Deep in to the swamps of the nasty, dirty South, Bob and The Blakes face off against a Holmgren-loving, tooth-missing redneck, discover a taste for dirt-cheap Texas beer, and even get in to a inter-band scuffle.
Hey, I’m back at the blogging. Where was I? The next morning after the Austin show we made the drive to Dallas, where the climate was much colder. The venue for the evening was the Double Wide, located at the tail end of Dallas culture hub Deep Ellum, and it was apparently named such because it’s made up of two separate rooms: One with a bar and one with a bar and a stage. They gave us unlimited Pearl Lights, which is a dirt cheap Texas beer that basically tastes like soda water livened up with a hint of beer flavor. I got yelled at by one of the owners for no good reason. We played last to a crowd of about fifteen Blakes enthusiasts. Snow got into a yelling match with Garnet on stage because he felt that Garnet botched his song intentionally, even though it turned out to be an alleged pedal malfunction. A heckler got into the act, telling us that if brother band Chevelle could make it, so could we. We got back back on track and finished the set strong. We hung out at the bar for awhile longer, drinking it up with the colorful locals. This guy Gomez took us back to his apartment and we crashed out. We had a day off the next day to put some miles between Dallas and Atlanta. The details of the day are hazy, although I remember a lot of driving and consuming of pork cracklins–a Southern staple which basically tastes like burnt bacon that’s been sitting out for five days.
I did an interview with a veteran music journalist for Now Magazine out of Toronto and he seemed to know literally everything about popular music. It was crazy. The next morning we had breakfast at a very rural pancake house in Alabama where the cook lamented the fact that he had to take his kid out of school because his van broke down, and the only other patron–a corpulent, toothless redneck–kept singing the praises of Mike Holmgren after he found out we were from Seattle. I hate to say it, but sometimes it pays to stick with the chains. The venue for the night was actually located in Marietta, an outlying suburb of Atlanta best known for a large chicken statue/sign at the local KFC. The venue, Swayze’s, was a cavernous all-ages place located in a strip mall adjacent to Swayze’s comic shop. The owner of both establishments, Lee, gave us a fifty dollar bill and cut out well before we played. There were six bands and we played fourth. Although there were over thirty kids in attendance at one point, by the time we played there were about six, but we still put on a fun set and we even handed the kids some percussion so they could play along. We drank a lot of beer in the van and eventually nodded off in the parking lot while watching a shitty Burt Lancaster western on the laptop. By the way, it was extremely cold in Georgia for some reason.