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March 19, 2008

Tour Blog: Des Moines — Back in Iowa

Written by Girth McDürchstein on March 19, 2008 2:22 PM
Permalink |  Happy Heartland Tour -- The Midwest '08  | Digg It

I thought I’d have a good time returning to my home state for the first time since 2005. Although I’ve built a great life in Los Angeles, with a beautiful wife, and awesome band, and for a short time a daughter, sometimes I miss the old homestead. Sadly, I can’t even get booked in my own hometown of Cedar Rapids, but in a few days we will play Iowa City. But the first stop, last night, was Des Moines, Iowa’s version of a thriving metropolis.

Things couldn’t have gone worse.

We got checked into a nice motel on the edge of town, then made our way to the Ichthus Farm out in the sticks. I mean, technically it’s not even Des Moines proper—it’s just “Polk County.” Either way, it’s close enough to the city to draw a crowd.

When we got to the farm, we saw a nice-looking outdoor bandstand set up near the barn. Lacey introduced herself to the owner, Ted Jackson, while the rest of us went to set up for a soundcheck. About 15 minutes later, Lacey returned with Ted, a middle-aged mountain of a man with a sunburnt face and a confused demeanor.

“Guys,” Lacey said, “we have a little problem.”

She nodded at Ted, who began to speak on cue.

“It would seem you misunderstood the way things work out here,” he said.

“Really?” I said into the microphone. “And just how do things work out here?”

“It ain’t all that different. It’s just…we do charity work here on a volunteer basis.”

“So…?”

“So if you’d like to perform using my bandstand and get paid for it, you have to put in an honest day’s work,” he said, pronouncing the silent “h” in “honest.”

“Dammit!” Mikey shouted, unslinging his bass and setting it down. “What is it with these country-fried assholes who think volunteer work and forced labor are the same thing?! I’m sick of this.”

“You misunderstood again,” Ted Jackson said. “The rest of you are free to rehearse or return to your motel room. We’re a difficult farm. We’ll only accept volunteers with farm experience. We want…that guy!” He aimed a sausage-like finger at me.

“But…I’ve never set foot on a farm,” I lied.

“Bullhockey,” Ted said dismissively. “Look at you—the thick pudge of a once-muscular man—”

“Hey!”

“The large, calloused hands; the stooped stature; the bow-legged stance. You’ve worked farms, and you’ve worked ‘em hard. Come with me, fella.”

I glanced at Margo, looking to see if her mind was ticking with some kind of plot to get me out of it. Her eyes looked sad and blank. “Sorry, Girth,” she whispered.

“But what about Carl?!” I protested. “He grew up in Iowa, too.”

Ted took one look at Carl and laughed. “Look at him. He never set foot on a farm. He’s like one of those rural poor kids who eats because he can’t afford a video game.”

Carl looked like he was going to defend himself, then shrugged and nodded: Ted pegged him.

“Come on fella,” Ted said, gesturing for me to come to him. “Take your medicine.”

“This blows,” I groaned.

It actually wasn’t so bad, though. It’s been almost two decades—which, believe me, makes me feel older than you can imagine—since I’ve done the Midwestern equivalent of an honest day’s work. Today, I’m aching like hell, but yesterday it was fun to reacquaint myself with the sights, sounds, and stenches of grueling farm work. It’s also a keen reminder of why I put so much pressure on myself to get out of Iowa. I knew I’d end up one of two ways: either working as farmhand or doing what my dad did—working for the bank that foreclose on the farms’ delinquent accounts. I have too much sympathy for the working man to do the latter, but too little sympathy to do the former.

Once in awhile, though, it can’t hurt. Except in the sense of torturous physical pain.

The show last night didn’t go too badly. Didn’t go too well, either. We got a moderate turnout—smaller than I expected, but bigger than the crowd we drew in Columbia. (Of course, Des Moines is a much bigger city, and proportionally the turnout in Columbia was much bigger. But, you know, it was a Tuesday night. That has to be a factor.

Right?