More from the Rodeo on the road.....

Journal 6

2008 RODEO US TOUR JOURNAL - 6

St. Clairesville, OH

Part 1: FUCKED BY A MACHINE

The Rodeo's got a pretty classic look and sound. We wear all black cowboy gear and we record stripped-down songs on a seriously old tape recorder. But we don't live in the past. Shit, we got ourselves a Tomtom GPS unit that tells us how to get from one show to the next. These GPS things are real handy. But they can get you fucking LOST.

With the day off, we were just looking to rack up a few miles in the direction of our Maryland show. Halfway through Ohio, we just picked a city along our route - Cumberland, MD - entered it into the GPS and zoomed down the road. Did you know that there is also a Cumberland in Ohio that is nowhere near Maryland? Because there is. That's where our Tomtom took us. It's basically a rural intersection 200 miles away from where we were headed.

We stood around the van, waaaay out in the sticks, listening to the cows moo. Fed up and in a fuck-the-world mood, we made tracks for the closest city, determined to get wasted. That was the extent of the plan: get wasted now and start fresh tomorrow.

In the nearly empty lounge of a soulless chain restaurant in St. Clairesville, Ohio, Brent asked a couple guys, "Where are the serious drinkers in this town on a Sunday night? Where are the crazy people getting fucked up right now?" These dudes not only told us where to go, they jumped in their car and led the way. They got nice people in St. Clairesville.

Part 2: RODEO BONUS ROUND!!!

This was one of those nights where the hell raising potential of the Rodeo ran smack into a gang of people who could really work with it. This is what happens to us on a night off.

We strolled into the Beech Hill Bar, and our new local friends made the introductions. The Beach Hill is just a little ramshackle roadhouse. I classify it as "sub-dive." Plastic chairs, grimy everything, bathrooms that are an affront to our modern understanding of sanitation. The one ashtray on the bar was ripped out of an old car.


A dozen locals sat at the bar, some smiling young folks and a few grim-faced old timers - all putting away the PBRs. The owner, Jim, was PLASTERED. After learning that we were a band on tour, he insisted we play. If we had any desire to just drink our beers and crash out, the crazed look in Jim's eye let everybody know that refusing to play was not an option. One problem though: this place was not a club. No stage or sound equipment. We had no way to get Brent's vocals amplified. We had a microphone and cables, but that's it. There just wasn't a good option. We couldn't leave but we couldn't really play.

Enter Ben Strehle. Goddamnit, Ben can fix anything. He whipped out a pocket knife and spliced together a guitar and microphone cable so that Brent could sing through a guitar amp. It wasn't hi-fi (Brent sounded like a robot singing on an old 45rpm record), but it was good and loud. Benny!!!!

With every load of gear we brought in from the van, the mood in the bar got more and more manic. Everyone was stoked that what was a slow Sunday night was mutating into something way more interesting. We ran through the set and the place went absolutely nuts. Everyone was doing some crazy hillbilly dance. Steve got up on his amp and stood there like he wanted to be as far away from these people as he could - while continuing to rock their world. More beer After a few more songs, the girls whipped off their shirts. Boobs everywhere. You couldn't turn around without being confronted with a tit or two. A couple girls started licking each other's face. I'm not making this up - there are photos of all this stuff. Two girls made out with Johnny while their boyfriends watched with mild interest. They got nice people in St. Clairesville.