TheOXBOW.com: OXBOW - Trouble That Will Trouble The World

Newsletter No. 46: DESTROY IT ALL AT ONCE

"But thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful!" -- Friedrich Nietzsche

"Security does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than exposure." - Helen Keller

NOTE: This Newsletter will be composed of, in total, the ENTIRE Robinson-Wenner Acoustic Duo Tour Diary. It will at some point be up on the site complete with photos and so on but presently is not as CHRISTIAN ANTHONY, who designed this site and maintains it, is hard at work on expanding MUSIC FOR ADULTS for a late spring wide theatrical release (it will include outtakes, extra interviews, new show footage, subtitles in Japanese and French and the special win a fight with Eugene feature). So forthwith enjoy the full privilege of membership.

OXBOW ACOUSTIC DUO DIARY 2004
Note: This is the worst OXBOW tour diary yet. Mostly because it's not an OXBOW tour diary but just an Acoustic Duo Diary, which on a scale of horribleness, is probably right above just reading MY diary. I mean if I was Morrissey enough to actually keep one. But it's the last one for awhile as we're going into a studio and so we hope you can appreciate it for what it's worth: a further attempt at separating you from your cash. -- EUGENE

FROM: JAMES MCARDLE - SOUTHERN RECORDS
To: Robert Iwanik/ROPE
Subject: OXBOW ACOUSTIC

"Hmmmm.......Eugene & Niko duo? I'm intrigued, serious. Maybe 'Gene' will sit on a stool in a tux, like Dean Martin. Or maybe he'll get all sensitive and wear a black turtleneck sweater w/a beret. While Niko strums "sad clown" chords behind him. And then Eugene's chest splits open and the monster from ALIEN pops out and starts wreaking havoc, blood everywhere, people screaming, wool hats, cardigans, white belts, and thick-frame glasses intermingled with brain parts and intestines. The Eugene monster slays the hipsters. THAT'd be cool. Actually, that sounds like an Oxbow show, right? cheers --- JPMc"

"'What in the world set him off?'

Well I'm far from qualified to make this diagnosis but I'm going to speculate that insanity was probably the root cause." - some online wag re: THE INCIDENT

THE ROBINSON-WENNER OXBOW ACOUSTIC DUO played:

10/04/04 Sabala's Portland OR
10/05/04 Graceland Seattle WA
10/07/04 15th St. Tavern Denver CO
10/08/04 Replay Lounge Lawrence KS
10/09/04 Big V's St. Paul MN
10/10/04 High Noon Saloon Madison WI
10/11/04 The Note Chicago IL
10/12/04 Mac's Bar Lansing MI
10/13/04 Comet Bar Cincinnati OH
10/14/04 Nyabinghi Youngstown OH
10/15/04 Broadway Joe's Buffalo NY
10/16/04 The Space Portland ME
10/17/04 The Warehouse Washington DC
10/18/04 Sidebar Tavern Baltimore MD
10/19/04 North Six Brooklyn NY
10/20/04 WFMU New Jersey

Time has a wonderful way of healing all ills. Either that or exacerbating them. Like the chafe of a fucking rawhide headpiece. But that's neither here nor there because what's right here is the impending OXBOW ACOUSTIC TOUR 2004. Now if OXBOW tours as a general goddamned rule of thumb have lacked purpose, point or direction this did all of those things in aggressive spades. Like that guy once said about an Oxbow show "Imagine a band that did EVERYTHING WRONG and you'll have Oxbow."

Goddamned straight.

There were NO sound business reasons for Niko and I to do this. None at all. No record that had just come out. No record about to come out. Nothing to prove. No reason to try to prove it. In fact there were more reasons, sound and otherwise, why this tour should NOT happen. Which of course means that our personal desire FOR IT to happen increased exponentially.

I mean generally the way it works is WHAT'S BAD FOR AMERICA IS GOOD FOR OXBOW. The Acoustic Duo tour could only be bad for America due to a wide variety of issues. And this could only end up being good for Oxbow.

Which perhaps explains why I keep making believe it's not happening. Somebody'll say something like

"hey when you're in ST. PAUL, could you put me on the list?"

And I'll say,

"St. Paul?"

And I'll be thinking about the beer-toting blonde advertising shill and lost in private reverie forget not only what they asked, but why they asked it only to have them ask me again.

"We're going to be in St. Paul? Yeah. I guess we are."

It's weird. Like fin de siecle weird. I'm convinced I will die on this tour. CONVINCED. That somehow, some way the decisive measure will be made on this tour. This tour that's different from all the rest in that it's just voice and acoustic guitar.

Especially since it wasn't known by anybody who booked it that it WAS going to be acoustic until today. That is, 2 days before we leave. So whether people are thinking it's going to be the full band or just me and Niko, they're definitely NOT expecting it to be just fucking Simon and Garfunkel. No way. This doesn't terrify me necessarily. What terrifies me is the possibility that without all the amplification that I'm going to learn something about myself heretofore concealed by wattage.

Want to see me at top mind losing form? Book me on solo spoken word tour? You're guaranteed to have the craziest Negro in town be the Negro in town that just showed up.

And it is in this spirit that I pack my bag.

NINE socks.
TWO shirts.
TWO pairs of pants.
ONE Walther PPK .380 automatic pistol plus ammo.
Uh, BACK medicine
ONE digital camera
TWO knives
A JUMBLED handful of nutriceuticals the names and uses of which I've long since forgotten.
And ONE cell phone.

What I don't pack but SHOULD have.

ONE driver's license.
LOADS & LOADS of drugs.

Yes, yes, seeing it written on the page I know it seems prophetically tilted toward the violence side of the sex-violence continuum what with it being bereft of any mention of condoms or sexual lubricant, but goddamnit the apocalypse seems like now and so let's just go with it baby. GO WITH IT.

PORTLAND, OREGON: YES, WE HAVE NO HEROIN

The place is called SABALA'S. We're let into the place by a thinning, possibly former what would have been called crunchy punk, but by virtue of the fact that he's made it this long eating mushrooms, listening to Crass, and being chased by larger and angrier men, well, I'll just call him a man. Firm handshake, looks you in the eye. Super helpful. Forgot his name immediately upon hearing it but he was a solid guy and a note here for aspiring promoters: hire as greeters such like people and not the 20 year old asshole Indie prick motherfucker who it seems like you got working every other place we go now.

"Do they sell heroin in here?"

Crunch dude, shakes his head vigorously, "Nooooo, man....but your contract says red wine and we got that."

What the hell has Portland come to? I walk in the club and this youngish fella walks up to me and strikes up the band guy chatter.

"Oh shit," he says after a while. "You're that dude. Going to get pretty crazy tonight, eh?"

"What do you mean 'that dude'?"

"You didn't see the paper?"

Noooooo. This is bad. As bad as it must be for HENNY YOUNGMAN to hear "you bring the violin?" Is this what it's come to?

Shtick?

COSTES. GG ALLIN. Me?

Jesus Christ.

I mean not that it's necessarily a bad thing to be compared to a shit thrower and a shit eater but the problem is that we know NICK CAVE and SCOTT WALKER never had to deal with this and as our shows go we've never gotten anywhere close to either shitting on stage or eating said shit on stage, so why the monkey in the cage routine?

And I'm not pretending like I DON'T know why but when I see some XL sized gents begin filtering in, I think well so be it. If the world wants a fight, the world'll get a fight and so there is in a nutshell why, goddamn it: because there are two types of people in the world, my friend.

Those who likes to fight.

And those that don't.

And COSTES is French, is he not?

Strange.

But I go out to the lobby since someone tells me there's a fighter out there that trains the kind of training I do. I see him taking tickets and walk over to him just in time to see this other man chasing another crunch dude and screaming at the top of his lungs "DON'T FUCK AROUND MOTHERFUCKER!!!!" The Crunch Dude 2 is quick on his feet and scrambles before serious damage is done and like the monkey in the tree, he retreats to a spot that's hard to get to laughing at the red-faced, rage-contorted big man.

The guy at the door says "That's the club owner."

And shaking his rage trembling hand, I look him in the eye and say "hello. Glad to meet you."

And he comes back to Planet Now and we talk about the show.

He's into us for 6 bills on this one. An insane amount for us. But he thinks on a Monday night that they should cut the door price. To, you know, encourage people to come in.

Yeah. Sure. There are not a lot of things I know but one of them is that the Pacific Northwest will ring your fucking heart like a dishrag.

We get our wine, I get drunk. The show occurs without incident. 30 people show. In a venue that holds 300. The barmaid won't talk to me. The OXBOW tribes turn out and...what? The OXBOW tribes? What the fuck? Wellll...it seems now that there is such a definable thing.

And here's the psychomonograph:

Angry
Drug Using
Male
Who show up alone.

And who, inevitably, leave, alone.

In other words, ME.

And I'm the patron saint of me. And so they come up to me post show and we talk about music, our music, other music. I keep nearby possible weapons in sight.

This guy comes up to me and says "well we should settle."

OK.

"Is there anyway you could budge on the guarantee tonight?"

And as much as I'd like to, and curiously, I really do, I won't. Because gas stations don't budge. And neither do hotels. I mean unless it's the hooker's room. And neither do restaurants. So, no.

"That's OK. I just thought I'd ask."

I get out to the slick-ass 2004 Chevy Impala that we've rented and tell Niko,

"DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE!!!!"

Why?

"They're going to try and murder us for their money back."

Niko drives. I jam the money in my gun pocket. We are not followed. By anything other than a sense of our own worthlessness.

SEATTLE: WE HAVE FINALLY SEEN YOUR FACE

It's raining here. Surprise. And cold and walking down Broadway in search of a wi-fi hotspot we stop and ask a guy smoking in front of the UPS shop where he works.

"Is there a hotspot around here?"

The guy's eyes narrow and he starts glancing from left to right like he's on some sort of cop show and he whispers, "what do you need?" And so I'm so taken aback that I neglect to ask him about the much-vaunted local heroin and laugh

"Wi-Fi, man..."

And he gets it and points the place out and then there's that uncomfortable moment where we both think about the actual OTHER thing and then Niko clears his throat and we walk on.

Being a Seattle native he doesn't find this surprising at all. Nor does he this little fun fact: the highest percentage of sex offenders in America live in Oregon and Washington states. And after meeting a woman in Portland once whose neighbors made her fuck dogs for the amusement of paying customers, I would have to agree.

But I digress.

We get to the club. They don't really speak to us until the hostile soundman starts barking orders about some shit. After I tell him that I need a straight mic stand and he needs to talk to Niko about the rest of it I go outside where I find one of the other bands unloading.

So, in a strange mood, I say HI, to the one Negro in the group and he gets noticeably uncomfortable I guess thinking that maybe I'd try to suck him into Negro talk or some shit like that.

This pisses me off and I repair to our dressing room, write emails and start drinking and in full on alcoholic fashion pass out, coming to only when Niko returns panicked.

"We need to do a setlist."

Whatever.

With the exception of the prick motherfucker soundman, the rest of the staff is totally pro despite their desire that we just go the fuck away so that they could go home.

We play. And the wine and sex offending despair that we got booked into hell starts to weigh on me and I look at Niko mid-show and think "everyone thinks that I'M the insane one." And I blame him for me being here because someone should have talked me out of this. The club holds 300 people. There are 30 people there. I look them all in the eyes as it is my hardheld belief that I will die here and now. Not from shame. Not from rage. Just from the stumbling insignificance of it all.

And I persist in this vein. Maybe waiting for someone to give me a reason to do something else and then I see some eyes. I don't know whose eyes they were, of course. But it was like looking into a mirror and in that moment I knew that my personal struggle with LIFE ON THIS PLANET was worth trying to win for no other reason than it just CAN'T be all about MADONNA.

I mean, can it?

And post-show, I get corralled by this guy who says, "Eugene?" And I say yes, and finger my knife (at this point an automatic response). He says "I'm ERIC GREENWALT and I've brought you drugs."

And he proffers a whole fist of pills and he even tells me all of what they are and we talk and people buy shit and it seems that even though it is beyond dispute that NIRVANA destroyed Seattle and it will suck for all of eternity because of them, that there are a few prisoners of Zenda here and it is cool.

He agrees to review porn for my porn site (porn that he eventually is so reviled by that I never hear from him again) and Niko and I leave.

DENVER: THE MOST AMAZING GODDAMNED ACT OF ASS FUCKING EVER SEEN EVEN BY A PROFESSIONAL ASS FUCKER

NAME of ASS FUCKER: Melissa J. Martin

Booking and Promotions Manager
The 15th Street Tavern
Denver, CO 80202
303-717-3722
missminkie17@hotmail.com

NAME OF ASS FUCKING VENUE: 15TH STREET TAVERN

INITIAL INDUCEMENT TO ASS FUCKING: A $900 GUARANTEE

THE HAPLESS ASS FUCKED: OXBOW ACOUSTIC

It started simply enough. The venue cancelled on us. The reason? City construction had resulted in no running water in the venue. So the building would be closed and the show had to be cancelled.

We were naturally disappointed to see a $900 pay day disappear but ah well. On our way to Kansas, we figured what the hell, let's stop to get a picture of it. You know, for FUN.

We pull up to the club.

Did you see this coming?

The club is not only open, but they're serving drinks. I call ERIK from TONEDEAF and tell him that there's a problem in Houston.

"What?"

The fucking club is open.

I walk in and the door guy is not only wearing a DIATRIBE shirt that our old bass player from our old punk band RON ISA printed, but he tries to charge me. I say "I'm playing tonight."

"Oh really? Who are you?"

Eugene from OXBOW.

And then all of the shit hits all of the fans and while I'd like to say that I started swinging I was so amused at this blatant intrusion of cock into my ass that I just started smiling. Kind of like Nazis used to smile when they'd see Jews walking down the street toward them back in the Nazi days.

And I put the door stooge, who is all in all a decent guy whose ass had also been fucked by the wily slut who booked this show when she asked him if he could "just work for me tonight. Just this once...", well I put him on the phone with Erik and I go into the club.

Niko comes in and says "the guys in the other bands were just told that we had cancelled."

Yeah yeah, whatever. I watch the pool balls on the table, balls that I'll be throwing through the window later, and grab a stool and lo and behold TWO things happen....

One that would have inevitably dragged the evening toward its inevitable conclusion

and Two, that dragged it back.

One was these bikers from San Jose buying me Tequila shots. On an empty stomach. Fight sauce on tap and guys who seem to like to fight. Perfect.

Two was the ersatz hot biker bitch of a barmaid. And her incredible discomfort that we were even there. So much like when we played PRAGUE way back when we were roaching the buzz of at least a few people here JUST BY BEING HERE. JUST BY EXISTING. And I drank more and more and they got more and more uncomfortable and it started to seep into the entire evening and eventually she figured to stop serving me and I laughed and joked with the biker dude and pushed a bit to see if he could be induced to fight. A little. Maybe just a basic exchange of blows or something.

But eventually Erik gets on the phone and says "it looks like they're going to pay just to get you all out of there."

And so we leave.

Without $900. As of presstime we still have not seen this money.

Sal from SKULLGAME.COM said it best when he said to me the next day, "I can't believe you ain't making this call from jail."

I can't believe it either but since I never believed we'd see it to begin with well, it's been an evening of non-surprises.

TOTO: WE AIN'T IN KANSAS ANYMORE. OH WHAT A MINUTE. YES WE ARE

One arm of our agency lives in Lawrence and so we naturally assumed this was a good sign. We get in early and go to some sports bar to eat dinner. We're in, Niko turns up his nose at said fare, we wander around for a bit before wandering back. We eat. 30 fucking bouncers for about 6 people. As we're leaving I hear one of the bouncers say "hi boys" with a gayish lilt in his voice. I turn and catch his eye and he looks away quickly. And so it goes that the football playing moonlighting piece of shit posted a sign: I HAVE NO BALLS. Or maybe he was talking to someone else. In any case being called GAY I'm A-OK with. I could give not a shit. But having to think about his cowardice enraged me. If you're going to be an asshole carry it all the way home, baby.

Feh.

Sign of things to come?

Oh yeahhhh....Lawrence is the fightingest town I've been in yet. I can smell it on the street. Drunk guys saying shit too me like "ohhhh....no it's NOT!"

And I look at them and say "YES IT IS!!!"

And we get to the club and it gets no better. This woman sits next to me. She's tall. About 26. Looks like a volleyball player.

"Hi."

I say hi, back, sort of slowly because it's RARE that any woman NOT trying to win a bet ever just COMES OVER TO ME. She says,

"That guy over there called me a bitch!!!"

"Are you a bitch?"

"Fuck him!!! I just wanted to smoke. You can't smoke inside here and there's a smoking patio out back but I was cold so I was standing in the door. Fuck him!"

"Hit him."

"Oh. He's just LOOKING for a fight."

"Hmmm."

And off she fucks. I never see her again. But I do see the clock corkscrew its way around to show time and I see that there are 14 people in the house. 75 on the patio, 14 inside. And we start playing and between songs this tall lanky fella starts in on us.

"Oh just PLAY SOMETHING."

I eyeball him and mark him for later. Some guys are up front and they're chatting and without the full OXBOW volume we got no weapons to combat boorishness. Except a 4-inch stage and a long mic cord and I step off the stage and bend him over and he figures to start some homo-panic in me by arching his back and thrusting his ass into my crotch but this bit of jacknapery ends when I reach for his belt and make clear on my intention to follow it as far as I need to, to shut him the fuck up.

He buckles and I let go of his belt buckle and go back to the stage and everything is copacetic until someone throws a cigarette at my turned back. I don't know WHO did it but exactly UNlike the substitute teacher I know asking does nothing and so I whirl at the same time that Mr. OH PLAY SOMETHING starts in again and I say, stepping off the stage

"I'll break every fucking tooth out of your mouth." And I get close to him, and on the advice of my legal counsel I'm saying everything I can think of to get him to go first.

You shit-lipped fucking nut jumping asshole...
You dirty fucking prick...
You....

And his body just goes limp. He knows the routine. He's not saying anything. He's not moving. He's just waiting for it to all be over. And as soon as I get back on stage he bolts without another word.

Perfect.

After the show this guy rushes the stage and he says "what the fuck are you doing wearing a SPRAWL Fight Sports Shirt?"

I say, "OXBOW is sponsored by SPRAWL."

"I'm a fucking fighter too... Jesus..."

And we launch into fight talk like we were into Star Trek at a Star Trek convention and before too long he's showing me what he calls his patented fight maneuver and so we're rolling on the stage and the entire audience of what now has swelled to 17 people watch not knowing exactly what the fuck is happening.

And he talks and confirms that which I knew already,

"Oh yeah. I'm small so I get into like three street fights a week. It's great. We got a place here in town, you should come by."

And I'm so happy to talk fight that when Troy from Tone Deaf says there's a party he has to yank me away. But Troy is a funny cat. So I don't mind. We get to the party, someone shoves a drink into my hand and as soon as it touches my lips The Party Fat Girl, because no party is complete without one, comes up to me and we talk intensely for like 40 minutes.

She tells me: she's 21. Her boyfriend disappointed her soooo much because he had gangbanged this married woman with a friend just to see what it was like . He was like only the second person she had ever slept with. So they broke up. But she wants to get married. And have kids.

Yeah. Exactly. From bad to worse. Had the conversation gone in the exact opposite order it would have been great. She could have gotten to that part where she decides she has to revenge herself on him... BUT no... she then starts detailing, painfully for me, how she can just sleep in bed with all of her guy friends and NOT have sex and at this point I'm desperately looking for an escape strategy.

Troy's girlfriend comes up and says to me, "I can touch my foot to my forehead by arching backward."

This sounds promising. So, rubbing my crotch I say, "Go ahead." And she does it. Like a fucking bow without the arrow. Troy had been making noises earlier sort of equivocating around the topic of her presence in his life.

"Oh. This is one to keep my friend."

Yeah yeah, he grunts.

"No, no, no listen....now if you were going to double team her and I'm not saying you're GOING TO but it you WERE you could..." And I spell out this degenerate scenario that he's stopped listening to long ago leaving me standing there muttering and rubbing my crotch.

We're thinking of staying but I see The Party Fat Girl working herself up for round two and so we beat it out there and into the punishing drive to ST. PAUL.

WHAT I'M LEAVING OUT
1) Bad, bad truck stop food
2) Sleeping in a freezing car
3) Pissing in coke cans
4) And the mind-crushing miles upon miles of America in the grips of an election season that pits the God lovers against newspaper readers.

ST. PAUL: THE FIRST SHOW THAT MAKES ME NOT WANT TO KILL MYSELF

The promoters are totally fucking cool and we promise each other endless cross country drug connects as I repack my gun, underwear and do some wash at his house. We make fun of McClusky. Us, because we played with them and they complained about having to play two shows in a row, and him because he said they sucked.

We get over to the club and NICK SAKES from COLASSAMITE, now SICBAY shows up and so does some Djs who have been playing OXBOW for years and it's just starting to feel like maybe this will NOT be an evening of FUCKITAGE. And the bands play and they are great and there are people there without cocks and even some with and the only ripple I can see are two guys that look to be a bit bigger than me and like construction workers.

I think "I'll have to fight those guys later."

But The Stnning play and finish and they're better than any band I've seen in California in like years EVEN THOUGH, and this is important, the singer sports a well-coiffed beard. I mean they rocked it down even WITH the beard and for the first time I have that sensation I have in Europe sometimes, "I gotta move here."

Until I remember it's America. Well, I remember this because the racial politic is so weird here. Because when Niko and I go outside to do a set list, people on the sidewalk are just vibing on the whole Negro thing.

Like, "Oh. I didn't realize this was a NEGRO bar."

Or

"Oh. It's a Negro. Is he high on CRACK?"

Or

"Oh. It's a stealing welfare Negro."

Fine.

We come back inside and the big guys brace me right before I get to the stage. "Man. We're huge fans. We drove like two hours to get here to see you."

This figures. The guys in any town who are invariably the biggest Oxbow fans are the ones it seems most in need of a beating. But these are jovial hale fellows well met and so we exchange niceties and I head to the stage.

And the show is the show. And during a show the members of the audience that actually veer closest to getting a beating are of course the guys who traveled longer and harder to get here than anybody else in the room except for me and Niko.

But after the show and after I collect the scattered remnants of my clothing they come up and we're taking pictures and I'm putting them into chokes for the pictures and it's A-FUCKING-OK. I mean I like these guys. In fact I like all of these guys because there's nothing about them at all that screams alternative. Nothing. So like Secret Fucking Squirrels they're living existences that are probably far more subversive as a result of their normalcy, combined with weird ideas that once again I think "I could live here."

And we stay at the great Nick Sakes' house and lo and behold we see pictures on his wall of friends of ours, Pietro from DNA Concerti in Rome being first and foremost among them. Nick's got this great two-story house that cost nothing by San Fran standards and I'm actually sad to leave when we do.

Signposts of Strange:

Running into Niko's cousins, who he had been calling for like two days, on the street. I suggest that they were avoiding him but they DID manage to come to the show. His cousin is, curiously, a nice piece of ass. A fact I find highly disturbing. For a variety of reasons.

And asking our gay waiter if there was a hotspot around and him doing just like the UPS guy, "depends on what you're looking for...."

And the guy who answered my cry for narcotics with a handful of NEURONTIN.

"What's it do?"

"Man. It just flattens out your field of vision like you're in a fishbowl."

"And what do YOU use it for?"

"Epileptic fits."

"Hmmm... does it keep you from getting a hard-on?"

He pauses for what feels like a long time.

"I don't think, um.... think so."

Genius.

It presently sits unused in my medicine box. Like OXBOW's old drummer said, "you can take lots of aspirin and that'll make you dizzy too."

Exactly. Note to self: don't fuck with the cock.

MADISON, WISCONSIN: THE HOME OF KILDOZER

The High Noon Saloon. Totally sports bar-ish but cool vibe.

We're playing with this band called Velis. Some of the guys who used to be in SCREAMING TREES. Cool guys. Good show. Good crowd. People buying shitloads of merch afterward. Some woman there who knows our label folks from way back when. Some girl and her dude roommate who are offering us a place to stay.

It's fairly clear to me that staying at their place will involve some certain amount of semen leaving my body. I'm not saying HOW it's leaving but even if I have to yank it out it's a'coming. Niko mumbles something about "that's what I'm worried about." I very rarely worry about this. I mean something NICE actually happening to a member of Oxbow?

And, predictably, it doesn't, as we drive on into the doddering night.

CHI-TOWN & THE CHI-LITES NOWHERE IN SITE

We've been in Chicago like...well let's put it this way, we've never fucking left. We were here for THE WIRE MAGAZINE ADVENTURES IN MODERN MUSIC festival. We drove out, played for 45 minutes, and then drove back. We were here last year for The Unsane show. Drove out for 2.5 days, played for 45 minutes, and then drove back. And now we're back with ROPE who we just played with in San Francisco and Los Angeles again.

So what's new?

Well what's new are the goddamned billboards all over Chicago, staring down over the highways, at the bus kiosks, on the sides of fucking buildings with my picture on them. I did a commercial for Bank One back in February and it's all over Chicago like some weird paean to pagan idolatry. And all over the city people who know Oxbow are doing double takes and thinking, "no way is that possible."

Yeah, well guess again.

But we hang out with just about our favorite dude ever, Robert Iwanik. We stay at his place. Eat the sparse fillings of his fridge.

But the show? Things have started to slip into blur time but I do know this.

1)The sound guy was more stoned than any single individual alive who I have ever met who was not dead when I met them.

2) The barmaid also wouldn't talk to me.

3) Some Asian woman came into the club with this really weird camera rig, and semi-official badge and was taking and developing like these weird ultraviolet photos of shit that people gave her. I asked her what the fuck she was doing. She told me. But it made as much sense to me then as it did before she said anything. So, life's mystery.

There were 14 people at the show. But we didn't care. Some homeless woman was trying to get me to give her money, and I started to tell her like my porn star friend CHEROKEE told me, "there isn't a person in America right now who someone would pay to see something stuck up in one of their orifices." But because I am drinking it comes out all wrong and on the early A.M. sidewalk I'm dealing with a bearded 300-pound homeless lunatic thinking I'm picking up on her. Of course, this has an appeal all its own but, no.

This is my lasting memory of Chicago: me smiling triumphantly down from a 60-foot high billboard.

THE LAST GODDAMNED CHANCE SALOON: MAC'S BAR, LANSING MICHIGAN

This is another place. Best of intentions do not a great town make. And I got history with this town: I played here back in 1982 with my punk rock band. We were doing some shows with MINOR THREAT. There were 15 people in the house when MT played.

And Oxbow played here some 20 years later with The Takers.

And now we're trying it again.

And it sucks again.

BUT the bands on the bill tonight are all great. Yakuza from Chicago is cool. The openers whose names I forget are great. And as I'm standing out front talking to one of the guys from Yakuza this guy comes up to me and says

"Hey Eugene....remember me?!?!"

Nope.

"Steve?!?"

Nope.

"Oh man, I saw you play here in 1982."

Hahaha... And I haven't seen him since then. Genius. I still don't remember him but we gossip about people we knew

1) Tesco Vee who sold all of his records, collects toys and is working in some sort of old folk's home, cleaning bed pans (I could have this last part wrong). Vee is still married (one of the first stories he told me was about shitting the bed with his wife in it...and 20 years later they're still married. Amazing.) His kids are having a hard time in high school because their Dad used to be in The Meatmen.
2) Doc Dart from the Crucifucks married a rich broad and does nothing all day but spraypaint annoying signs, which he then mounts on his front lawn to disturb his republican neighbors.
3) Barry Hennsler from The Necroes is a DJ.

I will never play Lansing again.

CINCINNATI AT THE COMET BAR. ESPECIALLY IF BY COMET YOU MEAN SOMETHING SHOOTING OUT OF MY ASS.

Great looking joint. Great food.

But appearances can be goddamned deceiving.

The food made me violently ill. And we knew we were in trouble when they asked us to set up the PA.

This club was not even a club. It was the functional equivalent of setting up to play at IHOP. If you were in Oxbow. And then actually playing. Writhing to the disinterested and hostile stares of coffee house habitu�s.

But I got too much ego to take this shit light. And as every tight knit table of diners leaves I start to mad dog them. Unnoticed except for a small knot of guys up front who from their look and bearing and the presence of one Neurosis shirt seem to have a real good idea what I'm thinking.

Like a real good idea because they've read these diaries.

And they know the songs and so it has been revealed: There are SIX Oxbow listeners in Cincinnati.

They talk to us after the show and say those magic words, "we saw in the paper that you were playing here and we had to show up just because we couldn't believe it because nobody plays here because it's kind of a trendy fucking place where only people we hate are likely to go."

Yes. Of course.

GREG BARRETT'S LIFE, MINUS THE OHIO PART, IS THE LIFE I WISH WAS MINE

Greg Barrett, and I'm fairly sure I'm spelling his name wrong here, is a fucking genius. Certifiable. He owns Nyabinghi, and the store that will soon go in upstairs. He also used to own Tone Deaf and now he owns the business that's in the basement. He takes me down there and shows me his deceptively simple genius idea for making a million dollars.

He will make a million dollars.

In a way that under threat of death I never would have thought of: stainless steel motorcycle bolt kits.

I meet lots of assholes but I don't meet lots of assholes like Greg and all I do is just sigh and stare at the bolts and his machine lists and I feel like I should kill myself.

But I don't.

Because Jeremy from REBREATHER has assured me that I'll be able to scrounge a fight out of the audience tonight, the prospect of which, reasonably cheers me.

We play and I see the guy who wants to fight. He's a tall half Black/half Samoan fella. He says after we play one song,

"YOU GONNA PLAY ANOTHER?!?!"

I look at him a long time and then say, quietly, "maybe..." And I get closer to him and wait for the sign that says NOW but he folds and that's OK. This is a gift that should be parceled out stingily.

But we're playing and there's this gaggle of girls near the front and they're just talking. Loudly. And it's acoustic and we just don't have the volume to overplay them and so I just jump down and all into their little klatch.

"You want to fuck me?"

"No."

"Why's it always the biggest slut who says NO first?"

"You asshole."

Yeah yeah. And this goes on for awhile before it fritters into stupid insignificance and I'm back on the stage and we finish and Greg comes up afterward and says "like a cross between Flann O'Connor and Harry Crews."

"Who?"

"You guys."

"But who said that?"

"I did."

You see what I mean? And he gets bonus points for showing me the right way to do a GRANBY ROLL.

But the show winds down and we're trying to figure out a place to stay and one of the guys who works with Greg says "Well, I'd let you stay at my place but my parents are kind of Christian."

And this gets Jeremy's attention from behind the bar and he gets in there quick like and says "Christian?!?! They ain't Christian. You mean Klan, don't you?"

And the guy is embarrassed enough that I know this to be true and it does nothing but make me laugh. I mean of course. Christian? Klan? What's the difference?

Absolutely none, it seems.

We stay with Jeremy, he sets me up with some Viks, you know, for my back pain, and another one down.

BROADWAY JOE'S IN BUFFALO: "I WANT TO KISS YOU."

Joe Namath is the guy they used to call Broadway Joe. He, drunk in the middle of an interview, told the woman interviewing him, "I want to kiss you." He was widely lambasted for this behavior but I, personally, have come not to bury Joe but to praise him. Wanting to kiss hot bitches when you're drunk is a goddamned solid avocation, if you ask me.

Anyways, here we are in Buffalo after shuffling off to Buffalo. The city where somewhere the Niagara Falls, fall. The city that was the birthplace of THE GOO GOO DOLLS. A city widely viewed with fear and suspicion by native New Yorkers, which is what I am. I mean it's New York and so there are things that are familiar about it to me but it's like being in fucking East Germany in 1948.

Yeah. Just like that.

But a strange lassitude lays itself upon me. It's like the city itself or the place where the city is or something about the waters here makes me sleepy. Bed bound. And sleepy. In any case there's a pervasive need for bed. And lots and lots of fucking. And heavy, heavy narcotics.

And a million dollars. And eternal life.

But we get the club. And the completely great promoter. Not the guy who is listed as the promoter, who we discover is named James Murphy, but like his associate. Like his Tattoo to Murphy's Mr. Rourke. Tattoo is fucking genius. Full NY style. Anything you need, anything he can do, anything we want him to do. Reminds of me why I used to love NY so much. None of that west coast ethos that works the troika of

SO WHAT?
WHO CARES?
AND WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME?

This guy is fucking nails and by the evening's end I tell him that I'd come and do a show for these guys any goddamned day.

But the show is packed. NEGATIVE HATE play. They are quite cool. Nice fellas. Know Oxbow. The band that played right before us, whose name we have completely forgot, are passive aggressive in the way only bands can be. But I don't give a fuck. Their audience of 150 fucking 18 year olds cracks me up. I was punching guys who looked like them in the face when they were born.

In any case these guys play too long. We don't care. We get up and play to 150 fucking 18 year olds with X's on the backs of their hands.

Then we play to 100 fucking 18 year olds with X's on their hands.

Then we play to 30 fucking 18 year olds with X's on their hands.

And we're only three songs in.

Perfect.

By the time we finish the set we're playing to 15 fucking 35 year olds.

Do you know what it takes to do this? DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT TAKES TO DO THIS?!?!?

BALLS. You got those?

I mean the slivering of soul, whittled into smaller and smaller slices, each more potent then the next until it's just us, and the driving, driving iD and colossal egoism on display until there's nothing left but the ugliest of all animals, totally Luciferian in proportion, screaming nothing but ME, ME, ME.

And the few hardy souls who made it to the end might have seen something that not many have seen or want to see (obviously): the corrosive heart that beats at the center of Planet Oxbow... because as much as they might not like us, it doesn't come close to touching how much we hate them.

Hahaha... not even close.

But when we finish playing and the few, the proud, the homeless stragglers offer smatterings of confused applause, this guy comes up to me and said,

"This guy over here says you need something."

I look over to where he points and he's pointing to Niko.

"He says that I want what?"

"Hahah...NEED. Here...."

And he shoves into my grabbed hand something that feels like playdoh'd worms.

"There you go. This will rock your world."

It's rocking my world to this day. As I eye it suspiciously and ask The People In the Know Who Might Know: do I eat it? Smoke it? Rub it on my eyelids?

No one knows. So I will try all three and hope the ill-effects won't kill me. Or you.

But the promoter and Tattoo come up to me after show and are as cool in the aftermath of this meltdown called a show as any two people have ever been. Princes. It is with a certain sadness that I leave Buffalo.

But we do leave Buffalo.

MAINE LOBSTER, CLAM CHOWDER & FIGHTS IN THE STREETS

We sort of knew this show would not suck. The guys had finished the flier for the show months earlier. Had already emailed me about it. Tight ship shit. Too bad that when we pulled into town after driving hours and hours and hours that not only would we not see any of Maine in the daylight hours, but the Yankees had also beaten the beloved native boys (and now we know, World Series winners) 19 to 6. If you have not been to New England during this kind of thing, you have not lived. They will fight on the streets, they will fight in the bars, they will fight in their cars....MAKING THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE by punching Yankee fans in the face.

I mean the psychomonograph of LOSERS: they who had one last chance and blew it again and again (pay attention to the motion picture of the same name), is like an OXBOW show writ large. Like a whole town full of OXBOW. This is therefore a perfect place to play.

And when we get in the guys from the great band CONIFER tell me that the promoter of this really cool art gallery space was freaking. It was early OXBOW freak: Will they burn my place to the ground? Is he going to rape people? What do I do IF he starts raping people and burning the place down? Typical. But only typical in places where they give a modicum of a shit.

But this town IS MEANT FOR US.

Cool opener band of just a solo guitar guy on stage with a stage full of pedals. I vaguely remember a laptop. And then we do our deal. And it is done. And people hang. From beginning to bitter fucking end.

And it was A-fucking OK.

And Conifer says you gotta sing a song with us. And they explain it to me and the red wine sloshes up the neck of the bottle and down my throat and it's hot hot hot and I agree and when these guys line all their amps across the stage front, unfurl the fucking screen, put the drummer in the audience and start CRUSHING IT TO DEATH I feel like goddamned JAMES BROWN and we rip it to pieces.

And I'm in love. With this place, this show, this city. And everyone in it.

Even the Black journalist (45 years old, leather coat wearing light-skinned fella) from the Weekly counterculture monthly who came up to me after the show and said,

"I...I...I felt like I was watching a Slave Auction..."

I don't know what he expected but I just smiled and smiled before finally saying, "Well....that's something at least."

"I. Shit. I don't know. I. I need to talk to you about this some more....I...."

I give him my contact info. I never expect to hear from him again. Thus far, I haven't.

But then one of the guys from the other band's rushes in all breathless excitement.

"There's a fight outside!!!"

Of course there is, the Boston Red Sox lost 19 to 6 and the collective consciousness of the Chowder Nation will buckle, embrace and internalize this fucking loss like it was them out on that field. But everyone sort of turns to look at me. "Well, let's see what's going on."

And we do.

The scene: two guys are screaming all Eminem-like at some skate kid from the club. You know these white guys are waving their fucking hands like they're in a rape video and calling everybody bitches and as I stand behind our Chevy loading shit in the trunk I couldn't be more amused. Especially since me and the bass player from Conifer are big fight fans. I mean UFC fight action. So while this is like Showtime at the Apollo, it'll have to do for an amusing few before we beat it out of here.

So's I'm standing there by the ass of the car and just smiling away at amateur night. Guys slapping each other, maddogging and all the other posturing that's part of what guys do when they don't want to fight, until one of the guys whirls and turns to me, out of a crowd of 20 people, and says those magic words....

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?

And it's like the last bingo ball dropped into place and I'm gonna win the toaster AND the toaster oven. I mean I mouth the words, "ME?" And point to my chest. I am incredulous that in this whole wide fucking world that the thing I most needed was the thing that was being given to me now. I mean how often does that happen?

And the guy says "YEAH, YOU... BITCH!!!!"

And I start laughing and say to him, "If you want to fight me all you have to do is say ONE MORE WORD TO ME...."

And amazingly, that is to say, predictably, he says, "WELL COME ON...BITCH!!!"

And I step up from the street where I'm standing and in that second I can see that he can see that he miscalculated. He was counting on the Odd Man Out syndrome whereby he could easily pick off the anomalous much more readily. Let's get the little Negro. Who when he steps out of the street and up on the curb is a full five inches taller, and about 30 pounds heavier than the erstwhile white ghetto boy who was "keeping it real."

I measured him off and hit him with three right crosses that spun him around, then bodied up on him and circled into two hooks. One to the front of his face, the other to the side of his head. I can feel his body sag and I'm standing so close to him that what I want is for him to display continued signs of resistance so I can continue...but I feel nothing but resignation and when I back up off of him I wait and there is nothing from him. Nothing. He backs up off of the wall I've punched him into and just turns and walks away. Not too fast. Not too slow. But I can feel the blood lust rising and now having to ebb and I'm almost sad to see him go. Until I remember his friend.

And I remember his friend about the same that time his friend remembers his friend, realizes that he's alone and starts to negotiate now anew. I mean he's being pretty funny.

"WHAT?!? NOW YOU GONNA HAVE HIM KICK MY ASS?!?! YOU'RE ALL GONNA KICK MY ASS?!?! FOR WHAT?!?! FOR MY DRUGS?!?! MY DRUGS?!?! OK...YOU WANT MY DRUGS?!? HERE, THEN, HERE!!!! TAKE THEM!!! TAKE THEM!!!!"

And he starts throwing little white pills at the crowd and heavens to betsy if this ploy doesn't work. I scoop them up, tell him to hold still so I can take a picture of him for this very Tour Diary and John Altoff from Conifer reminds me that streetfighting is against the law and suggests we depart.

So we make plans to do so. Money jammed into one sock, pills unknown jammed into the other.

We breathe a little easier when we get to an IHOP on the outskirts of town but we pull up, as luck would have it, right in the middle of another fight.

Two groups of guys. One with three chicks plus a Prince Valiant. One with three guys.

Prince Valiant warns in what possibly is the world's worst warning line, "hey man. You don't want to mess with me. I'm an underground cage fighter...."

And the other Chowds just lose it and in fake Russian accents start mercilessly mocking the guy.

"OOHHHHH....a CAGE fighter...underground. So you fight in cages under the ground...with SQUIRRELS?!?!"

And I start laughing again. But this time I am ignored. If this isn't the high point of the tour I don't know what is. (In literary terms we call this FORESHADOWING).

The best line of the evening belonged to NIKO though:

"What drug was that guy on that would make you get your ass kicked and then throw the drug that got your ass kicked at the people doing the asskicking?"

WASHINGTON, D.C.: THE INCIDENT & THE MOTHERFUCKERS WHO CAUSED IT.

At this point there's been so much written about this that we don't believe we can possibly do anything but let others tell you what happened. Herewith is the promoter's account.

The OXBOW Stories are True
Posted By:
snailhook/SCOTT VERRASTRO
Posted On:
10/21/2004 2:53:10 PM

Sorry for the wait. I`ve been insanely busy working and promoting the festival, and then Paik got their van broken into on Tuesday night after they played the Warehouse. Needless to say, it's been a long and draining week. Enjoy:

Sunday night was easily one of the most intense, complex experiences I've ever had not just as a booker or as an audience member, but as a human being interacting with others. To see OXBOW live is unlike anything you'll ever experience, as Eugene Robinson is one extremely difficult individual to comprehend. When you witness the Oxbow spectacle live, there is a heightened sense of unpredictability and impending danger that permeates the atmosphere. To be honest, there is just no way to control every situation and circumstance that may arise, even if you try to avoid anything that will disgruntle Eugene. As the booker and manager of Sunday's show, I did everything I could to prevent anybody from getting harmed, but what happened was basically unavoidable.

Mr. Red mentioned in a previous post that a Dixie Witch/Oxbow bill was a recipe for disaster (or something similar to that). I didn't think so, so after I booked Oxbow first and the Dixie Witch/Amplified Heat tour came along, I figured I'd pair them up, since Dixie Witch had previously been booked by Oxbow's booker, Tone Deaf Touring. Meatjack is also represented by Tone Deaf. I thought, "Hey, might as well keep it in the family," especially for an act as volatile as Oxbow. I mean, who else am I going to stick on a bill with Oxbow? A doom metal band? A Dischord post-punk band? Also, when I first booked the show, Oxbow were going to perform as their usual quartet. Downsizing to a duo would considerably alter the mood and flow of the show. Perhaps I could've gone the experimental/noise route, but those bands don't draw, and I had a fairly high guarantee to cover.

Speaking of which, I find it amusing (not to mention annoying) that Oxbow asks for a certain amount of money when they barely drew anybody to the show. There might have been three or four people there specifically for Oxbow. The rest came for Dixie Witch and Meatjack. However, this is something I couldn't control, as I signed a contract, which meant that I had to cover the difference if the guarantee was not reached at the door. I ended up taking a significant bath, and I felt pretty shitty for not being able to give the other four bands a single dollar, despite them being the reason for 30 people being there. I'm completely to blame for losing money and I took the risk, but that won't stop me from thinking how arrogant it is of Oxbow to ask for such a significant amount of money, especially when their draw is miniscule and Eugene creates an atmosphere in which audience members, as well as band members and club staff, may possibly be injured.

That also brings me to clause #24 in Oxbow's rider, which clearly (well, as clearly as can be) delineates what actions Oxbow is and isn't responsible for. Of course, I knew about their reputation beforehand, and after reading the rider, I was still willing to book them and hope nothing harmful would happen. I bet most clubs would not even think about dealing with this kind of garbage. Here is #24 again:

"Venue is solely responsible for the safety and security of club employees, patrons, and performers. Venue will maintain a safe environment for employees, performers, and patrons. venue will provide a secure environment on stage and in all provided areas such as back stage rooms and provided sleeping areas. Oxbow accepts no responsibility (financial or otherwise) for the well-being of patrons or club employees who are injured, maimed or killed while performing their proscribed jobs, or while dancing, thrashing, stage-diving, moshing, slamming, climbing, swinging, crushing, drinking, performing sexual acts, ingesting mind or body altering chemicals, fighting, or who enter the stage area during the performance of Oxbow without authorization from a member of Oxbow immediately before entering the stage area. During Oxbow performance, no member of venue staff, the audience, the press, or any other persons excepting Oxbow and Oxbow support crew shall enter the stage area without approval from a member of Oxbow immediately prior to entering. During the performance, Oxbow can take no responsibility for any actions that occur involving persons who enter the stage area without immediate authorization from Oxbow. Any persons entering the stage during Oxbow`s performance may be perceived as threatening to Oxbow and band`s crew and Oxbow can take no responsibility for self-defensive actions against any unauthorized persons on the stage during Oxbow`s performance."

Anyway, on to the show itself. It was a strange night to begin with, as Dixie Witch and Amplified Heat were running late from Philadelphia, and Oxbow were running late from Portland. Eugene called around 8pm and said they were still two hours away. Right there, they already broke #4 of their contract (which stated that they were to be there by 8pm), and as I was going to buy them food, this breach of contract was affected because I was only able to do that if they had arrived on time. I didn't think anything of it, because I don't usually give a shit if a band is running late. This only became an issue when Eugene later argued with me over food money. Food money! More on this later, but it really goes to show what kind of a human being you're interacting with here.

Oxbow arrived midway through Amplified Heat's set, at approximately 10pm. As their contract stipulates, I gave them their bottle of red wine. I also told Niko I'd buy them something to eat afterwards, as they were running really late. This was not specifically in the contract, so my promise couldn't technically be accounted for. I made extra sure to treat them well, as I did not want to piss Eugene off. Niko seemed like a real pleasant guy, quite different from Eugene. Eugene was also fairly pleasant, but there is something about him that is unsettling, an air of intensity and power and even intimidation. This is not a guy you want to fuck with, and I certainly was going to do everything I could to avoid any sort of confrontation.

I also offered to let them stay at my house, but Eugene asked if he could have a separate room. I already had The Last Vegas staying over, so I told him I couldn't really provide that.

But after Dixie Witch finished, Eugene and Niko set up. I turned down all the bright lights and raised the red lights to create a dark, mysterious mood. I made sure everything was cool with them before they began, and everything was fine. They started without any sort of announcement. They didn't need one.

After the first song, they basically cleared the room, from 30+ to about 10, maybe 15 at the most. The rock crowd wasn't digging it, but there were a few who were held enrapt by the fascinating, frightening, primal, and raw performance. I was standing front and center for most of the set since I wanted to make sure that there were no altercations between the audience and Eugene, which didn't seem likely considering the amount of people watching and who they were. As Eugene slowly stripped and menacingly sang, the room emptied out and the mood changed considerably.

About 20-25 minutes into the set, I noticed Eugene saunter over to stage left, where Adam Arling of The Last Vegas and Jim from Amplified Heat were standing. I did not hear them talking, but apparently, Eugene was bothered by it. Some words were exchanged, but all I caught was Eugene confronting Jim with �You have something to say to me?� Jim replied but I could not hear what he said, but whatever he said led to Eugene asking Jim if he thought he could take him on. This is where Jim was not utilizing his mental capabilities. Most people would have walked away and out of that situation, but Jim made the mistake of confronting Eugene. I don't think Jim was aware of Oxbow's history at all. If he was, I'm sure he would have bailed.

Anyway, Eugene jumped off stage and got right up in Jim's face and confronted him. Jim made the first move by pushing Eugene, and Eugene went apeshit on him and grabbed him and threw him to the ground. This all took place in about ten seconds, and by the time Eugene and Jim were on the floor and a few people (including myself and a couple of guys from Amplified Heat) were in the process of separating them, I heard Jim say, �Get your hands off my neck, motherfucker, I've got a knife.� Or something to that extent. When knives are mentioned, this is usually when a manager has to stop the show, and we decided to end Oxbow's set and put Jim outside and away from Eugene so nothing else would occur.

Of course, the minute after Jim went outside, Eugene was calm and logical and willing to argue his side of the story. He felt disrespected by Jim and Adam talking near the stage. Adam later told me that they were merely talking about gear, but he knew to shut the fuck up as soon as Eugene glared at them. Jim didn't know better and talked back, which caused Eugene to feel further disrespected.

A normal human being would be annoyed but would not react violently to disrespect, especially disrespect as trivial as this. However, Eugene is far from a normal human being. He is smart and he is violent and he is monstrous. Oxbow's contract specifies all of this shit, so he wasn't technically wrong. What was debatable is determining the stage area and whether Eugene had the right to confront Jim. Eugene told me he didn't mind if people talked in the back of the room, but he feels disrespected if people are talking near the stage area. While Adam and Jim were certainly near the stage, they were not on the stage nor in front of Eugene. Nor did I think they were being unreasonably loud. At any rate, I did not feel like debating the dimensions of the stage area and I just wanted to give them their money and get it over with.

Eugene is definitely the kind of person who is looking for a fight. He claims he doesn't start them, but he is certainly looking for them. He revels in it. After what happened, I realized it takes very little to set him off and for him to find a reason to fight. And he will even use logic to argue why he started the fight. It's pretty astounding and challenging to deal with.

I spent the majority of Meatjack's set examining the contract and discussing with my staff what to do with Oxbow and the money. At that point, I knew that I was going to lose a good amount from my own pocket to reach their guarantee, and the last thing I wanted to do was give them even more for food, especially since they arrived so late. I also had promised Dixie Witch and Amplified Heat meals, since they weren't going to make a dollar from the door.

After the show was over and everybody started loading out, I gave Eugene the money and then we argued about the food money. This led to us calling the booker in the middle of the fucking night. Normally, I would not care about such petty things, but I was completely tapped out financially and felt that Oxbow didn't deserve a meal from my own pocket. After a few minutes of ridiculous bickering, we convinced them to take the guarantee and go home.

I have to admit that it was sort of exhilarating to see the shit go down, but it truly was a nightmare to deal with. I stand my ground that I will not book Oxbow again, unless I have the money to lose and the staff to take care of possible problems. I'll definitely see them live again. I also don't think anything would have occurred had Oxbow played as a full band, as they were initially supposed to do. The altercation would not have happened because Oxbow would usually drown out conversation.

I also don't regret putting this show together. A little drama spices up everybody's life, right?

I took Dixie Witch and Amplified Heat to a diner afterwards and all of those guys were real gentlemen. They all liked playing in DC and at the Warehouse Next Door, and I assured them they'll be back. Next time, though, they won't be sharing a bill with a dude who's into submission fighting."

AND THEN THIS FROM THE ASSHOLES IN AMPLIFIED HEAT:

http://www.amplifiedheat.com/index.php?p=news&m=noflash

10.20.2004 The Texas Trio Tour has been great so far. Great big thanks to the Dixie Witch, Moses, Mauro, David, and Arclight records. We would also like to thank everyone who has been kind enough to let us in their homes and allow us to crash and shower. Dixie Witch have a huge and loving family all across the nation and we are blessed to be part of it. Once again, thanks to everyone who has come out, yelled, hollered, bought us drinks, bought merch, and supported this tour. Much profound love for you all. On another note, Amplified Heat would like put in their thoughts on the whole thing that went down in D.C. We have never heard of Oxbow, therefore there is no opinion on what they do. However, if Eugene is the sole representation for Oxbow, you are in for the biggest load of shit. Don't waste your time! Eugene has shown a lack of professionalism and musicianship. Rock shows get rowdy. Rock shows have energy. People have conversations at rock shows. Rock shows are about the love, the energy, and the positive interaction between an artist and the audience. If you are not getting the attention you want, be a real artist and continue the show. Eugene lacks the integrity to be considered a musician. You are not Axl Rose, you are not GG Allin, and if you were, you still have no right to think that your are excused from starting shit with people. I recall 4 out of maybe 50 people who actually came out for "Oxbow." Eugene, if you are that grand of a star, you shouldn't have to tag "Oxbow" on to your bill, and most importantly, you wouldn't have to use violence against members of the crowd to make your show worthwhile. You just didn't fuck with a member of the audience. You fucked with a member of a huge and loving family across the country. You dicked the Last Vegas, Amplified Heat, Dixie Witch, and Meatjack out of well deserved pay for their ENTERTAINMENT, something you obviously have no clue about. You are not rock and roll. You are not a musician. You are a disgrace to the music scene. We would like to thank everyone for their support on this matter. Feel free to contact us on our guest book if you have anythnig to say. God Bless and we will see you in Austin on November 17th at Room 710 with the Sword and our labelmates, RPG. Love, Amplified Heat.

EUGENE comments:

"Do you want to fucking fight me?"
"Uh, NO. NO."
"Good. Well shut the fuck up then."
And then thinking a bit, it must have not set quite right with him and was pretty solely responsible for his 100-foot leap into total fucking stupidity as I turned to walk back to finishing the song.
"But I'm not AFRAID of you..."
"So I'll ask you again: 'do you want to fucking fight me?'"

His crime?

Chattering two feet from the stage WHERE I COULD GET AHOLD OF HIM.

"Yeah, come on then BITCH."

And so I stepped off the stage and put my nose on his cheek and said, "well let's start fighting then...."

AND NEXT THING I KNOW....I WAS ATTACKED!!! Well at this point, seeing that the club security was nowhere in site and we felt a clear and present danger had been created by this unruly, knife-toting long hair, well I had no choice but to defend myself. Which I did by punching the offender in the mouth, splitting his lip. He then leaped into my arms at which point I used what's officially called AN ULTIMATE HEAD-N-ARM and took him down to the ground. I was then subsequently attacked by audience members who I needed to remind were creating a situation that was going to result in their friend, JIM, being killed.

They let go. I let him go and as he fled screaming I reminded him of the sagest of all possible pieces of wisdom

DISRESPECT BEGETS DISRESPECT.

The last I saw him he was hiding in his band's van, peeking over his amp and glowering at me from about 25 feet away. At this point I had my Walther PPK pistol in my pocket and was wondering if I'd have to use it to further defend myself from the men in DIXIE WITCH who were annoyed that we wouldn't share the money with them.

They said when we came to Texas that we should "Look out." I was going to shoot him right then but then Scott started arguing with me about the $20 food buyout. I laughed and laughed. And argued and argued. And watched Dixie Witch try to work up their nerve to do something, anything.

But, nothing.

It's nights like these when the love is flowing so heavy that you want it to be like this forever. And ever.

And ever.

SAL from SKULLGAME.COM calls right after the show and says, "two nights, two fights...the stakes are too high for you to not go for the hat trick." And so I do.

THE SIDEBAR TAVERN IN BALTIMORE, MD: A TOWN OF NAKED ASS

Well, pulling into Baltimore all I seem to be thinking of is: Two night, two fights. The stakes are too high...

Indeed.

We go to the laundry to do some wash before the show where despite my discretion I get spotted by some guy as I disrobe behind a washing machine and the guy starts screaming

"AHHH... IF ONLY BUTT FOR A MINUTE...."

This is Baltimore.

Anyways once at the club we're reminded of the fact that there is one guy in the audience who was in the audience from last night. He is letting us stay at his house. He is, obviously insane.

But we play. Twenty people in the house. Cool opening bands. But I am preoccupied because I know that this evening will bear the third son of stupidity up and into my arms and it doesn't occur to me who it is until I hear Niko say to the sound guy with obvious pique in his voice.

"Could you fix that?"

The THAT in question was the huge amounts of feedback coming from the PA.

And the sound guy in that inimitable sound guy fashion shrugged his shoulders, pointed to his ears with that universal "what are you saying?" sign.

So naturally he was the one. And he interrupted the next song to continue with his fumblingly stoned attempts to do his job and so I put the mic back in the stand and start to head back toward the back when I see the guy we're staying with running back to the booth and then I hear Niko say to the guy

"Just turn the PA off. OFF!"

Better no PA then bad PA.

Robbed.

Robbed of my fucking trifecta.

Well at least I get to finish the show.

We stay at the dude's house who runs a cool record label and had a great house and I'm nostalgic like a motherfucker as I used to spend time in this part of the country as a kid and so I am filled with longing the entire time.

But the question remains: if I get into a fight in NY does that count?

In any case Niko drags us to the Martin Guitar factory in Bethlehem, Penn., and we get in very late to NY because of his flight of fancy. Moreover I miss my meeting with IAN from FUGAZI, a damned decent fella. But if nostalgia is my enemy perhaps this is for the best....

North Six, Brooklyn: THE INSANE ITALIAN REMAINS. INSANE.

It's the end and sorrow hurts my heart. Mezzanine 3, the band that played with us last night is playing with us again. I apologize for not getting their name exactly right. But such is the wages of IT ALL.

And if I thought Baltimore made me nostalgic, being a native New Yorker, it almost murdered me here. Almost. I mean the streets everywhere that reminded me of everything...

1) Joe Hamerski
2) Bedford Ave.
3) Failing my first driving test
4) Hewon Hwang
5) Disco
6) Going to Max's Kansas City to steal tip money from the bar to see James Chance
7) It all.

But we get to the club and my chest is a'heaving. New York makes me want to fuck up my life because it's what New York does when it wants you back. You must pay the price for having left at all. And so I do. A quiet price.

But these morbid self-attentions are shoved off of the table because there's Cooper here from JJ Paradise Player's Club. There's Joel from the UNSANE. Chantal and the star of the evening NINNI from WHITE TORNADO. Who is playing tonight with his new band DEATHPOOL.

He's Sicilian and friends with all of our old friends and so we put his band on the bill. Which was a genius call.

So how you liking New York, Ninni? A llittle different from Catania, eh?

"Eh Eugene. I fucking HATE New York. I mean they arrest you for EVERYTHING here. For drinking, for standing on the street, for fighting. I've been to Riker's Island five times."

The puckish, Jimmy Page-esque Italian smiles quietly.

"Five times? Well that's tough man." And in walk Cooper and his new band MADE FROM BABIES....and the party is on. His singer's purse opens and out tumbles some, um, paraphernalia. She looks at me. I look at her. There is nothing said. And no offer to share anything.

OK.

Deathpool is up first and Ninni's US Maple-esque drum and guitar thing is cool but we're not even half way through his bit. And he's licking the cymbals and he's humping his mic stand and he's singing in a language understood by only him. It's cool.

And it gets better because after all the coolness, that being everybody playing, everybody showing up, and curiously enough, no fights, Ninni marches into full glory.

He starts following me around.

If I'm talking to a girl, like I am, like Liv, he waits until I leave, and follows up with this.

"Eugene... you know he's a FAGGOT, yes?"

"Really?"

"But you...your eyes. They are beautiful. And I am a loser. I stab my heart. But your skin...."

And finally he doubles back into me and he says,

"Oh Eugene, man, you've really got it. THE BLUES, man." And then he starts grabbing his cock and balls and starts advancing on me.

"Yeah, yeah. Ninni. Thanks."

"No, man. You don't understand..." and he rushes me as only a mixed drink drunk can and he's kissing me on the lips, his eyes having gone all soft the way I imagined they had on Riker's Island.

"Hey, hey man..." And I grab his neck and lift him up and away from me and look him into his eyes hoping to blast through the narcotic drool and get to wherever Mr. Drunk has hidden Dr. Jeckyll.

And he apologizes right as his drummer walks up to thank me for putting them on the bill. She seems quite nice.

"So I just want to say thank you..."

"Well thank you..."

And then Ninni starts in..." SHE? She's afraid of me. You fucking bitch. You're fired."

"OK. I have to go."

"Yeah, yeah, go. I never want to see you again. You fucking bitch. YOU ARE THE SHITTIEST DRUMMER in the world. You're FIRED...."

And he goes on and on and it's brilliantly abusive and I somehow sense that this is exactly what the evening needed. Well that and drinks and drinks and drinks and Lower East side bars and then fevered trips through tunnels to Jersey because we're doing WFMU tom'w with Brian Turner and we do and it's great and then we're back on the airplane and into the heart of now.

And, predictably so, all I want to do is die because it's all over and my life never feels as real as it is when it's this unreal.

Because one day we're all going to die and one day this will all pass into history and one day we'll have to all leave not having fucked as many as we would have liked, or drunk more than we would have liked, or never having gotten what we deserved or gotten too much of what we deserved and no matter what, the best we can hope for is that we yank time our way for a bit of time.

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