Day 4, Yippie Museum, Manhattan, June 30.

After an unforgettable night with skunk and cats, we enjoyed an uneventful drive into New York, which at least for me, is the cure for boredom. There's an energy there which is hard to describe, or deny, and greatly at odds with the management at the Yippie. The room was very interesting, but the mammals in charge were less than intellectually charged. I guess it is true that with the single exception of the progeezer, excessive pot use does turn you into a fucking idiot. On a personal note, it was intensely amusing to discover Andy does not dig hippies, and makes little effort to veil this. Regardless, we stashed the gear and spent the day walking around the city; ate a great meal at Katz's, and thousands of steps later wound up in some German restaurant in the village where much re-hydrating beer was imbibed. It must be said that some impossible-to-pronounce dishes were also enjoyed in tandem, and that they were infinitely more tasty than anything I ever ate in Germany. Back at the Yippie, the gig was broadcast over the web, and what I remember most about it is that the rasta dude running sound kept smiling, winking and giving thumbs up. We played a slightly boozed-up set courtesy of the German brews, and I was very frustrated by the people in attendance, themselves mighty yogurt droolers who seemed to have been used as target practice for a tranquilizer dart gun. Wound up paying 10 bucks for a copy of the broadcast on DVD, packed the gear into the van and made our way into Brooklyn where we were gonna spend the night. And what a fun night it was: We made it into the apartment, undid the haphazard gear tetris, stashed it upstairs and went back into town to meet up with some folks and have a few drinks at a local favorite watering hole. I can't recall the name of the the bar, but the old guy running the bar introduced himself as Phil. I do recall that after a couple of rounds of car bombs our blood alcohol finally caught up with that our hosts, at which point Phil started buying us rounds of Kamikazes, and I finally started to relax. Wound up giving him a wood knot CD for his generosity, which might could be argued to be a cheapo way to slither out of shelling out a man-sized tip, but the guy was a music fiend. Every time I walked from our table out back to the bar for a fresh round he talked to me about all his years in the city and the concerts he had seen, at venues now transformed into condos with a starbucks on the corner; the radio programs he once listened to, DJ's turned to ghosts in the static of memory, and ranted off bitterly about the current state of music on the air waves. In short, he vented his frustration at the tsunami of bullshit called corporate rock, and got an eye roll from an ear-budded, eavesdropping chick dressed the way Elvira the vampire queen might have done were she a flat-chested, yuppie little mall zombie. Her chewed, black fingernails were clutching a drink that looked like anti-freeze and smelled like a blueberry/raspberry/whatthefuckeverberry mix; an angry stench my nose screamed was completely immiscible with her choice of perfume and violently at odds with her eminence front. Without letting her harsh my buzz, went back to the business at hand, left when the bar closed, slept for a couple of hours and watched the sunrise over Brooklyn to the counterpoint of Tim's snoring and an alarm that kept bleating "you must leave the area immediately".

Day Three, The Fire, Philadelphia, June 29, 2009

Woke up early and finished reading the biography of Jaco Pastorius. It made me think of Vonnegut, who wrote in Mother Night “Be careful who you pretend to be, for that is who you’ll become”. Those words kept swirling round my brain to the beat of continuum, and I felt like a driver who knows all the bumps on the road, yet never manages to miss a single one. The drive itself was short & pleasant, straight to the heart of the sarcastically named “city of brotherly love”; never been a fan of this place, mainly due to the unfortunate combination of my visceral displeasure with the local beer laws, as well as my contempt for a vociferous subset of the urban Philly yokels whom I find especially boorish - and that’s saying something considering I’m from Mixcoac, Mexico City! I warned the guys to expect nothing but maximum doucheness, and of course as soon as we reach the venue we are greeted by some of the nicest dudes ever. Had some brews, played ping pong, and hit South street to enjoy cheese steaks at Jim’s with my dear friend Mitrajitt Dutta, who is currently working in Philly and living in a pleasant suburban bunker far, far away from a city he deems a gratuitous risk.

We’ve been friends for 14 years, and he’s never seen me play, but try as I might the corporate carrot was mightier and he bailed early. Dr Dutta missed a tight gig that was very well received, especially by the Nintendo freaks and the soundman, who did all he could to convey to the audience we were a touring band, and that every dollar really counts, but in the end he couldn’t help us sell any merch at all. The tetris game of loading the gear and baggage still wasn’t getting any easier, and thanks to a band before us that had a late start and played a regrettable set, we started late on a long, scenic drive that wound us through the hood in West Philadelphia towards our destination, chez Nate.


The drive itself did nothing to ease the stress, and I remember thinking a flat tire would be a less than welcome diversion, but after enough turns to make me feel like a bolus in God’s small intestine we eventually made it to wherever it was we were going. Turns out Nate and his girlfriend are an interesting duo, and they were certainly very gracious to allow 4 sweaty assholes to arrive at their home by midnight and share their living room with their three cats and skunk. That’s right: three cats and a skunk, and I will let the picture speak for itself.

After washing down Nate’s “crazy wings” and cheesecake with a beer or three, we received a crash course on the vagaries of sharing living quarters with their pets. In particular, one of the cats had brain damage, which affected his sense of balance and menat he could, at any given moment, land on your face in a clawing panic, while the skunk was to be excused for any nibbling, and was NOT to be allowed out of the bathroom during the course of the night; both skunk directives are a lot easier said than done considering the size of the little bastard’s claws and how fast he can sprint on them. Didn’t get much sleep either, but I can’t blame it on anyone but myself. The bear is right: and a brain that keeps going round in vicious circles is the worst enemy of all. His suggestion? Stop! Good advice. I think I’m gonna return the favor & get him a skunk for Xmas.

Day Two - Bossa Bistro, Washington DC, June 28, 2009.

Officially abusing Big Mike’s hospitality, once again we set up shop in his living room to rehearse a much longer, 2-set show that night at Bossa, which is awesomely located in the heart of Adams Morgan. We split the night with John Lee’s band, himself an absolutely phenomenal, insanely skilled fusion guitarist, and we really had our work cut out for us. Aaron and John brought enough people to pack the venue,
and I'm proud to say it was a really great night of live music; one of those when even the mistakes sound OK. By way of a fer instance, Andy absolutely mutilated “Vietato”, but even that in flagrante crime was cancelled by the standing ovation of an elderly gentleman who responded to the trainwreck by clapping and shouting “Outstanding!”.

Our first set was followed by John, who put on a clinic of what fusion should sound like if it is to have balls and please a wide audience of non-fusionheads. I can only wonder what would happen if this kid ever heard Morglbl. He got a well earned reception, and our guitars, while not as loud as the electrics, were more than ready to deliver their very best reply. Fate being the fickle bitch she is, decided to remind everyone she was also in the house; as we were getting ready to get back up on that tiny stage and play until our fingers were bleeding, there was a commotion due to a fire next door! Given that 6 fire trucks and 2 ambulances appeared on the scene to block 18th street and all foot traffic, I expected to see a towering inferno with plumes of smoke and charred victims.
Then I remembered I was back in the Maryland/DC area, and concern soon morphed into anger. It was all a false alarm: some skippy probably tossed a fag into a bush which caught fire. Next, some yuppie’s nostrils were offended by a whiff of smoke, he shat a twinkie, and called 911 from his uber-deluxe GPS cell phone. Adding to the surrealism, while firemen charged valiantly to extinguish a spark, we were conducting an interview with a guy on the street about the band, and wondering if we would even be allowed to continue. The bottom line was that we had to play our final set in front of a much smaller audience as a result of what Bill Shakespeare would have undoubtedly called “Much Ado About Nothing”. Adding insult to injury, the amazing empanada joint across the street was closed by the time we were packed and ready to go. Talk about getting the cosmic stink palm! Regardless, it was a very good night of music but the fire that never was somehow managed to singe our collective nads!

Day One - Orion Studios, Baltimore, June 27, 2009.

The day started as it always does at the chateau: Big Mike coughs out half a lung, and spends the rest of the morning re-growing it for the next dose of herbal medicine at lunchtime. Tim and I decided to leg it up US route 1 in search of breakfast and Qahwa for me; not sure how Tim manages without it… Wound up at the little tavern, where the most insanely decadent donuts and mini burgers are served daily, in a bizarre, groundhog-day treadmill of sinful tedium for the owners. Tim cracked his head open against a stop sign on the walk back - an augury, perhaps? Sent by whom, and for what purpose? Regardless, Aaron and Andy finally arrived at Big Mike's, we were able to rehearse the set for the first time (including 4 brand new tunes), and then headed out to Orion, the only REAL mecca, as far as I’m concerned. We were going to open for Cabezas de cera, who had spent the week touring the East coast after a blistering set at Nearfest. When they emerged from their van, they all looked pretty tired, which in tandem with the fact they are true chilangos, explains why they were 2 hours late. This made for a stressful day for Mike Potter, but it is always a great privilege to stand and play on that stage.

The show went on without a hitch for both bands, in spite of the heat and sweating so much the strings got slippery. I thought we played very well, especially considering we were rehearsing the set for the first time hours earlier. Preparation? that's NOT the Might Could way! I was shocked we were asked for an encore, a true Orion rarity. Feeling a little cocky, my friend and drummer extraordinaire Dave Grollman brought me back to Earth, saying he thought we sounded pretty, but bland. Too much cracker? Given where he's at right now musically, that's high praise! The rest of the evening was spent listening to CdC and catching up with sorely missed friends from another life that seems so far away now… As always, the festivities went on well past the witching hour (which I believe was around 3 a.m, judging by the local females that could be seen giving their brooms a rest along Washington boulevard).

My Might Could compadres had quit much earlier (pansies!) but plans for a late dinner were hatched as soon as the beer reserves had been depleted; a fine Italian meal was enjoyed by CdC, their crew minus one, Mike Potter, Jeff Laramee and yours truly. It must be noted that dinner at Italiano’s is never scarce in either sonic or material volume. Having said that, one member of the CdC crew ordered and completely devoured an impressive battery of food, including a 3- egg cheese omelette, 8 wedges of French toast, a trough-like platter of shrimp scampi, and garlic bread sticks with marinara dipping sauce that he washed down with coffee and coke. How he was able to ingest all that without simultaneously projectile vomiting and crapping his pants is a mystery to me, but kudos nonetheless!
We said goodbye to CdC who only had a few hours to spare before boarding the plane that would take them back to Mexico City for a festival gig that day, and thanks to Jeff's benevolent nature I wound up back at Big Mike’s feeling lightly buzzed, physically drained and thoroughly sleepless. Not in the mood for Hempel, I read an astrology book Galway had lying around instead. This proved to be a bad choice once the sun rose and sleep was still denied; I was vexed to discover I share a birthday with Charles Bukowski and Bill Evans, but none of their talent. I was even more annoyed to discover I also share a birthday with Madonna, Kathie Lee Gifford, and the messiah of the Last Testament. I finally drifted to sleep thinking maybe I should start my own religion: Bokononism without the calypso beat?

Day Zero - Chicago to Baltimore, June 26, 2009.

I’m not sure at what time Andy rolled in to my apartment to collected me and Tim, both a bit groggy from the previous night spent enjoying choice libations with Norm, Dale, Ken and da guys at McMahon’s. I recall Norm had a hissy fit that would've made Magog blush, and which made me decide to buy him a tutu for his upcoming birthday. Then again, maybe it was just the yeast poop getting the upper hand? Regardless, we drove to Ann Arbor, collected the rental tour van, ate lunch at Ypsilanti and hauled ass to Baltimore. Started at 3.30, made Laurel by 11.15 p.m. Tim & I crashed at le Chateau D’Galway while Andy pushed on to meet Elisabeth in DC. As usual, insomnia made me her little bitch, but I made the most of it by reading some Amy Hempel: “We can only die in the future; right now we are always alive.” Even when you know you’re just a ghost, that’s a beautiful lullaby…