August 08
Some tour diary snippets for your enjoyment
by Aaron Retka
For a musician, there is, hands down, no better time you can have than going on tour. (There’s also nothing more exhausting, potentially incendiary, sullying and torturous, but that’s another story.) Tour is, when done right, the reason you’re playing music in the first place, a chance to travel and meet new and amazing people while doing what you love.
My band, the Great Redneck Hope, toured a lot. We had countless awful shows and bad days and fights and van problems, but the Hope always approached touring as an adventure and a privilege. We had fun, almost always, rarely viewing our time on the road, as too many bands do, as a trial to be endured. We made up songs and giggled and instigated makeout parties and were, I was told, infectious in our enthusiasm.
From the very beginning of our touring careers, in 2002, I kept an online tour diary (the term “blog” was not so much in usage then) and maintained it until our last full tour, in 2006. It’s a pretty accurate, if terribly silly, record of a band that stands as an example of most bands: we toured, sold records, garnered fans, but never became famous, never signed to a major, never made a video. The majority of working bands in our country are like that—just dudes playing music. You’ll never hear of most of them, but they sacrifice their time, money and health to go on the road.
What follows are brief selections from five years of my tour diaries, spanning eight or nine (or ten?) tours, countless miles and inside jokes and hundreds of shows.
Day One.
2002-08-13 | 4:21 a.m.
Tour has officially begun. You’ll have to excuse me; I’m fairly drunk. This will be explained later. This has been perhaps the most surreal day of my life. To continue:
Just outside of Las Vegas, NM, we fucking ran out of gas. I’m not entirely sure why, but we ended up dying five miles outside of town. Chris and I began hitchhiking to town, but a truck stopped for us about a hundred yards from where we stopped. It turned out that the guy had a tank of gas, in addition to a few SS tattoos and poorly-concealed swastika tattoo on his arm. Thank sweet Jesus we’re white.
Got into ABQ. Went straight to the Launchpad. We played after the Happy Campers, having traded the first for the fourth slot. In a nutshell, we sucked. Jeremy’s amp blew a fuse, Dan’s drumset assed out on us, and we were far from tight. Sold some merch. ATS ended up playing last, which I feel really bad about; they only had twenty minutes or so to rock.
Anyway, we finally found this party we were invited to and were fairly shocked to find that it was full of nude, painted hippies dancing to really bad techno. Butt-naked babes, dude! We have pictures to verify this. The cool thing is that I believe Mike Nipp from ATS got a picture of me flashing my roll of bling with a naked girl. Yeah. Mike Stephens ended up getting painted by hippies. Derek and I also did kegstands, which explains the drunkenness. Hott.
2003-01-15 | 11:18 p.m.
Hello from Arlington, VA. We’re at yet another generous stranger’s house, having just played what may go down as the stupidest show in rock history.
We drove today from Richmond to D.C, with Jeremy and I up front, listening to stupid music and giggling, and Derek and Chris in the back, scowling. Dan slept (of course).
Found our way to the show after insane hair-rending traffic jams. The place is located in a strip mall in the grossest white-trash town ever. It’s called the Spotlight. (This will be important later.) Went in to see what’s going on and were yelled at by the stupid bitchy owner. I had to show the bartender about thirty types of ID to get a beer.
The promoter showed up and was actually really nice, in contrast with the owner, who was trying to charge $1 for glasses of water and was essentially swaggering around being a dick. By this time, the place was packed with Mexican tough-guys, hicks, and gangstas. This is in addition to the four people who actually paid to get in.
We did four songs before Jeremy broke a few strings and we were forced to quit. Dan and I commenced the mighty double top-shelf in retaliation of the owner’s suck. We stuck around long enough to get paid and to see three songs of the local band, who were cute n’ cuddly nine-year-olds playing Good Charlotte songs and who had a guitar tech. Very adorable. High-tailed it out of the there after getting $40 from the promoter, who paid no doubt out of pocket.
“Spotlight” is now hip street slang for “retarded barrel of suck,” as in, “Man, was that Martin Lawrence movie spotlight.” It is the retarded yardstick by which all other forms of retardation shall be measured.
2003-01-18 | 12:36 a.m.
I’m writing this from Peoria, IL, where we just had a rock show. Upon arriving in town, we managed to offend a Christian guitar store owner by loudly discussing skullfucking. Came up with the best band ever: a quintet of bearded, enormous Vietnam vet bikers called War Memorial: “Heeeeyyyy, yaaa’lll liiike Skynyyyyyrd?” Well, fuck you. It’s funny to us.
2003-07-07 | 1:15 a.m.
Well, we’re in Coloma, CA at a river-rafting camp that Jeremy’s sister works at. We shall drink beer and watch trust-fund hippie kids emerge naked from a sauna by the river. It’ll be hot.
We rocked Gilman last night with the almighty Red Light Sting, who’re beyond pretty, and who are an amazing live band, and who find our song titles amusing, apparently. Before that, the fourth of July was spent driving to Santa Cruz from Reno. We walked on the pier and the beach and built the most DIY bonfire in the history of fires, made from all trash from the cans lining the public beach. We titled the fire Book Your Own Fucking Bonfire, and our names are now as follows, because we’re so punk rock: Crud, Smegma, Muck, and Slimer. We invented a dead punk homie named Trantor, who ate anything. For instance:
“Hey! One time me and Trantor were super-fucked up, and Trantor was hungry, and dude, he ate a whole fucking Chrysler, dude!”
It’s funny in person. Believe me.
We decided that we shall tour next time on surfboards, because surfing is so totally awesome.
2003-07-11 | 2:40 a.m.
Yo, whores. We’re in Tacoma, and we made new friends. They’re an all-girl hardcore band called To See You Broken, and they have exactly our sense of humor. Case in point: they were looking at new shirt designs for their August tour, and one said “This pussy won’t eat itself.” So sweet. I think we might have a mass marriage and tour together until the end of time.
Needless to say, we had a fun show tonight in Tacoma. We woke up early at Dan’s house and Derek and I went to talk van. Learned that the problem is entirely transmission and won’t get worse. Got an oil change. Got totally bitchin’ new tires with scorpions on them. The van now rides like a dream.
While at the tire place, we invented a game show called “How Big These Rims Is?” in which contestants have to guess the size of tricked-out wheels. (Hint: “Dubs” is almost always the correct answer.)
2004-01-11 | 10:21 a.m.
So, hi. We’re in Santa Barbara CA at a very lovely home.
Yesterday was indeed a rock party and a half. Drove from Daniel’s house to Santa Barbara with surfing in mind. Got there, saw sissy waves on the beach. Instead broke into fancy hotel’s buffet for Snap-On tool convention. A few were successful. A few (me) were not because of high-decibel yelling across the courtyard, “No free champagne, dudes!” No trouble.
We saw a ton of folks riding wacky novelty carriages along the beach sidewalk, so we decided to find one. After finding them, we decided to beg for money in order to pay for one, which resulted in the following hilarity:
“Do you enjoy the theater? We will perform a one act play complete with crying for forty dollars.”
And so on. There were other ploys for money, but I don’t particularly feel like translating them into pithy quotes. So fuck you.
2004-03-25 | 2:35 a.m.
Woo! Spring break! Long-ish overnight drive to New Orleans. New Orleans is like getting felt up by twenty moist frotteurs who are wearing gloves made of butter. Girls not so fully clad there. Show in 2000-seat auditorium, but with everyone on stage instead of in their seats as they should be. Fully rocked by the Cinema Eye and An Albatross. No opening band, but brilliant piano to hammer on. Stayed with Sarah, who left her wonderful apartment to go see indie-rock. Were treated to a night in the city by her roommate, Mariah The Party Werewolf, who got us like so drunk and stuff. Ended up in an after-hours bar lit only by Christmas lights at 7 in the morning. I was drinking a Manhattan, for some reason. The Party Werewolf and Dan passed out. Fun was had. Woo!
The next day we awoke and went to a drive-though daiquiri strand for grain alcohol goodness. We then went on the Tulane radio station and talked lots of shit about everything.
Three awesome things about New Orleans:
1) To-Go cups at bars. No way.
2) To-Go cups at bars. Still unbelievable.
3) Tits.
2004-07-22 | 5:48 p.m.
So, hi. Sorry about the delay in updating, but we haven’t been near a computer in a while. Crazy few days. From Austin we went to Houston and met up with newfound pals Erika (with a “c” maybe?) and Stewart (with a “u” in lieu of “ew” maybe? We’re fucking retarded). The show was at the totally inappropriately named Super Happy Fun Land. I say inappropriate because the show was neither Super nor Happy nor Fun. Local bands played, everyone left, and there were one thousand touring bands left to play. Sweet. This means playing for other bands.
So, sold next to nothing, got next to nothing from the door. This situation of shit was completely ameliorated, however, by the purchase of six hundred pizzas by Erik(c)a and a bitchin pool party in Mansionland. We swam, we drank, we ate. It was hot.
The hotness became fucked the next morning when our van broke down a whole lot. This happened just outside of Houston in 100-degree heat. Called AAA, subsequently met one of many hillbilly-on-parole wrecker drivers, who offered to put in a new alternator for hella cheap. Dude fucked it up a lot and the job took him close to three hours. He’d promised 20 minutes. Sent BK to the Dallas show, got on the road with newly-installed alternator. Promptly broke down again. We said, “Bitch!” Called AAA again, got towed 30 miles up the road to a garage. Went to a hotel.
Went to the shop the next day. The shop was staffed by freaks, to say the least. Jeremy adopted a pretty good Texan accent by simply leaving all the consonants out of words. It turned out that part of the van’s computer was fucked and the part was unavailable in that sister-fucker town. So, called AAA again, got another tow into Dallas by another on-probation toothless weirdo, went to a parts shop and to a Chrysler specialist, got that shit installed, and we were on our way.
Did I mention that en route to Dallas the chains from the flatbed wrecker punctured our gas line, spewing fuel all over the highway and functionally losing the tank of gas we’d just put in? No? Cuz that was awesome.
So, we hauled ass from Dallas to Tulsa and learned that we’d still be able to play. Got in around 12:30, rocked the quickest set ever in a park next to the river, sold some shizzle, and retreated to Dustin’s for cocktails and awesomeity.
Woke up, proceeded to haul to Wichita. Casey from Ricky Fitts brought me to Fed Ex to pick up new records, which are beautiful and officially released. We love Wichita. The shows there are consistently rad and the drinks are cheap and there is always a trampoline on which to tramp. Great show, to say the least.
Today, we drove a bit, bought fireworks and porn, and now we are in Des Moines in order to blow the fucking lid off this joint. We might also point some bottle rockets at BK’s van. We bought things called Mega Bombs (or something), which are a foot long and half as thick. We’re totally going to strap one to BK’s gas tank and hope that they die. In a spirit of friendliness, you understand.
2004-08-01 | 1:25 p.m.
So, we rocked our asses over to St. Pete from Miami. This involved driving through Alligator Alley once again. Once again, most of the whores slept and thusly missed out on gators because they (bandmates, not gators) are pussies.
Rocked the house show in St. Pete even with more van trouble. Jeremy caught a lizard. Derek and I continued to rhyme things. There then was party, diary. True to form, Party Patrol joined us and got obliterated, even Jordan. I’m totally reporting him to www.howsyouredge.com. I suggest you do so as well.
We had to leave very early the next morning because the state police were after Derek. Ask him about that, by the way. Got into Marietta, where friends of BK’s had gotten us on the bill. Rocked very early and very briefly to very confused kids who were clearly there to see the local Brand New clones. Eh, whatever. Waited around forever for the $20 the club paid each band (they were charging $8 at the door). But hey, the extra time allowed us the chance to invent yet another project band called Midnight Werewolf. This involves Derek standing on the van with a plastic bag over his face and shouting things about the full moon.
We are the skeptical tropical elliptical optical testicle moptical receptacle. I’m not sure why.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 28, 2005
The white, creamy light of Jesus the Christ.
So yo! The first day of tour was a pretty unmitigated success, brah.
Wichita is always lovely to us, but this time was sweeter than even the gods could have known. It was an epic battle. We drove like true doggs. There was stopping and eating at times. I read a book about a child molester. This book was called “The Bible.” True to form, there was much singing along to Alanis, Dan getting far too stoned and trying to eat his own fist, and Bradley blinking and looking around.
We also got pulled over for the first time ever. It went down like this:
We was cruisin’, reciting poetry to Dan, who was writing it down for posterity, when we saw the copper flash his lights. We pulled over, hid our massive stash of ganj n’ ludes. When the cop came to the window, Jeremy started crying. (This is because he was once cornholed by a nightstick.) The cop was all, “Yo, your tags are expired.” I was like, “We got a temp sticka, nigga,” and he was like, “Aw, dang.”
Anyway, we told the cop to chill, threw a handful of feces at him, and were on our way to the ‘Chita only an hour and change late. We pulled up to see one million kids at the show. Each one of them bought a shirt, a hoodie, a record and a copy of Dan’s solo album, called “Reflections on Gay: Dan Sings!” Seriously, a lot of kids, which is kind of refreshing after the last tour, where we played primarily for the girls from whom we’d borrowed money in the past.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 31, 2005
Sing a song of sex and death.
Our van is being euthanized soon.
We’re in Indianapolis, where we weren’t supposed to be until the 23rd of January, because our transmission suddenly decided to slip n’ slide its way into the dustbin of history. Add to that the ubiquitous spray of coolant leaking from our radiator, our suddenly totally useless heat and her increasing shudder, and we’re putting our baby down.
This is a van that we bought a few years ago for $2,200 with just over a hundred thousand miles on it. Our odometer stopped working about four tours ago, forever stalled at 173,000 miles as we drove up Highway 101 in California. We’ve replaced everything on this van numerous times, are on our fourth set of tires and have basically rode it without mercy for years. This equals us feeling totally attached to it and sort of unreasonably sad that we’ve got to get another and let it go.
The bad news is that we’re missing our kickoff show with the Post Office Gals in Jersey tonight. The good news is that we were added to a show here in Indy, a supposed-to-be-raucous house party that should prove to be stupid amounts of fun. Fun is exactly what we need, since we’re exhausted and grouchy and feeling betrayed by our van, that sweet and bitter bitch that she is. A fucking party does wanton hopelessness improve.
So we end 2005 by kicking our van to the curb like the toothless, A/C-less ho she is. There’s hopefully a nubile, midriff-barin’, leatherclad Ram 3500 hottie in our future, just itching at the chance to climb on the highway and fuck that blacktop until it spits.
Posted by: Aaron Retka in Features | Permalink
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