Virtual show broadcast on Facebook, Twitch, and Youtube featuring a pre-recorded performance. Watch video on YouTube.

Our last show before the unexpected global pandemic and shutdown.

Donny and Steve List were kind enough to host what was easily the best show on the block on this particular night. Donny even made pizzas and served us all beer before eventually passing out above the Titan Men nude 2010 calendar.

Airfix Kits kicked things off with their unique blend of accents and name spellings, as well as inter–band ages. We were next and, well, I can honestly say we didn’t really suck all that bad!

Considering the possibility that ‘the people’ might not be ‘socially evolved’ enough to ‘appreciate’ the extremely high-brow humor of the Magi-cool Doods, Jack thought it best to ask for gas donations before they played. As luck would have it ‘the people’ were quite open to songs like “I like little boys (but not the way you think I do)”, “Raining vaginas” and the radio hit “I’m hung like a baby (9lbs 8oz)”. (As Alan – with 1 “L” – pointed out - we have been enjoying Mick and Dan’s sophomoric antics for TWENTY YEARS now. Cause to celebrate? Embarrassing? Eh...) Following them were Bobby Joe Ebola who, despite having their own juvenile streak, seemed cerebral and thought-provoking by Magi-cool Doods’ standards.

Helping round out the ‘have we grown up at all?’ vibe the entire Your Mother ensemble showed up and, to the delight of everyone, did not reform for even one song.

Last weekend the Rocket Queens played at a brewery opening up for a screening of Spinal Tap. They gave us $300, free meals, and all the beer we could drink. Actually they gave us a limited number of drinks but Jackson schmoozed the bartenders like only Jackson can and from that point the drinks never stopped. Needless to say I got hammered – to the point of vomiting in my backyard after I got home. (Kudos to my girlfriend for being a good sport about it, by the way.)

Tonight I forfeited my drink tickets because I wasn’t in the mood for a repeat performance. Jackson’s advice was to get back on that horse and fall back off that wagon. The subject then turned to Jackson’s dislike of cookies. I told him all he needed was the right cookie to win him over. Someone then suggested that a cookie–beer or beer–cookie be made to appease us both.

Cookie Mongoloid is a metal band that plays Sesame Street songs or songs that can be manipulated into Cookie Monster–related songs (for instance – “Let It Be” becomes “Letter C”). Their singer, a guy in a Cookie Monster outfit and full leathers and who sang and bantered entirely in the language of Cookie Monster, had a cookie cannon shot cookie at the crowd. I was standing by Jackson when he first unleashed this weapon and the audience was soon showered with cookie crumbs. I looked over at Jackson and his beer was full of cookie. He was not impressed and I gave a second thought to the idea of a cookie–beer winning Jackson over.

Of all the shows I booked I was led to believe this was going to be the best. The dood who set up the show sounded so stoked we were playing I felt like maybe he had us confused with some other band. He would periodically send us emails saying “Seriously, Love Songs…playing my house?!?!” He further boosted our expectations by saying he was hosting the party of the year since we were coming and since it was 4th of July he was going double all–out. He also secretly told me that Leftover Crack were gonna play as well. Not that any of us are LOC fans but we imagined the show would be that much more off da hook if they were on the bill.

So we drove 16 hours to show up in time. Upon arrival we found a motley assortment of crusty kids, college kids, drunks, drug addicts, flag burners, and post–Hot Topic LOC fans. By early evening the majority of people were fucked up beyond control and one guy was pretty close to dead. He passed out on the lawn and everyone just kept rolling him over whenever he started to vomit on himself. The cops showed up during some flag burning and the ‘punx’ made it a point to harass them to no end. Back home the cops would have just arrested the kids then confiscated all the gear (which would have been ours in this case) so we were duely worried, but they didn’t do anything.

[Reminds me of the time Your Mother played in Corvalis – the cops were beating down the door while the promoters put couches in front of it and alternately yelled for us to keep playing and for the cops to “go away, no one is home.”]

We hung around for close to 10 hours for our chance to play. LOC played very early and most people left when they were done. Then countless shit–talking local bands played, horsed around, got drunk and otherwise stalled our chance to play. We ended up playing last, around 12:30 am. Ben Snakepit was THE ONLY person watching our first song and he just kept yelling “16 Hours!!! Woohoo! We drove 16 hours to get here!! WOOHOO!!!” I stripped butt naked and Jack and Seth wore Speedos. Ben left to gather people to watch and for the half of a song that he was gone we played to literally nobody. Funny how in my mind this was possibly going to be the best show of the tour yet in the end we played to ZERO people. Additionally, the booker who was so excited to see us never came to watch.

I can not describe to you how hot it is. It was 88 degrees when the sun came over the horizon at 6:30 this morning. Yeah, we were still driving at sun–up. Question: Drive overnight drive to spend the day in a house with A/C vs. drive in a van with no A/C through the desert in the middle of the day? Answer: Drive through the night.

Spent the day lounging at Matt’s house. He spent the day getting more and more wasted – drink some shots, smoke some weed, drink more shots, smoke more weed…and so it went for the entire day. Then at 5 he bounced up and said “we gotta air this bitch out before my mom gets home.”

The show was hot as fuck and most of the audience were our friends who drove out from LA. A band from the Bay Area played at a bar across the street then walked over and asked to jump on our bill. The promoter let them and they proceeded to back their U–Haul up to the front doors and unload more equipment than is necessary for a no–name band playing to…3 people!!! Actually there were many more people when they started but only 3 left by the time they played their 2nd song. Their aim was obviously not to connect with people but rather showcase their ability to make 3rd rate emo metal. I think what made them worse was that they took off as soon as they finished playing instead of hanging out. But then no one liked them so I guess I can see why they split.

I had a friend in high school. She was a Jehovahs Witness but that didn’t make her any less attractive. It did however make her more or less off–limits though because nobody ever got to see her outside of school (yeah, like I’d have ever done anything about it anyway...).

One of the founding members of Your Mother, Jared, was a Mormon. Both he and this young lady were devout to their respective religions and, to the best of everyone’s knowlege, chaste. But that didn’t stop them from necking the year we got out of high school. Can you imagine the theological implications!?! She is now happily married, no longer Jehovah, and has a couple kids older than this band so I have no shame in admitting what a crush I had on her. Oh, I mention it because she showed up tonight (and in case you’re wondering she’s still a fox.) BEERCAN had to cancel because Bill had shingles or scurvy or some other sickness that only pirates get but sad as that was, it did allow MANVILLE to play so not all was lost. (For the third time...WOW.) This weekend also proved that we were out of our sucky–show phase. Thanks again, Reno. Thanks to Casey and Ryan for keeping Jack and Seth well nourished with whatever imbibements they wanted. And special thanks to Cassie for driving Seth and Annie to the airport at 5:30 in the morning so they could fly to Phoenix and carve kids toys out of styrofoam.

Following Hella Fitzgerald and Crunch Push-Ups - two bands heavy with schtick and comedic entertainment value - and then Bad Dirty Hate who were short, tight and fast (the way music should be), was tough. In comparison we seemed lifeless and, let's be honest, not very tight - at least by our standards. We'd like to blame it on the fact that Sunday we spent the day cracking ribs, bailing on concrete, skinning knees and getting severely sunburnt. Whatever, we weren't too impressed with our performance. However, I received this email about 30 minutes after the show:

OK, ready? Not that anyone asked, but here's my review: You guys were incredibly, incredibly good. I say "incredibly" not only because it's true, but also because I expected you to suck, and you very clearly didn't. What a negative nelly I was-but color me surprised, you guys can actually play. I also liked that I could hear a lot of different kinds of influences in there- metal, blues, and god knows what else, maybe punk? You made it look easy and you seemed to be having a lot of fun up there, and that's more than enough for me. I might actually have to buy a CD. Scary.

A roadtrip with This Is My Fist sharing the vehicle proved great for us and the gas compensation but terrible for them when they realized their Weird Al polka threshold was far below ours. Sucks for them! It seems Seth's poor little iPod was just stuck in the Weird Al polka folder...

The show was awesome except that I locked the keys in the van and the AAA guy came in the middle of Pink Black's set and I had to duck out for a few songs. When I snuck back into the show I somehow managed to creep right into Caroline's cello bow. It probably looked funny but I couldn't see straight for a few minutes. Dude, RENO...

With no drummer, drums, or amps we all piled into Jackie's car and drove into the Mission. We played and nary a tomato was thrown our way.

Black Tiger (featuring Rick and James from Betty's Love Child – heh heh, Rick James) played and nary a sweeping arpeggio was left behind. Ed Mudshi from France were one part Victim's Family and one part Plaid Retina. Halfway through their set both John Geek and Alex turned to me and welcomed me back to 1994. The Fleshies rocked as usual and a fun and decidedly 'throwback' evening was had by many. Jackie's car refused to start and it took till 2am before we were able to pop–start it in reverse, a sight that must have been pretty entertaining seeing as how we were all still wearing slacks, collared shirts and vests or a tie.

Dude, RENO.

A fest of some of the best Reno bands (including the return of Crucial Attack and Spotlight Syndicate) and we got to play. GOT DAMN we love you, Reno!

Mic Mucus came down from Davis and we spent the better part of the afternoon playing pinball in my basement (yeah, that’s right, I got pinball in my basement!!!). By the time we got to the show I had a headache from laughing so much, that bastard. Between him and Mike Park they pretty much embody all that I look for in friends: kick ass sense of humor, right–on politics, appreciation for underground art/music, and a total commitment to being rad.

Speaking of being rad, Devon showed up too and he said we were so loud he could hear us from the parking lot.

Fairly uneventful considering we were at Mic’s and it was the 4th of July. No excessive fire damage, no broken windows, no feces–flinging. And neither the Bananas nor Gifts of Goats played BUT the Magicool Dudes did. To quote the Magicool Dudes:

Let’s make out with some dudes
‘ Little brother
’ sEnglish teacher
After she’s passed out
Some snacks.
F’n brilliant!

We got paid $2. That’s like leaving the waitress a penny. The only reason you play bars is because you actually get paid. Sadly, the $2 wasn’t even enough for the van’s gas – and it was only a 15 mile trip.

Got pulled over for having a broken headlight but were let off, again, because the officer thought the Manville Youth Group sticker was “funny.”

Message left by the promoter on my answering machine the day of the show: “Hey Craig, was your CD release show with you and the two Reno bands and the Idaho band today? Sorry, I forgot.”

We showed up anyway after sending out last minute emails and making pleading phone calls/text messages (we were out of town and unable to fully promote the show beforehand).

While looking for the bathroom at the venue Joe Reno overheard the promoter yelling to the people in the warehouse “I’m letting you all know there’s a show tonight, but don’t worry – nobody’s gonna be here.”

We pulled into Mic Mucus’ house about 2 in the morning and fell asleep to the Weird AL Collection DVD. We woke up a few hours later and watched it again before making flyers and plastering them around town. We ate at Woodstocks compliments of Mic Mucus. Within an hour I had a fecal blast maintaining the my tradition of eating at Woodstocks and having an ‘episode’ within 90 minutes. After the show a woman gave me a key to her heart. It looked an awful lot like a door key but she insisted it was not her house so what did it matter?

End of tour numbers:

• # of days 10
• # of states 6
• Total door money $208
• Total merch money $265
• Total money taken in $473
• Total spent on gas $480
• Total miles 2300
• Average mpg 11.1
• # of showers Jack took 0

Met some dudes who fully, completely ‘got it.’ They were total dorks and I think that’s what it takes to ‘get’ us. You don’t see the cool kids dancing to Love Songs.

I’m starting to lose my voice and as a result we’re starting to sound like a Gainesville band. It’s funny – people say Love Songs is a glossy, softer, more professional version of anything I’ve ever been a part of, but put us against HSS and we are anything but slick and professional. They play flawlessly every night and they don’t go out of tune or lose their voices or forget parts of songs. By contrast we look like a sloven gaggle of amateurs.

We finally got a chance to hang out with HSS today. It hardly felt like we’re traveling together since we had yet to spend the day together and we haven’t been sleeping in the same places. It was nice finally getting to know the two guys who aren’t Max. Can’t say they felt the same about us…

We played in a bowling alley and it was the best sound so far on this trip. Go figure.

Received a slip of paper from an audience member that read: “You will be HUGE. Let me do your video.” She left before I could warn her that to catch Bradley on film she’d need a wide–angle lens.

After about 5 or 10 minutes of sleep in the van I went back into the Berkey house and found a couple puppies suckling at Seth and Jack’s faces while they lay passed out. High Speed Scene and us decided to skip out on a sketchy show in Olympia and instead drive to Portland where many friends awaited us. Over the course of the drive we hit four states and took many naps.

Once we got to PDX we picked up Alan and went straight to the vegan–friendly Vita Café and then to the Avalon for a movie. Contrary to what Mikey says, Hellboy was not “awesome.”

We left at 8am to get to the show by 5. We pulled up to Long Ear Records right at 5 and walked in needing urgently to use a restroom. I heard HSS playing over the store PA and went outside to look for them. Not seeing them I went back in and realized they were actually playing live in the far back corner of the store. The store employees looked unhappy, as did Adam from HSS who apparently caught the runs from a falafel in Boise. They played 5 songs and were told to stop. We were then told to share their equipment and be done in 20 minutes. We played 4 songs. Between both bands we played a total of nine songs – that’s roughly two for every person watching. The whole show was over and done in 30 minutes.

The Berkey’s (who set up the show and, contrary to the turnout, did a formidable job of promoting the show) invited us back to their one–horse town of Wallace for a “post–show rager.” Seth and Jack picked up a case of Schmidt’s. Judging by the pictures on the box Schmidt’s was a beer for the bear–hunting, fly–fishing Northern Idaho outdoorsman. It tasted horrible and gave both Seth and Jack diarrhea, thereby earning it the new name Shits. In kind, everything that tastes like shit now tastes like Schmidt.

It was a long and entertaining night but for me to share what went on without giving the unabbreviated blow–by–blow would only make us look tawdry and sleazy. For example, Jack threatening “Don’t make me fuck your mom” would paint a very inappropriate picture of the evening if not made within context. Come to think of it, even in context that was pretty inappropriate. Anyway, I still won’t bore you with the details of the evening mainly because I don’t really remember them.

As we were leaving Winnemuca we got pulled over for speeding. We were clocked at 47 in a 35 zone but there’s no way that was possible. We were even stuck behind a slow–moving trailer–truck that spit an endless cloud of diesel death at us. They didn’t get pulled over for speeding. Or for gross polluting. It was my opinion that the officer, coming from the other direction, saw a blue–haired kid (Seth) driving a van and that was all the probable cause he needed. He let us off with a warning because he thought the Manville Youth Group sticker was “funny.”

We passed through Jordan Valley, ID which Jack described as Home of the Ever–Shrinking Gene Pool. The people were pretty nice and apparently bands stop there all the time. Go figure. Probably had more culture than Pleasanton. Bradley ate a whole bunch of nuts and said he pooped a Payday.

The show was in Bug’s bedroom. I was worried people would fuck up his house but as the night went on it was Bug who was causing the biggest ruckus by spraying beer all over, jumping off the roof, etc. He passed out three separate times before finally being stuffed into his bed between two women and a dude.

Renotians have a habit of embellishing things. Joe Reno once told some moms they had to stop loitering in front of the venue because of complaints. Within a couple days it was said that Joe Reno was telling moms to Fuck Off or he’d call the cops. Similarly, harmless, gentle drummer Jawsh Reno walked up to some cops at a show and talked with them about what was going on. A week later it was said that he charged the cops and beat them up. The truth in Reno travels a long and distorted road. Today I overheard someone saying they saw Your Mother play here “with [our] tuba and everything.” With the exception of Dean’s wedding Your Mother never brought that monstrosity to a show, much less on the road with us.

Somehow, though, I think Reno’s ebullience for making history greater than is was also makes them take the here–and–now and make it better as well. Just watch their enthusiasm for out of town bands – everyone dances, everyone cheers, everyone talks to you afterward and as far as I can tell everyone has a good time…even if you’ve played Reno twice and sucked both times (ahem…like us). What’s better is that bands from Reno tend to TOTALLY KICK ASS. Pink Black was a prime example (I came home with their CD and it’s one of my most–listened–to CDs this year). Three cheers for Reno!

Whoa…all I need to say about Lacoste is: Belgian guy, Asian girl, French rap. They only did a few songs which was not nearly enough time for me to wrap my head around the anomaly of it all.

Pirx is Ernst’s band. Ernst released ½ of the first Love Songs CD then subsequently released ½ of our new CD as well. Despite this, Ernst is a pretty sharp fella. It’s possible he’s too smart for his own good but we’ll let the powers–that–be decide that. I key example of his intellectual prowess is the fact that he somehow managed to transport his band through time and space and land his early 80’s LA post–punk rock ensemble in San Francisco’s new millenium. Check out their music/download a video and see what I mean.

This was our first of 10 shows with the High Speed Scene and we were all very excited about it. Seth and I especially since we listen to them regularly and know just about every word to their songs. They started cold but tight – a sign of professionalism not often seen in our circle – but eventually started warming up something fierce. Not an easy act to follow…

I may have abused Lance’s bands–drink–free opportunity but for a first show in 6 weeks we played pretty well, even with Mikey in the audience!

Sold 1 (one) CD to the bartender and made $15 from the door.

Everyone’s cell phone went off at 6am, like planned, and we packed up for our 11–hour drive to Santa Rosa. A used condom wrapper was found in the hallway leaving us Love Songs boys proud that we had spread the love and helped someone, somewhere git sum. Heck, it was probably two someones!

The ride south was long and boring. The only exciting part was stopping at a farmers market that turned out to be a market selling farm supplies. We pulled into Santa Rosa just in time to scrape the resin from the Food Not Bombs pots and pans and field questions about our matching Manville shirts.

State Debate finalist Nicole B from Alternative Collective led us to the show space where we met up with Ben and BlackBox and Jake and Fall Is Here. Both bands were awesome. The 3rd band, however, were a scene unto themselves. A collection of people came just to watch them and left as soon as they were finished. They all had their own fashion going on and even though they played Dio riffs while they set up it was obvious by their pointy shoes and mod haircuts and corduroy sport jackets that they were not going to be indulging our metal cravings. [To disclaim: up to this point I had slept all of 4 hours since Boise. I have eaten little more than truck stop snacks since we left California and have sat on at least 15 different toilets in the last 72 hours. My throat felt like 400 grain sandpaper and my hair hurt.] I wasn’t in a bad mood, per se, but as the 3rd band was gearing up my patience started to wear thin. Someone in their band was still at work when the band before them finished so there was a huge lull before they started. I was worried the cops might show up. I worried more people would start to leave. When the final member finally did show up they spent 20 minutes trying to set up their gear and blew out the PA in the process. So we get no PA. The same person then left all their cases in the middle of the floor taking up most of the ‘good seats.’ They played well and rocked hard but the longer they went on the more agitated I got and eventually went outside to hang out with the other bands.

As soon as the band finished we moved our stuff in and set up as quickly as possible. The band guy who was late to the show and who left all his cases in the middle of the floor spent 10 minutes outside smoking a cigarette with his girlfriend while we tried setting up around his massive collection of gear and cases. That’s when it hit why I immediately turn off when I see hipster bands, regardless of how good they might be: almost always they behave in a very self–centered way. They spend all that time looking sharp and presentable and then do things like hold up shows, burn out equipment and leave their stuff in everybody’s way. I’m not saying it’s always that way but I’ve witnessed it enough to be conditioned to expect it. No offense to them or their friends – I truly appreciate being allowed to play with them in their city, and I was probably just tired and cranky – but they left bad taste in my mouth.

Ben Blackbox tried getting his PA going again but no go. We made do with extra amps and a mic adapter and by the time we played I was in good spirits again. It helped that all the Santa Rosans were all very friendly and sociable and most smiled a lot. I don’t know what got me to notice at first but once I did I couldn’t help but recognize it for the rest of the night. For the last show of the trip we were synched enough with each other that we goofed around quite a bit without compromising the music. That was nice to feel like we had reached a new level as a band, however emo or pretentious that sounds.

We said good–bye to some new friends and rolled out of Santa Rosa by 10pm, bound for home. I was showered and in bed by 1:30am. I was wrecked and exhausted and I truly felt like I had earned my sleep. I also felt like I had wholly sacrificed my physical and mental health for a cause I was truly passionate about and I had made it home with half the life–force but twice the enthusiasm as when I left. I’ve gone on tours as long as 3 months before but these last four days left me as tired as I’ve ever felt. I’m probably just feeling the effects of getting old. Whatever, it feels awesome.

I was awake and wandering about town just after sun–up. Our caravan, which now included Bug’s band Me and My Ego, motored towards Portland which would be our third state in as many days. Along the way we stopped in Baker City where we were asked if we were a youth group. Yeah, a youth group for troubled 20–30 year olds. We also stopped at the famously haunted Union Station Hotel. We parked and hiked towards the dilapidated structure and stood at the gate which angrily displayed a No Trespassing sign. Peaking out from between the ruined building and the steaming hot spring lake was a trailer and a man walking around. We contemplated trespassing but assumed any man with a trailer care–taking for a widely–documented haunted house probably also has a firearm. Our gang may not be afraid of the paranormal, but we are certainly skeptical about the normal. We left and made it to Alan’s house in Portland just in time to make fun of his hair.

Four people from Cor d’Alene, Idaho drove six hours without driver’s licenses to see the show. Three under–aged girls had one of their moms drive them the 2 ½ hours from Eugene also to see the show. The first band rolled up with their equipment in shopping carts. Alan’s new band, RISK, were fucking phenomenal. Those who knew Your Mother in the latter years may not have known it but Alan is an awesome bass player. His hair and stage presence actually took a back seat to his musicianship.

Over the years the city of Portland has become more punk than not. It’s like the majority of people you see on the street are punks or hipsters or some hybrid of the two and as a result everyone’s really jaded and un–enthused. Max HSS says Portland is nothing but “white belts and crossed arms.” But Bradley explains tonight’s fantastic–ness on the fact that Alan has had time to weed out the losers and crap–faces leaving only totally rad people to come to his show. Whatever the reason, the show was awesome!

After the bands finished all the crusty kids started a Green Day dance party which killed the street cred of many a young mohican and old scenester alike. All sorts of dancing and frolicking and spilling beer right up until we went to bed at 3am. Offering Lucia my sleeping mat I slept on bubble wrap Alan keeps for his eBay empire. It wasn’t so bad except that every time I moved it sounded like a muffled gunshot and woke everybody up.

On roughly 3 hours sleep we parted ways with our Reno sisters and brothers under the unanimous sentiment that RENO TOTALLY RULED. We and our entourage (Jeff, Rachael, Nate and Jackie, traveling in a separate vehicle) sped towards Boise which – according to our AAA map – is south of the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Area. Boise has long stood as Your Mother’s favorite place to play outside of the Bay Area. Much to our delight the Boise radness was not spared on Love Songs and we can’t wait to come back. Even if it means playing outside in 45–degree cold again.

We live probably 800 miles apart but I have seen Bug at least once a year for the last 11 years. With his help I have played in Boise with 5 different bands (incidentally, he has played in the Bay Area 24 times with 6 bands). We stayed at his new house which contained, among other things, two stacks of bright green t–shirts. I looked closer at the shirts and saw a pink and white screenprint of old men with the word MANVILLE beneath them. The shirt was all I needed to complete my Robert Bly–esque transformation into manimalism. The rest of our gang saw the shirt and immediately demanded their own shirts. Soon there were eight MANVILLE representatives trolling around Boise. (MANVILLE is Bug’s yet–to–exist next band, by the way.)

Our foul mouths and ridiculously tasteless phrase–turnings soon began rubbing off on our cohorts and we quietly cursed ourselves for letting the only–in–the–van speak leak out. In keeping with the slightly homoerotic undertones of Manville Seth was heard yelling “In the ass!” in his sleep and Bug woke up confused by a dream where he was fitting tools up his ass.

It was a Thursday morning and we left California with one simple mission: play 4 states in 4 days and be back Monday morning in time for work. The ride to Reno in Bradley’s mom’s bulldog–transporting mini–van went smoothly. As the air thinned so did our sensitive, compassionate, PC dispositions. I won’t pass along the incredibly jock–ish colloquialisms we shared but rest assured that Tesco Vee and Lee Ving would have felt upstaged. Jack, to his credit, did not participate much because he was totally engrossed in sewing a 1in by 3in patch to his jacket. In 4 hours he only completed ¾ of it. (The following day I sewed a patch 6x larger to his jacket in under 30 minutes because we’re men, and men compete. Especially the newly–jockified men that we became when we crossed the state border. Don’t focus on the fact that we were competing in a sewing contest, just focus on the fact that we were competing.)

We rolled up early to Tyler’s house on Taylor St. and walked around town eating vegan delicacies and gambling our hard–earned nickels. At least $7 richer we returned to the house to hang out with the awesomely cool clan that is the Reno scene. For the record, most of Reno is conveniently named either Josh or Justin or Joe. All the bands played to an incredibly enthusiastic and oppressively packed room, and despite our guitars staying miserably out of tune (we brought them 4000 feet up, and from the cold outside to the humid inside) the audience’s energy more than made up for our imperfections. They even went so far as to buy up every CD we had with us. One gentleman traded his skateboard for my book, which was super nice of him even though the skateboard ended up having WHN? stenciled on top of it.

For reason’s I still don’t fully understand I was reading an article about American Idol last week. It listed 10 things the reader probably didn’t know about the TV program including the fact that many singers downed a tablespoon of olive oil before their audition to help smooth out their throat. Seth and I gave it a shot and aside from the taste and the dog–smacking–on–peanut–butter reaction our mouths had to it I think it worked OK. However, selling our merch outside in the crisp 40–degree night air, soaking wet with sweat, probably did more harm than good as far as my body and throat were concerned.

Unfortunately not spotted was Mikey’s favorite casino which hosts the fabled Play Tic–Tac–Toe With A Chicken game.

Nate and Sweetooth's band played their first show after being together only a week, yet they still had a lot of songs and they were tight and good. Annie Fist played acoustically and beautifully. Defiance Ohio sang tons of songs about friends and had a standup bass and a violin.

They were all fantastic. We, on the other hand, were terrible. More to the point, by ourselves we were terrible but by contrast we were hideous. We were out of tune, sloppy, and Jacks' amp's lowest setting was still way too loud. Thankfully there were a lot of cool people there and most of them were supremely drunk so our ineptitude went largely unnoticed, or at least uncared for. The truly sad point of the evening though was when the neighborhood crackheads cornered Annie in the park after swiping the Defiance Ohio band fund (with $900) which she was holding for them. Nobody got injured but it was still a super bummer.

We hot rodded Jack's amp so the amp's quietest setting was still too much for the bartender. When we finished she complained that she couldn't serve drinks because we were too loud. After the set I got cornered in the bathroom by a big guy with sleeve tattoos and a red shirt with SACRAMENTO printed across the chest in old english. He said, "You know your song about having sex on the phone and rubbing one out? Dude, I'm totally that guy! I'm totally 'just rub a quick one out,' ya know?"

Corie's favorite part of the show was "Jack's improv section when he headbanged so hard he fell of the stage, but didn't actually drop to the floor – that was smooth."

It was hard to figure out which sort of show was weirder – the ones where we play with totally hardcore bands and come across as a super wussy band, or the ones where we play with a funk band, an acoustic band, a dance hall band, and an alt–rock band (like this night) and come across as the hardcore band. Either way, bars are definately not our scene. (It should also be noted that we played bar shows two nights in a row and got stiffed on both of them.)

Aside from the great bands (Abi Yoyos = my new favorite local band) it was a night rife with Mikey. He showed around his new spider bites (located, among other places, on his nards and his eyelid) and made many off–color jokes about just about everything. So far as I could tell most folks were well entertained by this but it helped me to gain new perspective on our recently realized obnoxiousness. Don't get me wrong, I always knew we were obnoxious, I just thought we had grown up a little bit and that our methods for mischief had matured. In the last couple show reviews I alluded to how off the mark I had been about that. But after hanging out with Mikey last night I realized we could be WAY more obnoxious and destructive and belligerent. We won't, but we could be. Besides, Mikey's so good at it why bother competing?

Quote of the night: I squeezed the spider bite and coffee grounds came out.

I told the promoter to 'shut her face' after she laughed – after I told her to laugh. I told some young girls to sit down and be quiet and then I told their friends the next song was for them and they were to spend it laughing at the ones sitting down. I told some long–haired shirtless bros that we fully appreciated their homo–eroticism to which they approached the stage – presumably to take a swing at me, according to members of the audience like my mom and dad – and then proceeded to lick each other's nipples. And where did all this taunting and condescension get us? Oddly, a lot of new friends. Go figure.

Choice quote of the night:

"I've never thought I'd say this but I actually wish that was a keyboard on stage." – Erin, referring to what turned out to be a turntable coffin.

In the last show review I mentioned how residual adrenaline from playing first might sometimes lead us to random forms of mischief. As it turns out we're just naturally prone to such behavior. For instance, at this show we played smack dab in the middle of some DJs and some flower–petal wrestling and a beatboxer who did "YYZ" from Rush. Yet, we still conducted ourselves – both before and after our performance – with the same irreverence and obnoxiousness as we did at Gilman a couple weeks ago.

In my mind I had convinced myself I was on a irreversible path of maturation. I was even convinced I wanted it that way. But what I feel like when I'm alone and what I feel like when I'm hanging out at a show are about as parallel as crosshairs. Totally divergent personalities. Whoa whoa whoa... if I were to use another analogy I could also say my sense of self when I'm alone and my sense of self when I'm at a show never cross paths, like two parallel lines. Now how can two analogies say the same thing while using fundamentally opposite phrasing? Does that make both statements false? Or does that make my logic absolute since it can be arranged any which way?

...well that bothered me for about 3 or 4 seconds. If it bothers you feel free to consult your Chabot Community College English Department and get back to me. In the meantime I'm gonna go practice along with my Darrin's Dance Grooves DVD.

I noticed that by playing first we always end up trying to find ways to redirect our adrenaline/energy that we got from playing. Sometimes it makes us more social, sometimes we end up dancing over-zealously for the other bands (like when we played with High Speed Scene), but sometimes it just makes us downright obnoxious. This was one of those nights.

The lady selling merch next to us was not happy about our smelly and half-naked shenanigans, or our sneaking articles of clothing from the free bin into their merch box, or our relentless messing with their 'customers,' or making our merch look like theirs, etc. She was very cordial and friendly at the beginning of the night but by the time it came to packing things up she wouldn't look any of us in the eye. All I could think was What would she have done if Mikey were in this band and he were subject to the riggers of playing first and having to idle the rest of the night. While we merely have fun, Mikey commits punishable offenses. Cheers to her for making it as long as she did without punching us, cheers to Mikey for not showing up and punching us.

We knew the stairwell leading up to the stage at Kimos was long and difficult. To make it easier on ourselves we decided on half-stacks, yet even if you stacked all the other FOUR band's amps together ours still towered over theirs. Of course the other bands all rocked proving that our amps are, in fact, over-compensations for our inadequacies.

We played first on a Wednesday night at an $8 show in a bar in a strip mall in Livermore to my dad and my boss. That said, our amps were really tall, we were told to turn down only once, and the bathroom facilities were much nicer than your average bus station.

Hey, two bands from China! How rad! I think Hang On The Box (with 3 gals and a guy) unanimously won our hearts by unleashing the infectiously catchy song "You Fucking Dirty Bitch." The chorus ("you fucking dirty bitch") was followed by a sweet little vocal call-and-response between the drummer and the singer that went "bitch/you bitch!/bitch/you bitch!" Brain Failure (also from China) were highly energetic and friendly and when I tried to defer our door money to them and Hang On The Box at the end of the night the Brain Failure singer adamntly refused saying, "you already pay us with your heart." Then he gave me a hug. Deadfall were super awesome (and fast and thrashy and hyper) and their guitar player was from Peru. Systema Brutalia's singer was from Brasil and he had a an interesting dance style. It balanced somewhere between I'm-uncomfortable-up-here-but-I-have-to-move-because-I'm-the-singer and the Mashed Potato. In the end Love Songs were the only band of the night without any sort of foreign attribute. But boy were our amps tall!

New rule - no more shows in Davis on Friday nights.

As we were driving up I gave ourselves a 30% chance of playing.

When we arrived and 2 bands had already played (because it takes so damn long to get to Davis on a Friday night) and no cops had shown up and Justin hadn't caught the house on fire or thrown the kitchen stove out the window I upped the odds to 50%. The High Speed Scene played, er, fully KICKED ASS, and when they finished I got this funny feeling in my guts. I let the odds slip back down to 30% and sure enough the cops came. No More Bands.

The party was quickly relocated to Dean's house where both his band (a new version of The Bunny I'm assuming) and Love Songs played full sets. I had a tooth broken off this summer by a microphone so I was a bit nervous when the surging mass of drunken college rockers bashed the mic in my mouth numerous times throughout the set, but thankfully no harm was done to my (fake) teeth. Our equipment, however, suffered a much worse fate thanks to various brands of airborne alcohol. ("Remember when I said drowning in beer would be like heaven? Well this ain't heaven, this sucks eh.")

Speaking of beer, Mikey showed up and I have to applaud his ability to have kept his c'mon-your-band-sucks-and-you're-an-idiot face for our entire set. Afterwards Dean was trying to explain how Your Mother's "Pasture of Muppets" was as influential to him as Metallica's "Master of Puppets" and I couldn't take him seriously. Then he said that by us playing in his living room he was going to be able to lay any young co-ed in attendance. The only remotely feminine person in the room was Alex so I said "Have at it" and went outside in time to catch the tail end of Seth's girlfriend, Jessie, wrestling a young co-ed. The good-natured sparring went on for a while, wound up in the bushes and even yielded some blood. If our band has no balls at least our girlfriend's do. Around 2:30am I made my rounds saying good-bye. I found Mic and some others sitting in the far corner of the backyard next to an ivy patch and sharing a bottle of whiskey. They tackled me when I got close and apparently I spilled Mic's beer during the scuffle. Mic demanded I refill his glass but instead I took my weiner out and smeared around the mouth of his cup and tossed it back at him. He feigned disgust and jumped backwards from a sitting position. No one knew it but behind Mic was a sqaure cement hole full of stagnant water and fresh urine and covered over by ivy. He vanished like Luke Skywalker in the trash compactor and I don't think I have seen anything that funny since Hot Shots: Part Duex. Happy Birthday, Mic!

Another show with only hardcore bands. The band directly following us had an obnoxiously and belligerently drunk guitar player who rubbed us all wrong before they even played. We were setting up a merch table when he made a gay joke from the stage (this after non-humorously berating everyone in the audience for no reason other than that he was an idiot) and so Jack started throwing baby tomatoes at him. Don't ask me where the tomatoes came from because I dunno, but I think they were a gift form God for such an occassion. Anyway, Jack proceeded to huck the tomatoes at him and yelling "Woohoo, more homophobia!!" The guy noticed and politely inquired "Who the fuck threw those tomatoes?! I'm gonna fucking break his teeth in!" After the show the guy found Seth outside and in a case of mistaken identity tried beating him up. Jack stepped up, placed his hand on the guys shoulder and calmly told him, "It was me, let it go." And so he did. Jack holds that kind of power. About this time Bradley almost got mugged on the way to his car but the mugger instead went for two large Samoan guys across the street. Why choose two large guys over a 120lb white boy with a large, valuable bassdrum in his hands? Good question. During our show a bunch of mohawked kids kept calling us pussies (because hey, I'd be dissappointed too if I wanted to mosh to a band called Love Songs and it turned out there weren't brutally moshable!) but then they started slamming hard during the fast songs, prompting me to recall the Dead Milkmen anthem "You'll Dance To Anything." Ah, to be young and aimless...

Friday night started with us waiting for Alan so we could drive up to Davis to stay at Mic's. No, really, we were waiting for Alan. So we finally make it to Mic's where he had prepared for us 9 feet of TOGOS sandwich. He also made up a pot of some sort of Peruvian veat/cilantro dish. That man is a work of art, and by 'work of art' of course I mean 'chubby, stinky, sex-crazed, lunatic.' In a good way, mind you. Then the fun started. We previewed the new Magicool Doods ("I'm hung like a baby...9 lbs, 8 oz") then went to a party where I got caught sneaking some Girl Scouts Thin Mints ice cream from the freezer while Pete shoved a 40oz into some guy's taint. Also, the house behind the party was some sort of sorority that felt like doing some collective spring cleaning in their skivvies at 2:30am. Half our party peered through the fence like it was a peepshow booth as the ladies scrubbed, mopped and lysol'ed their way into many a young college student's heart. On the long walk home we loudly sang every song we could think of but made "cock and balls" the only usable lyrics. Somehow we inadvertantly got Mikey thrown in jail and he wasn't even with us, but that's another story entirely. Anyway, we yelled and screamed till about 5am and then woke up at 9 to start yelling and screaming again at the Pin A Go Go pinball convention in Dixon. Then we drove to SF for the show. The point of all this is that I had no sleep, no food, and no voice by the time we played. But thanks to the party goods I was sufficiently supplied with all the chocolates I could handle and were it not for them I would have surely fallen asleep at the wheel on the way home. Instead I thought, maybe I should clean my house too.

It was a bona fide pop punk show! Like when we’d go to Gilman and see Mr T Experience and Green Day and Samiam. Before the days of 8th generation punk muzak heard in malls and car commercials across the world. All the bands were good, everyone had a lot of energy and kids totally danced around and had a good time. It was, like, special.

Speaking of The Kids, the girl I took to my prom is now a high school English teacher in Daly City and the night before this show she took me to her school’s prom. My god, it was like walking into a Lil’ Kim video. About 1/3 of the dresses contained no fabric between the neck and the bellybutton and I saw no less than 10 ass cracks. But oh boy did the dudes have some style... What style did I have when I went to my prom? Let’s see, I had the wildly bold choice of wearing a cumber bun or going all out and getting a vest. Fuck me, was I a ZZ Top song – or so I thought. When I saw what these kids were pulling off I was never so embarrassed to have come from such a suburban honkey school (and believe me, I am embarrassed of that a lot as it is…). To explain some of the guys outfits think Al Capone meets Michael Jackson meets Prince and that’s a start. Once again I was reminded of how little style and soul I have. Hence a white rock band called Love Songs.

Kimberly: I could only watch you play a few songs because it was so crowded and I got claustraphobic, and then that red light and...

Craig: But did you at least notice how tall our equipment was?! All our amps were taller than I was.

Kimberly: Most things are.

The PA we were gonna use to play in the stoar did not exist, forcing us to play on the stage - an option I was really, REALLY hoping to avoid. All these hardcore bands, and us. Love Songs. With the cursive-y script font and the heart and the word 'love.' Love Songs. I figured if we weren't gonna play hardcore we could at least be a bit more intense if we were playing in people's faces, but that was not the way it was supposed to happen.

A couple bands played. Floors were punched, boxes were kicked, and testosterones soared. Then we played. "Are you ready to fucking die?" I growled loudly and angrily at the largely adrenalized sea of boys. "Then prepare to be bored to death..."

Not as many people left while we played as I thought were going to, and believe it or not almost all the cds sales were to males. I couldn't beleive we sold cds, much less to doods. Standing by the merch table I was applauded numerous times for having the 'courage' and 'guts' to play such a show. I didn't think it was so bad, or that we were THAT out of our element until the next band played. While their minions danced the most aggressive dancing Gilman has ever seen the singer called for the 'shirtless bro mob' to 'Fuck shit up! Side to side, back to front!' Shirts were removed and soon the dancefloor was full of sweaty, shirtless bros dancing. Think about that - sweaty, shirtless guys dancing with each other. This was not The Eagle in San Francisco, this was Gilman St, and I for one was glad to see such homoerotic activity. It's been a while.

All in all I had a really fun time and made some new friends. I even got to raise a fist to the last's bands cover of the Gorilla Bisquits' "New Direction," reminding me that in the big picture there wasn't too big of a gap between our style and their style. And at least nobody called us emo.

If there’s one thing Portlanders know how to do, it’s to look hip. I never, ever feel like I have less style then while in Portland, and I never, ever want to be less stylish than when in Portland. It used to be that merely seeing someone in my hometown with pins on their jacket or a funny haircut meant we probably had some sort of kinship, but then that all changed when the new commercial punk esthetic exploded. Now they’re a dime a dozen. But in Portland these folk actually seem to outnumber the common citizen. To not have died hair or a tight black shirt or a white belt is to stand out. It’s haute couture. It’s impossible to escape.

It made me feel like wearing the squarest clothes I could find (squarer than Bradley’s even!) but since I didn’t actually bring a change of clothes I had to settle with what I had. Instead I ended up buying a snakeskin-textured leopard-print trench coat. What the fuck!? I don’t even like leopard print or snakeskin!! Portland was rubbing off on me and I had to break free. Hanging out with Scott Jones helped. He may have moved to Seattle and got tattoos on his knuckles and gained 80 pounds and got a job bouncing at a strip club but he is still the same outcasted, misunderstood dork he was when I met him in 7th grade. And this is a (very) good thing. Sometimes talking about driving his Suzuki Samurai at full speed through the high school parking lot after some jocks put it in neutral and wheeled it halfway to Livermore is grounding. Sometimes reminiscing about cleaning the dining room where we worked with exposed testicles is a stark reminder that life is not some superficial fashion show, and that we are all real people with geeky pasts and pensions for crank calling people who stiffed us after we delivered their pizza.

While talking about this all with Pete (who has pins on his jacket) he was quick to point out that neither Joel from Lopez nor David Hayes (both Portlanders, both at the show, and probably two of the most punk-active people I’ve ever met) looked the slightest bit hip. And as if they weren’t already stand-up guys as it was… Power to them for looking like nobodies!

Oh, the show was fun. Half the people there used to live in the Bay Area. And Alan’s new band, Morse Code Heartbeat, was fantastic. You can take Alan out of Your Mother but you can’t…

We drove through the night to Pete’s house in Portland. As soon as we crossed the border into Oregon the roads became bumpy and chewed up leading us to wonder if maybe Caltrans really does make a difference. Seth speculates that they just make the 2 miles of road near each border really nice to give the illusion that all of California’s roads are smooth and safe.

Got to Pete’s by midday ate the first of many delicious vegan meals during our stay in Portland. Jack finally got to meet Alan, who is rumored to be Jack’s doppelganger, or vice-versa. Beforehand I asked him if he was nervous and Jack said of himself, “I am confident that there have been some definite improvements in the newer model.”

In Pete’s van we sped up to Vashon Island, off the shores of Seattle. At a gas station along he way the clerk snidely and for no obvious reason called Jack a ‘smartbutt’ then proceeded to come outside and write down our license plate number. Pete, who is happy to walk into any situation if it will make someone uncomfortable walked back in the gas station and asked what the reason for that was. There was no reply and we continued on towards our ferry.

I was the only one quick enough to hide under some blankets once we got to the docks. Even still, the ferry cost over $20 to pay for everyone in the van. Worse yet, the venue (a teen center) charged everyone not in a band, including our ‘roadies’ and Jack and Seth’s girlfriends who drove 600 miles to see the show. Later we were to receive $23 from the door but let’s not let that taint the more pleasurable experiences we had on Vashon Island.

The whole event was very high school, very John Hughes, right down to one of the young lassies wearing a pink prom dress. Everyone danced while we played. All the ladies were all over Alan. Spring Break ruled. Just as many guys bought CDs as girls, for a change. We gave out patches with impunity and only one guy refused – he had a leather jacket and denim vest, both littered with patches. Before we played I offered him one and he looked at the heart, cursive font, and the word ‘love’ and decided against it. I asked if it was too sissy and he said yes. Duly noted. After we played I asked him again if he wanted a patch and he said he wasn’t into ‘emo shit’ then compared us to the Get Up Kids whom I’ve never heard but have been described as a poor man’s Weezer. I can see how someone would think maybe our logo or name might imply emo-ness, but after having just listened to us I was a little shocked to hear him say that. One to grow on. Conversely, another older, more cultured guy with a tie said we were ‘true to the punk rock roots.’ He even went so far as to say we were very reminiscent of early Black Flag and Minor Threat. Geez Washington state, get your shit straight! Which are we? Blistering, aggressive hardcore or sissy emo shite?

Either way, Vash on, doods…

In true punk rock fashion we borrowed Bradley’s parent’s Ford Aerostar minivan for the weekend. This vehicle insures that all of our luggage and equipment will smell like bulldogs but hey, at least we can have all of our luggage and equipment and a way to transport it.

First stop was Mic Mucus’ house in Davis where he spent his whole tuition check on the entire Togo’s menu for us to gorge on. He also made a huge batch of bean soup which will surely make the drive to Portland that much more entertaining. And if that weren’t enough he DJ’ed for our entertainment, being sure to play the entire “Let It Shit” LP by Italy’s Tampax. You can take all your crusty bands’ war atrocity album covers and your death metal bands’ gory record covers and stuff ‘em because none of them hold a bloated, scabby, pus-riddled finger to this record cover.

We headed to Primo’s Swedish Bar in the low income hovel of West Sacramento. Our first sight was of Primo himself pissing on the side of his building. (For the record, neither him nor his bar are remotely Swedish.) We walked inside and found ourselves amongst lots of drunk under-aged kids. Good start. My friend Hank showed up with his good-sported but uncultured-in-the-ways-of-Upside-Dan-and-Mic-Mucus’-sense-of-humor lady friend, and just as Dan and Mic’s band, Magicool Dudes, started in on their catchy hit “I Like Little Boys.” Hank and his friend and I stepped outside just as the ABC showed up. Primo (who had already passed out TWICE by this time) tactfully informed his patrons that “I am fucked! I am going to jail! If you are under 21, get out! Have a good time, I am going to jail to get fucked!” The ABC agent had merely asked him to card everyone and kick all the under-agers out. The Magicool Dudes, by the way, were in the midst of their classic “Wrestling with a boner is not wrong – but it’s frowned upon” while all this was going on.

I've played at Joe's over 10 times with 5 different bands and I'm just now making the realization that it's one of those venues where I never seem to play well. I enjoy playing there, I love hanging out there, and it's usually an overall good time, but I don't think I've ever finished playing and thought "We were ON tonight!"

For some reason there was a circle pit while we played, but then a drunk dude claiming to be pregnant was so off his rocker that it took most of the slam dancers just to keep him from falling into us, thereby disrupting the pit's (counterclockwise) flow. After we were done a guy with a mohawk and studded, sleeveless denim jacket said, "Thanks for the music so I could mosh." Fuck man, thank You!

I can't wait till he tells his friends the next day, "I was totally moshing last night, doods! I was fully fucking shit up!"

"Yeah? What was the band called?"

"Um, er, Love Songs..."

By the end of the night the mismatched bill (including a group of writers/speakers, an LA hardcore band, and us) all ended up knowing each other through The Probe. Small world, small show, still remarkably fun. Jack is looking and acting more like Alan with every show and that's a little disconcerting...

"The last time I came to a party here I had to throw my shoes away." – J Howell.

The party people slowly tracked mud in the house and eventually we were able to draw pictures in it with the toes of our shoes. Shortly after we finished playing the mud became so thick that it was impossible to even spy a glimpse of the hardwood floor. The whole house was like this. Mick said it ultimately took 10 days to clean because it had to be dealt with in waves - wet it down, scrape off a layer, let it dry and repeat. Totally unreal. I didn't have to throw my shoes away but I did have to wash them if I ever wanted to wear them to work again.

Review written by “One of the Few People Paying Attention”

So here it goes. I am basically being forced to write a show review, having never done this nor having ever seen "Love Songs" prior to last Saturday nite. Guess that's what happens when you rave too much following the show. Or maybe it is cuz I have certain "ins" that come with being the focal point of a song or two. Regardless, I want to make it clear what biases I have. First of all, the songs refering to me are not necessarily the happiest, most positive, or loviest songs ever written. Second, I am not part of this music scene and don't know much about it, except that Bradley is a phenomenal drummer. And third which is related to number 2, it isn't really my musical taste.

So, let's start at the begining of MY evening at the "Crawl Space." The first band, not sure their name, had a guy with a great mohawk who was very energetic. I was told this was melodic skate rock... and as I commented at the time, it may be a good idea for these guys to look up 'melodic' in the dictionary. This is exactly the music I don't understand. Lots and lots of instrument noise, yelling, and jumping around all of which is clearly intentional....only it's made to look random or at the least chaotic? But it seemed like they were good at what they were doing.

Then came “Love Songs.” It was a very tight set with briefs moments between songs, each of which were a punch to the face/gut/wherever depending on how tall you were. Keep in mind I have somehow never heard these songs before, so I was completely floored by how together the band was, how connected the guys felt, and how well-developed the songs were. The energy of the 2 front men was great, occasionally Jack would burst into a flurry of movement, and if you've seen Bradley before you know nothing more needs to be said about his grace on the drums. But the music itself was the real pleasure. the songs had so much variety within them, rhythmically and musically, that it was all you could do to not hold your breath waiting for the next change so you wouldn't miss it by passing out. Honest.

It was commented that there wasn't much response from the audience, although it was also noted that there was less of that side murmuring from people who weren't paying attention. This, dear love song mates, is because you grabbed us into each song, let go for the 5 seconds between, and then caught us out of the daze and yanked us into the next number. Can you clap while free falling?

Chloe's garage rules, so long as the cops aren't called. I finally got to see BP without distraction and they were great. FUN played the only 4 songs we knew and it was, well, FUN. During the LS set a small child kept bashing the microphone in my mouth. It was sorta cute until he moved onto Seth's microphone. Finished the night off with some Jay's seitan cheesesteak, no BBQ sauce.

First off, I apologize to everyone who ate at Redrum Burger on account of me. I counted 12 people sick to their stomach just as the party was getting under way, thanks presumably to the bad BBQ sauce we had on our fries. The cops came again while BP played, but this time in response to the bonfire Justin had set in the backyard. The flames went well over the house and scared a lot of people away, but honestly, I've seen much worse at this house. The last time I saw Justin start a bonfire here he tore down the doghouse and storage shed and used them as kindling, not caring that the splintered wood led straight back to the rest of the house. This after he threw a case of beer through his kitchen window. But oddly, I don't know anyone who would refer to him as a violent guy. Anyway, the show resumed with the Magicool Doods stealing it. Just as BP was about to start I went down the street to try and barf up the dinner I could feel bubbling in my stomach. After our vehicle left for back home Alex said the BP guys wrestled all night on the neighbors lawn while people watched while sitting in plastic chairs somehow stuck in the tree.

Next time you look at a map for directions take note of whether you're looking for numbered streets or numbered avenues. Before you leave. We missed CD because of this, but we (Blood Party and us) were high on the fuzball table my roommate just got so our spirits were still intact. While BP played I spent the time outside listening to Corbett fight a losing battle with the police. The man upstairs (known for parading around town with a huge sandwich board pleading NO ANAL) called them and later came down to help argue. He was obviously insane, but somehow Corbett was able to one-up him and the cop left not knowing who to haul down to the station. We promised to turn the volume down and I got the neighbor to agree to come down and warn us if he was gonna call the cops again. The rest of the bands played a tag-team set and all went well. BP and us came back to my house where at 12:30am someone threw a stick of dynamite under the car next door.

At $8/head we shouldn't have been surprised when NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON living within 50 miles of Gilroy attended the show. Even the club owner and his wife lived out of town. The only draw was Jack's girlfriend (on our guest list), two guys who came with Speed/Lab (on their guest list), and about 8 young girls that I swear I saw in the audience on the Teen Choice Awards earlier tonight (hey, I was at work). They came to see the god-friendly stylings of BTH whose guitar player definitely had some holy sweeping arpeggio skills. But back to Gilroy, we also could find NOT ONE SINGLE RESTAURANT open that served anything especially garlicky. I resigned to buying a clove of garlic from a produce stand. Regardless, we still came home smelling like Gilroy. And we had a blast breaking Jack in.

Our first show and the only real mess-up was when Bradley botched his least-favorite drum fill. He says he was sick, I say he was dodging something Mikey threw at him.