Selling Out in Denmark

Copenhagen airport

After a month of driving our van from town to town, playing clubs, the High Life tour was topped off by an odd non sequitur finale: taking a plane to Copenhagen and playing a Tommy Hilfiger party.

I was devoted to punk rock in high school, and I’ve done a lot of the thinking about the preciousness and purity of music, and consequently, a lot of thinking about selling out. Obviously, I’ve always thought selling out is lame. For me, music is about emotion, passion, healing, about creative weird people coming together, sharing stories, and celebrating life. To merge music with the sale of products is to taint it. This is not even to mention that, on November 12, our band was linking up with a clothing brand that, at least in the 1990s, belonged to the kids who wanted to kick my ass.

It’s funny, when I used to imagine what the process of selling out would look like, it seemed more intentional and cowardly. But two days ago, it played out much differently. I found myself on the tour of my friend Darwin, a tour which I have limited control over. Darwin makes some decisions, Stephen at Lucky Number makes some decisions, there’s agents who handle the booking, other people who handle radio promotion, others who handle internet stuff. Being on a tour of this scale is more like being strapped into a fun house ride, jerking down the tracks, zooming past clown faces and jack-in-the-boxes. So when, during the home stretch of this funhouse ride, I realized it was time to wake up with a couple hours sleep, jet over to Copenhagen, play some weird fancy clothing brand party, and then shoot back to the United States where everything would feel infinitely far away and astoundingly dreamlike, it seemed… amusing. Kinda comedic, curious, stimulating, bizarre. So our band shrugged and went for it. “Technically, we’re only selling out in Denmark,” we sarcastically assured each other.

band orgy in lobby of artsy hotel

A smiling driver in a suit carted us from the airport to the Tommy Hilfiger store downtown. Loaded with free clothes, we continued our drive through enchanting Copenhagen. The car happened to roll pass an enormous billboard with the words “Darwin Deez.” Surreal. Next stop was an elaborate artsy hotel. Then, on to the venue, where we were interviewed by Danish MTV. As the camera rolled, Cole, Darwin, and I held and caressed each other, homoerotic for no clear reason (Tour exhaustion? An effort to keep interviews interesting? Sincere man love?). I took a nap while Cole and Darwin were thoroughly impressed by the Beach House concert next door (Darwin described Beach House’s successful sound formula as: “Coldplay, chopped and screwed, no lyrics, and female vocals.”) After our set, my night plunged into a paradise of Danish damsels, whose physical beauty and sexuality are unparalleled. No one slept.

Before I knew it, a Copenhagen cab driver was carting me back to the hotel, asking me if I knew the Lord Jesus. And then I was aboard Virgin Airlines, weeping uncontrollably to Toy Story 3. And soon, I was dragging my green suitcase up the stairs of my apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, still wearing jeans and no underwear. I slept, woke, dragged myself to the church where I work as an organist, and in that familiar post-tour sort of way, it indeed felt like none of it had ever happened.

Darwin Deez lands at JFK airport, November 13, 2010
after 4 and a half months of touring

Fart Boat

The Deezes stayed up all night in Belfast at a thoroughly inebriated Irish house party. On our ferry ride back to England, we didn’t have cabins and bunk beds like the last one, but what we did have was unlimited mounds of free food. At 10am, in a state of sleep deprivation that was equal parts zombielike and jolly, we lined up our trays at the boat’s cafeteria and received giant helpings of baked beans, eggs, and assorted colored packets of mayonnaise (blue), ketchup (red), brown sauce (brown), tartar sauce (light blue), mustard (yellow), and French mustard (gold). As soon as the last bite was swallowed, the six of us stretched out on the floor between the breakfast tables and passed the fuck out.

I was the first one to awake. A curious scenario was taking place in the cabin. Every last one of the passengers was asleep in the middle of the day, right out in the open. This was not just our group of young vagabond nightlife freakazoids, but also conservative, mild, middleaged and elderly passengers, stretched out all over the quiet room, on available couches and on the floor. You’d think that some of these regular folks would be reading books, watching the televisions, cranking the slot machines, but there had been a unanimous choice that slumber was by far the most interesting activity.

I stepped outside and took in the green green endless ocean, the blinding sunlight reflecting off its surface, the clean breeze. Then a funny thing happened. I opened the door and returned to the stale, uncirculating air of the cabin, which smelled strongly and unmistakably like a giant FART. We passengers, about 20 or 30 in number, had been crammed full of baked beans, and now our 20 or 30 bellies were all collectively processing, breaking down the proteins, and releasing the consequential gases. It was kind of disgusting, but there was also something so innocent and natural and unconscious about the whole thing.

Thus, I made my peace with our stinky, but ultimately harmless, fart boat.

C*NT

Andrew Deez  uses Ireland's rad vintage payphones

One thing about Ireland, there is an entirely different connotation to the word “cunt” over here. In America, only Bukowski says cunt. It’s dirty, dirty territory. But here, the C-bomb is dropped freely. In Cork, I waited at the entrance of a closing pub in the wee hours while one of my tour mates did some kissing. To pass the time, I turned to some of the other night owls. “Teach me some Irish slang. How do I tell my friend to stop making out so we can walk home?” The phrase these two girls came up with was, “STOP MEETIN’ ON YA ONE, YA MOTHAFUCKIN’ CUNT!” (meeting = kissing. one = significant other) They belted it back and forth, as I failed dismally in impersonating their Irish vowels.

The next night in Dublin, we were beckoned to a Tuesday night party across town called C.U.N.T (an acronym for “C U Next Tuesday”). Bukowski would love Ireland.

A wonderful piano driven pop rock band called Ram’s Pocket Radio is playing 3 of our 4 Irish dates. The are an incredibly physically attractive bunch. The boy lead singer and the girl bass player are dating. Our band is plotting to get them to make out in front of us. Here is a clip of Darwin merging Irish rock and freestyle rap.

I’ve been playing sweat drenched show after sweat-bath show without ever washing my bass guitar strap. It smells like a really nasty locker room, or a very fine aged cheese.

Unhappy Birthday, Cole!

Cole, not having a happy birthday. With birthday banner

For Cole’s birthday yesterday, the band made a little banner installation in our van. It said, “Welcome to Earth, Cole!” Unfortunately, the city of Galway had conspired to gloom all over the poor guy. Our guitarist was assailed by every kind of Cole kryptonite known to man: accordions, open string chords strummed on acoustic guitars, cold and rainy weather. To top it all off, Casiotone for the Painfully Alone happened to be playing a separate show in the upstairs room of the venue, Roisin Dubh, which seemed like it would be a birthday treat. Our fatal mistake was that we had forgotten that Casiotone’s specialty is making you feel PAINFULLY ALONE. Poor Cole finished the night spiraling into a miserable birthday sleep.

folk musicians turning Galway into Cole's private hell

Fortunately, I escaped the Casiotone room before his sorrow potion had taken its full effect. I wandered back to the dance floor, where I, at last, encountered my first hookup of the High Life tour. I kept trying to tell her nice things like, “you’re so pretty” and “you’re the only girl I've done this with all tour” but she would only wrinkle her nose and mimic my words back to me in a mocking tone. “What? You don’t like when boys compliment you?” I asked. “Not when they’re liars!” she shot back. This Galway girl was convinced that I'm with a different girl every night. It was the strangest dynamic for a hookup. Kinda cute, in a way, but awfully strange.

Darwin searches for Balderdash in a toy store in Kilkenny

A GOOD CLIP

After 16 hours afloat, our indie pop tribe has landed in Ireland.

We drove to the coast of Normandy to catch the ferry. How strange it is to finally arrive at the places bearing these famous names from the history books. Such a short time ago, Westerners were slaughtering each other here in bloody battles. These same locations are now so bafflingly calm, sane, civilized. Our van passes quiet rows of grey houses, with people politely going about their daily errands. We park at a modern grocery superstore that sells couscous and carrot salad in brightly lit, clean aisles. Is it naive to suggest this shows there is some hope that a similar transformation could someday take place in all corners of the globe?

Darwin poses on ferry, Cole lugs in Peroni case

Cole lugged dozens of venue beers onto our ferry voyage. An employee told him this was not allowed. “It’s full of water” Cole told him, struggling under the weight of a giant case loudly labeled, “PERONI.” The worker let it slide (perhaps our first taste of Irish alcoholic solidarity?).

Darwin and I scrambled onto the windy deck of the barge and couldn’t contain whoops and squeals as we watched the black frothy waves rise high into the air. “WE’RE REALLY GOING AT A GOOD CLIP!” Darwin screamed, an observation he repeated several times throughout the night. The band cuddled up in front of a laptop and soaked in the glow of an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. “There’s always a twist!” Darwin praised as the plot thickened. 

Not everyone enjoyed the sea’s motion, but I was in heaven lying in my bunk. It felt like the entire Atlantic was rock-a-bying me to sleep.

Joanna and Leonie

Joanna and Leonie

In September, the Deez gang met two cool blonde teenage girls at our Munich concert. We met up with the duo again in Amsterdam, and although I was skeptical about a 9 person van ride to Paris, we brought Joanna and Leonie along with us. Somewhere in the midst of Paris, they endeared their way into my heart. I have never met a more dry-witted pair of teenage girls. They tickle me to no end as they slump in and out of backstage with completely deadpan faces, decked out in leopard print, spouting endless sarcasm in German tinged English. Darwin described them as “a cross between Grey Gardens and Rushmore.”

Outside of our venue, a couple blocks from the Moulin Rouge, we passed a seedy sex store, and Joanna recited to me matter-of-factly, “This is actually an important historical building. It was built in 1851, and the first person who lived there was the King.”

Leonie and I developed a game of playing air guitar and air drums. She declared that we were starting a new band that night, and that it would be called Gay Birds Flowers.  We effortlessly chose suitable stage names. Leonie would be “Crap Bag” and I would be “Shitpagne.”

“We eat meat. If you ever need someone to shoot and kill an animal for you, call us,” they instructed me. “Our number is 911.”

Darwin Deez soundcheck at Le Boule Noire

Darwin in an interview backstage
at Le Boule Noire

Transportational Turducken

I lived my whole life unaware that there is a giant train shuttling endless parades of cars from England to Europe. As our Sprinter rumbled into the Euro Tunnel, Darwin observed, “If you sat on a bike inside of the van and went through the Euro Tunnel, you’d have the transportational equivalent of a turducken.”

Darwin and our tour manager, Ben,
waiting for delicious Belgian Friets

It’s wild what a difference a quick journey under the English Channel makes. Our British leg of the tour was sold out from start to finish, an incredible treat for us. In stark contrast, only a third of the venue was full in Gent, our first date in Continental Europe. Despite the band’s popularity in the UK and Germany, it appears our reputation has not yet fully penetrated the French music media.  I did not mind one bit. We were too busy loving life, dashing through Belgian streets crammed full of deranged cartoon graffiti, to a chip shop where Darwin and I dug into giant piles of friets and falafel. Here they serve the world’s most perfect friets (“chips”, “fries”) smack inside the middle of your sandwich.  We dipped our greasy potato wedges into a limitless array of decadent mayonnaise derivatives, including Looksaus, Curry Ketchup, Hawaiian Saus, Samurai Saus, Thai Saus…

Perhaps one goal of roaming around the earth spreading music is to increase your audience, but I have to admit, I almost prefer balancing out our sold out shows with sparser nights. In Belgium, Darwin didn’t have to hide backstage from the barrage of autograph and photo requests. He was able to peacefully take in the opening band along with the rest of the showgoers, without interruption. Even though it was Darwin, and not me, who was the subject of this change, I still somehow felt a personal sense of relief. When we took the stage, there was a feeling that nothing was yet granted to us. We had to convince these strangers that we have magic inside. We had to win their hearts. During the set, I watched my bandmates’ feet kicking and faces sparkling. The performance came from a well of hunger and a love for a challenge, distinctly different from the vibe on the UK stage.  As infinitely grateful as our band is for the support of our England listeners, it’s fun to be a bit of an underdog again. It’s inspiring to be back in mainland Europe.

99% Water

Today is Halloween, and the Darwin Deez brigade are unceremoniously celebrating the holiday, uncostumed, at a Holiday Inn in Folkstone, in preparation for the Eurotunnel in the morning. Fortunately, last night in Sheffield, some fans brought black makeup and painted cat noses and whiskers on Cole and I. Additionally, Cole wore a skull mask for a minute or two during the afternoon. It will have to suffice. On the other hand, if you consider Darwin’s headbanded curls, Cole’s androgynous pink hatted presence, my sequins and short shorts, and Greg’s pancho, one could argue that every day is a dressup Halloween day for Darwin Deez, so maybe it’s not so bad to take the night off.

Greg’s girlfriend, Tess, flew in from Brooklyn and linked up with us at Heathrow today. She is gorging the band’s many sweet tooths on delicious homemade blondies.

This morning, Darwin filmed an impromptu water commercial during Sheffield brekkie, for your entertainment.

Today, I Bought an Adapter

a weird building (art installation?) i passed
on my walk through Liverpool

Today I kept asking strangers how to get to a certain electronics store in Liverpool.  I asked four different pedestrians, and each gave me a different set of very simple directions (“Go down the street we’re on, turn left. It’s 2 minutes away”). So I followed a baffling 25 minute spiral of contradicting left and right turns, with no better option than to discount the previous set of instructions as defective and trust the new ones. Finally finding the shop and equipping myself with the desired gadget,  I shuffled my way back to the club, but realized I couldn’t remember the name or location of it (a symptom of prolonged touring, I suspect). I found a venue that seemed correct, but all its entrances were sealed for the afternoon, and I could not find a side entrance. I circled the brown brick building, pushing locked doors, peeking down alleyways. The grey England sky continued to dim as evening ensued. The wind grew harsher, and I started imagining myself trying to explain to my friend Jason back in Brooklyn how, on my day in Liverpool, the main thing (only thing) I got done (other than the van ride, soundchecking, and playing the show) was purchasing a US/UK electricity adaptor.

This is the strange alter reality of tour. If one hypothetically considers the structure of the tour day, it appears there are gobs of time for fun, for personal errands, for sightseeing, for reading, for exercise… But in execution, tour has a fascinating and flabbergasting propensity for unproductivity.

So Darwin Deez played Club Mojo. It was an intense night. The backstage was a cramped little corner, and the entire building seemed hopelessly incapable of buffering and absorbing sound. Whether a band was playing or the in-between music was cued, we were helplessly immersed for hours in a swirling vortex of deafening megabass rock music.

There was a club night after the bands. I looked around at all the dancing, drinking Saturday night party people. Everyone was stoked to live it up, escape from the weekly grind, hoot and holler and cheer and laugh and chant and shake. Clamoring to get lost in the dim lights and the pounding sounds and the intoxication of alcohol. I know the feeling well, but I couldn’t dive in that night. The strange thing is, our band is living over half of each day in these clubs. This place that, for most, is a surreal refuge, an outpost for a binge, is our most familiar environment. This band life does funny things with your head, and with your concept of a fun party night. Welcome to our upside down tour world.

Give it to Me, Baby... Kind Of

backstage at The Kasbah in Coventry
with Little Comets

For years, I have adored The Specials, and certainly the ominous “Ghost Town” is one of the reasons why. As our tour unfolded, Brits prefaced us that Coventry is the city that inspired the song. It did not disappoint.  What a beautifully dismal, dreary place it is.

A wonderful man named Dimitri put the show together at The Kasbah. He had this marvelously unique Greek/British accent and his presence was larger than life.  The band has been imitating his soundbytes ever since. We can’t fully capture it and end up sounding like Dracula. Two of our favorite perpetuated quotes are “indie quirky” and “give it to me baby…kind of.”

Now that I think of it, band tours have a tendency to inevitably devolve into an unintelligible cycle of quotes and inside jokes. I once toured with the New York band Shilpa Ray and Her Happy Hookers. By the end of that tour, all the band could say was “treeboro brother” and “herpes“ (with the Spanish rolled r). Likewise, about 60% of the Darwin Deez intraband dialogue is composed solely of references to the Leprechaun in Mobile, Alabama video. 

Ninja Darwin

my bandmates in Birmingham

Darwin is experimenting with various disguises so that he can watch the opening band without getting mobbed, but alas, even when his recognizable curls are tucked beneath his black hoodie, Darwin’s tall lanky form and mustache give him away. At Hare and the Hounds, Darwin took his disguise to the next level and covered his mustache and mouth with a scarf. He looked like a ninja. I went to take a shower a few moments later, and there was Darwin, perched on the closed toilet, peeking outside from below the window shade at the entering crowd, noting which of the girls were arriving with boyfriends.  He was still in ninja garb, though apparently, he had gotten distracted before making it out of backstage. Although I’m not one to shower in front of people, it seemed that our tour had already brought us into deep into weird world, so I stripped and stepped under the hot water while incognito ninja Darwin continued to scan the concertgoers. Darwin began doing loopy amateur vocal warmup exercises. I joined him as I scrubbed and shampooed. Our warbly male falsettos bounced off the bathroom tiles. It was my favorite moment of this fall leg of tour, so far.

Soundcheck Sludge

Darwin chows down on an English brekkie
after performing at the MTV studios in London 26.10.2010

The Darwin Deez soundchecks have descended into entropy. After the standard KICK KICK SNARE SNARE, some bass guitar, some center vocal, there comes the time when the guy at the soundboard says, “Now how ‘bout you lads go through a song.” We used to give a pretty accurate carbon copy of our live performance, but slowly, steadily, Darwin began improvising his singing (to keep from getting bored, I assume), slowing and speeding the notes in the oddest rhythms, crooning up and down various bizarre melodic runs. Inevitably, the rest of the band became antsy as well, and now Cole and I noodle around, improvising loosely in and out of the song, until we are swimming in a sludge of what barely resembles “Up in the Clouds.” I assume the soundmen are usually experiencing our band for the first time, the live version of us, anyway, and I am certain that each one of them are only thinking, “What talentless, unlistenable SHIT kids are into these days.”

Scuba Swim, Godzilla Stomp

I’m not sure how common knowledge it is that bands check YouTube for footage of their own concerts. But believe it, it’s true. The band finally got our first look at how the rap segment of the set looks from the audience. We watched some footage of the rap from Oxford, which was the first night where the Niave New Beaters weren’t on the bill and lamping with us onstage. All responsibilities for raising the roof, pacing back and forth, etc, was left up to Greg and I. It didn’t take much watching of the video clip to realize that our lamping is severely out of hand. We were scuba swimming and Godzilla stomping back and forth with no shred of discretion.



Darwin suggested that from now on, we stand in one place with our arms crossed and just groove. I’ve felt like an awkward lamper from the get go, and am consequently relieved to tone it down.

Last night, we played in this Norwich venue that had been built inside in an old stone church. One of the staff told us that Nirvana had played their second European show ever at that venue, as the opening band, playing with their original pre-Dave-Grohl drummer. Many mystical music history stories like this float our way on this tour. In Glasgow, there was talk of how Oasis was signed in the backroom of King Tut’s, and how No Doubt had played there. As much as a part of me is aware about the myth of celebrity and how people are just people, I like the glamour of these tales. It gives me a thrill, all the same, to be retracing these footsteps.

Riding next to Darwin in the front seat, I listened to him give a phone interview this afternoon. I love listening to Darwin interview. Even though it seems they’re transforming into a chore for him, when he’s on, he’s on. It kinda boggles my mind that, such a short time ago, it seemed natural for me to be the frontman alongside Darwin, because, these days, he is such an obvious charismatic focal point. Darwin talked about how 2^nd rate pop music (which forms the majority) is the most useless, disposable music, but that good pop music is, inversely, the highest echelon of music. About how he studies pop music. He talked about Nietzsche’s theory that says art must draw equally on passion (Dionysus) and logic (Apollo). I’ve been listened to Darwin pontificate about such things since we first hung out in 2007, and I’ve always sensed that flash of genius in him. But then, I could list a half dozen other New York City friends (Dan Fishback, Ching Chong Song, Shilpa Ray) who I’ve equally believed to be undiscovered prodigies. If this amount of success had never happened for Darwin, I may have eventually second guessed myself and concluded, “I guess I never met anyone who could really make it,” or “I guess you can go through life and none of your friends who show promise actually go anywhere.” But this relatively modest taste of Darwin Deez success has affirmed for me that famous celebrities are just ordinary talented people, and that many an ordinary talented person could be declared a star in an instant. The lines are blurry, shrouded in the illusion of hype, high quality photos and videos, navigated by a mystery mixture of luck and skill and perseverance.

Structure / Destruction in Brighton

remaining pier in brighton

destroyed pier in brighton

In Brighton, two giant piers stretch out into the English channel, one crammed with an elaborate amusement park rollercoaster pleasure land, and the other a skeleton frame, a ruin, destroyed by a fire. Our venue, Digital, was on the edge of the beach, smack in the middle of these two mirroring monuments. One could look left to right, from structure to destruction.

backstage at digital

Darwin shared the stage during the finale of the Naive New Beaters set last night. Everyone got really excited when he rushed out sporting the band’s trademark sparkler-attached-to-clothing aflame. It reminded me of when I saw the Mighty Mighty Bosstones in 1997, and Dicky Barrett guested onstage with the Pietasters, the opening band. It’s weird watching a friend of mine command a similar sort of excitement at similar sized show. It’s the kind of stuff you thought was never going to happen.

The wind whipped into a violent howling frenzy as we carted boxes of t-shirts up the seaside ramp and into our van.  There were no seats in the chip shop, so my friend Ophelie and I gobbled up midnight fish and chips with mayonnaise on a tiny stoop, while mother nature did her best to lift us up by our jackets and carry us into the sky. There was something so cutely comical about Ophelie’s incredulousness towards the mere mention of my vegetarian diet, so I indulged her and took a few rare bites of fried fish.

our stage manager, seb

ophelie

Kiss Diamond

Any remnants of personal space that once existed for the Deez band are dissolving. We are merging into one multiheaded amoeba. I’ve reached the point where if I see a used bowl of cereal discarded backstage with its milky spoon and white puddle, I’ll simply fill it up with another helping of Shreddies and munch away.

Before we take the stage each night, the band huddles together tightly like a four-pointed human diamond and kisses each other, cheek kisses for the two members adjacent to you, and a kiss on the lips for the member across from you. It’s not that we’re romantically or sexually attracted to one another, or even to males, in general. We’ve simply reached that delirious, boundary-less, euphoric, exhausted point in the journey.

Shook Soda Bottles

Darwin in Washington DC for a show
January 2009, Inauguration weekend.

Before doors opened at the Bristol show, I watched from a distance as three fans stumbled into Darwin outside the venue. They exchanged a couple of words and then Darwin ducked inside. During his exit, the girls clamped themselves up like shook soda bottles. When Darwin was fully out of sight, they leapt into the air with gleeful squeals and raced down the sidewalk.

It is certainly wild to watch a friend grow into the place where he’s inciting those kinds of reactions. This week, we had the delight of discovering Darwin to be a cover boy on NME, dubbed “The 10^th Coolest Person in Music.” These happenings are especially astonishing when I juxtapose them with the quite recent memories of the Darwin Deez band buried below the bottom of the totem pole, in the humblest, homeliest of circumstances.

Greg at the venue of Bard College
near December 2009

A particular moment I’m reminded of was around December 2008. At that point, Darwin had been adamant for months about this crackpot theory of his, that it is a waste of time to play local shows in New York City, and that the best way to get famous is to tour the eastern seaboard (John Mayer was oft cited as a success story of this business model). So one day he rallied Greg and I into the truck. Our vehicle slowly crept through the Chinatown traffic madness of Canal Street. At one point, Darwin scooted from the moving car so he could score some ultra cheap (mega junky) mixer cables at one of the endless, indistinguishable electronic shops. He caught up with the car a few stores down. I was not thrilled about this last minute decision to head up to Massachusetts, and complained to Darwin, “Are you sure that we’re even booked for this thing?” “The booker hasn’t gotten back to me yet,” Darwin informed in that frank, intent, unshakable manner of speaking he uses in these sorts of situations. We tolerated the five crammed hours of driving and pulled up at a large, sparsely furnished new house somewhere in the woods. About twenty inhospitable college kids were starting their night of partying. Maybe half of them watched our set in the basement, disinterested, as we tried our darndest to light up the night. We closed with Radar Detector and danced like madness to Double Dragon music. The reaction was half hearted. The following band took the stage, composed of partying locals, and we watched the audience come alive through the basement window as we lugged our amps across the icy backyard. At the time, Darwin Deez was playing 3 shows maximum per month, and often one or no shows. “This band is going absolutely nowhere,” I grumpily declared to myself.

The snake cake at the Massachussets
house show I wrote about here.

Cereal, Kissing, and the Internet

Poor Cole is cold, and so we put out an open call on facebook to bring him toasty clothes. “What if they bring you clothes that are really warm, but really unfashionable?” I inquired. Cole paused for a moment and then smiled and shot back, “Our fans aren’t unfashionable.”

The band continues to devour Anthony Kiedis’s autobio. It is sex, drugs, and rock n roll to the max. We decided that the Darwin Deez version of this formula is: cereal, kissing, and the internet.

Tonight we’re gonna make our first attempt at integrating Darwin’s hip hop project into the live show. Darwin and Cole are gonna rap over Cole’s remix of “The City” while Greg and I and the Niave New Beaters hype them up in the background (Darwin enlightened me that this is properly  termed “lamping”). As we roamed Exeter, Cole discussed with me how it’s funny that tonight will be his first live moment in the band where he’s presenting something that is totally his (both the rap and the remix),  and how ironic it is that this moment will consist of him rapping onstage, something he never imagined he’d do. Ever.

Rubbish, Beer, Urine

Euphoric levels of fun were had by the brothers Deez at Northumbria University last night. We played a BBC broadcasted show opening up for Mark Ronson.  With their white and red checkered backdrop and their infinite arsenal of keyboards mounted in custom metal podiums, Mark’s band had the appearance of a mighty music machine that could chew our tiny tribe up and spit us out. But the Business Intl were some of the sweetest sweethearts I’ve ever had the pleasure to share a bill with. I discovered that Amanda MNDR lives a 20 minute walk from me in Brooklyn. Winter hangouts were speculated.  Ordered Quorn Tikka Pizza with Spankrock.  Jammed good mandolin and bass with Alex Greenwald. Rose Elinor Dougall, Kyle Falconer, Alex Greenwald, and Mark, too. Nothing but friendly friends in that camp. Telepathic high fives in their direction all day long.

This morn we went to Lincoln University and played two songs on BBC Live Lounge. There were only about 50 people in front of us, but we were told that apparently 3 million people were listening, making it collectively our biggest live audience ever. Later Darwin threw out the van trash (or as it’s locally termed, “rubbish”). A fan was delighted to snatch an empty water bottle from our tour debris before it found its way to the bin.

Now we are on a boat venue in Bristol called Thekla, where a thick, overpowering aroma of beer and urine permeates all activity. This is our second show with our wonderful French tour mates, the Niave New Beaters, some fresh, loveable knuckleheads that bring the party with a vengeance.

WE WHAT YOU WANT

The Yorkshire Dales were gorgeous storybook waves of grass crisscrossed with ancient grey fences of a million hand laid rocks. Dwarves and orcs and wraiths were peeking out from the mossy cracks. In the countryside, I felt more in love with England than any time since my first taste in 2003. Our van zoomed with glee up and down hills, honking our horn around curvy bends. Driver Seb explained to me that the French call rollercoasters “Russian mountains.”

The band holed away in a cottage, where Greg and Cole taught me Yahtzee. We journeyed down a dark road without streetlamps and dined at a sleepy old pub with one of those classic menus full of Yorkshire pudding and mushy peas and bangers and mash. I love the idea of “mushy peas.” It seems like it would be hard to sell anything edible in the United States with the word “mushy” attached to it, but the adjective it seems to bear a different connotation across the pond.

There is a chant phenomenon at European concerts that I find hilarious and also a bit disorienting.  I don’t know if it’s the influence of the football culture ‘round here, but it pops up regularly. Take, for example, this video clip from our Newcastle show. The crowd is chanting something resembling “YOU WHAT YOU WANT!” This was at least the second time in the evening that this had happened.

A similar moment when down in Cologne, Germany. Check out this video around 4:10.

The crowd breaks out into “Viva Colonia.” After the show, an audience member explained to me that Cologne is the gayest city in Germany, and we are from the United States, and San Francisco is the gayest city in the United States, so they chose to sing Viva Colonia because it’s about San Francisco. How confusingly wonderful.

Day of Silence

Today is one of our scarcely numbered days off. We are going to spend it by going to the Dales. I don’t know what the Dales are, but they sound rather tranquil and scenic.

I’m also using this opportunity to do an experiment on myself. Today will be a day of absolute silence for me. Not a word to anyone.  It’s something that the entire Darwin Deez band did (or attempted) in July, as is a custom of Darwin’s Baba Lover religion. I’ve been compelled by the idea ever since the band explained it to me. In these early waking hours, I’m already sensing some illumination. I awoke this morning thinking of a splendid girl I met last night named Josie. Lying there on a Travelodge mattress on the floor, I couldn’t wait to start babbling to the band about her, things like “She was so pretty…she plays the mandolin…I lent her my scarf and mittens…at first I thought she definitely liked me, but then after she came back from the bathroom, I wasn’t sure…somebody said she has a boyfriend, is that true?...” but then it occurred to me that I cannot babble today. I instantly felt the soft glow of knowing that my longing has to remain a quiet and unexpressed desire inside of me, enjoyed only as such. Something felt a little more beautiful, more pure about that.

Hurry Up!

In Nottingham, we went to the BBC building and did an interview with this magnificent DJ named Dean Jackson. He was warm and gentle, doing everything with a chuckle, with humility, not taking himself too seriously.

I remain always a little nervous and self-conscious when I join Darwin for his interviews. Since this band is primarily Darwin’s creative effort, I feel frightened that I am going to drop some anecdote or attitude that clashes with whatever vision Darwin is hoping to project. But I’m starting to loosen up, which I think is going to come in handy, because Darwin sometimes appears worn out (understandably) by the cascade of questions constantly flowing his way.

Our stage manager, Seb, is slowly teaching our band French. Today he taught us how to say, “Mr. Seb, can I have the van key, please?” (je puis avoir la clé, s'il te plaît?) He also told us how to say “Hurry up!” in two different ways, one polite, and one rude. Seb laughs a lot more when we say the rude version, so I’ve only memorized that one.

waiting in the BBC office

The entire band (Darwin, Greg, Cole, me, Michelle) has been put under the spell of Scar Tissue, Anthony Kiedis’s autobiography. The band’s infiatuation is further evidenced by the Darwin Deez cover of the song by the same name, released to the internet this week by triple J radio in Australia. I happen to be friends with the author, Larry “Ratso” Sloman, who I knew for several months as a face around town before I realized he was a well known and incredibly talented artist. Today I wrote Ratso an invitation to come to our NYC homecoming show at Mercury Lounge. Fingers crossed!

Dry Shirt

On the drive up to Glasgow today, humming past muddied wool sheep on fields of rolling green, I asked our tour manager Ben if Scotland is a country. “Yes…” he answered, equally confident and hesitant. “So what is the United Kingdom then? Is that a country?” Ben further elaborated, “If Scotland is doing poorly economically, for example, then it’s its own country.” I figure if a guy from Somerset doesn’t have the facts completely sorted out, then learning them myself is nothing urgent.

In England they clear out the venues ultra fast. We go backstage after a set, catch our breath, crack open some beers, and when we walk back out, all that remains is a floor full of empty plastic cups. It’s kind of a bummer. Seb, our stage manager, commented to me after tonight’s set in Glasgow, “It’s a lonely feeling after the show.” In Germany, they do it right. We finish playing, and the people are allowed to mill about and trickle out as they please. The band gets the meet the listeners, flirt with girls…we get to come down off the thrill of an audience nice and easy.

I’ve upgraded my tour habits. For the last two days, I’ve been coming to the venues equipped with a dry shirt. No more embarrassing wet hugs for me. No more freezing wet fabric in the shiverous October cold as loadout and band roundup plods its way through the night. Dry shirt. The next level.

Gone Triple Platinum

I am writing within the Manchester Academy compound, a labyrinth of hallways, stairwells, stage rooms, and concert posters. On the NME Radar tour, the band played Acadamy Club. This tour, we have upgraded to Acadamy 3, a 450 capacity venue, and in February, we are booked to play Acadamy 2 for 900 listening ears. We appear to be making progress. The next step of the sequence is Manchester Acadamy 1, where Human League and Goo Goo Dolls play later this year. We can do it!

I met Little Comets, the opening band, for the first time today. They kick around a soccer ball in the nearby lot while we soundcheck. Their bassist, Matt, has a Sergeant Pepper tattoo on his arm, and he’s also wearing a Sergeant Pepper shirt. Now that’s commitment.

Darwin is trying to integrate this foot pedal sample triggering device into our set. Tonight’s gonna be the first attempt. He’s huddled away at his laptop in the dressing room, fussing with a MIDI program on his laptop. “I’m up to my dick in hexadecimals,” exclaims Darwin.

Stephen, head of our label, is urging to not drop Peanut Butter Jelly Time as the intro to our set. Darwin says that PBJ has “gone triple platinum” (band slang meaning the dance is ready to be retired) and he wants to sub in the more subtle Dire Straits intro for the time being. Stephen points out that Metallica has been making their stage entrance to the theme from “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” for 30 years. I imagine being 50 years old and dancing to the Bartman. 

Wannabe

Sunday eve, we Americans attended a Canadian thanksgiving in England. Dalston, to be exact, at Kelis’s manager’s Canadian girlfriend’s house. An Australian was also present. We decided we would not be able to go forward with a proper summit, given that there were no South African delegates in attendance.  We did, however, compare and exchange our respective slang related to getting drunk and having sex, which was good fun. All vocabulary advances were regrettably washed away by a Thanksgiving tide of wine and Jack Daniel’s.

The band’s now tucked away in a temporary apartment in Manchester. The majority of apartments and hotels, at least in Europe, have ceased to have clocks. It reminds me of my apartment in Brooklyn, where visitors discover there is no buzzer or doorbell. In both scenarios, you’re simply expected to come equipped with a cell phone, or accept the consequences of being stuck in the 20^th century.

Thankfully, one of Darwin’s fans donated her old Blackberry to the cause. I went to one of those shady internet café/phone unlocking shops in London. They sold me an Orange SIM card for two quid, and I topped up for another tenner. The man behind the counter handed me a small plastic pouch containing a microchip, an Orange debit card, an instruction booklet, and a receipt with my top-up PIN number. It is the most modern purchase I have ever made.

Darwin taught us two new dances in the living room.  I realized I have some sort of blind spot in my physical/spatial intelligence which severely impairs me from jogging in place to the Spice Girls bit.  Such are the challenges of the Darwin Deez tour.

Sequins Sequence

So, on this tour, I’m bringing back the shirt from this video.

When I shot it, the shirt was a brand new favorite of mine. I had just brought it home from tour. I found it in Berlin.

After the video, I felt like the shirt had this weird stigma to it.

But this fall, it feels like the perfect time to finally give this red sparkly old friend its moment in the sun.

On a related tip, did you know that two friends of ours (Angela, Darwin’s girlfriend at the time, and Yoko) dressed up as Darwin and I for Halloween 2008?

Jet Lag Soldiers

Last night we played Spitalfields Market. 

At the show, we met three girls who are friends with the infamous fan who painted Cole’s name on her belly at the Reading Festival (proliferated to cyberspace via NME). To even things out, Cole sharpied her name on his belly and posed for a photo.

Cole is still suffering from Australian Jet Lag. Conveniently, this also served as a perfect opportunity to continue my photo series about the food in band green rooms.

There was a wild after party that Darwin DJ’d at All Star Lanes. The next morning, Cole explained his jet-leg sensation to me, “I feel like I’m hung over all day. On top of that, today, I actually am hung over.”

Cole and I went shopping at Beyond Retro in Brick Lane. There we ran into the Indian girl who dances in this video.

Whenever we play a show, people ask us, often quite aggressively/persistently, for our clothes. People want Cole’s pink hat. They want my black t-shirt with the gold studs. It bums us out a little bit, because we have only three outfits apiece to our name, and must always say no. Somebody stole a beloved sweater of Cole’s at the Spitalfields after party when he set it down for a few seconds. We can’t help but speculate that our audience’s appetite for our wardrobe is taking a dark turn.

Darwin and I got lost on the walk home from All Star Lanes. We walked past the visually famous London financial building that I identify as the crystal dildo. I told Darwin along story about how I slept in a church while I was in on break from tour in Brooklyn because my subletter was still sleeping in my bedroom. A mysterious saxophone player  would unlock and enter the church building in the morning and practice shirtless, and I would have to sneak out.

It was 2 a.m., and Darwin was exhausted. We were a few blocks from our flat when two ladies exited a cab and recognized him. One insisted that he call her little sister on the phone and talk to her. Darwin wearily complied. He’s a solider.

Scarf Friends

i bought two friends for my blue scarf this morn. a blue hat and blue mittens from Camden Market. now i'm all cozy and color coordinated for an autumn in Europe.

Deez in Oz

It’s our second day in London. The band just returned from playing its debut five shows in Australia. My doppelganger, Michelle Dorrence (aka Mash Deez), handled bass duties, so I was eager to hear what it’s like in the land down under. On our ride home from Heathrow, I gathered the following comments from Darwin, Greg, and Cole (roughly quoted):

“It’s like America, but more tropical… It’s like California. I mean, it’s like what people think California is before they actually go there and find out that most of it’s just deserts and sprawling suburbs.  You know, it’s paradisiacal.”

“People are really active down there. Athletic. A lot more dude-bros in the audience.”

There was lots of techno at Parklife festival. The festival seemed to be informally divided into two camps: the bands, and the DJs.

Missy Elliot is incredibly sedate. Relaxed.

In Australia, there are prehistoric looking ants the size of your finger. Greg and Cole circled such an ant, and instead of acting oblivious like the ants we’re familiar with, it squared off with them, turning from one person to the next. Cole poked a stick in front of the ant, which it grabbed with its giant pincers.

Instead of pigeons, Australia has cockatiels.

Q: What about the girls? Attractive?
A: VERY ATTRACTIVE

The band is staying in this wonderful loft in Hoxton.  We are preparing a cover of Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” for a radio station next week. “The Bomb Song” sits nice and easy on top of Katy’s chord progression, so there might be a little riff recycling involved. We also discussed changing the line “We can dance until we die” to “We can fuck until we die.” Darwin suggested that that’s what Katy originally wanted it to be. I think he’s on to something.

family portrait, rendered by Zachary Cole Smith on 7.10.2010