That's that

We're nine hours deep in a twenty five hour drive,
coasting through the yawnfest that is West
Texas in the middle of the night. Once in a while,
you smell an oil rig or see a flattened armadillo,
but otherwise...pretty boring. Unless you like
counting mile markers. If you do: boy, do I have
the place for you.

The bad news is that we've got sixteen hours left
and that's if we make it through LA without
traffic, which would be a miracle on par with the
Second Coming or me enjoying a Kevin Costner
movie. We'll see how it goes. We're all a little
homesick though, and if you combine that with
coffee, in-car naps, and Graceland, we may not
stop at all. I say this at 1 in the morning, so
there's plenty of time to reconsider. For now:
onwards.

We finished our tour, appropriately, in Texas at a
Hell Ya! show, who were actually among our first
and most enthusiastic fans in the aforementioned
city of angels. We even got one of them up on
stage to help break my long suffering tamborine.
That poor thing was held together with two kinds
of glue and three kinds of tape and it got a proper,
destructive funeral. So to Ashley: thanks.
Although, when I go home and put on my Dr.
Frankenstein lab coat, who knows what might
happen. I owe it, I think, one more surgery.

While whiling away our last night in Austin, we got,
yes, the last mix of the last song from Brad, who
was fresh off a plane from Japan. Now, we
master this puppy on the 20th, and send it off for
printing. Then, all you fine folks who've purchased
them already will get new birdmonster in your hot
little hands, which has really been the idea all
along.

When we get back to the City, I'll get some of the
more amusing pictures together and share them.
For now, I'm going to chose some loud, sing-along
-y CD for Peter so he doesn't start going glossy on
me.

There'll be a good deal of new in the next few
weeks, so, hope to see you soon.

Everything since Monday

Alright. Hello again. I'm a bit bloodied but all is
well. I'm going to do my best to bring us all to
speed. Here we go:

San Antonio.

I remember a guy stage diving backwards, except
it was more of a stage fall and, sadly enough, nobody caught him. We
played at a spur of the moment type place, being that the original venue
mysteriously shut down, and you'd think that would be mean something
along the lines of a fetid shithole. But, in fact, the place---the
Limelight---was just a new club, something like a month old, and they
happened to be open on a Monday evening. Honestly, it was really, really
fun. I got to actually see Tapes n' Tapes and Seventeen
Evergreen, whereas, in Dallas, there was an
inpenitrable mass of humanity (tall ones too) in
front of them and me. That was pleasant.

That night, we stayed at a motel which claimed
bargains and delivered none, and debated the
merits of drinking out of the bathtub faucet. The next morning, it was
off to Austin, where we've been for a few days
now, watching the city devolve into a massively
loud festival. It's fairly bizarre. Everyone has those convention center
badges I usually associate with bad temp jobs I used to get...and will
probably be returning to. Thankfully, this is much
more fun than handing out fleeces at a B of A
convention. There's certainly more booze.

Originally, we'd planned to play two shows here,
Thursday & Friday, but the next day, we got an
invite to play instead of this band Diamond Dogs, who'd apparently
dropped out for reasons unbeknwownst to me. We played at a daytime,
Little Radio party (who were actually the first people to ever play any
of our songs on anything but our friend's CD players), and we
loved it. The show ended a bit unceremoniously,
with a cymbal getting kicked to the ground and sawing a cable in half,
but fuck it. You can't plan for things you didn't know were actually
possible.

I have to say that I enjoyed the night a bit more
than the show. We ended up scouring the city for food, choosing dog food
tacos, and settling in to a
dueling piano bar. Pete's Dueling Piano Bar, to be
precise. There's nothing like a Texan ridiculing some
Canadians while flubbing Oasis songs. There really isn't. One of the
guys playing that night was like the Texas version of the Jungleboat
ride at Disney land: really terrible jokes, but somehow, really
entertaining. He did a mean "Blister in the Sun." Seriously. Anyway, at
some point, when he had a few requests, he casually asked if there was a
drummer in the house. And you know what
we did? We ratted Zach out. Let it be said: never
commit a crime with me, because, apparently, you're going to jail.

So, Zach, Rusty, and the other guy with the hat
played Steppenwolf. It was that or Waren Zevon, and since Werewolfs of
London can't really hold a candle to Magic Carpet Ride, I think Zach
chose wisely.

Then, more shows. Watching them, instead of
playing them. Which is of course exactly what I need: loud music. But
I'm not really complaining. I just can't hear anything you're saying
right now. But, let it be said:
Group Sounds: you rule.

Which brings us up to today, where We played at this Fader Magazine tent
downtown at 5, which involved other people's gear, playing after Jose
Gonzales, and free pants. The stage there was outside and so, was
preheated to a pleasant hundred and eighty degees for
our set. I think we all felt a little delirious
afterwards, but it was a good kind of delirium,
the one you can remedy with free booze, water, and a big comfy chair. It
was really nice to see so many friends there, so, to everyone who was in
town and took time out of the musical clusterfuck to come see us,
thanks. I had fun.

Now, all I have to do tonight is eat this by now cold pizza and try to
rally for an evening of not messing with Texas. See you soon
...sent via sidekick, with apologies for the predictably screwy
formatting...

Sunday in Texas

I'm in the car right now, outside what is perhaps
the most infuriating chain store ever. That's right!
Guitar Center! All purchases are guaranteed to
take at least forty-five minutes. All employees
are guaranteed to call you "bro." And regardless of
what you want to buy, they guarantee that none
will be in stock, even if you can plainly see
forty-five of whatever it is behind the counter.
Of course, when you're in Fort Worth and you
don't know any better, sometimes, you gotta
make a deal with the devil. Sadly, no Charlie
Daniels songs were involved.

Yesterday was showless and travel free, so we
spent the greater part of the afternoon and
evening tromping around Fort Worth. We went to
this place that had a hamburger bun signed by Wiliie
Nelson in a hermetically sealed glass case on the
wall and ate some meat. You can only eat meat
here. Potatoes are acceptible, but I think citrus is
actually illegal. Also, I was thinking about buying
this pink, confederate flag purse on the way to
the car, but I reconsidered, being that it was
perhaps the most innapropriate thing I could've
ever bought. I got a purple one instead.

That place with the Willie Nelson bun was
thoroughly badass though. In addition to John
Hancocked bread products (there were other buns
signed by Styx and Dolly Parto), there was live
country music ("You can take the girl from Texas,
but you can't take Texas from the girl"), pool
(which Pete & I lost), and a video game called
"Extreme Hunting", wherein I accidentally
slaughtered countless bear cubs with a crossbow.
There was even a mechanical bull somewhere,
which, in retrospect, I kinda wish we would've
ridden, but I couldn't stop thinking of that shitty
Travolta movie and it sort of soured me on the
whole ordeal. In fact, I think it's good policy to
avoid doing anything Travolta's ever done, except
breathing and drinking water. Next time, though:
the bull.

Today, we drive down the 35 to San Antonio, to
play on almost the same bill as the 10th in Dallas.
We'll be joined by Tapes n' Tapes & 17 Evergreen
again, which is really rather nice, since that night
still makes me smile. The venue we were going to
play originally closed (yes, for good and forever),
but the fine folks who put it together (Music For
Listeners) swooped on another space before we
even knew what happened. So a big, hearty round
of applause for those guys. If it wasn't for them:
street corner banjo.

Now: more driving.

This weekend, so far

Apparently, it snowed in San Francisco. Not a blizzard or anything, just some whispy little things that turned to puddles when they reached the ground. I mention this only because here, in Texas, it's a humid eighty degrees and I'm walking around in flip-flops. There are some things I don't miss about home.

I do miss breakfast though. We've been in the habit of waking up around noon-ish, and at that point, your typical Texas restuarant serves obscene amounts of meat and obscene amounts of meat only. There's nothing like a pound of beef brisket to the face in the morning.

But so far, I'm liking this state. We're going to be here for about a week or so and have played two out of our planed five shows thus far. Dallas found us playing at the Cavern, a cozy, loud little dive, with Tapes n' Tapes & Seventeen Evergreen. Neither dissapointed. We've been dweebed out internet penpals with Tapes n' Tapes for a good third of a year now, and, I have to say, they're great guys. We met them late for dinner, they dining on pizza, while we chose to order BLTs slathered in rancid mayo and filled with lettuce I'm sure was from a salt water aquarium. They just seemed to be really enjoying themselves all night, which is not always the case with bands we play with. God knows why. We certainly do. Anyway, we play with those boys again tomorrow night in San Antonio. Seventeen Evergreen, weirdly enough, was the second SF band we hadn't played with at home but met out on the road this trip. I dug 'em. Where they've been in our Bay Area lives is a mystery, but we're remedying that next month at the Mezzanine.

You know another thing about Texas? Compliments sound waaaay better in a thick, southern drawl. Last night, this guy told us our show "changed his life," and, you know, if he wasn't southern, it might've sounded scary. We spent last evening at the Wreckroom---and don't you have to love a club whose name is a pun?---with a band called Black Tie Dynasty, who we realized as the night wore on, we played with exactly one year ago: March 11th. It was almost enough to make me go new-age on everyone, but I refrained, drowned my chakra with a two dollar beer, and enjoyed the show. It was BTD's hometown crowd & they worked it. Thanks again boys.

Below this post, you can see another thing that happened in Texas, namely the arrival of some long overdue merch. See, we were planning on having the album already, but as you folks who have pre-purchased know (and thanks again for that), we didn't quite get that together. Instead, we got some shirts and posters, one of which I'm holding proudly below. Make sure to notice, the drunken, 4 a.m., shit-eating grin.

Today, we're thinking of doing something non-band-y...which isn't even close to being a real word. Sorry bout that. We'll post some pictures soon too, now that we have a base of operations that isn't a borrowed Toyota. And I should of course remind you that our myspace page has three unmastered songs that'll be on the LP, out in about 4 weeks.

So, if you're in Texas, hope to see you this week. If you're in San Francisco, see you in a few weeks. And if you're anywhere in between, seeing you would mean that our car broke down or that we'd become honest to God vagrants. So, sorry---hope I don't see you.

Finally, finally, finally

See that link to our myspace page, over there on the right? It's underneath that picture of us looking excited and sort of confused, staring at a mixing board. Yup. Right there. Ok, you should click on that. Please. I know I'm getting a bit bossy, but it's for good reason, I promise.

That reason? New songs. Hence the title of this post. Listening to those will be far superior to reading whatever my flu-ridden, pseudo-aware brain can remember about last night.

...but, you must understand, I need something to do too. We're stuck in this car today for as long as we can handle it, which means somewhere in Texas. Big Spring is an option. I have no Texas knowhow, mind you, but it's a pretty big dot on this road atlas. There's also a Noodle, TX, but I'm pretty sure I'd be dissapointed if their mayor wasn't made of ravioli, which he probably isn't. I can't deal with that kind of
anguish. Point is, it's a long way from Tucson to Dallas, so we're just gonna drive until we start hallucinating.

So, Tucson: I can't say I saw too much of it, honestly, as we played at the Club Congess, which was like this self-sustaining bomb shelter you never have to leave. They had a restaurant, a bar, a venue, and a hotel all under the same roof---and, like good birdmonsters, we used all four. The rooms were free, too, and there were actually enough beds that no one had to sleep in the bathtub...this time. We got to play with the Heavenly States, which somehow we'd never done back home. They were
wonderful.

Speaking of Bay Area bands, we heard this morning that Film School's van got stolen in Pennsylvania. If you run across the culprits, please, kick them in the throat or groin. You can also give the band a few bucks to help them out, which I'm sure they'd appreciate.

And now, get out of here. Listen to those songs and let us know what you think.

...sent via sidekick, and therefore filled with infuriating line
breaks...

Damn you, Dakota Fanning

Hello from Godknowswhere Arizona. Much has happened since the last ill-formatted, backseat yammerathon, so, in the interest of expediency: onwards.

Right now, believe it or not, I'm listening to birdmonster. If it were possible, I'd just have the LP hooked up into my vein. Or I'd huff a rag made from the LP. Actually, I'd prefer the rag. I'm phobic of needles. But the addiction has a purpose today: we finally decided which songs go where, which songs have roast beef, which songs have none, and which little songs go wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

But that isn't to say that everything's mixed. Mr. Cook is working on the last song (both in his process and on the disc, coincidentally), our one reallllly long one. We aren't talking Wagnerian length here. Or even Dream Theatre...narian. Just 7 minutes. Any way, once that's waxed, there's mastering and...well...then it's yours.

By the way : I apologize in advance for any mispellings or thoroughly unfunny jokes. I blame it on a head full of mucus and the incredibly shitty Dakota Fanning, De Niro movie I suffered through last night. Don't watch that movie. I beg of you. Put in Gymkata instead. Or something with Heston, preferably being Biblical or violent, even more preferably both. Moses Chainsaw Massacre is a great place to start.

Except for the aforementioned album hoopla, the tour moseys on. The show in Los Angeles was pleasantly well-attended, despite soggy weather, and Division Day sounded as good as I've seen them. We're actually heading out with them in April, up through the Pacific Northwest, but more on that later. One extra cool thing about Monday: I got to meet an original member of At the Drive-In, who bought me a Red Stripe, overpayed us for an EP, and had glowing things to say about the show. That was nice.
Unlike my pre-show pancakes, which tasted like the gruel from some Dickens book or another. For shame, Brite Spot. Is Bisquick too much to ask?

So, tonight: Tucson. With hometown friends Heavenly States. Bring your desert-dwelling cohorts.

Oh yeah. Tomorrow: we post songs. Stay tuned.

Plan D

I'm writing this from the birdmonster mobile command center, which, no matter what you're imagining, is really just zach's sidekick in the
crampy backseat of a borrowed 4-runner. My god. The keys on this thing are tiny. I predict popeye-esque thumb muscles in two weeks. Call the circus.

So: the car. I haven't yet divulged the entire story, and, since I'll be in this backseat for quite some time, trying not to piss all over my lap---mental note: less coffee before endless drives---I figured I could yammer at you for a moment.

Plan A was to buy an incredibly fancy super-mobile. Turns out incredibly fancy super-mobiles are incredibly expensive. So we moved to plan B: purchase a replacement birdvan. But when the best option you find has no back window and needs a spray of ether on it's engine to start, you move to plan C. I don't want my van addicted to 19th century painkillers. Plan C, though: it was an atrocious plan. Plan C: take two cars. Sheer misery. Plus we'd be missing out on the innevitable insanity that will
set in in about twelve days time.

And then there was plan D: the car trade. An old friend with a 4-runner offered to take Dave's grandpa sedan in exchange for a car with actual chutzpah. So Kelby, we salute you. I'd write you a sonnet if I could remember the rhyme scheme and if my thumbs weren't already burning.

Tonight: Los Angeles. We missed you. We've got one song left to mix and I get to shake Brad's hand for the phenomenal job thus far. And we're playing with division day tonight, who are some of our favorite people in the world. In fact: Einstein, Ghandi, then Division Day. I think we can all agree on that.

Now, a scratch-off awaits me. I hope it's one of those bingo scratch-offs. I like the implied drama of long, drawn out lotto tickets. They almost convince you that you didn't just flush three bucks down the toilet.