The Damnwells tour with Los Lonely Boys in support of Air Stereo, out now on Rounder Records. All entries by ALEX DEZEN.
December 5 The Pageant St. Louis, MO
The earth over St. Louis is a patchwork of crystalline white. The snow sticks here in the West - gateway to the West anyway. Only another Ice Age could stain the frenzied New York City white. I’ve been flying since 9 this morning. The other guys - Steve, Dave and Ted - had to do the drive without me. 17 hours in the van for them, 4 hours on a couple commuter jets for me. I had to stay behind and try to mend our disastrous finances with the new accountant.
“This is a mess!” She’s a bit frantic.
We recently changed Managers. We had been with Wes Kidd for 6 years. We couldn’t afford a real accountant so he did most of the bookkeeping. He is not an accountant. He was just doing whatever he could. Needless to say, there was a lot of catching up to do.
We’re staying at the Hilton at the Ballpark. You can see inside Busch Stadium from the west lobby windows.
Home of the 2006 World Champion St. Louis Cardinals.
“How much does a room cost if I were to just walk in and ask for a room tonight?”
“About $180,” the concierge said with a smirk.
Thank God for priceline.com
I hadn’t eaten all day. I was still recovering from a vodka bender on Friday. It’s now Tuesday. The fucker was relentless. We played a homecoming show of sorts that Friday night at North 6 in Brooklyn. It rained. And rained. A hurricane warning was issued.
“A what?” I asked the bartender.
Hurricanes in Brooklyn? Had it been that long?
“Maybe they said tornado. I can’t remember.”
The room was half full. The vodka-vision made it seem a little more full. That’s the way you’ve got to do it sometimes. Light crowd = heavy pours. Makes things a little easier.
When I got up to the room I ordered a burger from room service and inhaled it upon arrival. Judge Judy was yelling at someone on the TV. My eyes were glazed over from burger-itus. I was finally starting to feel normal again.
We piled back in the van and headed to the Venue a few minutes before 4. The Pageant Theatre, 6161 Delmar Blvd.
“At next street turn right,” the female GPS computer voice announces. She already got us lost once today. I don’t trust her.
Los Lonely Boys had finished their sound check.
“The stage is yours,” Their tour manager said.
We’ve played here before, about 2 years ago with Cheap Trick. The place seems smaller than it did then.
“Everything probably seems a little smaller,” Ted said. He’s right.
After playing theatres with the Fray and arenas with the Dixie Chicks, everything seemed a little smaller. We were all excited to be here just the same. Los Lonely Boys put on a hell of a show. We played a few shows with them in 2005 just as their single “Heaven” was in the midst of its chart-topping climb. They’re the real thing. Amazing players. My cousin used to go see them 10 years ago when they were playing bars in and around San Antonio.
“Los Lonely Boys are from Texas you know,” he declared with earnest pride. People from Texas are funny.
The show was great. We sold a good bit of merchandise too. Maybe 25 or 30 CDs.
The Theatre Manager approached me on stage while I was casing up my amp.
“The boss man is here. You guy wanna take a quick picture?” he yelled over the loud house music.
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “It would be an honor.”
If you’ve ever been to Blueberry Hill, the smaller venue down the street owned by the same people as the Pageant, you couldn’t miss the ubiquitous pictures that line the long hallways in the back by the bathrooms. There are hundreds of pictures. I don’t even know what the guys name is but he’s in every one. And everyone has had their picture taken with the guy. Everyone. Axl Rose, The Strokes, Chrissy Hynde, Joe Buck, Dave Chappelle - just to name a few off the top of my head. There are two picture of him with Keith Richards. One is a little blurry. Of course that might just be Keith. He’s had his picture taken with celebrities for probably 20 or 30 years. His hair color has gone from dark to gray to white. There are generations of pop culture icons depicted on those walls. It’s a museum.
“The guy wants to take his picture with us!” Steve must have thought I was high. I was boiling over with excitement.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” He was struggling to collapse a high-hat stand. He was making the man face as he tried to squeeze the bolt loose.
“The guy,” I explained. “The guy in all the pictures.”
“The guy?” Steve asked. His interest was piqued.
Steve and I walked over to the dressing room by the stage. We picked up Dave on the way there. He was putting away his Gretsch.
“The guy,” he asked.
Ted was already in the room taking to the guy by the time we got there.
“I think I’ve seen you before,” I joked.
“How about against that wall,” the Theater Manager suggested.
“I gotta fix my hair!” Steve said.
“Don’t worry about it,” the guy said.
He removed his hair from a ponytail. Long straight white hair hung over his shoulders.
“Get in closer you guys,” the Theatre Manager said.
We formed a tight half circle. Arms around shoulders around necks. I tried not to smile with too much teeth. I didn’t want to look star-struck. I wanted to look natural. Like I belonged in that picture. Like we belonged up on that wall.
“Ready?” the Theatre Manager asked.
Pop!
I wasn’t ready. I was waiting for a countdown or at the very least a say cheese. Something so I could prepare. I didn’t see the flash. I’m pretty sure my eyes were closed.
December 6 The Blue Note Columbia , MO
I awoke this morning in a panic. I looked around the room through my fogged sleep-eyes. I had no idea where I was. I didn’t recognize a thing. Where’s my wife? Where’s our miserable cat? Within seconds I was in a cold sweat working on a heart attack. Through the window I could see a brilliant orange light reflecting off something in the distance. It looked like part of a giant metal arch.
The Gateway to the West…
St. Louis. Now I remember.
This happens to me at least once on every tour. It lasts maybe 4 or 5 seconds. It’s terrifying. It has never happened this early in a tour though. I supposed I took a bit of nervous energy to sleep with me last night. Ted and I fell asleep watching the Discovery Channel. Crazy mountain climbers trying to conquer Mount Everest.
“At 25,000 feet the human digestive system starts to collapse on itself,” the TV voice explained. “There is simply not enough oxygen for the human body to sustain itself.”
Maybe I dreamt my digestive system was collapsing on Mount Everest.
I couldn’t pick Columbia, Missouri out of a line up. It’s not their fault. After a while every American city - save maybe New Orleans, New York and a few others - look pretty much the same.
“The stage is yours,” the Tour Manager said. Didn’t he just say that? The days are becoming compressed into hours already.
The Blue Note is considerably smaller than the Pageant. I knew it would be.
“Does it look like you can fit another drum set on that stage?”
“Wilco played there,” Angela says. She’s at work. I asked her to look at the venues website when we were still about 50 miles out of town. “It looks pretty tight. I don’t know babe.”
The stage was tight indeed. I had about a foot between the front of Steve’s kick drum and the edge of the stage. This is common practice on the road. We’ve become inured to it. The opening band gets whatever drinks, food and stage is left over. We’ve had to deal with worse. After 6 years I have to admit, I’m a pretty tired of it. It pissed me off a little and a little is plenty.
The show was alright. I had a bit of trouble hearing myself. Every time I walked out from behind the microphone the drums would come blaring through my monitors. I kind of liked it though. Drums make it all happen. They make it loud and real.
I introduced us after the 2nd song.
“We’re the Damnwells from Brooklyn, New York. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
The crowd of maybe 200 shuffled about. Someone yelled something out of the din. I couldn’t understand it. They yelled it again.
“What?” I said into the mic.
“GO CARDINALS!!”
“Cardinals?” I said.
“2006 WORLD CHAMPS!! WOOOO!!” he replied.
“Sir this is a rock concert not a baseball game.”
Muted flabbergast and sprinkles of laughter sprouted throughout the room.
“Wasn’t the World Series like six months ago?” I asked. “If we have to yell kids, lets at least do it about something relevant like football or something.”
“COWBOYS!!” someone yelled.
“That’s more like it.”
We had to load right out into the trailer after our set. There simply wasn’t enough room backstage to store anything. Patches of snow and slush covered the ground outside the stage door. Our gear was everywhere. Steve’s drums crowded the open trailer door. Uncased guitars laying atop uncased amps. It was mess.
“10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag,” the Tour Manager said.
“Yeah,” Steve said, “we need a bigger trailer for sure.”
“You guys sounded good tonight,” the Tour Manager said with stoic affectation.
“Thanks,” I said. “So did you guys.”
He gave me quizzical look.
“We haven’t played yet,” he said.
December 7 The Vogue Indianapolis , IN
“When do we lose that hour?”
“Uh, tomorrow when we cross the Michigan border,” Steve said.
The satellite-linked time on my phone had changed. 5:08 it read. The digital dashboard clock was still at 4.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I said.
“Maybe Indy is one of those places that doesn’t observe daylight savings?” Ted suggested.
“I don’t think so.” Steve wasn’t so sure now.
I opened the Rand McNally 2006 road atlas to the national map. A jagged line of yellow T’s, one atop the other, cut right through the Midwest, down along the Indiana / Missouri border. We’d lost the hour about a hundred miles ago.
“Someone should call the club and tell them we’re gonna be late,” I said.
“I’m on it,” Dave said.
In the last 6 years I can scarcely recall every really getting lost. Sure, we’ve missed a few exits, made a few lefts where we should have made rights, but we always found our way. Steve has an uncanny sense of direction. The man is like a bloodhound. Better than that stupid GPS system we fleeced from the label anyway. We were all a little surprised we’d bumbled this one. I know for sure we’ve never misplaced a timeline before.
Tonight’s show is a benefit of some kind.
“For children’s literacy of something.” Paul’s didn’t have the details. He’s our A&R guy at Rounder Records. I called him earlier in the day at his office in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
“Kids gotta read,” I said.
I got a laugh out of him. More like a man giggle.
There was no Tour Manager to greet us this time. We were an hour late.
“Hey man! How the hell am I supposed to get out now?” The blonde haired wiry pizza-boy is pissed. Our van and trailer is blocking the alleyway behind the club.
“Just fuckin’ back the fuck up man,” one of the stage hands said. A group of them had gathered around us. It was 20 degrees outside. They were eager to get our gear in the club.
“Fuckin’ jerk off,” another one concurred.
Seasons greetings from Indianapolis.
We’ve played the Vogue a couple times before. Once with Old 97’s. Another time with Cheap Trick.
Our full rider was waiting for us in the dressing room when we arrived. 1 Liter of Stolichnaya. 12 beers. Some Corona. Coors Light. Bag of chips We were lucky to get the bag of chips on the previous nights.
The place was packed when we took the stage. It was sell out. An animated group of Damnwells fans gathered by the front of the stage. They knew all the words. Sang along throughout the show. That felt good.
“Lets do ‘Kiss,’” I yelled over to Dave halfway through our set.
It’s short for “Kiss Catastrophe.” A song from our last record. It was for our little fan club. They loved it.
“So we’re gonna load your shit right out the door,” a stage hand yelled to me over the loud house music.
It was now about 5 degrees outside. I had nothing but a long sleeved t-shirt on. I was going to die. Somehow Dave had gotten his full winter regalia on before I had even unplugged my amp.
The Vogue security was a little overzealous tonight.
“Excuse me! EXCUSE ME LADY! Where is your pass? You can’t get back here without a pass.”
It was Ted’s cousin.
“Hey man,” I said, “it’s cool. It’s cool.”
“She’s alright,” Ted said.
“Look, if you want her to come back here, she needs a pass,” the security guard insisted.
“She’s my cousin, man,” Ted pleaded.
“It’s cool man,” I reiterated. “We’re not the fuckin’ Beatles.”
He didn’t think that was very funny. He eased up a little anyway.
December 8 Calvin College Fine Arts Center Grand Rapids , MI
This has definitely been the swanky hotel tour. The charity organization we did the show for last night put us up at the Sheraton. I had my own room. 11th floor “Preferred Guest” suite. Too bad I was only in it for 7 hours. We had to get up early today and drive to Grand Rapids, Michigan. Dave and I were to perform on Take Five, a half hour segment of the channel 13 news at 4pm. Grand Rapids was 400 miles away. The van call was for 10am. We had not arrived at the hotel until 2 in the morning.
I have been reading the last hundred pages of Watership Down for about a month now. It took me 2 weeks to read the first 350 pages. The whole struggling-rabbit-civilization-as-metaphor-for-human-struggle thing was loosing its novelty. No disrespect to Richard Adams but Orwell got it done for about 400 pages cheaper with Animal Farm. I read another 15 or so pages on the way up to Michigan.
“You’re 10 minutes early,” the Producer said. Her tone wasn’t quite sarcastic. For a second there I thought she might really be mad.
“So, what’s all this stuff,” she asked pointing to our cases.
“Uh, just an acoustic, lap steel and amp,” Dave explained.
“Amp? I thought this was going to be acoustic,” she said.
“It’s just a lap-steel guitar,” Dave explained with saccharine smiles.
He opened the case and showed her the instrument.
“I don’t play it very loud,” he continued. “My amp is only about 5 watts or so. I play it on like 1.”
“Oh. Okay,” she said with a few quick nervous nods. “Well I was just gonna say that we don’t have any amps, you know?”
Judge Judy was on TV in the lounge just outside the studio. The On Air sign was illuminated above the studio doors.
“That is the worst defense I have ever heard in my life!” Judge Judy admonished. People love to watch other people get reamed out on TV. You can’t deny that kind of entertainment. It’s too satisfying.
Dave made small talk with one of the other guests while I tried to figure out how to “vamp out” the end of “Golden Days” as the Station Manager requested.
“Just kind of jam it out,” he said strumming an air guitar, “and we’ll cut to commercial.”
“Uh, okay,” I said.
Dave and I have done maybe a dozen of these little TV spots. They’re usually at 7 o’clock in the morning. Fox Good Morning Atlanta. New England Cable New Network Morning Show. It’s usually a 3 to 4 minute spot with a little “tease,” as the call it, going to commercial before the segment.
“So you guys have been getting a lot of great reviews,” the TV anchorwoman said with a brilliant ivory smile. We were live. The shot was just on her. I could see her on the monitor screen mounted to the giant remote-controlled camera in front of me. Her lips reflected every light in the room like they were coated with polyurethane. Her face was caked in layers of makeup. Yellow highlights contrasted starkly against her brunette hair. It was parted a little too far to the right, encircled her round face.
One of the Production Assistants, a young buoyant, blonde college-aged girl, ran on set behind me to put the microphone back on Dave’s amp. They had to use it for the “Christmas gift ideas” segment right before ours and forgot to put it back. She scrambled off just before the camera cut to a wide shot of Dave and I.
“So what kind of sound were you guys going for on ‘Air Stereo?’ I hear a lot of that country rock and blues on there. What are your influences?” the anchorwoman asked.
The shot was just on me now. I could see myself in the monitor screen. I looked disheveled. Quite a contrast from our host. I really should have at least shaved this morning. I didn’t look hipster unshaven and disheveled, I looked homeless unshaven and disheveled. The anchorwoman waited for my response.
“We have a lot of different influences,” I said trying not to look at myself in the monitor. “A little rock. Blues. Country too, which is really just a mix of rock and blues.”
“Absolutely,” she replied with eager alacrity. “So are you guys gonna play a song for us?”
There were 3 remote cameras surrounding us as we played. Monitor screens mounted to each. The shot jumped from wide to tight with pans and fades. The red “live” light illuminated above one camera, then the next. I watched us on the monitor screens as we played our way to the second chorus.
Is that Lionel Richie dressed up like Santa Clause?
Suddenly we were gone.
Did we cut to commercial?
I looked over at Dave. He looked back at me blankly.
Should we keep playing? What the fuck just happened?
The anchorwoman pressed her fingers to her earpiece and furrowed her brow.
“What?” she mouthed looking out into the studio. There was no response.
The teleprompter started rolling. Dave and I kept playing. I looked around the studio. Everyone was scrambling behind the cameras. The anchorwoman started reading. Lionel’s face was still smiling back at me on all 3 monitors.
“And we’ll be right back,” the anchorwoman said.
“Aaaaand, we’re clear,” the Production Assistant announced.
The room went silent.
“Well, that was fucked up,” I said.
“You guys can’t tell me this stuff halfway into the segment for God’s sake,” the anchorwoman said holding the lapel of her jacket up to her mouth, talking into the lavaliere microphone. Someone was responding in her earpiece.
“No. No!” she said getting excited. “We either have them standing by or we don’t.”
Who was she talking about?
I looked at the teleprompter.
“With a mixture of blues, rock and pop,” it read, “these three brothers have taken the world by storm and taken home a Grammy…”
“Do we have them or not? I’m really getting mad here!” the anchorwoman said with arms akimbo.
I had no idea Los Lonely Boys were supposed to be on the show. No one had even said anything to me or Dave. Apparently they were supposed to be on an earlier segment but never showed up. Now they were standing by at the venue via satellite. Dave and I started packing up.
“Wait!” The anchorwoman ran over and stopped in front of Dave and I. “We might need you for another song.”
We walked back, stood in our previous spots with our instruments ready, and waited. Dave was pissed. About half as pissed as I was.
“5 seconds!” yelled the Production Assistant through cupped hands.
The red light lit up above the remote camera pointed at the anchorwoman.
“With a mixture of blues, rock and pop,” she read, “these three brothers have taken the world by storm…”
I exchanged a few words with the Producer after the show.
“That’s live television,” she said shrugging her shoulders.
“You cut us off halfway though the song!” I told her. “You cut to an ad for Lionel Richie’s Christmas album! What the hell was that?”
“Well, the Los Lonely Boys segment was supposed to be at the top of the show but they couldn’t do it then, so we had to put it at the end,” she explained.
“Well why didn’t you tell us that? We could have at least been prepared!”
“They did what!?” Jen Sacca, our publicist at Rounder Records, was livid. I could barely hear her. The taxicab over to the venue didn’t have a muffler. Suddenly I realized how important a muffler was.
“I’m calling her right now,” she said.
“Jen’s pissed,” I said to Dave.
“That was amazing. They had no idea what they were doing over there,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’ve never been cut off right in the middle of a song before. That was weird,” he said nodding slowly with widened eyes.
“Oh shit!” I said.
“What?”
“I forgot my sweater and scarf.”
Dave started laughing. Just giggles at first to be polite.
“You’re like Castanza!” he said. “That’s funny. Don’t you think?” He could barely get the words out. He broke into a fit. Hysterics, really.
“You should put that in your blog,” he said.
December 9 Riverfront Events Center/Harrah’s Metropolis, IL
Despite the day’s earlier disaster at the television station, the show last night went great. We finished our set to a standing ovation.
“A standing O boys! Hell yeah!” Steve said afterwards, pumping a proud fist backstage.
The Calvin College Fine Arts Center was a dry venue - no booze allowed in the building.
“Is that water?” The Student Activities Director studied Ted’s conspicuous container as we waited by the monitor board for the house lights to go out and take the stage. Ted had taken a water bottle, cut off the top and refilled it with tonic, ice and some vodka Steve had bought at a local liquor store.
“Yeah, just water,” Ted said.
After the show we drove around Grand Rapids for an hour looking for a drink. We stopped at two different gas stations before someone finally told us that only liquor stores sold beer. Steve knew the way. He took us back to the place when he bought the vodka.
“I got the layout of this whole town in my head already,” he said.
We got a six-pack and headed to the hotel.
Dave was already pretty deep into the vodka, singing silly made-up songs about nothing.
“Welcome to the state of ‘I Don’t Give a Fuck,’” it went, “whiskey, wine, women, and a pick-up truck,” as sung by Tom Waits.
We were all in stitches.
He had been mixing it with some grapefruit juice he found in our dressing room. He kept calling it a “Gray Goose.”
“It’s called a ‘Greyhound’ Dave,” I told him.
“Right. Right,” he said squinting his eyes, visualizing the word in front of him.
Metropolis, Illinois may as well be in Kentucky. It’s right on the Ohio River, more than 500 miles south of Grand Rapids. We had to be in the van at 9 this morning. Ted was pulling the van around when I walked out of the elevator into the lobby. The wakeup call came at 8am. I fell right back to sleep and didn’t get up again until 5 minutes to 9.
“Ted,” I said in a guttural morning growl. Ted and I always shared a room. “Van call is at 9.”
He must have missed the wake up call too.
“What time is it?” he asked, still half asleep.
“9.”
“Oh.”
“Hi. Is this John?” Dave called the venue to get directions. Harrah’s Casino, Metropolis, Illinois. We were about 50 miles out. “We’ll be there in plenty of time for sound check at 5,” he said. We’re running a little late.
“We’re only 40 miles out,” Steve whispered.
“What’s that?” Dave asked into his cell phone. “Oh. Okay. Well, uh…” something was wrong. “We’ll get there as soon as we can,” he said.
“What’s the deal?” I asked.
“Doors are a 6 tonight. We go on at 7,” he explained.
“I thought -”
“The contract I have says doors at 7, show at 8. Apparently they thought we we’re playing there with the Gin Blossoms next month. They didn’t even know we were coming tonight.”
So the casino we’re playing in the middle of nowhere that we drove 9 hours to get to has no idea we’re coming. This is our last show of the year. We will be going out with a whimper.
“We didn’t even have you guys on our contract,” the Tour Manager says. I think you could say we we’re starting to feel unwelcome.
“It’s always the last show,” Dave said plugging a guitar cable into his pedal board. “Bitter-sweet.”
“When’s the sweet showing up?” I asked.
“It’s patched all wrong!” the front house engineer yelled from the back of the room. The place was more like a bingo parlor than a music venue. Latticed lime green and orange carpeting. Florescent lighting. Low particleboard drop ceiling. 4-digit numbered seating assignments tacked to the font of every folding chair.
“I got the snare mic comin’ through ‘overhead left,’” the engineer continued.
Sound check took a little longer than expected.
We played our half hour set with the house lights on so the geriatric audience wouldn’t have to grope their way to their seats. It was funny at first. Dave and I exchanges a few laughs during the first couple songs. People traipsing in front of the stage. Plastic Miller Light bottles in hand. NASCAR hats with embroidered flames on the brims. Mullets abounded.
Los Lonely Boys’ guitar tech handed me a twenty dollar bill as I loaded our gear off the stage.
“I want a damn Damnwells CD,” he yelled to me over the house music.
“Aw man, I’m not taking your money,” I said.
“No man,” he said pushing my hand away. I was trying to give him his money back. I had Ted stuff the twenty back into to the CD packaging. I wasn’t gonna take his money.
All told, it was a good tour. Only 5 days. We’d been out since September though, jumping from one tour to another. Covered thousands of miles. Played in three different countries. We we’re running on fumes at this point. No goodbyes were said when I left for the airport in the morning. We don’t really say ‘goodbye’ to each other anymore. What’s the point? We’ll all be back in the van again in a few weeks.
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