Happy St. Patrick’s Day, all. We’re plowing down I-10, east toward Biloxi, en route to Athens Georgia and Tasty World, where next we’ll perform. Valerie, our GPS, says we have 467 miles to go, 8 more hours of driving in front of us, after an 8 hour day yesterday as well. Oh, Mr. Booking Agent, pleeease try scheduling the shows closer together next time. Oh wait. We’re the booking agents. Fuck.
Bethany had to go back to NYC yesterday, but she plans on reuniting w. us on Wednesday in Atlanta. She got a ride from Austin to Houston, where her flight was scheduled to depart, from her friends in Nakatomi Plaza. Unfortunately for her, it turned out that there are two airports in Houston, separated by an impressive 45 minute drive. Naturally, she had found the wrong one and so got the rare privilege of a shuttle bus ride that took her straight into the aftermath of some cataclysmic traffic accident which locked down both sides of the highway - an event we must have missed by mere moments. For all we know she’s still there; her cell phone battery died around 4pm after sending some text message about Darwin, heat stroke and the movie “Speed”.
i am so sick of driving. Correction: i’m so sick of driving all day. i know it’s silly for someone in a touring rock band to bitch about long drives (you asked for this, remember?) but bitch i shall, if only for a moment. the american landscape is just so motherfucking Boring, dear GOD! it is sameness followed by sameness followed by more of the same. you know the bar is low when you can’t wait to find out what kind of local-flavored chintz will be for sale at the next truck stop you visit. “Oooooh look -- Jesus sweatshirts!!! People in the South are Religious!! Classic!” Or the ultimate in bad-ass truckstop accessories -- Elvis shit. i would have filled the van twice over with elvis-themed crap if more truck stops were on the ball in this arena. so far this trip, only the one outside memphis had any E stuff, and it was pretty weak tea. i bought a sticker instead, for the van, which says “Real Women Pray” and features a crude drawing of a kneeling lady with tears falling from her eyes worshipping a gigantic cross. But that was Eternities ago -- i don’t even remember what day it --- YES wait i do. one week ago today.at least down here in mississippi there are a lot of treacherously elevated roads, spanning great stretches of marsh and swampland, which keeps us on our toes. yesterday thru louisiana it felt like the whole 50 miles surrounding New Orleans was just a mirage, a gigantic vegetation-clogged lake over which someone built a highway. there’s no There there, no land i mean. it’s creepy.
but then new orleans itself is great, once you dock the van and climb out onto dryish land. this go-round, our new orleans experience was pretty much limited to the Circle Bar, where we played, and our motel tucked in the middle of some horrible industrial wilderness, but between free beer and jello shots, the Circle Bar was enough. the LAST time we were in the big NO, we were there not as touring rockers but as mere civilians, there to enjoy a family-friendly time in the Big Easy. This was back in 2004, pre-Katrina, and the family had rented a house in Pass Christian on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. It was the absolute death of summer outside, mid-july, 1000 percent humidity. bourbon street was probably pretty tame compared to the fever pitch of mardi gras, but we still managed a fairly profound debauch. i remember kyle bass taking down his pants and exposing himself to earn beads. i remember smoking cigars. i remember dropping to my knees in front of some tarted up bar maiden so that she could pour a shot of liquor down my throat from a test tube clenched between her teeth. i remember mama.
nothing like that to report This time, but the vibe was the same. sanctioned abandon. along for the ride: fellow New Yorkers Jupiter One, who were generous enough to allow us the use of their equipment. Great men all, and now great friends. they tore it up onstage too. i’ll try to include some of their in the next video diary.
=====
just gassed up outside of mobile al -- pretty lame in the chintz department. a couple of rebel flag postcards, some weird american eagle-emblazoned mumus, that’s about it. saw another van fulla band geeks - we eyed each other warily and silently agreed - let’s pretend this never happened.
nutrition scale for gas station food:
10 -- powerbars, granola, trail mix of any kind
9 -- any non-caffeinated beverage8 -- peanut butter and crackers, brown-colored7 -- peanut butter and crackers, orange-colored6 -- any caffeinated beverage5 -- anything from the Hostess company4.5 -- chex mix (that’s healthy, right? it has cereal in it)
4 -- corn or potato-based snack food3 -- jerky, all varieties2 -- anything served hot and moist, i.e. hot dogs1 -- candyi just scored a combined 23, but high scores can be deceptive. kyle bass usually cracks 20 without ever rating a single item over 5.
so SXSW. yeah, another one bites the dust. how’d it go for You guys, you fellow van scum, you brethren experts on convenience store fare, miserable gas mileage and drink tickets? did yours kick ass too? or was there a small part of you that was a little let down, a little saddened by the whole thing, by the sheer number of dreamers clogging each nook and every crannie of austin’s sagging streets; the tiny desperate silence between last note and first smattering of applause, or worse, the forlorn sound of electric guitars noisily tuning inside some pitch dark dance club with its doors thrown open at midday, tuning, ever tuning. and for What?
for the Fans? sometimes. sometimes there are fans. for the Industry? perhaps, for the lucky ones, there’s some industry hype. To say they did it? That’s a big one. heading down to SX and playing a couple of shows can be a big burst of smoke and a pretty tasty set of mirrors if one plays their cards right.
but ultimately, between the showcases, the day parties, the long, strange 2 pm lines at the keg or the bar, wasn’t there something kind of wearying about being surrounded by so much hunger? so much anxiety? so many bizarrely variant rulers against which to measure oneself and one’s talent?
Not if you were with The Teenage Prayers. We had the best SX yet - great shows, great friends, great great times. our day off, which i video diaried already, was a phenomenal ride which started off at Bloodshot Records’ day party at Yard Dog. We got there at noon to see one of our musical heroes, Andre Williams play, and stuck around to see one of our great musical friends play, The Silos. From there it was a crosstown hustle to Flipnotics to meet up w. our friends from Boston who now live in Portland, the Dead Trees. once there, we saw Viva Viva, who were in many ways my favorite band of the whole conference. i’d never heard of ‘em before, but within one song i knew they were kindred spirits.
then bbq, a quick disco nap in the hotel, and back out for the Merge records showcase at the Parish on sixth. kicking it off - Portastatic, who played a solo acoustic set, followed by another great discovery of the fest, Wye Oak from Baltimore. Outstanding music played by a man and a woman, the man on drums and organ, the woman on mic and guitar. Thumbs UP. they were amazing. THEN it was time for the Radar Bros. they were who we’d come to see. “and the surrounding mountains” has been on my all-time top Fifty list for a long long time, and i’ve never been able to see them live. Four Thousand Thumbs UP. Then from there, terry and i trekked over to cedar door and braved a long and aggressive line to meet up with beth and her friend jim. my friend sam (who shot the stubbs ftg) had said that might be where he’d be, so i’d chosen it as a destination, but little did we know it was also where our brothers from philadelphia, dr dog were playing. Good times! after that, it was time for bed.
next day was saturday, the day of our official showcase. slow start after a late night. burger at threadgills by the hotel. saturday new york times puzzle. no hurry. eventually ventured out to waterloo records to see our friends Times New Viking play. then from there to Red Fez to watch Adam and Kyle C sit in on horns with our soon-to-be-tourmates, Hymns. they nailed it. THEN to the hotel to scoop up the van and get the gear to Lambert’s, which proved pretty painless. got there early, set up, and before long it was time to play our final show at SX08. people really seemed to like it, i was once again really happy with how we did. anyway, we stuck around to catch Care Bears on Fire (awesome), then had to get our gear out of there, so we loaded up and hauled ass to the hotel (see video diary for full account). i crashed early, ears burning, spent from the day and from the show. we had a long drive ahead of us the next day (kind of like the drive we’re on now, which is fucking interminable) and i figured it’d go down better if i were rested. not terribly glamorous but then no one ever promised you a rose garden, you big ingrate.
the Nerve. anyway -- highlights -- the superfans. the superfans are ALWAYS the highlights, because they’re the ones who most enjoy the shows for the show’s sake. Superfan Misti, who drove all the way from Dallas to see our last showcase gig in Austin. Superfan Aaron, whom you’ll meet in the next video diary, who drove all the way from Baton Rouge to see our show last night in New Orleans. Superfan Katie in Dallas, who sent her sister to say hi after our gig at the Compound on Day Two (sorry no video posting on that one yet, the footage was kinda blah, maybe i’ll get it together to do something with it eventually). without the Superfans, we are hot shit on a cold platter, we are a wet fart on a cool autumn morning, we are zilch, we are nothing. Superfan Anna who risked life and limb to see us in Cinci even after seeing us the night before in Dayton. oh god, thank you for the Superfans, at times they are the only good reason to keep plugging away at this thing. this Thing of ours. this endless endless thing.
======
our record drops tomorrow. that’s industry-speak for it’s coming out in stores and online. people will be able to buy it. we walked into the studio to lay down the first tracks in august of 2006. it is now march 2008.
it drops. like a coin into a jukebox, like an unborn baby on its way out into the world. thousands of hours-worth of practice and expectation, thousands of dollars’ expense, thousands of stress-shaved seconds spent worrying, waiting, wondering. and in the end, we are powerless. either people will like it or they won’t.
John Waters said that anyone can become famous if they’re willing to work on it for ten years. we’re not quite there yet, two more years to go. what will those years hold? more pleasure or more pain? probably little bits of both. and in the meantime, filling in the gaps like water, like oxygen -- work. nothing but work in an endless ugly stream. work. because that’s how We roll here in The Teenage Prayers -- we don’t just hang back and wait around for the rescue plane (which probably isn’t coming). we build boats out of driftwood, we craft sails out of palm fronds, we bore holes in cocoanuts and guzzle the sweet nectary milk. and when we get lonely or frustrated or tired, bone-tired in search of a sleep not unlike death, who do we turn to for comfort? our soccer ball. our soccer ball is our only friend. our soccer ball understands our needs. our soccer ball is witty and smart and knows all the angles. our soccer ball has our backs. our soccer ball is there to remind us that, indeed, it’s not all in vain.
our soccer ball is BELIEF. Belief that somewhere, somehow there’s a place for us, and for this music, in the world. That somewhere, somehow, some way, all this work will pay off. Not in gold, not in riches or worldly things. Not in hot cars or fat royalty checks. But in love. No, not love, more than that, more than love. In worship. in pure, unabashed fan worship. we want to be treated like living gods walking the earth, our every word, our every lyric parsed and re-parsed by academics in search of the timeless wisdom of the ancients. we want to be celebrated in great stadiums like Caesar. we want to be showered in the kind of mindless adoration that primitive tribes would reserve for the Sun, the Moon, the great mysterious fulcrum of the Universe Itself.
we want... to be Kanye.
don’t forget to buy our fucking record. TOMORROW!
over and out, bitches
--tim
My Trusted MOGs
whatever you do, don't tell kanye you want to be kanye.