West Coast, August 2004 The following is a slightly fabricated, mostly truthful account of our West Coast tour in August 2004. The comments and views expressed below are solely Alex's. That having been said, the other members of the Grand Champeen organization should not be held accountable hurt feelings and/or political/ethical/aesthetic leanings. But then again, it may not have happened. Nah, it all happened. I'd like to think I could make some of this shit up. As far as grammar and all that...blah, blah, blah. One As we hauled them from McCoy’s cookout to the last gig of our tour, our Twin Cities passengers and their condemning silence was pretty much ignored. Over the course of our West Coast jaunt, “Oh Yeah” by Yello had become the kind of motivational song that, if we were a high school football team, we’d play while busting through a banner and spilling onto the field before a game. At this point of the tour, we wanted everyone we came in contact with to get as pumped up as we were. Unfortunately, this evening’s rolling pep rally failed to boost morale. I’m afraid our humor was lost on the non-Champeen passengers and our inside joke remained funny only to its principles and facilitators. Also, the fact that they were all classically subdued folks from Minnesota further explained their lack of enthusiasm for our camp. Either way, it was the last night of the North vs. South festival in Lawrence, Kansas, as well as the last night of our tour, and we were going to have some fun. Making Grant Hart listen to “Oh Yeah” was a good start. Two We left Austin at 3am and drove through the night towards our first destination, Tucson, AZ. I remember all of us sleeping a little but as is usually the case, some slept more than others. The excitement of the beginning of a long trip often leaves little patience for sleep, but after driving through western Texas and southern New Mexico, slumber can also be hard to avoid. The most interesting part of the drive to Tucson was the 150-mile stretch that not only gave us a view of the alarming third world poverty of Juarez but also confirmed the existence of real mountains in western Texas. File these topics under “written home about.” There was plenty for us to talk about like there should be at the beginning of a tour. Everyone was excited to get out of town and the prospect of playing the west coast again was thrilling. Also, there is no feeling quite like leaving the old day job in the dust for a few weeks. Wouldn’t it be nice if touring became the day job and it was exciting to go to work? The sun was out for real in southern Arizona but there was no humidity. We experienced the arid climate that the rest of the country thinks exists in Austin. Even though the mercury was busting 100 degrees, it was a welcome change from another humidly oppressive Austin summer day. We rolled into town with time to spare so we found our way downtown and hit the Chicago Store. In case you’ve never been there, the Chicago Store is a junk shop disguised as a used musical instrument store. Just like the last time we visited, it took about eight minutes to peruse the joint and find very little of interest (i.e. the double neck SG copy, some acoustic basses, a 12-string acoustic). While Channing, Ned and I got bored with the whole experience, Crow’s sense of adventure could not be broken. He reentered the store and approached its intimidating manager with a thirst that could only be quenched by viewing of hundreds of used band instruments. Michael figured out the password was not instrument spoken in English, but lammen, the Elvish word for instrument. Upon uttering the correct solution to this riddle, he was allowed to see the elusive third floor of this converted department store. After about twenty minutes, he came back outside to get us so that he could escort us upstairs to see the largest collection of designer firewood ever assembled. It was an impressive instrument graveyard full of dead guitars, instrument cases, drums, drum accessories and band instruments. There were guitar guts spilled all over the floor, stand up basses were missing heads and necks while hundreds of drums were left skinless. Now that we’ve seen behind the curtain, the next visit will only last as long as it takes to find parking. After pizza served by the world’s slowest waitress, we changed strings and napped at the club’s private apartment where we lodged that evening. The gig went well and after making a few friends, we went back to the apartment and played poker with Stephen. When we found out he’s from Springfield, IL, the game took a temporary backseat to reminiscing on horseshoes and the Vanselow brothers. The next day’s hour drive and no check out time afforded us some sleep. We left only after the club’s manager applied some guilt because we hung out too long. Give us an inch… We got to Tempe and loitered like a bunch of kids in a 7-11 parking lot on a Friday evening, counting down the minutes ‘til their curfew expires. We were the only band this evening and accounted for 1/5 of the patrons. Knowing that we had performed the album in its entirety at Stubb’s in 2002 and having missed the recreation due to his residence in Arizona, our host requested that we play Cheap Trick’s “Live at Budokan.” There was no way we could have regurgitated the whole record but after being provided with a 12-string bass with which to do my best Tom Petersen impersonation, I was willing to try. These 12-string basses are totally ridiculous and indulgent and are complete a bitch to play. Some bands use novelty instruments to make up for their lack of interesting music. How many “zany” guitars can Rick Nielsen play per show? More than you might think Even more ridiculous than the 12-string bass was the dude we met who argued that Sammy Hagar was better than David Lee Roth. Preposterous! On some other night with the wrong people on a lot of Bud Light, it could easily have turned into a 15-to-1 smackdown. He was so adamant that he must have believed himself. In a logical world, the conversation would have proceeded as follows… Point: “Van Halen’s album quality sank like the Titanic when DLR left the band.” Counterpoint: “Uh, yeah. I have no further comments.” Three “That drive is so beautiful…” “Says you.” When we got to Thee Parkside, it felt like we had been there the day before and that two years had gone by at the same time. That so much had happened since January compounded the reality that we often don’t usually get back to a city so soon. After the warm weather we had encountered up thru Carmel, this chilly San Francisco evening was almost uncomfortable. The Coppertones, a surf-rock 3-piece opened the show with enthusiastic songs in E-minor. A garage band from America and a garage band from Mexico followed, preparing the crowd for GC rock, yet only hinting at our stage volume. We played well but we played a ton of covers. By the end of our set, I felt like the Parkside employees who are extremely hospitable, might have been treated better with our originals. After all, they do have a great jukebox that doesn’t consume cheeseburgers and vast quantities of Pabst Blue Ribbon. All that said, we hung out there after hours and went to bed knowing we were only getting 4 hours sleep…if we were lucky. Due to all the people that visit the region and tell of its beauty, our drive through northern California was much anticipated. The bummer was that no one had ever mentioned the underwhelming scenery surrounding most of Interstate 5. Don’t get me wrong, there were gorgeous parts of I-5, but they were mostly in Oregon or Washington. Just don’t want to mislead anyone…tryin’ to set the record straight for the people who want to make the drive. We drove the 800 miles from San Diego to the northern border of California via interstate and found the last 100 miles the most scenic. Truth is, when it comes to scenery, interstate driving is generally a suckride. America’s major arteries of commerce and tourism are carved through paths of least resistance over land bought for a song or taken while someone isn’t looking. This often leaves state highways as the more interesting routes. If you got the time, go Highways 1 or 101. 8am came early and it was my turn to drive. The lack of sleep and accompanying hangovers helped turn this eleven-hour trip into one of the funnest drives of the tour. Delirium was in control most of the day. I remember listening to Herb Alpert’s “Tijuana Taxi” and honking the horn in time to the music. Such stupid things were very funny at the time. I don’t really remember getting to Portland but I think we went straight to Dante’s. We were playing with our old pals Richmond Fontaine in Portland and Seattle. The sound guy at Dante’s is a hilarious metalhead the loves to talk gear. Oh wait, that’s most sound guys. It was our first reunion with Richmond Fontaine since our shows together in Texas the previous February and it was nice to see them again. They sounded fantastic. The place was packed, largely due to the fact that RF hadn’t played Portland in months. The other reason for the large crowd was Grand Champeen’s undeniable force in the music business. We had already taken Fayetteville, AR and Springfield, IL by storm. What next? Portland sounded good. No, I’m not talking jive about P-town. It’s a great place and has a more similar vibe to Austin than most other cities we’ve played on tour. Even though we were all totally wiped out, we still managed to play a good show. It might have even been well above average. We went back to Sean’s house for the afties and I went straight to bed, having gotten no sleep on the drive from SF to Portland. I think there was some hell raisin’ at the party because Jimmy Beam and Ricky Fountain were supposed to come over after the gig. Thankfully, there was a lock on the door to the room I slept in. Four It was the second day of our long drive from Seattle to Denver and even though we had burned up the road the day before, we were still forced to haul some ass. The depressing stop near Little Big Horn had been depressing and we really just needed to power through and make it to the gig on time. Fortunately, the expansive landscape and under-populated countryside didn’t find us wanting to stop. Sure, there’s plenty to see out West and there is definite beauty and nice folks and all that, but from the window of a van on the interstate…Wyoming is a drag. But then we got into Colorado. No, I-25 is boring there too. Once we got to Fort Collins we started seeing all those comforting Wendy’s, Wal-Marts and Best Westerns that remind us of where civilization is headed. Convenience. We were cruising down the road when ahead of us a cloud of dust and brake lights caused us to slow down. We soon passed a motorcycle on its side and its rider twenty or so feet past lying motionless in the grass. Ned pulled to the side of the road, had his feet on the ground and was off to check on the cyclist before our van had registered park. Having been so close to the accident, we were some of the first to see if the cyclist needed immediate attention. I called 911 to notify them of the accident. I gained contact with dispatch and as I was hesitantly approaching what could have been a dead body, the biker slowly rose to his knees and dusted off his jacket like a child getting up after falling off the jungle gym. It was one of the more miraculous events I have ever witnessed. Seeing that fellow pass us in the left lane at over 65 mph only to then swerve towards the side of the road and fly off his bike, slide through bottles, rocks, tire treads and dead animals and then lie unconscious in the grass all in a matter of seconds was way too surreal. All that his friends and us strangers could do was stand around him and hold our breaths. When the guy finally came to, it was as if the mofo had risen from the dead. It was nice when we finally got to Denver, out of the van and into a junky pawnshop so we could take our minds off things. The ride from Seattle had been a long quiet one and there’s only so much internal dialogue a sane person can withstand in two days. At our gig at the Hi-Dive that night, we had a reunion with some friends that we hadn’t seen in awhile. Our performance was abysmal. I remember the unnecessarily tall stage bring covered in shag carpeting and not being very stable. One of those situations where you step on the floor right in front of the microphone, the floor gives way slightly and the mic stand sways towards you. Sometimes the mic hits your mouth earlier than expected and there is great potential for broken teeth or a fat lip. Looking back on the evening, I remember hanging out in the basement/greenroom just waiting for the evening to end. Going back to Aaron and Clint’s was cool cause we got to hang out with our old friends and drink some beers. The next day we had breakfast with John Call at the Breakfast King and headed off for our last minute gig in Ft. Collins. Whereas we would have had a night off, Aaron got us on a bill with Carrier, a cool underground supergroup who were about to embark on a lengthy tour of the U.S. Downtown Ft. Collins reminded me of many other Mid-west college towns we have visited. It was raining that night and the club had a leaky roof that screamed, “Electrocution!” We played first and I can’t remember a damn thing about our set. The third band on the bill used a Ghostbusters-style ambulance as their transport. The most exciting part of the evening was when the band left the club and turned on all the lights and sirens while screaming obscenities through the ambulance’s PA system. Though truly hilarious and probably not the most practical touring vehicle, it’s a highly entertaining novelty. It was something akin to a 12-string bass or a guitar with five necks. We ended up forgoing an afterparty so that we could drive back to Denver and get some sleep at Aaron’s. We all felt that we needed to rest up for the long boring drive to Lawrence and the weekend of partying that lay ahead of us at the North vs. South Festival. Five The drive from Tempe was a hot one. More of that “dry heat” that weather mongers love to mention. Somewhere along I-8 our air conditioning quit working. Yeah, I know. We should feel lucky to have A/C and hey, we do. This however, does not prevent the situation from sucking. By the end of its tenure, our first touring van’s windows didn’t roll down, nor did it have heat or A/C. The only ventilation was provided by the two front pivot-triangles and two small, levered windows in the rear. In concert, these windows created a roaring cacophony and had the cooling power of a hair dryer. At the end of a normal drive, we’d be physically spent from sweating balls and yelling just to communicate. Needless to say, our performances and temperaments suffered during those tours. Somewhere along I-8, the road winds through rock formations that look like drip castles made by giants on a lazy Tuesday afternoon at the beach. It was one of the more interesting geological sights I’ve seen. I thought maybe this was the inland spot where the gods had dumped excavated rubble in neatly arranged piles while they were making room for egos and plastic surgeons on the west coast. Soon after that, we nearly hit a couple of weary Mexicans who were walking wearily across the interstate. I imagine if dusk is when the Sand People start hunting on Tattooine, it might also be a good time for illegal aliens to make their journey northward through southeastern California. It was light enough to see yet dark enough to not be seen. For our beautiful Monday-off in San Diego, we enacted the tour’s first Corporate Stress Project. The CSP is where we encourage our 9-to-5ing friends to take the day off work, hang out with us and experience the sights, sounds, and smells of a hard working rock and roll band. Driving around San Diego, we saw the home of the Padres, the palm tree covered neighborhoods and boulevards, and the various maritime happenings of San Diego Bay. From there we drove up to La Jolla Beach where we parked the car and saw the Seal Lady in action. If you haven’t heard of this bastion of entitlement, her main civic function is to keep innocent seals off a tiny little beach so fat children can swim. Her side of the argument is that the seals are ruining this manmade lagoon/beach with their sunbathing and defecation. Though the beach provides the seals shelter from sharks, her belief is that human recreation is way more important than the well being of a small, endangered community of animals. To exert her beliefs, she spends all day on the beach to keep the seals from coming ashore. And get this, the lady doesn’t even swim there. Her sun-up to sundown purpose is to keep the doors of nature’s clubhouse permanently locked. As if there aren’t a ton of other beaches for humans to enjoy that might not be as well suited to keep the seals safe. I found an entertaining editorial about this issue in a San Diego weekly at http://www.sdcitybeat.com/article.php?id=2212. Driving through Carlsbad and Del Mar, I asked our CSP candidate about the cement skateparks that used to pepper California’s southern coastline. Unfortunately, most of them are a couple of steps ahead of the seals and are but a memory. Seeing pictures as a kid of Tony Hawk, Tony Alva, Caballero and countless others ripping these playgrounds up in Transworld and Thrasher magazines, I hoped that one day I could see where it all went down. No such luck. I also used to wish that my band would put out a full-length album on vinyl but I’m not gonna hold out any hope for that one. Or the Creedence. We spent the rest of the afternoon on Del Mar beach and were forced to leave when hunger became an immutable topic of conversation. The distance from San Diego to Los Angeles is brief so we didn’t struggle getting in the van and hitting the road. It was one of those situations where we didn’t want to get there too soon but if we left too late we’d hit traffic and that would suck even worse. So to meet somewhere in the middle, we made great time and ran the van out of gas on the L.A. freeway. We had just enough inertia to make it off the freeway, down the exit ramp and onto a street that had no gas station in sight. It wasn’t the best neighborhood I’ve ever seen which only compounded the implausibility of the situation. So Ned and Channing ventured off to find fuel and a proper receptacle to haul it with while Crow and I guarded the van on the side of the road. If urine ran automobiles then we would have been set because Crow and I could have put out two different burning buildings with the reservoirs we were carrying. Adding to the absurdity of it all, Channing came back to the van with one hand on a full one-gallon gas dispenser and the other on the grip of a child’s bicycle. Yeah, one of the small, pink ones with a basket and training wheels. I will never be privy to the amount of duress they must have sustained when they foraged for fuel and how it all led to the purchase this bike. Nevertheless, this drop in our 35-gallon bucket allowed us to get to a gas station where we filled up and were then able to drive to the club. Despite this “minor” setback, we got there early (as planned) so we went off to find some grub. I tell you, it was like living a Cheryl Crow song. Driving down Sunset Boulevard with the sun setting to our right, the Hollywood Hills somewhere behind us in the distance and Chinatown sneaking up on us like a hot and sour ninja. There were plenty of restaurants to choose from, all luring us with neon signs and exotic names. Once we parked and were able to examine the restaurants a little closer, only one out of 37 had a sanitation grade above B and we still chose to eat elsewhere. The chosen restaurant offered frog leg soup and even when given the opportunity to try such a delicacy, Crow turned down the offer for something safer. While we agreed that he is a wise man, we were surprised that frog leg soup did not remind him of cuisine from his home state of Louisiana and therefore peak his interest. After the delightful meal, we went to club and played the gig with a Japanese noisecore power trio (whose name I can’t remember and couldn’t even pronounce at the time) that was really mind-blowing and mind numbing at the same time. The drummer played faster than lightning and the guitarists seemed to just be making noise. Whatever. After about 15 minutes of this, I had to find peace somewhere else because the music was really bludgeoning my brain. We took off after the show and headed north towards our next destination, the boutique town of Carmel, CA. There wasn’t a whole lot of lodging to choose from so we stayed in some motel somewhere and in the morning we left them a nice little children’s bicycle as thanks for their hospitality. There was no way I was going to share another moment in the van with that little piece of metal that begged the question, “Where’d you fellas hide the body?” We headed straight for the hotel Ned had reserved for us in Carmel. It was a nice room and centrally located. After unpacking and watching some of the Browns game on television, we decided to venture out and explore Clint Eastwood’s utopia. The storefronts seemed to be either art galleries filled with mediocre paintings or little curio/tourist knick-knack shops filled with stuffed seagulls and antique oars and shit. Maritime delights for some, navy blue Captain’s hats for all. We walked down to the beach and it was really beautiful. The fact that it was one of the most gorgeous beaches I have ever seen made us seem even more out of place than we already were. It even appeared for a second that the town had prepared for our arrival when at the entrance to the beach we spied a dumpster saying, “Trash Here.” Though the dynamic duo of Senor Zephyr and El Agua Frio prevented us from swimming, we did enjoy a few minutes of serenity before we ate at the “cheapest restaurant” in town. The antique car show that took place the next day was the reason we had gone to Carmel. The Pebble Beach Concourse D’Elegance had all kinds of sports cars lining the main street of the town. In attendance were automobiles ranging from brand new Ferraris to Aston Martins from the 60’s to some of the first cars ever manufactured. There were amazingly beautiful Packards and Rolls Royces and antique cars that even had wooden wheels. Much of the grandeur of this event was lost on Crow and myself so we spent a good portion of the morning at an overpriced coffee shop catching up on phone calls from the road. Channing and Ned on the other hand, understood the brilliance of the machines and were able to scrutinize and compare them as car enthusiasts. Being able to take a day off from tour and route it so that we could be in Carmel for this event worked out as a good birthday present for Ned. Six When I woke up, I stumbled around the kitchen and living room for a little while, half getting my blood moving and half looking for something to eat or drink. I found definitive evidence that Ricky Fountain had been at the party after the previous night’s show. I don’t know if any of you have ever met this guy, but he is truly a character. About three years ago, Mr. Fountain was in Austin for SXSW and managed to screw my buddy’s girlfriend, wreck her car and piss on her front door without my friend ever finding out. A real artist, this Ricky guy. So when I walked into the back yard and found my pal Dave asleep in the grass, I was not surprised. Having this Fountain guy at your party is like inviting a tornado into your house and jumping into its funnel to see if it can manage to throw you through a window and onto the porch. Sounds fun, eh? It is. The troops were rallied and we headed off for our two-night stand in Seattle. It was now Ned’s 30th birthday and we might have done something to celebrate, I’m not sure. I think maybe we let him get whatever he wanted at Wendy’s. Once we got into Seattle and into a nice little shopping district near the Tractor Tavern, we rolled down the windows and cranked some “Oh Yeah.” At a stoplight, I opened the side doors of the van and asked the people on the street, “Remember this song?” Though I was ignored, it provided us with a few laughs. It was just what we needed to get pumped for the evening’s show with Marah. The gig originally belonged to Richmond Fontaine and GC, with RF headlining. Somewhere along the line, Marah got added to the bill and all of the sudden they were headlining. They’ve seemingly convinced a lot of people that they’re rockstars (the Tractor’s talent buyers included) and by this con they ended up getting top billing. It was their first time to Seattle and we planned on blowing them off the stage now that RF was first and we were in the middle. To help carry out this plan and as a birthday present to Ned, we asked Superchunk’s Jon Wurster (who was playing drums for Marah) to play drums for us on “Slack Motherfucker.” Having been a fan of Superchunk’s music and Wurster’s drumming for years, it was an exciting four minutes and a highlight of my musical career. To look back and see one of your musical influences rocking out with you is quite a rush. After the show, someone found a hardhat and we spent sometime in the club’s parking lot, dancing like idiots to “Oh Yeah” while taking turns wearing the hat. Oh, what fun there is to have on little sleep and beer! We had a great night but the real gig was to come the next evening at the Sunset Tavern. We had room up off the Aurora Highway and went there to sleep with no problems. I bet we got up and ate somewhere and then did some things around town. Eventually, we ended up at the club and did some things around that part of town, too. It was a Sunday and the show was an early one, so the opening acts played while it was still light outside. Scott McCaughey of the Young Fresh Fellows and Minus 5 had seen us the evening before and had come to see us again this evening. This was exciting because he obviously liked us and this dude is a heavy player. Quite an honor, you know? We came to find out that he missed a lot of Patti Smith’s show somewhere else in town because he was rocking out with us. Poetry or rock…not a tough decision. We had been led to believe that this show’s purpose was for us to stretch our legs and let the Seattlites witness Champeen, ragin’ full-on. By many accounts, this is exactly what happened. The set list was as follows: Hello There Come On, Come On Threw A Fit Cottonmouth $2 in Silver The Guts Bayonet That’s Never Why One and Only More than Just A Friday Step into my Heart Memory Loss/Throwing Rice Nothin’ on Me Rest of the Night And your Bird can Sing Wounded Eye Favorite Thing Bottleglass Broken Records Sister Spanish Flea One Foot on the Stage No Hope All the Young Dudes Paid Vacation The Good Slot Detroit Rock City Victoria Back In Your Arms Slack Motherfucker Clock Strikes 10 Foreplay/Dirty Deeds Cowboy Song American Girl Ace of Spades What a wonderful night. I feel like we played really well and the crowd had a great time. In attendance were RF, a few Twangfesters and some family as well. One particularly fulfilling moment was seeing McCaughey making Wayne and Garth gestures of approval from the side of the stage during “And Your Bird Can Sing.” Another awesome moment was when Kwab, a bartender at the Sunset Tavern, got up and sang the Kink’s “Victoria” for us. We all felt great about the gig and left feeling like we made a good impression. We said our goodbyes to RF who were always fun to see and play gigs with. Such a great hang, they are. Somewhere up in the hundreds of blocks of Highway 99, we spent the night at a hotel after a feedback session at IHOP. Or maybe it was Denny’s. The long ass drive through Washington on I-90 was peaceful. We left on Monday morning and had to be in Denver on Tuesday so we drove, and drove, and drove. The Cascades were beautiful, as always. I don’t remember eastern Washington very well but I do remember Spokane seeming like a nice city. Old buildings and shit. The weather was nice that day so the town must be cool. Once we got into northern Idaho, it started getting really beautiful. Though I heard that it’s an extremely racist part of the country, the landscape was gorgeous. You could spend days just wandering around in the wooded hills or spend hours tearing ass through the valleys on motorcycles. Get some ATV’s and guns and liquor and go up in them hills and shoot shit and stuff. Man, dat’d be coo. I-90 through western Montana revealed even more beauty. It was a true sportsman’s paradise. Each time we passed over a creek or a river, I would turn my head to see an idyllic natural setting and a film crew shooting a beer commercial. I’m no angler, but I know that would be the place to do some serious fly fishing. We kept on through this land and stayed the night in Livingston, MT. We had to get up pretty early the next morning in order to make it to Denver on time. The drive remained beautiful for a while but by the time we got to Billings, MT the landscape looked a lot like the expansive Wyoming terrain we had seen in January. This time it was even more uninspiring because there wasn’t even snow to provide a little character. We turned south just after Billings and were going to pass right by Little Big Horn. We stopped at the exit you take to get to the landmark but you couldn’t see any hills, mountains or anything but a treeless horizon. We gassed up at the exit’s fuel store and looked at the Native American goods for sale. The dirt roads and trash that littered the parking lot were signs of a neglected part of the country. Not that seeing Little Big Horn would have been like going to the Ice Capades, but the brief experience was depressing. God Bless America. Seven I was the only member of the band who was even remotely looking forward to this drive for the simple fact that I was the only one who had never experienced the drive. I guess it goes along with the side of my personality that makes me want to try things at least once. Experimentation, use, and abuse; the levels of consumption that can define a person’s lifestyle and/or well-being. I’m gonna be sure that I don’t abuse the drive between Denver, CO and Lawrence, KS. Endless miles. Amber waves of grain and all that. We had the night off so there wasn’t any rush to get to Lawrence except that we were going to have a lot of fun. The cast of characters was illustrious and all stood comfortably and confidently outside the Jackpot like players in the dugouts at a Major League Baseball All-Star game. With shows going on at both the Replay Lounge and the Jackpot saloon across the street, we couldn’t turn around without bumping into Johnny Reb from Austin or Yankety Yank from Minnesota. I don’t remember who played when on what evening but that doesn’t matter. We got there on the first night and were witnesses to the whole festival. Mike McCoy, Grant Johnson and Hunter Darby should be given Daytime Grammy Awards for their part in creating such a rad event. After the first evening’s shows, everyone went back to Mike’s for beer and jackets. All of the Southerners got grey coats and the Northerners got blue ones. So fitting. Twenty or thirty of us crashed over Mike’s house, mainly in his the tremendous basement. After finding coffee or grub or beer upon waking the next day, many of us sat around the backyard and played songs while others sang along. Lil’ Cap’n Travis left town to play some gigs on the way back to Austin while Ol’ Yeller got there and hung out for their first day. People were coming and going the whole time. As far as the gigs go, it was a bit of a blur. We played as GC one night and backed up Nicolai as the Numchuks the next night. Ethan Azarian played solo after arriving from Vermont via Greyhound. Baby Grant Johnson unveiled his new band of old friends. John Ewing, one of the participants with confusing allegiances due to a brother that lives in Texas, played a solo set as well. Stickpony played one of their first gigs in six years and Moonlight Towers showed up with minutes to spare due to Jailbird Jacob Schulze’s incarceration outside of Ft. Worth the previous night. The Black Rabbits, Grant Hart, Rockland Eagles and Cher U.K. were some of the other bands that made the weekend so wonderful. Lawrence, Kansas turned out to be the perfect meeting ground, even if the Austinites had to drive farther to get there. The North vs. South Festival took take place on the anniversary of a Civil War battle called Quantrill’s Raid. In actuality, it wasn’t a battle as much as it was a bunch of vigilantes raping, burning, looting and brutalizing the town and its residents. The incident left the town in ruins but they got over it. It was similar to what the Austin side of this festival did…went and played and kicked some ass. Just on a smaller scale. Judging by the bands that are scheduled to play, the Second Annual N vs. S may provide the North with their first decisive victory. Last year was just too close to call. It was more like a scrimmage anyway.