TheOXBOW.com: OXBOW - Trouble That Will Trouble The World

Tour Diary: 2001 > Page 4

CABBAGE ROLLS AND COFFEE

We record the next day. I don't remember anything except watching the French people at Albini's studio ("they're French. That's why they're surrendering every 20 minutes." - John Novotny)... hungrily. Not because I like French people all that much. Though I DO. But because they actually have hot bitches in their band. Well, to tell you the truth I have NO idea whether they're hot or not. I'm just feeling like Tattoo on Fantasy Island, you dig me? If she's here, she's hot. Case friggin' closed. I try to use my Sex Mind Ray on them. A patented invention, it allows the sender to transmit, like, sex thoughts to a receiver REGARDLESS of the language barriers. It's great. I invented it. I actually use it all the time and fully intend to start busting lose on the Human Potential/Motivational speaker circuit sometime in 2002.

While you might be thinking I'm joking here, I'm actually quite serious. Anyways, in this instance the Ray failed to work, but only because I rushed it, not having much time before I check back on the laptop to see if I still have a job. Which is a sub-theme for this tour for sure, since my job announced layoffs, but in some sort of weird satanic spite said they wouldn't tell us for 2 weeks who was getting the axe. So I'm checking and thinking about all the cash I'm making and about how sad I'm going to be seeing that go from full to empty and about how a year earlier I had three jobs at once and was making enough money to officially cause all of my friends to hate, loathe and distrust me and about how the Sex Mind Ray takes a lot more effort to work if you're selling oranges on a freeway off-ramp, and then next thing I know we're officially late for our Lansing show.

MICHIGAN-GA!

We load in.
Men in overalls show up.
The promoter is actually in the house, as are a club full of people.

This has got to be a goddamned mistake.

The promoter introduces me to our contractually stipulated bottle of red wine.

And it is on.

I am in fantasy land. But it's all real. Unbelievably real.

THE TAKERS seem peeved because the crowd chats during their set. This IS peev-inducing, however, we have several anti-chatter devices on hand. They're called penises. It never ceases to amaze me... I mean place a penis into the mouth of an audience member and you can hear a fucking pin drop.

Anyways, some band plays after THE TAKERS and before OXBOW. I forget the name. They're kind of interesting in a improv/Grateful Dead/latter-day SST way. Three piece. Instrumental. But by the time they've played 50 minutes I'm liquored up and fuck them, you know?

We play. The 20 year olds in attendance, um... who the fuck cares whether they liked it or not?!?!? I liked THEM. That's what the fuck matters.

They were like good meat. Tasty. And after the show sitting, enjoying a digestif, the girls start coming up to me, shaking my hand and holding on far too long and telling me "I've been thinking about going to San Francisco." I want to quote a Russ Meyer line, first spoken by the Anal Avenger in Beyond the Valley of the Supervixens, "awwww... Missy... you don't wanna go messin' with my problem," but they're interrupted by The Drunk Girl Watusi. She's dancing, drinking, dancing, getting closer to me, as I murmur to her friends, "you should take care of her. No. I mean it." I don't think they get it, but they do and OXBOW retires to another fine Red Roof Inn for the evening.

GRAVEDIGGER'S BALL

The OX-VAN craps out 70 miles from Youngstown. Greg Barratt the Intrepid drives out with an alternator to help. Before he arrives a guy pulls up in a souped up flatbed with duallies and asks if he can borrow our lug wrench. Seems he was throwing nuts and almost lost several of his tires on the way in. We ask where he was coming from and he says "laying grave stones. That's what I do." I was going to kill him right there. I mean, if I was the superstitious type for sure he would have been stuffed into a tarp on his flatbed after having been bludgeoned several times with aforementioned lug wrench.

But he escapes and Barratt shows up, Greg Davis fixes what needs to be fixed and I ride back in with Greg B. My throat is thrashed but I croak through a conversation with Greg.

Me: I want you to add something in our contract rider. Something about requiring that all people who come into contact with OXBOW be as polite as possible.

Greg B.: Well I'D never sign a contract like THAT.

Me: Why not?

Greg B.: Because sometimes I like being rude. Sometimes I'm rude because the band sucks. Sometimes I'm rude because the band is good but the guy's are asses. And sometimes I'm rude just to see what would happen.

Me: Well that's fine, but I'd like it in the contract.

Greg B.: And what if someone is rude to you at a venue?

Me: Well, disrespect leads to disrespect.

Greg B.: And so what?

Me: So if we're going to fight, which is what WILL happen, I'd like them to know WHY versus just being surprised.

We both laugh. It's only several days later that I find out that Greg B. as promoter (versus Greg B. as booker) would frequently fight bands for their guarantee. Double or nothing. Greg B. also went to college on a wrestling scholarship.

Oh God, if I had known that BEFORE I would have for sure attacked him. Just for fun. Just because I've been getting my ass kicked in the pages of Grappling magazine every month at the hands of guys who were silver medallists in the Olympics. Oh God. My mouth waters for weeks after finding this out because if there's one thing I love more than fucking even, it's fighting. Really. And anybody who fights will know just what the fuck I'm talking about.

But the show was great. The barmaid was beautiful. And there was even some audience participation that night. Not enough for our tastes (he ran before I could get my hands on him) but enough for that night.

Onward.