Tour - Part 1 - Marshall Galactic

Well, I got this guitar strap for free - our first show of the tour in Dallas and I arrive with no guitar strap. So I went for the long shot and asked the sound guys - he had one, he said I could keep it too. Main reason I mention this random happening has to do with the smell of the piece. It smells like an army/navy surplus store. The olfactory sensation brought me back immediately to the times of my youth, when I frequented both surplus stores and duck ponds alike. Another example, today I walked into a bathroom in a Love's Truck Stop. I could have sworn I was in my ex-girlfriends home. She could have been right behind me or in bed with me in the morning. Normally I would treasure the flashback, but in this case these tender memories were couched in the context of a floor slick with piss and semi-caked mud where truckers slipped and missed the toilet bowl. 

It must have been the air-freshener they used. Because for all the foul scenery it smelt fine in the place. My exe's mother must have used the same kind when she fluffed her pillows and rearranged things. But if my former lover still carries the same smell after having been absent from the old home half a year, it must be some kind of soul scent.

Smell touches my heart. And over the long period within the chrome hull of our mini-cruiser, jettisoned in empty space where sound and smell are the lighting of directional thrusters and the creak and pull of hot and cold metal resisting each other, where smell is harsh and sterilized like fluorescent lights in cold classroom, I rejoiced that one day we might find ourselves in the faraway fields of earth, making love to beautiful and confused co-ed females, and shredding wickedly, like sex. 

We played Memphis. It was groovy.

An hour from Memphis.

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Imposing the two el presidente margarita limit.

Its 12:09 AM. We will be driving to Memphis tomorrow. 7 1/2 hours. The first drive is always the worst.

We decided to leave behind a little legacy in Austin, just so you don't forget about us while we're gone. Here's the plan.
1. Go to Chili's on Guadalupe and 45th.
2. Go inside and look to your left.
3.
4. Order two El Presidente Margaritas.
5. Drunkenly imitate Marshall Galactic.

She's the paste monk tartlett of my la la la la.
6. Pass out.

- Check in daily for news from the road.

The Night Before Tour Begins

Brett already left early today for a funeral in Fort Worth. It's just me now. I've been frantically active in preparation for the tour, attending to my own small but vital concerns toward what we might face on the road. Everything is organized: a suit case for chords and mics (on which I slapped the free "Shure" sticker that came with my SM58), different suitcases for different articles of clothing, ties and and pants in one, casual clothes in another. Still, I know all of it will inevitably fall apart on the road and all those pieces will drift, suspended in the random zero-gravity confusion of tour tiredness and disorder. But still I prepare and it quiets me. I like the work. 

When friends or people ask me stock questions, like "Are you excited?", I don't know how to respond. I've gotten used to telling them I don't get excited about much. It perplexes me how everyone is so "excited" all the time, as if pledging for a sorority or taking a two week trip to guatemala is like traveling to the space for the first time or something of equal value. Everyone is so excited. 

That being said, I look forward to the tour. I was telling Trav that for the first tour, we were pretty much thrust into the grind of it. We had no idea what to expect, what to do, how to handle ourselves or keep our sanity. It was grueling. Then came the second tour. My mental state thus predicted the same sort of Bataan Death March. But now, as this tour beckons me back into the flame of road life, I'm trying out a different perspective: Like I'm a goddamned hero, I'm van zandt spreading the gospel. This is the vintage tour, hitting the road. Because I have bad habit of reducing every aspect of life to its most brutish, disgusting, and ironic state, being a little romantic does not hurt me. 

Leaving for a long time, tonight, sitting around in the place that will soon be vacant is the sort of moment so terribly poignant that you want to ignore it. Like its not so dramatic, like you aren't leaving anything behind or taking too large a step. But if things go right I will not see my wood floors again for a long time. And everything will remain clean in this pierced moment, whiter than the rest. 

First tour stop. Dallas,

-Marshall Galactic