Huck & The Handsome Fee

USA 3: Working on Our Tans (California)

Huck — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 06:23:26 +0000

Sunday 29 August. So it’s our last morning in the great state of Oregon but our afternoon promises California like a cocktail lunch. We feel a bit better after some coffee and get back on the road before our aches and pains decide to make themselves at home.
The Cali border proves completely uneventful when we’re informed by the nice lady that our bananas are in fact not contraband. Aw, come on, guys; make it interesting!
Well, here we are. But where are the beaches, where are the babes? Ah, this must be remote, rural California: more flora than you can shit a stake at; civilisation in the form of a greasy spoon run by our Mexican brothers and sisters. Fair enough.
The town of Willow Creek is classic Americana with not much to report apart from a junkyard that has cars with bullet-holes in the windows. Nice. We stop at Ray’s Place for supplies and spy three young hippies who look like they’re on their way to a Devendra Banhart gig; we feel an affinity of sorts but don’t bump into them again, sadly.
Willow Creek Campground is suitably basic, not to mention laid-back, and we’re terribly fond of our little spot at the top of a slope. We have a bench; we have a barbecue; now all we need is a fish…
The creek itself – reached by a slipshod descent through the woods – is part-idyllic boyhood playground and part-horror movie crime scene, the latter part becoming more noticeable the darker it gets. While it’s still light, though, Matt and Tommy have a good go at catching some fish and I examine the evidence of previous visitors: a tin of chewing tobacco; an illegible scrawl on a tree-trunk; a massive fuck-off iron paddle of some kind. Spooky.
Our walk/climb back through the woods is in full darkness so it’s a bloody good thing we thought to bring a torch, though judging by our spluttering exhaustion at the summit we should probably have brought stairlifts as well. Christ.
With the fire going and the pork chops cooking, we realise we haven’t touched our instruments in a week and decide to have a little jam. Our cold hands threaten to fall off after awhile, though, so that’s that.
I’m not convinced that getting stoned is the best way to relieve paranoia about what or indeed who might be lurking in the hideous shadows.
Tommy: “What would be more scary: if you shone the torch over there and saw a bear, or if you saw a—” Me: “DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE.”
Monday 30. The morning after Night Number Two in a Tent is a brutal bitch-slap to our jaundiced forms. Are we not men?
Ah, we’ll get used to it, though we won’t have to get used to it just yet because we’re staying with Anna and Bob Pielock in Sacramento tonight. Win!
Northern California looks a lot like Southern Oregon, to be honest, and we don’t have time to stop and look at the differences we know must be there. We do look forward to our coming week in this legendary state, though.
The Pielocks live in a cosy apartment in suburban Sacramento, which reminds me of Summertown… It has a roundabout! Kind of!
We spend the evening in Old Sac having pitchers and trying to decipher the graffiti covering every surface of Fanny Ann’s; the pitchers make for a slow ramble back across the boards to the parking lot, where we gawp at a swarm of bats. This isn’t something we get to do often.
Back to the apartment for movies, video games and sleep. Civilised!
Tuesday 31. The five of us have breakfast coffees down the road while researching San Francisco online. Bob knows the city fairly well so we’re glad he and his lovely ginger wife are coming with us. Let’s roll!
San Fran is hot and hectic and tommy is understandably unimpressed by the traffic situation. I guess when they designed the city someone spilt coffee on the blueprints and the construction workers took this to mean ‘stick loads of hills and shit in there’.
We find the Globetrotters Inn on Ellis Street, park up, and are immediately beset by bums. Great.
The hostel’s pretty cool but we don’t hang around long; instead we go for a walk across town and check out the piers and the famous sea lions before stopping for a beer at Wipeout, where I get stung with a $28.50 bill for three fucking pints. Classic n00b tourist mistake… Oh well, here come the Pielocks. What shall we do?
Oh my Jesus Christ monkey balls… Super fun time!
Somehow the five of us manage to fit into a single cab to Haight Street, where we stroll the old stomping ground of the Beats and find some good bars with decent if curious jukeboxes…
The locals are friendly and Matt and I are embarrassed to beat them in several rounds of pool. Those oversize balls are easy targets!
I’ve no idea how we got back to the hostel but we’re all in one piece. So far so good, San Fran.
Wednesday 01 September. Our fellow hostellers are prissy douchebags who use words like ‘chakra’ and bore each other with Carrie Bradshawisms so we abandon the common room pretty sharpish and go to Union Square, where we’re met by the Pielocks and some precocious birdlife. The square’s right in the thick of it but we and the other shade-seekers are quite serene; some are even asleep. I dig, I dig.
The five of us have lunch at a vintage diner (complete with a rockabilly couple on the next table) before Anna and Bob go back to their hotel and we Fee three head to Berkeley. Take it easy, guys!
Ah, so this is where all the really weird people end up when they’ve gone off the scale and the city wants rid of ‘em: a group of Gummo types sitting on the sidewalk are either a homeless family or a performance art troupe; in the park, a teen throws his shoes at a seagull and scans the grass for something he may or may not have lost. We take in as much of these scenes as we can before going to the cinema; we’re feeling a bit ropey and as a medicinal measure have decided to watch a film…
Genius.
Alright, time do some flippin’ work: Beckett’s have an open mic so we hole up there with coffees and wait for the host to arrive.
When he does he puts us on early and lets us play three songs, which suits us fine; the place is packed from the beginning. To our surprise we go down a storm and sell some CDs so we stick around with spirits lifted and watch the other acts, who are pretty good.
The bittersweet icing on the cake is that the landlord wants to book us for a feature set, which we would do if we were sticking around in Berkeley for a few weeks rather than leaving town tonight… We appreciate the offer, though!
We drive all night through the deep Californian unknown until Tommy has had enough and we stop at a beach, where we try to stare out the creeping tide before going to sleep in the car. Tomorrow: Monterey…
Thursday 02. What a funny old town. It reminds me of North Bend, in that I can’t quite believe people actually live here; if they do, why haven’t they made a mess of the place and done a load of crimes?
We check in at the Super 8 before having lunch on the old fisherman’s wharf, where we admire some daft pelicans. We really wanna visit the famous Monterey Bay Aquarium but it is hell of expensive so we wander round looking at stuff like the first brick house. Charming.
Monterey is very quiet on a Thursday night (it reminds Matt of his hometown of Thame) and the only place that has a pulse is the Britannia Arms so we swallow our pride and endure the quizmaster’s mockney accent until some local girls take pity on us and keep us entertained at their house by the beach. Cheers!
Friday 03. We leave Monterey via Big Sur for Carmel, where there’s an open mic; we get there good and early and have time to wander round the beautiful town but don’t bump into Clint Eastwood, sadly. Sadder still is that the open mic ends up being a real non-event so we don’t even bother playing. We’re glad to have seen Carmel, though, and get back on the road for another epic night drive.
Saturday 04. We feel fucking awful this morning but soldier on hoping our descent into hipper, happeninger California will revive us.
Our first stop is Santa Barbara, where we have Eggs Benedict at Joe’s. This is a good start, though we see very little of the town before heading on. Sorry, Babs.
With trepidation we approach Los Angeles eyeing the faint green cloud above the city… We’ve had largely negative reports of LA from friends and strangers but can’t possibly achieve a fair judgement of the place in a single day. I’m pessimistic because of what I’ve heard about the crime, the pollution and the demographic but can’t pretend I don’t love such quintessential LA figures as Charles Bukowski and The Doors. It’s the latter icons’ resonance I sense the most as we spend the entire afternoon on their formative canvas of Venice Beach, where we play frisbee, get sunburnt and don’t actually feel out of place. Strange.
At sunset we end up on Sunset Strip eating vast pizzas opposite The Viper Room. The vibe I get is considerably less friendly than the free-for-all of Venice and although we’ve had a pleasant day I’m happy to be only passing through.
We make San Diego in good time but our bubble is burst when we plough headlong into the gridlocked jock-hole that is the city centre. Perhaps we should have expected this from a Saturday night in a collegiate town but it’s a dubious introduction to SD and keeps us tetchy while we drive around desperately trying to find a room.
And now the car’s spewing steam and oil! Wrongette, don’t make us change you…
Eventually we get lucky at the Padre Trail Inn and huff and puff ourselves to sleep. Bah humbug.
Sunday 05. We get up just in time for checkout and drive to the Budget depot on Pacific Highway, where Matt and I unpack a small flat’s worth of crap from Wrongette while Tommy deals with the clerk, who turns out to be a funny camp dude and exchanges the car no questions asked. Tommy’s getting good at this!
Our new motor’s a red Toyota Camry so we christen her Wongette. Geddit?
After a brief false alarm about there being no port for the iPod, we fire up the engine and let Alex Chilton make a mockery of the morning’s serious business; next stop: the Porto Vista hotel…
Cor, this place is well plush. Not sure about this tedious and expensive valet parking business, though. What are we – heiresses?
We unpack our bags and flatulent backsides in the room, stick some laundry on and hit the town for an afternoon survey of potential open mics, eventually settling on Cafe Libertalia because it looks like a winner with its cosy backroom and promising PA…
When we return in the evening however the night doesn’t quite go as we’d hoped: the standard of performers is unpredictable and tiresome and we’re made to wait until the end to play, with no bar to keep us busy. The people are very friendly, though, and the host lets us know he appreciates our patience. Unfortunately our performance is sloppy and unremarkable and we don’t sell any CDs. Deflated and sober, we buy some cheap whiskey and get merry at the hotel before heading into Little Italy for some Labor Day weekend revelry.
It’s weird enough that this place is called The Princess, but weirder still that there is a portrait of Princess Di listening in on our conversation. Why do we keep ending up in these British theme bars?
The barmaid recommends a local bar called The Waterfront so that’s where we go; it looks a bit chavvy but we’re determined to rescue our evening by any means possible…
We think we’ve hit the jackpot when we carry our cheap pitcher of Anchor Steam into the unoccupied pool room but are scuppered by a surly Philly girl who barges in and starts making up rules about who gets to play and when, while her friends huddle in the corner and mouth “sorry”. Tommy’s dumbfounded and furious, having already put his 75 cents into a free table, but soon finds himself in awe of this chick’s formidable arrogance. Eventually she does thaw a little and then it’s just a matter of Matt wiping the floor with her twice before we can leave feeling we’ve won the argument. Nice to meet you, Kim!
Monday 06. Today equals yesterday minus moving/open micing oh but plus we do meet this one guy in the hotel elevator who thinks we’re the greatest and stumbles back to his room a few hours later to inform his poor semi-conscious friend that “I just partied with the Rolling Stones!” Right on, California.

USA 2: Fire Walk with Fee (The North-West)

Huck — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 00:57:10 +0000

Monday 23 August. We rise early and to our relief the day is cool and overcast. Some good old-fashioned English weather is exactly the friend we need for the journey ahead.
Checkout is at noon, whereupon we make brief but solemn utterances of thanks to our first and perhaps last American home.
On our way to the station we forget to turn onto Halsey and instead continue down Ralph as if heading out for another night in Brooklyn… About face, boys; stiff upper lip and all that.
Matt and I embark on tense Midtown missions to Lloyds and Barclays, respectively, but it’s pointless; they’re corporate branches that have nothing to do with UK banking. For fuck’s sake… To the airport!
Not on an empty stomach, though… Burger King? Yeah, we won’t regret that at all!
Bus journey = oh my god we are like sardines except instead of brine it’s BP oil.
La Guardia is straightforward enough until we learn that our Seattle flight is delayed and we have to stop/change in Denver. Yawn. The upside however is that we get a discount on the extortionate baggage fees. N’way!
WE INTERRUPT THIS TEDIOUS, BLOW-BY-ACCOUNT OF AIR TRAVEL TO BRING YOU A TASTELESS JOKE: horse walks into a bar, barman says “why the long face?” horse says “aids.” HAPPY NOW?
The flights are surprisingly painless and we are treated well by Midwest Airlines. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I recommend them but I wouldn’t kick ‘em out of bed at 10,000 feet.
We arrive at Sea-Tac to discover that the shuttle bus company let us book seats for a time at which they don’t even run. Wow. Taxi it is, then.
The exhilarating night ride into Seattle is only slightly undermined by the $40 fare and the driver’s assertion that “this [Chinatown] is a rough area, guys”. Ah, it doesn’t look so bad apart from the creepy guys creeping around creepily.
We check in at the American Hotel on South Kings Street (not a hotel at all but a hostel) and chat to some Antipodeans in the common room while the management prepare our room. We’re pretty dazed after our continent-crossing shenanigans but glad to have arrived in a fresh environment; obviously there is a change in climate but also in atmosphere, which fights the fatigue just long enough to see us to bed with dignity.
Well, with as much dignity as bunk beds afford.
Tuesday 24. Seattle by day is like some kind of too-good-to-be-true utopia in a sci-fi movie, and I’m not just saying that because of the Space Needle; I mean I’m nervous about smoking a cigarette, let alone stubbing it out anywhere, in case the natives turn and sacrifice me to their Robot Monster Lord.
Seriously, though, it’s a beautiful city and a fine place to mark our trio’s one-week point. We walk along the seafront basking in the calm relative to NYC’s cacophony, and on the boardwalk I strum some chords for my new friend the Pacific Ocean. Sweet.
By chance we stop in at the 5-Point Cafe to find it staffed by friendly metal chicks and we end up having quite a few cheeky afternoon beers. Ehhh… We leave with some pointers and regroup at the hostel before heading out for our first night proper in the city.
Afternoon beers make daft lads of grown men and we conquer Capitol Hill with a giggle. Some bum dude remarks that “you guys make me horny for some girls”. Whatever you say, man!
We like the look of Bembo’s but D’OH Tommy’s forgotten his ID. Like a true dude however he insists that Matt and I go in and get a drink while he goes and fetches his passport. Fair play.
The first of our now dreaded Old Crows go down like shotgun blasts to our grungey heads.
It’s not before Tommy’s been back for two more rounds that we realise we could be in the basement playing TABLE FOOTBALL.
…Ha! The UK trumps the US in round one. Epic.
Round two fails to materialise when I make an Alan Partridge-style faux pas by lumping Mexicans in with North Americans. SORRY.
Ironically our mirth isn’t entirely poisoned until Matt knocks heads with some white supremacists during a kind of oblique pool-game sting in the next bar… What those fags want are some nice big black cocks up their arses.
Bedtime!
Wednesday 25. Checkout time again already? Eesh… Oh well, at least we get to pick up the car today!
On the train to Sea-Tac we befriend an insane Hempfester called Dock, who forces medicinal marijuana into our hands and has us pose with him holding a signed copy of our EP while the other passengers concentrate on the scenery with all their might. Oh dear.
At the Sea-Tac office of Budget car rental, Tommy registers with a driving license he’s only just realised has expired…
But they don’t notice! YES.
In rabid anticipation of our imminent stop at North Bend (aka Twin Peaks), we christen our car Ronette. (FYI, she’s a black Chevrolet Impala with all the trimmings. Sweet.)
Tommy gets to grips with the new motor; Matt consults; I look out the window and coo.
After a scenic drive through Washington state we arrive at North Bend and freak out. We love the motel but waste little time before visiting Twede’s Cafe for breakfast burgers.
THUMBS UP! We’ll be back for pie and coffee…
Our first visit to Snoqualmie Falls and its neighbouring attractions does not disappoint and we end up stopping again at least twice during our love-spastic rounds of the area… “Look at the size of those grasshoppers!”
Perhaps ironically, the trestle bridge on which the original Ronette was found is inhabited by (I shit you not) a bunch of teenage cheerleaders who are diving into the water. Oh my… We worry the approach of three old hairy British dudes might rain on their parade but they’re totally sound and encourage us to join in heckling this one girl who’s climbed to the top only to suffer a fit of vertigo. Madness.
She jumped! And survived! Hooray!
Our car experience ain’t complete without tunes so we stop at a hardware store to buy a cable thingy for Matt’s iPod… But wait – what should we listen to first? Let’s have something British! Let’s dance.
Now back to Twede’s for some of that cherry pie and damn fine coffee!
Okay, look at it this way: wouldn’t it be more stupid not to drive to the woods in the middle of the night and get stoned while listening to some very apt and Fee-seminal music?
We return to the motel in not too bad a state and tool up for our first and only night out in North Bend… By night the place is quite serene, like a scale-model town or indeed a television set after hours. This is not to say that it doesn’t have a pulse; it may be unassuming but it doesn’t feel lifeless… I could totally live here.
We stop in at the NBBG and although it’s a bit upmarket for us we’re teased (and I mean teased) out of our shells by the barmaid Tara, who guesses we’re Twin Peaks nerds and tells us about her life growing up in the town. She serves us cheap PBRs and introduces us to carnitas before sending us down the road to Sure Shot, where she promises to join us later.
Ah, now, this is more like it. Jukebox: check. Pool tables: check. Yokels: check… Shots?
Everything is going swimmingly until Matt and I almost fall off our chairs giggling at the Shakeweight commercial on the TV; it’s serious fist-biting times and our crude spasms attract the attention of a surly fat dude who makes cock-sucking gestures and mouths “faggot” at Matt. Uh-oh.
Tara saves the day somewhat by showing up and explaining to our clenched nerves that the guy is North Bend’s own Daffyd and that he’s probably more interested in giving us a pounding than in giving us a pounding. What a…relief.
I still wanna live here, though.
Thursday 26. We’re sad to be leaving NB so soon but yesterday was the greatest and we can’t complain. Besides, we’re goin’ to the frickin’ beach. Ha.
To get there we have to go through a number of strange little ‘cities’ including Aberdeen, hometown of Kurt Cobain. Rest assured it is well fucking weird and unlike most of our previous stops, which have English equivalents of a kind (NYC is London in heels; Seattle is Brighton with a steady job), to me this place is a real enigma.
There’s something poetic in the colours fading on the exterior of almost every house, store and nondescript shack, and the interiors are peopled by folks who might as well speak their own language; it’s as if we’re tumbleweed rolling through a coastal resort that went bust generations ago and was inherited by the staff, who shrugged their shoulders and went fishing. I like their style.
As if Aberdeen wasn’t weird enough, our first real interaction with the Pacific comes in the form of Ocean City Beach, an ethereal scumbling of land, sea and sky that makes the view from our Atlantic coast look like a diagram in comparison. Oh plus there’s an awesome dead shark!
Apparently it’s acceptable/possible to drive about willy-nilly on this beach so that is exactly what we do.
THE CAR IS STUCK.
Don’t worry; these dudes are gonna pull us out with their truck. All they gotta do is find somewhere to tie the ratchet strap…
THE CAR IS BROKEN.
Oops… One of these roll-bars is bent and has tilted the back-left wheel so now the tracking on the steering is out by like 30 degrees… Oh shit what do we do what do we do.
We decide that because the car still drives we’ll take it to the Budget depot in Portland the next day and in the meantime get our story straight. It’ll be fine.
Our evening’s journey isn’t particularly exciting until we emerge from the winding mountain roads to see Astoria Bridge looming out of the blue-black fog. And on the crossing we spy through our rainy windows a yellow half-moon in cloud. The North-West is amazing.
We’re lucky and relieved to get a room at the Lamplighter Motel, where we kick back with dinner prepared by Tommy and laugh off the day’s abnormalities.
Friday 27. Time to face the music. It’s a shame we see so little of Astoria – it’s where they filmed most of The Goonies, after all – but our little beach incident has complicated our itinerary.
On our morning drive through Oregon, I fall asleep and wake up to find that Matt and Tommy have taken me up a mountain. Bloody hell.
We park the car and proceed even farther up the mountain on foot. The threat of bears and snakes is not unreal but the only scary thing we see is a scarily cute chipmunk. The view is incredible, though: scorched brush foregrounding a dizzy vista and so on. Can we go back to the car now?
Portland is reassuringly grimy compared to Seattle and we’re smitten by its gnarly bridges. Sightseeing has to wait, though, until we’ve had Tommy v Budget Round 2. Will they buy his story about a perfectly innocent parking bungle being responsible for the damage?
TOMMY 2 – 0 BUDGET.
Hang on – this new car is the same model but it doesn’t have leather seats, a sunroof, or spoilers. It’s…not right. It’s…Wrongette!
Beggars can’t be choosers and these particular beggars know it’s what’s under a woman’s hood that counts so we climb aboard and take Wrongette into town.
We check in at a proper swish gaff called the Doubletree and take the glass lift up to our room on the top floor. Much to my and Tommy’s delight, the view from our balcony looks very much like the cover of a certain Richmond Fontaine album. Sweet.
Mainstream American television is a cancer of culture and we unplug the TV before the disease spreads to our noble Anglo-Saxon palates.
We take the free tram towards Old Town and stop at the first bar, a place called Satyricon, which plays listenable metal and has a biohazard for a toilet. Now that’s culture.
This place is full of rock chicks and at least one of them has to be a Suicide Girl…
Man, it’s way too busy/cliquey for us to get any attention from anyone, let alone any Suicide Girls, so we turn our attention inward and discuss the coming weeks over a few rounds.
Back at the hotel, we consider a kind of Led Zeppelin routine but lack the props as well as the bandmate with the right body parts. Sigh.
Saturday 28. We leave the Doubletree and go for a wander around Portland’s big old market in the sun. There are quite a few buskers and they’re obnoxious enough to remind me of Cornmarket Street‘s gauntlet of morons. Non-stalgia, if you will.
Mmm chowder.
A survey of some downtown music stores yields nothing in the way of amps but does reward us with a sighting of Dan Eccles selling guitars. Awesome. I wonder if Willy works in the local bookstore…
Likewise our browsing of the outdoor store fails to procure a tent or any sleeping bags but we do find some badass showboy shirts that would look good on Chris Isaak or Thomas Truax. Very new butch, if only we could afford them.
Alright, that’s enough window shopping. Let’s hit the road.
K-Mart’s gotta have camping stuff. Cheap camping stuff, too. But first thing’s first: Tommy wants one of these dinky kids’ fishing rods; Matt likes the look of that Hannah Montana skateboard. Knock yerselves out, boys.
We leave K-Mart with sleeping bags and a tent as well as a rod with bait (a tub of live worms).
Driving driving driving…
Camping! At KOA. This could be make or break…
Appetites roused by tent-pitching, we dine at a real rootsy old-timers’ bar by the water. I order the Bacon Double Burger Monster Cheese Burger (seriously) and Tommy has the Pirate’s Plate, which doesn’t sound as absurd as mine but certainly looks it: they’ve pretty much deep-fried half the Pacific Ocean’s marine life and now Tommy has to put it in his face. Wish I’d filmed this.
Back at the campsite, we hunker down by the fire with some PBRs while Matt ad-libs a ghost story that chills me and Tommy to our cores… “So she went to her husband, right, and told him the house was haunted. He was like, don’t be stupid, the house isn’t haunted. But he was wrong, it was well haunted.” Wish I’d filmed this.

USA 1: Bronx, Brooklyn, Bromance (NYC)

Huck — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 06:56:48 +0000

Tuesday 17 August. Matt and I touch down at JFK at 6pm local time. As far as we’re concerned it’s midnight. And it’s warm… Very warm… Paranoia about US customs guards dissolves after only a brief grilling. If you’re reading this, Officer Aduccio, the bald/glasses look really suits you.
Tommy greets us out of the terminal with a sign reading HUCK AND THE HANDSOME BAT. Nice. We’re glad to be reunited but we have an epic train journey on our hands so let’s get moving eh lads.
Too jetlagged to fully absorb the enormity of being not only in America for the first time but also on a New York frickin’ City subway train. Also remembering the hairy text updates from Tommy during his previous 48 hours in our destination, the Bronx. Indeed the night walk from Hunts Point Avenue to the Best Western hotel on Sheridan Expressway is nerve-wracking, but nothing untoward goes down.
Barman @ Whiskeytown, Manhattan: “What’ll it be?” Me: “Three Buds and three Wild Turkeys, please.” Barman: “Kickin’ chicken? Nice!” Pleased to meet you, America.
Wednesday 18. Pleased to meet you, American hangover. Don’t get carried away, though; we’ve only gotta go and buy some bloody instruments so we can play our first show tonight at Lakeside Lounge, Manhattan… This imperative preys on the mind but has a job on its hands trying to eclipse the hustle and bustle of NYC in the blazing daylight.
The first of our now daily breakfast burgers go down like a terrorist attack on our towering headaches.
Our Craig’s List research has left Matt with some good leads but mine are proving elusive so it’s off to Guitar Center.
To hell with you, expensive-ass Guitar Center.
My first vivid cultural reference comes in the form of Union Square, where we wait among the buskers for the guy who’s gonna sell Matt an old white-body Squier Precision bass. He’s called (ahem) Jason but is no gay cowboy; he’s an awesome 7′ dreadlocked punk and his girlfriend April is a seasoned New Yorker who feels our pain Bronx-wise (no offence, Bronx guys) so puts us in touch with a friend who lets temporary apartments in Brooklyn. Score.
So, Guitar Center, we meet again. But this time you greet me with a guy who’s actually honest/sympathetic and I leave with a nice black Yamaha APX600. It’s reduced because it has some cracks. It’ll have some more.
Back to the Bronx for a costume change.
Union Square again. Matt and I wait for Tommy, who’s picking up drum parts, before heading to the venue. We seem to be waiting quite awhile, though, so Matt goes scouting and leaves me with…Christians! Not just any Christians, either: they sing and play guitars. I go over to them intending to belt out ‘Thinkin’ on a Problem’ in their stupid, well-meaning faces but they win me over almost instantly with a free doughnut. I begin to understand how this country works.
Matt returns in a flap because he can’t find Tommy and we’re late for soundcheck. Flap justified. We decide to go to the venue and hope Tommy does/has done the same… Cue our first New York City cab hailing experience! “FOLLOW THAT…instruction I just gave you.”
Lakeside is cool but it’s dead but we are unknown but more friends could have come but they do have lives of their own but we feel a bit stupid BUT we drink for free.
Underwhelmed but undefeated by our shambolic first gig, we get junk food and get shitfaced. Precedent: set.
Thursday 19. Checkout is 11am. Harsh. But screw you, Best Western; we’re moving to Brooklyn! The apartment isn’t ready yet, though, so we mission to Central Park and have a little jam on a big rock. The local buskers are maybe a bit miffed; I get a weird vibe from one of them, who thinks we’re Australian but is polite enough. Good day to you, mate.
Bit of a nightmare getting all our shit to Brooklyn – we’re virtually transporting our combined body weight in luggage – but it’s worth the slog as the apartment is great and we’ve a good few hours to enjoy putting our feet up. April gets us stoned in the backyard and gives us some Brooklyn pointers (see below) but politely excuses herself when she realises our eyes are coming out our ears.
We’re encouraged to pay a visit to local barbecue chicken salesman Blake on Ralph Street and kinda don’t have a choice when we pass him: he spots us from his yard, where his stall is set up, and insists we stop for a bite. He and his two friends are incredibly friendly and make a point of getting their message across: WELCOME TO BROOKLYN, basically… “We got some white folks in the neighbourhood! Alright!” Would three black people get the same reception in a white area? I doubt it.
After some incredulous Anglo-swooning we make our way to the Catweazle open mic on E 3rd St, where I’m featured artist thanks to friend/host Cal. The people are welcoming but I feel a little out of my depth among some very talented and savvy New Yorkers. They love my Union Square Christians story, though, and seem to enjoy ‘Thinkin’ on a Problem’ a great deal. Secularism rules.
We march down the road to Banjo Jim’s, where we’ve a full band set to be doing (again thanks to Cal). Unlike Lakeside Lounge, this place is pretty busy and we play a cracking set; the boys are on top form and I’m told I am too.
The headline act is a NY chick called Emily who plays Regina Spektor-esque original material as well as some choice covers (Dylan, Young). Her voice is good and piano excellent but her real talent is for working the crowd and we enjoy some US v UK banter.
We make full use of our discount drinks tab and end up getting twatted enough to accept an invitation to the apartment of Emily’s friend Jeff, a sweet old gay dude who plies us with fine whiskeys and thick bongs. Nice try, sweetie-pie, but Brooklyn calls.
Uh-oh. Tommy’s gaydar may be on red alert but his radar is kaput and we need to get home. Arise, Sir Halliday, and wield thy sextant
Nice wieldin’, Matt. Now get rollin’.
…
Friday 20. Urgh. We all feel rotten. Tommy and I are hungry, though, and decide to clear our heads with a trip to Manhattan’s Taco Bell (sorry, Blake). The expedition and nutrition blows our minds however and we retreat pretty sharpish with some quesadillas for Matt, who’s been soldiering on with some work.
Resigned to housebound convalescence, we take up our instruments and work on adapting Springsteen’s ‘Stolen Car’ as well as a fun one of our own. There’s a good band.
The evening returns with its many devils in the form of cheap beers from the late-night corner store over the road. The expression ‘hair of the dog’ stops meaning anything and packs its bags.
Saturday 21. Illness! Bah… I must have caught it off that kid who sneezed on me on the subway. Matt and Tommy roll their eyes knowing they’re probably next and leave me working on the blog while they go for lunch. Sad face.
Late afternoon/early evening, lethargy sets in. Tommy’s having none of it, though, and reminds us we need to see Williamsburg before we leave NYC. Plus, I have to pick up a hardcase from a girl on Wilson Avenue, which is kinda on the way. Avanti!
Said girl on Wilson is a freckled charmer called Lauren with a kitten called Possum. The hardcase is maybe a bit small but it’s only 20 bucks so we take the risk. Lauren gives us the names of some good Will’burg bars; we thank her and proceed on foot to the nearest subway station.
The nearest subway station isn’t bloody near enough so I subject Matt and Tommy to my nervous whiteboy routine: parts of the walk are seriously creepy and I’m very self-conscious. Of course it’s a lot of silly bother for nothing and I survive my journey to the Jefferson Street station.
We get off at Lorimer Street and emerge into the throng of Williamsburg: hipsters, queens, and doormen who don’t care that we have ID but left it at home. Damn. But don’t panic; we’ll just get some food here at Goods Cafe and then try our luck at The Subway Bar, a dive over the road.
Thank fuck for dives. And thank fuck for PBR: it’s cheap and comes with shots. Also the jukebox here is real good but we’ve a lot to see…
Will’burg is harder work than we expected; the bars that aren’t full are a bit wanky for us and we have to do a lot of walking to find the few-and-far-between oases.
Curiosity satisfied, we stumble back to Lorimer and catch the train home…but not before making a scene on the platform. (The video footage I don’t care to watch.)
Sunday 22. Laundry day! And the Ralph Street Laundromat doesn’t know what’s hit it. In fact it doesn’t care so we leave our bundle of rags spinning and go to Crown Fried Chicken (aka ‘Brooklyn’s Kebab Kid‘) for a filthy lunch.
Best BLT ever.
Laundry washed, dried and bagged, we return to the apartment just as a minor monsoon drenches Brooklyn and floods our backyard. Rained off, our afternoon consists of necking instant coffee to a soundtrack of Matt getting fauxnky with his new Fender Twin Mini. Hmm.
Sod the rain; we’re going out. The Lorimer Street dive is quieter on a Sunday night so We Rule The Jukebox OK!
Our company for the first few rounds are the barmaid, who moved here to find acting work, and a veteran employee of Electro-Harmonix, who tells us about new products in the works. Good people.
We roll up our sleeves and venture back into the depths of Williamsburg but get more than we bargained for when we ‘befriend’ a passive-aggressive Dubliner and a Geordie bird with ideas. Our hearts weep for Oxford.
On the subway home we meet a Brooklyner called James, who notices we’re scrutinising our map like it’s a magic eye picture and offers to walk us in the right direction when we get off. On the way to Halsey Street however he announces a change of plan by phoning a friend and telling her he’s bringing three British guys over, okay? Okay.
His friend’s place is nice and she’s happy to have her Lost night interrupted by some found items. Eventually I get thirsty for beer so we leave with James and go our separate ways.
The corner store is CLOSED. Oh well; we’ve a long day tomorrow and no more beer means much more sleep… Goodnight, Brooklyn.

Backstage with The Fee

Bat — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 10:50:19 +0000

Photos by Bat in the most except for the one's he is in...

The Fall @ The Cellar

Bat — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:51:38 +0000

Thanks to Mr Johnny Moto for this one.

Scorned Blues and a touch of Simon Armitage

Bat — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:49:17 +0000

A rare performance with Joe Swarbrick

Preview of selected songs form a performance at Fat Lil’s

Bat — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:45:37 +0000

The sound is insane… but check it out y’all.

Oxford Bands review MySpace tracks July ’10

Bat — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:40:51 +0000

but in this incarnation he is part sensitive folk crooner and part Fred Schneider-style circus ringmaster. This latter side comes out on standout track ‘Passion Man’ in which he and Tamara channel the boy/girl call-and-answer style of the B-52s with amazing brio. The song itself is a campy, grooving joy, with funny, gently subversive lyrics (‘What About Jesus? Well, he’ll never please us’), absurdly danceable drumming, a clean guitar riff that sounds like David Byrne trying to outfunk James Brown and two singers who are clearly having the time of their lives. Good Stuff? Bloody marvellous, more like.

Read the full review here…

The Oxonian Review: Oxford Poetry Systems @ The Jam Factory

Bat — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:39:26 +0000

Many of the numbers in Fee’s repertoire began as written works. Reworking these pieces into songs allows richer and more immediate access to their emotional depth and enlivens the interpersonal drama of their narratives. This is particularly true in virtue of the Fee’s co-vocalists, Humphrey Astley and Tamara Parsons-Baker. Between Astley’s tortured, thespianic vocalisations and Parsons-Baker’s impassioned and gracefully sombre style, these two expertly share the often weighty burden of their material’s characters and themes.

Oxford Music Scene review of Wheatsheaf gig 04/10

Bat — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:37:56 +0000

Incorporating the bassist from Borderville and some blazing vocals from Tamara. ‘Stagger Lee’ is all breakneck country blues, ‘The Fall’ a slowy with a haunting refrain from Tamara, gay cowboy ballad ‘Jason’, the rockabilly ‘Thinking on a Problem’ and then their set burns out with a fearsome ‘Scorched Blues’. Incendiary stuff.”