The Wildhearts - US Tour - March / April 2004 · Words by Ginger · transcribed by Kris Coverdale
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The ten days off since completing the European leg of The Darkness world assault has been an emotional rollercoaster that makes touring more similar to a day off in bed than hard work.
With acoustic shows (varying in humiliation), red-eye visa applications (appointments presumably deliberately set too early in the morning for alcoholics, or junkies to contemplate honouring), precious few days with the family, doctors appointments, hair appointments, clothing appointments, irate landlady appointments and a little unexpected, mental/emotional instability thrown in, finally boarding Continental Airlines flight CO 57 (reassuringly looking like the word "cosy", when written on immigration papers) to Austin, Texas, feels like a large backpack weighted down with shit has been removed from my back.
The flight is full of bands, all attending the forthcoming 'South By Southwest' (SXSW) showcase in various states of excitement. You can tell bands these days by 'that' haircut, the one that looks like everyone is growing their hair long, and have all arrived at the same length at the moment.
Ironically, or typically, we manage to lose Brad in the airport on the rushed transfer from Houston to Austin, but manage to re-convene hours later at the Holiday Inn, our home for the next three days.
It's St Patrick's Day in Texas and it's a ridiculous time to be sober. Feeling more self-aware and broke than seemingly the entire population of Austin, I settle for a steak dinner and an early night, as the boys explore the debauchery that is 6th St.
After months of feeling bitterly cold, in Europe and the UK, I feel happy to turn off the air-conditioning in the hotel room, in favour of dry Texan heat. This thing is set on 'low fan', and it is still fucking Siberian in here when I enter. There is even a heating for 'high cool' four clicks away from its current setting and yet more cold air on the dial, if needed. Having shivered my way through the entire duration of 2004 already, I don't even have the balls to try that one out for curiosity.
American people seem very large; in fact I have never seen so many technically 'fat' people in a ten mile radius than I have since driving from the airport to the hotel. Fat people need to feel cold, whereas thin people don't. I put down the need for a simulated blizzard to be blowing through your bedroom, to this fact.
The first thing that strikes me is the quality of 'Holiday Inns' over here, compared to their UK counterparts. It is actually outrageous that British Holiday Inns are allowed to carry the name, such is the drastic improvement of bed size, wireless internet facilities, ice vendors, room space, private coffee machines and ultra-helpful staff.
I spend the morning looking for a 'Golds Gym' that hotel residents are given free access to. With the intention to start this visit on a strict health kick, I go from garage to garage, asking for directions to what is rapidly becoming a mythical gym. People in Austin, Texas people are disarmingly friendly and speak faster than any other region I have ever visited.
And they are terrible at giving directions.
Speedily spoken assistance results in a strange, rapid gibberish consisting of 'turning right/left at lights', following 'blocks' (traffic lights, and 'blocks' being the only landmarks on offer) and traditionally consummated with the obligatory 'you can't miss it'! At one garage/store I try to explain to the super-smiling girl at the checkout than I am not a Texan, nor am I even an American. I attempt to explain the situation further by asking her to imagine that she is from a very small country, where they speak at a fraction of the velocity. It makes very little difference, as the decreased speed of delivery is un-noticeable to the English ear.
After an hour of searching it occurs to me that these people have very little understanding of the concept of walking. Anywhere. Directions are offered in miles, rather than feet and I have probably walked the equivalent of a 15 minute workout anyway. Frustrated and hungry, I instead settle for breakfast at Denny's, as opposed to the promised fitness.
Tipping waitresses is an essential lesson for any foreigner visiting US soil for the first time. Waitresses work for tips, as the average wage is disgracefully small. A handy way of figuring out how to tip? Look at the tax on the bill, double it and round it off to the nearest dollar and you have a foolproof method of tipping without insult.
In the lobby of the hotel we are greeted by the charming Mike and Michelle Gearhead and after exchanging pleasantries, Jon gets in a strop because Danny is on the artwork for the album. The artwork for the American "Riff After Riff..." album is a stunning Dirty Donny piece. Donny is one of my favourite living US artists, along with Coop and Kozik, but the painting adorning the back of the album features Danny, who played on the actual album and was done before Jon became a member. I leave him upstairs in his room, to kick chairs about, while I get ready for the day's interviews. All of which go amazingly smoothly. In fact CNN are the only people I speak to today who are unaware of who we are, which is a great result for an apparent 'cult' band. Gearhead are doing a great job of promoting the album, and I'm relieved to be in the company of Mike and Michelle, as Jon and Stidi go about the task of getting heroically drunk, downtown.
We later meet up with the whole band and happen upon Tom Abraham, our new soundman, buying cigars two stores down from where we gather to eat the most wonderful burgers and bask in the glory of an astounding and very British friendly jukebox.
Tom is an old friend and meeting after a four year break is like a comma in a sentence. He drags me back to the cigar store to buy me some sickeningly expensive, astoundingly good cigars, happy in the knowledge that I have acquired a taste for a good Havana and he has a smoking buddy for the tour. It is sometimes easy to forget just how much you miss someone until they're right in front of you.
The Damned are blasting out 'New Rose' as we re-enter the bar, and as David Bowies 'Heroes' follows, my mood becomes one of almost uncontrollable excitement at how things are unraveling over here.
I leave Jon and Stidi shouting at the locals and in a bid to retain the good feeling I'm getting about our future, return to the relative sanity of the hotel.
Austin is nothing short of 'infested' with music types, old friends and new acquaintances in the business, and a plethora of designer looking bands, covering every inch of the sidewalk. For me, however, there is only one band in town, and they have the best soundman in the US preparing to do battle with the tiny PA in 'Emo's', in a couple of days time.
I couldn't be more charged.
It's Jon and Stidi's first time in the USA and they deserve a huge blowout to celebrate the occasion. The first time I ever came to the US was with a band called The Quireboys, in about '87 and I had such a good time I was immediately sacked. I didn't understand it then and they shouldn't have to now. Tomorrow they will play our warm up shows (two shows in one day), with colossal hangovers, and will wish they had stayed in the hotel to deal with the jet lag, instead of knocking back cocktails until unconscious. In the US, the bar staff don't measure the shots in a cocktail, and one can get unbelievably drunk without realising it
I guess that some things have to be found out the hard way.
My loyalty to attempting a professional attitude forces me to miss out on seeing The Cooper Temple Clause playing tonight, in favour of getting rid of the remaining embers of jet lag, in time for tomorrows shows. I fall asleep at around 10:00pm, reading Norman Mailers "The Fight" (about Mohammed Ali's comeback battle with George Foreman), only to wake up at 4:00am as pumped as a cocaine users first hit of the day. I leap out of bed, air punching, shadow boxing. I am absolutely possessed by tomorrows shows. Hell, ALL of these US shows. The excitement and determination I feel is quite unlike anything I have ever felt before. It is a very powerful half hour before the valium forces my body to even slow down, and another 40 minutes before sleep finally takes me.
19th March 2004 - San Antonio, TX @ Sam's Burger Joint
8:00 an inner alarm clock slams me into consciousness and I'm up, dressed and out running the streets before I can even decide if the legs are up to the job. After running about half an hour, my second wind is turning into a mild breeze. Typical, then, that I should run smack into the mythical Golds Gym of yesterday. I can't possibly turn around and forget the find, especially after yesterdays expedition. Even though no-one would ever know. Maybe they'll need ID? Maybe I'll need to run through a fitness test perhaps? Hey, maybe they're full? Nope, it's perfectly empty and the only patrons in attendance are overweight, under-buffed and make me feel like the fittest person in this large room. After half an hours workout I run back to the hotel, to the welcome amazement of Hot Steve and Tasty Dave, standing at the doorway of the hotel, chain-smoking.
These people are not used to seeing me this determined. I am not used to being this determined.
If we fail to break America it will not be down to lack of effort on my part.
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Word of warning. When a pack of American disposable razors read "sensitive skin", it means that they are designed presumably for the use of children. After a few minutes of trying to feel the slightest scrape on my face to indicate a close shave, the first red spot appears followed by the second and so on. I walk down to breakfast looking like I have been tarred and feathered with blood and toilet paper.
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Outside of our date with Tower records, for a Gearhead sponsored 'instore' performance in front of a few baffled customers, we get to meet our bus. Our brand new, huge black and chrome bus. It is awe inspiring. Leather interior, large bunks, lots of space, two lounges and cable TV. There are even small televisions in every bunk. So much for touring in a fucking van, the US 'punk' way. In fact, the US 'punk' van carrying The Dragons, that was to be our tour van for the original US tour, has broken down en-route, and is sitting on a freeway somewhere with all of their gear in. No problem, they can use our gear for the instore and travel to San Antonio later today in our bus, where they can use our gear again, for the show, then travel back to San Antonio in our bus. Punk rock, USA? Stick it up your arse. Gimme a fucking tour bus with a trailer full of new gear any day. If it wasn't for our 'asshole Rock Star' bus the show tonite would be cancelled.
Pretty fucking 'punk' credible, huh?
The Tower records thing is awful. It feels like we are auditioning for something. Very awkward. Larry Mazer, our US manager, has turned up to see us today and I am less than thrilled that his live introduction to us was playing in a shop!
We leave as hastily as is possible, and travel to San Antonio with The Dragons, who are a great bunch of guys. Dedicated to Rock n Roll, living the lifestyle and playing shitty little places like Sam's Burger Joint, in San Antonio. Probably the best burgers I have ever tasted and undoubtedly the worst gig I have ever been unable to hear.
So much for the American dream that I had this morning. It seems to have turned into some kind of nightmare, where we get to wake up in a few days time, when back on the Darkness tour.
Little over 20 zealous fans have travelled hundreds of miles to see us play for 45 minutes, in a place that has a sound system like a large stereo, and monitors that don't work, a slight problem for a band that have four vocalists.
We play valiantly for the few people that have made it here who know every single word to every song and really should have a nice big rock show to attend, complete with 'other' people in attendance, instead of this paltry display of mediocrity.
It's a lonely journey home, now with 3 bands in tow. Both of the bands we are giving a lift to have no alternative way of getting back to Austin.
Punk Rock, USA? We call it 'pub' rock in the UK.
Will someone give these bands something to be ambitious for, for fucks sake? Who in Hell would want to spend the rest of their lives travelling hundreds of miles, to make a gig where your allotted stage time is 45 minutes, playing to no-one, on a stage where you can't hear anything, through a PA system that makes you sound deliberately low-fi, for no money?
It is with great sadness that I climb into bed at 3:40 am and thank God that in the end, we didn't have to slop around the US, playing to 25 people a night, sleeping on the floor of a van. A broken van, at that.
The 'cool' US tradition of 'doing it for the cause' is a dream for teenagers and people that can't play very well. Over the age of 30 you should have paid enough dues to be able to afford to hire a bus, at the very least.
20th March 2004 - Austin, TX @ Emo's Gearhead Records SXSW Showcase
The day of the SXSW show begins with an interview on the roof of the Hard Rock cafe and a photo session inside one of the biggest, most glamorous hotels ever built by a millionaire Texan oil baron. Designed in the 19th century, the place is a homage to grandeur, with majestic stairways, glorious crystal chandeliers and a huge stained glass skylight that sprays muticoloured shafts into the foyer. The photos turn out fantastic.
We pass Mini Driver in the street, much taller than you'd expect and alarmingly stern looking if truth be told.
Then it's back to the bus, to make the most elaborate entrance of the day. Directly outside of the modest venue hosting tonight's show, Emo's, our spectacularly large bus manoeuvres the slim street and pulls up backwards to the curb, to the delight of onlookers suffering from music fatigue, after a week of bands stuffed into every possible emporium on 6th street.
With our presence well and truly established, we wait out the interminable lull of activity before showtime. Then it's straight onstage to provide Austin with a new degree in the art of volume. The venue is packed, and the queue outside stretches around the corner of the street and beyond. Word has gone round that The Wildhearts are worth catching, and so we are lucky enough to open the set to a full house of 'catchers'.
Within the second song, Stidi's bass drum pedal has fallen apart and the adrenalin pumping through his wiry frame looks set to detonate, at any moment, into pure anger. He stands up and kicks his drum kit in frustration, as Tasty Dave frantically tries to locate a spare pedal. The inconsistency of the flow actually goes toward enhancing the show, as the end of every song is met with an awkward struggle beneath the drum stool and gives the audience's ears a chance to adjust to silence again, before the next song tears open the fabric of their comfort.
Technical difficulties aside, the show is a stormer, and Larry Mazer, in attendance, seems content with his first proper experience of the band in action.
Tonight I will have a few beers, courtesy of Kenny, of the Dragons, be bought a shot of Jamesons by a cartoon proportioned girl from Hollywood and watch The Riverboat Gamblers lay waste to the rest of the evening's attendees. One of the best live bands in the country, it's a joy to watch their singer throwing himself against the stone wall, side stage, like a modern day Iggy Pop.
In Texas drinking stops at 2:00am. And I mean stops. Drinks are forcibly removed from everyone's hands by the security and anyone putting up the slightest resistance has their bottle grabbed from them and smashed on the ground. I meet various of victims outside of the venue, bleeding from glass shards embedded into their legs. A truly bizarre introduction to the dark side of Texan hospitality.
Back at the bus, Hot Steve has filled the front lounge with accommodating Texan ladies, but the real fun is to be found in the street theatre, going on out outside.
Texan women are fucking mental.
One petite black girl is rubbing herself provocatively against her white girlfriend, which is, naturally, attracting the attention of every male in the vicinity. To watch this small girl then violently attacking a large black guy, as her friends form a formidable back-up behind her, is quite a sight.
Only, as they say, in America.
21st March 2004 - New Orleans, LA
When we reach Shreveport, Louisiana, the next morning, the hangover of last night's celebrations seems to have set up an insurmountable wall in which to get over in time to put on a decent show. That is until we find out that it's a day off and we have pulled up next to an uninhabited, open swimming pool. As typical 'Brit's abroad' we commandeer the space poolside, and maintain a level of lunacy enough to keep the locals away from our new oasis. Jon leaps into the deep end of the pool, only to find out that he has forgotten how to swim and scrambles his way to the side. And the madness continues and escalates.
After a Taco Bell breakfast, a quick trip around K-Mart and an afternoon spent swimming outside in the Louisiana heat, we wonder aloud exactly what British bands could possibly find to complain about, touring America. With so many UK bands returning from US, with nightmare stories of up-hill struggles and unbearable miles of travelling from gig to gig, we conclude that British bands who don't enjoy touring this amazing place are simply not deserving of the privilege.
If you don't enjoy travelling around the US of A, you are dead.
22nd March 2004 - Atlanta, GA @ E.A.R.L
Atlanta, Georgia... cold... nothing to do... and we're starting to get sick.
Me and CJ are feeling the courting period of a virus infecting our bodies, getting us in the stomach and hitting the nausea button with consistent regularity.
It's times like these when you need a good audience turn-out. Yeah, a big crowd could really give this lumpen day a lift. Shame, then, that there are probably less than 50 people in attendance.
The thrill of 'keeping it real' and playing to no-one, due to lack of promotion, has worn off completely, and the only thing keeping us from turning around, and going home, is the sheer beauty of the country and the looming joy of meeting back up with The Darkness, to ply our wares to an 'actual' audience.
Don't get me wrong, those 50, or so, people (one of whom is Rick Richards, of the Georgia Satellites) who do actually turn up tonight are very appreciative and receive a fine show. Requests are taken, and hastily rendered versions of "Sky Babies", "Weekend", "Caffeine Bomb", "Suckerpunch" and "29 x The Pain" are trotted out to a baying, if modest crowd.
Tonight seems like a good night to drink. Alcohol seems the only thing that could possibly make this exercise in humiliation any more bearable.
Asking Wildhearts fans for a drink is tantamount to instigating a drinking competition, as naturally everyone wants to buy the band a shot. I lose count how many Jagermeisters, Jack Daniels, Jamesons, Southern Comfort and Lord knows what else are handed up to the stage, in cute little paper cups. All I know is that the stomach pains have disappeared, I'm suddenly in the middle of "Sky babies" and I am drunk. And here comes the solo.
I look forward to hearing a bootleg of this show almost as much as I was looking forward to leaving.
The Dragons have settled down in our bus after the show and a game of "Quiet At The Back There", featuring Steve Dragon and Random Jon begins. I swap footwear with Steve and come out of the deal with a cool-as-all-fuck pair of black Cowboy boots, with white stars. He gets my old, fake Snakeskin pair, that have trodden almost every country I have ever been to. It's a good deal and a good end to a shabby, non-entity of a day.
We played, we drank, we swapped boots and got the fuck out of Dodge.
23rd March 2004 - Charlotte, NC @ The Room
And into Charlotte, North Carolina, where the bus drops us off at the only hotel in America that has no telephone service and Chris, the driver, makes a round trip to Atlanta, to replace the blown out television and stereo.
We are slowly killing the bus.
The entire band and crew have picked up a stomach bug. The Dragons are also spewing the day away, which leads us to assume that the food from The Earle, in Georgia, yesterday, might be responsible for the mass nausea.
I spend the entire day stuck in bed, doubled over with stomach cramps, moving only to vomit in the bathroom.
It's 8:00pm before we order a cab to the show, only to find that tonight's show will be played to an empty room. It's funny, but The Wildhearts have never played to an empty room before. Even in our infancy, there were always at least a couple of dozen friends to cheer us on. Tonight, there can't be more than 20 people in the venue, including members of all three bands appearing.
For the first time since we played Switzerland, we give up the professional facade that we have since been perfecting and drink shots before the show.
Depressed at the meagre turn-out, we reluctantly mount the tiny stage in The Room and tear frantically through the set. A humbling experience, that I'm sure in time, will be remembered as character building stuff. At this point however, it is nothing short of embarrassing. More stiffeners are downed during the show and by the time we eventually retire to the dressing room, post performance, the slump of humiliation has levelled out. And we are relatively shit faced.
A guy hands me a small ball of what looks like 'black', a form of hashish, informs me that it is 'Mexican tar' and instructs me to stick one half up each nostril, and follow through with a dash of water. It is fifteen minutes later, when I feel my body start to dissolve and my legs become cumbersome luggage, that I realise what has transpired.
I've been given heroin.
It is a fitting end to a thoroughly joyless day.
The evening ends with Random crawling on the floor of the hotel, speaking in tongues and hallucinating, as guests here on no-ones particular invite, suspect that the grass that he has been smoking has been spiked with angel dust. Repeated shots of someone's cocaine 'bullet' (a plastic 'one-hit' contraption, whose subtlety can fool the user into thinking that it is broken) , does nothing to stabilise his condition, except for to add paranoia to the already heady blend of confusion and inertia.
I am sharing rooms with Jon tonite and will attempt to talk him down from his lofty height, while trying desperately to stay awake throughout the opiated beating that my consciousness is taking.
The blind will be leading the blind tonight, ladies and gentlemen.
24th March 2004 - Baltimore, MD @ Otto Bar
It is 7:00am, when we are woken from apparent sleep. The bus has returned and we are ready to head out to Baltimore, Maryland. Complete with stereo and TV.
I am looking forward to this show for two reasons. Aside from the obvious (it is the last show of this batch of under-attended piss abouts), it is also the place where KIX grew up, and fine tuned their peculiar blend of snotty pop/rock, prior to moving out, getting a record deal and turning into AC/DC. KIX's first two albums ('KIX' and 'Cool Kids') are part of the blueprint for the Wildhearts sound. Check 'em out, if you get a chance.
The show is reassuringly packed with Wildhearts fans, most of whom have waited for over 10 years to see us play on home ground. Without a soundcheck, we stumble onto the grubby stage, and tread the worn carpet, now ground to a stained, paper thin remnant of many many bands past. Plugged in and ready to go, I look side stage to Kenny of The Dragons, who has an expression of slight sadness, as we steady ourself for the final show. I slap my new boots, and throw a wink, in an attempt to indicate that this won't be the last we see of those guys. The Dragons have turned into our new favourite band and it feels like we've known them forever.
I have never been too good with goodbyes. Tonight, after we play, I will stay on the bus, while both bands will take advantage of a free bar indoors. Parting with friends leaves me with a sadness that follows me around for days and The Dragons have become firm friends in the last few days, so I will not partake. It doesn't make sense to the rest of our guys, who will later ask why I didn't show my face in the aftershow. It doesn't make too much sense to me either. Maybe it's a result of having had to say goodbye to so many places, faces and times. I'd rather just move on, be transported to the next happening, and get stuck in.
The show is great tonight. We really excel in front of a good crowd, and tonight the crowd are as 'up-for-it' as anywhere we have ever played. They sing along to every word, and delight in the obscure B-sides that we decide to pull out of our stuffed bag of tracks.
Afterwards, even a couple of Vicodan, given by a fan who has been reading about my love of Valium, on the website, do little to soothe my post gig blues. Jed Simon of Strapping Young Lad appears back on the bus, as do Sal and Steve from Electric Frankenstein. It is all I can do to attempt a cheerful pretence until they vacate and we move on.
I guess travelling minstrels shouldn't stick around long enough to grow roots.
Good bye Baltimore, had a blast, gotta go somewhere.
My dreams are plagued with nightmare scenarios, and I wake up crying a few times. The alcohol and narcotics that have been ingested in the last few days, are having their usual fight with my subconscious and the dreams are devastatingly brutal. It would have been impossible to get through the last few shows without a vice or two to cling onto. Now it's over, and we are meeting up with The Darkness in 48 hours, it is time to adopt the attitude of a veteran. It is time to raise the bar again. These will be the last in drink-and-drug induced nightmares for now. From tomorrow it's back on the wagon.
For the most part, anyway.
