Before I headed out on this tour with Foy Vance, I was invited out to the nowhere-land-venue Codfish Hollow for the first annual GARP Fest by Daytrotter founder, Sean Moeller. I’d played there a year prior for a showcase my manger had organized where a couple different label heads came out to give me the ol’ “up-down” and decide whether or not I was pretty enough to sign. Awkward encounters with industry people aside, the venue and its owners were fantastic and I’d been looking for an excuse to go out there and play again since then.
The other variables that drove me to accept Sean’s invitation (besides the fact that’s he a good friend and has always treated me well) is that two of my favorite bands, the homeless Small Houses and the Chicago-natives Whitney, were on the bill to play the festival. I’d recently become friends with Julien and Max and their crew of motley bums through Internet interactions and eventually fucked up encounters in both the States and Europe where I got inebriated to the point of spiritual transcendence. I’ve known Jeremy Quentin of Small Houses for longer—going as far back to my early years in college where I drove out to Rock Island, IL from good ol’ Pella to see him play at Rozz Tox for about ten or fifteen people (interviewing him after for this very blog that this column’s on now). I could go into character descriptions of the lot—but the only thing you need to know is that both like their alcohol and I made sure to hit them up and tell them their staying out at the venue with me to have a good, Goddamn time together as youths of America who’ve opted out of the 9 to 5 life for the desolate and aimless adventures of the 21st century western artist…
I get out there in the early afternoon—parking my car on a mud-stained hill that overlooks the old barn, which is the main stage of the festival where Whitney and the other big acts are scheduled to play. Jeremy and I will be shuffled off with a couple other solo acts to a smaller stage just a few yards away on the property. I hitch a ride on the production van to get my guitars over to the stage—it’s on the way there that I find Jeremy Quentin wandering around in torn shirt and jeans snapping photos of the festival attendees and the open farm country. I roll down the window as we pass him and catch his eye—he winks with a smart grin, which causes me to laugh my ass off, taking it as a good omen that the night will be full of good memories yet to be made with plenty of booze to pass around. I shout at him as we’re driving away to find me at the barn to snag our first beer together. The stage I’m playing at, by the way, is within an even older barn that’s on the verge of falling apart. All the instruments are stored within the barn, and the stage is this simple add-on riser that projects out of the front of the barn facing a small plot of land where the audience can stand and watch. There’s no one there while I’m dumping my guitars, as the festival is organized by a alternating system so the attendants are free to catch every single act if they so wish to (this wouldn’t end up being the case for my set later).
Hiking back up to the main barn, I see all Midwest folk sprawling out their lawn chairs with plastic cups of domestic beer in hand as the day is early and the music only just begun. I’m craving one myself, and bolt to the bar (which is tucked under the right side with food trucks and picnic tables for festival goers to gorge) to find Julien and Max playing bags in the back artist section with their own beers in hand dressed in their typical baggy t-shirts, camo and army surplus store boots. I wrap my arm around Julien from the back and swing him around as we yip and yelp at finding one another again since our last meeting in Germany (a drunken, damp adventure that had them jet-lagged and me worn down from being on my third tour of the year and just sick of everything). Turns out there’s a free supply of booze in the artist section, and we swing in there to find me a PBR tall boy and to snag a swig of their reserved bottle of red wine. Sweet alcohol! That shit touches my lips and I immediately feel the energy of the road surge through me like lightening as it’s all beginning and continuous until it ends with Sunday morning hangovers and death.
“So we’re doing ‘Polly,’” I say getting into our agreement that we’d do a duet together for this show.
“Yeah,” says Julien, “I haven’t asked Max but I’m sure he’s good with it.”
This is confirmed when he calls Max over for us to discuss the matter.
“Yeah, let’s do it during our set,” Max says and we all agree as it’s less of a hassle for me to pop out during the song than have them do a more stripped down version during my set later in the evening. It’s settled with that, and Julien and I talk logistics on what part I’ll start singing on and when I pop out onstage and how we’re all going to do that etc. My skin is on fire.
“You wanna go for a walk? We’re bored and have some time.”
“Yeah,” I say and open my beer and follow them.
We walk down the dirt roads and discuss tour diets.
“I lose weight,” I say, “I always lose weight. I just don’t eat.”
“Really? I feel fucking bloated—too much shit foot. All carbs—grains.” Julien grabs his stomach and shakes it. There’s barely any fat, though, as the boy is thinner than I with a thin baby face and short, messy hair—we both look strung out. My beer is going quickly, and we decide to head towards the house (owned by the heads of the festival and owners of the entire property) after catching wind that they filled the basement fridge full of hard liquor and free beer for the artists to have throughout the day and later that night after the music’s all over. So we go up there and find the basement empty and the fridge and bar (yes, there’s a basement bar!) full for our plundering. And Goddammit we went straight for the vodka and Red Bull and made ourselves some drinks to get real fired up on. God, that vodka burning down the throat! How it sits in my belly like such great fire—euphoria in my veins that makes me forget such Heideggerian dispositions of being painfully aware of my own existence and temporality and to just simply live in the moment—the infinite present that is truly never ending (Amen).
Beers follow—the basement is a collection of horror movie memorabilia from the Golden Age of American cinema to today. I was amazed the first time I saw this basement when I played here a year prior, but with alcohol it grows more magical—especially around good friends. This makes me think of Jeremy—where is that fucker?
We leave eventually because they’ve got to get onstage for their set, and I’ve got to get on there with them about half way through to perform our duet. On our way back is when I find Jeremy again—still taking pictures, but with a can of beer in his bag that he’s taking occasional sips out of. I yell to him—introduce him to the Julien and Max and the other Whitney boys because he simply “has to meet them.” This happens—and turns out he knows the keyboard player from somewhere (probably from one of his many travels—the fucker’s been everywhere and has starved like a true artist—head bent and America deaf to him—how dare you let him suffer), and they get on well while Julien and I head behind the barn to unpack his drums. I ask where the rose symbol on his bass drum head (as well on the cover of their album) comes from—and he tells me this fabulous inside story that I can’t share with you all because it’s his story to tell and not time, but Goddamn is it great and makes me grin because it all has to do with the disparity and retreat from reality our generation has taken to through drugs and alcohol to escape all this bullshit our parents and grandparents have created for us. After all, no one asks to be born!
I get myself another beer and a plastic glass of wine as Whitney goes on. Jeremy is nowhere to be found—but I figure he’s actually getting ready for his set as he’s up next after Whitney gets done with theirs. So I’m backstage getting drunk because I’m nervous—the barn is full, absolutely full. Whitney is having a hell of a year with their album being lauded by critics and people my age flocking to them because finally a sincere record has come out that isn’t trying to be artsy or ironic, but just have good songs that actually mean something and are sincere most importantly. So I’m nervous as fuck and need to get drunk to curve off the nerve simply because, not only am I singing their song, but I’m also not defended by a comfort wall such as my guitar or what would be my own band if I ever have one while doing my shows. I must also point out (for those who have heard my music, you’re already aware of this), but my voice is quite ugly—gravely and raspy in comparison to Julien’s higher pitched, almost falsetto, vocals that color their music. So the contrast worries me—I don’t want a bottle thrown at my head (or, at least, to feel it if one is thrown and it happens to connect).
It’s time, though, and I must accept fate. The plan is that I crouch down with the rest of the band during the intro (which is just Julien and the piano playing)—taking one of Will the trumpet player’s microphones and using it to sing the second verse onward solo—ending with a harmony at the end with Julien. It happens. I grab the microphone and crouch down next to Will—asking him if he’s ever heard of Chet Baker out of my own stupid nervousness. He says no (though, later in the night, he told me that of course he knew who Chet was and thought it was strange I’d ask such a question while a song was starting—I was nervous, ya fuck). Anyway, when the band rises and song sweeps into the horn solo—I leap to the front of the stage and let go completely as my body swings to the music. I look to the audience and grin. I sing—fuck up some words (nothing noticeable) because I’m now drunk and look at Julien as the blur of the moment goes by and is ending with another Will trumpet solo. Typically, when I’ve seen them live, Julien always makes-out with one of the band members while Will sends the song out—and I had to ask him before the set if we were going to do that. He put down the idea—feeling that the festival vibe wasn’t right for this—I accept this. But wouldn’t that have been brilliant to end it all that way? Ah, God. How free our generation is—it’s one of our very few qualities that I admire. Instead, though, of embracing Julien in that way, I bow to the crowd and throw my lighter out to them (for some stupid, fucking reason that I still can’t comprehend) and trot offstage—feeling that I probably fucked that song all up due to an inadequacy complex that I’ve yet to cure and resolve. But Julien tells me he loves it after the set! And Max, too, later in the night with more alcohol in me and the madness running high (but I’ll get to that later). Isn’t that something?
I go down to the small stage to catch the last half of Jeremy’s set. What must be said about Jeremy is that he’s truly original—possibly the next John Prine. But overall the savior of my life and soul as an artist and human being in general because I almost gave up on everything years ago because I was in a bad low and thought everything to be rather hopeless. But when I heard his music (the first song ever hearing being, “Oh, Hiding Out”), I was enthralled and captivated—inspired to keep writing songs and continue my life as an artist because I knew such fire was inside me and that such suffering was inevitable. This feeling hasn’t changed over the years, and it was still the same when I watched him play a bunch of new material on that small stage with his torn t-shirt and jeans. What an artist! It’s there that I finally find the great Sean Moeller—the man who brought me here in the first place. He’s wearing his classic baseball cap and shades—watching Jeremy with deep respect as I am. I say hello to him and we embrace but don’t talk because Jeremy is playing and we must hear him sing his songs with such heart. Unfortunately very few people are there, and only a few more trickle in near the end of his set for everyone is either getting drunk at the main stage or too lazy to walk a couple yards down to hear this man play—ah, life. I have my beer in hand and keep drinking it as the buzz of the alcohol is swallowing my body and making me feel more alive than ever. What a never-ending feeling alcohol gives you once you get a few drinks down and the buzz begins raging with the blaze of stars that actually shine out in the rural night of America. I feel blessed under these stars and see my life as something of a great Thomas Wolfe novel that’s unfolding before me in one, giant scroll with the words too far away for me to read just yet—but they’re written.
Jeremy finishes his set and we meet up again to finally get that drink together and catch each other up on our travels. He hasn’t toured in a while because he’s been living down in Austin, TX writing the next record and working at this little coffee shop that’s apparently in some old house that also sells used women’s clothes. Sean runs off to see the next band, and we rejoin the Whitney boys to take on the great, Iowan night not caring much to hear the rest of the bands but instead focusing our powers on getting blind drunk—I haven’t played my set yet.
We finish of Whitney’s bottle of wine and hit the hard liquor. I’ve almost forgotten that I still have to play and I’m starting to not see straight. It only takes someone saying the time in passing that wakes me up from the euphoria train I was riding into the night and gets my ass down to the small stage to play with Julien and Jeremy following. There’s no one there. Only six or so people are standing in the grass waiting for me to play. I grab my guitar and stumble on up with a purple light blinding me—barely making out the few figures out there in the dark. I’m slurring words—I can feel the set getting away from me. The weak applause at the end of each song only drains me more and I’m wishing that the set was already over so I can get back to the bottle. Really, the only thing that’s keeping me going is that Julien is there and I want him to like my stuff because I admire his work as I do with Jeremy’s—but I already know the latter is into what I do, where as the former I have no clue really. So it goes on—six or either people watching me drunkenly sing my heart out, slurring words along the way, all for it come crashing down with me finishing the set by knocking over the microphone stand and stumbling off stage. I immediately apologize to both of them when the boys come up to me—but Julien loves it, both saying they couldn’t even tell that I was drunk throughout the set. How about that! With those pats on the back I’m re-energized to head off into the night and poison my liver further.
We head back to the house once I’ve loaded out—and it’s here where everything gets crazy. More people are in the basement now, and we hit the beer and hard liquor again mixing drinks and taking shots as the music is finished for us and there’s nothing left to do but to drown ourselves in free alcohol. There’s a pool table down there, and we get a couple games going while we talk about art, travels, politics—you name it. Jeremy has his camera out again and taking pictures of us all. At this point my memory begins to cut out on me—I can’t remember the exact words shared, or how much I ended up drinking, but somehow I wound up outside talking with Jeremy about the dumb luck I’ve had in getting signed to Jagajguwar and how I feel everything is unfair that he’s been doing this much longer than I have and he’s still poor as fuck struggling in the deep south of America. I weep for him—literally, I break down in his arms and start choking on my own sobs as he leads me into his brother’s van he borrowed to get here from Minnesota to have me bawl my eyes out on the mattress he’s put in there so he didn’t have to snag any hotel rooms or sleep in the basement. Everything is horrible—life being this giant, black comedy where Fate picks who she wishes to succeed and fail in accordance to her own will and judgment. Who asked to be a part of all this? Why must an artist so brilliant suffer while I, a bum from a dead-mill-town in the Midwest, gets found in a small Iowa bar in the middle of nowhere by some 21st century rock star? What kind of dumb fucking luck is that? I deserve nothing! And as I’m choking on my sobs, Jeremy’s consoling me and saying he doesn’t care about all that and it’s all bullshit anyway, which is so true. Take note artists of all realms of popularity or lack thereof! All your works will turn to dust in a thousand years! No one will remember you or even be aware that you ever existed! We are creating in the very midst of a desert that is our existence! Bob Dylan is not immortal! Ah, God—life is so nauseating and an absolute testament of suffering. What madness is this?
I don’t know when I left the van or why, but I found myself on a couch in the basement the next morning next to Julien who’s doing the same opposite to me. He apparently passed out under the pool table and was left there for a few hours. What a way to end it all. I had the worst hangover in my life and laid wasted down there while everyone else left for a few hours—than stumbled down a dirt road to get back to my car and head back home to rest before the Foy Vance tour starts in Arizona. I feel drained—my body has failed me—and what started out as a night launching into euphoria ended in nausea. This is the endless cycle of it all—the never-ending suffering of my mind where any form of being content with life eludes me. So think of the walk back to my car, down that dirt road in nowhere Iowa, as a metaphor for our isolation and continuous struggle through the human condition—that our only escape is by the bottle or music or whatever it is you use to distract yourself from the inevitable destiny of your death that will either catapult you into nothingness or something. The euphoria of alcohol distracts the mind, only for the hangover to remind me that I’m alive. O’ Heidegger!
Article by Trevor Sensor. Follow him on Twitter at @trevorsensor.
Photos by Jeremy Quentin. Follow him on Twitter at @Small_Houses.