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March 15, 2008

Tour Blog: St. Louis, Night One — Lacey Nights

Written by Lacey Greenwood on March 15, 2008 1:27 PM
Permalink |  Happy Heartland Tour -- The Midwest '08  | Digg It

I got into St. Louis early yesterday morning and, to my surprise and annoyance, nobody showed up at the airport to pick me up. I stood curbside with my luggage for 45 minutes, calling Margo every five, but nobody picked up.

Finally, I gave up, grabbed a cab, and headed to a motel in what I can only call an urban war zone. I am not exaggerating when I say, between the freeway and the motel, we passed a smoldering, flipped-over car, dried bloodstains on the street, and a mostly toothless man riding in a shopping cart in the middle of the street, using a broomstick like a paddle.

The motel didn’t look much better. A cesspool from the outside in, I couldn’t imagine the damage it would do to my reputation if word got out that my clients were stuck in such a place.

Although I knew the name and address of the motel, thanks to the itinerary Margo prepared, I had no idea what room. I tried calling Margo again, but I didn’t get an answer. Meanwhile, the cabbie tossed my luggage out of the trunk and drove away as quickly as possible. When I had paid him, I’d asked him to stay, but he refused.

I waited for three hours, watching people deal on the corner. It actually became sort of interesting, especially considering my history with drugs, but sometimes it got scary. One guy noticed me and got a hard look on his face before stalking across the street and approaching. Turns out, he just wanted to flirt. I flirted back for a little while, but when he offered to take me into the alley, I got grossed out. To my surprise, he just left me alone—no hostility or threats. After that, I felt sort of bad. He’s the kind of guy who deserves to go into an alley with a girl like me.

So anyway, after three hours, Girth finally left one of the rooms. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, stretched—and since he was wearing nothing but a t-shirt and tighty whities, it left less to the imagination than usual—and took in the brisk air. Then he started to shiver, so he went back into the room.

Sighing, I grabbed as much of my luggage as possible and hauled it over to the room. I beat on the door, but nobody answered. Twenty minutes later, panting and sweaty and wearing some bright red lingerie, Margo opened the door.

“Oh,” she said. “Hey, Lace.”

“‘Hey, Lace,’ my ass!” I said. “Help me with my fucking bags, will ya!”

Margo grabbed a couple of my suitcases and pulled them into my room. I went down the breezeway to grab the rest of it, and finally I was inside.

“So,” Girth said, “how was your flight?”

“Great, until nobody picked me up at the airport and I was practically raped sitting outside wondering what goddamn room you were in.”

“Fourteen,” Girth said absently.

“Sorry, hon,” Margo said. I’ve found any time another girl calls you “hon,” whatever they’re saying is disingenuous.

I told her it was okay, and I’d just bill them for the cab fare, and then I asked to borrow the van so I could check out the venue before they got their hopes up for another disaster.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Girth muttered. He seemed pretty engrossed in a rerun of The Rockford Files.

“You’re the one who called and bitched me out last time!” I yelled.

Girth shrugged.

“Margo…” I whined, holding a hand out.

Margo rolled her eyes and slapped the van keys into them.

I’ve driven the band’s van once before, but the wear and tear of the tour so far has done quite a number on it. It definitely needs some kind of axle realignment—it veered wildly to the right (but, ironically, could not seem to complete a full right turn)—and I could smell some kind of acrid stench, like burning rotten eggs, wafting from the hood.

Nonetheless, after figuring out a route that only involved left turns, I got to the Billiken Club. I had my hopes high for this venue because, while it is an all-ages club that doesn’t serve alcohol (which I find necessary to endure any Abysmal show), it does cater to the late-teen/twenty-something crowd. Not that that’s the Abysmal demographic, but it’s certainly better publicity than playing songs like “Tongue Quest” for an audience of American 10-year-olds.

When I got to the Billiken, I was supposed to meet with the manager, Brent, who I’d only spoken with on the phone. A tall, lanky man with soft shoulders, a shaved head, and black “chunk” glasses, Brent grinned as I entered the Billiken.

“Ms. Greenwood?” He spoke in a high-pitched, well-bred voice.

“You must be Brent,” I said cheerfully, walking toward him and shaking his hand.

“We are so looking for to having Abysmal Crucifix play here,” Brent said, beaming.

“You are?” I tried not to sound surprised, but I think I did.

“Absolutely,” Brent said. “We don’t get a lot of grunge here.”

“Grunge?”

Brent’s face shriveled up in what I assume was confusion. “Are they not a grunge band?”

“No,” I said. “They’re…well, I mean, I guess you could say they fit into a grunge zeitgeist, but I think the band members would prefer it if you classified them as metal.”

“Really?” Brent both looked and sounded disgusted.

“Look, if you want to cancel this—”

“No,” Brent said. “I mean, we don’t have anything else—”

“I’m a publicist, darling. I can rustle you up a band within an hour.”

“Really?”

I sighed. “No.”

Brent shrugged. “Well, you did your best.”

“So this really isn’t a metal kind of audience?” I asked.

“The closest they get to heavy metal are the Decemberists’ awful Rush-meets-Dungeons-&-Dragons lyrics,” Brent said. “Sorry, I just hate them.”

“Too metal?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not going to fuck us on the payment, are you?” Lacey asked.

“Look,” Brent explained, “I don’t want to fuck anyone on anything, but if the audience starts to demand their money back because they hate your group, you’re obviously not going to get the aud percentage—”

“We weren’t getting—”

“Really? Jeez, who booked this—”

“It was this guy, Wooster—”

“Oh God,” Brent said, “not Hank Wooster. He’s horrible. We’ll fuck him over any way we possibly can. But wait—last time we talked to Wooster, he was trying to sell us on this…what was it…Jupiter…Jupiter something.”

“That’s Abysmal. They kinda went through a thing, but now they’re back.”

“Well,” Brent said, “I’ll give you 20% aud if we get a crowd of 90 or more. This place is 800 capacity, so that could get you anywhere between 200 and 1600 bucks. Not bad. We obviously got some wires crossed because I had no clue you had any dealings with Wooster. I don’t even remember that Jupiter bullshit. Sherry, our scheduling girl, must be keeping up with the scene way better than I am, if she corrected the band name already.”

“She a metal babe?”

“She’s like a SuicideGirl-type thing,” Brent explained. “You know, like, the kind of girl who shows how nonconformist she is by dyeing her hair and getting a bunch of tattoos like all the other nonconformists.”

“Get some people like her in the audience, and they’ll go crazy for Girth,” I said.

“No guarantees,” Brent said.

“Well, I appreciate the help.”

Brent smiled again. “See you guys tonight.”

I went back to the motel and tried to convince Girth to cancel.

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Girth wondered.

“Because,” I said, “it’s a waste of time and money. Nobody’s going to show up. It’s not a metal place.”

“People showed up for our other shows,” Margo protested.

“You guys aren’t getting it,” I said, slumping down on the bed. “People who came to see you before came to see you because they thought they were getting Jupiter Starshine Collective, the youth-oriented pop band they’re hearing on the radio. These people know it’s Abysmal Crucifix, they’ve promoted you as Abysmal Crucifix, and anybody who takes the time to Google you guys or check out the MySpace will realize Abysmal is not a band they want to see.”

“I don’t understand why,” Girth said. “Great music is great music. Period.”

“Not to these asshole hipsters,” I said.

“What’s a…hipster?” Margo asked, saying the word as if it were something she feared and distrusted.

“Remember Omaha?” They both nodded. “Every single person there.”

“You mean the kind of douchey assholes who wear nothing but thrift-store crap, get those horrible-looking pseudo-nerd glasses that want to be stylish or ironic or something but really just make you look retarded if you’re over 16, rarely bathe, and listen to horrible, whiny, out-of-tune acoustic indie rock like that Juno shit?” Margo asked.

“That’s the long and short of it,” I said.

Girth thought for a long, tense moment. “That movie sucked,” he finally said. “Fuck these guys. Let’s go on to—” He looked at me for confirmation.

“Des Moines,” I said.

“Oh, fuck Iowa!” Girth shouted. “The audience here can’t be that bad.”

And that was it. They packed up for a sound-check around 2:30. Brent was cordial to all of us, as were the other employees. I couldn’t help getting so stressed and freaked, I ended up puking twice before they even went on. Their opener wasn’t even any kind of music they’d like, per se—just a DJ blasting the latest from ClearChannel’s secret OBERST-APPROVED LIST.

When Girth, Margo, and the others took the stage, I stood in the back with Brent. He squeezed my hand and tried to give me reassuring looks, but I thought I was gonna die.

Girth decided to take advantage of the larger venue by doing something a little weird. Or, at least, I thought it was weird. Wearing garish Hawaiian shirts over heavy black cloaks, which against the black curtains behind them made it look like ghost shirts hovering in midair, Margo, Carl, Riffs, and Mikey stood onstage. They belted out the four-part harmony of “Sax on the Beach,” complete with the prerecorded sounds of ocean waves crashing and Riffs picking away on a ukulele.

As they sang, Girth lowered from the ceiling in a suspended canoe. Why a canoe? If I’ve learned one thing working for Abysmal Crucifix, it’s this: don’t ask.

They timed it so the song ended just as the canoe hit the floor. He leaped to his feet.

“Hey, how ya doin’ tonight, my name’s Girth!” Girth yelled into the microphone. “And you’re about to have an Abysmal experience!”

You could feel positive energy in the room—the audience wanted to applaud, but few of them did. I think the ones who didn’t were merely confused. It’s hard to emphasize the proper-noun status when speaking.

From this, the band launched into “Phone Sex.” This did get the audience going—they cheered like crazy when it ended. Girth continued with some of the group’s more notable songs until they’d played a solid hour set. The audience of teenagers and college students were hungry for more, but Girth begged off. “We’ll be back tomorrow night with a three-hour set!”

Brent gave me the evil eye.

I said, “I’ll talk to him.”

After the roar of applause died down, I overheard some of the kids talking as they filtered out of the club. “That was totally fucked up and hilarious. I’m bringing Joey and Mitchell tomorrow.” “Those guys were, like, Spinal Tap, except for real.” “I love kitschy stuff like this. How’d they keep a straight face?”

I had no idea what to say. Should I tell Lacey these people only enjoyed the band on an ironic level?