ATHEISTS, RECONSIDER - FALL/WINTER 2002

Nov. 7th

I can start here 'cause I ended up drinking at O'Connors with a buncha good friends until something like 4am. I ran into TJ who works at a studio. Apparently at some point during the evening I told Boner (Van Boy from the last report, a.k.a. Ethan from Now We Are Louder) that this coming tour was "not going to be documented." I seemed dead serious according to him. I don't remember a thing about that. I was lucid though - or so I thought. When 3am rolled around I pulled out a pen and demanded that people sign stuff on my arms. I think the best was by Wolfie - who drew a complicated sailing ship being conjured by a wizard. Maybe that Sabbath cover band we were in for Halloween had something to do with it.

In terms of the rest of my 30th - I went through all the "I'm getting old" shit about 6 months ago. I was berated by Ari for being wishy-washy. Apparently I'm not demanding enough. But I ended up only spending $2 all night, when the car service driver had no change for my $20.

I woke up at 11am the next morning and did my laundry in a sensitive state which was abused mercilessly by the 4ft 8inch Jamaican woman attendant who literally screamed, "Hey BUDDY! DON'T PUT YOU GODDAMN DIRTY CLOTHES IN THE GODDAMN CARTS."

I prickled with indignation even though I saw her point - but I would rise above with my hard earned wisdom that age had granted me. After all I had just turned 26.

Nov 8th - Bard College - some gym that was covered with graffiti

Bard College was a blur. We arrived there after dark and as we rolled onto campus Jane told me that there had been a number of murders at Bard in the 80s. The Old Gym then emerged out of the fog; its awkward spray painted graffiti had a sinister edge. But that passed quickly enough when strains of terrible live rock wafted through the air. I was concerned that this was GoGoGoAirheart sound checking but it was another show of Bard bands playing in the basement. Let me just say that I thought some crappy band was rehearsing their one mediocre song 'cause it lasted through our entire load in. I couldn't help but think this was a band that was trying to combine "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" with Haircut 100. Sounds good on paper - let Greil Marcus write the footnote for the next Harry Smith DVD.

But anyway GGGAH were not sound checking - they were hanging out - I met them all and talked to them about their trip to Europe, the Liars, shitty bands + then getting stuck in a traffic jam in NYC while "Sheets of Easter" was being played on WNYU. The bassist, Hash, was telling me the story:

"So we're stuck in a 100° NY traffic jam, listening to college radio and this song comes on and its one note and its going on forever and the other guys are like, 'Jesus this band SUCKS, this song SUCKS.' And the song keeps going on for like another few minutes and I'm starting to think, 'What the fuck, this DJ sucks, he doesn't realize that this shit is skipping and that this song is terrible."

I'm standing there charmed and a bit taken aback with Hash's frankness. He began the conversation saying that it's the only song of ours he's ever heard. He continues:

"So then about 7 minutes in you guys hit that change and I'm like, 'HOLY SHIT THIS RULES!'"

I was glad he came around - I guess we could have a lot of fans if they were forced to listen to our music in traffic jams.

So I'm walking around the old gym and there's this other show going on downstairs so I go down and poke around, look in, and there's a kid playing guitar and singing and someone on drums with towels over the skins and I'm bored with it.

After our set we're told by Tavit that we should go down the road and there are two houses with porches and if we go there and tell them that we just played someone will probably let us crash.

After 7 years on the road this didn't strike me as totally unreasonable, but it was a bit casual. We were up for it though. We bade farewell to the friendly members of GGGAH and ended up a few minutes later parked in front of two houses with porches approaching this student getting into his car.

Bobby began, "Um, hello, we just played a show at the Old Gym and we were told to come here because you would possibly be open to letting us crash here."

The absurdity of the situation began to sink in while the student attempted a polite brush off and suggested that we try the other house with a porch.

The building seemed deserted and was a quasi house/dorm, very institutional and maze-like. Everything was quiet as we endeavored to find a lounge or common area. Nothing.

A few moments later we found ourselves waiting outside a bathroom because it sounded like someone was about to emerge. Again there was an awkward moment when the young woman came out to see Bobby and me filling up the narrow hallway. We are polite guys, gentle as slugs, but we are kinda tall and I felt like we struck a threatening figure in spite of ourselves. But after we had finished our tale of woe there was a spark of recognition. She'd heard of bands staying at the house but had no idea where WE were going to stay.

She took us to the hidden lounge where some students were winding down the evening burning incense and watching "The Wedding Singer." More confusion ensued. It looked like Oneida was out of luck - we'd been given a bum steer and I had visions of a Motel 6.

And then Katie emerged from the gloom. Today had been her 20th birthday and she had somehow been abandoned by her friends, was inebriated and was willing to put us up at her vegan collective down the road. As long was we had the wheels.

Done.

Feitler House was warm and full of friendly vegans - even though there was something they did with the bathroom sinks that might have taken me a day or two to get used to if I'd actually cared. They had removed the drain pipes from underneath the sinks and all the waste water just dropped into a bucket. The buckets would fill with a putrid, cloudy substance dubbed "graywater" that they recommended using to flush the toilet. There was a sunny and detailed description of graywater on the wall of the bathroom. Apparently the members of Feitler thought that "graywater was really awesome" or something similarly cheeky. Wanting to represent in the proper spirit, after I pissed I poured the graywater into the toilet but nothing happened. I was discouraged but I later learned that there was an art to it I lacked. Later one of the house members confided to me that "Feitler House is not all in agreement about the use of graywater." Something rotten in the house of Feitler? At the very least, next time I see graywater I won't be caught off guard and know I can be friendly with punks and hippies with equal measure.

Later in the evening I purchased the notebook in which I'm writing this tale from one of the house members for $3. It is hand-bound with cotton strips and has stolen Bard stationary as the pages. The woman took my money, held it above her head and said, "I'm goin' to Mexico!"

I drank some Black Bush and went to bed.

Nov 9th - Hamilton, ON - The Underground

Woke up and promptly left my only towel hanging on a chair in Feitler House so the tour was definitely underway. I think I also forgot a tube of new tooth paste there but I'm not sure yet.

We drove to Buffalo to eat hot dogs at Ted's - grilled, all smashed up and cut to shreds - these dogs get abused and taste good going down.

Crossing the border was fairly easy this time, though a border guard asked us for a CD. We gave him "Each One Teach One" with requisite warnings. Perhaps we'll be banned from reentry.

So Hamilton, ON certainly has charm and Brodie, the booking guru in town, makes a great club. Both the places we've played under his auspices have been totally sensible and thoughtfully designed. The worst rock club cliché is painting every surface of the venue matte black - dingy, dirty, stuffy - I now reveal my sensitive, non-rock, bitchy, hard-to-please side to the world. I guess there's something pathetic about that.

Kid Millions is a needy child - serve me + make me comfortable.

Well Brodie does that.

The first band on the bill was called The Electric End and before the set, I started chatting with Chloe when I picked up this zine she laid out.

"That zine really sucks," she said.

"Oh, OK. Are you serious?" she had laid out about ten of them.

"Yeah, I'm serious. Our old bass player made them. He's a total weenie."

The Electric End was from Montreal. Chloe wore these chunky science geek shaded glasses and was like, "Just take one, we found them in our product bin and were just like 'what the fuck, these suck.'"

So I took one and asked her about her band.

"We're kind of noisy. Metal, a little bit of prog. We really suck. We're terrible."

This seemed promising.

"We can't play at all," she continued.

I don't think you need to know how to play in order to be good. This was illustrated by this local band that made me feel insecure about my technique while they were setting up.

The drummer had a double bass pedal and was spitting out these insane rolls and I was falling asleep on the couch and having dreams that I was falling. Anyway, the dudes could all play but they didn't have a single idea to go around.

So I loved the Electric End and told Chloe after their set and she said snidely, "Oh are you on some kind of mind altering drug?"

"Umm, OK," this was going to be tough.

Sometimes self-effacement goes a couple steps too far and then you can take it over the edge and alienate people like me. That's good. I'll take it. Never trust anyone over 30.

So I was concerned about playing our set b/c I slept through the entire The Battleship Ethel's set even though one of the dudes had drawn a black cross on his forehead and another was wearing a crown of white berries on his head.

Rockets Red Glare was very impressive - the drummer was extraordinary and when I approached him after the show he was withdrawn and sullen. No problem - it was time to get up for our show but I still felt sluggish. Bobby though had discovered that boxing really works and he was doing fancy footwork backstage and throwing punches at me. Then I tried it and was able to feel like I could play.

In the middle of our set I put a hole through my bass drum head - that was a first - I made last through the set but all the music stores in Toronto were closed the next day so I was fucked for Toronto.

As we played "Sheets of Easter" Brodie got behind the bar and started to throw plastic cups at us.

It kinda sucked because we ran out of songs and people wanted more. Someone yelled, "We want gongs!" I miss Kayrock.

We decided to drive the hour to Toronto after the show and crash with Tyler at her place. On the way Ethan broke out the whisky and I started drinking it. Within a few minutes I was screaming at Bobby to show us the space needle, Jane was talking about warming his nose in Boner's anus and Boner was just tipping back the bottle. The black hole was approaching.

Bobby pulled up to Tyler's at around 3:30am and we decided that because Toronto is a real city and "people steal things" we would load most of our gear into the loft. That was a total fucking bummer but we always just take care of business without complaining (much).

Bobby was really tired but was being efficient. We started loading things into the building and if anyone out there has ever done this after a show, they know that it's a serious fucking bummer. So we're loading in and a couple of guys and girls are standing close to the door, maybe leaving a party, whatever. But one of the guys decides it would be cool to start mocking us.

"Hey DUDES, you really rocked tonite," he said snidely as we dragged our shit a half a block.

Once just made me pissed off and I thought, "That motherfucker deserves a fucking punch." But I was working and had something to do, and I ain't really that kind of guy anyway.

On my way back with another load the asshole was like, "You guys rule."

I turned around and walked up to the guy and got right up in his face fully ready to take it to the bitter end.

"What the FUCK did you say?"

He didn't answer me. So I stared at him. Imagine that, total coward, steps to a clown with an empty head.

A couple of beats pass and Bobby turns the corner with another load, "Kid! Come on let's go." His words shook me out of my head. It was time to crash.

Bobby woulda got my back though.

Sunday Nov 10 - Toronto (aka T-Dot) - Wavelength at Sneaky Dee's

Wavelength at Sneaky Dee's is a Sunday series where people pay what they can. Sneaky Dee's is a Mexican style joint which is actually not terrible - we went there for an early dinner in which two televisions were battling it out - one with the CFL and one with the NFL. I was disappointed with American culture's infiltration into my pure Canadian experience. Earlier in the day Bobby and I were pawing through dollar bins in search of Canadian dance music gems. I did some shoplifting to the tune of 66¢ 'cause when I went into the store for the third time to pay for some crappy 12"s I found, the counter guy waved me away. "Just take them. Jesus," he said with a disgusted tone. The day before in Hamilton I had come across an album by a Canadian band, Bush, from the 70's who featured a conga player, a band member nicknamed "Whitey" and songs titled "Backstage Girl," "Drink Your Wine" and "Messin' Around With Boxes." Its definitely a lost classic of oaf rock, kept from American ears until now. Find it if you can.

So Tyler took us around all day with out complaint though apparently we kept her roommates awake the night before.

We finished our food at Sneaky Dee's as the Electric End arrived at the club, piling out of their yellow van in disarray. Tyler said earlier that men from Montreal are much more fashionable than Toronto dudes. Plus they were hotter. This was illustrated in the flesh by the fellas in the Electric End - they all wore a kind of indie rock uniform of tight T's and black jeans but compared to the schlubs in the Constantines they were Fabio. They seemed so much friendlier today and I enjoyed seeing them again. Their guitarist who always plays metal riffs came up to me as I was trying to shore up my bass drum head with duct tape told me that someday when we're pissed off "at a promoter or playing a shitty show" we should play "Sheets of Easter" until everyone leaves. It's not as if this hasn't crossed our minds but I told him that we try not to do anything out of spite. At least I don't think we do.

I discovered the folly of taping up a broken drum head after a couple of songs into our set that night - and I got to use The Electric End's bass drum - which fucked me up a little bit 'cause it didn't have a rack tom - but I dealt with it.

All the Constantines showed up to the show - OK they were looking hot - as I walked to the bathroom one of Steve's friends stopped me in the hall and pointedly asked me, "So what are you doing?" I was taken aback because it was probably obvious and she was standing in the hallway which lead to the bathroom. After a beat I decided to be forthright, "I'm going to take a piss."

"Really?" she asked "I do that too sometimes, only different."

Turns out she was trying out a pick up line on me as Steve watched. I stood there for a sec and then continued on confused. When I came back I told her that it was a perfect pick up line 'cause I thought about how weird it was for the entire time I was in the bathroom, intent on quizzing her when I came out. We chatted for a while - isn't that the point?

We spent a couple hours before the show canvassing the Canadian crowd to give us a list of great Canadian dance songs and got a bunch. One thing I noticed was that Alanis Morisette has a biography which all Canadians seem to know by heart - there's the youth pop hits, the stint on Nickelodeon, the thing about the slime - everyone knows it and describes it the same way. It's a conspiracy.

Another band on the bill was a no-wave thing called Sick Lipstick and they sang about cutting their Barbie's hair. I didn't get a chance to speak with any of them. They used to be in a band called Black Cat 13 and came to play in NYC once at a show I set up for them with my old band Men. At that show our substitute bass player wanted to get into a fight with the band they were traveling with. Everyone left with a bad taste in their mouths.

At one point in the night this guy from Hamilton was really drunk and was getting belligerent at me because I hadn't listened to his demo from our last visit. The bounds of politeness had been washed away with booze - nothing he said made sense and that was the way he wanted it. As he fucked me by talking about Vietnam, Laos, Trans Am and his band Key Elements I became more and more annoyed. I'm sure he's a person who's an acquired taste. Maybe next time.

So apparently a number of Canadian cities have hip hop names - T. Dot is Toronto, Van-Tittie is Vancouver and G-Spot is Guelph (but that seems a bit suspect and lead one woman to exclaim "gross!") - Hamilton is also called The Hammer which I can get behind. We call Canada C-Town so it all evens out. I suspect that our little nickname won't catch on too soon with our northern friends. As I write this - I'm already missing Canada. Can't wait to get back.

There was a master of ceremonies at the show who was really friendly and helped us carry our gear up the stairs. He insisted announcing each band and wanted to choreograph the start of each set. For the Electric End he asked, "OK who starts the first song?"

Chloe said, "Keyboards."

"OK I want it to go like this - I'm going to say, 'AND NOW FROM MONTREAL, LET'S GIVE A WARM WELCOME TO THE ELECTRIC END!!' and BAM! You guys start it!"

He was so enthusiastic I wasn't sure how to take it.

The Electric End started their set with the drummer so they lied and I loved them for it. Chloe is an intense presence up there - the only one who really hollers. Vanboy told the MC to announce that "Oneida's roadie really loves the Electric End," before we started and I broke my drum head in two.

At the end of our set, Lisa and Steve started dropping Canadian dance music on us - I got thoroughly excoriated because I did not get on the dance floor after all my shit talking but, umm, I was busy.

Minesh from The Mean Red Spiders brought me outside to sample Canadian greenery and I spent the rest of the night getting head butted by Chloe and being chased by Jane who twisted his face up like Quasimodo and scared the hell out of me. No one lifted a finger to help me in my time of need but luckily Jane never caught me 'cause he's a cripple anyway.

Monday Nov 11th - London, ON - The Gravity Club

The next morning we woke up early to do an interview at Sneaky Dee's with someone who I didn't remember for a publication I couldn't remember. I just knew that it was at noon.

At about 12:30, Steve from the Umbrella web site shows up with a video camera to do the interview - he had forgotten about it. We were ready and talked about being the best band in the world, you know, the usual stuff. Also we realized that we were more about being witchy witchy and not so much about being warlocky warlocky. Then we went to this record store to hassle Steve from the Cons.

I came away from that visit with a copy of the newly reissued "On the Road with Bob Dylan" which began my recent obsession with The Rolling Thunder Review.

I finally was able to pick up a bass drum head at this music store which was infected by a snare head signed by The Strokes. When the counter guy turned his back I signed "Kid Millions" to the head and then we were off to London listening to Gowan and Platinum Blonde, both lovingly supplied by Lisa from Three-Gut. Gowan sucked, Platinum Blonde was very cynical.

We noticed all these signs on the highway which said "Squeeze Left" and I got horny even though it just meant merge. Canadians are witty and sexy, even on highways.

We rolled into London, found the club and went to eat at the same Vietnamese joint we've hit in the past.

The Gravity Club was another one-flight walk up with a tiny stage surrounded by A CAGE! This was a first for Oneida. The Gravity Club had never hosted an American band before so we were even. They were usually not open on Mondays so they had to go and get beers at the corner store to stock the bar. I was nervous about the turn out but I was happy with the club. It was cozy and had the character that our usual haunt, Call The Office, lacks. There ain't no stage cage at Call The Office.

The first duo charmed us by strumming a guitar and playing a viola while singing "Transformers - More than Meets the Eye" in a deadpan delivery.

Later the guitarist Shu said that it was a classic "post rock" song. The violist was 16 years old but Shu was "of age" which meant over 19 in Canada and they were called London Let Me Down which all wrapped into one band made them pretty much unstoppable. The gravy was their version of "Hot Butter" by Popcorn which they knew from an advertisement.

I spent the down time before the show and between sets pretending not to look at Duran Duran's "Girls on Film" projected onto the walls and the very evocative flyers for their erotic dance night. It was a difficult time. When I arrived, thinking I was being very clever, I asked the bar tender if this night was going to be an erotic dance party as well. He paused and was like, "I don't think so."

The DJ had us sign a copy of EOTO and then showed me a signed copy of The Ramones "Change of the Century" album that he claimed was worth $30,000. I'm pretty sure that's an inflated price but I had to admire him for carrying it around to DJ. I guess.

He played mostly 80's songs which he said people used to call him gay for liking.

The second band described themselves as improvised "drone and kraut" and their sound check kinda sounded interesting, a little like Clinic who they hadn't heard.

They were very nice people and had a good snare sound, even though they played a little too long. At one point about half-way through what seemed like an hour and a half set I announced a little too loudly, "ARE THEY PLAYING ANOTHER FUCKING SONG?" Oops.

Thanks to Kevin and Patrick for letting us crash at their place and making it smell. I have to say though, that I was mightily impressed with the bachelor pad essence of this place, topped off by the rusting steel wool in the bathroom sink. But I'm being too picky here. Those dudes saved our lives that night.

Later that night it was confirmed that there was a riot in Montreal after the Canadians won the Stanley Cup. Our hosts also had a couple of pictures of hockey players over their stereo system - a nice final touch to our Canadian stay.

There was also a riot in Van-tittie after Axl Rose failed to show for a G' N' R gig last week. Bizness as usual.

We thoroughly enjoyed The Gravity Club and the people who ran it. I must admit I was imagining that they would hate what we did since they are never open on a Monday night but Chris Veit, saint that he is, convinced them to open it on an odd night anyway.

The owner of the bar offered to buy us a drink after the show, but since our host had to get to work at 7:30am the next morning so we had to respectfully decline.

Tues Nov 12 - Chicago - The Empty Bottle

"Kugelis and Hippy Energy"

It's almost impossible to write this but I'm doing my best. Spice Girls hat (official merch) for a dollar, great Lithuanian food, a toll collector who offered Bobby her lipstick and I'm cowering beneath the menace of a hangover that I can't quite figure out.

Last night's show wasn't tremendous; in fact it felt like our worst of the tour. My drum stool broke in half mid-way through the set and I threw it into the crowd in a fit of frustration almost smashing Dan from Crosshair and Viza Noir in the head. It just so happened to be in the middle of a song that I sing and somehow the mic ended up on the floor but I needed to keep playing. It took all my resolve not to stop the set and give up. I'm not sure why I felt that way - there's a ton of excuses I could give myself. I can never convince myself that excuses are legit even though I try.

Chicago is hilarious about their prog obsession. They were jamming Yes when we came into the Empty Bottle and the entire staff was accenting the sections with head bangs. I was totally crippled with hunger and unable to handle the prog but they eventually played the Liars record and things chilled out in my head.

Dan from Crosshair, also in the super cool Viza Noir, made incredible posters for the show, kind of playing off the cover of Anthem of the Moon. Dan wanted to show up Kayrock who's sick right now - I hope he gets better soon. [Note: HE DID!]

Plastic was there and hooked us up with an Acid Mothers Temple poster, Dave Fischoff was there wondering how the hell we managed to tour so much but I had to tell him that we didn't really go out that much - we just played the same places all the time.

Adam from Manichevitz was there getting' drunk and bein' unemployed - he bought me a whiskey and put us up in his house which smelled strongly of gas which he ignored good naturedly.

When we arrived at his house I jumped on the drums set up in his basement apartment while Bobby started hitting the marimba. Adam let us crank music and drink all night but he drew the line with the drums. Fair enough - we were in Chicago and could leave our gear in the van. I'll follow some rules.

Anyway - before the show I holed up back stage and wasn't talking to anyone. Bobby was there talking to a dude in Canyon and I would kind of talk into my crotch if I needed to.

The next morning Adam took us to a place called Healthy Foods which was a Lithuanian Restaurant that served this potato bacon mixture called Kugelus which, as Adam promised, blew our minds. So did the waitress.

Wednesday Nov 13th - Minneapolis - 7th Street Entry

Sitting in perhaps the most uncomfortable seat ever designed - I'm in the Mall of America trying to prepare for what may prove to be a very dark chapter in the medieval times of Oneida.

Everything is a dull roar here, The Hooters girls spill out into the hallway off the "New York Parking Lot" (every state is represented here with their own parking lot). It's the closest I've come to a Hooters' girl and its quite a shock. I don't know what to do with those orange shorts.

There are no tattoo parlors here in The Mall of America, or I'd be at one getting a skull inked into my bicep.

Leaving Chicago I felt as if I'd been up for days. I had the worst headache I could remember and I didn't think I had that much to drink. On the way out of the Lithuanian restaurant I bought myself that official Spice Girls hat which had "Kid Power" embroidered on the brim. And I ran out of film in my camera, and I took aspirin - all augurs perhaps? They all seemed to be in retrospect. I failed to read the signs: the faint smell of natural gas in the cab of the van when we pulled off in Eau Claire, WI. Bobby noticed it along with the periodic shuddering the van was making at certain speeds. Again, in retrospect, it was the transmission telling us that it was crapping out.

I drift through days in a fog, I do not observe, my head is constantly buried in the sand as the earth shakes outside. Bobby on the other hand, can be very sensitive and observant. Yeah, I smelled the natural gas smell, but I chose to ignore it. Often times smells from the road turn out to be someone downwind burning rubber. At least 90% of the time.

"We should really get this shuddering checked out," Bobby said. We were rolling along listening to David Sedaris and I was concerned. The van is always the source of the most anxiety on the road - as long as the rest of your body is healthy. Every click, bump, cough and strange smell lead into fantastic visions of being stranded, broke, and wasted in some hotel - money streaming out of our pockets like a neck wound in Evil Dead.

So we were driving along about 40 miles outside of St. Paul when the van buckled a little. I knew we were fucked immediately. Ever since we blew out three transmissions on tour in 2000, life on the road can be boiled down to the sublimated terror of another breakdown. Every time we make it to a show, I feel like it's a triumph. I pulled the van over and tried to get to the side of the road. We considered limping to the next exit that was 10 miles down the road, but once I slowed the van down I knew this was out of the question. It was the definitely the transmission. It felt like it had always felt - I gave myself over to fate, rolled on the shoulder until we came to a stop. Everyone was asking me what was happening - fact was I didn't know, I never know. Sometimes the van works and we get to where we need to go. And sometimes the van stops working and we don't get to our next show. It's embarrassing not knowing shit about cars. When we finally stopped moving clouds of smoke started billowing in the headlights. It was night and it had started to snow. It was 7:30pm and we were 40 miles from our show.

In a way, this situation was very mundane - over the course of 5 years, we've had our fair share of blowouts, alternator deaths, transmission shits and oil leaks. What was horrible was the familiarity of the situation - the inevitability of the stress, the anxieties, the missed shows, the loss of money and the absurd cost of transmissions and tows. Automatic transmissions will never cost less than $2000 to replace, they are extremely complicated pieces of machinery, once they burn out, they burn out - never to be repaired. Plus there's a ton of incompetence associated with the transmission. We've had a "rebuilt" transmission last about 500 miles on the road.

Bobby got on the cell phone and took charge. I got out and took a piss, the smoke was still churning off the engine block, it smelled sickly saccharine and revived my headache. The wind started to cut.

The nightmare had begun and I surrendered myself to it. We decided to get towed to the show so we could get paid.

The tow truck driver was efficient and had us back on the road within half an hour, four of us piled into his extended cab, the van bouncing up on the trailer. The driver was a nice guy - he would punctuate each phrase with a pedagogical, "OK?"

"The gears on a standard 18 take about a ton of differential each cylinder . . . OK?"

So we roll into the 7th St. Entry an encroaching feeling of dread and disaster temporarily mitigated by the chaos we were met with backstage created by Matt St. Germain of Freedom-From Records and the members of No Doctors, a band who to their credit immediately made me feel ill at ease. Within a few minutes of our arrival, the first band started, I drank a beer and had met what seemed to be a few hundred members of No Doctors. They gathered around me in a large group, they all seemed taller than me and flipping out on uppers, holding out their hands at once in a contemptuous but outgoing way. Why I got this impression from these nice people, I'm not sure.

My first interaction with them came when we met their "percussionist" on the sidewalk as we pulled up to the club. He had come down from Duluth to play with the band that night. He moved his car to help us put the van in a legal space, double parked a few yards down the block and ducked into an alley to take a piss. A cop arrived on the scene in time to give him a summons and fine for public urination. He then asked Bobby to park his car because he was too wasted to drive and didn't want any more hassles from the cops. A few minutes later he was smoking meth backstage.

Things then started to get out of hand, everyone was giving us advice about fixing our van. The problem was that I could see that we weren't being taken very seriously, which was fine, there's a time and place for everything, but we had a one track mind at the time and experience told us to make arrangements before people started to get too fucked up. I was introduced to Matt's cousin Bloom via a freshly packed bowl of homegrown of which I availed myself. Bloom is a stocky, preternaturally helpful guy who knew a "grease monkey" who would get us back on the road in no time at all the next day. I totally put ourselves in his hands and cracked open another beer after figuring out the next day's schedule which was a good idea b/c Oneida was fucking ready to stop stressing out.

No Doctors are a completely fucked up bunch of no-talent frat boys who love the avant side of the Stooges as much as they love Lynryd Skynrd. That's meant as a compliment because they were the coolest band we played with all tour. They are all in their early twenties but have been playing fucked up music for 7 years which blew my mind. Picture if you can, a bunch of fresh-faced dudes, crowded on stage playing rock music as badly as Royal Trux's worst moments of junkie-dom. There's a guy with two kick boards (YES FUCKING KICK BOARDS) duct-taped to a stool, with two comically mammoth drum sticks (about 3 feet long each) banging away at top speed at the boards, which are of course falling off the stool every other hit. And yes, they insisted that the sound guy mic them. Then there's a "front man" clutching an alto sax and blowing riffs with the two soloing guitarists, singing songs called "Sharkskin Blues" and "Liberty." I became enamored of their band within a few minutes of witnessing the chaos. I felt pretty much exactly what they seemed to be playing.

At the front of the stage there were about 12 guys, flying the goat's head sign, banging their heads drunkenly and screaming after every cut. I felt like this was a reunion of sorts and it turned out to be in a way. No Doctors used to live in Minneapolis but had recently re-located to Chicago so the people there were just celebratin'. I was glad to be a part of it.

Our set felt a little clumsy - all the events of the day seemed to hold us back a little. But everyone was cool to us.

We left the crippled van on the street in front of the Entry and went back to Matt's newly cleaned house with a couple of cases of Milwaukee's Best, venison sausage and an endless supply of pistachio nuts. No Doctors joined us for about an hour, to eat the box of sliders that Jane and Matt picked up after we arrived. I still don't eat White Castle, or any other fast food, since I've come back to the meat fold. Instead I ate a ton of the venison sausage that Bloom had recently taken out of the freezer. It was very good, and home-made. I was very confused and drunk at this point in the night, but it seemed that No Doctors were going to get into their van and drive 6 hours back to Chicago at this time. This seems fucking crazy, but I think that's what they did.

It was about 3:30am on a Thursday morning and Bloom was CRANKING Slayer on the stereo and the people upstairs, who happened to be in one of the opening bands, were banging on the floor, trying to go to sleep. I didn't think it was my place to turn the music down, so after we figured out a game plan for the next day (which included me waking up at 7am to call a garage we had gotten from the nice people at 7th St Entry) I popped in my earplugs and just fell off.

Thursday Nov 14th - Another show at the 7th Street Entry (It turns out)

I awoke to the brutal cell phone alarm, Bloom was passed out sitting upright on the edge of the couch and Bobby was like, "Dude will you make this call?" We hadn't decided on who was to take charge of the situation yet, and usually Bobby does, and that's not fair, I totally acknowledge it but I was feeling especially helpless and dependent on Bobby's solid sense of focus, it being FUCKING 7 in the morning. So I walked into the bathroom and felt the bitter cold on the floor boards. There was something wrong with the heat in the place and Minneapolis was doing what it did best. I think it was 5 below outside, or at least we can say it for the sake of color. I called the place and was greeted by a man who was less happy to be awake at 7am than myself. He was brutish and cruel. So was our conversation which was basically made as I crawled back into bed to give up for the day. Plus I didn't really understand what he said, it seemed so distorted and harsh. I knew it was the transmission - though I had no business knowing this.

"What did he say," Bobby asked from his sleeping bag on the floor.
"It's the transmission," I became brutish myself.
"So how does he know?"
"He just does. He wasn't helpful at all. It was a worthless fucking call."
"Did he tell you a place we could go?"
"Kind of, I don't know."
"OK."
"I'm going back to sleep."

This is how I remember our exchange but there was the hope that Bloom's "grease monkey" cousin would wave a magic wand over the van and get us back on the road. The problem was that Bloom was still passed out and it was 7am, and we didn't know what kind of hours his cousin kept.

It was decided that Bobby would make the next call at 8pm. The alarm rang again and we got Bloom up who graciously made a call to his cousin. The conversation went something like this:

"Hey ya fucker! How ya doin? Listen I need a favor. Some of Matt's friends are here and there van took a shit on the road. . . yeah . . . smelled like natural gas . . . the trannie right? . . . yeah . . . they think it's the transmission. . . uh huh . . . ya don't? . . . OK . . . do ya know somewhere they can take the thing? . . . no? . . . OK. . ."

That was the gist. In the sober light of the new morning Bloom's miracle working cousin became a guy who didn't work on transmissions and didn't know anyone who did.

It was decided that Bobby would talk some sense to my friend the mechanic, and get a recommendation of a place to take the van. Bobby worked his magic, got a recommendation and Bloom knew the place - he grew up in the neighborhood. The transmission place told Bobby that if we could get the van there before noon there was a chance we could be back on the road by the end of the day.

The wheels starting turning in our mind, we might make our show, we might get out of this situation, we might not have to spend two grand to get our lives back.

Somehow, Bloom was ours for the day. I don't really know how this worked out and I probably shouldn't think too hard about it, because then I would have to face the fact that in the grand karmic scheme, I'm in the red. But let me pause here and extend a serious thank you to Bloom and everything he did for Oneida that fateful and cold day in Minneapolis.

Bloom was as brutally hung over as all of us. The only thing he had to do the entire day was get a wedding present for some friends but he became our chauffer and tour guide and presented a revelatory hidden Minneapolis to us.

It began with breakfast at the Ideal Diner - a perfect name for this small grease counter in the middle of industrial Minneapolis. The two battle axes behind the counter held court over an immense grill, ten counter stools and a mountain of breakfast food. I watched one of them make dinner-plate sized orange-ish pancakes and decided on my breakfast. They were ludicrously large but when I asked for just one the counter woman paused as if she was waiting for me to correct myself.

"I mean I'll have two pancakes."
"Just two?"
I thought about it for a minute and almost broke and ordered three.

I barely touched my second pancake.

After some colorful racist commentary by an unemployed man who had to have his breakfast bought by another patron, we climbed into Bloom's mini-van and went to pick up our van in front of the 7th Street Entry.

After we dropped our van at the trannie joint we headed off to The Mall of America to see a fucking movie and try to forget how everything went to shit. We decided that the best thing for our heads was to see "Jackass."

Bloom went off and got a couple of beers at Hooters and tried to figure out what to get his friends for their wedding.

A call from the transmission came at the end credits of "Jackass," with grim news. We needed to replace the transmission and it would cost 2K to fix and would be ready the next day. Would we go ahead with the repair?

Did we really have a fucking choice? We gave them the go ahead and started to descend into darker depths of despair. I did some quick thinking and proposed that we see if 1) we could play at the Entry again tonite so we could at least sell some CDs 2) we could postpone our show at Beloit College one night from Thursday to Friday so we wouldn't have to forfeit the nice big $400 pay check.

We called Erik from Kork with our thoughts and he was feeling pretty negative about our ideas but he actually managed to arrange it all. We only had to cancel one show in Bloomington - and we didn't want to play there anyway. A bunch of fucking crazy hicks run our label - they keep asking us to take part in this Johnny Cougar tribute record they're putting out.

So we decided to try to pay Bloom back by taking him to out to dinner. First he bought some weed, and then I got high and then we went to this really good Thai place.

The Entry agreed to let us play a local punk rock bill conceptualized as a circus, with clowns and balloons and prizes etc. We were told that the bands were really into confrontation and shit - so we were prepared for total chaos. Bobby was the only one who realized that "confrontational" meant goofy antics.

Matt wanted to come to the show as long as we gave him free beer and put him on the list. Before we left his place for the show he regaled me with stories about doing speedballs in Miami with eighteen year old girls. He's a good deal younger than us and once and a while would remind me of this fact. Never trust anyone over 30.

The Entry was decorated with an indifferent circus theme. There was a video machine and monitor on the bar which was playing S+M circus porn. Vanboy really wanted a copy of it because it was so stupid. I don't want to judge the way other people get off, but this was particularly mundane and corny.

The event was lightly attended and emceed by this unfunny dude who told this story about a boy wanting to suck his dick which was just weird. At one point he called me "Pretentious side-burns guy," which I accept with pleasure.

People hated our set and "Sheets Of Easter" was mocked by the Ed Gein Fan Club, a Minneapolis punk band who kept telling everyone that they had been playing music for 20 years. They got on stage and were like, "We're ONEIDA! Die, die, die, die, die." Then they got tired and stopped and played some tired punk.

At one point Bobby went bobbing for beer and spit a mouthful of water in the face of the pedophilic emcee and was properly rewarded by getting a tub of ice water dumped all over him. This kind of freaked me out because it was SO COLD and sometime I worry about my band mates but then I was tired and wanted to go to sleep.

Matt was nice enough to drive us back to his place after he took us to this weird pizza place where we got mashed potato pizza. It was pretty good and all, but I'm an east coast pizza type of dude, even though he said the Sonic Youth said it was better than New York pizza. What do they know now that they live in Western Mass? But it was really good pizza.

Guns and Roses were playing at the Target Center next to First Avenue. I saw "Purple Rain" last night and the Minneapolis that is featured in that movie is unrecognizable. The only downtown landmark which remains from 1987 is The First Avenue and 7th Street Avenue. Now there's a Hard Rock Café across the street from First Ave. Of course there's nothing in there about any of the native sons.

Anyway, we kept seeing Axl's tour bus around.

Friday November 15th C-Haus - Beloit College, Wisconsin

Back on the road after a great stay with the incomparable Matt St. Germain (thanks for everything!), we headed to our postponed show at Beloit College. When we called our contact at about 7pm on his cell phone he told us he had just heard that we were coming to play. He was surprised but seemed to take it well.

After a long drive and some sniping about directions, we piled into the basement venue called The C-Haus. When we started loading in a voice screamed across the quad, "ONEIDAAA!!!"

"Yeah!" answered Bobby.

There were three choices of local beer at the C-Haus - they were all a step above Bud and I tried them all before we set up for sound check. The sound guy was the classic novice, telling us that we couldn't play loud and playing something crappy in the PA and generally bumming me out. But his bad vibes weren't powerful enough to keep me from loosing my mind at the mic when we played our set. Though I can't remember a word I said, I know that I went on and on about crazy shit.

It was decided that we would go the Madonna party after the show at the Alliance house. I knew that "Alliance" meant "gay" in the unique language of the college campus and that suited all of us just fine. As a couple of the fellas went off to get beer somewhere, Vanboy and I went to this woman's house and hung out listening to Fleetwood Mac I think. She was telling me that she was thinking about getting a tattoo. Her choices? A pigeon or a unicorn. This was intriguing to say the least. The unicorn is self-explanatory but the pigeon? Turns out her father raises homing pigeons.

Anyway, we all went off to the Madonna party at the Alliance House and it was something like 3am but they were still playing from a Best of. . . CD out of a small stereo in the corner of a room decorated with career-spanning posters of the Material Girl. The early shit got me on the dance floor, which was admittedly pretty sparse when we arrived, but it totally cleared out once Oneida started to jam. To the women of the Alliance house, the late night appearance of Oneida and their crew was not something to be celebrated.

During "Celebrate" this woman came up to me and yelled into my ear, "You're so evil!" Then she seemed to do a quick caricature of me dancing, and shaking my head like I sometimes do when I'm feeling it.

OK, I may be a dork, but evil???

"That's pretty heavy!" I yelled back at her after I went over to turn up to music. I mean, for some reason I felt like being called "evil" wasn't the coolest of epithets.

She kind of stopped dancing for a second, looked at me cock-eyed and sidled away. Fine, I'm fucking evil, whatever. I was gonna dance my troubles away! Then I saw her say something to Bobby, who looked over at me and doubled over laughing. He ran over to Jane who was just leaning against the wall 'cause of his crutches. Jane looked at me and went into hysterics. What the fuck?? I was really getting bummed out here. I am SO not evil. . .

So I went over to Bobby and was like, "I'm evil huh? I'm not evil!"

"Man, that's the biggest insult I've ever heard. Those are fighting words!" he's egging me on.

Sure, I was bummed that I was evil and shit, but fighting words? Was I about to be egged onto destroying the Alliance house?

Naww, I follow the woman into the kitchen to get the straight dope on all of this.

"Hi there, I'm wondering something. Why did you call me 'evil'?"

She starts laughing at me, "No, no, no. I said you were 'emo'!"

I think I prefer "evil" people. I prefer evil.

Is a fella emo 'cause he wears a turtleneck and dances to Madonna? I guess to the younger generation.

Later that night I fell asleep on Arianna's floor after we went somewhere else and argued with some kids that Journey was amazing. It was really, really cold and the walk back to the house was brutal - it was raining like hell. I think someone tried to beat me up but I can't remember clearly.

Saturday Nov 16th - The 31st Street Pub - Pittsburgh, PA

This was our first show at the Pub in a long time. The 31st Street Pub has managed, over the course of our relationship, to evolve into the Socratic ideal of a "dive" in a way I never could have predicted. Like all things which approach perfection, the dump surprises and delights even the casual visitor with its unique charms. Its at once a total wreck, and the very essence of civility. First, it's a restaurant which serves no food. Secondly it's a strip club by day and a rock bar by night. The beer is cheap, the bartenders are generous and the stage is small enough to avoid if the opening band is terrible.

Maybe I'm a hater but tonite I was glad of that. I stood by the door shivering but happy I was back in the fold. The club-owner Joel claimed long ago that Oneida had the record of the most shows by an out of town band, and that was really before we had played PGH all that much. It had been a long time since we had played the Pub, for a number of reasons, but mainly it was because our friends in the Rickety Records group had fallen out with Joel over turn outs to their legendary "Rickety Thursdays". Cheap drinks, great rock, insane people. Mostly that scene is played out at Gooski's across town these days.

I broke my snare drum at the beginning of a song where it featured heavily and Dan from 1985 (I'm forgetting the name of his new band) wanted it - so he got it of course.

We ran out of songs again - a happy problem - we knew one more but couldn't bring ourselves to play it because it sounded shitty lately.

After it was over Joel had us sign a drum head and Chris drove me to a place where I got hot tea.

Sunday Nov 17th - The 'Sco - Oberlin College

A true comedy of errors, though it didn't feel like it at the time, it felt like the world was ending. Let's see, where to begin? I'll keep it positive at first.

It was great to see the guys in Wolf Eyes again - they are the most insistent head bangers in noise rock. They are now a trio with John from Violent Ramp (and probably a ton of other shit I'm not aware of) who didn't get any of his genius one-liners out until everyone was trying to fall asleep at this co-op at around 3am. I can't even do it justice but he was riffing on an outgoing message for a pizza place that did noise shows.

It was the first time I had met most of the guys in Black Dice and heard about what had been a totally fucked up tour. Apparently they played with some nu metal bands in San Francisco. If you know what Black Dice does you realize how ridiculous that is.

"How did you manage to get through all of it?" I asked.

"Basically by getting stoned," said Bjorn.

Backstage before the show, someone drew a caricature of Eric from Black Dice fucking the eyes out of a dog. It was an uncanny likeness.

During our set we had no monitors, Bobby's organ stopped working and something happened to my drums that I can't remember. I'm sorry - I waited too long to write this stuff down!

It was the first time I had seen Black Dice and I was blown away. At one point they started in on this total house music beat and I fell in love. They're my new favorite New York band along with The Broke Review.

We retired back to the house of our friend Elana's house to have a party. I know for sure that Elana told me about driving an ice cream truck around New Jersey and walking by some firemen everyday who hollered at her. She was really worried that her housemates were going to be furious at the party.

Turns out they weren't. We left early the next morning before anyone got up. Thanks to all - we're going back out in Febuary to the west coast for the first time since 1998!

See ya - Kid
Dec 30th 2002

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