Our hometown is burning!!!
It is insane and crazy. This is Gio writing here My parents were evacuated two days ago. The photo above is the hills behind their house. Firefighters (thanks all you amazing firefighters!!) have been kicking ass and working hard to keep things as safe and hopeful as possible.
My family is fine – as is the town of Petaluma. That includes the Pacini ancestral home, the Morrison ancestral home (Rancho Relaxo) and Jen and I’s house.
We were running around (before I flew out to meet up with tour) trying to organize kid music/songs/stories at the evacuation shelters, and Jen is still back there working her ass off to keep things going, to keep the kids learning, engaged, hopeful, and creative in this crazy time.
Being out here on tour can feel excruciatingly pointless during this fire… I keep trying to dig down and pull a meaning out of using time and energy here instead of back home with family, and it is real hard. But the family at home is hanging tough, we are off for 2 weeks starting Sunday, and I’ll (hopefully, if flights are clear and skies aren’t too smokey) be back on the scene, pen, paper and guitar in hand, partying with displaced kids and families.
In the meantime, I’m out here, and I worked on some tunes in the van to try and do something proactive and productive for my amazing people back home. Here’s a link to those tunes if you want to check it out.
Please, if you can, find a way to help out Sonoma County. There are so many people that could use your help.
Take care out there.
We are here, caravanning and campfireing.
I’m in Billings, Montana at a killer coffee shop (massive high-fives to MoAV coffee) which is – blessedly, mercifully, thankfully, right around the corner from the venue. I’m listening to my Spotify Discover Weekly playlist which I’ve been working with great effort and focus to hone and curate into the cornucopia of heavy, sludgy, doomy, death-y, metal-y offerings it now is.
It’s enough to make one ponder on the ways of the music industry today. Here I am, in a band, trying to stretch together meager ends that won’t quite meet, wishing there was a way for music to generate more income, and here I am streaming tunes from bands. Paying pennies on the dollar for the kickass music they’ve made that I enjoy. And Spotify gets my monthly subscription fee. Hmm. Does it even out because I then go to the shows of said bands? Putting the money more directly in their hands with my concert patronage? I say no. It means that the bands have to – somehow – continually create new music for me to consume the moment it comes out, and simultaneously eternally tour so as to pay their bills. There’s not enough time in a year, and there’s not enough blood in a body to make that work.
What does that have to do with the Campfire Caravan tour?
I don’t know – I’m high on caffeine and typing to an invisible audience.
Pretty stoked for this tour, folks. We rehearsed last night and it was just so damn fun to hang out with the folks in Mipso and Lil’ Smokies. I don’t care about the shows so much – just being around these kickass people and players is going to be a beautiful thing.
Hope you can make it out. I think we’re touring far enough, wide enough, and long enough to eliminate most excuses. If you want to be a special Super Friend, come to the show and leave me a:
fantasy/sci-fi book recommendation
coffee shop recommendation
metal/hardcore/punk band recommendation
We have a lot of van time to fill, and I’m always hungry and thirsty for all the above.
See you soon.
We’re on tour – currently in Williamstown getting ready to head to the Fresh Grass festival and melt faces and decimate audiences with our shredding, cutting and crushing riffs and furious blast beats… wait. Shit. Sorry. I’m listening to a lot of metal of late. Current playlist on Spotify is the “New Metal Tracks” playlist. It is excellent, and there are plenty of gems to be found.
But let’s be real. We’re a string band. We will will have a jolly good time, get people smiling and dancing, encourage a bit of tomfoolery and beer-drinking, and hang out with our string-band buddies. Not so much crushing or melting or decimating. And that’s OK. It’s fine. I have no problems with that.
This tour has been pretty nutty – and I just wanted to share a bit of what we’ve been up to.
We flew into Nashville (which – by itself – already sounds pretty damn impressive. We flew into NASHVILLE. That’s where music things HAPPEN! And we flew. It conjures up images of Otis Redding touching down in the UK – or Zeppelin stepping off of their private jet to throngs of press and fans on the tarmac. I like that conjured image, so I will do my best not to dispel it. Try not to imagine 5 sleepy dudes in t-shirts and flip-flops on the airport pick-up curb trying to find a Red Roof Inn shuttle by a three person triangulation of smart-phone skills.)
Nashville was in the beginning throws of its American Fest. Super fun. The venue we played was so full of good music it was near ridiculous. Three stages, 8 bands, all of them amazing. We had to bail out super early because these Minivan Jetsetters had to catch an early flight to New York.
Yeah. You heard me. We flew to New York city, and we had some magazine interviews, did some videos, played some music in the subway. We Jet Setted HARD. ( Imagine flashing lights, photographers scrabbling for their chance at a shot; skyscrapers reflected in our stylish sunglasses; the seas of taxi cabs parting as we, instruments in hand, strode boldly across 7th avenue. Do your very best not to imagine hungover, sleepy and unshaven derelicts who – somehow – found guitars, banjos, etc, and – like a circus-clown-act – packed the 5 of themselves and a small mountain of gear and bags into a black Chrysler Pacifica Minivan.)
More importantly, we ate slices of pizza and drank espresso.
We rolled out that night to get a drop on the drive to Fresh Grass up here in Massachusetts.
And here we are. The trees are just starting to turn their autumn colors – it’s a beautiful and bucolic preview of a part of the country we see too seldom.
It has been forever and a day since this blog was updated, and much, oh much much much has happened*.
So much has happened that I’ll only be able to fill you in on the most important details. Which is to say, the espresso details.
We got home from our midwest tour, and we took a week off. When we’re home, I never have to worry about where the espresso comes from. We Benedettis buy our beans from Hardcore coffee in Sebastopol, grind ‘em at home, and then brew them in a stove top espresso percolator, commonly known as a mucca pot. Our pot is named Chester. He’s a real trooper, let me tell you. He brews some damn fine espresso. It’s actually one of the things I look forward to most about being home. That sweet, earnest little espresso pot, my friend, Chester.
We got back out on the road the next weekend. Goodbye family, goodbye Chester.
We headed up north to Sisters and Yakima. My coffee spot of choice in Sisters is Navigator News. It’s connected to a bookstore, has groovy art, and delicious, dark espresso. From there we hit Yakima for a shut-down-the-main-street-and-party festival. I like those. Especially when the main stage is kitty corner to North Town Coffehouse. Good stuff, and the barista ran his own music production and distribution company, Red Scare Media, with some very cool music on it. I recommend checking it out if you’re into strange, compelling, noisy, rocking and underground sounds.
The next week we were on the road with The Devil Makes Three. I can’t say enough good things about that band, their crew, how they live their musical lives, and the support and inspiration they’ve been to little BroCo here. They’re champs in every way. Also, Cooper is always reading cool books. He offered some great recommendations. Coffee for the weekend was supplied by Mia Cuppa Cafe, in Fresno, and Blackhorse Espresso in San Louis Obispo. Solid and worthy stops, both of them. Mia Cuppa has the bonus feature of shelves and shelves of used books for sale. Books add a flavor of mystery, sophisticaton, and joy for me to any environment. My dream home wouldn’t have walls – only bookshelves.
The next weekend the family and I rallied up to Benbow for the summer arts and music festival. Damn good times. We camped in the redwoods, made new friends, and the kids romped and stomped all over the place. We had river time, circus time, camp time, it was glorious. (Chester goes camping with us, by the way, so coffee was delicious – extra delicious, because camping makes everything taste ten times better.)
The next week we rallied to Tiny Telephone studios in San Francisco to start our next recordings. It was so. damn. awesome. John Vanderslice is producing, and I love the way he works, his recording ethos, and his aesthetic. We made some good music… and had some good coffee. Mission Pie has fantastic espresso. Their food is good too, as was all the food that JV enthusiastically introduced us to during our too-brief stay. (John’s attention to music is second only to his attention to good food and coffee.)
The next weekend the family and I packed up and began an epic week on the road with the band. It started with some sweet camping in Los Padres National Park. Chester, sturdy, reliable Chester, was along for the ride, and providing great coffee at all hours.
The band met up with the family in San Diego. We played a few dates opening for The Record Company – a consummate rock and roll band, and great guys to boot. The coffee scene was on point. Zebra House Coffee in San Clemente (our base of operations: Case de Zolg. The greatest place on earth), and La Monarca Bakery in LA. In between the Record Company dates we ran up to Live Oak Festival near Santa Barbara. It was such a sweet, rootsy, good time. Hot as all get out… but very sweet. We camped, and Chester delivered.
The family headed back, and the band continued on. We were headed for Phoenix, Arizona. Our target was to play music on the hottest day on record in the hottest place in the country. We had two days off to work on new tunes and rest up in LA before we headed for the raging inferno that every media outlet reported to us was Phoenix. It was a dark time for espresso. Where we stayed – that bastion of hospitality and sweetness, the ancestral home of Ryan Avellone – is surrounded by Starbucks. Two days of Starbucks espresso, and I was beginning to doubt everything, the world was void of meaning, colors were fading, hope was dwindling. The only bright spot on the espresso horizon was the knowledge that we would be staying at a hotel in Phoenix for 2 nights, and I knew that they served espresso. Joe looked it up.
The feeling I felt when, the next day, I walked up to said Phoenix Hotel cafe, and saw their cheery sign: “We Proudly Serve Starbucks Coffee”, was the same feeling that I had watching Star Wars Episodes 1-3: betrayal, despair, anger, and crushed expectations.
When you combine the two days of Starbucks in LA with two days of Starbucks after getting to Phoenix – a combined 4 days of Starbucks – I was in severe withdrawal. I was, as they say on the street, jonesin’. Thank god for Flagstaff. The town is surrounded with good espresso joints. Firecreek Coffee Company was close the venue, and delicious. I doubled up my espresso order. It broke the curse of Starbucks. I came back to life.
Quick side note to introduce this sweet post-show story from Flagstaff: I have constant and chronic problems with my arms, hands and fingers from too much bass rocking. At Flagstaff I was feeling it pretty strong, and I was stretching a bunch on stage and shaking out my hands. When I came off stage, there was the amazing Dr. Tiffany Johnson, Flagstaff Chiropractor and fan, and she adjusted my arm and hand. And then, Sean from Hawaii came over, and he was a licensed massage therapist, and he worked on my back and shoulders. Espresso, and then body work. My game was fully back on, and Flagstaff endeared itself to my heart in a very serious way.
From Flagstaff we hustled to Albuquerque, where we played at an Aquarium. The cafe had pretty bad espresso, but an amazing tank filled with sharks and turtles and stingrays, so it was still awesome. We had a damn fine breakfast at Tia Betty Blue’s the next morning. The espresso was tasty, and their food was spectacular.
From Albuquerque we headed to Evanston, WY. We played their Bluegrass festival, and partied for Ben’s birthday. Coffee was hit this morning on the way through SLC at Publik. The espresso roast was lighter than I like. I bet it would have been a delicious hot cappuccino type of espresso… but if you just get a double shot with a touch of water, add some cream, and then don’t drink it for an hour and half (because you’re trying to sleep in the van because you only slept for 3 hours)… it is lacking. Probably not their fault, though.
And now we’re driving on the 80. We just left Elko, so we’ll be back home by tonight… sometime. Maybe one more coffee stop on the way in Reno. I’ll let you know how it is next time.
Lots of other things happened during this last month, but I feel like I have represented the most important parts of that month. The coffee parts.
There were some equally important parts that involved slices of pizza… but other than that, i can’t imagine what you’d want to know.
Full disclosure – I am writing all of this many days after it has happened. My recollection of all but the best espresso is dim and shaky and not to be trusted. We are currently making the drive from Omaha Nebraska to San Francisco.**
Last night, we drove 2 hours after the show to get us to Grand Island, NE (note: it is neither Grand, nor an Island) where Tour Manager / Mr. Manager Henry got pulled over by deputy Wayne… and let off with but a warning.
This morning up at 8:30 to get Phil to an airport so he could fly home. We, meanwhile, drive. The upside is that we’ve had 2 nice espresso stops today.
One in North Plains, NE, and one in Laramie, WY. Here’s the espresso machine at Cold Creek Coffee in Laramie. A truly beautiful thing. My dream android would be this, self-powered, on wheels, with the added capabilities of an R2 unit (i.e.- it would also help me fly my X-wing.)
But when our story left you all, we were breathing the sweet air of peace, and were sleeping in Troy, Illinois. So that is where we shall pick up our tale.
We woke up in Troy, and headed to Evanston – a suburb of Chicago. My heart and mind were filled with thoughts of deep dish pizza… alas, dear reader, this was not to be. Maybe next time, Chicago (pause to wipe the heavy, single tear from my eye).
The drive was not memorable, nor was the espresso.
Space, the venue in Evanston, is notable for its hospitality and fully-rigged recording / rehearsal studio attached to the venue.
When the show was over, we ripped some pretty tasty funk jams in said full-rigged studio… Funky, that is, for a bunch of suburban white kids.
We went to bed, and slept the long, weary, hard-won sleep of people who have been driving too much, sleeping too little, and finally are looking forward to a short drive day.
Where did we get espresso the next day? Who knows. It’s all a blur when it isn’t superb.
We drove to Madison, Wisconsin the next day… I think it was Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.*
Madison was our second date playing with our new band-buddies, Trout Steak Revival. They are awesome players and even more awesome people. Some of the more cynical people of the world claim I only say this because they let me sit in with them playing electric guitar… pshhh. I mean, come on! Pshhhh, I say again. Harumph, and piffle, and the rest of it.
As I was saying, we were playing our second show with the wonderful Trout Steak Revival (who have excellent taste in guitar-players, as I believe we’ve mentioned) – and we were in Madison, Wisconsin – which, it turns out, is a beautiful, lovely, and very pleasant place to take a long walk for coffee and sunset-viewing. I’ll gloss over the show this night… was it us, Madison? Was it you? Was there something you wanted that we couldn’t give you? More bass solos, perhaps? Whatever it was, we were like ships in the night. If you get the Madison Weekly, when it comes out next Wednesday, you’ll see the personal add we posted after the show. It’s posted under “Missed Connections.”
You – the audience in Madison, Wisconsin. Us – The Brothers Comatose. Sorry we missed each other. See you in the Fall. We promise more bass solos.
We sacked out in a nearby motel which probably had a number associated with it… probably a 6 or an 8… and it was another reasonable van call to get to St. Paul, Minnesota the next day. Again, I have nothing to say about the espresso we had this day. One of the doses came from a Whole Foods, which is always disappointing. No local flavor or vibe when you’re at a massive, nation-wide chain.
The show was super fun. The Minnesotans were bad ass, and they got rowdy with us, and it was a great party.
The venue – The Turf Club – had some kind of crazy Minnesota underworld connection, and through a series of phone calls, secret hand shakes and palmed bribes, we stayed at The Radisson. You may notice that the name of that hotel didn’t have any numbers in it at all. Or the words “rodeway, travel, econo, discout, budget,” or any such thing as part of their name. A real, legitimate, hotel.
We had made it.
Not necessarily because we wanted to, but merely to do our duty according to the contracts we all signed when we sold our souls for Rock N Roll, we trashed the rooms.
I know that Ben and Alex left their beds completely unmade. Kyle and I each used 2 towels for our respective showers, and dropped the wet, used towels right on the ground. Ryan and Phil left their empty pretzel bag and apple core in the trash can in their room. Henry threw the TV straight through his 11th story window, and scraped “BROCO FOREVER” into the bathroom mirror with his straight razor.
The last show of our short run with Trout Steak Revival took us to Iowa City, and The Yacht Club. It was also prom night, and saturday night, and we were in the most college of college towns I could remember being in.
The show was a good rowdy time, but no where near the spectacle and experience that was the line for late-night pizza slices. It was awesome. If you ever fear for the future of America, just go get pizza at 1:30am in a college town on a Saturday, the weekend after finals. You’ll come away knowning that everything is just the way it’s always been, and that we’re all just the same savage animals we’ve always been. Our progress as a nation can be measured by the cultural diversity in the toppings.
We said our teary good-byes to our new Trout Steak buddies, promised to stay sweet, to never change, to have a great summer, and went our separate ways into the balmy mid-west night.
The last show of the tour was going to be in Omaha Nebraska. We drove the drive. We must have had espresso, because I am still alive and able to type this to you right now… but I don’t recall where it was…
Omaha Nebraska on a scattered-cloud, warm Spring Sunday afternoon was exquisite… and deserted. I was taking photos of the sun-setting city scape in the middle of the main streets at 6 o’clock… with nary a car in sight. I was wearing sunglasses with polarized lenses… and this is what my eyeballs were seeing:
Despite the ghost-town like emptyness of the city streets, we had some great and goodly folk roll out for the show. We frolicked and sang songs and drank Nebraska beer, and ended the tour in warm and welcome company.
That night began our long and sleepy drive home… which brings us full circle to the beginning of this blog entry.
One more epic drive to go.
*This is not true – I’m great with Thursdays. It’s Wednesdays and – mostly – Sunday afternoons that I struggle with. But never pass up an opportunity to quote Douglas Adams – that’s what my writing teachers would have been wise to say… though they didn’t. Mostly they said things like “This seems tossed off, and written last night in a blaze of procrastination-fueled inspiration. Take your writing more seriously, try proof-reading once in a while, and sit up straight.” They were very observant teachers.
**Editor’s note – we made it from Grand Island, NE to Elko, NV in one day. 18 hours in a van, over 1,000 miles. Insanity. We are all going mad.
Dear Tour Diary,
shit shit shit shit shit shit.
We have another full week of touring, and things have gotten bad. The tit for tat, eye-for-an-eye mentality of this band has turned mean. Real, real mean.
I’ll try and catch you up, Tour Diary.
After a day of tense, never-let-your-guard-down driving, we slept at a Super 8 in Topeka. It was, for a Super 8, quite lovely. We slept well. Ryan – the only member of the band without a vendetta and score to settle – was in charge of the keys, and (despite my bribary attempts) he maintained the moral high ground and the evening was peaceful and uneventful. We rose not too early, and headed out to find coffee and food.
It is worth noting, tour diary, that even in the midst of blood feuds and smoldering vengeance, there is an unassailable unity of purpose in our morning need for caffeine. For the brief drive to the cafe, we were a band again, and there was peace.
The brief cease-fire was broken, as poor, sweet, neutral Ryan – our Switzerland – innocently sipped his morning coffee. On sip, and then – PPPPHHHHHTHHHH – he spat it all over our surprised faces, and ran to the bathroom gagging. In the uproar that followed, it was revealed that Ben, retaliating for the stolen bedroom (remember, tour diary?), had tried to spike Phil’s coffee with salt, mayonnaise and onions. Phil, being on his guard, had done a Princess-Bride-Esque drink switch with Ryan (assuming his neutral status would give him relative safety in this passive-agressive touring guerrilla war). We were noisily ejected from the cafe. I barely managed to finish my espresso.
The drive from Topeka to Columbia, Missouri, was fraught with danger and bad vibes, tour journal.
I don’t think I’ve ever needed a second cup of coffee so badly as when our ship of ill-will landed at The Rose Music Hall that afternoon.
I raced, by myself, out the door, down the block seeking espresso, safety, and a friendly face. Leaving my gear behind with my not-to-be-trusted band mates was, in hindsight, a mistake. But the need for good espresso overrides all my better judgements, as you well know.
Tour Diary – if you ever find yourself in Columbia, Missouri, get thee to Fretboard Coffee. It will make you happy; it will bring you great joy; the atmosphere and company will lift your spirts, and their deep, dark, lovingly roasted espresso will sooth your soul.
Conveniently, just upstairs from this espresso-slinging oasis was a comic book shop.
Just down the street was a used bookstore, where a book-loving, music-loving photographer/book-clerk and I chatted on the finer points of book-clerkery (as you know, tour journal, I too am a ~former~ bookstore clerk), comic addiction, and record collection.
I was in such a happy place as I walked jauntily back to the venue, the dark espresso still pumping strongly through my veins, holding my new books and comics close to my chest, that I was totally unprepared as two men in ski masks jumped me – darting out from behind alleyway dumpsters.
Thank goodness, tour diary, for all of those Kung Fu movies I watch. In mere moments, one of the would-be thugs was running in fear back down the alley, and the other was crumpled before me, confessing all. They had been hired, tour diary – HIRED – by Alex, still intent on his revenge. (Never would I have thought pretzels to be so important to anyone…)
My espresso-sweet reverie was broken.
This was war. I thought on my suitcase – my bass – my gear, all back in the van; back with those mean savages.
When I got back to the venue, all hell had broken loose.
My bass was being doused with lighter fluid by Alex, while Ben and Phil and Ryan, each with a broken bottle in their cut and bleeding hands, were slowly circling one another in a deadly stand-off. Henry and Kyle were tearing up each other’s suitcases, spilling them all over the road, screaming at each other all the while.
I had nary a moment to take this in. My bass was in danger, tour diary. I sprang into action.
I had just tackled the fire-wielding Alex, stopping his bass-inferno, when the police came.
The venue had been observing our antics, and, wisely, had taken their own measures.
The police station of Columbia Missouri is spacious and accommodating, and the officers were rough, but polite.
Being locked in separate cells gave us all a chance to take a long, hard look at ourselves, and our petty grievances. Apologies were hollered and accepted down the concrete halls of the jail. The Rose Music Hall lobbied hard, and we were released in time to make our set. Dani, my bookstore-clerk-friend, came by and took some pictures, and a great time was had by all.
The night was capped with $1.00 pizza slices, and a late-night drive to a Motel 6 in Troy, Illinois. Today we head for Lou Malnotti’s pizza in Chicago. Someone is claiming that we also have a gig to play in Evanston, but I say that they have their priorities severly backwards, tour diary.
It is raining. The truce and reconciliation from the Columbia Jail still holds.
I have high hopes for the rest of this tour.
But I’m still not leaving my coffee anywhere near Phil.
Dear Tour Diary,
We have been enjoying some fairly unheard of R&R mid-tour here at Antelope ranch in the gracious and kind care of Annabel and Lyric. I’m typing outside, at a table enjoying my panoramic view of snow-capped mountains, sipping espresso, and the breeze is soft and cool. The snow stopped yesterday (Sunday, if you forgot, tour diary) and the weather has been comical in its 180 degree flip from the ice and snow and cold of earlier days.
The show in Denver Saturday night was sold out, had delicious BBQ, and had the vibe of playing music in a hunting lodge from the 70s. It was awesome. The people of the crowd were delightful.
Sunday broke clear and sunny, and we made brunch at Annabel’s. We feasted!
We had the entire day off, and our new friends, lead by Kelsy, invited us over for dinner. We lounged, recuperated, read, wrote, climbed, ran, went to town for coffee – the usual indulgences of a day off on tour.
We were all headed to dinner, replete with wine, beer, and whiskey. Henry graciously offered to drive. We were all thankful, and imagined a band dynamic where bygones were bygones, affronts were forgiven and water babbled happily under bridges.
What naïveté, tour journal!
The dinner was lovely, the company was delightful, and the evening was great. We thought only that Henry was being his usual Tour Manager self when he rallied us all out to the van to be driven home. In our blurry haste, we never thought twice when Henry said we needed gas on the way back.
We were all happily buzzing away in the van, never suspecting a thing when Henry asked Alex for help – to run into the shop and grab a receipt.
Suspecting nothing, Kyle – our trusty sound engineer on this run – offered the already snoozing and snoring Alex to run inside in his stead. As soon as the van door closed and Henry saw a dimly lit figure headed for the shop…. He peeled out, screaming the tires and van engine down the streets of Boulder, cackling madly of vengeance and justice.
It was a serious shock, tour journal.
It was also a very hectic and bouncy ride – so bouncy that Alex was jostled awake. And he complained loudly from the backseat. At the sound of Alex’s voice, Henry screamed, and slammed on the brakes. The rest of us sprang into action. I restrained Henry, Ryan restrained Alex, and Ben drove the van back to the gas station to pick up the now furiously angry Kyle.
Ben had to restrain Kyle, and there we were in a weird, 3 person stand-off. We had to pay the 76 station attendant to drive us back to Antelope Ranch (where Phil was busy stealing Ben’s room, bed, and had locked himself into his pirated accommodations).
Ben nearly kicked down the locked door to his room when we got back, which was tricky, because then Kyle got loose.
It took a lot of beer to get everyone to finally go to sleep and forget – for the evening at least – their grievances.
This morning was another sunny and beautiful Colorado treat.
We spent most of our time trying to clean up after ourselves. We then loaded up into the van and have been driving for the last 10 hours. Our destination is the Super 8 in Topeka.
So far we’ve only been putting out small fires in the van. New rules have been put in place. We have to use a neutral buddy system anytime we leave the van (to ensure no one else gets left). We also only give the keys to the driver after 2 different sources have confirmed that all band and crew are in the van.
Additionally, Phil and I are not allowed to throw anything away, and may only ask the newly formed garbage committee to throw things away for us.
There have been several near disasters. Phil’s fiddle was found placed dangerously behind the rear tires of the van at one stop. I still think Alex tripped me on the way into the dinner stop restaurant – he claims I didn’t see a bump in the sidewalk.
The plots are still forming – no one is safe, tour journal. I’m afraid for the long days ahead.
Dear Diary –
It’s Gio again.
It’s Saturday, April 29th, and – yeah, you guessed it. It’s still snowing.
What gives, Colorado?
Yesterday we got to Boulder in the early afternoon and had ourselves a very lovely time playing music for beer lovers at the Boulder Theater. Everything was going so well – I got a nap in, found some delicious espresso from a local establishment. I even thought my revenge on Phil for his dastardly coffee-tossing-out had been exacted, and I could turn the page towards more sunny, hopeful and friendly days.
Not so, Tour Diary! Not so!
It turns out that the pretzels I threw out were not, in fact, Phil’s. They were Alex’s. And he had been fasting all day, with the hopeful security of his pretzels awaiting him to provide the sustenance he’d need for the show that night.
Imagine his groggy fury at their loss. Then imagine it again, but with more swear words, and throwing things. That’s closer to what happened.
Sadly (or not? Depends on how you view these kinds of things, tour diary) the only thing that was in ready supply at the theater was craft beer. The strong kind. Alex’s fury quickly turned to somewhat sloppy bonhomie after a few well-placed pints.
The set was delightfully hard to remember. I believe we played music? Hard to tell, tour diary. We could turn to those in attendance for a report of the evening, but I don’t think they will remember any more clearly. This is to be expected for a beer fest, yes?
That night – and for the nights to follow our good friend Annabel has offered to put us all up in her amazing home. There is a drum set here, electric instruments, a Rhodes… Everything we need to record our rock record. Dreams can really come true, tour diary!!
We poured ourselves into beds last night, and got good rest – well, all except poor Henry, (our tour manager for this run).
Drunkenly mistaking Henry’s bed for mine, Alex – in a rare show of mean vengeance – dumped a heaping shovel-full of snow on Henry’s peacefully slumbering head.
We all awoke to the scuffle/wrestling match/weeping that followed.
Tempers have finally settled… but the tension around the lunch table was thick today, once we had all woken and assembled. Trust is running a bit low, and us only 4 days into the tour.
We play Denver tonight. Alex, Phil and I are all constantly looking over our shoulders. Henry still smolders with sleepy, rage-ful injustice.
I’m sure this will all be cleared up soon, tour diary.
Dear Tour Diary –
It’s Gio again.
We’re on tour… again.
It’s late April, bordering on May. According to my calendar, Spring was due to have sprung over a month ago. Wyoming did not get the message. Instead, it snowed all over us on our savagely long drive from Reno, Nevada en route to Denver, Colorado. Nothing to cap off a 15 hour drive day like heavy snows and low visibility.
But I’m starting from now, and you don’t even know about the last two days yet! Sorry, tour diary. I’ll start at the beginning.
The tour started in Reno. We’ve driven through Reno on every tour that has taken us East on the 80… which, over the last 8 years, has been a lot of tours. This was our FIRST time playing Reno. And we even wrote a whole song about the dang place. Can you believe it?? Well… the people of Reno came out in wild and rowdy droves to the show, and we – collectively as a band – fell in love. We’ll have to go back soon. It was a damn fun show.
The drive the next day was less fun. Did I already mention that? I did? Sorry, tour diary.
What I DIDN’T mention yet was the travesty that occurred on our drive. You know me, tour diary. I looooove espresso. We stopped at a great spot – the Hub – in Reno. I ordered 2 drinks – one to have immediately, and the other to keep in reserve for the espresso-scarce wasteland that is I-80 through Nevada. The weather was cold, I didn’t need any refrigeration… and thanks to my sweet planning, my delicious espresso awaited me, as far as I knew, for the long road ahead.
Imagine how much I cried, oh dearest diary, when Phil (totally without asking me!!) threw out my coffee at a road stop! Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much someone holds you and rocks you back and forth, apologizing. Sometimes it just isn’t enough.
We made a coffee stop eventually…. but it was shitty. Note to self: never trust Phil with your coffee. Remember that, tour diary!!
We woke up early today after our epic drive to get back on the snowy and icy roads. Didn’t we leave the curse of the Frostbite Tour behind us? Were the savage gods of ice and snow not satisfied with our sacrifice and pain last tour? Apparently not.
Luckily the weather broke by Laramie, and now we’re cruising into Denver to play a craft beer party. Chances of us having a coherent, not-sloppy-drunk set are diminishing. The conditions are kind of perfect:
Did we have a super shitty drive all day yesterday from which we need therapeutic succor?
Did we have another thirst-inducing drive today through yet more snow and ice that demands yet more liquid stress-relief and muscle relaxation?
Will we get free craft beer for the entire time we’re at the venue (5-7 hours)?
Luckily, if you’re at a free-craft-brew party, tour diary, you’re likely to be way more drunk than us. We’re banking on that.
We’re approaching Boulder, thank coffee. There’s great espresso in this town. The last two days have been full of (I’m ashamed to write it) Starbucks… and one stop was just laughably dark-hued water. Rawlings and the little shop, Huckleberry’s, had good espresso. That is the only reason, diary, I’m able to even form complete sentences right now.
Well, I should go. Phil is asleep, and I think I saw a bag of his pretzels that I can’t wait to throw away.
Talk to you soon.
And we almost all made it. Please pour one out for Rich, our sound engineer. He died a damn hero.
But, once again, I’m ahead of myself. Here I am wallowing in the bitter release of tour’s end; drowning sorrows as I pour (again and again) one for me, and one for dear, sweet, brave Rich. While there you are, ignorant to current events. When last you heard, the outlook was rosy. The Barley brothers were dead in Bozeman, and we were through the snows and storms, and coasting our way south on Interstate 5.
Be forewarned, dear reader. There is naught but grim, brutality ahead. Such was the legacy of the Frostbite Tour.
On Friday, March 9, we were booked to return to the Tractor Tavern. It was to be the triumphant, sell-out conclusion to our first two-day run in the city that houses our favorite sandwich. We had planned a wild, slow-cooked-pork-themed gala. Cilantro, romaine and jalapeños were to be the only garments allowed. Loaves of fresh bread were to be handed out at the door. The eventuality of such a debaucherous night was sure to land most of us in jail. We cared not. Were we not the brave warriors from the West? The only stringband to survive the Rockies, the Sawtooths, the Cascades and the Sierra Nevadas? Our names were whispered in hushed tones; were intoned to bless weddings; were screamed to ward off evil. Our hubris and carelessness were growing in proportion to the raising temperatures.
Doom often portends with smoke, darkness, and fire. So it was this Friday. The cloud of crows, buzzards, and thick, evil smoke could be seen from our much-abused hotel rooms. We got in the van, a heavy stone of dread in our gullets.
The Tractor Tavern was burned.
We had left our instruments in the venue, confident that it would be safe and secure in this civilized, west coast, temperate, rainy place. We had been wrong.
The remains of guitars and banjos, my bass, the mandolin, Philip’s fiddle… all were mutilated; desecrated; abused and torn. Pieces of them had been nailed – black with flame now – to the threshold of the Tractor Tavern.
The dismembered instruments had been arranged to read: “Death Waits in Portland” and was signed in a twist of blackened, melted, meshed strings: “The Barley Brothers.”
We should have been smarter. We should have learned from their mistake, leaving us alive in their gas-soaked cellar. We should have made sure they were dead before we began to feast and frolic and forget ourselves in beer and the wild-abandon of music. We should have buried them deep beneath rock and earth and stone.
But we had slipped. And now here we were.
Rain began to fall.
The wicked fire hissed, as our clothes collected the rain, clinging to our bodies. We looked at our burned instruments, our equipment, our gear, our livelihood. Our tears were of shame, of sorrow, of rage. They mingled with the chilling rain, stinging eyes and cheeks with their frigid tracks.
It was the cold of those tears that galvanized us; that finally brought us together. We harnessing the cold; the power of the Frostbite tour. We soaked in its chill, implacable might. We absorbed the intractable cold; the merciless bite of the stinging rain as we watched our show and instruments and dreams burn. We had forgotten our brotherhood in the success of shows, and the bright lights of the stage. Each of us had taken up our own room at the hotel, and treated it like our own kingdom, with subjects, servants, and fickle laws. We had splintered. We had become a house divided, and we had fallen.
Death waited, so they claimed, in Portland.
We huddled there in the rain, arms draped over shoulders. We made a vow. Our blood was shared and we became a brotherhood once more. “No mercy,” we said with one voice, the ice of the Frostbite Tour in our veins.
We took stock of our resources. Our van, ourselves, our wet clothes, and whatever cash we had on our persons. Our wallets had been in the fire, as had the merchandise and collected monies and tributes from the tour.
Together, we had $208.00, and enough gas to get to Portland.
I needed coffee, so that left us with $205.00 and enough gas to get to Portland, minus the drive to the coffee shop.
We couldn’t afford to re-equip our band at any legitimate music store given our meager resources. We would have to turn to the streets. Luckily, from his time as the front man of What A Strangled Web We Weave, Tour Manager Joe had serious connections and reputation in the Seattle musical black market.
For $200.00 (keeping $5 for coffee, round 2) we went with the only option available. We loaded our van with our much-used gear: A drum set, enough amplification to fill a small stadium, and an array of shitty but serviceable electric guitars, basses. We would not be a stringband in Portland. We would be fucking metal. And our heaviness would decimate our enemies. Such was the decree of the Frostbite Tour’s will.
We did not speak for the 4 hour drive through blinding rain south to Portland. Each of us was making peace with the dark gods of touring, of winter, of fate. We were preparing to kill or be killed.
The bridge over the Columbia River was desolate. Our van drove alone into the city that would be our doom or our triumph.
Without phones or maps, we may not have found the venue, save that The Barley Brothers had prepared a welcome for us. Once again, we had only to follow the billowing clouds of smoke and the stench of death to find what should have been our venue for the night.
The rain pounded down, but could not quench the raging inferno that had been Revolution Hall. Silhouetted before the flames were 7 figures. The ridiculously tall hats of Earl and Jervis Barley, their band, their tour manager, and their sound engineer. In the flicker of fire and occasional bursts of lightening we could see their scarred and ravaged faces.
A crowd gathered around the venue; ticket holders that had come for the show, but were now transfixed by the spectacle unfolding before them.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Then Earl threw a banjo. It soared through the dark space between us, crashing at our feet, it’s neck shattering, it’s body shuddering in a last, twangy spasm. The international challenge for a Battle by Music. To the death. The proverbial gauntlet had been dropped.
With a collective nod, we accepted the challenge.
They had, once again, underestimated The Brothers Comatose. There they stood, framed in flames, cocky with their stupid hats, and their new and sparkling stringed instruments, assuming us to be string-less, song-less, and sound-less.
They took their positions, and beckoned for us to do likewise.
We threw the back doors of the van open in slow motion. Water droplets spraying out in an arc, as the light from within shone into the storming night, casting reflected rainbows into the eyes of the startled – then terrified – Barley Brothers. We began to assemble our arsenal. Amps stacked upon amps, cords lying in puddles, rain soaking into our electrical barrage. The drums stood on a platform of pallets and flaming boards salvaged from the building. The jaws of the Beer & Barley Brothers dropped when we took our positions – our low slung, low tuned pawn-shop reject instruments already screaming with feedback and rage.
The crowd of ticket holders, concerned neighbors, and curious passersby was huge and thick, and they pressed forward to watch the battle begin.
The Barley brothers – according to tradition as the instigators of the challenge – played first. They limped into their signature song: “Whiskey with my Whiskey”. It was redundant, regurgitated, un-inspired, and pathetic. It was the mediocrity that was the most painful. Waves of pain flowed through us. We doubled over at the chorus; at the clear musical theft of our musical heroes. I spewed my guts out… heaving and writhing. The perfect banality of their music was deadly. Poor Rich. Poor, poor, brave Rich. He saw that we were all near to death; saw Joe unconscious, Ben and Ryan cowering and whimpering, Philip wailing as – blinded – he flailed against the sound; myself in the fetal position, shaking and heaving. He threw himself between us and the Barley Brothers’ last triple chorus. The forgettable, imitative shit-music tore him to shreds. We screamed as we watched him be rent asunder. He turned to us, and with his last, icy breath, croaked, “No…. mercy….”. And then, he was gone.
Their song was done. We pulled ourselves to our hands and knees… and then to our feet. Rich had sacrificed himself, and we would not let his death be in vain. We wiped our mouths, ignored the searing, screaming pain. We let the frigid rain pour over our wounds. We let the icy chill numb our grief. We turned that shit all the way up.
We began to play.
We crushed them with our metal. The sonic force of our sludge-driven-vengeance tore through them, knocking them off their feet. We did not relent. The slow, churning dirge assaulted them, driving them back; back into the flames. They screamed as they were swept into the white rage of the inferno they themselves had lit. We played on. There was no mercy in our metal. We played harder and heavier. The flames roared as they feasted on their new, human fuel. Our ears and fingers bled, the pavement under our feet cracked and caved, but we would not stop. “No Mercy,” Rich had said.
And so it was.
Time passed in the thick swirl of our deafening song.
Dawn cracked the sky, and the storm abated.
And then we stopped.
We stood in the center of a smoldering crater. The Revolution hall was reduced to ashes, as were the Beer & Barley Brothers.
There was complete silence.
The crowd began to disperse.
We dropped the instruments on the ground.
We took Rich’s remains into the field beyond the hall and, with our bare hands in the rain-softened earth, we buried him.
In that same field we saw our merchandise case, finding our money within – obviously stolen by the recently deceased Barley Brothers (God rest their souls).
We had money to drive home.
We had our van.
We had our lives.
A light, gentle rain washed us clean of blood, dirt, and death. The last cold dawn of The Frostbite tour cleared its cloudy skies and, as we loaded into the van, the sun broke out on Portland Oregon.
It continued to shine on the van as it drove south, headed to the sun and warmth of California.
We have been home for two days now.
When people ask me how the tour was, I say “it was fine,” or “good.” If they ask me what happened to my right hand, noticing the missing fingers; if they ask where the scar on my cheek came from; if they ask about the bloodied strip of Rich’s T-shirt I wear around my left arm… I just look at them. And there, deep in my eyes, they see a reflection of the cold, the dark, the ice, the death, and the blood of the Frostbite Tour.
They shudder… sometimes they lay a hand gently on my shoulder. Sometimes they weep.
Always, they walk away – dazed by the lingering might of the Frostbite Tour, 2017.
It is over, but it will never be gone.