HOWLING INVISIBLE INSECT

Ann Arbor 5/28

We got to Ann Arbor just in time to load in and set up before people started arriving. Our host, Ryne, an acquaintance of Phil’s, nearly as tall, and probably a person we could put all of our faith in, gathered his friends and helped us load our gear up two flights of creaky, wooden, steep steps to his very Less Than Zero looking modern loft apartment above an abandoned bar. The opening acts were Jen Koppin and Steve Leggett. Steve was a little crusty, not especially friendly, and was eager to play first and leave, which he did. Cool looking guy though, a bit like Sam Elliott after eating Nick Lowe.

Jen’s set put me in a good mood. She had some hooky, punk rock goes honky-tonking romantic songs and did an especially sweet version of Dolly Parton’s “I will Always Love You” on an orange ukelele. Good stuff. My old friend Mike Wehner arrived and took pictures of us during our set which I will add soon. We had a great time and played well. It was definitely a perfect place for a house show and the fact that the bar below the apartment was closed for repairs and there were no neighbors made noise a non-issue, which was good.

After the show, Michael and I went around the corner to get a beer at a micro-brewery and met Aaron and Alex and Audrey (ex-Omahan and friend of Ryne’s). We had a drink or two and argued about whether or not bands should get back together and play shows again to capitalize on past popularity. I happen to have strong feelings about this but it’s all a matter of taste and what you go to music for, I guess. Personally, I have no desire to go see any band who does this, to hear it or watch it at all. I don’t care how good the band used to be. If you break up for ten years, it’s over. You have moved on. If you put that band back together, you are doing it for reasons other than any reason that flies in my book. As Bill Hicks would say, “you are off the artistic roll call forever.” It’s not just because the bands usually disappoint on a grand scale when they do this but it’s the principle of it too. I want to see working bands “making” living music. A band that hasn’t been a band for years and just gets back together to cash in is kissing the past’s ass and that isn’t a working band. Nostalgia trips are incredibly depressing to me. Most people don’t feel this way though. I was definitely in the minority there in Ann Arbor. Michael gave the Pixies as an example; a bad example because I happen to believe the Pixies are perhaps the most overrated band ever to pick up guitars, speak Spanish, and get fat. “Well, did you go see Sebadoh?” Why would I go see Sebadoh today? They aren’t a band. It’s like paying money to have someone whisper a lie in your ear. No thank you.

We took our arguments to a place down the street since the micro-brewery closed early, and it was a little more like a college bar (I can’t remember the name). The Red something? Not sure. I got to talk to Michael a lot more. It had been years since we hung out and it was really nice catching up. He had an hour long drive into the country after the bar closed so we said goodbye. Aaron and Alex and I went back to Ryne’s. There was a party going on when we arrived and unfortunately we stayed up very, very late telling jokes and stories and barely playing guitar and singing. Jen told a story about an old roommate of hers, a mad Russian guy with prosthetic legs and some strange behaviors. He’d stab knives into his “fake legs” in bars to impress women and apparently they couldn’t get enough of the guy. He also got into serious bar fights in which he would invariably, at some crucial turning point in the action, yank off one of the “fake legs” and use it to pummel some ambulatory shit-talker into a pile of crap on the floor. When the cops came he’d yell, “my legs, my legs. Somebody get my legs” as he was pitched into a squad car and taken away. Despite these wonderful qualities, Jen insisted he was a real charmer and confessed that the only real problem she and the other roommates had with him was that he would urinate on the couch in the living room in the middle of the night instead of taking the trouble to put on the “fake legs” and walk to the bathroom. It got so repulsive that all the roommates planned an intervention, confronted him about it, and said they would have to kick him out if he didn’t start using a toilet for all future disposals of human waste. “I know it’s wrong,” he was said to have said, “but I do it anyway.” He spoke for humanity there.

Alex is the wise one, he had long since gone to sleep when Aaron and I finally decided we should try and get sleep too. We had a big drive to Madison the next day. Unfortunately, the sun was about to come up. Just as we each prepared to close our eyes and settle into the white shag carpet (Aaron lacking all bedding, me too lazy to unroll mine for such a short nap), someone in the adjacent room hollered to us that we probably wanted to move the car a couple blocks away to a free space so we wouldn’t get a ticket first thing in the morning. So we got up, descended the two flights of steps to the street, and moved the car. When we returned, the door to Ryne’s building was locked so I called his cell. He answered and I don’t know why but, inexplicably, I pretended to be a police officer. “This is officer Cheney. I have here two individuals who say they are staying with you. I’m going to need you to come down here.” I didn’t think for a second he would really believe me but unfortunately he did. It took him five minutes to come down and unlock the door and he was pale and reticent as he did it. Naturally, he was relieved he wasn’t going to be ticketed for any noise complaints or have police officers going through his stuff but that didn’t make up for the panic I caused. He went up and broke the news to the others. There would be no raid. Apparently some of the revelers were really upset with me after that (they had been hiding everywhere–behind guitars, under magazines, in the empty hot tub, between butts in a moon-soaked ashtray out on the balcony). People started grumbling and cursing my name. It was looking like all the good will and catharsis we provided through our music would be shattered by my reckless insensitivity and the subsequent alienation it always provokes. Then Aaron lifted the orange plastic ukelele into the air over his head (someone small and foreign crawled away quickly), lowered it slowly to his chest and proceeded to strum and sing a slow, somnambulant “Here Comes the Sun” in a reassuring, messianic voice and put all the paranoids to sleep. Everyone but me, that is, because I could see the sun indeed hurdling the horizon and charging the balcony to ruin us completely.

Eventually I did relax and managed to sleep a couple hours. We loaded out, got coffee and headed to Madison. Ryne had taken care of us. We had had too much fun, and consequently everyone but Alex was shaking his head and wondering, “how many times must the piper be paid for his song?” One show left to go.

Lancaster 5/27

Great drive through green, pastoral, winding Pennsylvania. Got a nice lightning storm show, a little rain and mist. Aaron chased down a truck that had a “Hunting Makes Me Horny” bumper sticker, to get a picture but it was too blurry. You could spend your life chasing down cars on American highways to take pictures of the painfully revealing bumper-stickers we put out there like tattoos. It’s supposed to be funny, but it’s also serious, like Lonnie Methe’s Charlie Brown tattoo. Our first blush with Lancaster after getting out of the car was a pregnant woman walking by smoking a cigarette followed by two women walking and talking about an unnamed woman. All I remember is the first woman said “That bitch don’t even deserve to not have nothing,” which, after negotiating the double negatives, I think translates to “I wish that bitch all the best.”

Got to the Sugar Tank, a really cool building with art studios on the upper floors and an open air recording studio/venue on the main floor. I was very excited to see our good friend Chris Fischer in his original environment. I’ve been wondering about Lancaster for years, ever since a bunch of those crazy kids moved to Omaha and blessed us with their charming otherness. The show was great. Lots of people came. Chauchat played as a full band and it was fantastic. Mike Musser, the owner/operator of The Sugar Tank, recorded the show for us. I guess they record all the shows and might be putting out a comp at some point. We’ll try to put up some tracks from the show when they send it to us after the tour so check back.

It was great to spend some time with Fischer, it’s been awhile. Unfortunately, we had to leave after the show, around 1:30 a.m., to get some miles under our belt on the way to Ann Arbor, a long drive the next day. So, I didn’t get to hang out with Christopher as much as I would have liked but that’s how it goes. Alex commissioned a painting from him before we left though. Alex’s only attempt to guide the artist’s vision was “Sure, naked, distorted women are okay, but no vomit. It’s for my bedroom.”

It was 4:30 in the morning when we stopped in State College, Pennsylvania, the sleepy little town hosting the “#1 Party School” in the country. We didn’t see revelers urinating on lawns, scaling roofs, or ripping stop signs out of street corners, because school was not in session. The night clerk at the Super 8 was quite unconscious, however, and it took Aaron and I pretending to get into a fist fight in the lobby to rouse her. We could see her pale feet and painted toenails propped up on the desk in the office, pointing toward the fluorescents, but no bell or “excuse me” at top volume was going to work. So, Aaron and I pretended to be Dondero and Craig D. and that got her up. Got a room, slept from 5 to 11 and headed to Ann Arbor. Aaron left his pillow in the hotel so he was officially without a single thread of the bedding he started with. It had to happen.

Gassed up in some little Fast & EZ gas station between State College and Ann Arbor. Alex has a fondness for little boxy Ma & Pa, gas stations. Anything backwoods my Dad calls “Chitlinswitch,” so it’s proper to say that Alex likes little Chitlinswitch gas stations. He likes waiting in line for the single, disgusting bathroom. Not that I’m advocating choosing BP instead, but I don’t mind a multiple stall, clean bathroom every once in awhile, somewhere else. I haven’t been to Exxon since Captain Hazelwood and I’m creating the Beyond Pollution stencil to protest BP as we speak. Not that it matters, the companies are in charge and Orwell is writing the dialog. Just watch the news. At any rate, when I went in to pay there was a guy with a shaved head in a green Wendy’s uniform chatting up the counter girl as an equally green lovebird hopped around on his shirt, walking across his back and jumping from shoulder to shoulder. He had a tattoo on his neck of a disappointed (or angry) clown crying indigo tears. The lovebird tried pecking at the tears like little crumbs. I wasn’t sure what exactly to make of the tattoo but I decided the crux of it is that life is a very sad business and even the best of us (those disposed to levity and optimism) will find our dreams dashed and our hopes mocked endlessly. He put it right on the back of his neck for everyone in every line he stands in to see! As with nearly everything, its very existence produced more questions than it answered. How, for example, could he feel so pessimistic and yet choose a lovebird shitting over his shoulder as a constant companion (though he was trying to add a counter girl to the equation–who could blame him)? There was a yin and a yang thing going on, for sure, but that’s another tattoo for another time. All that I’m reasonably sure of is that try as that sketchy lovebird might, those blue tears were not going to be digested anytime soon.

5/26 Brooklyn

We woke up late. Ben made me a bowl of cereal with several different cereals, multiple fresh fruits and, get this, water instead of milk. It was unlike anything I’d ever tried. Kind of great but because I didn’t eat fast enough (talked too much), some of the softer cereals got mushy before it was done. I definitely see the appeal but not sure about replacing milk with water. Aaron returned from his cousin’s place bearing promo salsas for everyone to try. The salsa hits the market next week, apparently. The one we opened was delicious, almost a yellow curry more than a salsa. Really fantastic. Matt should do very well. Alex made some repairs to a fallen towel rack in Ben’s bathroom. Liz Clayton came over to Ben’s and we went and got lunch with her at The General Greene. I had a Cuban and a tasty local beer. Did some catching up, swapped some J.D. and Franklin stories/memories. I realize that I need to stay in better touch with my out-of-town friends. I’m a terrible correspondent, letting years go by between visits. Another resolution, another promising promise.

Ben set us all up with clean Dead C and Chris Knox t-shirts, as well as a pile of records and movies. A real Mensch, Ben. We couldn’t make this kind of tour work without all the friends who put us up and took care of us. I’ve known Ben since he set up a show for me in the early 90’s when he was at Vassar and he’s put me up several times over the years. It’s nice to know that good things do come to good people sometimes. I’m really glad he’s doing so well. We picked up Nordy and headed to the venue. The show at Open Source Gallery in Brooklyn was set up by Nebraska transplant, Joe Krings. Found out we have a lot of friends in common. Really nice meeting him. Tyler from Chauchat arrived and we set up. The room was incredibly small, by far the most “intimate” space on the whole tour, but somehow it was perfect. A sweatbox full of people crammed together in forced community. We had some technical problems with the PA but it didn’t matter, everything carried and sounded really good in there. Chauchat was great. When the cooler started leaking, the Open Source owner simply carved a stopper out of a potato and when it got too hot, people rolled cold bottles across their foreheads. It was something.

On the way to Robb’s place, he found a pile of mint condition records sitting out on a curb. All Black Sabbath and Ozzie records. Quite a score. Robb upgraded those records and gave his old Kanesville Kollectibles copies to Alex. We went to Daddy’s, the neighborhood bar by Nordy’s place. Got to spend some more time with Daniel Blumin which was nice. Everybody got into a heated discussion about music and fakery. Who’s the real deal? Who’s faking? Ultimately, I think it boils down to the believability of someone’s “act”. For me, Tom Waits and David Bowie are great songwriters and I like them but I’m rarely moved when I listen to them. The artifice isn’t entirely convincing. Randy Newman comes from the same kind of professional songwriter background as Waits, but his “act” works for me. Same with Dylan, it works for me. I think there must be something people do in their songs that gives them away. Some kind of tell. It’s subtle sometimes but the best songwriters are able to do everything right to prevent anyone from finding them out. But we all came down on different sides, basically from artist to artist, with Alex playing devil’s advocate, announcing loudly, for example, that Townes Van Zandt is overrated! Alex just likes to fight and there’s nothing more fun than trying to tip someone’s sacred cow. He also said “Music is good if I can clean my house to it. That’s all that matters.”

Things got rowdy, a great time. One of us (I’m not naming names), started to take his pants off on the sidewalk outside for reasons I can’t remember. It was definitely time to call it a night and head back to Robb’s to sleep. Daniel headed off in the other direction to get a sandwich from an all night place on the way to the subway. We went to Robb’s and tried to make sense of his record collection, 10,000 lps filed not alphabetically but in order of purchase. He knows where every single record is though! I said, “Black Monk Time” and he went right to it. I said “Out to Lunch” and went to the other side of the room and pulled it out. Crazy. Objects as autobiography. An amazing collection. Robb played us the beautiful and heavy “You Don’t Have to Play the Horses” from an early Bruce Cockburn record. Didn’t know there were good Cockburn records. Nice to know. Crashed soon thereafter despite wanting to hear more records. Burning the candle at both ends. You can only stay up so long or else you’re really just getting up early.

Loaded up in the morning, got bagels and coffee, shopped at Academy Records, then said goodbye to Robb so he could get to work. It was so good to spend time with him and see all the places where he “lurks.” I wish I had gotten together with Jim Allen besides at the show. Next time we’re in NY we’re going to have to do three or four shows so we can spend real time with everybody. Did some aggressive driving for placement in the Holland Tunnel and we were on our way to Lancaster to see Christopher Fischer, sweet, big-hearted, painter prince, up from Baltimore, in his old haunts.

New York: 5/25

We got to Brooklyn early and went to Ben Goldberg’s place. Got amazing soul food at the Five Spot. I highly recommend it. Hung out at Ben’s, washed clothes, showered, checked out the well-oiled Ba-Da-Bing operation. Eventually met up with Robb Nordstrom and headed into Manhattan for the show with Franklin Bruno. The show was in a really cool spot, a working sound stage complete with green screen. I want to thank Rory again for finding such a perfect place to host our little show. Nice to have a sold out show and an audience with so many friends. It was practically an Omaha show with Mike Tulis and Conor visiting and Omaha transplants Steve B. and Clare and Sara Jacobson and Robb Nordstrom in the audience. Hadn’t seen Liz Clayton or Daniel Blumin or Nate Krenkel or Jim Allen or Franklin in years so the show felt a little like a family reunion. Had a discussion about “value” with Franklin after someone said enough time had passed for someone to cover “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” He questioned whether there was such a thing as a bad song. I guess technically there aren’t any “bad” songs but there are plenty that aren’t my cup of meat, “don’t worry…” being one of them.

Aaron left to spend the night with his cousin Matt, an actor and entrepreneur of The Brooklyn Salsa Company (a salsa for every NY borough!). Ben drove our van back to his place. Alex and I went to the Dusk Lounge nearby after the show and hung out with Franklin and Robb and Daniel for awhile. Eventually, it was just down to us and two other people so the bartender decided to close a little early. Robb skated home and we got a taxi to Ben’s, then walked to the corner convenient store/deli and got incredible 2:30 a.m. sandwiches. LX and I stayed up late talking. Took some photos from Ben’s balcony which I will add as soon as I have a chance to download and name all these pictures. Hanging out with Alex and Aaron has been such a joy on this trip. I only wish Friedman and Jesse were along for all the mayhem and music. This is the only way to tour.

Spent the day in Philly walking around aimlessly. Did some shopping for vinyl at Marvelous Records, the venue. I got a few needed NRBQ lps so that was good. Had amazing falafel sandwich wraps out of a vendor truck. I was actually really impressed with all the different cuisines you could get out of trucks in Philadelphia. The city has that going for it. They had a mobile soul food truck, a Caribbean food truck, an Indian food truck, all around the university. Fantastic. Omaha should follow Philly’s lead in this respect and step up the roach coach selection. I love and frequent a few taco trucks in Omaha but more choices wouldn’t be the worst thing. Elle Lien, it’s time to put the Daily Grub menu on wheels!

We were surprised by how many cops and security officers were on bike patrol around the university. A little over the top.

As far as the show goes, The Philadelphia Flyers played at the same time that night and apparently were competing to get into the Stanley Cup. Their win was our loss. So it goes. Even though we didn’t have the best turnout, those who attended stayed and were great. Stayed with Aaron’s cousin Raphael in town. Another sweet and generous member of Aaron’s extended family. Either he’s hiding the black sheep from us or else they are all cut from the same cloth. Aces all around. Got up early and headed for NY.

Washington D.C. 5/23

We left Hagerstown after breakfast with Aaron’s aunt Janet and a stop by his uncle’s store where they wrapped up a Persian rug for Aaron to take back to Omaha. Drove to D.C. to stay with Aaron’s aunt Cindy. She made us feel right at home too. Great food, conversation, mid-century modern furniture, and the Janus 50 Films Collection! I’d never seen this massive box set before. It’s incredible. Stayed up late after the show and watched Carol Reed’s “The Fallen Idol”, the film he made right before “The Third Man.” Fantastic. I tried to send Alex and Aaron away to complete the tour without me so I could just spend a few weeks at Cindy’s place watching “The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp”, “Black Orpheus,” “Ashes and Diamonds”, etc…. but they didn’t think that would go over so well (with the audiences, and I suspect with Aaron’s aunt). I’ve got to find a used copy of this thing. Maybe I’ll mow some lawns this summer. If anyone wants to buy it for me (http://www.janusfilms.com/), I will trade you copies of every record I’ve ever released or will release, ad infinitum (and still owe you big time).

The show was in a dirty garage turned into a venue through effective use of Christmas lights and incense sticks (to mask what the host suspected “might be rat piss.”) I thought it would be in a slightly better environment. That’s one aspect of booking tours this way that I have to tweak before the next tour–I should probably see photos of the “venue” before rolling up to the place. I really enjoyed the opening band, Pablonious Bill. Despite the weird place, we played well and there was a decent number of people at the show. Got to see John Riley, ex-Omahan, so that was great. Made up for the terrible Vietnamese from Pittsburgh with a delicious meal at a Vietnamese place near the garage. A really pleasurable visit to D.C., marred only by guilt for charging people $10 to see a show that necessitated the burning of incense and where in order to use the restroom one had to step over dirty boxer shorts and empty toilet paper rolls. To the friends of Simon Joyner & The Parachutes in D.C., I am really sorry about those boxer shorts.

Pittsburgh 5/22

What can I say about Pittsburgh? We drove all day in the rain, got to Garfield Artworks just in time to set up. Ate the worst Vietnamese food ever produced by man. Mine had a powdery, stringy consistency I couldn’t put my finger on, and wish I hadn’t put my tongue on. It was all rice or noodles, plus meat. They had no vegetables on the menu in any form at all. So bad I had to throw it away. But at least it cost $14.

Played with really nice, enthusiastic people but the show was a little sparse. It was great to see Karl Hendricks after many years though. Manny Theiner looked the same, said some funny Manny things, left immediately for another show when we loaded out. He wouldn’t let me take his photo but I snapped one of him fleeing the scene on his bicycle in the rain (Look for photos below, soon).

Headed to Hagerstown after the show to stay with Aaron’s Aunt Janet. It was tortuous, foggy and misty but it was worth the white knuckle driving (a: to get out of Pittsburgh as quickly as possible. b: to meet Aaron’s generous relatives and stay in actual beds again!). Aaron’s Aunt and Uncle have John Lennon’s piano. Pretty amazing to see. I tried to get Aaron to pose for a picture at it but he refused, so you will just have to “imagine” it.

This is an old entry. I haven’t had internet access. I will try and catch us up to the present and will upload photos, perhaps tonight. The following was written days ago, leaving Louisville.

The rain chased us into Kentucky. Aaron got a speeding ticket for no reason. Well, he was officially going 72 in a 55 but he was also going the same speed as everyone else so it hardly seemed fair. By the way, if you are starting to feel sorry for Aaron Markley, you can show your pity by donating to the Save Aaron Markley fund to cover the loss of his sleeping bag, the cost of his speeding ticket, and to offset anything else awful that happens to him over the next ten days. We expect there will be more and worse so do dig deep and send cash. We don’t really need any one person to donate hundreds of dollars, we just need hundreds of people to donate some Washingtons and we’ll get him fixed up.

We limped into Louisville, met up with our wonderful hosts, Kevin and Tomy and Kevin’s bandmate, Sean (who looks just like Big Pink era Robbie Robertson) and then drove to the Cathouse to unload before the tornado and thunderstorm rolled in. The show started at 9. It was a really good show with DR Country, Jonathan Glen Wood and Kevin’s new band, Natural Geographic. We had a surprisingly decent turnout despite incessant rain and tornado warnings. Alex wanted to end with 747 since that was the address of the venue but I made him play the Passenger instead and he grumbled and shook his fist at me the rest of the night. When we left the Cathouse we drove by a dark liquor store being robbed. The alarm bell was going off, but not for us, because…

The bars close at 4am in Louisville! We should have gone straight to bed but instead we made the mistake of walking to a neighborhood bar near Kevin and Tomy’s house for a night cap. A drunk guy convinced Aaron to get an undrinkable beer that tasted like a marshmallow cooked in Grenadine. Alex wisely walked back to Kevin and Tomy’s house and slept on the hard wood floor, having earlier rejected the inflatable mattress for reasons no one really understood. Kevin reminded me that the last time I was in Louisville I nearly got into a fight with someone who put quarters on our pool table. It was clearly marked with a sign saying “No Quarters Allowed On The Pool Table”. I pointed to the sign and made a joke that he wasn’t allowed to put quarters on the table (not really meaning that he couldn’t call the winner) but the whiskey had rendered him humorless and that was so depressing to me that I then felt I had to insist he remove the quarters from the table, which he was perfectly willing to do so long as he could use my face for the job. It was as if I had briefly become Duncan!. Fortunately (for my face), Jesse and Kevin got between us. The matter was then decided over a heated game of pool. My side won, he threw his stick on the table, knocked a chair or two over, and stormed out of the bar and disappeared into my Louisville memories. As fun as all of that was, it was just as nice to stand outside at 3:30 in the morning talking about Neil Young.

I finally took the couch at 4am and got up at 9. Spent some time talking to Kevin and Tomy, swapped some music, had breakfast and hit the road for Pennsylvania. Now we’re on the highway and we’ve finally got some good driving weather. Unfortunately, my eyelids are too heavy to enjoy the welcome patch of blue sky. I’m exhausted, the computer is running on reserve battery power, Alex keeps eating fast food, and Aaron is sleeping blissfully unaware of the misfortune that awaits him today. We are, after all, driving to Pittsburgh.

Leaving town was messy and comical. An auspicious beginning. Somehow I failed to lock down the rocket box on the top of the van and it popped open on the interstate about five minutes into the pouring rain. Aaron’s sleeping bag blew out into the traffic and may or may not have caused a terrible accident. We’ll never know. Someone in a lavender Prius drove up next to me, frantically trying to get my attention by pointing her finger up at the sky over and over. “Yeah,” I said, “I know it’s raining.”

Chewed all the nails off my left hand in a twenty mile traffic jam on the east side of Des Moines sitting stationary in the downpour. Sign on the side of the road said “Congress Needs FUNK.” I couldn’t agree more. Made it finally to Iowa City, a great town that loves its experimental music almost as much as it loves gnarly beards and PBR. The show was at Freak Dynasty Take-Out, the house where the gracious gentlemen from the band Data Gun live.

Brooks Strause played first. I had never heard Brooks before but found his stage (chair) persona really interesting and theatrical. It turns out we’re both friends with David Strackany (aka Paleo, the gypsy songwriter who is very good with words but not so very good at Ping-Pong).

The Miracles of God played a characteristically wild, acoustic set of ferocious primitive pop screech. Their set ended with Sam Locke Ward running through the house assaulting his banjo and screaming “Buy Low, Sell High!” Great stuff, as always. There are photos below of Brooks, Miracles, and us. Apparently this was the Miracles of God’s last acoustic show. I am glad we were there to witness it.

We had a really good night. We played 747, Kerosene, Three Well Aimed Arrows, The Rain Asked For a Holiday, Fearful Man, Robin Hood, Address, Bring Down Goliath, The Only Living Boy in Omaha, and Joy Division. Maybe some other songs, someone took my set list and used it as a coaster so I’m just making it up as I go along. Stayed with Sam and Grace, the sweetest couple in underground rock. They made us pizzas and played R. Stevie Moore records into the sweet a.m. Aaron took the spare room since he was sans sleeping bag. (Follow the blog to see if he continues to milk this for spare beds throughout the tour). Alex and I took the couches. Sam and Grace’s cats acted out the myth of Sissyphus up and down my head all night long, a rebuke I deserve for all this human folly. It turned out to be a good thing anyway because I had forgotten to set my alarm and Louisville would be eight hours through another rainstorm away. So, I got up early, went out to the van and found I’d left it unlocked overnight. Luckily, everything was as it should be. You see, Iowa City gives, it doesn’t take away. It is what Lou Reed calls, alright. Thank you, Iowa City.