Tour diary 04.
Friday 9 May
Exhausted our last days in Tokyo, we nevertheless had the mettle to sightsee a little of the city with our friends. Monday's ramen breakfast was the best I've had, and fueled a day that included a time at Tower Records and the cream puff of my dreams at Beard Papa's. Then there was beer and chicken soup at a coffee shop that had restrooms smaller than anyone I know before drinks with some Americans at O-Nest in Shibuya. We were back at O-Nest the evening after for our show with Her Space Holiday and 4 Bonjour's Parties and were struck by how amazing the crowd was. iPods were signed and I made a girl cry with a love-hearted signature. Our last day away was Wednesday when there was weird Italian for breakfast and amusements at a Sega game centre that, judging by the signed photographs, is Leo DiCaprio's favoured destination. After Curtis won convincingly at an actually violent boxing simulator, three of us dared to enter a horror house that derived chills from the random materialisation of a moaning girl who was apparently supposed to be dead. Our farewell was coffee at the airport and we left our friends for Adelaide, via Sydney. I'm happy to be here again, looking forward to working, looking forward to new things. I'm waiting for home to set in.
Monday 5 May
We stay with Renee in Seattle in a near-perfect suburbia. Streets away is Capitol Hill where she takes us our first night for Thai food then drinks at the original Cha Cha Lounge (the LA facsimile of which we're familiar with). Here, Badfinger's briefly on the stereo and there's a photo booth in which we take photos of us four that fail to show up. We go again and this time there are four black and white shots for Renee to attach to her refrigerator next to the rules of the house. On the walk home from another bar I buy an elaborate hot dog on the street and it looks good enough for Curtis to order one of his own. The vendor asks us our business and we tell him what we're doing and what's in store for us, and he tells us of his own band's adventures in Japan and about the time we're going to have there. Next morning Alan's walked Renee to work so Curtis and I make our own way to a breakfast of peroshkis and, later, some locally-brewed beer. We keep passing a statue of Hendrix immortalised mid riff. Late afternoon we load in at Chop Suey for our show with Danielson where there's a guy running the show who's very kind to us, and it's a shame there's no soundcheck and it's probably the worst show of our tour because there are good people there to see us play. There's an electrical hum to be fought the whole time, and nothing can be heard on stage, and it's unprofessional to make excuses but if I can't do it here, then where?
After the show Curt and Alan begin the drive back to LA immediately but I stay with Marisa to get a lift to the airport the next morning with gentleman Andy. It's my intention to fly back to organise a bunch of business before we leave but Alan and Curt never stop driving and hit home not that long after I've arrived. We pack our bags and acknowledge that we're sorry to be leaving. Alan meets Matt and Sylvia a final time for drinks but I'm beat and am willing to settle for a single drink of red wine with Alyson. Except something's happened to the Chateau Marmont and I can't get through the door. Eventually there's a way but this perhaps is the first time LA's turned on me. Maybe it means a welcome overstayed.
Our friends in 4 Bonjour's Parties meet us at the airport in Narita and from the very start are the finest hosts. In the morning we'll run errands for the shows but this evening we all drink at a bar with Minoru, and while I'd always regret never trying horse's meat if I didn't, I ended up trying horse's meat and regretted it. We spend the night at Yukiko's with her beautiful kitten that darts around the house and in the morning eat ramen before a nightmare soundcheck at Unit where power issues lead me to think my equipment's been busted in transit. It's soon sorted out though, and it's a nice show with Kieran and Steve Reid, and it's great seeing Kieran and some other old friends again. After the show we train it back to Yukiko's but I'm drunk and lose my ticket twice, and Ayumu is kind enough to lend yen and find it all amusing. Last night we slept in a guest house with all of our friends here, and it felt a lot like a High School sleepover.
Monday 29 May
Our last show at the Troubadour Monday with Architecture in Helsinki and Tussle, and while there are some problems in the process and I leave the stage feeling pretty bad, Alyson says it's perhaps the best she's seen us play, and this is sort of enough for me to revise the night's history completely. No flash photography allowed here, but once the show's over lots of shots of us are taken by and with some nice people we first met at our show in San Diego. We move to eat at Swingers, but even junky food isn't enough for me to keep my eyes open, and it seems everyone's exhausted and a little irritable, so we don't stay for long. In the morning there's not a short drive to San Francisco, but Curtis makes fearsome time, has worked out a strategy for speeding successfully.
The Great American Music Hall is maybe the best venue we've played. It comes across well as a classy place past its prime, certainly one that's lowered itself enough to have us play here. It also gives us the best staff and soundcheck we've had all tour, plus a free and fancy meal and a green room of our own. Definitely a place that deserves to be recorded for the sake of the children I don't intend to have, so Alan films that famous 'backstage-to-the-stage' sequence on my digital camera with enough low-fidelity to make it relevant only to us. The crowd is wonderful and it's probably my favourite American show. It's also great to see Marc and Hanni again, and Marc is nice enough to let us stay at his house 20 minutes out of the city. I congratulate him on the radio prank he pulled on me the week previous and he kindly compliments me on the empathetic way I handled it. He also lets me in on the fact that since he's uploaded it to his MySpace under the name 'Clue to Kalo Burn' it's received thousands of hits - more than I've received for all my songs combined.
We meet up with Hanni and head to Haight Street for our Amoeba instore. After loading and setting up our gear we accidentally eat at the same place we ate at in 2003. It could be a different place though, because San Francisco feels better this time around, but it's recognised by the men's room and the real coffee beans beneath the surface of the glass-top tables. It's a quiet time at Amoeba but those that are there are kind to us, and when we're done Marc and Hanni tell us that we'd sounded better than the night before. The staff, in addition to being impossibly nice, give us free t-shirts and store credit, and I use the opportunity to spend Amoeba's money on a McCartney and Wings compilation I'd secretly wanted since hearing it at Robert's barbecue. To keep the occasion I photograph our record display and steal from the wall a poster Alan will accidentally destroy the next morning in the carpark of a Motel 6. Right now though he's not sure what to buy, but Curtis spends hours assembling a disproportionate pile of seven-inches and then exchanges his free t-shirt twice before we leave for a quick meal of good pizza and bad Thai. We eat next to the van on the street outside Hanni's place, with the doors open and the stereo on, and McCartney's voice takes up the whole of the sidewalk. We say goodbye to our friends and begin the drive to Portland. We sleep in a town called Weed and in the morning we're met by a snow-capped Californian mountain that's more than the rest.
It's raining in Portland but the venue's nice. After a last-minute soundcheck Curtis discovers a happy hour for food at the restaurant upstairs. Meanwhile I find good coffee across the street and James delivers the best line of the week when he sees me coming, cup in hand: "Nice grande." Doors open and there's a guy who knows enough about us to request an old song, and for the first time we act like a real band and show some spontaneity, actually play the one he's after, although it's been a long while since the last time and it comes rough around the edges. We see Halle and later our friend Chris, who comes with us to the upstairs bar where Tara spills a blood red drink all over my brown suede shoe. The hotel connects with the venue so it's an easy walk home.
A late Friday morning means we're rushed across the Canadian border to Vancouver. It's the last of our shows here with our friends at a place called The Plaza Club. I copy The Pixies at the Hammerstein Ballroom and take a photo of the crowd from the stage, plus deliver a series of questionable one-liners which don't come across and which I hope don't offend. Curtis throws the last of our weird-sized t-shirts into the crowd, but his enthusiasm means the end of a girl's drink and he apologises off-mic and promises her another.
It's back over the border to a Motel 6 and we sleep the first half of the day before driving. Alan and I are convinced by Curtis off the freeway to a smalltown cafe for lunch only to discover it doubles as the Double R Diner from Twin Peaks. We're initially ecstatic but it's reasonably charmless and Curt and Alan play the slowest pinball of their lives. We keep driving through Seattle to Sasquatch in the Gorge. Architecture in Helsinki are playing this festival and we hope to catch them, but bad weather begins as we arrive and we resign ourselves to the van and watch episodes of Entourage as the hail hits the roof. Even once they clear the clouds are there all afternoon, but it doesn't matter because we're spoiled in the VIP area with shelter and free beer and food. We meet more nice people and we're about to dance in costume on stage with the Flaming Lips but there's mix-up and we miss out, and we're bummed backstage. Kellie takes a photograph of me while really taking a photograph of Laura Dern nursing Ben Harper's baby. When the Flaming Lips play, Wayne does his best to help the crowd recover from the weather but it seems it's too late. It's still cold and wet at this hour, but we can't say no to free ice-cream. Later we're working towards the warmth of the hotel room but we're hungry, so Alan drives around for a long-time until he finds an open gas station that offers donuts and chips. Curtis minds the van while Alan and I shop, but something happens with the brakes and the van begins to roll back towards the pumps with Curtis in the passenger seat. He manages to steer himself out of an early grave and barely misses some innocent bystanders who demand to know what the fuck he thinks he's doing. He's wired and comes into the gas station to talk of it with us, but we haven't heard or seen a thing.
The weather's better Sunday and the Gorge is fully visible behind the main stage, quietly charging the atmosphere. Playing video game boxing I get my arse kicked by a twelve-year old kid who laughs and makes cocky remarks. There are so many good people here: Andrew and Sarah, Rachel and Chris and Ben. Cierra takes a 'which-is-which' picture of Alan and Adam Brody, who both look out of their element, and Adam tells Alan: "you look like you're enjoying this even less than I am." After Beck finishes the festival we head back to the hotel. We came here knowing no-one from Seattle but leave here with places to stay. So many good people but it's Tom from MySpace whom Alan regrets missing out on.
Sunday 21 May
The week starts and California's almost done, but we're truly anxious to see new geography, anxious to see Australian friends in American places. But first on Tuesday night it's Alfred's record release party at Little Temple. He plays host and introduces us to our audience and he's dressed so well, like he often is in pictures, is magnetic in the crowd all evening. I'm having a strange night though, plus the next morning looms, so we split when we're done to pretend to sleep a few hours before catching a flight to Detroit. New York's the destination but money means it's the midwest first for a hire car before a straight-shot drive east across the country. It's dark for the most part so the lay of the landscape doesn't matter - we're sightseeing rest stops and gas stations. Curtis navigates us to the Lower East Side as the sun's rising on Thursday morning and we pull Isobel from Architecture out of her bed to let us in the hotel we're technically not allowed to be staying at. It's great to see these guys. Alan and Curtis spend most of the next day sleeping off the drive but I have year-old memories of Brooklyn I want confirmed so although I feel sick to my stomach I ride the train with Isobel across the river. It's not the train I once knew so we get lost and Isobel's a casualty, has to head back for soundcheck, but I persevere to Williamsburg, to a coffee shop central to my months there, where the guy sort of recognises me but has no real idea of the place he plays in my history. Williamsburg's rewritten for the summer and there are trees I don't remember. The door to Leah's apartment is where it once was but she's hundred of miles removed. Still, next door to her old place I'm able to get some wood cut for our keyboard stands and the man tapes them up for easy transit before I make for Manhattan.
The Avalon fills to capacity and it's something else, a first for us, where the crowd is open and claps in time. Two old NYC friends break my concentration with eye contact and big waves, and even though one lyric is mixed up with another it's the kind of evening where the failures are not significantly less than the successes. After the show it's pizza and drinks at a small bar where Gus plays some songs and the light is just right for unselfconscious dancing to a Jorge Ben number I've never heard, in which he refers to himself by his own name, and even though we're surrounded by these kinds of sounds and by so many friends, we can't really get caught up in this, need to leave to make it to Montreal. There's an idea that we're going to drive till Alan drops then get a motel, but by the time the day's arrived we're finding it difficult to find a vacancy. Finally close to the Canadian border there's a small town to end all small towns in which a nice guy grants us a 3pm check-out. My turn's come around to not share a bed and I get lucky with this one: it feels royal, like it might swallow me up, and there's a portrait of an unknown but benign-looking aristocrat on the wall above my head. When I'm almost asleep, Curtis speaks highly of a beef sandwich from the store across the street, and the next morning we order one each. It is in fact the best sandwich I've ever eaten.
At the border we're met by 33Hz, the other support band for these eastern AIH shows, who are stuck waiting for the arrival of their work permits. We wait with them, then without them, for ours. By the time we arrive at La Salla Rossa there's a line of people and a general sense of urgency as we sound-check through doors. Because there's no signal on my American phone to call some friends I borrow a stranger's with the promise of a free beer. All the stress of the evening isn't justified though: we play to another generous crowd. After the show's done we see a little of the city with Lisa and Sarah before a mattress is hauled up several flights of stairs to Sarah's apartment. Curtis sleeps heavily on it as Alan and I have our hairs cut in the kitchen by Sarah and Lisa respectively; proper hairdressers slumming it for the sake of us. We don't really believe it as we learn of the alleged shortage of barbers in our home country, and the lax visa requirements for those willing to emigrate. We have a plan to drive reasonably early to Toronto but instead stay up late, sleep late, and then watch episodes of Wonder Showzen.
We're thinking of the long drive back to Detroit for the whole of the Toronto show, and it's not one of our best. We can't stick around for AIH, have to drive to return the rental car by 6am before an early flight back to LA with not so much to spare. Back in LA there's a few hours sleep before a new Sopranos, then a late-night guest appearance on the Suicide Girls radio show in which we give relationship advice to callers-in. The first call's for me specifically from a boy who believes he and I had a romantic moment at one of our recent LA shows. While performing my eyes had apparently caught his with a kind of chemistry. While I'm letting him down easy he makes it known with a pretty amazing punchline that he is in fact our friend Marc from San Francisco. Perhaps the perfect way to end the week, caught on tape by Robert back at the house on Laurel Canyon, and Robert loves how completely I fell for it, says he knew it was Marc all along.
Tour diary 03.
Sunday 14 May
Lots of work for me this week (but no photos) and I'm feeling good about the record, feeling good about feeling good about the record, waiting to raise some stupid self-objections and ready to answer myself back. One of our last shows in LA at CineSpace on Tuesday with the lovely Pony Up! There's some gear sharing going on so Luke helps take stuff back to Laurel Canyon before driving us all to the Dim Mak house where there's a refrigerator full of alcoholic energy drinks that could only be the work of Satan himself. My heart rate doesn't know which direction to head and I'm left suspended somewhere between two extremes, a manic attack with the edges smoothed. I'm talking loudly and passionately about things I don't care so much about and the next morning I'm embarrassed to be me.
Alyson comes over Wednesday and we give a few bucks to cable to watch the unedited version of 40-Year Old Virgin. Working on the record again Thursday at the coffee shop as deals are made around me. On an adjacent table sit two people maybe younger but definitely richer than me who take notes on yellow legal pads and use the word 'guesstimate' straightfaced, like it's nothing. I've started to notice an extraverted regular who seems to know a lot about everything but not enough to have anywhere else to be. He's started to notice me as well and eyes me like an enemy when I commit myself to a latte with an extra shot and a couple of hours work. The staff know me now and pre-empt the answers to all the usual questions and I no longer have to say my name is 'Maak' and immediately spell out every letter. In the evening Alyson takes me to The Heliosequence at Spaceland but I'm distracted and spend all of Friday working some more and thinking things through.
Saturday night we catch a bus down Sunset to Silverlake and drink a little at Stephanie and Ana's before heading to a club in Chinatown where Jason is a pleasant surprise. Then we make it back to Stephanie and Ana's and drink some more before Alexis drives me round at high speed in a car worth more than my life, one that laughs at the high cost of petrol. Sunday has been sleepy but Alyson has invited us for dinner and sparkling conversation. Our time in this city is nearing its close and I can already sense a nostalgia.
Sunday 07 May
The Echo has been the best to us since we've been here and it was something that Monday was the last of our nights there. Sunset Rubdown and Okay were both musically and personally wonderful to the point where they - to me, at least - validated certain motives for doing what we do. So many good people we hope to meet again.
Tuesday Julia took me up through the Hills and down again to a couple of clubs she then characterised as accidents; the first full of toughs who sat silently at the bar until we entered, then actually became the cliche of turning territorial drunks. We split only to find ourselves at a Goth bar that served up an aftertaste of a year or two of my High School days, although I felt no affinity with the guy in the leather mask. The drinks were strong and the tunes were scary - it was a well-catered nightmare. Because I had been cast as a dead version of myself in the music video we were shooting the next morning, it was not inappropriate to take into it a Gothic sensibility, a hangover, and three hours of sleep. We filmed in Thousand Oaks and on the drive out of LA the director Charles spoke of a perfectly cast day the day was so far failing to be, but instead we were gifted with photogenic fog and a melancholy light that hung on the hills. I watched through the camera as the cast and Curtis and Alan played a search party moving methodically through wet grass looking for my corpse (a couple of days later Curtis' leather shoes were still soaked and Alan's shoes were no longer black). All the cast and crew were lovely.
Pick up shots on Thursday around Robert's house and up Mulholland Drive with Bramley, an actress who was my soulmate for the afternoon. Saying goodbye to her, Charles, Justin and Steve I recorded vocals for Matt's music in the evening under the influence of a few before heading to Spaceland to see Daedelus play with Daniel Johnston. We missed Alfred's set and most of Daniel's, but the three we caught of DJ's were fantastic. He began a song again right after it was over. When he was done for the night the crowd asked for more but he'd reached the end of his open songbook and apologised like he'd wronged us. Calls for an encore were met with gratitude but he had nothing left, and he waved at the crowd before slamming shut the backstage door.
Julia drove her and me to Burbank Friday evening where a French bistro served martinis and surgically-precise appetisers. I downed something that had been soaking in mango overnight as a guitarist in a toupee led a band of jazz players who successfully charged the atmosphere with a kind of Californian class that was followed through by a bartender who poured champagne for the patrons and toasted this place he called a refuge from reality. For breakfast Saturday we were in Beachwood Canyon and markers of its Hollywoodland history were everywhere. The sign loomed close and I was told it was truncated after an actress threw herself off one of its large white letters, but why this had anything to do with the creative decision was unclear. In the afternoon it was Sea Level Records where Alfred played an instore and answered questions from the crowd. After it was over we ate at a coffee shop selling 'Australian' pies and sausage rolls as foreign culinary delights but they came without tomato sauce. We saw the lovely Cynthia for a second before Alfred took us to an exhibition he was DJing downtown. There was free booze and later Alyson, J. Stewart, Saddaf and Andre. Curtis and Alyson split and the five of us remaining made it to the roof where the city was in view and the freeway looked fearsome, an angry artery of imposing American traffic. We were at Cha Cha briefly before being invited back to Jason and Andre's for barbecued meat and Guitar Hero. It should be known that Guitar Hero is pretty much the greatest video game ever made. Some serious heroics from Jason and Andre but Alan and I, a couple of lightweights, brought the BPM down. Andre showed us his Adrian Tomine original and kindly let us stay in the spare room where there was a signed photo of Hitchcock that's surely too awesome to be authentic.
Today I wrote awhile then hit the movies by myself. Art School Confidential was interesting but ultimately insubstantial and a little mean. Too many cheap shots. A lazy day but at least I got some work done. It's occurred to me this tour diary makes a mockery of my English education by moving arbitrarily between past and present tense.
Sunday 30 April
We had imagined Monday as a day out of the house with five Australians in a rented car, but Henry was taken ill. Without him and Mel it was the three of us looking for boredom in all the right places. I attempted to combat an aimlessness with a work ethic: over two coffees and a cup of black tea I resolved some structural issues with the new record. Meeting up with Alan and Curtis we wasted what little money we had on a movie that was a waste of someone else's money before we lived through a disappointing experience at an In-N-Out Burger. We've since been let in on a 'secret menu' that rises above the four or so items available to the uninitiated. Along with the slightly sinister Christian codes hidden on the packaging, this makes for what feels like a national conspiracy. With the taste of bad burger in my mouth something personal took place. The day in total felt like Paul Simon's Graceland until we drank and talked in Robert's kitchen - me, Robert, Curtis, Cindy, Patrick - and I was revived by Patrick's rock'n'roll horror stories and Skyline Chili.
On Tuesday night with Lizzy I drank enough expensive red wine at a self-important French restaurant to turn up at The Greenhornes' barbecue sloshed and sentimental. Robert saved my life with a Skyline Chili dog before Meg hit play on a Wings song and I remembered my childhood as a kind of perfection. I was told the next day that I was amplified and emotional when McCartney sang. I met Alan at CineSpace and have since been surprised by how together I look in the photographs. I left my Italian scarf - a gift from my parents - at Ana's house, and this is the second time it may be the last time I'm ever going to see it.
After being awed by a ginger margarita on Wednesday I was awed by Lizzy's house before she dropped me in Chinatown and I drank bargain Chinese beer with Curt, Alan, Margeaux, Alyson, and more of Alyson's friends. We evicted ourselves eventually and Curtis began some group hysteria with kiddie rides that Margeaux caught with her camera.
I was feeling not too good at the close of the week but Alyson is an awesome friend by cheering me up with an artist pass to Coachella. Now, after the fact, I can't believe I saw myself as too bummed to participate. The entire weekend was a highlight, right from the Friday night we drove down - Alan, Rich, Sarah, Alyson and me - through a distinctly American mountain range and an infinite army of windmills. We made this first night come alive by swindling our way into a Filter magazine party that did its best to keep us out. Not content to wait in line for the bus to the 'hidden' venue we followed in Alyson's lozenge of a car before we took a wrong turn and wasted miles on a freeway to nowhere. Eventually we found the venue and Alyson sweet-talked then bullied our way past a couple of layers of security. The process exceeded the party itself, although we met some good people.
Daft Punk was a phenomenon on Saturday night; I have some low-res video to prove it. Lots of dancing and disbelief until the lights came on and some Englishman next to me said in high seriousness: "That was fucking historical." I laughed but he didn't laugh with me. Only in the early evening did we discover we had an access to the sidestage and the artist's bar. This facilitated free water and Heineken and Alan stepping on Vincent Gallo's foot. There was more news today with Jamie Lidell and the 'Madonna Phenomonna' before Veronica and Karen lifted us back to LA in time for tomorrow's show. A weekend in which I loved most of those I met.
Sunday 23 April
Last Sunday evening it was apparently Easter and we were frustrated for pretty much the first time in our efforts to throw ourselves into this LA experience with Bryan and three nice girls we didn't know. In the end a dive bar was settled on and Seven 'n' Sevens were complemented by free and dirty popcorn out of an open machine while men sea-fished silently on a screen behind us. That day of all days was a day for those fish to be resurrected. Alan and I stayed at Bryan's on the world's most comfortable fold-out bed. We talked shit into the early hours and drank red wine but I felt good in the sun in the morning. Bryan drove us in his Thunderbird to a coffee shop and I felt rotten when I scraped the door of his beautiful machine on one of those unusually high Californian curbs. Bryan was cool about it and we planned to meet up later in the evening but couldn't pull ourselves together. Instead the evening was filled with cable screenings of In Cold Blood and Ghostbusters, respectively.
On Tuesday evening Lizzy and I drove up through Laurel Canyon to Pace's, an Italian restaurant that sits beneath a general store that resembles the old hippie behind the counter. Lizzy needs a minimum to use her card so buys me a CD that seems to have only come about through an effective communication between humans and dolphins. We turn it up too loud in the car and I finish off smoking a piece of shit cigar that Lizzy refuses. The plastic case it came in tastes better than the stogie itself. While I persevere for awhile I end up serving it to the streets as we come to a bar I don't remember the name of but won't soon forget.
Wednesday Alfred again played the perfect host and took us to a cafe outside of which we ran into two good people, one of whom saw us play with The Greenhornes and actually remembers the name of our band. She hands us her card and tells us she writes and makes art and we walk away feeling a new friend is made. In the evening it was the Short Stop with Alyson and another of her winning Australian friends. It was all Jagermeister on the rocks and half-hearted dancing.
Billy Childish was pretty cool Thursday night at Spaceland but the crowd itself had an unsettling complexion I can't really explain. When a strange audience member elected himself frontman of the band for a couple of minutes it was another audience member, rather than a security guy, who took it upon himself to pull the guy from his pedestal. Marshal law in Silverlake. Also someone yelled out "Fuck Jack White!" which just came off as taking sides in an argument that's dumb to begin with.
Friday was a pretty fantastic time as Matt ended a guided tour through new streets with an intro to Ajay, Dinosaur Jr.'s sound man. He was awesome over dinner and later at the show. Even though I was never a major Dino fan I couldn't deny the weight of the sound and the near-spirituality of the experience for those who air-guitar'd and -drummed and mouthed the words to every verse. Comets on Fire were excellent although the crowd was thinner than it should have been. Later I waited in line to use the restroom behind Meg White who was in turn waiting for Keanu Reeves. I couldn't help actually laughing out loud at how I'd found my way here, and I thought it may have just been the alcohol and the Australian talking but Bryan understood it too.
Saturday upped the LA further with a party that seemed to have a nominal relation to its sponsor but a tangible link to free booze. After it was over Luke helped us into a nightclub called LAX and I felt a kind of manic energy in a place that rumbled with r'n'b cutups and overcharged at a bar with a glowing aquarium of jellyfish. The night was finished off with cheap and delicious Thai food but Curtis and Alan were nowhere to be found. Alan made it somewhere respectable but Curtis gave in to something primal and walked miles in one direction before falling asleep on the side of a freeway. Today was spent respecting this adventure. Curtis glowed as he told us of the happiness he had found walking home with coyotes through the Hollywood Hills.
Tour diary 02.
Sunday 16 April
Henry and the other Australians were back unexpectedly on Tuesday and they came round to Laurel Canyon to begin the night with American Idol and beer. Then we were back at CineSpace and Henry helped us to shots and enjoy ourselves as we retreated to a corner claimed by the legs of dancing people. In the restroom there was a man handing out towels to those washing their hands. As an amateur I must admit to being intimidated enough by this new tipping situation to forego personal hygiene a couple of times.
Wednesday at the Griddle I met with Charles and Justin who are going to shoot a video for one of my songs at the end of the month. They're both cool and I left feeling good. I'm not sure if it was a sunny day but I remember it that way. In the afternoon I drank coffee with Lizzy but bought the wrong cake to go with it. At night we couldn't help but go the Viper Room and Alan acknowledged that their hoodies were pretty good. A couple of nice people were met and a night was once again made better by the terrific towering presence of J. Stewart.
Apparently we sounded good at the Troubadour on Friday with The Greenhornes and The Willowz, which is nice to know because I couldn't get the accordion on and forgot a couple of lyrics. I discovered that the special upstairs bar is not all that special. The night ended a couple of hours early when Alan lost the nerve to dance on this kind of podium. A guy with 'Security' written on his shirt didn't like seeing another guy have that much fun and cut Alan down to size with a "Ladies only!"
We enjoyed the Arclight on Saturday afternoon. Curtis saw something garbage but three of us liked Brick, although Robert had seen it before. In the evening was The Books and then a club, but the club was too much and so we moved on to a bar that was not enough, and the effect was just right. Bryan drove us to a diner and then home in his '66 Thunderbird and we could not get our heads around the shape and white leather. Automobiles are not a part of my life but I was seduced.
Today I'm every other exhibitionist at the Coffee Bean with a pen and paper/computer and I'm yet to figure out if publicly writing a diary is more or less indulgent than publicly writing a screenplay. A dude is leaving a uniform series of voice messages on his cell phone and beatboxing fast and loud each time a call is connecting. There's an old guy sitting next to him shaking his head. I'm thinking a lot about the new record. It's inspiring the way this place throws life at you whether you like it or not. It would be fun to live here for a year to see how I like it slower but sustained rather than in this concentrated shot of colour.
Sunday 09 April
Tuesday at a club I met somebody truly awesome but still couldn't bring myself to down straight tequila. It tastes like it's on its way back up to me now, although Curtis continues his love affair with this kind of fuel and doesn't flinch as he takes it, smiles like it's next to nothing. Instead I resorted to something closer to soda and felt unlike a man, and yes I did deserve to be made fun of.
Mid-week we couldn't get into some screening but met our skeleton key Matt eating good expensive salad at some bar or restaurant, and the four of us there drank back Peach-themed alcohol out of actual jam jars, and walked away from it humming. Matt and Jason got us in to the event we couldn't get into and the bar was the conclusion of a couple of long, ill-lit corridors. Later Jason had a meeting at another bar and the four of us went together. Here he discussed with a guy a night he wants to hold. The language and the lighting and the way it all played out was trashy magic. Alan and I sat in on the negotiations and drinks were brought to us by an army of waitresses - it seemed to be a girl a drink - as we couldn't believe the situation, how far it was from home, and Alan leaned in to light Jason's cigarette like a member of his entourage.
Friday at The Echo we played with Nobody & Mystic Chords of Memory, Caural, and The Electromagnetic. The people are the Echo were unbelievably nice to us and helped a little to calm me down as I dealt with the volatile equilibrium of a No-Doz balancing a Bacardi. It was late when we played and a lot of people left but those who were there were good to us, and some people at the front cheered for Australia in American accents and even knew enough about the music to request a song by its title. We didn't play it.
Last night was disordered and nothing much got done but on Vine St. there was trouble and I've never seen so much authority - cops and ambulances and a chopper with a spotlight.
Today at Venice Beach I felt again the rush of these great moments leaving me quickly and I tried to capture the coast with rapid-fire photography, although nothing seemed to stick. We talked of creating a montage of Venice cliches - the beach volleyball game, the rollerblader, the tranny, Tony Robbins - but they were thin on the ground and Curtis walked away disappointed by the lack of weird America. There's always Vegas.
Tour diary 01.
Sunday 02 April
In the middle of the week Curt and Alan go to the Getty (Alan pictured) as Alfred and I drive to a delicious Indian lunch, passing a spectacular Mormon structure on the peak of which stands a golden figure with a horn in its hands. Alfred tells me that several exist in the world and it is believed they are due to come to life together to sound their horns to signal a day foretold. One early morning this week a house alarm was activated, took over the street, and I imagined this as the sound of the Mormon horn, although someone else in the house misread it as the sound of an air raid siren.
Our first show on Thursday with Pink Mochi was 'mochli' empty but I felt like we did okay. The night after at the Troubadour with Her Space Holiday we inhabited a Green Room painted black. Curtis was designated driver, so Alan and I whittled away the rider. More great Australians who backed our plans for Disneyland and Vegas. Henry ruined some Disney rides by giving up their secrets (he called them "twists of genius"), but made up ground by inviting us to visit him and Mel in Vegas. Curtis especially has his heart set in this direction, watches the show Las Vegas and everything, and it certainly does seem as if this city is a wonder of the world. When the night seemed almost over it began again and there was a memorable time in an Australian hotel room drinking beer from plastic cups. Another Aussie embassy, amplified and alcoholic, right there on Vine St.
We were sent off alone for the first real time on the drive down through Orange County to San Diego in a rented Pontiac. The ocean came in and out of view, as did these oversized steam-making machines that we didn't understand. The Che Cafe is a charming sort of shack with no booze, monitors or set times. But there's free food. We were on second and the crowd was impossibly generous and asked for an encore, which we gratefully gave up, although we discovered later that in doing so broke the laws of playing live in America. Thanks to Marc for not charging us. The whole of Her Space Holiday is lovely and made the night something else.
This is Los Angeles but I hadn't seen a famous soul until today. There sitting next to me is the blind man from Curb Your Enthusiasm. We ordered the same salad. Today I write in the coffee shop I'm trying to make local, but mostly I'm trying to find a way to live in a new place without feeling eclipsed. It's part and parcel of living transplanted, to find a new context, and it's a healthy thing probably, but not an easy thing. I think all three of us half-seriously dream of finding a rich and beautiful woman of Hollywood to take us in, to love us, to pay our way, to make it effortless.
Sunday 26 March
Someone told me the Birthday Party became famous in London by just living there. We're not hard like the Birthday Party so we can count out notoriety, but we're still going to a lot to LA shows and meeting good people and forcing flyers on them. Alan was almost mugged on the way home from one - a couple of young desperados closing in on him from both sides in the shadows of Silverlake. The best show we've seen so far has been the Dirty Projectors. It sounds dicky but it felt like something important, although there was hardly anyone there (maybe this helped the mood). Alyson was there, and our new friend Frosty as well. The Dirty Projectors started off with a film featuring kangaroos, and maybe I heard Curtis' stomach grumbling, I'm not sure.
Our friend Alyson has been key to high-spirits, as has Alfred, who has been leading us to good and interesting food and people and places. There have been some recent days where I have felt the sensation of a good memory being manufactured. An example of a day with vivid turns was Thursday the 23rd, when we DJed off our iPods for Dublab, ate at Viet Soy, and saw the city from above on a building top. Later in the evening we made a couple of new friends in Kozy and Dan as the world Pride Fought in front of us. I'm not taking enough photographs, but it's hard to find a compromise between living and recording, and I'm siding with the former.
After a day of a lot of things, including a fashion show for Curt and Alan and Chinatown and a German bar for me and a new friend, Curtis sleepwalks in on me in bed. He tells me he's having a sign, and something's missing behind his eyes. I'm a little scared of him for a few days after that.
Sunday 19 March
These first few days fell a little short, although the Arizona atmosphere was magic. Part of the Austin experience was some dumb misunderstandings: "where were you?" "Where was I? Where were you?" We had our share of problems at our South by Southwest show and were pretty much erased by metal from the venue next door. It wasn't a big deal but we're a long way from home and our perspective is shot so it became a mountain, and I think we all turned a little anti-American for awhile. But it's hard to stay that way with so many good people around us; Au Revoir Simone, the Mush guys, Dan, Anna, Chris, Rachel ... An old guy came up and told us what he knew about Australia and even acknowledged the limitations of his cultural empathy. An awesome dude, and we ate good and greasy pizza while we talked. Some Australians too, and they were more than welcome (thanks Pete Hyde). There were more Australians still at the Aussie BBQ and while it was apparently some VIP type shit we wore sister city Adelaide as an access-all-areas and arrived to a kind of outdoor embassy of Australian music and free food and free Cooper's. There we hung out with some winners - a true highlight.
The ride home from Austin was with no breaks and while the freeways are split for both directions there's a sinking sensation of imminent collision every time a truck comes at you. It's a cheap optical trick.
Sunday 12 March
The only real question asked of us at the US consulate: "what was your favourite album of 2005?" The security guard at the consulate is warm and British, offsets the official American faces on the walls. We are assessed as not terrorists and we get our work permits the day before our flights. I look at mine a couple of times while we fly to make sure it's there. It's like a prize won. It's made of important 'colors.' Then imposed on the left side is a black and white photograph of me, a guest of the nation. It looks like I've been attached retrospectively so I hope they buy it at the border. Regardless we travel like crucial people, with confidence, with exit row seats. Alan makes time move faster with vodka and beer, gets angry at the terrible food. He mixes drinks with the light air and it goes to his head.
Customs is okay and we make it through to America. Los Angeles isn't itself it seems: it's cold and wet. But still the same washed out colour and spinning signs and a pleasant smell of pollution. We're staying again with Robert from Mush in Clark Gable's old house, which is right where we left it. The Hollywood Hills start right across the street, and when it rains they're decomposed and made more a recollection. Our hearts are set on a local coffee shop but it's Sunday and we're fucked around.
Yes, welcome to here.
Hi. We can't wait for America. Can America wait for us? These are the kinds of questions I ask myself every day. Which came first - America or the egg?
I've been lazy with this blog. But for awhile I'm transforming it into something electrifying: a TOUR BLOG! For a few months this will come to life, only to die away again (no doubt) when I return home to my sleepy neighbourhood, and the soothing buzz of my TV.
Babel Fish myself.
Today I came across a mysterious note-to-self in my mobile phone:
"Was at a bar and thought about drink to order. Then i thought bout mkn it funi. Then i thought bout toilet givn time. Then thouht walk. Then thought sealing in head. Then bout story. It was like a dream."
After spending awhile with the language, I think I have the definitive interpretation:
"Was at a bar and thought about drink to order." I believe I'd knocked back many and was waiting to order another.
"Then i thought bout mkn it funi." I think I thought of a 'funny' way to order another. It must have been taking some time to get served, and I must have had some pressing business, because then we have:
"Then i thought bout toilet givn time." I think this is me acknowledging the pressing business, but the glass is half full: a pit stop will give time to perfect the wisecrack, to sharpen its barb. Best make a break for the men's.
"Then thouht walk." Because something happens that's hard to explain. The alcohol hits and the lines of internal communication are complicated. I'm pilot and machine. Remote control with me at the helm. I'm giving myself orders. WALK! TO THE MEN'S ROOM! You see?
"Then thought sealing in head." Machines have no memory, so I'm writing the wisecrack to disk, so to speak.
"Then bout story." This is the money shot. I think I was under the impression I could make something of a story out of the development of these thoughts, out of the way it all went down. But I should have learned by now that every young smartie falls drunk and then forgets that any glow these turns lend to the bottom of the beer will burn up at sunrise. Or Café De Vili's. Whichever comes first.
"It was like a dream." You know, the way your thoughts run into each other, etcetera. Obviously something 'poetic' attached as a finale, because of the weird sudden sobriety, or awkward self-conscious interference. Probably supposed to give the story closure.
But even now it's still going on. I tell myself I don't have the inclination to make this into a story that sort of closes in on itself, but it doesn't escape me that here it pretty much is anyway.
Some dumb reason.
This weekend I evaded a cold that came at me furiously on Friday but that I somehow managed to side-step with two consecutive nights of excessive drinking (irresponsible). But anyway, the whole thing 'gave me pause.' I mulled over all my inherited knowledge and a lot of it seems inconsistent, or at least a little loose. I'm no medicine man but I'd consider myself a minor expert at being bedridden, having lived with a kind of half-health since glandular fever (mono for Americans) in the late nineties, and I can't help but face the phony science of a couple of things I was told to be true, two pieces of contradictory HOMESPUN HOOPLAH that imply a stupid predicament for the terminally ill (different meaning). I was taught that if you're sick you sleep a lot – you close your eyes and submit to the illness and when you wake up you've broken through. But I was also told that too much sleep'll make you ill, or at least leave you wide open to viral attack (your best chance seems to be a well-timed bracket of eight or nine hours - set the alarm exactly and no harm will ever come of you). This leaves a guy in an absurd circumstance. The flu follows me around, it's true, but I can't outgrow a tendency I've had since school to second-guess even the worst sort of sickness; I wonder where my line is between authentic illness and hypochondria. If both things I was taught are true then I'd best make pretty sure I'm sick before committing to sleeping it off, otherwise I'm inviting the virus I've been lucky enough to avoid in the first place.
Now this is happening.
I've thought about this for a little while, a way to inject some dynamism into the site. Do you mind? I hope not. You can't begrudge a dude his modest innovations. I'll try to keep this regular, not think about it too much. And with that, I think I'm done. That's the first one in the bag right there.
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