Tales of Noisepop

I learned a valuable lesson this morning: when it's rained for thirty days straight, don't wear shoes with giant holes in them. It's one of those lessons you think common sense would cover, but sometimes, common sense and I don't get along. Then I end up at my desk with soggy socks. Tomorrow: galloshes.

I went to a fistfull of Noisepop gigs last year, seeing the cult known as Polyphonic Spree and the genius-elf-woman known as Joanna Newsome, but Birdmonster had never had the pleasure to play at our hometown festival. I was a little shaky after the previous evening's birthday/National/Division Day debauchery but, by the time we were in Slim's, the hangover subsided. How so? Well, first off, I'd like to point to Jose, the Slim's Chef, who I would definately think had a good shot at beating that mustachoed, smug bastard on Iron Chef, so long as the ingredient was chicken or zucchini or curried potatoes. Jose: my hat's off to you. The other bands, our show, personally, and some hair of the dog took care of the rest.

We played with Send For Help for the second weekend in a row. I don't remember how they were in San Jose, since I had that memory surgically removed from my brain, Eternal Sunshine style, but I'd assume it was on par with Friday. Their singer, George, shaved his once lumberjack-esque beard into muttonchops that Martin Van Buren would've been jealous of and we shared a cushy backstage room with him and the other fine folks in SFH, and their set was really rather great. The last song in particular and that skippy one. The one that goes: dun-nun-nun-nun-nun-NA, duh-nun-nun-nun-NA. I love those.

By the time we started, Slim's was fairly packed (which happens, it turns out, when they sell all the tickets). It was our first normal, non-acoustic, non-invite-only-dealy in the City since we left for Texas and parts inbetween, so we got to see a lot of friendly faces we hadn't seen in almost a month. I got a little steamy. Oh! And we got a button*, specially made, that said "I heart Birdmonster," which I wore, despite the fact that I might have looked like a self-absorbed prick with it on. My thoughts: you can wear your own band's button but your own band's t-shirt. There's some sort of unspoken rule there. I'm unsure if I can wear the Birdmonster underwears we're getting made, however. The jury's still out on that.

Ok: confession time. We're receiving the CD the morning of the 11th. I had to get that off my chest, since we'd planned to send out the CDs early, if possible. I think they got caught up in the Prague nightlife, eating 10,000 calorie dumplings and drinking 20 cent beer. They're just a little late though, and I'm sure they had a nice time, so screw it. So, on the 11th we'll be driving to the airport in some sort of birdcaravan, loading them up, and getting home in time to ship the CDs to here, there, and everywhere, so if you pre-ordered, we thank you immensely, and we'll be sending our you disc on Tuesday or Wednesday next week, the moment we get our grubby little hands on it, as promised. That's only....8 days from now. Whoa. How very, very excellent.

*Thanks Zara...and yes I'm wearing it right now.

Recouperating...slowly

The mush-brained hangover I'm currently suffering is really the only thing I can fault yesterday for. Otherwise: it was a perfect day, oh such a perfect day, like that Lou Reed song. The many reasons:

First and foremost, we again have transportation. I brought our team of highly trained sherpas back to Nepal, thanked them for their hard work, and explained that they were just another victim of the mechanization of society. Sorry sherpas, we got a van. And it's a beaut.

Of course, we only have this vehicle in the cosmic sense. We put a downpayment on it but it's not literally sitting in our driveway. But, it's ours. I'm excited because it has captain's chairs in the back and the interior is the color of moldy cranberries. It also trumps the original birdvan, since it's over a decade younger and isn't planning on overheating and spewing coolant in my face everytime it gets past third gear. The only thing it's missing is a name. I think Tessie is nice. Maybe we'll go with that.

Secondly, I saw the National and Division Day last night. I'm jealous of myself. They both gave me hope for the continued brilliance of mankind. And, I gots me a new Division Day CD, which kicked my butt this morning while I was trying to find a clear shirt to wear. I was unsuccessful. In fact, I'm at work wearing cut-off jean shorts and no shirt. Quite a sight.

Lastly, it was my birthday, which, coincidentally, is also the anniversary of John Hinkley shooting Reagan because Holden Caulfied told him to. Hence the mush-brained hangover. See, what I forgot, between work, practice, and that fantastic show was dinner. Which is bad. Mainly because the alcohol really does it's duty when you forget about food. Thankfully, left-over pesto fussilli saved my life.

Tonight: Slim's. And it's sold out. So if you don't have tickets yet, I apologize. What you should do instead is just plan on coming to our CD release shindig on April 19th, which will be cheap and, well, we'll be releasing the CD. You can also pet the aforementioned Tessie. Just don't get all naughty about it.

More ramblings

Once in a while, it's useful to remember there are some things that everyone loves. A while back, I recall claiming that the banjo and the two-dollar bill were universally adored and no one claim otherwise. We need to add breakfast in bed to this list. In fact, there has to be some way to combine all three, perhaps breakfast in a bed on two-dollar bills while listening to a Lee Skruggs album; I'm pretty sure that was the Gnostic idea of heaven, but I'm a little rusty on my ancient theology.

I mention this only because I got breakfast in bed this morning* and played banjo last night. If I was a valet, perhaps I'd get the two-dollar bill tip at some point, but I'm a temporary office lackey, so the only tips I'll be getting are along the lines of: "you better work faster" or "your lunch was too long." Two out of three ain't bad. At any rate: last night's acoustic jamboree, with the aforementioned banjo accompanying two acoustics and a cello, was a damn fine time. Sure, I couldn't hear anything, but who says you need to hear music to play it? Well, actually, you do, but let's not get picky about it. Some highlights of the evening include:

-Hijack the Disco: didn't know what in tarnation they'd sound like acoustic. They were wonderful. Hell, if sleighbells are involved, can it not be wonderful?
-Heavenly States: always great to see Ted play a right-handed man's guitar left-handed, like some genius freak.
-Ms. PacMan: Peter & I have an eternal Ms. PacMan rivalry and Thee Parkside has one of those machines where each player sits down at opposite sides and the screen rotates when you die. I was filled up with cheap Miller High Lifes (which is decidely not the "champagne of beers," despite claims to the contrary) and lost, buzzer-beater style when Peter went Nick Van Exel on me and swooped up a banana right before dying, thus surpassing my feeble score. I salute you Peter. If you didn't play guitar in birdmonster, I'd break your fingers.

Beyond that, I survived my first workday in a month without serious catastrophe, Peter is looking at a few possible birdvans today, and I get to go see the National tonight, whom Division Day have the pleasure of opening for. We played with those New Yorkers about a year ago and I haven't seen a better show since; just effin phenomenal. Added bonus: I live five blocks away from the venue. Everything's coming up Milhouse.

Oh yeah: Division Day: if you need to sleep on our floor, by all means. We only charge $60 a night.

That's it for now. Computerized labor is calling my name.

*Thanks Rebecca!

Read me and be rewarded with new music and tales of our forgetfulness

It's Monday and, before I fry up last night's left over potatoes au gratin, before I continue my quest for three week's of employment, in other words, before I take care of my physical & financial security, I'm going to update this here blog. They call that "prioritizing," regardless of how bassackwards my current brand of it may be.

This weekend found us in San Jose for the first time ever, followed by a midday Sunday show with Clap Your Hands at a venue I didn't even know existed. San Jose was...let's just say "snafu-ridden." See, it was Dave's birthday and the gift he gave himself was leaving his guitar in the parking lot of our studio. Of course, we didn't realize this until about two minutes before our set, which then led to flashlighting through the Blank Club for a black guitar case which never turned up, and he ended up playing with a guitar which hasn't been restrung since Reagan died. In solidarity, Peter decided to break strings on three seperate guitars, one of which was Send for Help's (who I really enjoyed, by the by, and we play with again this Friday) while I insisted on unplugging myself at least once every other song. Like I said, snafu-ridden. But, there's a silver lining. When we got back to the studio, a fine, fine gentleman named Antonio told us he'd found the instrument, noticed it alone and unattended in a grimey parking lot, and secured it for us. Ok. Let me be honest---I don't know the whole story. It involves some really thoughful people I'd rather not discredit by mucking up the tale, most of which occured while I was asleep. I'll give them their proper god-bless-you's (not the sneezy kind either) when I badger Dave for the whole story. The moral: I love everything and Dave didn't have to buy a new Gibson.

So, with the once missing guitar and a slight chip on our shoulder, we ended up at the Metreon's Action Theatre Sunday afternoon for an invite-only, radio-station-sponsored shindig with CYHSY. Upon arrival, we noticed they had acoustic guitars and basses, which made sense, since the venue was basically a small stage (with great sound) in front of seating for about 200. I don't think we've ever played a show to a seated audience before. I felt very mature, like maybe we should have been doing Windham Hill songs, but, since we were unaware of the arrangement, we blazed ahead with four rock songs, spazzed out in front of our hometown, and called it a day. And honestly, I thought it went really well. Our youngest fan (at least that I know of) was there, in her tiny birdmonster shirt, and we signed a poster for her, and that was maybe the highlight of the day. I felt like some kind of rock n' roll uncle. I'm smiling just thinking about it.

Clap Your Hands played a dreamy, acoustic set that was perfect for a Sunday afternoon. That song that ends with tons of "child stars"s is still in my head. Zach posted a rather blurry picture below, which proves a) that we were there, and b) that it was very red. I always enjoy seeing a band stripped down on acoustics and this was no exception. Their new songs sound pretty kick-ass as well, I must say. Bravos all 'round.

Which brings us to today and this week. But there's some good stuff happening, so, before I leave, let me tell you what the skinny is: In addition to the myspace page, which has three songs from the new album available for your discerning ears, Music For Robots posted a really nice little blurb about the forthcoming CD and tossed up a song which we haven't shared with the internet at large quite yet. It's called "Balcony" and it remains one of my favorites on the CD. So, hey, check it out. Free music, right? Who could ask for anything more?

We've also got two shows this week for our local folks. One is an acoustic thing at Thee Parkside where we'll play three songs, probably laden with banjo and whatever else we can toss together, along with locals Hijack the Disco and the Heavenly States. All the bands will play between six and seven while Ted from BAGeL radio will spin some songs on the hours that bookend that slot. The whole thing will go from five to eight, so you can be home in time for LOST, where FIVE EVENTS WILL HAPPEN, at least according to the previews. I hope one involves Jack getting bitch-slapped. I'm sick of that guy.

Friday, we play a full set with instruments that must be plugged in at Slim's. It's a Noisepop show, so get your tickets early. Film School, Cloud Room, and Send for Help will also rock out for your esteemed enjoyment.

Okay, I've put it off long enough. I've gotta fry up some old potatoes and get paid. Be good.

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.

Paging Dr. Morreau...man that was a terrible movie

San Francisco is a funny place. About a year ago, we banned cigarettes in public parks, but not golf courses, while yesterday we shut down a golf course because of some endangered frogs hang out there. The obvious answer? Make sure to give the frogs some nice cuban cigars. Then everyone's pissed off.

Hundreds of miles south, Brad continues carving songs like they were a roast beast in Whotown. He is most likely not surrounded by cigar-smoking frogs. Last night, we got the final mix of our fourth song, which put the album at thirteen minutes and fifty two seconds so far, on it's way to the mid forties, with twelve tracks over all---a dozen, without the extra cruller thrown in for good measure. Although, strangely enough, we've been waffling about adding this weird little ditty we did in Brad's living room to the album for a week, so we actually get the baker's dozen after all. I remarked a few weeks ago that 13 songs was certainly bad luck, until Zach reminded me that Fugazi's first album is actually called "13 songs" which shut my fat mouth good and proper. In fact, I should listen to Waiting Room right now.

Well. That was a good idea. Of course, I listened to it on these earphones I got at Radioshack, which in the last week have proved the law of Radioshack, that being: "All things bought at Radioshack will either break, explode, or electrocute you within ten weeks of purchase." If you see Terry Bradshaw, punch him in the face for me.

In fact, why do I even own these things? The left earphone works maybe thirty of the time I use it. I'm going to go Gallagher on these things. Nurse, pass the sledgehammer.

Today, we're all waiting for song five. It's a mystery as to what it will be and I like surprises, so it's all gravy. The one we got yesterday is (amazingly enough) still unnamed, even though it's the oldest song on the album. In fact, it's the third song we ever wrote. You'll never hear the first one if you ain't heard it already, while the second song, well, it's the last one on the EP. I love that one.

Now, we try & get a van. Either that or a team of highly trained, extremely fast sherpas. Maybe some sort of man-cheetah hybrid. That'd be nice. You know any place we can find those?

Well, we made it.

It turns out there are other people in the world. I remembered this last night at our free Mezzanine show, which left me with a big fat grin, a few dead nerves in my pinkie, and quiet inklings of tinnitus. After all, us four birdmonsters have been quarantined in LA for three works, spending time only with each other and Brad. If we were women, we’d’ve been menstruating simultaneously. At any rate, it was good to get back into the real world and back to San Francisco, which, regardless of where you’re coming from, is a great place to come home to. My umbrella, it missed me.

As for the birdvan, she’s sorry she couldn’t make it home. She tried. She really did. But an exploding radiator and an apparent allergy to transmission fluid kept her down in Los Angeles, where she will no doubt be donated to charity with a floor full of crushed Cheez-its, crumbled t-shirts, and food of questionable age. We’ll miss you darling. Au revoir.

So, thus begins the later half of our album-making experience. Mixes will be transported through the wilderness of cyberspace and sent back down to Brad with our cogent, genius commentary, then sent back to us, then back to Brad, and so on: apply, rinse, lather, repeat, ad nauseum, until the album is done. It sounds like a good reason to stare at the computer and to get my iPod fixed. I’m sure you’ll agree.

As the mixing lopes along, I plan on updating the blog, perhaps with a few old pictures, and hopefully linking a song for streaming when it’s properly mixed. It’ll be fun, I promise. As for now, I’m just happy to be in my own bed, not mooching off the generous couches of LoCal-ers. Now, if only I could figure out what happened to all that money I left with…