[EDITOR'S NOTE: We are very excited to have Menomena doing a tour diary, as Friend And Foe is one of our favorite albums, pretty much ever. This entry was written by Danny Seim.]

DAY ONE: SAN FRANCISCO!

But first, a backstory:

After joining the esteemed ranks of Touring Bands (or, hyper-idealistic groups of musicians that assume Fame And Fortune would be heaped upon them if they could only find a shitty van and make it to Brooklyn and back) in late 2004, Menomena became acutely aware of the phenomenon of the Out Of State Sound Person (OOSSP – squint and it reads “OOPS”). Portland bands don’t know how good they have it up here. Whether it be Dave at Berbati’s, Shira at Doug Fir, Jason at Holocene, Chris at the Crystal Ballroom, or virtually anyone else who’s ever done sound at virtually any club in our fair city, there always seems to be an element of pride taken in a job that is heartbreakingly stressful and thankless (PS- thank you, o People of Portland Sound!).

The only problem with the quality of Stumptown’s sound engineers is that they spoil the bands they work with, so those of us traveling around the country for the first time are usually in for a rude awakening. Especially if said traveling bands try to play seventeen hundred different instruments simultaneously on stage. This sort of situation only serves to put the OOSSP roughly 1,601 problems ahead of Jay-Z, and judging by the hygiene of some of these characters, and I’d venture to guess that a um… “derogatory slang for female” definitely ain’t one. Sons of bitches!

So wow, I’m really on a rambling roll here. I’m setting the bar unreachably high (low?) for future blog entries. The next one will probably be like four words or something: “Last night’s show sucked”. I’ve never actually written a “blog post” before in my entire life, so forgive me if I should be dropping more OMG’s and WTF’s in here. I’ll work on that.

But as I was saying…. On this tour, we decided that it was high time to invest our massive show grosses (occasionally we make over FIFTY DOLLARS PER NIGHT, that is if we decide to forgo alcohol in our dressing rooms and toilet paper in the bathroom) into something that will benefit the live sound of this band (and trust me, we need all the “benefits” we can get in this area). Without much ado, we decided to hire a sound engineer to travel with us. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Brian Joseph. Brian is currently on a paid retainer to mix the live sound of a band called The Fray. The Fray are a platinum-selling band from Denver who were recently nominated for two Grammy Awards. The last time they played Portland, they pre-sold over 4,000 tickets to their show at the Memorial Coliseum. For the sake of comparison, the last time Menomena played Denver, we “kinda rocked” a throng of thirteen people at the Larimer Lounge. Needless to say, Brian has made a terrible mistake.

So now that our company of three has been expanded to a gang of four, we figured it might be nice to have four seatbelts to keep us safe in the event of a highway collision with a (Pampel) moose in Vermont. What we DIDN’T figure is that this little vehicle modification would eventually lead to Justin going all Xzibit-style on our van by adding a refrigerator, flat panel television, Sony Playstation, four new plush captain’s chairs, carpet on the floors and walls, insulation, an elaborate loft/sleeping quarters, multiple AC outlets, and a rooftop cargo box for our luggage. He completely knocked himself out on this project, and it’s amazing. However, such luxuries come with a price, and while I’m too punk rock to reveal the exact cost of all this madness, let’s just say that we’re going to have to play roughly 50 shows (sans alcohol and TP) to afford this thing. And, I must lovingly point out the irony here by mentioning that the seatbelt in this plush faux-leather chair that I’m now sitting in is broken.

We were planning on leaving at or before noon on Thursday the 8th, in order to make our Sacramento hotel reservation by 10pm, and then enjoy the scenic two-hour drive into San Francisco for our show the next evening. Well, that didn’t quite work. In typical Menomena fashion, I was still printing shirts on Thursday morning, Justin was still madly trying to get the Jacuzzi installed in the back of the van, and Brent was completely prepared, waiting patiently for us to get our procrastinating rears in gear. At 6:45pm, we got the dreaded call from Justin: “Guys, there’s no way in hell we’re leaving tonight”. Instant manic depression. Who were we to argue with a man who hadn’t slept in 48 hours because he was making sure we could watch South Park DVD’s while driving through Weed, CA? I was actually relieved to have another night at home with my wife (who, for some strange reason, doesn’t appreciate her husband quitting his job and leaving her alone and penniless in an empty house for five weeks at a time, while he tries to defy all odds and make a career in the most corrupt industry on earth this side of the Mafia), and Brent was relieved to have more time to prepare his plan to ditch this irresponsible Menomena garbage and audition for The Fray.

We finally left Portland at 7:30am on Friday, the day of the show. Our load-in at the club was set for 5:30pm. San Francisco is eleven hours away, longer if we happen to stop to do something trivial like refuel, eat, or use the little girl’s room. You do the math.

We crossed the giant Bay Bridge at 7pm, and pulled up to the Café du Nord right before 8. The venue was sold out in advance, the staff was great, and the audience was warm and receptive. But, after driving all day and missing our sound check (not to mention failing to rehearse before leaving Portland), we were in no shape to properly rock them. So, if I must sum it up: Last night’s show sucked.

DAY TWO: LOS ANGELES!

The drive to L.A. was easy and uneventful. For me, at least… I slept and typed some stupid blog thing the whole way. We were worried about making it up over the Grapevine with our newly plus-sized van, but she handled it like a pro. The only thing she wasn’t handling well was her fuel. For some reason, our gas gauge is either way off, or our fuel pump is ailing, or someone urinated into the tank (probably the latter). Every time we use over ten gallons of gas, our beloved van starts to push and pull and refuses break 55 mph. Sammy Hagar would be proud. Also, there seems to be some sort of fuel leak, because every time we make a right turn, we smell gas. I’m sure there’s a political analogy in there somewhere, but I’m too tired to pursue it.

We reached The Echo right on time, which was a cause for great celebration. We called our friend (and former L.A./ Portland resident) Jim Fairchild to ask for a dinner recommendation. Without hesitating he said, “El 7 Mares! The shrimp tacos are the banginest!” After setting up our increasingly elaborate merchandise display, we jumped in Brent’s sister’s Angela’s SUV and drove down Sunset Boulevard a mile or so to the little restaurant. Indeed, the tacos were quite delicious. But even more bangin’ was the mariachi guitar duo that serenaded us as we inhaled the food. There was an awkward moment when a language barrier-addled Brent tried to stuff a tip down the crotch of the lead guitarist’s heavily pleated pants, stripper style. And I should probably clarify that by “tip”, I merely mean, “financial compensation given in gratitude for a job well done”, you pervert.

When we arrived back at the venue, a long line of hipsters stretched down the sidewalk. At first we assumed American Apparel was having a blowout sale, but we were soon told they were all there for our concert! Holy crap. This venue was sold out as well, and despite Justin’s onstage heckling (a violently dancing/violently inebriated woman made the mistake of revealing the fact that she was originally from Gresham… Justin went on to shout, “Gresham represent!” between each of our songs for the rest of the night), everyone all seemed to be having a good time.

I’ve learned to rate the quality of our performances by the severity of whiplash I wake up with the next day. Judging from this morning’s realization that my upper half is about as mobile as Michael Keaton in a Batman suit, we must have freaking killed it, dude. On to Phoenix!

Links:
Menomena on the Myspace
Barsuk Records
Menomena dot com

Photo of Menomena in L.A. by Akmal Naim

DAY FOUR, FIVE, and SIX: PHOENIX TO AUSTIN!
Man, I’ve been such a terrible resident of the blog-o-sphere lately. I think we’re actually on day 10 or 11 of the tour, as I sit here typing in our luxurious Best Western suite on a questionably stained bedspread. The last four days have been a solid blast of SXSW action, and now I’m having to blog retrospectively (which I definitely wouldn’t recommend for the faint of heart). So I’m going to try my best to get you up to speed for the last few days in our oh-so-interesting career as Rock Icons.

Justin and I spent the night of DAY THREE with his Uncle Richard and Aunt Judy in Phoenix. These people are amazing. Meeting Justin’s family is like meeting humanized snippets of his own unique personality traits, and it’s always a fascinating thing to witness. According to Harris folklore, Uncle Richard is legendary for pounding the cushions of the family couch with this fists, deeply inhaling the resulting dusty air and exclaiming, “I’m getting high on the farts of all the people who have ever sat here!” Alleged events such as this took place when Richard was an early teen, but after spending quality time with him, it isn’t hard to imagine him doing this as a 50 year-old. And I mean that as a loving compliment.

Brent and Brian spent the night at the Red Roof Inn, where there was a prostitution transaction taking place in the hot tub directly outside their window. Somewhat coincidentally, I was told that there was an old fart pounding away at a pair of cushions.

We all met up that afternoon and began the long drive out of town towards Texas. Justin took the first shift, I rode shotgun, and Brent and Brian watched The Office in the back. When it was my turn to take the wheel, I got out the ol’ iPod, popped in the ear buds, and let the soothing sounds of Queens Of The Stone Age guide our craft through the rest of Arizona, New Mexico, and finally El Paso, TX.

I regained consciousness as we were pulling into San Antonio, with Justin again at the helm. He was putting in double duty, receiving directions on his cell phone and looking rather confused. I immediately knew that he was talking to his father John. John Harris is a heavily decorated Vietnam War Veteran (including two Purple Hearts), as well as a proud owner of a 100-acre ranch and a perfectly sculpted handlebar mustache. Long story short, he’s 100% man and 100% cowboy, which equals roughly 200% more testosterone than Menomena is used to dealing with (well, 2/3rds of Menomena, that is). However, John’s generously warm heart is only outmatched by his wife Tess’s, and together they sent us on our way to Austin with choice steak in our bellies (except for Brian the Vegetarian, who got this little gem bestowed upon him by the elder Harris: “The hardest thing about eating vegetables is working your way around the wheelchair.”) and smiles on our faces.

Links:
Menomena’s ‘Space
Menomena’s Website
Truly hilarious vegetable-related jokes.

Photo: Chris Mikesell. Check out his entire SXSW gallery here.

DAY EIGHT: AUSTIN! SXSW! The next day was Thursday, the day of the Barsuk Label Showcase at a venue called Buffalo Billiards. But first, we had some friends to meet: 31Knots! Man, I truly love those guys. There’s something about seeing familiar faces in a sea of strangers that makes you forget all the questionable stains, tramp stamps, and bouts with irritable bowels that you’ve been dealing with for the past 192 hours. Joe, Jay, and Jay met us at a Thai restaurant on the opposite end of 6th Street (a quick geography comparison: if SXSW was in Portland, the amount of venues centered around 6th could be roughly compared to the amount of venues centered around West Burnside—that is, if you could imagine Everyday Music, Ringler’s, Jackpot! Records, Henry’s, Fantasy Adult Video, Club Eagle, Powell’s, Buffalo Exchange, and like thirty other businesses that I’m forgetting, all converted to music venues). Walking from the end of 6th street (where we were) to the end of 6th street (where they were) would be like walking from Dante’s to eat lunch at Doug Fir. Not too bad for a hipster fixed-gear bike messenger, but it was a freaking marathon for an out-of-shape wannabe hipster drummer. It was totally worth it though.

The six of us went our separate ways after lunch, vowing to meet again shortly. It was getting near the time to load in to Buffalo Billiards (a giant billiards hall with a buffalo theme) for the Showcase. We unpacked our gear to the tune of a band called Say Hi To Your Mom, who were sound checking, and then set up our merchandise.

Bob Mould played second, and I held up my cell phone like a groupie so my wife could hear him play “Favorite Thing” back in Portland. Right before his set, someone told me that he spent the years between Husker Du and Sugar writing wrestling scripts for the WWF. I didn’t take the time to question whether or not my source was an obscure fact-finding genius or just a blatant homophobe.

Soon it was time for the Barsuk Festivities to begin. We played last at 1 am, so there was plenty of time to be nervous. Ugh…

In typical festival form, the bands played longer than they should have and we began shoveling our massive quantities of gear onstage at 1:10. Despite the ungodly amount of pride taken in dubbing themselves “The Lone Star State” (I was born in Dallas, so I have all the creative license in the world to make fun of these bullheaded cattle wrasslers), Texans have strict regulations on making sure no sound is emitting from venue speakers after 2am sharp, so we were hurting for time.

Brent played the first note of “The Pelican” to kick off our set at 1:36am. Immediately, a blizzard of bras, panties, and jockstraps covered the stage beneath our handsomely garbed feet. We lip-synched flawlessly, expertly filling the brief pauses between our brilliant anthems with witty and insightful banter. At 1:50 am, after playing four songs, the overhead house lights turned on, warning us that we were pushing it. We pushed back harder, ripping through eleven more songs (including two impromptu fusion jams) and left the screaming room filled to capacity and wanting more. After peeling off our nectar-soaked shirts and flinging them into the sea of people, we took a bow and disappeared into our stretch hummer and into the night.

Almost.

We were actually the ones throwing jock straps at the crowd, and we actually were forced to end our set two songs after the lights turned on (cutting five songs from our intended set list). Sigh. We still had fun though. And we’re still signed to Barsuk (I think), so hopefully there are no hard feelings…

(Danny Seim)

Links:
Menomena’s tricked-out website.
Menomena’s totally fly myspace page.
An Eye Weekly interview with Bob Mould where he talks about writing for the WCW.

Photo: Menomena at SXSW, thanks to Chris Mikesell. See his SXSW photo gallery here.

DAY TEN: AUSTIN! SXSW!

And then there was one more day. It was Saturday, and it was warm, sunny, and clear. I was happy that I had called it quits rather early the night before, because I was able to do laundry AND get more than four hours of sleep, both major luxuries on this tour.

Our fourth and final performance of SXSW was to take place at a club called Mohawk’s. The event was the Hot Freaks Party, which was hosted by a variety of different web bloggers. We arrived a few hours early to load in, and Frog Eyes were just taking the stage. I’ve yet to own a Frog Eyes record, but I’ve had the pleasure of seeing them live twice now, and it’s always a fascinating experience.

We ate lunch with some much-loved staff members of Portland’s own Doug Fir. As with 31Knots, it was great to see familiar faces and talk about how much we all missed home. I had the huevos rancheros and crossed my fingers (and my legs) tightly. The only thing worse than having a sensitive digestive system is having a sensitive digestive system in an area where the only option for a “quick sit” is a port-o-potty. Sigh.

We walked back to Mohawk’s and set up our stuff. The stage was outdoors under a clear plastic tent. This would have been great if it was raining, or if we wanted to watch a firework display in a blizzard, but on this particular day it was in the upper 80s and very sunny. Justin put it best when he said it was like playing in a greenhouse. But it was arguably the best we played at the festival, and people were really nice.

Afterwards, a familiar couple garbed in matching southwestern ranch wear strode silently up Main Street, right outside the venue. It was nearing sunset. The male figure wore a low-brimmed Stetson with an elaborately fringed leather jacket, ornamented with teal Native American accents. A thick mustache framed his ruggedly handsome face. The female’s long hair blew back silently in the dusty desert wind as she walked confidently in high-waisted Wranglers and dark leather boots. Ladies and gentlemen, back for an encore: John and Tess Harris.

Brian, Justin and I, along with C.J. and Joel, our friends from Dallas, all loaded into the large 4×4 truck belonging to the elder Harris. We drove a few miles out of town to a Mexican restaurant called Polvo’s. Polvo’s is legendary with the local Austinians (Austinites? Austiners? Austilians? Autistics?), and after a few bites of the Exotic Taco dish, I could see why. We ordered two pitchers of margaritas and totally threw down. Wonderful. We got a few more helpful tidbits from John Harris at the dinner table, such as, “You gotta be careful with these Texan women. They shoot first, and ask questions later.” We all nodded in solemn agreement. I wouldn’t have blinked if a tumbleweed tumbled by in the distance.

As we were sitting there, we heard a female voice exclaim, “Oh my gosh! You are the cutest couple ever! Can we get a picture of you?” Justin and I were prepared to give our usual response: “well actually, we broke up last month,” but then we realized the exclamation was being directed at John and Tess. And then, we realized who was doing all the exclaiming: Aubree and the rest of the Swan Island ladies with their Holocene label guru Matt Wright! Right at the next table over! We enjoyed yet another Portland-centric reunion and then loaded into the mighty Harris mobile for the trip back downtown for our last hurrah at the Austin Best Western.

Links:
Menomena-ville
Menomena on the Myspace
The Swan Island ladies and their Holocene label guru Matt Wright.

Photo: People who couldn’t get in to Menomena’s Mohawk show watching through a poorly constructed fence. Courtesy of the Flickr’s own Wmanningiv. To see the photographer’s full gallery go here.

DAY TWELVE and THIRTEEN: ONWARD TO CHICAGO!

There isn’t much to report on the northeast trek to the Windy City. Our goal was to make it to Springfield, Illinois for the first night away from Dallas, and we fulfilled this mission at 2am Tuesday morning. On the way, we stopped at a nice little diner called Patty’s. They stayed open late for us and served us good food. Thank you Patty.

After a short night at a slightly horrifying hotel in Springfield, we at last saw the Sears tower on the horizon after another six hours on the road. We were actually ahead of schedule, so we spent the extra time at a Kinko’s, trying to figure out what to do to remedy our rapidly diminishing t-shirt supply.

Brian knew a screen printer in Chicago from past travels. His name is Brad, and he was eager to help. The only task at hand was to somehow get him the art files in time to have the shirts printed and shipped to us by our show in Boston the following week. This would have been a fairly simple operation if I would have purchased a laptop computer two years ago, instead of credit-carding that bulky thing on my desk at home. Actually, my whole life would be a bit simpler these days, had I made that decision. Every time I want to comment on my own MySpace pictures, check email, or write one of these here diary entries, I have to bother Brian or Brent for one of their shiny Titaniums.

So I placed a call home to my lovely wife Holly. We have T-Mobile cellular service, so our calls back and forth across the country are always free…free-quently dropped, broken up, or interrupted, that is. Ugh. [EDITOR'S NOTE: I feel your pain, Danny] To add insult to injury, Justin uses Verizon, so he’s most always talking and laughing merrily along while Brent (also a T-Mobile subscriber) and I wait in seething jealousy for the next major city to come along so we too can hear the voices of our loved ones for five seconds.

Back to Holly. She did her best to follow my crazed instructions to find the shirt art files on my unshiny, un-Titanium computer’s desktop. I wasn’t planning on having anyone else print the shirts except me, so the files weren’t exactly in an easy-to-access location. Thankfully, she has ten times the patience I do under these sorts of circumstances, and before long, she was attaching our lovely “Kill ‘Em All With Kindness” art file to an email and shooting it off to Brad in Chicago. Thank you Holly.

We were soon loading into the Empty Bottle. We’ve played at this venue on two other occasions, and it’s one of our favorite places in the country. The show was sold out in advance, and we were excited to meet the two bands that we’d be spending the next two weeks with: Montreal’s Land of Talk and England’s Field Music.

These other bands turned out to be really awesome. I’ll delve into them more in the next few diary entries. The show was really awesome too. The only problem was that at this point, Brent’s health was rapidly declining into a full-blown throat explosion (I’ll leave that one alone). He powered through the set though, refusing to let his wussy sinuses stop his masculine glockenspiel skills. Justin and I watched proudly through the flailing limbs and pouring sweat.
-Danny

Links:
Menomenadotcom
Menomena’s ’space
Contact T-Mobile and tell them they suck
Land of Talk
Field Music

Photo by Kirstie Shanley. To see her other (awesome) Menomena shots from Chicago, click here.

After an aftershow extravaganza at Music Saves in Cleveland (that consisted of ten or so of us drinking cheap beer, listening to the National’s Alligator for the billionth glorious time, and buying CDs at random—J Dilla, Oneida, Bears, and Califone to name a few—we grudgingly called it a night and headed to our hotel.

Brent’s health was getting worse and worse, and I could feel myself joining the ranks of the diseased with every sneezed splash of spittle across my cheek. We hauled ourselves out of bed (or off the floor next to the bed, as the case may be for the most horizontally-challenged member of the band) and headed to Pennsylvania.

Pittsburgh is a unique city, to say the least. Justin summed it up by saying it feels like driving through a toy railroad town. The city seems so isolated from the main highway, in a maze of congested roads, tunnels, and decayed buildings from another century. That will be my last attempt at poetry in this diary. I promise.

The venue we were to be performing at was called the Lawerenceville Moose, a dubious name if I ever heard one. It turned out to be an actual Moose Lodge with an actual bingo hall and actual chain-smoking, jaded employees! They were wonderful folks though, and they greeted us with a green room stocked full of wonderful Vietnamese food, delicious fruit, and vegetables galore.

At this point, it was becoming more and more of a pleasure to see the lovely Land of Talk and Field Music people file through the load-in door shortly after us each night. We were truly starting to bond with these people, despite our musical differences.

Land of Talk is Elizabeth, Chris, and Bucky. They are possibly the most hilarious people we’ve ever met. Liz (or Lizzie, if you dare) plays guitar and has never sung off-key in her entire life, as far as I can tell. Chris rocks the bass like a bat out of hell, and can pretty much play any song written in the ’80s (his former band was a cover band). Last but not least, Bucky is a trained jazz drummer who has made the pop transition effortlessly. He is also a dead-ringer for Ethan Hawke [EDITOR'S NOTE: Dreamy!]

Field Music is a remarkably (but not annoyingly) refined pop band from Sunderland, England. They are made up of brothers David and Peter, who swap drums, guitars, and vocal harmonies flawlessly, while third member Andrew plays all sorts of keyboards and joins in singing occasionally. Their music is most often compared to XTC, but I kept hearing something like early Beatles crossed with Shudder To Think. Ooh, how I hate band comparisons.

Back to Pittsburgh. The show went pretty well. At this point, Iím still playing catch-up in these diary entries because Brian had the nerve to fly to London (more on this later) and leave me laptopless for FOUR WHOLE DAYS, so Iím totally backtracking to get up to speed. Un-catastrophic shows like the one at The Moose don’t burn all that brightly in my hazy booze, drug, and sex-addled memory. I remember the people being very nice, and I remember playing an encore.

Encores are weird. We’ve never played one in Portland, after six years of doing shows in our perfectly perfect hometown. We even adopted a “no encore policy,” because it’s always embarrassing to see a band waltz proudly back onstage to a half-full room of people partially clapping (and partially just trying to get laid). Plus, having this policy has always allowed us an excuse for not getting enough applause to warrant an encore in the first place.

But yeah, encores are definitely weird. I guess I understand them in theory: The performer bids the audience farewell, but the audience isn’t ready to see the last of him (or her). They jump to their feet and shake the rafters of the auditorium until the star swaggers back out, hesitantly at first, feigning drunkenness or surprise, and then dramatically launching into the song(s) that the audience has been waiting three hours to hear.

This has never happened to us. This will probably never happen to us. But yet for some weird reason, we’ve started playing encores on this tour. Some of them even seem close to being warranted. It’s never a good feeling though, as much as I’d like to say otherwise. It always feels like we’re doing something we have no business attempting, something that should be reserved solely for Luciano Pavarotti and maybe Aerosmith. This awkward feeling would only get more awkward in the shows to come. Yes, that was an attempt at foreshadowing. Goodnight.

-Danny Seim

Links:
The National’s Alligator is two dollars on Amazon.com.
Menomena
Menomenaspace

Photo (always funny no matter how many times I see it) by Alicia J. Rose.

DAY SEVENTEEN: OTTAWA!

Our debut performance in Ottawa was to be at a club named Zaphod Beeblebrox, which is apparently a nerdy reference to a nerdy, deceased author’s nerdy masterpiece. It was starting to snow when we arrived. We were told in advance that we had 30 minutes to play, and if the music went on past 11pm, we would have our gear locked in the venue until 2am, after the “dance party” concluded. Long story short, things weren’t looking so good.

We decided to try to postpone (or at least temporarily forget) the inevitable disastrous end to the evening before us with a trip to a local sushi restaurant. Our friend Brendan was in town, and we had a good time talking and eating and drinking and drinking (and drinking).

Field Music had just wrapped up their 20 minute set when returned to the venue, and Land of Talk was getting ready to play for the same generous amount of time. I set up our merchandise table and tried to focus.

We loaded onstage at 10:30, and immediately began having the usual Menomena Technical Difficulties (MTD’s, I’ll call them…more annoyingly persistent than herpes). Justin’s baritone sax mic wasn’t responding, Brent’s keyboard was dead, and all three of our vocals weren’t working. The clock on my cell phone crept to 10:50. Ten minutes before the drop dead zone. Ugh.

We started playing “The Pelican” and said goodnight three songs later. Brendan immediately rushed to the stage and said, “No, keep going! You have 20 more minutes!” We kept going, somewhat uncomfortably. Our set was eventually expanded to a miraculous seven songs, and we quickly packed up our stuff and got the heck out of there to the dance-eriffic sounds of The Bravery. Thank you Brendan.

I didn’t ask if the show was sold out or not. I’m going to pretend it wasn’t, just to keep my massive ego in check.

DAY EIGHTEEN: MONTREAL! BYE BYE, BRIAN!

At this point, we had accepted Mr. Brian Joseph into the fold as one of our own. We had become used to the fact that he knew our music and was eager to help load and unload our gear AND drive the van when needed. Taking him for granted might have been a stretch, but not a very big one. But now, he was leaving us. He was flying to London to meet up with his bread and butter boys of The Fray for a show at a venue that was probably larger than all of the venues we had played in on this tour, combined. He would return to our loving arms in four short days, but we still shed a collective tear as we watched him go.

We however, were flying by the seat of our pants to Montreal, Quebec. It was to be our second trip to the city, our first coming several months earlier when we were touring with labelmates The Long Winters and What Made Milwaukee Famous. It’s always a bit intimidating to play up there because of the vastness of the musical talent pool that seems to hover over the city. It sort of makes me feel like a hair metal rocker driving up from LA to play a show at the Crocodile Café in Seattle in 1992…out of place, yet oddly familiar.

Anyway, the club we were to be playing at was called the Main Hall, and it was unmarked from the street, save for a large address number. This worried us. Would people care enough to find the place? Would they all instead be at some secret Arcade Fire show at some secret cathedral down the street? Brian, oh Brian! Why hast thou forsaken us?

We were greeted by Matt the soundperson, and we instantly started to feel better about things. We soundchecked, and the noises coming out of the monitors before our feet still sounded like us. We asked Matt for more vocals and more glockenspiel, and he gave them to us. Field Music and hometown heroes Land of Talk arrived, and things began feeling better still.

By then end of the night, we were all pleasantly surprised at how good things went. The show was possibly sold out (but who am I to care?). Afterwards, we ate authentic French-Canadian meat sandwiches at a local fixture called The Main with the Land of Talk folks. It was time to re-enter the States.

-Danny

Links:
Menomena
Menomena-space
A Seattle Times article about shady dealings at the Crocodile Cafe circa 1992.
Zaphod Beeblebrox, the club. Zaphod Beeblebrox, the fictional character.

Image: Oh, Canada!

DAY TWENTY-ONE: NEW YORK!

After another night of pure mattress bliss in Boston, we fired up the ol’ Dodge and headed south again. We forgot to close the cargo bin on our roof, and it didn’t take long until the honking and pointing around us made us pull over. All of our luggage was still intact, but the trusty Swedish Army sleeping roll that had been padding my nights on the floor was M.I.A. We circled back on a reconnaissance mission, but it was gone. Forever. After a moment of silence, we pressed on.

The weather was beautiful and we were excited to be on our way to the Big Apple again. New York still continues to scare the crap out of me, but she sure is beautiful to see on a clear day. The Bowery Ballroom show had been sold out for nearly a month, a feat that still continues to confuse and astound me. Which Mafia was Barsuk paying? Was Fred Durst behind this somehow? Did these people see the name of our manager and assume Rush was actually playing under a dumbed-down moniker?

As we pulled up outside the venue, a familiar bearded man-child walked towards us pulling a suitcase. Brian Joseph! We all jumped up and down and hugged, then immediately put him to work loading in our gear.

Shortly after Brian’s triumphant second coming, another familiar figure was seen walking towards us. Lance Bangs! The Honorable Mr. Bangs was in town to film our performance that night, hot on the heels of his video for our song “Wet and Rusting.” We enjoyed yet another cheery Portland reunion, and then got our stuff ready to sound check.

The night was special for a number of reasons, but the most special reason of all was the celebration of our very own Justin Harris’s 30th birthday. The day before, his mother Diane had left several frazzled-sounding messages in my voicemail describing her plan to have a personalized birthday cake delivered onstage in NYC. I was skeptical.

After checking our sound, the four of us met up with more Portland friends Juline and Ariel and walked to Little Italy for Justin’s birthday feast. We had two hours before our set started at 11 pm. Food was ordered and appetizers were delivered. We talked and ate and I tried to pretend I wasn’t internally combusting from the sheer terror of playing possibly the biggest show of my life. Soon it was 10 pm, and the main course still wasn’t on the table. I excused myself and ran towards the venue. Or so I thought. Before I knew it I was passing all these weird streets that I had only seen in movies. Thankfully, My friend Michael was waiting for us to play back at the Bowery, and he guided me in on his cell phone. I was about ten New York blocks in the wrong direction and pooping my pants out of fear and indigestion.

I followed my bandmates through the doors, who had left 30 minutes after me with full stomachs. Ugh. We were on. I think we rocked out pretty well, all things considered. Halfway through the set, a woman brought a large chocolate cake onstage and the crowd sang a drunken Happy Birthday to our fearless saxophonist. It was one of those rare moments where all of the turmoil and fear and debt and homesickness and stress seemed to somehow be worth it. Happy Birthday, Justin. We love you.

DAY TWENTY-TWO: BROOKLYN! PRINCETON!

Despite my constant intake of Zicam, NyQuil, and Halls, I was clearly headed for a sinus disaster. My throat was on fire, and I was beginning to cough and sneeze blood. Yum. Brent was still coughing occasionally, but feeling much better. Brian had a pretty bad cold of his own, and Justin was 30 and invincible.

We slept for four glorious hours at a somewhat sketchy Red Roof Inn in New Jersey, and then crossed the water again to load up our gear at the Bowery and drive to Brooklyn. Have you ever heard of a cable TV show called Juan’s Basement? We hadn’t at the time, but this would soon change.

Juan and his basement were located in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, which I guess is pretty hip. We pulled up to the front of his house, and a crew of six or seven came out to greet us and help us carry in our gear. We made our way down the tiny staircase, set up, and soon were being taped performing four of our songs live. Juan’s friends crammed in around us on sofas and floors, and a fog machine filled the air. It was truly awesome. I hope the footage looks and sounds somewhat decent.

Our friend Tim Putnam met us at Juan’s, and the five of us went out for burritos afterwards. Tim is an amazingly nice and talented individual who also had deep Portland roots. He still plays music with The Standard, who just finished their fifth album. They’ve always been one of our favorite bands, and we’re proud to know them.

After bidding Tim farewell, we drove back into New Jersey. We had a college show that night at Princeton that we were all a little worried about. I was sick out of my mind, and the last thing I felt like doing was playing background music for co-ed love triangles. Or whatever that means. We were informed that our European brethren Field Music had decided to quit the tour to head back to film a TV show in their homeland, so the Princeton thing would be just us and Land of Talk.

Land of Talk played another bulletproof set, and the crowd’s reaction was encouraging. The kids weren’t as drunk as I imagined, and they actually seemed to be listening and dancing more than they were texting in their cell phones. Impressive.

We began to play and the room began to clear. The stragglers tried in vain to show their support, but it was a losing battle from start to finish. However, the promoter was really nice and we got a nice green room area stocked with fruit, trail mix, and Jamesons. I’m trying to be positive here. I was at my lowest low and in dire need of sleep. We headed back to the Red Roof for another solid five hours of unconsciousness. When did John Bonham find time to perform sexual acts on groupies with dead fish along these tours? That feat alone is more impressive than any drum solo he ever did. Sheesh.

-Danny

Links:
Menomena live from Juan’s Basement
Menomenaspace
Menomena dot com
The John Bonham “Mud Shark” story exposed.

Photo: Alicia J. Rose

DAY TWENTY-FIVE and TWENTY-SIX: CHAPEL HILL, NORTH CAROLINA!

One of the main things we were looking forward to this tour was the chance to play with a band called Megafaun again. They opened for us in Raleigh, N.C. last tour, and we’ve been keeping in touch ever since. The band is composed of brothers Brad and Phil on banjo and guitars, and drummer/vocalist Joey. They are awesome. Even more awesome is the fact that our Brian is their first cousin. This was a random discovery that still seems too good to be true. We were all very excited to get to North Carolina.

I’ll be honest, the Local 506 isn’t the best venue in the world. Apparently, the place to play in North Carolina is a venue called the Cat’s Cradle, which requires you to have at least 500 fans in Chapel Hill, approximately 498 more than us prior to this tour. So, we loaded in to the Local 506 for the third time in two years.

The night actually went pretty well, all things considered. The people who came to see us were incredibly kind and supportive, and I almost stopped daydreaming about the Rock and Roll Hotel for a split second. We asked some of the folks for suggestions on late-night dining in their fair city. A few restaurants were mentioned, and one was very explicitly warned against, “…however, under no circumstances should you go to a place called ‘Time Out’. It’s nasty there.”

Guess where Megafaun took us afterwards?

It was indeed very nasty. The chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes I ordered is still probably clogging some huge portion of my intestines and arteries, but damn if it wasn’t the best meal I’ve eaten in quite some time. Even better were the ’80s-era pictures of North Carolina sports celebrities making the “time out” sign (with their hands in a t-shape), hung proudly around the restaurant: Michael Jordan leaning against his BMW with navel-high sweatpants on…J.R. Reid with a Kid N’ Play-inspired flattop…Coach Dean with an awesome Marv Albert-inspired moptop.

We drew straws for first dibs on the bathroom and headed to our hotel.

The next day was our blessed first day off in what felt like years. My hands were a blistery, bloody mess from my poor aim and poorer technique behind the drums, and my throat and nose (and now stomach) all felt as if someone had been punching me relentlessly for the last week.

We slept in late at a luxurious hotel that we got for next to nothing on Priceline.com (yay!) and then met up with Brad, Phil, Joey (and their friends Kyle and Justin) for some wonderful home-cooked breakfast.

Afterwards, we decided to go to Adventure Island for some serious mini-golf, laser tag, and video gaming. We went to this crazy place last tour as well, and it never fails to cure the homesick blues. Unfortunately, it didn’t cure my sinuses. I spent the day sneezing, cursing, blowing, and repeating.

Up next on our stressless agenda was a Midwest-style grillout at the Megafaun place. At first I was a little disappointed by this decision, because I was looking forward to drinking $1.50 margaritas and then “ghost riding the whip” with our tour van around an empty Target parking lot like we did the last time we were in Raleigh. But I sucked it up and drove to the backyard grill location with the rest of the folks.

I was so glad I did. The food and company were both excellent, and before we knew it, we were drinking and playing air guitar/drums/bass/saxophone to the entirety of Dave Matthews’ “Crash” CD. We all knew every word by heart, which was simultaneously shameful and awesome. The night ended with Brad doing a spot-on imitation of ex-Chicago Cub Mitch “Wild Thing” Williams, pitching beer bottles and then rolling on the ground after the exaggerated release. It couldn’t have gotten any better.

Links:
Menomena-space
Menomena dot com
Lyrics to Dave Matthews’ Crash album
Ghost Ride the Whip blog

Photo from Chapel Hill courtesy of Dianna Potter (who also has great aerial pictures of the Decemberists and the John Vanderslice diaries she made for his merch booth. Rad!). See her flickr site here.

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT, TWENTY NINE, THIRTY, and THIRTY-ONE: BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA! LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS! DENVER, COLORADO!

I’m writing this on my bulky desktop computer in the comfort of my NE Portland home. It’s a small house with a perpetually dirty basement. This little place would be a tight fit for a single little person…. So, it’s pretty much a coffin for an awkwardly tall person, his wife, and his two obnoxious animals. But still, it’s home, and it’s my tiny castle.

This feels weird typing about our tour here in my computer room. Back in the van, my fingers would fly over Brian’s laptop like hummingbird wings. Wit, charm, and rampant lies would pour out of my subconscious and onto the screen effortlessly. There was always a distinct fear of sudden death lurking in the background, and I would keep my eyes locked onto the glowing computer, as if looking up would trigger a freak patch of ice or rusty nail to materialize directly under our spinning tires.

But now, I’m comfortable. It’s still about 65 degrees out there, and I just spent an entire Sunday doing nothing but mowing the yard and playing with Geddy Lee.

The creative well is officially dry, yet I’m still sitting here trying to tie up the loose ends with this here tour diary.

Where to begin? Well, last night was fun. Or, I guess, it should have been fun. Justin and I went to see Wet Confetti, The Joggers, and 31Knots rock the Doug Fir. It made me realize how much I take
interesting music for granted up here. 31Knots were completely out of their minds onstage…even more intense than their set in Austin many eternities ago at SXSW. Last night was possibly the best I’ve ever seen them play…possibly one of the best live performances I’ve ever witnessed. But again, I’m comfortable here. There was little risk of death on the trip to SE Burnside, although my car isn’t working too well. It must have missed me. The “check engine” light is on again. Another repair that I can’t afford. I know, I should ride my bike. I should fix my gears and get one of those little Tour de France hats with the small bill that flips up.

Back to last night though…I got a $60 parking ticket for misjudging a loading zone next to a Spanish music-blaring Bossanova’s, but that’s boring news. I feel oddly numb. There were so many loving, familiar faces at the club. I felt like hugging them all, and I actually came close to succeeding at this. Still, though. I’m not about to cross the Canadian border without a passport or proper proof of I.D. I’m not going to play a big show in New York City. I’m not going to drive all night from Dallas to Chicago in order to make a 5pm load-in. Tomorrow I’ll probably get up around ten, check MySpace, check email, hang out with Holly, and they try to shift my focus back to my day job. I’ll probably end up procrastinating though. I might print a shirt or two, or work on a couple CD layouts for friends. Holly will come home from work around seven, and we’ll eat together and maybe watch a movie. Maybe we’ll watch Tyra Banks or the People’s Court, both TiVo-ed from earlier in the day. Maybe Geddy won’t snore so loud on the couch next to us this time, so we won’t have to turn the TV volume up to a deafening level. God, I’m such a narcissist. I need to stop blogging. It makes me feel ten times more interesting than I actually am. MySpace. YouTube. Look at me! Look how funny I am! Look how creative and interesting my band is! We’re doing something new! We do funny choreography on treadmills! We throw our guitars around our backs and catch them again around our fronts and continue rocking out! We pose together in bathtubs, which is funny because we’re not actually gay! It’s irony, see? Ha ha! LOL! I need to end this paragraph somehow. Actually, it should have ended about twenty sentences ago, maybe even twenty journal entries ago. It should definitely have ended after I mentioned how great 31Knots were, before I started turning their magnificent CD release show into yet another forum in which I ramble on endlessly about myself and my relatively insignificant experiences over the past month. I should really be deleting all of this stuff before clicking “send” on the email to Casey and Local Cut.

But, perhaps this will be the breakthrough portion of the entire tour blog where I’m peeling away the superficial layers and the hype to get to sweet truth at the core of this whole thing. I’m keeping it
real…and the reality is that beneath the exaggerations and the false sense of accomplishment and excitement, this tour was really just four guys driving around the country, hoping to be liked and hoping not to die.

I have three more shows to write about. I’ll try to keep it short and sweet…if you’re still reading, you’ll appreciate that by now.

1. Our debut in Birmingham, Alabama was a lot of fun. The Bottle Tree is a wonderful venue with wonderful people making it exceptionally special and memorable. You really should go there sometime.

The crisp spring air was a sharp contrast to humid Atlanta. The green room was stocked with perfectly ripe fruit and the best trail mix I’ve ever tasted. A nice man named Possum (who actually resembled Michael Stipe, not a slow marsupial) cooked us yummy red pepper quesadillas. A nice woman named Rebecca made us feel at home with shared stories of mutual Portland friends, and then took us out to eat at a greasy (but great) Mediterranean place called “Al’s” after the show. I downed a flawless concoction of whiskey and antihistamines that made me forget about my three week-long cold for almost three hours straight.

We continued west to the lush sounds of The National’s “Boxer”, which comes out soon, and which you might like as well. It was more or less the soundtrack to our tour, despite Phil Collins’ unsuccessful attempts to hijack the CD player. Matt, Scott, Bryan, Aaron, and Bryce, we love
you. Phil, shut up.

2. The next night in Little Rock, Arkansas was just as good, if not better. It was our debut in that fine city as well, and the friendly people made us feel right at home. The venue was called Sticky Fingerz. I wrongly assumed this had something to do with either porn or marijuana (no offense, Little Rock). To my somewhat bittersweet relief, it was merely a reference to the kitchen’s specialty chicken recipe.

The opening band was called Drift, and they were excellent.

I made the terrible mistake of falling asleep outside in my drenched-with-post-concert-sweat clothing, and woke up 30 minutes later with “severe chills” added to my grocery list of ailments. I felt a little better after standing in the bathroom with the hand dryer blowing blessed warmth up my shirt until I tripped the venue’s electric breaker with my frequent pressing of the “on” button. We loaded up and
pressed on.

We decided to drive straight through the night to our final destination of Denver, Colorado. It was seventeen hours, I believe. Brian was undoubtedly just as excited to get home as we were, and he drove the final 550 miles, only stopping once to refuel. Brent, Justin, and I woke up to snow falling on the sidewalk next to Brian’s townhouse. We piled out and piled onto his floors and couches. It was 5 am.

We woke up six hours later and drove to a Vegan restaurant called WaterCourse for hors d’oeuvres (did I mention Brian is a hippie vegetarian with a fixed-gear bike? Care to comment, John Harris?). I don’t usually like Vegan foods based solely on principle, and I realize this is an immature mindset. My mango-pineapple-banana smoothie helped me see the light, and we were soon traveling towards the main course: Casa Bonita. I’ve been going to Casa Bonita for as long as I can remember. We have family roots in Colorado, and I’ve probably celebrated at least 20 different occasions there. I won’t lie; the food is possibly worse than Taco Bell, and roughly ten times more expensive. But, they have cliff divers. Inside the restaurant! Needless to say, it was the polar opposite of WaterCourse (a false advertisement of a name, if I ever heard one. Not even a fountain in there, not to mention a thirty foot cliff). And it was awesome.

As I mentioned before, Denver has always been a little less-than-enthusiastic about having Menomena play within it’s city limits. Our first two shows there were at a place called The Larimer
Lounge. Remember? I drew a witty parallel between The Fray playing Portland to a crowd of thousands and Menomena playing Denver to maybe 12 people. You might have even laughed at the quip. I definitely did I while I was typing it, because I was dumbfounded at my own cleverness. But that was light years ago. Now I’m bitter and jaded and to bitterly quote Morrissey, That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore. None of this is, really…

ANYWAY. To sum it up, our show this time at the Hi-Dive was wonderful. It was sold out. I was high on a mix of antihistamines, Alka-Seltzer and whiskey again, and it was fun. Justin and Brian celebrated the end of tour by shaving off their beards into funny mustaches. Brian looked like a dapper circus announcer from the 1920s. Justin looked eerily like Steve Prefontaine. Brent looked handsome as always, and I looked like Niagara Falls was pouring out of my nose, cascading over my upper lip, and into my open mouth. Come and get it, ladies! Ugh.

The next day was Easter Sunday. Justin and Brian woke up early to serve the Lord, and Brent and I slept in like total heathens. However, Brent showcased his God-given talent by cooking us all an amazing breakfast. And I, uh, stopped cursing myself and my miserable narcissistic life for two seconds. He is risen, indeed!

We hugged Brian goodbye, promising to keep in touch. We walked slowly to our trusty vehicle, stopping frequently to wave and blow kisses to our faithful soundguy, as he stood on his porch, smiling through the tears. We hopped in the van, still waving frantically, and turned the key.

It wouldn’t start.

Ah, it’s just cold. Keep trying!

Nothing.

How awkward.

Brian walked into his house, probably trying not to stare…probably trying to preserve the moment…probably trying to pretend nothing was wrong, that we’d be gone in seconds after the van decided to cooperate.

It wouldn’t cooperate.

Now the engine was flooded from so much gas pedal-stomping. We sat there, embarrassed, thinking of that one Curb Your Enthusiasm episode where Larry has to do the “double-goodbye” at the ex-porn star’s house.

There’s nothing worse than a double-goodbye.

Finally, the engine turned over, and we floored it out of there.

The drive home was a long one. It’s roughly 22 hours from Denver to Portland, but it easily feels like twice that if you’re homesick, and sick in general. We stopped in Cheyenne, Wyoming to eat at Applebees (don’t laugh, you snob) and watch Blades of Glory (stop it, seriously). There was something about being delirious with exhaustion and excitement to FINALLY BE DRIVING HOME that made us all cry with laughter during the movie. Or maybe it was actually the funniest movie
of all time, I don’t know. Either way, it was a fitting finale to a fantastic voyage that left us changed forever.

Ah, that’s not completely true. It just sounded like a good way to finish.

If you were one of the kind people come to one of these shows along the way, thank you for making this trip memorable enough to write about. And if you just spent precious time reading this entire rambling attempt at journalism, thank you as well. Hope to see you all in the near future.

Love,
Danny / Menomena

Links:
Menomena dot com
Menomenaspace
Pre! Pre! Pre!

Photos: Danny rocking the drums (”Zoom in and you can almost see the mucous flying”) and Justin on stage in Denver (”Rocking the Prefontaine look (i.e. child molester) onstage in Denver”). Both taken by Jim Presley.

Thanks for everything, Danny!

It’s been a while since I’ve met someone who deserves sainthood more than Kirby James Fairchild. It wasn’t enough that he and his All Smiles band played a major role in making our summer US tour so perfectly enjoyable. No, Jim took it upon himself to offer up his Chicagoan home to us on our last night in the States, then gave us a place to do laundry, then took us to breakfast the next morning, then let us store all of our gear in his living room, then offered us invaluable advice about playing overseas, then drove us to the airport, then parked (and is now watching) our van while we were gone. He’s a truly wonderful individual, and I’ll never tire of exclaiming my love for him (obviously). Thank you, Jim.

After Jim dropped us off at O’Hare International, the terror began to sink in. Something unexplainable happened to me between ages 13 and 25 that has left me absolutely horrified of flying. I grew up in Hawaii, so my family was constantly flying across the Pacific to our Portland relatives and back. I don’t ever remember having any problems other than the usual restlessness and boredom that affects any kid who is forced to sit still in a small area for more than six hours straight. The past five years though, I’ve become a complete wreck when faced with the grim reality of boarding a plane.

I promised myself this time, I’d be taking some sort of drugs to shut my brain off. Sleeping pills, muscle relaxers, intoxicants, any or all of the above. Anything to get me across the Atlantic in one sane piece. For some reason though, I was feeling brave. “I don’t need that stuff in my system! I’m a man! I’m a MAN!”

Hours later, I was trapped 39,000 feet above icy black waters, 1500 miles from land in either direction, in a coach section that probably wouldn’t have sufficient legroom for Gary Coleman, in the middle of a Boeing 777 that was shaking and lurching violently with every tiny pocket of subzero wind beneath it’s wings. I was not a man. I was a hyperventilating, fidgeting, restless, 6′9″ trembling mess of a person. I tried to watch one of the Oscar-quality movies (”Wild Hogs”? “23″? WTF!?) on the little screen in front of my face, but every time the plane shuddered around me, the screen shook with it and I seriously thought about using my worthless wool blanket to parachute out of the escape hatch.

So I did what I always do in that specific situation. I prayed without ceasing, just like my mother used to tell me to do. I prayed so fast and so furiously that my desperately whispered cries for divine intervention began to unconsciously mash-up with Snow’s 1992 crossover dancehall hit, “Informer…you-know-say-daddy-me-snow-me-i-going-blame…
please-god-don’t-let-this-plane-crash-now!…detective-man-say-say-daddy-me-snow-me-
stabbed-someone-down-the-lane…don’t let-this-plane-crash-now!” I didn’t even stop to think about how offended I would be if I were in God’s position at that moment. I didn’t have time to. I was too busy preparing to die.

But then we landed. On dry land, without flames or that fat guy from Lost carrying me out of the jungle to safety. I came as close as I’ve ever come to physically kneeling and planting my lips on the asphalt. But then my stomach turned and I made a beeline to the bathroom. Hello London!

We waited in the endless immigration line for an hour while I hypnotically watched the same woman’s lower back/upper butt tattoo expose its questionable self every two minutes as she bent over to pick up her bags and put them down again twelve inches later. I wondered if my own sweaty butt looked much better, tramp stamp or no tramp stamp. The rear of my jeans had definitely endured a lot of damage over the past eight hours. I helplessly waited for the bile to rise into the back of my throat again, then picked up my own luggage and took a tiny step forward.

Finally we were walking along the corridor away from the baggage claim, giant instrument flight cases dragging behind us. At the end of the hallway was a kind-looking man holding a handwritten paper sign with “MENOMENA” scrawled on it. We shook hands and loaded all of our things into the back of his futuristic Toyota van.

The first difference I noticed about European culture was in the automobile department. The strangest thing to me was that I recognized all of the brand names—Honda, Ford, Toyota, Volkswagen, Mercedes, Volvo—but 90% of the vehicles themselves seemed to be taken directly out of a brochure advertising life in the year 2025.

Most of them were hybrids or diesels, too. Why are American cars so old-school? I pondered this as our friendly driver zig-zagged through the most bizarre roadway system I’ve ever driven through. I hadn’t slept in nearly 24 hours, but every time I nodded off, the swerving car reminded me of the airline turbulence, and I awoke instantly in a cold sweat.

Not that I minded seeing the unfamiliar scenery all around me. London is ancient, sprawling, and beautiful. I was just too weary to properly digest it all. So I closed my eyes and tried to think of something other than white rappers wearing circular leather Africa pendants around their necks (and John Lennon sunglasses) while lip-synching the timeless lyrics, “whipped down me pants, looked up me bottom.” I hate you, Snow. Because I can’t stop loving you.

I must have finally blacked out, because when I awoke, we were driving through Portland again. Young men with tightly fashionable women’s jeans and neatly sculptured hairstyles. Young women with ballerina shoes, bright skintight leggings, bulky sweaters and oversized sunglasses. Wait…is that a cobblestone road? A red
double decker bus? This isn’t SE Hawthorne! Oh right, we’re thousands of miles away from home, and I almost had a stroke a couple of hours ago. This is Camden, London, and we have a show to play somewhere along this colorful street. There it is! The Barfly! We will be rocking you tomorrow night, Barfly. But for now we must sleep.

The hotel room was tiny and stuffy, but I didn’t have time to process this before sweet, sweet sleep overtook me nanoseconds before I belly flopped onto the skinny mattress.

-Danny Seim

Links:
Menomena dot com
Menomena-space
All Menomena tour diaries on LocalCut
Allmusic Guide on Snow’s 12 Inches of Snow (4 1/2 Stars!?!?!)

Photo: Snow. From the heydey.

It’s around 11:30 pm on a Wednesday night in Berlin, Germany. I’m sitting in our van outside a club called Festaal Kruzberg. Inside, a sweaty, hairy, shirtless mass of Americana is ruthlessly pounding their way towards oblivion onstage. Fittingly enough, it’s the Fourth of July. No, I’m not in the parking lot of a Bear-themed bath house. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a band called O’Death. And they rock really really really really really really hard. In an Appalachian sort of way. This might not be your cup of tea. I’m not sure it’s even mine. But they definitely rock. And now we’re labelmates over here. Yay City Slang!

The band that played before them is called Beach House, and they rock too, albeit in a fully clothed and not particularly hairy (I’m assuming. They kept their shirts on) sort of way. Beach House is a lesson in subtlety, and I love them for it. Their names are Victoria and Alex, and they’re really nice, too. They’re from Baltimore and I’ve been listening to their album religiously for the past two months or so, on recommendation from my best little friend in Texas, C.J. Davis.

Well anyway, we’re about to go onstage. I’ll type more later, if my hands aren’t too bloody.

(three hours later)

Boy did that show suck. Now I’m sweaty, partially intoxicated, and typing from the same van seat I was in before our set. I fell asleep in the venue after we played, so my contacts are crispy and hard against my eyeballs, and I have to blink like a hummingbird’s wing in order to see straight. It was my personal worst performance of the tour. I’ve started playing with shoes on for the first time of my life because there’s something about going barefoot on rented bass pedals and hi-hat stands that grosses me out…like shaking a friend’s hand after you just watched him pee in the men’s room without washing afterwards. Playing in shoes brings about a whole new set of unfamiliar issues, because I can’t feel how hard I’m stomping. I’ve decided it’s the lesser of two evils though. Excuses, excuses. Yes, I sucked.

Also sucky was the fact that O’Death played before us. We should have played second, and let them headline. The place was packed and rowdy for them, and consequently sleepy and dwindling by the time we got onstage. Not that I blame these Berliner crowd folk. It’s a weeknight, for starters, and a rowdy band like O’Death playing before a wannabe artsy-fartsy band like Menomena is not unlike watching Andrew W.K. open for Snow Patrol. After partying hard, you don’t want to just lie there. So yeah, half the crowd left, we sucked, and now it’s goodbye Berlin. Sigh.

Now we’re driving back to the hotel. My prediction: I struggle with getting wi-fi in my room to contact my neglected wife before collapsing on my much too-small bed before waking up in two hours to empty my neglected bladder and then collapsing again only to wake instantaneously to the sun piercing through the useless curtain and into my hangover-addled skull. And then it’s onto Paris. God, I want to go home. But even that requires another plane trip.

(the following afternoon)

Wow, that all was very negative. Forgive me. I should be more optimistic when placed in the fortunate position of being able to tour the world. I should save all the crabby remarks for twenty years from now when we’ll be lucky to tour the state fair circuit. I can see it now: Pitchfork Media Presents! The Class of 2003 Reunion Tour! Starring The Rapture and The Unicorns, with special guests Menomena! Coming to a casino near you! Ugh.

Stay positive…stay positive…ok. We spent the day before the show in Berlin doing interviews to promote the upcoming August 31st release date of our Friend And Foe album. It’s amazing how well-researched and thorough the journalists are over here. We’ve become so exhausted from thinking of clever, unique ways to answer the five following questions in the states:

1. So why the Muppet obsession?
2. So why the computer obsession?
3. So why the bathtub obsession?
4. So why the anagram obsession?
5. So why the Muppet obsession?

I mean, I know we’re not exactly the most famous band from Portland here. We’re not even the most famous band from Beaverton…I can only imagine the amount of repetitive questioning bands on a much larger popularity scale must face. What does James Mercer reply with when asked about Zach Braff? What does Colin Meloy say when asked about his extensive knowledge of literature? What does Isaac Brock spout in response to a question about Johnny Marr (or self-mutilation)? I am curious about all of this. I’m sure these NW icons wouldn’t falter in situations like we were in recently, being asked, “So what’s it like being the white TV on the Radio?” (to be fair, Brent did a pretty good job by responding, “we prefer to be known as the Korean Los Lobos”). Sheesh.

Back to “staying positive”. I guess I should offer some sort of disclaimer here, like, “We here at Menomena LLC hereby wish to express our gratitude to every journalist everywhere who has taken time out of his or her busy schedule to acknowledge our existence as a band, regardless of his or her chosen method of questioning or critique.” Far be it for me to callously bite the calloused hand that feeds us. However, I do wish to specially thank these kind European journalists for doing their homework. They could have been talking to the Kaiser Chiefs or Kasabian, but they chose lil’ old obscure us instead. Thank you from the bottom of my humble heart. The rest of the literary world would do itself a favor by following in your brilliant footsteps (by the way, I sing on tracks 4, 6, 7, 11 and 12, and my flawless drumming is featured throughout).

We’re driving to Paris now. I know I’m totally ignorant, but the fact that you can just up and drive to Paris on a whim here is slightly mind-blowing. Maybe after the show we’ll casually choose to sail a junk to Hong Kong, or perhaps hop a Great Glass Elevator to Saturn. You can do it all over here. Well, all except for playing a decent show, evidentially. Agh. It’s time to break the cycle, Staind-style. Onward, Christian Soldiers!

Links:
Menomena.com
Menomyspace

Photo: The impossible to photograph Danny Seim. Courtesy of Flickr user “Sooper Dooper”

Editor’s Note: This is part one of the final two Menomena tour diaries from their European/U.S. extravaganza. Danny has been nice enough to send along some video clips, too (see the bottom of this page).

We are aboard a Jet Blue flight to Chicago, and the Spiritualized reference is especially appropriate for me, because I am under the blissfully ignorant influence of Xanax for the first time in my life. These words seem to be especially clever onscreen, and I seem to be typing with my fists instead of my fingertips. Ahhhh, yes.

Sure, the flight from JFK to O’Hare is only about two hours, but it’s still long enough for me to scream inwardly with every slight bump of turbulence. Justin and Brent are sitting to my immediate left, laughing out loud at the Simpsons, and I am typing incoherently. So let’s see, where did I leave off? I believe we were leaving France at the time, having just played an amazing but technically challenged set at that big festival. Goodness, that seems like a century ago.

We crossed the English Channel on a ferry and played a second show in London. This time, the venue was called the Old Blue Last, and it was a fun way to bid Europe farewell. We also bid our trusty tour companions Sascha and Jonas goodbye, and boarded our plane back to New York. The flight seemed especially long this time. I was so eager to get back to the States. I watched “Blades of Glory” exactly twice in a row, and we touched down shortly after Will Farrell saved the couples skating competition with his jock strap for the second time. How fitting.

We had three days off in New York, which was quite a luxury. Justin and I immediately met up with one of the nicest couples in the world, Tim and Catherine Putnam. Tim plays in a band with deep Portland roots called The Standard. Menomena has been fortunate to play a few shows with those guys over the years. We’ve been taking advantage of the Putnam’s superhuman generosity for three years now. Not so long ago, they were cooking pork chops for us at 3 am, after a show in Raleigh, North Carolina. Like I said, superhuman. We couldn’t repay them if we tried.

However, before we crashed for the night, we had business to take care of. Get ready, it’s Transformers: The Movie.

Justin and I left our luggage at The Knitting Factory, a historic Manhattan venue that Tim currently manages. We were hoping to cross paths with Chantelle Hylton, aka our Other Favorite Ex-Portlander Who Now Works at the Knitting Factory, but she wasn’t at the club yet. A cab was hailed and we were on our way to the Lower East Side. The first theater had some bad news; Transformers was sold out. We got in another cab and made it in time to a later showing at another venue.

What a horrible movie.

Granted, I wasn’t expecting another Citizen Kane. I wasn’t even expecting another Blades of Glory. I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting, but I definitely wasn’t expecting to see a two-and-a-half hour Chevy commercial. Actually, it was worse than that. At least traditional Chevy commercials have that semi-uplifting “Like a Rock” song. This one had Linkin Park. And John Turturro. And ten million other horribly wrong things with it, but somehow seeing John “Jesus Quintana” Turturro at the center of it all was the most depressing. So I did what any other self-respecting person in New York who was still running on London time would do…I dozed off between the Hiroshima-sized explosions that were happening every three minutes onscreen. At last, the credits rolled. We caught two more cabs, one back to the Knitting Factory to get our bags, and then one to the Putnam’s lovely Brooklyn apartment. I hit the Aero Bed hard and lost track of everything for the next ten glorious hours.

The next day we were due for a live recording session for a website I’ve never heard of called UGO. Brent (who was staying with another friend of ours named Andrew) met us uptown at a fancy studio where Bob Dylan allegedly recorded recently. It was kind of funny loading our gear into the airplane hangar-sized session room, realizing that it would be the first time we’ve ever recorded in any sort of legitimate studio, in the six-year history of this band.

The UGO guys were really nice. It turns out that it was my ignorance—not their obscurity—that led to my lack of prior knowledge about their website. Girls, comics, sports, video games, and Taking Back Sunday interviews…to quote Stephin Merritt, “If there’s anything better in this world, who cares?”

We played four songs, and did a short interview. I guess it turned out okay. I guess we’ll soon find out exactly how “okay.” It’s so weird to just play songs into funny-looking microphones and be completely at the mercy of a stranger in the control room. We usually agonize, sweat, and fight over every single nanosecond of our recordings when we’re mixing ourselves back home. But here, we just packed in, rocked out, and packed up. The engineer was a nice guy named Ed who mixed a few records by the bacnd Asia back in the ’80s. I’d say we couldn’t have been in more capable hands without Bob Rock himself flying in from Maui.

Our friend Arye was kind enough to let Justin and I spend the night in his apartment. It was the second time he’s extended his hospitality to us. The first was when we were touring with The Long Winters last year. We were all tired, sick, and sleepless, and Arye stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, waiting for our arrival. He had mattresses on the floor and hot breakfast for us in the morning. I don’t know how much longer we can continue to play the sympathy lodging card with these incrediblcy generous friends of ours across the country. Thank you all. Come to Portland, and we will repay you tenfold. With our billfolds or Ben Folds, whatever floats your boats.

The following day was Friday the 13th. Time to play the Seaport Festival. This festival is part of a month-long event that spans the tip of Manhattan, stretching from river to river with free shows every weekend at different outdoor venues, featuring bands like Spoon, The New Pornographers, and well, us. Justin and I took the subway because we were already well over the $100 mark in cab fares over the past two days. I miss my little Honda.

Tim met us downtown. We ate fish and chips with him on the pier, and then took a long walk through Manhattan after sound checking. We went to Ground Zero, which was as depressingly incredible as you’d expect. I’ve never been that close to the site. We looked through the tall fences at the rebuilding process, and it was quite an emotional experience. It’s hard to believe that it’s already been six years…as we walked around the perimeter of the site, it was hard not to think of the people jumping to their death upon that same asphalt beneath my feet.

We crossed a few busy streets and ended up in Battery Park. I got to see the Statue of Liberty for the first time in my life, which was kind of boring. She was a tiny speck in the distance, and the kids skateboarding on the stairs next to me were more interesting. I guess it’s better if you take a ferry to see Her up close. Or if you finally see Her after being on a ship for weeks from a foreign land, like Tim’s great-grandmother. That’s pretty awesome. We walked back to Pier 17. It was getting close to showtime.

A band called Beat the Devil was playing before us. They were good: Drums, bass, and a harmonium-wielding female singer with an incredible voice. The skies looked uncertain, but the weather was warm. Several massive boats rocked rhythmically in the murky river water directly behind the stage. Our performance went decently well, I think. The rented gear actually matched our specifications, which was a total unfamiliar treat. The crowd was massive. We should always play for free. Well, maybe not. Thank you, New York.

After the show the three of us took Tim, Catherine, and Andrew out to eat at a Latin restaurant in Brooklyn to celebrate our last night in the Big Apple. It was good, but more importantly, it was open. What happened to the “city that never sleeps”? Or, is it “no sleep ’till Brooklyn”? Regardless, I had two syrupy-sweet mango margaritas and we all enjoyed ourselves. We bid farewell to the Putnams in the morning, I popped my blessed Xanax, and my Simpsons-loving bandmates and I were soon landing in Chicago.

—Danny Seim

Links:
Menomena.com
Menomenaspace
Transformers: the Movie reviewed in WW

Videos:
“Weird”

“Muscle and Flow”

“Strongest Man in the World”

“Wet and Rusting”

Thanks to Danny for the YouTube goodness, and an unnamed fan for the photo (identify yourself!)

So we’re driving on the wrong side of the road again. Above and behind me is Justin, sleeping in a queen-sized loft. Directly in the seat in front of me is Jared, wearing oversized headphones. He lifts them off his ears temporarily to readjust, giving me just enough time to register the beat of “Smooth Criminal” by Michael Jackson. Someone should make a movie about a eunuch with a penchant for thievery based on that song. Brent is sitting next to Jared (in case you missed where we last left off, Jared is definitely NOT a eunuch, at least in the facial hair department. His auburn waterfall of a beard has only become more breathtakingly cascading since our last tour), also with headphones on. Brent’s are of the little earbud variety. Brent is reading a thick book, the title of which has something to do with dodo birds, I think. I’m jealous that he’s able to read and listen to music simultaneously. Seated in the driver’s seat directly in front of Brent is Sascha, our fearless German tour manager. He’s wearing a sexy pair of sunglasses and a striped hoodie. Sascha spoils us on a daily basis over here, where it’s the norm to drive on the wrong side of the road. Back in the States, we’re still about 465,000 album sales shy of affording a van (or driver/tour manager) this comfy. Someday. Har har.

We’ve successfully completed the first week of our fall 2007 tour, European chapter, and I just saw a sheep casually grazing with a spray-painted blue butt. I don’t know if that’s a metaphor for anything. Possibly so, but I’m too tired to put it together right now. I’m going to climb up in the loft next to Justin for awhile.

Now I’m awake again, sitting below Justin. The same lush English scenery is flying by to my right, just beyond the oncoming traffic, which is flying by even faster. I don’t mean to make the view sound monotonous though. It’s very beautiful. There’s greenery, sheep (most with regular-colored rears) and stone cottages as far as I can see. It reminds me of driving to my dad’s house through the countryside of Cornelius, Oregon, to the little woodshed where we practiced for years and recorded our first album. Back then I’d never dare to dream that I’d be drawing a parallel between those windy, speed-limitless country roads and the foreign roads we’re touring on now. But I’ve already spent way too much time writing about nostalgia and homesickness in these journals. From now on, if you just assumed those emotions were omnipresent, you’d be right most of the time. The Omnipresent. I like that. Well, I kind of like it, in the same way I used to “kind of like” crying while driving through said countryside listening to Jeremy Enigk’s gravelly upper vocal register: Bittersweetly. Ok, moving on.

Johnny Cash is currently telling us that God is going to cut us down. Sascha really likes Johnny Cash and Motown music. One or the other is usually playing in his van’s CD player. There are lots of things over here that remind me why I’m not always proud to be an American, but this music isn’t one of them. It’s funny to hear Johnny’s deep baritone paired with Sascha’s German-speaking GPS unit. A sterile-voiced woman is constantly speaking long words that I’ve never heard before. I wonder if her robotic pronunciation is as hit-or-miss as our English-speaking one back home.

It’s now almost exactly 24 hours later. Once again, I’ve just finished sleeping with Justin in our mobile love nest. To be honest, he’s kind of boring in bed. He just lies there, unconscious. Maybe that would make me the boring one. Anyway, Sascha’s driving us south now, through the same sort of scenery we passed through a day ago. Yesterday we were in Scotland. I know, I’m a total ignoramus and I deserve to be shot, but I didn’t realize Glasgow was in Scotland. Or, well, maybe I subconsciously realized it… Maybe I just thought Scotland was a remote island that you couldn’t just drive to in a few hours from somewhere as British-sounding as London or even Manchester. Scotland and London have always seemed like two polar ends of the earth to me. Bagpipes or double-decker buses. Mike Meyers or Mr. Bean. Mogwai or um… Arctic Monkeys? Yeah, something like that. There we were last night, at a venue called Nice ‘n Sleazy (more on this later). Then, in half the time it takes to drive from Portland to San Francisco, we were in a whole new world.

Now that the first week of this European tour is safely behind us, I shall flex my non-photographic memory muscle and offer a list-based recap, complete with bullet points:

• Sometime before Brent and I arrived, Justin (who left a week in advance) unsuccessfully tried to jump over a fence in a London park. Our hero caught the leg of his pants on the fence, and landed on his face (shoulder and right thumb, to be specific). Details are still sketchy. However, I do know that this accident resulted in him wearing a sexy combo of Ben-Gay and Ace Bandages on his wrist and shoulder during a few of our shows. Thankfully, this took some of the spotlight off of Brent’s dual knee braces and my “just been neutered” neck lampshade. Hot sex.

• Brent and I arrived at the Portland airport, checked in, walked to the gate and were offered $800 apiece if we waited until the next day to fly. We said yes. The next day, we were offered another $800 if we took another day off. Unfortunately, we had a show in Hamburg, Germany that evening, or we would have experienced the most profitable 48 hours of our lives.

• On the flight over there was a kid seated directly next to us who christened both the takeoff and the landing by vomiting on his mother, noisily. Nothing compliments the smell of fear like the smell of someone else’s digestive fluids. The same kid celebrated the nine-hour gap in between these dramatic bookends by screaming, only pausing to let his sister take over, tag-team style. Brent and I had requested the exit row, in order to have more precious legroom. Halfway through the flight, the mother of said children plopped herself down on the floor—our floor—her sweaty back rubbing against our shins while she tried to bounce her precious children to sleep in her bile-soaked lap. She was singing “Old MacDonald” (with a thick accent) so loudly that the rows around us joined in, in hopes of persuading the kid to sleep by joining forces. The result was the least soothing choir I’ve ever heard. Fortunately by that point I was too drugged to notice, let alone kick her “accidentally” (Thank you, Kaiser Permanente).

• London is really expensive. Brent did one load of laundry for $16. I paid $10 for an hour of Wi-Fi signal on three separate occasions. Justin is still holding a major grudge against the entire city for damages and personal suffering inflicted by those ridiculously hard-to-hurdle fences. All that aside though, our performance at Hoxton Bar went really well, I think. The personal highlight for me was watching the spastically jerking guitarist from Velofax, the excellent opening band. Every time he took things a little closer to the edge (lowercase), we were treated to a more generous view of his butt crack falling out of his pants. Incredible.

• Our MySpace page got hacked somewhere in Germany. This is much more of a tragedy than you are probably thinking. 17,601 unsuspecting “friends” were bombarded with comments and emails that said something along the lines of “you wont believe this PICS!” or “I got free Macy’s gift card here!” We received 371 emails from concerned recipients letting us know that our privacy had been compromised. Some said we had gotten “phished” (lowercase “p”). Some said this was a common problem when traveling internationally between unprotected Wi-Fi connections. One helpful fan claimed the same thing happened to him when he clicked on a “vid with a hot chick” and a fake MySpace site asked him to log in again, thus stealing his info. This seemed like the most probable explanation. Regardless, I had to retire our beloved “lancebassrulez69″ password for once and for all, exchanging it for something much harder to guess.

• There are lots of prostitutes in Hamburg. Strolling the streets at 2 am, Justin claims he had to use the word “nein” a lot (I’m assuming this means, “how much, just for conversation?”) while the rest of us were sleeping in a less-than-luxurious youth hostel called the Rock & Roll Hotel.

• Justin, being the last to join the email-obsessed laptop convention that has become Menomena On Tour, has officially discovered the joy of YouTube on his shiny new MacBook Pro. This, of course, means more downloaded episodes of R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet, at every Wi-Fi connection along the way. Jared also wasn’t lucky enough to experience the first 12 “chapters” in this extravagantly dramatic form of career suicide when they were first released, so Justin has been making sure he’s up to date. Now all four of us wake up to the song permanently lodged in our subconscious: that annoyingly awesome water-drop percussion… A multi-tracked choir of the accused pedophile’s voice singing “ohhh!” in two different keys… Memorable lyric snippets such as, “love, my ass!” “Bitch, say no more!” and of course the old standby, “I pull out my Beretta.” To make matters even better (worse?), Justin has also discovered the “Weird Al” Yankovic parody, Trapped in the Drive-Thru, which is equally memorable, but only if you’ve memorized every minute detail of the original. We’re getting there.

That should just about get us caught up.

Agh, no, that’s not true.

There’re still a lot of things I’m glossing over that deserve more attention. Our show in Berlin was a lot of fun. It was in celebration of the European CO-OP, which is basically us and a bunch of bands that I happen to like a lot (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Caribou, Beach House, Les Savy Fav, Arcade Fire, etc.), that are all on a few labels that get along really well (City Slang, Wichita, Bella Union, etc.) under the V2 distribution umbrella. Or something like that (I’m going to play my “ignorant American” card here for the umpteenth time this tour). Anyway, the show was more or less a festival showcasing a few of us co-operating bands. It took place in a giant airplane hanger of a venue called Postbanhoff. Fortunately there were bands that German people seem to like a lot (Stars, Architecture in Helsinki, Malajube) on the bill that brought a lot of people into that massive building. One of those people was none other than Jonas, our handsome former soundperson. It was great to reminisce with him about the glory days of our first European tour, a mere two months ago, before Jared swept all of us away on his magic crimson carpet ride.

Also along the way was the house and family of an amazingly kind woman named Bernie. Bernie took us in after our show in Manchester (at a venue called The Roadhouse). She cooked for us, did my laundry, and let us sleep in her comfy basement. She’s possibly the most hip mother of three (ranging in ages 5-16) that I’ve ever met. She played us an Adrian Orange CD while we ate her Indian gourmet. She played us the new Animal Collective LP on her turntable after dinner. Best of all, she stayed up drinking wine with us until 3 am, while Justin relentlessly showed her the full first six episodes of Trapped in the Closet, followed by (naturally) the Weird Al version. It’s worth noting that Bernie had never heard of Weird Al before sitting patiently through his 10-minute parody, laughing politely.

And then there was Munster! How could I forget Munster? Our dear friend Annette met us at the show and promised to guide us around her lovely city afterwards. Our tour pretty much consisted of us noticing a dumpy bar across the street called “Butt’s,” presumably named after the business end of a cigarette. Right on cue, the funny-only-to-sleep-deprived-Americans humor kicked in; “how big of a tip should you leave in Butt’s?” “I don’t know if I feel like eating Butt’s tonight, after all,” or “those old timers sure seem to like it in their Butt’s,” and so on. The highlight of the evening was when Justin started yelling, “You da man…. No YOU da man!!” at a Butt’s regular who looked like he had been inhabiting his spot at the bar for the last 40 years, without pausing in between swigs of gin. The old fellow ate up the shared spotlight, and exchanged a few air guitar licks with Justin from across the room in time with the pumping speaker system. The guy probably couldn’t introduce himself in English, but he knew every word to “Smoke on the Water.”

We played in Glasgow, Scotland with a band who are going to be big stars someday. They were young enough to be authentically bored/uninterested instead of faking it like the rest of us old farts. They were also young enough for the drummer to triumphantly remove his shirt midway through their fourth song and reveal a large Led Zeppelin tattoo, without the crowd snickering or leaving. They were young enough to put their own stickers (which featured a crude pencil drawing of a naked girl’s backside, which corresponded with their band name, which won’t be mentioned here) all over their own guitars and drums, without a hint of irony. They were probably too young to understand irony and all the fermented bitter baggage that comes with it. I stood there in my faded neon pink “WHAM! CARELESS WHISPER TOUR ‘87″ half-shirt, matching fanny pack, parachute pants, and Teva sandals, seething jealously:

I am now exactly three-quarters of the way to middle age. My relevance to anyone under 23 is waning by the nanosecond. My teeth are chipping and rotting because I never developed a flossing habit. My knees make weird cracking sounds when I run up stairs. My eyeglasses prescription gets worse every time I visit my optometrist, which is at Costco. I have a Costco membership. My hair is getting ready to desert me completely any day now, I can just feel it. There are little pieces of grey in my chin stubble, which I notice during those random months when I decide to neglect shaving, to see if I’ll be able to pull off the bald/beard combo someday soon (answer: “No.”). If the anatomical studies are true, my cursed male nose and ears will never completely stop growing. I should get a tattoo. Or maybe like 45 of them. Tattoo guys are agelessly cool. Then I’ll buy a motorcycle. I’ll launch a full-fledged surprise attack on this imminent midlife crisis before it strikes like a thief in the night. I’ve never even been to a strip club…

This band of toddlers is making me a nervous wreck. Oh, and did I mention they’re signed to the same record label as U2, PJ Harvey, and Bob Marley? They’ll never have to work a day job in their lives. Ugh. We took the tiny stage after their three roadies gathered, packed, and loaded all their instruments into their tour bus (while the band was casually chatting it up with the girls at the bar—evidentially the Scottish legal drinking age is 14). Surprisingly, most of the crowd stayed where they were for us (probably just for the freak show factor. Conscience, shut up). I guess we rocked it pretty well, considering I spent the set trying to pretend I couldn’t smell Justin’s Ben-Gay wafting through his shirt next to me like a sinister foreshadowing.

We crossed back over the English Channel aboard a P&O Ferry, from the white cliffs of Dover to the French seaport of Calais. It wasn’t so smooth this time. Jared and I had the pleasure of sharing a cabin area with an entire team of teenage male athletes, specific sport unknown, though my money is on “rugby.” With every gigantic lurch and roll against the swell of the choppy grey water, the boys tried to get William—evidentially one of their teammates—to vomit his lunch. “Think of the fish sandwich you just ate!” they yelled in pubescent cockney accents. “Oh no, here it comes! Here it comes!” Poor William. I came pretty close to avenging his shame by taking matters into my own stomach and projectile regurgitating all over the perpetrators. Fortunately, both Billy and I abstained. 73 uneasy minutes later, we were docking in France.

Our first show in France was in a small city called Tourcoing. My French is even worse than my non-existent German skills, but I believe you’re supposed to pronounce the city’s name like “terck-WAH,” with that little throat-clearing noise inserted in the “ck” portion of “terck.” Watch out, ladies: French is the language of romance, you know. A band called White Circle Crime Club opened for us. They were excellent. So excellent, in fact, that I was reminded of our tour last year with 31Knots, where I spent every show feeling upstaged by the opening act. The venue was called Le Grand Mix, and it’s one of the nicest places we’ve ever played. The highlight of the performance was when a giant stage light, hoisted high over my head by an elaborate stage scaffolding (fellow TV junkies: it was just like the scaffolding that could be seen inside Bret Michaels’ house on VH1’s Rock of Love this past glorious season. Non-fellow TV junkies: sorry, we have nothing in common) burst like a small grenade and showered colored glass to the floor directly behind me. Brent and I both jumped out of our skin onstage at the sound of the explosion, and then spent the rest of whichever song we were playing trying to pretend it was just another one of our new punk rock stage moves. Drumming barefoot has never been so treacherous.

Paris was the next night, which was a big show for us for a number of reasons. Most importantly, we were joined by the one-and-only Craig Thompson onstage for a truly artsy-fartsy extravaganza. Craig had just flown in from Portland via New York, and seeing (and hugging, multiple times) his wiry, chiseled frame made me feel overtaken by the Omnipresent again. Good ol’ Craig. He’s one of the purest examples of an artistic genius that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, and knowing personally at that. Seeing him in Paris reminded me of sitting in a Barnes & Noble in Hillsboro, Oregon (an uncool Portland suburb) in 2001 or so, blandly flipping through a music magazine (possibly Metal Edge, probably SPIN) to pass the time between the end of my all-night Kinko’s shift (which took place across the street, four nights a week, ten hours a shift) and the beginning of my History of Graphic Design class, set to begin in 45 minutes through an hours’ worth of traffic in downtown Portland…

I was about to fall asleep in the free reading section of the magazine rack area, when I noticed some words popping out of an article (which I believe was sharing page space with an article about Linkin Park or Creed). The words were: Portland, John Askew, FILMguerrero, Craig Thompson, Blankets. I remember snapping awake, asking the clerk where the graphic novel section was, searching in vain for the book, driving to Powell’s Books in Beaverton (an even more uncool Portland suburb) and then the “City of Books,” Powell’s, in downtown Portland, striking out at both locations. My last hope for Powell’s was the branch on SE Hawthorne, but I never made it there (at this point, I had completely forgotten about going to class, partially out of sleep deprived delusion, mostly out of scholastic hatred). Instead, I found my numbly detached arms parking my car outside a little store called Excalibur Comics that I had been regularly driving past without stopping for the previous five years. There, on the front display shelf, was my very own Excalibur: a brand-new copy of Thompson’s masterpiece, Blankets. I dropped a knee, shielded my eyes with my forearm, and made the purchase. I ended up missing the next three classes that day was well. I parked outside my school, but never even left the car. It was the first of many times that I’ve read that book through blurry eyes, from cover to cover in one sitting.

So yeah, all of that flashed through my mind when I saw Craig in Paris. I fortunately brought myself back to reality before I got to the part of the daydream where I shared that brilliant book with everyone I knew, or where my band happened to play a show where Craig was doing a signing, or where my band happened to start working with that very same record label (with that very same Askew guy) that was mentioned in the magazine article, or where I got to know Craig on a personal level, or where my band put out a CD featuring Craig’s flawless illustrations, or, or, or… OR, I would have just stood there staring at him in awkward silence. No time for that though, we had a rock show to play. An artsy-fartsy one, at that. Four men, four hundred instruments and a sheet of butcher paper. Or, ahem, better yet (forgive me), “Three Men and a Craigy.”

The performance went really well, I think. I hope the people at the venue (called “Nouveau Casino,” for trivia’s sake) enjoyed it. I wish I could have watched what Craig was doing behind us. I didn’t want to look back for fear of beating myself in the crotch with a drumstick. The paper started our set as a blindingly white ten foot-long empty canvas. When I turned around after our last song, it was covered in unmistakably familiar, freshly inked little demented creatures. But I only saw it completed for a matter of seconds. Before I could properly absorb it all, Craig was tearing it off the wall (to the gasping and screaming of the audience), and then ripping it into shreds, throwing it like confetti into the area that would have been a mosh pit if we would had been Linkin Park or Creed. For the first time in my life, I was glad we weren’t.

We have six shows left in Europe, including tonight’s date in Nuremberg. I had to check our own MySpace page for that info just now. That’s pretty sad. I’m going for a walk…

Ok, I’m safely back behind the glow of my computer screen. That journey was…interesting. For starters, that was possibly the longest walk I’ve ever been on, at least in a city famous for trying and executing Nazis. First of all, let me say this: If an all-night Kebab/Doner shop ever opens in Portland, I’m moving. They are in every city here. It’s not so much that the food is bad… A Doner is kind of like a Gyro with a slightly higher gristle content. Every shop has a telltale slab of meat rotating vertically on a spit in the front window, or in the open air of the street (that can’t be healthy). I originally thought these meat pillars were djembe drums. Every corner, a new percussion shop! Even after learning that they actually represented greasy sandwiches, I sort of liked them at first. But they’re always the only option at 2 am, after we’ve finally loaded out of the venues and we’re hungry as heck. Like Denny’s here, but even worse. Anyway, I passed about 12 of those eateries on my epic foot voyage.

The other notable thing I passed was considerably more memorable, whether I want it to be or not.

After leaving just before dusk and walking about 30 minutes in one direction, I found myself in the Nuremberg city center. I didn’t know it at first though. I thought I was just passing by yet another amazing 12th century brick fortress (ho, hum), with intimidating turrets pointing high over impenetrable walls. There were no lights or windows. Suddenly though, a busy street carved an entrance in the wall, and the fortified area opened wide to reveal its true identity as a large shopping area with brightly lit signs and people as far as I could see. I went in a few stores and managed to find a pair of pants that fit (this is no minor victory for me). I sort of lost track of time in that area, and it was dark as I tried to make my way back to the venue (which was called Muz, by the way). I picked up the pace.

I followed the lights of the buildings back to the major street that took me back the way I came. I could see it ahead on the horizon, cars flying by in both directions, people pushing strollers and carrying shopping bags. But here in the area immediately around me, the buildings really seemed to glow. A very calming, almost hypnotic shade of red. Neon red. Wait a minute… Is that a woman looking out of her bedroom window at me? Is she wearing a bikini? It’s October! And now she’s waving, even! I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see her Speedo-clad husband casually stepping off a Vespa and walking up the stairs to be welcomed home from work. But no one else was there, save for a few shadowy looking dudes in leather jackets leaning up against the corners of the buildings. One was even lighting a cigarette almost comically; leg bent at knee, foot against house, hand cupped in face to block wind. A quick tap of knuckles on glass brought my attention back to the friendly sunbather upstairs. Yes, she was definitely trying to get my attention. As I stumbled along the sidewalk, I noticed that she had an equally unabashed housemate who was now smiling at me from a downstairs room (perhaps the kitchen?). Both waved flirtatiously as I weakly tried to pretend I had a watch on my wrist that needed checking every two seconds.

I now realize this took entirely too long for me to process, but I honestly didn’t put it all together until I saw a third bikini-clad happy housemate step into the scarlet glow of another large window downstairs. These ladies weren’t just being cordial. They were prostitutes! Whores! Hookers! Harlots! Holy crap! I was knee-deep in what Ludacris so eloquently dubbed, “The Red Light District”! I started rapping the song silently to myself, unsure of what to do next. Should I throw out a little salute? A quick wave back? No, that might show too much interest… I’m not interested, am I? And, if I may ask myself, interested in what, exactly? A lighthearted chat comparing and contrasting the legacies of Syd Barret and Alexander “Skip” Spence? Perhaps a leisurely discussion about Clap Your Hands Say Yeah’s effect on the modern music industry? Why am I even pausing for reflection?! No, I’m not interested. Act casual! Maybe a quick two fingers across my neck combined with a “no” headshake? Good! This will surely let them know I’m a married American, all by myself, thousands of miles away from home… Agh, no, that’s certainly not the proper mindset to be in right now. Self, calm down. It’s just a naked person trying to seduce you through a window. No big deal…

As naturally as possible, I patted the seat of my pants to make sure my wallet was still intact, clutched my oh-so-very-masculine-looking H&M bag, and tried to look like my imaginary wristwatch had just signaled a distress call. The questionably attractive working girls weren’t fooled for a second. I was trying so hard to straddle the line between strutting confidentially past them and just sprinting the hell out of there, that I ended up doing some sort of jerky skip dance along the sidewalk. Maybe solo skipping in public is a sign of male virility in Germany, I rationalized to myself… Especially after a preemptive butt pat. Sigh… I need counseling.

My favorite stop so far along this tour was Brussels, Belgium. We played at this incredible venue called Le Botanique, which is a massive botanical garden in the center of the city. The huge building was once an open-air arboretum that has since been converted into two performance spaces, an art gallery, theater, and restaurant. It was beautiful. The city surrounding the venue was amazing, too. We had a day off to explore the cobblestone alleys, bars, and historic buildings that seemed to pop out of every section of the city. Most memorable was the city’s most (in)famous statue, “Manneken Pis.” It’s a little fat kid urinating into a fountain. Like a mannequin pissing. Get it? You’ve probably seen it in history books. What you probably haven’t seen is the street leading up to the statue, which is lined with souvenir shops selling replicas with fully functional corkscrews in place of the little pervert’s member. Charming!

It’s late. It’s Munich. The bartender at the club we played (”The Orange Room”) just served us seven shots of Jagermeister. Each. I take that back, Jared and Justin each one-upped me with eight. Wow. Justin made an interesting observation tonight. Here goes: “self-deprecating humor onstage in Europe goes over in like a fart in church.” Amen to that. Tonight we played in the same city on the same night as Oktoberfest AND a Feist concert. I tried to make a joke about “Oktoberfeist” and no one laughed. Not even a single cricket. I need to sleep now. My head is already pounding. Goodnight.

I think we’re in Switzerland now. I have a Ricola cough drop in my mouth. The box says “lemonmint sans sucre.” It’s pretty good. Sascha is faithfully driving up front with his girlfriend Danielle. He calls her “Dani” which can be kind of confusing. Fortunately, hers is pronounced like the elder Wahlberg brother and mine is more of the Bonnaduce variety. Dani has been traveling with us for a few shows on this tour. They’re really cute together. I usually hate it when people describe couples that way, but these two are an exception. Joe Haege and Corrina Repp are another exception. Portland! Now there’s an Ikea out the window! They just opened an Ikea about five minutes from our house in Portland. On the opening weekend, Holly and I went there just to eat a meatball lunch. I love those meatballs. With fries, gravy, and the lingonberry sauce on the side. It all runs together on your plate and it’s like the best thing ever. I can’t say the same for their furniture, though I’ve still bought (and consequently donated to Goodwill) enough of it over the past five years to furnish a small city. Ah, the Omnipresent. Time to change subjects again.

Back to last night in Munich. Jared hurt his wrist on a half-pipe, Tony Hawk-style. Except in Jared’s X-Games, there are no skateboards. No embarrassing corporate sponsors, either. There was a lot of Jagermeister present though, as well as a half-pipe. That’s a dangerous combination, when grouped with a heavily bearded sound guy. We were walking from the venue to our sleeping quarters, which was in a separate apartment building out back. Jared was pulling his suitcase that has approximately $20,000.00 worth of microphones in it. Suddenly a little light went on (or off) in his intoxicated skull. He let out a war whoop and took off running towards a large ramp where we had watched skaters ripping it up earlier in the day. For the next few minutes he was like the Tasmanian Devil on that thing, cracking the whip of his suitcase across the steep transitions of the ramp, a blur of legs, arms, and that great backwards cape of a beard leading the way, his mouth screaming crazily from somewhere deep underneath it. I thought I was going to wet my pants. I actually had to look away so I wouldn’t. Too much!

Only four shows left to go.

Well, shoot. We actually weren’t in Switzerland a few hours ago. This is Austria. Vienna, to be specific. Wait, is Vienna in Austria or is Austria in Vienna? I’m obviously delirious, and there obviously isn’t a Wi-Fi connection in this club (which, I can say with confidence, is called “Chelsea” because I’m sitting right underneath the sign on the wall) or I would have checked these fun geographical facts on the Internet before making a total arse out of myself. I’m sure we’re not in Switzerland though. That’s tomorrow. My Ricola reference was in vain. Today I found out we’re signed to Universal Records here in Europe. Universal owns everything. Sure, we’re still a happy member of the City Slang family, but apparently City Slang has ties to V2, who is owned by Universal. Fun stuff. Ok, Jared is calling to me through the PA system. Time to go sound check. I must conclude this brilliantly informative slice of literature for today.

Wow, Austria! What a nice experience! If last night’s diary entry didn’t make this fact clear enough, I was at a tour low upon our arrival at Club Chelsea. The interior of the place was strangely laid out. It was a long narrowish hallway divided into three rooms. The first room was where the stage was, along with a tiny space in the back for Jared to mix and about 100 other people, if they squeezed together. Beyond that was another similarly sized space with a few tables, chairs, and a bar. Last in line was another bar with a football (i.e. soccer) game playing loudly in the background. Each room had a set of speakers to broadcast whatever was happening on stage to the people in the respective rooms. Poor Jared had his work cut out for him. I halfheartedly plinked around to check the levels on my rented drum set and headed upstairs to the dressing room, which is where I promptly wrote some boring stuff about Ricola, Universal and geographical ignorance.

It wasn’t long before Sascha came up to tell us that the place was packed. We’d have to reach the stage from outside the back door to the club, because it was too dense in there to plow our way through the middle. This came as a bit of a surprise. Really? Um… Okay! We did as we were told. We also were told that a group of 10 or so had traveled up to a dozen hours from Croatia to see us. Nothing like a little pressure to get the blood flowing in all the right places. We played as best we could, and the healthy crowd was surprisingly responsive, even when Justin filled every pause between songs with a dedication to the giant gay bar across the street. I lost my “passionate artist face” a few times throughout the set when I thought of Sasha Baron Cohen (as “Bruno”) persuading those semi-endearing frat-boy idiots to flex their naked buttocks for “Austrian Gay TV.”

Austria and its alleged homosexual media outlet are far away now. We just crossed the border from Switzerland into Italy. Switzerland contains some of the most beautiful landscape I’ve ever witnessed firsthand. I took a lot of pictures out of the window as we flew by, steep drops and cliffs on sometimes both sides of the vehicle. Italy is immediately different. I can’t tell if this is smog or just an overcast day, but the sky looks, well, pretty gross right now. Gone are all the majestic Alps, replaced by distant construction cranes and cell towers. I can look directly at the sun without blinking… There’re too many layers of brownish atmosphere between our two heavenly bodies for it to do much damage to my retinas (I hope). We’re headed towards Milan (here it’s pronounced with an “o” tacked onto the very end), and I’m trying to remember all of the Italian I’ve learned over the years from watching the Sopranos. I’m relatively confident in my ability to secure an evening with a whore here, and possibly have someone bludgeoned to death while I’m at it.

But back to Switzerland for a moment. We played at a beautiful club called The Palace in an equally beautiful city called St. Gallen. The building was a 1920s movie theater that had been renovated into a music venue sometime in the past decade or so. The dressing room was the former projector room, and you could look out the lens holes in the wall and see the stage far below. The people were really nice as well. One couple traveled three hours to see us as a first-year anniversary present to each other. It was very flattering. I haven’t mentioned our performance yet for a reason: I’d rather focus on the positives of the night… Such as after the show, when we went out for (care to guess?) kabobs & doners! Woohoo! The two Middle Eastern men running the place greeted us with a “hello, bilattan!” We were confused by this mysterious “bilattan” salutation (a Swiss formality, perchance?) until we realized that they were referring to Jared as “Bin Laden” (this became obvious after the seventh or eighth time they addressed him as such). Strangely enough, they said it in a friendly, almost complimentary way, as if they were comparing his looks to Tom Cruise or maybe Heath Ledger. Thankfully, Jared does not hate freedom. Or there would have been hell to pay. I saw him on that skate ramp…

Italy, I take it all back. Sure, the border area of your fair country could use a little work, but which country’s couldn’t? The Milan show went very well after a delayed start courtesy of a few lifeless AA batteries in Justin’s fancy foot bass thingy. Best of all was our reunion with Craig, who had spent the last several days with his publisher in Amsterdam. Wait, did I forget to mention our show in Amsterdam? That’s odd. Man, a Snickers bar sounds good right now for some reason… Hmm. Anyhow, seeing Craig again put the wind back in our sails. After the show, he worked overtime, drawing Sharpie tattoos on anyone who asked. My favorite was seeing a gleeful little blue Jared on Justin’s tree trunk of a forearm. There’s going to be a lot of unwashed limbs in Milan for a while, I imagine. The next day’s drive towards Spain along the Mediterranean coast of Italy and Southern France was just as breathtaking as the hills of Switzerland. I did my best to capture the scenery out the window but my cheap camera hardly did it justice at 80 km/h.

Ugh, stupid baguettes. What an annoying food. I just broke out half of my front tooth trying to eat a sandwich stuffed inside one of those worthless petrified hot dog buns. I guess it wasn’t entirely the bread’s fault (no offense, France). A little over a year ago, I had the pleasure of hitting myself in the face with the claw end of a hammer (accidentally). Long story. I got my tooth fixed in Hawaii, which is another long story… In short, the dentist was an old friend of the family and he did the job in exchange for an autographed Menomena CD (his deal proposal, not mine). Who knows, maybe the CD broke in half months ago and we’re even. Except I’m assuming his broken CD doesn’t directly affect his chances of getting sex from his wife. Or maybe it does (I’ve always noticed an undeniable pre-pubescent Barry White quality to Brent’s voice when he sings so seductively about a monkey spitting poisoned grape seeds into his face). My original front tooth lasted about 24 years longer than my fake tooth did, which seems a little fishy to me.

So I’m en route to Barcelona with a hillbilly front tooth to supplement my hillbilly beard experiment (for those taking notes, the verdict on the future bald/beard combo is still a resounding “No”). To make matters worse, my chipped new look has blessed me with a lisp. I have a distinct fear that Holly might take one look at this oversized dirty mess of a person waiting in the “arrivals” section at PDX, and decide to just gun the accelerator right past me, before I even get the chance to theduce her with my thnaggletooth or the thexy thee-D I’ll be clutching, “But come on! You thould thee what thisth album did for my dentitht! No? Well, okay, but at leath give my Ithaac Brock imprethion a chanth!” I can already see her automatic window rolling up in my face.

Craig tried to improve my mood by telling a story about a beloved ruler many years ago in Barcelona. This man had a lisp as well, and had a hard time saying the name of his own city. The people ended up adopting the alternate pronunciation “Bar-thelone,” and the true natives of the place can still be heard saying it this way. Craig says I’ll fit right in. Thankth, ath-hole.

Last night was the crazy finale to this crazy tour. For some reason, the Barcelona venue (called “The Apollo”) was double booked. The first set was a two-band bill that started at 7. Then, after clearing everything out, we would move all of our stuff in and start our set at 1:30. Yes, AM. I mean, yeah, yeah, rock and roll and all, but we had to be at the airport at 4 am to catch our flight at 6:20 am. We just ended up winging it, and it ended up working. Sort of.

After an early sound check at 1 pm, we had about five hours to kill before we were expected back for dinner. Jared and I took it upon ourselves to embark on a five-hour, self-guided walking tour of Barcelona’s city center. Holy crap. It was so good that I almost couldn’t enjoy it out of guilt for Holly not being there to see it with me. Every maze-like alley in the city contains some of the most amazing architecture and historical buildings and statues that I’ve ever seen. We briefly visited the Dali and Gaudi exhibits, both interesting in their own right, but the majority of our free time was spent gawking up at cathedrals like true tourists. Before we knew it, we had to be back at the venue.

The Apollo was very crowded with people who didn’t stop talking to each other for the entire set. At this point in our career, it’s still hard to say what’s worse: a perfectly silent crowd of 40 who never break eye contact with you onstage, and clap conservatively after each song, or a decent-sized crowd of 300 who don’t seem to care that you’re up there testing the limits of consciousness and sweat dispersal. No, that’s easy. I’d take the former in a heartbeat. However, having Craig up there performing with us again unquestionably made the show for us, and for the crowd. An encore was played, awkwardly. We weren’t sure if they were roaring for us to come back out of the dressing room or just roaring in drunken conversation volume. Craig’s giant pieces were ripped down and handed out to the people who cared. We packed as quickly as possible and I ran back to the hotel to take a shower, eyeing my comfy bed lustfully. No time for that though. We had 30 minutes to get to the airport. Bye Craig! Bye Justin! Bye Barcelona! Sascha and Dani rushed Brent, Jared, and I to the airport (Justin was finishing the tour as he started it: Alone in a foreign country for a week of nothing but fence hurdling). We made it, as usual, by the skin of our freshly broken teeth.

Folks, we are on a big ol’ jet airliner. We are halfway to Portland. The tour is over. Every once in a while, a computerized map pops up onscreen between movies (right now it’s the cinematic genius of Evan Almighty) to let us know our progress. Only nine hours left. Super. I’m fantasizing (hallucinating?) about an animated mushroom or lava lamp popping up onscreen to monitor my level of druggedness. It’s hard to tell how far gone I am. At home it’s easy; I can just watch a YouTube video by Reh Dogg. Here though, all I’ve got is my trusty little laptop and about two inches of elbowroom… Definitely not the optimal circumstances for plugging in the ol’ headphones and letting the iTunes visualizer work its magic. I think I need a higher dosage of these anxiety pills. I mean, they’ve definitely helped. The fact that I’m sitting on top of my chair instead of wedged beneath it is a sure sign of progress. I’m still scared though. The doctor recommended taking a half a pill for long flights like this. I’ve taken three pills so far today. And like I said, we’re only halfway there. Living on a prayer. Take my hand baby we’ll make it I sw………Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

-Danny Seim

Links:
Menomenaspace
Craig Thompson

Nearly all of the photos are by Danny, except for the ones that are obviously not his, and the three photos of Craig drawing onstage in Paris are by Pierre-Yves Arnoux, the three photos of the guys in Nuremburg (playing on a nice red carpet) are by Alexander Puchta, and the photo of Tu Fawning is by Alicia J. Rose.