Day three: Albuquerque

Morning is a mixed bag: the unwelcome aches concomitant with having slept on a piece of furniture not designed with a sound night of human sleep in mind and the barely restrained joy brought by the first shower in a couple of days. Quinn, in especially rough shape after pounding one last PBR before bed in a vain attempt to somehow overcome Nick’s snoring, takes the wheel and our group is off for Albuquerque’s The Tavern by 11:30.

I-25 leads through Denver, which is where Nick, wondering what he’ll have to offer a lonely trucker for a ride to Breckenridge, gets off the party train. Continuing south, our group speeds past Colorado Springs—pretty scenery, Air Force Academy, religious fundamentalists—Pueblo and Trinidad.

Quinn relieving himself in Nature:


As the mountains frame a brilliantly setting sun, the adobe tract houses of Santa Fe come and go, and the gray van of sonic glory begins its descent into Greater Albuquerque.

Miles of strip malls populated almost exclusively with chain stores give the area a depressing feeling of anywhere-anonymity. Arriving early to the barren parking lot of The Tavern—


—His Mis decides that dinner is in order. Steak in the Rough, with its signature deep-fried strips of steak, beckons, but abruptly closes after running out of meat.

Trying to figure out if deep-fried meat is a good idea:

Our group makes do instead with Lotaburger, sitting ‘round a cement table outside and watching a man repeatedly trying to mount, and then repeatedly dropping, his friend’s motorcycle in the bar parking lot next door. Discussion revolves around the frequency with which the city of Albuquerque appears in the show COPS.

Rock can happen even in an unspeakably lame bar:


Though the band plays a good set using borrowed mics—the bar’s microphones were stolen at some unspecified point in the not-too-distant past—and with Quinn’s eyes glued to one of the five flat-screen TVs in the room, the highlight of the night has to be Penthouse Photohunt.

From finding an extra palm frond in the background to noticing the presence of a third, Photoshopped-in breast, F, Q, & B rack up the points as they dominate the sexy videogame. By the time the two other bands—Animals in the Dark and Poor Man’s Ferrari—are finished and His Mis can mercifully depart the hellhole that is Albuquerque, they have ensured their lasting mark on New Mexico with a first-place finish at Penthouse Photohunt.

But wait! The awfulness of Albuquerque is not yet done with our heroes. Stopping for gas on the way out of town, they meet some more locals: a druggish couple at a gas station asking for money for meth…err, because they lost their car at “the checkpoint.” Lo and behold, minutes later, the gray van narrowly avoids said police checkpoint on the way to the highway. With no place else to go at 3 a.m., Fox pulls the van into an I-40 rest stop and the boys (with Miles in a sleeping bag on the roof) settle in for some sleep.

-Miles

Day two: Fort Collins, CO

The first stop on Day Two finds our group at a place called Taco John’s, an eating experience so far removed from the native cuisine of the country responsible for the taco as to be mystifying (or sickening, depending on how much you ate while there). The free Wi-Fi provides some diversion from the mushrooming effects of the gut bomb, and Nick introduces everyone to a creepy walking robot and later adamantly maintains that the cop in a hilarious Reno 911 skit has been digitally inserted into footage of a real DUI stop. Whatever, Nick.

Leaving behind the friendly people of Omaha and their fair city, His Mischief and friends hit the highway once again. At a gas stop somewhere in Nebraska, Fox earns the ire of the lady behind the counter when he seizes a couple of pieces of most un-beef-like beef jerky and demonstrates their fashion potential.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Jerky Sash:


The discovery that the van has been burning oil at a surprising rate leads to a stop at Ogallala’s local Pamida, the chain store which someone explains is “like Target, but for hicks.” Take that, rural America. After a quick run through the Dairy Queen drive-thru, all is set for a straight shot into Wyoming and then down to Colorado.

The Surfside Seven is a cool little bar and pizza parlor with brick walls and a small stage wedged into the corner next to the plate-glass windows facing College Avenue, Fort Collins’ main drag. The band enjoys some free pizza and beer while waiting for the town’s own Harvey Knuckles to play first. When HK take the stage, two things are immediately apparent: 1. these guys are ready to rock, and 2. the lead singer is already pretty fucking drunk. Whatever number 2’s later consequences might be, numbers 1 and 2 combine for a stellar, high-energy set for the enjoyment of the assembled crowd.

His Mis then takes the stage, immediately getting the Seven’s patrons moving:


But then, tragedy: problems with Fox’s equipment disable his distortion pedals. What to do? Turning lemons into Bacardi Limon, our band soldiers on, putting on a show that is arguably more entertaining than the previous night’s, including a stellar rendition of Rock Song (Hyperopia). As Brown misses toss after toss of his sticks (but never misses a beat), Fox embarks on a tour of the joint’s furniture, leaving scarcely a chair or booth un-mounted, all the while manhandling his guitar. And then, to the surprise and delight of many, Fox mounts his guitar, directing it with rhythmic pelvic thrusts in the direction of a particularly delighted Brown. Such jokesters, these guys!

The post-show wind down includes more beer, watching Nick sling some incredible game at a local mother and teacher, and seeing a combination of awe and elation in Brown’s face as Karl Alvarez, bassist for The Descendents and idol of a teenage Brown, tells Fox, “Your drummer is a gift from God, you know that, don’t you?”

Here is the fodder for a number of Brown’s future jerk-off fantasies:


Our group ends the night at the house of John, Harvey Knuckles’ drummer, drinking an 18-pack of PBR, watching Action Jackson, and petting Kaanu, the so-chill Siberian Husky mix, before settling down for sleep on whatever sofas, love seats, recliners and empty floor space that can be had.

-Miles

Day one: Omaha, NE

Tour gets underway on Thursday at around two in the afternoon, a couple of hours later than planned. With the van loaded, His Mischief (Quinn, Brown and Fox) and friends (Nick and Miles) soon leave the gray skies of greater Minneapolis, bound for the gray skies of Omaha, the first stop on tour.

Oh, bleak Iowa! Spring has not yet sprung in that flat state, its winter palette a numbing collection of browns and grays. Signs pass for Joice, Clear Lake and Mason City, yet the gray Dodge speeds on through the rain.

“Nebraska…the good life” greets the group as they cross the mighty Missouri into Omaha. The grimy train yards and boarded-up buildings give way to new development, at the edge of which sits the club Slowdown. Most likely one of the nicer places at which His Mischief will play on this tour, the club’s name is a reference to one of the first bands on Saddle Creek Records.

Tonight is the release party for the new Ladyfinger/Dance Me Pregnant split 7-inch and His Mischief goes on first. The boys from Minnesota play a good first set of the tour, and the crowd likes the performance.

Some pictures (courtesy of Adam Streur):





Merch sales are brisk in the back as Miles and Nick suck down PBR tall-boys and trade off manning the table. Dance Me Pregnant goes on next and, though some women in the crowd are spotted dancing, there appear to be none of the spontaneous pregnancies for which some had secretly hoped. Ladyfinger plays last, putting on a Saddle Creek-worthy show.

Chris Machmuller (“Mach”), guitarist in DMP and guitarist/singer in Ladyfinger, is a generous host for tonight, plying the visitors with beer, snacks and a delicious Iowa Rye called Templeton. Stella, his hyperactive rat terrier, entertains everyone with her zany antics and frenetic begging. At some point later in the night, an ultimately unsuccessful attempt is made to find her off switch, leading one to imagine the existence of a Stella-sized box where she can be stored, quivering and anxious, for the night.

-Miles

Life IS a Chardonnay, isn't it?