SLC Hearts TBRS
Who'da thunk it? SLC was our high water mark so far. We had
screamers. We had "You guys rock"-ers. We sold a ton of
CD's to people who don't even know us. It started out all
well. We stopped a couple hours outside of Salt Lake City at the
Point of Rock.
What's the point of rock you may ask (either intentionally or unintentionally setting up a delicious play on words)?
This is the point of rock.
Which has no good punchline.
We also stopped in Cheyenne Wyoming where i found a picture of the Happiest Jesus.
I made up a little story about the Happiest Jesus and his misadventures
placing jelly beans under the pillows of good little ca'ananites, but
it was too dumb to say out loud in a bar full of drunks, much less
write out for all the internet to read.
We were staying in a lovely neighborhood just south of the city proper
with some relatives of Rob's. The place was a palace. We
thought we'd try Rocking the suburbs:
...but it was late and we were hungry. 1 burger, one
chicken caesar pita, and a fajita plate later we ended up back in camp
Swanky for drinks with Rob's cousin and his lovely wife and son.
I don't want to give the wrong impression. The family was
incredibly kind to us, putting us up for two days, feeding us fantastic
amounts of high quality food, even driving joe and i to the Target when
we got a bright idea for a new addition to the show (more on that in a
minute). But something about the whole experience creeped the
both of us out and we couldn't quite put our finger on it. It had
something to do with the following:
1) Our lack of day to day contact with a normal nuclear family, their presence leading to an odd sense of unease.
2) Wandering around a suburban neighborhood that comes complete with
it's own fishing pond gives a sense of jealousy. As in "I work in
theatre and will probably never have this lifestyle."
3) Too many Tim Burton/David Lynch movies where eerie things happen in perfect looking suburban cul de sacs.
Eerie things like this:
I have no idea why this sign tickled me so much. Is it that
there's parking in the basement? Or that there's HANDICAPPED
parking in the basement? Either way...unsettling.
Back at the show we pulled into FHM magazines "#20 best dive bar in the
country", Burt's Tiki Lounge. As you can see here:
It's the kind of place that's plastered with band stickers, and crazy
crap on the walls and sells hotpockets as finger food.
As you can also see here, i'm wearing a woman's bathrobe. More on that in a minute.
There was some question as to whether or not we'd even be allowed to
play this gig. something about the booker not wanting two out of
town acts. But when we got there, it was smooth and
settled...there'd be one opening act, then TBRS, then N&S, then a
final band who would turn out to suck the life out of the room and make
everyone glad they paid us early and remind all of us why the 70's were
a dark, dark period in american music and that Noodley, Jam-type bands
that spend their life energy trying to recreate it will hopefully be
relegated to someplace dark, moist, and crawling with crawly
things.
Only the opener wasn't there.
Joe and i had 10 minutes to scramble together the rock show.
And despite the chaos we gave good show. This was a night to defy
logic, where we put out good for the people of Salt Lake City (who
couldn't have been warmer, nicer, cooler, or more
welcoming...um....except for the bald guy with the roman numeral II
tattooed on his neck and skull that kept throwing pennies at my
chest...that guy was a Male Model) and still managed to turn a buck.
The show went so well i shot fucking lasers out my motherfucking eyes.
Turns out, the litmus test in Utah is to make a Mormon joke. If
the bar laughs, they'll go with you. If they frown, throw their
caffeine-free diet pepsi's at you, march their 18 children back
to their minivan and drive back to their compound, you know you're in
trouble.
The Roadie position has taken on a Joe is getting the action on
this trip. Male model douchebag, In Denver he had Fanny
Fitztightly wrapped around his little finger. And in Salt Lake
City, it was a friend of a friend named Emily (or possibly Sylvia, or
possibly Sybil...no one seems to have gotten a straight answer out of
her as far as the name question is concerned) who spent the entire
evening trying to get a peek at Joe's Pike and Two Gentlemen.
Joe, who as you may have gathered is gay, wants no part in this...tho'
he's willing to do some harmless flirting in order to pimp the merch.
And speaking of Joe's sexual orientation, we have started what can only
be described as a "Faggot count"...that is, the number of time people
yell "Faggot" at us. SLC was down for 3. Two random
drive-by shouters, which is apparently still a hobby in some areas of
the country, and one from someone in the bar.
To be fair, Joe couldn't quite butch it up.
Whichever city we play has the most "Faggotings" will win the
distinction of "america's greatest place to raise your little hitlers".
Oh yes...the bathrobe. We finally found a way to do the "James
Brown, Falls-to-his-knees, overcome-by-the-music" thing. It
involves being driven to Target by Ronnie (Rob's cousin's wife...who
was fantastic all around), shopping for women's robes, and spending the
afternoon practicing drawing the lightning bolt to paint on the
back. All the practice must've done him good, because joe plopped
out the Best Lightning Bolt of the Tour Thus Far.
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