acts like Tenacious D, Sonic Youth and Beck. One building is devoted to street wear, and the other, even larger, is regular designer's booths.
The second floor of the "street" building features some of the hip-hop lines who have spent millions on their booths. Here is Jay-Z's lounge and bar section of his display.
Another manufacturer has its area set up like a campground — Astroturf, camper vans, tents, the works. An MC and rapper work from the open roof of a VW van while America's youth sits around the fake campfire on fake logs, like urban boy scouts.
We are the first "pop" act to play the Disney Hall, the Frank Gehry-designed theater in downtown LA. It will be a bit of an experiment, for us as well as the audience.
On arrival in town, I become a booster for downtown LA, an area most in the band have never visited. Bands are usually sequestered out in West Hollywood. Judging by the view from our hotel, there is nothing but banks, hotels, and freeways overpasses here. I maintain this is the best part of LA to visit. I recommend Little Tokyo, Central market, the Bradbury building, east LA, and the Geffen Temporary Contemporary. Chinatown is not far, either.
"Sport Anglers Catch More Fish Than Thought" was a headline in the Times. I stared at it and misinterpreted it as if sports fishermen were not garnering enough philosophical insights while standing thigh-deep in mountain streams.
For guinea pigs, we do extremely well. There are some audio bugs to get out of the PA system in this hall. (We are playing sort of in the round. The seats behind have a view of our backs and probably less than perfect sound.) But over all it goes incredibly well, especially for LA, a pretty jaded bunch. The audience give us a 5-minute standing ovation about 2/3 through the set, so I guess they liked it.
A pal of David Hilliard, our drummer on the last tour, asks if he can propose to his girlfriend from the stage. I am open to these "gags," but in this hall, it proves a logistical can of worms. The hall manager, the union, the lighting director — everyone is involved in coordinating this little addition to the show.
But it works! The guy, Brad, is brief and sincere; he brings more than one person to tears — his girlfriend, now caught in a spotlight in her seat, hands over her mouth, is completely surprised. He gets down on one knee, just like in the movies, and an usher approaches her with a wireless mike so all can hear her response. (She accepts.)
It could have been a bit of silliness, but it turned out to add a lovely bit of true heart and realness to the show. Even some band and crew who have had bad experiences with the institution of marriage said later they caved in.
Breakfast meeting with Danielle and Daniel at the café next door. While we're having our coffees, police sirens approach. Motorcycle cops appear yelling for motorists to clear the street. It turns out to be John Kerry's motorcade. More motorcycle cops go by, followed by a few cars.
Jamie and his girlfriend, Mary, were on the other side of the street and Mary said she heard a woman, who, when told it was Kerry's motorcade, react, "Who cares, there's a rock star across the street!" She was apparently pointing at the three of us having our breakfast.
I cab over to Marin (would have biked but there's no time) to hear Jerry Harrison's 5.1 surround mixes of the Talking Heads LPs Remain In Light and Speaking In Tongues. Jerry had sent me copies previously, but I'd been tardy about finding a place to listen to them. This was a chance to hear them in the place where they were mixed and to hang briefly with Jerry.
The mixes are absolutely stunning, incredible. I can see why Jerry and ET, who has been helping him with the mixes, are so proud of these. They are clear yet spacious, and the Remain In Light tunes are both jerky, funky, and truly psychedelic, just as they were supposed to be (but even more so). It is almost as if that record were made for this format.
Shit like this will maybe save the record business, as I can imagine these could be the audio equivalent of Hollywood spectaculars. Compatibility seems a major hurdle, but it seems they're chipping away at it.
Jerry says these are due out in March. He would have preferred earlier, but Rhino has their proscribed release schedule. I hope all the technical and playback issues of compatibility get resolved. Jerry thinks they have.
I get a ride back from a cab driver that would be perfect casting as Ignatius from The Confederacy of Dunces. He's a large man wearing big shades, shaved head and, in this unusual heat for San Francisco, a rolled-up wooly winter hat. He recognized me and told me he knew that the lead guitarist from Talking Heads lived in Marin (he means Jerry). He also knows where Dana Carvey lives, so he proceeded to try and convince me to get together with Dana (whom I don't think I've ever met) and start a club. Nice tables, some drinks, some comedy, and good, wholesome music: how could we lose?
Then he moved on to discuss the "negro infection" by which I think he meant lewd and violent lyrics in gangsta gap. His own musical favorite is Huey Lewis, who he thinks needs to be played on the radio more. Maybe Huey and I could both play at the proposed club, yeah!
The show is at Zellerbach Hall in Berkeley. Asian female students wander everywhere. As in other large U.S. campuses, Asian women, followed by Asian men, seem to make up about half the student population. It's a bit of cliché, but there it is. I suspect that within a generation or two these girls will be running the world.
The crowd is seated. It's a nice modern theater, but eventually they rise and go apeshit.
Melanie from WIRED Magazine organizes a field trip to visit Mark Pauline at Survival Research Laboratories. I've never managed to catch one of their spectacles, but have read loads of interviews and accounts of awe-inspiring mayhem.
On arrival, the place looks like an ordinary industrial building with an awful lot of wrapped machinery here and there. Mark leads us from machine to machine explaining what each one does. One shoots balls of molten copper hundreds of feet and another shoots a giant flame 80-some feet.
From the SRL.org website: "One of the main projects at SRL over the past year has been rebuilding the V-1. The V-1 was manufactured at SRL in 1990. It has served as both a high-powered, low frequency generator and a flamethrower/shockwave device in many SRL shows since that time. The design of the SRL V-1 pulsejet itself was based on dimensions gathered by American teams following WW2. It is an exact replica of the original German design."
"The only part not to the original spec was the Valve Intake Assembly. This was due to the difficulty of reproducing the complex parts of the original design with the machine tools available at SRL in 1990."
"The makeshift assembly worked well enough, other than the unnerving fact that each time the engine was run for any length of time, several valves would break off and disappear. This would reduce the output of the machine after about 30 minutes of use — enough operating time for an SRL show, but a potential safety hazard for the audience."
One unusual machine shoots a donut of compressed air. Mark described it as a kind of high-velocity, donut-shaped tornado. It can shatter glass, but, when directed at people, it's like being hit by a pillow. Mark says that, after witnessing an invisible burst shatter glass, most people are terrified of this thing.
One of the most unusual items is the pitching machine. It uses a V8 car engine to rev up wheels to a super high speed. Bits of 2x4 are then fed into the gap and — wham! — pitched out at an incredible speed. They can even penetrate steel.
The Academy Strings have a tango gig with Glover Gill on piano at the Verdi Club, a lovely social hall in the Potrero district. It has tables and chairs along the walls, a table with snacks and a punchbowl, and a tiny proscenium stage up front.
I cycle over, stopping for dinner. When I arrive they've just begun, joined by an Argentine bandoneon player dressed in black and wearing a fedora. He sits center stage, sensuously squeezing the box. The dancers, who appear to be pretty top notch, began to fill the floor.
Talking to the strings and Glover afterwards, they seem less than thrilled with the sound, which is unamplified except for the piano and bandoneon. But just hearing them with that combo sounded pretty wonderful to me.
Ames, Danielle from Todomundo, Tracy, and I cycle over to 826 Valencia/McSweeney's to visit Dave Eggers, pick up pirate supplies, have a Mission-district burrito, and just ride in the wonderful weather.
The taqueria Can-Cun where we end up has incredible tacos and burritos. Your choice of meat — carne asada, pork and chicken, naturally, but also head, tongue and brains.
McSweeney's has just released a book and CD, The Future Dictionary/Future Soundtrack for America, to raise money for "progressive causes." I contributed an unreleased song that tells the story of a man who leads a revolution and turns into a tyrant — sort of a more fable-like "Won't Get Fooled Again" idea, I guess. The book/CD is entirely pre-ordered. The 1st run completely sold out and MoveOn is selling just the CD as well. So there is an expectation that a fair amount of money from folks like us will be raised.
On the way back we bike along the piers and check out the sea lions. Pier 39 has some rafts at the end on which maybe 50 or so sea lions lounge, basking in the sun and occasionally barking. They are like giant fuzzy slugs, and they smell too. The alpha males (I guess) feel obliged to rear up periodically and assert their fiefdom with a "roar." Not a lot of movement or activity, but they're real close.
Yesterday a group of us biked from our hotel by the highway to the venue, a little outdoor amphitheater in a former gold rush town that I heard was restored for a movie and then later became a tourist attraction as a result of its new "period" look.
We passed a group of llama's, pear, and peach orchards.
Today we are in Chico, a university town with a reputation as a party town; it is parents’ weekend. Three of the bikes mysteriously have flats; of those, two have them for no apparent reason. Tracy's new bike and the Mongoose that Paul rode both had flats when I opened up the bus bay, but I couldn't find any leaks. Hmmm. Mauro's has a huge puncture.
Last night, we played the Zoo in Portland. During sound check, a woman said, "Lansdowne High School" as I walked by. I stopped and looked at her: that was my high school, and it's a pretty obscure public school. Who would know this? She said her name and I instantly recognized her as the woman whose story about taking acid by the Yoo-hoo chocolate drink factory (which she told me in high school) was the inspiration for the Talking Heads song "And She Was." I hadn’t seen her in 30+ years and her voice and open demeanor hadn't changed a bit. We and a few others were kind of out of place in that high school. She said tonight, "You don't realize how oppressive a place is until you get out of it." And yet I don't remember her being downcast there. If anything she was a wacky ray of light in a pretty twisted, repressive environment.
Did she know about this song and that I occasionally claimed her story, at least as I remembered it, was the inspiration? She did, and said that she didn’t remember it exactly like that.
The show went incredibly well. I thought it was going to be a white wine and brie crowd, but by the time everyone had arrived they stretched to the elephant house and it looked like a mini-festival — a sea of people — and they went nuts. The moon came up and a peacock flew up into a tree, bats flew overhead, and there were rumors that the elephants danced.
After the show, my high school friend said "You can continue telling the story."
I guess it must feel to her like having a part of your life fictionalized, imagined, distorted — like it was a stranger's life.
"Humboldt is kind," as someone said to Ames. Minutes after we arrived, I was walking to the laundromat to drop off clothes when a white guy with dreads jumps out of a car and hands me a Bud and a fat joint. As I dropped off my laundry I could smell the sweet skunky odor rising out of my pants pocket, yikes! I decided not to go by the organic market across the street. If I could smell it, the residents of this town would recognize the smell instantly. I don't personally indulge but others in our group do, so I passed the gift on.
By mid-morning the town square was filling with drummers, stoners, and travelers. Someone later said this town was a kind of lost and found. Folks who get lost and can't find their way often find a safe haven here.
I pedal to the outskirts of town, to the Chamber of Commerce in a kind of industrial park. I am searching for more info on the Redwood National Park just north of here. We're planning a class trip tomorrow, our day off, and maybe some short hikes too. But the hotel didn’t have maps or guidebooks. This place has them. The parks are 30 miles north but there are redwood groves everywhere. Arcata has its own little grove and park behind the university where we are playing. It's crisscrossed with paths and bike trails and some of us get sort of lost in there.
Jon (the LD on this leg) and I spend about an hour before sound check looking at our lighting situation. I am making some slight changes in Suzanne's design and will therefore lose some instruments and gear — a savings — and will probably pick up some other additional lights in San Francisco to achieve another look. Suzanne, who did the previous North American leg, couldn't do this one, but she left Jon copious notes, which was incredibly helpful. All and all, the show is looking better than ever.
Tonight after the show a bunch of us glide downhill from the venue and meet at one of the bars on the town square. Mauro and I call and discover Tracy, Leigh, and Ames in the very last one, Everett's.
We play some pool, and I recall from nights in Austin that Leigh and Tracy are pretty good. Leigh is cleaning up.
Next day we rent some SUVs and caravan up the coast, stopping first at Lady Bird Johnson Grove in the National Park. God bless Lady Bird. LBJ may have been the consummate politician, but her campaigns on behalf of parks and "beautification" are still around. It's a pleasant walk among giants, ferns, rhododendron, and gnarly trunks.
Next we stop to get some snacks and drive on a super dusty dirt road over the forested hills to the beach. From there, we go up to fern canyon, which winds inland like some primeval set from a dinosaur movie.
We wade in the surf, which is freezing cold. It's all very idyllic. An eagle flies overhead carrying a still squirming fish in its claws. Elk with giant antlers graze at the roadside.
Lastly, we stop at a place called Big Tree, which is aptly, if dumbly, named. Beyond this roadside specimen is yet another grove of massive giants that takes my breath away. I begin to talk in a whisper and a few of us take a short walk in from the road in order to be surrounded. One senses a version of time on a vastly different scale next to these things. I almost feel like crying, given the ridiculous sense of awe.
That night we have dinner in the local Japanese restaurant and Bob the Mayor comes by our table and welcomes us to town. This is truly a special place.
We head back to the pool table, but it has been commandeered by some local guys who seem to be having a bit of pissing contest, and we don’t want to get involved in that.
A few of us check out the go-karts at the Hilton, which turn out to be a little too controlled. When the going gets exciting the guys running things exert some kind of master control that makes the engines slow down. Nonetheless, Mauro manages to get involved in a spinout and receives a warning, though it was not his fault.
The cab driver talks about the news that 70,000 troops will be moved from various U.S. bases around the world (Okinawa, Germany) to Iraq. He seemed to see this as a sign of deeper U.S. involvement, truly stuck in a quagmire. He remembered Vietnam, as did Gary and Bill in Seattle. Gary told stories of staying up for days and dropping acid before going in for his draft physical. He managed to get deferred the first time but only for 6 months. So he had to go through the whole "wreck yourself" program again the next time he was called up.
All of us noted that older brothers of friends and acquaintances from high school in the late 60s early 70s came back as either as Rambo or the walking wounded. There didn't seem to be much in-between. It was frightening to watch kids just a few years older get twisted into an almost unrecognizable shape.
I wake up to the sound of the parking lot singing "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" There are speakers all over the vast, lamp-lit area that is the view from our rooms, and the sound of a hundred speakers in unison fills the air.
Mauro and I bike into town to check out the National Bowling Stadium here — 70 lanes! But it’s not the largest in the world. That place might be in Texas, with over 100 lanes.
This place, as large as a big mall, is exclusively for league play and competition. People off the street are not allowed to come in and play, hence the stadium aspect. One section has a huge spectator seating area and VIP lounge so folks can watch how the pros do it. There is a wall of framed pictures of champion bowlers.
At the venue later, a stagehand tells me that the airlines flying into Reno used to have lots of problems because of all the bowlers converging on this city. Apparently, the bowlers would all stash their balls in the overhead compartments and, even though the balls were in ball bags, there would be a tremendous rolling and clunking sound as the plane descended and the balls shifted.
The popularity of bowling leagues, bowling, and of women's and men's civic organizations like Rotary and Masons have declined in recent decades. They say people don't get together in little social groups anymore. They go on dates or out on the prowl if they're single, but, after marriage and kids, people seem to disappear. They watch TV, rent videos and DVDs, surf the net, and occasionally have friends over. But where are the men's and women's social get-togethers now? Men used to convene at the corner bar, but they rarely do even that. As geeky as bowling seems, it was at least a chance for men or women (rarely mixed) of like status to convene, chat, talk, exchange views and attitudes and thus pass on news, opinion, and maybe even arrive at a consensus regarding local issues and mores.
An awful lot of information can get passed around at a bowling session, most of it indirectly. No one has to spell out in words how they feel about absolutely everything; it's self-evident in their attitude, behavior, attire, and even their posture.
Mauro had arranged to have a lunch with guitarist and composer Bill Frizell, and he invited me, and I invited artist Gary Hill, whom I'd met in Paris. We wandered around looking for a place that was open and not crowded with tourists. It was a beautiful, hot sunny day — sort of unusual for Seattle. We ended up at a place called Cyclops, just around the corner from Gary's studio. As we chatted the background music crept up in volume until at one point it became a roar or stuttering white noise. We all looked around to see who was programming the radical sounds, but then the noise abated.
Bill just completed a CD with Hal Wilner that draws on the NBC sound library; Hal has access to the library via his post on Saturday Night Live. I remember hearing the Bill Burroughs CD Hal did using this material. It's great stuff — my favorite Burroughs recording.
Gary is working on reconstituting an early piece he did for an installation at the Pompidou.
Bill and Gary both have teenage or older daughters and they ask me if I've dealt with teen angst.
The show was maybe the best received I'd ever done in Seattle. We played well, but I suspect that the sun setting on the bay and the warm clear skies helped the mood of the crowd as well. I was sort of aware that I was playing in front of Bill, Gary, and some others whose opinions and work I respect and admire, so I hoped they liked the show. Luckily (or not) we played well and the audience jumped up and down a lot. If nothing else it was a lot of fun.
I woke up as we approached Mt. Shasta in Northern California. Remnants of volcanoes are all around here.
Fred, who has replaced Lance as our driver, was on the Warped tour driving NOFX. He says the band carries mini-bikes in a trailer behind its bus, to bop around on at the venues, which, on that tour, are mainly stadium parking lots.
Our show is at the House of Blues; though the fake roadhouse look seems like gilding the lily in New Orleans, it actually seems like a well-designed old theater in the Vegas context.
I woke up as we approached Mt. Shasta in Northern California. Remnants of volcanoes are all around here.