Newsletter No. 33: PORNO, TRUCKER TRAVEL, & THE MISBEGOTTEN MIDWEST TOUR

"Happiness, Joy, Delight, Gladness, Contentmen, Harmony, and Love is OXBOW. There are only two choices for an attitude toward life: positive or negative. OXBOW finds the positive attitude an easy choice to make and enjoys receiving the best that life has to offer. Let OXBOW come into your heart, if oly for a moment, to share a smile with you."-California Clock Co.

"YOUR INSENSITIVITY IS TRULY EDGELESS, LIMITLESS."-The World's Most Inconsiderate Man to Eugene Robinson

Sleep.

And floating out there beyond the periphery was the legend that used tostare at me from a sticker on a mostly empty wallet-WAR AGAINST SLEEP-and so it is: WAR AGAINST SLEEP. WAR AGAINST FOOD. WAR AGAINST CREATURES OF COMFORT. Because of course when you win these battles of dirty floors, piss bottles, and the pervasive odor o ass, well MOTEL 6 just starts to seem real fucking sexy.

Which is precisely why it is to be avoided.

But we're just staggering through your house and we apologize now: profusely and in advance.

See, the deal is this: we just played the LAST shows specfically in support of AN EVIL HEAT.

Which means we're tour hammered. Make that TOUR HAMMERED.

Which means we flinch for 20 minutes before we go to sleep for 60 because we still think we're driving.

Which means from here on out it's all THE NARCOTIC TORY, our next record.

It's all studio, all the time.

It's Eugene slumped in the corners, disappearing with his USPS mailbox of "specialties" before returning alternately refreshed or subdued. It's Niko hemming over a sigmosoidal wave graph, scratchin his chin and half-saying, half-thinking aloud "if we only tried again.". It's Dan smiling through take after take after take after take. It's Greg going Socratic and asking "why do I even bother playing the drums if you're not going to mix them in?"

In ther words it's the four best excuses in the world to do absolutely NOTHING right now. And so we are.

Bored?

Hahahaha. Welcome to the fucking club.


GET YOUR FUCKING RED HOTS HERE!!!!!

MUSIC FOR ADULTS, the documentary on OXBOW, is on sale for the frst time TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11 at 5pm (PST) at http://www.theoxbow.com/musicforadults

And don't come crying to us.


SHOW ME YOURS

Nov. 13th: Oakland, CA, THE METRO w/ "we have no fucking idea who we're playing with"

Dec. 4: San Francisco, CA, THE EALE w/ Subarachnoid Space


WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?

OCTOBER 10, FRIDAY THE BOTTOM LOUNGE, CHICAGO with UNSANE, TURBO ACs, OXBOW, & GASOLINE FIGHT

EUGENE writes:

We're sure it slipped right by you. You read the above where it says OCTOBER 10 and in sme sort of rock music magic fantasy you just imagine that when the 10th showed up there we were and "well what's the fucking big deal."

But we live in the San Francisco Bay Area and so that magic must perforce accommodate the transfer of 2500 pounds of euipment from the West to the Midwest and so we loaded the van full of equipment, guns, LSD, and dread. Lots of dread. Dread so thick that in the days leading up to the leaving we announce to all and sundry that "we mightŠyou knowŠwell, if we don't come bak from this oneŠ."

To a colossal and glacial silence.

Yeah, well we love you assholes too.

"BUT YOU ALWAYS SAY THAT." SHE'S RIGHT. BUT SHE'S RIGHT LIKE LUCY FROM CHARLIE BROWN IS RIGHT. I MEAN SHE'S RIGHT, BUT WHO CARES?
"IT'S USUALLY THE AIRPLANE AND OW WHAT THE HELL IS IT?"

"The Interstate. The fact that only Greg and I are driving. The guns AND the LSD. I don't know. I just have a bad feeling about this one."

I can feel her eyes rolling. Over the phone. And she's my sister.

But, van loaded, we ja the laptop into the space between the front windshield and the dashboard and we survey the movies that will keep us awake long enough to cover the 52 hours to our first show in CHICAGO.

THE GODFATHER SERIES
SOME CZECH MOVIE ABOUT PARTISANS DURING WW2
OU OF SCHOOL
LIGHT SLEEPER
And of course, thanks to www.skullgame.com
PORNO PORNO PORNOŠespecially as this is a working vacation for me and rain, hail, sleet or snow the PORNO must get reviewed and I'm nothing if not an INDEFATIGABLE employee.

So we drive.And drive. And drive. And 2 hours out of the Bay Area we realize that we're lost.

Genius.

Two hours of meandering around death-dealing Lake Tahoe.

And then more driving and driving and driving.

At about Hour 17 we get the road insanity look. The look hat if form follows function means that we are just as likely to get gas and check the oil as we are to take a family hostage. And the funny thing is this is PALPABLE. Which makes it even worse. Like running from a dog. We pull into truckstop after trucksop at night and it seems that the night cries out for a round of crimes of every stripe and fashion. We can see it in their eyes in Nevada, Utah, well fuck, all over the place. All over the place.

You can almost hear them say "what we'd really appreciate handsome, is if you were to rob us, hence upping your take on this money losing tour Number 37 from -$2089 to +whatever the hell you can grab."

Or something like that.

It should be noted that when I ask Greg if he notices this, he claims to not too. Its here that I notice for the first time that he, too, is carrying a wallet.

Note to self: do. Not. Kill. Greg.

MY DESIRE TO MURDER GREG PASSES. MUCH TO MY INCREDIBLE SORROW.

We pass hitchhikers. Dudes with dogs. Walking along the highways stinking of NT A CHANCE. And patchouli. We muse that we should pick them up and rob them but then figure that a $12 acoustic guitar is not worth having to hear A SINGLE FUCKING WORD on how cool PHISH is.

And so we drive, drive, drive. And it's as exciting as it sound. And the LSD is calling to me. But there'll be time for that. All of time for that.

But first an NPR-inspired bout of thinking.

"There's nothing wrong necessary with the unbridled greed afoot in America as it's presently exemplified by the kleptocracy n DC that's pimping our big ol' whore asses. If they'd only cut us in on some of it."

"Well capitalism is supposed to have you believe in perpetuity that we WILL at some point be cut in on it."

"But these guys make no bones about the fact that they are he government of THE BIG FUCK YOU. Can't afford schools for your kids? Fuck you. Can't afford health care? Haha. Get rich!"

"EXACTLY. AND I'M NO COMMUNIST. I HATE THE COMMON MAN. I HATE THE COMMON MAN ABOUT AS MUCH AS COMMUNISTS DO. BUT WE'RE IN AGREEMEN ON ONE THING AND THAT'S THAT WHEN THE COMMON MAN HEARS FUCK YOU TOO OFTEN, AND FROM BATISTA'S HAVANA TO BEIRUT OF THE 40S WE'VE SEEN THIS, EVENTUALLY THE TUMBRELS START TO ROLL, THE STREETS RUN WITH BLOOD AND THESE GUYS ARE HAVING PARTIES IN FUCKING EXIL WITH IDI AMIN SOMEWHERE."

"And the point is?"

"We need some fucking money."

And then the phone rings.

It's one of the only two men with whom I will share the title THE POLISH PRINCE, Robert Iwanik. But I'm deep, deep, deep into the road.

"Eugene?"

ause. "Yes?" I mean I don't recognize his voice.

"It's me, Robert." And I don't recognize his voice. We've shared over 450 emails but the road has robbed me of proportion and good sense. And apparently my ability to recognize voices.

Best to set course or congenial. "How are you Robert?" The kind of How Are You? That says in unmistakable fashion "I'M fucking nuts."

And we talk about where we are and we don't know but he says NIKO "FIRST CLASS ONLY" WENNER has showed up at his place and as is his wont hs parked his ass on the best bed in the house despite me delivering ample PRE-warnings to THE PRINCE: "DON'T LET HIM GET NEAR THAT BED!!!"

But we get to CHICAGO eventually. 52 hours to CHICAGO.

And now SHOWTIME.

TAKE IT EASY, FUCKING TAKE IT EASY, GODAMNIT

I'm vibing THE BOTTOM LOUNGE. Not full-blown rock fuck-headery, afoot. But when the erstwhile promoter guy tells me we only get to play for 30 minutes despite the fact that the contract says 40. I watch him carefully and say

"I'll be back." Walkin out to the car I call our booking agency and when I can't get them I grab one of the guns. We'll see how committed they are in the long run to flaunting the letter of the goddamned law.

We eat. DAN "STEAK AND CHAMPAGNE" ADAMS shows up fresh from his flight, we load in and wait.

GASOLINE FIGHT plays and they amuse us because we were amused at their bass players stage jitters solution: as much liquor consumed as quickly as possible.

But it's the crowd too. I mean I suddenly remember that CHICAGO is one o those fucking cities that's officially TOO HIP FOR ITS OWN GOOD.

WHICH IN OXBOW TRANSLATION MEANS: SOMEONE'S GOING TO GET HURT.

"SOMEONE'S GOING TO GET HURT TONIGHT. AND I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT FEELINGS."

ROBERT IWANIK, HIS EYES LIKE JOLLY RANCHERS, ASK "WHY?"

"THE CITY DEMANDS IT," I SAY. I THINK.

GASOLINE FIGHT is off. And during the changeover we're chatting with the TURBO Acs. Friend of friends and that sort of thing. So I'm absent when the stage guy starts doing his part to guarantee that this shw end in bloodshed. I only find out about this later.

But it comes time for us to play and so we do.

I see THE PRINCE in the audience. And CHRIS DRAZEK, his bandmate in the fantastic creepy crawl band ROPE, and then I don't see anything. Or nothing unti I hear someone scream from the audience

SHUT UP.

"Come up here and say that." The audience laughs. And I smile. And they just don't know. At all. That is, how close they ARE.

And we play some more and I can feel them collectively shift. Uncomfortably Until they remember that they're SO FUCKING COOL. And the CHICAGO CUBS are in the Pennant race. And if the CUBS be for US well who the fuck could be against us and you know that Negro needs me to throw my beer on him.

And it dawns on me slowly what's hapened. Because it spilled in mid-air. Light spray on my leg and long way to my brain. But I put it together and like I LOVE LUCY, slowly I turn.

I mean the club's security is obviously NOT doing its job and so, as we are contractually obligated to do, a ucking is on its way to whoever most deserves it. And I live for these moments like I live for these moments.

But when I turn around he/she/it is gone and CHRIS DRAZEK is smiling and sweating and I later find out that he grabbed the guy by the face and cmmunicated as quickly as possible that that was a fair sampling of what he could expect if he kept it up.

And this almost makes me sad. I like COOL GUYS. To paraphrase TUCO, when they fall, they make a loud noise.

Then I see the hands off stage. Standin backstage there's someone waving at me. And I imagine it's because we're in that danger zone between 30 minutes they want and the 40 minutes they're going to get.

"WHAT?" I ASK THE SHADOWED MAN. AND HE WAVES MUTELY. WILDLY. "LISTEN. IT'LL JUST BE EASIERTO LET US PLAY THIS LAST SONG THAN IT WILL BE TO TRY AND STOP US FROM PLAYING THIS LAST SONG."

But he keeps up the hand waving and I can feel it escalating. In my head. On my hands, which are now fretting at the mic cord like a garrote.

And then magiclly SHADOW MAN fucks off. And we finish playing and are off.

And as so frequently happens to us after we play the other bands that had been so talkative BEFORE avoid us afterward. This amuses us. Yeah. We suck.

And later after the show's over and we're etting paid we find out why the SHADOW MAN was doing his puppet dance back stage. It turns out that the club owner had told the promoter

"YOU GET UP THERE AND FUCKING STOP HIM!!!!"

"Stop him from WHAT?!?!"

"Whatever."

And so Low Man on the Totem Pole as pressed into hand-waving service.

Jesus. Talk about murdering the messenger.

The next morning we eat POLISH. POLISH waitresses. POLISH beer. PIEROGIS. I'm in fucking heart attack heaven, a fugue state of which lasts until we pile in the van with THE OLISH PRINCE and head off to OHIO.


Oct. 11: The Futility Festival, Youngstown, Ohio

The temptation to cancel our headlining appearance at THE FUTILITY FESTIVAL was just about over-powering. I mean is it possible that the IRONY inherent in canceling aFUTILE showing at the FUTILITY FESTIVAL was just too good to pass up. Too bad we needed the cash.

But we drive and drive and drive and next thing we notice it's 8 pm and we're still not there. We don't play until midnight so no biggie but as it turns outwe get in right as the band PELICAN is starting their set.

We load out and this heavy set fellow comes up to me.

"Are you in OXBOW?"

"Yes."

"The singer?"

"Yes."

"I've heard a lot about you. I'm going to test you tonight."

"Well you go right ahead. stand close."

PSSST.

Oh yeah. A man in a van. Beckoning. And on his engine cover, in the carpeted interior of his home away from home, he has lines of something or other drawn up. It looks orange. Like Tang. And it tastes like Tang. And I ask him why we re snorting Tang. And while he should have said "NEXT BEST THING TO FUCKING IT." He just tells me what it is and I can't remember the name but am lastingly amused that I asked AFTER I had consumed.

I must be insane.

But we play and the TESTER is nowhereto be seen or heard and so we actually manage to GET OFF. We get called back for 2 encores but it's time to drive the 52 hours BACK to California.

NO SEX AND DRUGS FOR IAN.

We drop Dan off at the Toledo airport. Then we drop off THE POLISH PRINCE and NIO on the outskirts of CHICAGO and we're back into breech.

The driving, driving, driving and when we get stopped by a Nebraska Highway Patrolman because Greg is weaving and we're watching porno while we're driving blear-eyed back into our lives of grocer stores and garbage pick up every Friday and the cop asks "what are you watching?" We both mumble on cue, "Nothing. Oh, nothing."

And exactly NO ticket later we head back into it. Greg driving until he can't take it. Me driving until I can't take it. Sleping one or two hours here or there. Pissing in bottles. No more talk about murder, robbery and interstate mayhem. Nothing. Just driving. To beat the clock. To beat the Devil. Whatever.

And AN EVIL HEAT is laid to rest. And we're still alive.

Genius.


THE SCROTUM

Re: sorry, no cash or ass here

Let's see...

I discovered Oxbow after reading your How-To article in Vice - the one about getting beaten up. The editor billed Oxbow as something like "the greatest art-rock band ever" and I spent the next coule of months scouring Kazaa for examples. When I finally found some songs from Evil Heat, I liked what I heard so much that I bought the album the next day. I've probably heard it about 50 times start to finish by now. I still like it.

Nice to meet you too.
-Cliff


ELLIOT SMITH IS DEAD? WHO IS HE AGAIN?

And Mr. Smith?

Dead. And still not talented.

Sorry he's dead? Not really but now there really isn't anyone left in the world that I wish any ill will towards.

Ah fuck.

But there's still a few whogladly wish some upon me.

That's called character, right?

I better go get the cleaver.

Love-

Mr. Nicky Balls

P.S. The differences between you, Eugene, and Mr. Smith of course are:

1) You're alive
2) You're talented
3) Your hair is fabulous
4) You'd e kind to me in my own home, even before, during or after fucking my girl. I know this for a fact."


IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER GODDAMNED ALL:
THE OXBOW INTERNATIONAL PAVILION

Une image forte: cette mamie accompagnant sa petite-fille et faisant illico dem-tour face à la vision du chanteur d' sidérant le public. L'homme est un Noir sculptural, ses yeux sont exorbités, des pentacles sont tatoués sur ses épaules, il brandit les poings comme pour chercher la bagarre et surtout, il ne porte qu'une paire de chassures noires vernies et un slip moulant en coton blanc rendu transparent par une abondante transpiration. La musique est une splendide exhumation du meilleur du noise rock des 90's. Question : l'inquiétant chanteur allait-il sortir son cobra de son antrede textile et l'agiter tel le charmeur de serpent ? Réponse: oui, il allait.--HAUT-VOL

NEXT MONTH: GOD GIVE US SEX APPEAL.


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