Good morning and hello!
Admittedly, I'm on some decadent shit right now. Blogging from a real-bed in a hotel room. After the last six days of the harsh tokes of tour: changing from one set of dirty clothes to another inside your sleeping bag in the van loft , club bathrooms so dirty you could get Hep C from looking hard, sustinance and nutrition being garned from Pickle flavored chips, playing a show then spending 13 hours straight in the van on an overnight drive... the tiny Aveda shampoos, the clean sheets and sleeping conditions free of my van-mates... I am lampin' on some presidental/rockstar shit right now, and not taking it for granted.
My deal is sweet -- my boyfriend, Sean, he comes out to visit me on tour, scoops me away from punk tour harsh, hotel and rental car style, and for a few days I get to be a cleaner person and feel the amble psychic legroom in being in charge of the stereo in the vehicle.
Enough about my armpit life , now!, I will tell you what I learned about Canada, about my time there:
There are many variables to being on tour, being in a band. Usually, if even one of the variables "falls in to place" - you are having a champion eve. Good sound, decent merch sales, no broken strings, decent meal, easy load in, receptive crowd, nice club people, staying in tune. Only variable in your own control is your own playing, really. Again, if one thing goes right, you are stoked, the city's luck has bathed you, you will come back, you will discuss it repeatedly amongst the band the next day with wowedness... In Calgary, all the variables, they fell into place. Every one. And it should not have. The club had thought the show was the following week, until they saw the preview in the paper that morning. They were closed for renovations. When we arrived, paint was still fresh and someone was mopping drywall dust off the floor. They opened to do the show, and the staff of the club proceeded to treat us with a doting, grandmotherly reverence all night, baking us more food than we could handle, buying our shirts to wear during the show, calling us by our names, asking after us with genuine interest. It was magic or something, like visiting Atlantis.
Everyone we met at this show was honey-sweet. The club did not have a set up for a liquor licsense yet, only an event permit, so they could not charge for alcohol... so thusly, beer flowed and flowed - no charge to the thirsty, as did rounds of jaege shots and plates of food for whomever was lucky enough to be lingering by the bar. This may have explained the freelove vibe. They even made us do an encore. Our first.
The thirteen hour drive through the rockies, or cascades would have been more notable if I had been awake for more than 3 hours of it. I missed all the Elk-sightings. Sometimes nature is so much, it by bypasses reality, it bypasses the known and the understandable. Noah saw a bear even.
Vancouver proper is a human sewer. My guess at population slice is : 11% tourists, 47% junkies (includes hookers and vets), 9% lady cops, 16% rave djs with frosted hair, the rest are teenage runaways strung out on cough syrup.
The club we played is, by all accounts -- the most destitude, shady area of all the entire country. Someone walked up and pissed on the front of the club while we were loading. Cops saw our NC plates and walked up and told Dave that we should forget whatever we are doing and just leave because we'd get robbed.
Some junkie kid hit me in the head with one of those extending Chinese yo-yos while we were walking. He'd been walking behind me trying to see how close he could get without touching me. Al and Dave and I walked to the port where a cruise ship was in. I wondered about all the tanned divorcees bumpin to the ship band on the aftdeck, who were cooking through all manner of songs we hate, but killed it with a little Sean Paul, unexpectedly.
We played to about 40 kids. Everytime I went in to the bathroom, there were more tiny empty bags that once held drugs in the stalls. While we were playing, I figured out who was high based solely on the shoes I had seen in the stalls together, shoes accompanied by a hoovering inhale and a jingle of keys.
I have never done cocaine, but I do not imagine we're the sort of band that feels good after some key hits in the girls room. I'm not sure if that is to our credit or not.
Played and bailed, hit US Customs at 3:30am. Back in our bad country!Posted by Jessica at June 15, 2004 12:45 PM | TrackBack