February 28, 2008
Tour Blog: Omaha — No Country for Old Men
Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 28, 2008 9:22 AM
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Happy Heartland Tour -- The Midwest '08
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Fun fact about Omaha: they only love acoustic-based faux-folk indie rock. They love it from the achingly sincere to the achingly bad, irony-twinged to crappiness-twinged. But the sad fact is, they love nothing else. The Saddle Creek fascists haven’t let a truly rocking act anywhere within the city limits in 15 years. We were to be the first ones, but sadly, that came to a tragic end.
When you walk through the streets of Omaha, one of the first things an outsider notices are unusual TV monitors placed on every corner, in every urine-soaked alleyway, in every public lobby—even, no doubt, in people’s homes. These monitors broadcast the emotionally blank, pasty face of Conor Oberst, a constant reminder of the disappointing figure who runs Omaha from an underground lair/recording studio. His face never leaves the screen—never even seems to blink. There are rumors it’s just a loop, but there are more substantial rumors that, once in awhile, differences crop up. Sometime in October, they say, Oberst turned slightly to his right and began to admonish a “Mrs. Evans” for trying to burn a Sorry About Dresden CD. Nobody knows if he was angry that she was trying to make a pirated copy or literally set it on fire.
Nevertheless, his face remains on those screens 24 hours a day, every day, virtually unchanging. For about 20 minutes each year, the face disappears, replaced with the image of the sagging black-curtain backdrop. Legend has it, this is when he records his albums.
When we arrived in Omaha, we were greeted by a group claiming to be the City Council. A ragged bunch of 20-somethings in thrift-store clothing, stylishly unkempt hair, and mild but irritating lisps, they sat us down in the lobby of Cursive Hall to fill out a brief questionnaire describing the complexity of our sound. It asked a series of multiple-choice questions like “If you use an effects pedal, what is your desired goal?” with answers like “A. TO ROCK ASS!!!, B. To give the $15 Hohner guitar I bought off eBay a sultry chorus to underscore the theme of personal connection in the lyrics, C. Because I like wah-wah, D. I do not use effects pedals/none of the above.”
I let the rest of the band go back to the hotel while I filled out the questionnaire as honestly as possible. Afterward, the City Council read over my answers and gave me harsh looks.
“Mr. McDürchstein,” the chairman said, “your song ‘Little Darlin’’ led us to assume you were an indie-folk group full of irony and self-awareness, not unlike Tenacious D. Did you answer these questions ironically?”
“I’ve never been anything but completely serious about this music,” I replied.
“Well, then, legally, you can’t play here. We might have let your former incarnation, Jupiter Starshine Collective, play, because even non-ironic music can be entertaining if it’s stupid enough, but this…we’re doing this to protect you, Mr. McDürchstein. The natives of Omaha will eat you alive, and Master Oberst—”
A young woman with thick black glasses squeezed his arm suddenly, which shut the chairman up.
“Master Oberst what?”
“Nothing. You’re dismissed,” the chairman said, then whipped out his Blackberry and started texting.
I left Cursive Hall, and on my way down Cuming Street, my cell phone jingled its distinctive “text message” jingle. I flipped it open and read:
From: chairman86@att.netHuh, I thought. I wonder what that means.
To: 818XXXXXXX@att.net
yo man i no it ur stile 2 play neway but he got a army watch out
Just then, I saw a starchy flash pass before my eyes. My gaze followed the mirage-like glimmer into the alley to my right. In it stood a man whose pallid skin and malnourished physique suggested a steady diet of ramen noodles and The Juliana Theory. I stepped carefully into the alley.
“Are you with Master Oberst?” I asked him.
He gazed at me without anything close to emotion, making it difficult to read his face.
“Well, listen, I’m supposed to play a show tonight, but they’re telling me if I do, he’ll raise an army to destroy us. Is that true?”
“Are you Girth McDürchstein?” the gentleman said in a whiny, clearly put-on falsetto.
“Y…eah.”
“Then you will die tonight.”
“You know, I’m sick of people always—”
“YOU WILL DIE!” he roared before disappearing in another flash of ramen-induced lightning speed.
I went back to the hotel and broke the news to the band. They seemed overjoyed.
“This city is fucked up,” Carl said. “I went to go get a meatball sub, and they told me they don’t hurt the lovely pretty things and tried to get me to eat some shit with goat cheese and tofu.”
“And when I went to the gas station, I was assaulted by a woman!” Mikey exclaimed. “Ordinarily, that’s the way I like it, but she was just angry at me for supporting ‘Big Oil.’ Like, how the fuck are we supposed to get around without Big Oil? Are they powering cars with moonbeams and magical pony-based wishes now?”
“So we should go, then?” I asked.
“Yeah, let’s cut our losses,” Riffs said. “This place is a hole.”
“I’ve got a hole!” Margo squealed. Two more days until she’s out of pills.
Just then, somebody knocked on the hotel door. We all froze and eyed it carefully.
“Who’s there?” I asked innocently.
“The Bright Eyes Street Team,” the person behind the door lisped. “We have a proposition for you.”
I opened the door carefully and found a throng of white-skinned, corduroy-clad mutants in the hallway, wavering from either the irritation of the fluorescent lights or the inability to stand up under their own power.
“What do you want?”
“A queen,” said the Street Team guy.
“Wh…at?”
“Every seven years, Master Oberst goes into heat and must mate with an individual who can support his seed. We have found one such individual, very recently.”
“It’s not…me, is it?”
“It is not.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“We require Tilda Swinton.”
“Uh…”
“You are a sell-out Hollywood band from the heart of the Sunset Strip, are you not?”
“Obviously.”
“With your Hollywood connections, it should not be difficult for you to obtain this specimen.”
“What do we get if I do?”
“Your lives.”
“Fair enough. I’ll get her. Meet me at the Meeting Place tonight.” The Meeting Place is a coffee shop in downtown Omaha.
Everyone in the Street Team group nodded simultaneously before shuffling away from our room. I watched them go, chuckling, then slammed the door.
“Okay, guys,” I said, “we gotta get the fuck out of Oklahoma.”
Carl said, “We’re in Nebraska—”
“Whatever. We gotta hit the state line ASAP. Forget Lincoln. We’re just going to drive straight through to Kansas.”
Mikey sighed. “I know a girl up in Lincoln. Hot divorcée. Rebecca Katsopolis.”
“Yeah, well, we all know a girl in Kansas, so…”
“Fair enough,” Mikey shrugged.
We packed and got out of there.
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