[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.