First off, sorry it's been awhile. We were in New York and, well, New York is what it is. Which is New York. Which, I realize, explains nothing. Not winning the "Best Introductory Paragraph" award with one.
My point is, when you're in New York after being in, say, Cleveland or Kansas or Detroit, you get distracted by all the tall buildings, late last calls, and exceedingly delicious foodstuffs. Plus we were there during CMJ (the ostensible reason for this whole shebang) and that meant that when we weren't off leeching free schwag off the generous, we were watching new bands and band-friends play borrowed equipment with lovable abandon. Which is something you should know at any festival --- odds are, the band you're seeing is playing (maybe) their own guitars out of Godknowswhat amp, a pawn shop drum set, and got, at best, a ten minute line check that ruled out fatal microphone electrocutions but didn't begin to deal with stage sound. So that blown-out flatulent noise coming from the bass amp? Not my fault.
Of course, now were headstarting our 2904 mile trip home. And yes, you read that right. The Indianapolis 500 is for pantywaists. Yeah, Dale Earnhardt Jr. You heard me.
2904 miles translates to 49 hours of drive time, 3 and a half days (hopefully), or, in laymens terms, a shit-ton of driving. We've got our books, our movies, our rest-stop frisbee, and enough money to make it to...Nebraska. After that, we're either making and selling an eight story corn replica of Michaelangelo's David or maxing out the ol' Visa. Could go either way.
But lets not talk about that. It's daunting to the point of unfathomable and, you know: out of sight, out of mind. For now, we drive.
New York . Let's see. There are plenty of stories, but most of them are of good music while barhopping, so they don't make for exciting reading. I don't want to bore you fine people. We'll have plenty of time for that when we're in Wyoming on 13 straight hours of turn-less driving and my brain has devolved to cromagnum proportions. Wait. Didn't I say I wasn't talking about the drive? Yes. Seems I did. Wow. I made it four sentences. And two of those sentences were two words long. I've impressed even myself.
So, breifly, the best bands I saw in a half-weeks time:
-Mohair: We lucked out and saw their set while picking up our magical badges the second day. Gang-vocals, hill-billiness, catchiness, and, yes banjos. You know I approve.
-The Sammies: You know how we feel about these boys.
-Division Day: Ditto.
-Ra Ra Riot: Cellos! VIolins! Some sort of tiny keyboard! The normal band trappings (bass, guitar, drums)! Hooray! Played with these folks three times and we're fans for life. Our best to them. Let us know when the CD's out. Or you know, send a free one. We're shameless like that.
-Archie Bronson Outfit: Another one of those happy accidents. I was at the Fader space, taking glorious advantage of free Red Stripe and suddenly: holy suchandsuch. Reminded me of the first Hot Snakes CD, not those ones near the end with all those confusing time signatures. Note nobody enjoys 5/4 time. It makes us all queasy. I still love you Geddy Lee. Just play Freewill already.
I know I'm forgetting someone, Or several someones. But it's 3 in the morning. Cut unto me some slack.
Lastly I'd like to wildly change subjects. Let's talk about Scrapple. Or, rather, let me warn you off scrapple. Point one: you should never eat anything with the word "scrap" right there in its name. Not so coincidentally, "crap": also in there. Point two: scrapple is the nubbins and detritus that fall off sausages, bacon, and other members of the pork food group. It gets pressed together, refried, and served to you at a price somehow higher than any of its intact pig cuisine bretheren. If you end up in Philly, skip scrapple. Somehow, I missed cheeseteaks but had an entire loaf of scapple. I think I'm being punished for some forgotten, yet particularly heinous sin.
Since we're car-bound until Thursday, expect daily updates. About what exactly? Beats me. I'm sitting in a van for four days. All's I know is it should be fun to document our corkscrew into claustrophobic battiness. Do join me.