July 4, 2004

I can’t remember what I did for most of my 24 birthdays, but for some reason I seem to know exactly where I’ve been on Independence Day almost every year of my life. And my birthday is at least a holiday in its own right: Halloween. Maybe it’s the fireworks. Maybe I would remember my birthdays better if there were more fireworks involved.

This year I am sitting in the sunroom of my parents’ house listening to “ rather than watching – fireworks being set off by my neighbors. The ones climbing and exploding five minutes’ west in Reisterstown sound like tree branches cracking, splitting and falling through the other branches and leaves until they hit the forest floor. Others sound like the popping of green wood in a campfire, as the moisture or sap heats to bursting. As for the rest, all you can hear is their whistling ascent.

Before last year, we had a massive wooden playset that sat in the side yard of my parents’ house. It was transplanted from my childhood home in Randallstown a decade ago, when I remember it took many of our very large male neighbors to move it. Years after I gave up sliding down its fireman’s pole or hanging upside down by crook’d knees off its rope ladder, I would climb atop it on July 4th to watch the fireworks invisible to me from 10 feet below. A couple years ago, my father decided it was time to get rid of it. At first he tried to sell it, but when that didn’t work, he put a sign on it that said, “If you can haul it, you can have it.” The house faced the main road and that was pretty much all the advertisement needed.

A man came to the house one day when my father wasn’t here and said he could take it and would like to. It seemed like his entire family, including a very small child that could not have been two, turned out for the purpose. My brother, Justin, and I agreed to help get the sliding pole out of its anchor in the ground so the structure could be moved freely.

My father is a very ¦¦. efficient person. If he builds a deck, or lays a tile floor, or fixes a concrete step, it is done to an almost overwhelming and unnecessary degree of perfection. And when my father secures a child’s playset to the ground, it is done to last the ages.

My brother and I set about the task of digging out the fireman’s pole with the relaxed naivety of people who think their task is going to be easy and short. We started with garden spades. Eventually we got a shovel from the garage and took turns digging and piling up the dirt. The shovel eventually made a clanking noise. We removed a few rocks from the hole, and then more, which my father had apparently put all around the pole to steady it in the earth. Periodically, we tried to pull the pole straight up, but it would not budge. Even the very large man who had come to take the playset couldn’t move it.

When all the digging was said and done, and the pounds of rocks removed, it was apparent my father had sunk this pole a good couple feet into the ground and attached a wooden plank perpendicular at its base to keep it from being pulled up vertically. Then the years had done their part to settle this thing firmly into the yard.

Once it was free, the man’s entire family guided it through the front yard to the truck they’d brought. It was a long truck “ the sort that furniture or appliance movers use “ but it was not very wide, and there was no good way the playset would fit into it. As all this was being figured out, the child kept trying to crawl into the back of the truck with the playset hanging half out of it. We all kept laughing and taking him out.

We didn’t know this family and have never seen them again, but there is something about the way moving a large piece of anything requires teamwork and brings strangers together in that moment. For the duration of that endeavor, it’s like you have all known each other all your lives. You laugh and joke freely. You know the other people feel the same strain in their muscles and in their minds as you. You get each other cool drinks and tell each other similar stories of how tasks like this have been surmounted in the past. At that moment, you imagine you might get together like this for family dinners at some later time, but really you know better. This is all just the magic of the moving of something really big and heavy.

Eventually, it was decided the playset would be wedged into the open back door of the truck and balanced on the ramp that folds out so you can roll sensibly sized things into it. My brother went to the garage for some rope, and with all his Boy Scout skill, fashioned knots with names I know not until it was as steady as a giant wooden playset hanging out the back of an 18-wheeler can be, and we said our goodbyes to its new owners, who hauled it and had it indeed.

I wonder if that kid is perched on it right now.

Before I had my personal firework-viewing tower (and since I lost it), I have seen the Fourth of July fireworks from many other places. My parents’ favorite method was to park on one of the highway overpasses looking out over Baltimore City. We did this for years, and still I never got over the way my insides would seize every time a passing car shook the concrete beneath me.

The summer I held down the fort at the University of Maryland student newspaper, I lost my photo editor to law school and his assistant to the Army reserves, and had to do all of the art for the week of July 4th myself. I bought a lawn chair, sunscreen and a single use camera, and spent the entire day taking pictures and talking to folks camped out in one of the university parking lots for the night’s fireworks display. When the show started, I stood with my camera pointing directly above me, praying I could capture one good solid firework before deadline. I took about twenty pictures, trying to time my clicks just right. Not knowing how to develop my own film the way the real photographers had, I took it to the local convenience store, and an hour later I had one good
solid firework.

Two years later, I went with a boy to one of the western Maryland battlefields, and sat next to a cemetery to watch the fireworks. And as they were exploding what seemed like right above our heads, he leaned in to kiss me and was interrupted at the last second by the searching calls of his friends coming up over the hill. I think he cursed.

And one year I sat in the middle of an empty field and watched them all alone.

I’ve always had mixed feelings on what it must feel like to be a firework. All this kinetic energy ¦ this unrealized explosion for which you were born just stored up inside of you. And then you climb, hoping to be the big burst, not
really knowing what you are until you open up like a baby bird spreading its wings for the first time. But you only get to fly that once. All eyes on you as you are all noise and light, and then you finally start to fizzle and fade
and turn to ash. And then you fall to earth. A few seconds’ glory. That’s it for you.

Is it great as lives go or incredibly sad?

And this year, what is July 4th to me? It is my friend Dan Zimmerman’s song-that-is-my-personal-hope-anthem, “Placid 4th”: “My eyes have seen the light/ It ‘s dim, but it’s there/ My eyes have seen the glory/ of the ending of this fear.” It is the tattered flag my mother found while cleaning today, and that I suggested we should burn on the front lawn “ not because I feel strongly about burning flags, but because that is how you are supposed to dispose of damaged ones and my brother, as a Boy Scout, is one such person who can perform the ceremony. I was curious. I mean, how many people can say they’ve legally seen a flag burnt?

Okay, so it is not a flag burning. But it is a seafood dinner and my first corn-on-the-cob in a year and fireworks I can only hear. And it is a scar in the side yard of my parents’ house.

July 7th, 2004.

And the rain came tumbling down.

A map of Montclair, New Jersey. I’m not sure where the “You are HERE” marker happens to be.

It’s been quite a while since I was last able to write in my poor Journal. A second death of my “stupendous” Alienware computer has spelled slowness for the website. I’m sitting at College Perk, with Mara’s borrowed machine, listening to the thunder rolling around the glowering skies.

I’m feeling aesthetically starved at the moment. Wishing for nicer scenery, eye candy, whatever. A good storm could advance that cause considerably.

The bolts are getting closer, and I wish I had a cuddle-ee to sit on the porch with. Hrm, unfortunately – despite the length of my babbly absence, I’ve got little to say. I think, all in all, I wish there was a good spot for a nap before practice tonight. Perhaps that can be arranged.

(snooze)

July 8th, 2004.

This from an email recieved the other day… says it all, really…

“Read about your visit to Belleville. You said that we were backward. ok here, just because we drive pickups doesnt mean that we are dumb. Mine cost almost thirty thousand dollars. Have you seen that fruity mural. One of the reason many of us are against the arts is that it is geared towards the queers. Ducks Unlimited (I’m a proud lifetimer)puts on an art show here once a year and their is not just good art but great art! The decoys at the gun show can be called almost real. This takes a great sculpter.The police hassle only criminals here . If they don’t like it they should move to criminal land . Look at Baltimore, MARYland . Do I need more proof? I don’t think so.

Loved your music though, along with Duck Tape “

SpiralBridge’s Makeready Press Gallery. Mostly posters and art deco on the interior, but there were a couple of really beautiful things hidden in niches here and there.

back at SpiralBridge, a beautiful tunnel of people and poetry and light.

July 13th, 2004.

Disaster comes in threes. Is that what I hear? After a fantastic show at the Vault last Friday, and perhaps too much joy, and too many attractive women dancing on the bar… after more fun than OUGHT to be had at a crab feast… and after the joy that was Damian’s party (Damian from Glovia, Damian made infamous by the Quotes Page)… after all of this, the blade fell.

The laptop is declared dead. Justin’s Imac died. The sink puddles and floods.

The Lloydholme air conditioner dies, the Lloyd grandmother’s chair dies, and Justin’s cell phone died.

The incredible Lea at College Perk.


Symbiont at the Thai Gour.


Heather at the Thai Gour.


Lauren running sound at the Thai Gour. She glared much after this pic.

A flying machine built by kittens.

And now I’m worried about launching into another three. The Funk Box show is beginning to worry me.

Last night, I IMed Josh of September Playground because I wanted to clear a couple of last minute contractual details with him. So, THIS is when it is revealed to me that September Playground has cancelled. He’d discussed that with the booking agent a week and a half ago, and had assumed that this would be passed along in a professional manner.


Amy and I found kittens – they were building a flying machine..

So here I am, seven days before the show – and the VENUE doesn’t even know that September Playground isn’t showing. There’s NO sign of the “headlining act” – some national tour de force that the Funk Box had theoretically insisted on booking – and suddenly we’re the only act on the docket. We don’t have ANYONE communicating with us about this, it’s all pretty damned frustrating. It’s got me really worried for the show.

Does anyone want kittens? I can direct you to these beautiful beasts.

Now, I must admit, I have NO problem with playing the show, and think we could have one Hell of a night even – we’d get to play a full length set and go home satisfied – but what if the venue suddenly decides to cancel (we have a contract guaranteeing us money, but since that amount is based on ticket sales, and we’d have to refund those ticket sales, that truly equates to nothing). If the AGENT chooses to cancel it, we get absolutely nothing nohow anyhow – I’m just… frightened.

And we are just “waiting for a response”. Did I do something bad to our karma recently?

Death.

Perhaps Jeff of Symbiont, or maybe Keith of the Dreamscapes Project… maybe one of THEM like, killed someone, or ran over a kitten… and the Karma Balancer Monks mistook one of them for me, and so I’m getting all of their karmic backwash through a cosmic case of mistaken identity. I wonder how I’d go about fixing that. It would probably involve some truly hideous paperwork.

The shy one.

July 15th, 2004.

I wouldn’t be leading any other Life. Perhaps a jarring sentiment after the last entry – but it’s true. The Funk Box Issues are falling into place, and though they remain unresolved, Diana (of More Music Group) is assuring us that we’re not taking the blame for any of the chaos, and is still working hard to make it the best show that it can be.

The last couple of nights have been working hard at open mics, playing hard and advertising ourselves. Selling tickets and selling CDs. I’m tired, but we’re doing the same thing tomorrow – and then taking a break on Friday.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The air conditioning is still broken, here at the Lloydholme, but it’s a beautiful night. We came home relatively early from Mick O’Shea’s tonight (as I write this, it’s still only 1am) – and the fans are pulling cool night air through the house, Heather’s practicing guitar, blending angellic with the breeze. Mara’s working at her computer, I’m tapping away on the couch.

The drive home brought us beesties. A possum, a fox, three deer, and Heather caught sight of something unidentified peering at us from a cornfield on the side of the road. I guess it’s the time of year. Last night, roaming with Amy, there were dogs and foxes and rabbits. I think it’s a good luck sign. I know the rabbits are, at least.

Mmm, gentle fatigue, and knowing we played our hearts out tonight. Totally by chance, we ran across Dan Zimmerman, Sarah Friedrich, Ray Roberts, and Mitzi tonight. All at Mick O’Shea’s. Everything’s better with friends.

Almost everything. Don’t get any ideas, Dan.


Things are working out for the Funk Box… or are they? Now we’re paired with…

The only animal I got a photograph of over the last couple of days, despite mammalian droves across our path. Bunnee in Jason’s front yard.

Dr. Nasty. Oh my … I can’t find a website for the band, though I can find lots of references. Also, though I can’t find a website for the BAND – I can find the homepage of Dr. Nasty Boy (“I stay chilling wit my ppls, going clubbin and hitting the guira with Ivan Tambora aka BachateroThug.Currently single and looking so ladies if ya`ll interested holla. If you here to hate, lets not waste eachotha`s time”) and lyrics to a song called Dr. Nasty (“The school yard is his office and the playground is his home | Better lock your children up, Dr. Nasty’s free to roam | He’ll make’ em play his wicked games then he makes ’em pay the price | And when he’s done his dirty deeds he’s gonna put your kids on ice”).

But, I can’t find any reference to a band, other than this from a Fools and Horses message board – “We’ve NEVER had as much fun as we did with Dr. Nasty and Full House not to mention all our new and old friends at Loyola.” Woo hoo! Sounds like a good time for all! Thank God. We’ve just got to imagine a pedophile gangsta wannabe who makes music that Fools and Horses would enjoy.

Sarah Fridrich’s feet under the table at Mick O’Shea’s. She has quite the dainty toes, peeking so seductively from around their scanty, strappy accoutrements.

July 16th, 2004.

We played the Royal tonight. Such a varied reaction to this venue. It reminded me of our initial days at Palomas. Nice sound system, some friendly people… A different sort of creature as owner. Australian? English? I wasn’t sure of the accent, but – I guess I’m getting used to playing and then getting a pretty enthusiastic response from the owner. The owner of the Royal was uninterested. It soured the evening, somehow. Ray came out, Brennan came out and brought Tori. The people were nice, the sound guy, Josh, was great – but somehow the evening left my tired and ready to go home.

Dan Zimmerman at Mick O'Shea's. I wish he'd brought his bass.
Dan Zimmerman at Mick O’Shea’s. I wish he’d brought his bass.
Heather being put on the spot by Sarah. But she was amazing. Heather is at her most beautiful with her hair wiggly and in disarray, hands pushed into the pockets of tight blue jeans - a black tank top, wailing away into the microphone in dimly lit bar. A Baltimore night goddess.
Heather being put on the spot by Sarah. But she was amazing. Heather is at her most beautiful with her hair wiggly and in disarray, hands pushed into the pockets of tight blue jeans – a black tank top, wailing away into the microphone in dimly lit bar. A Baltimore night goddess.

The bartender was interesting. She was a true Baltimore woman. Tall and lithe and blonde and tattooed, and older the closer you looked. I caught her hand for a moment and she was calloused and strong.

The drive home led us afoul of many back streets. A little bit of alley hopping. The roads have changed since I worked at the Science Centre. You can never be LOST in Baltimore, but it took us a few miles to find 95. We bypassed crowd-filled streets and kittens, and have returned to the Lloydholme for movies and soup.


Ray Roberts at Mick O’Shea’s with his metal bodied guitar.

back in time a bit – back at the Vault in Baltimore. The Power Movement Project was fantastic – a high energy, ferocious reggae-esque… project.

July 18th, 2004.

with the pot” – I returned to the Lloydholme exhausted, elated, and relieved.It doesn’t FEEL like July. It’s grey and the air conditioning lets us forget what kind of temperature might be lurking outdoors. Chelsea’s dad doesn’t sleep. I’m seeing morning for what feels like the first time in weeks. Months. And the grey weather is keeping my eyes from glistening with consciousness.

9.30am and Chuck and David are up and frolicking in their morningness – David’s making bacon, and Chuck is talking about amplifiers and guitars and African rhythms. I’m just not ready for it yet.

My thoughts are still whirling from that kiss. Damn you Jason. Damn you Slanga.

Andy Zipf at the Vault. He ran his beats off an IBook and generally was okay.
Andy Zipf at the Vault. He ran his beats off an IBook and generally was okay.
For those of you who missed the Vault show last Friday. These women were dancing on the bar. That's really all I should have to say. Don't miss another.
For those of you who missed the Vault show last Friday. These women were dancing on the bar. That’s really all I should have to say. Don’t miss another.
Pookie and Heather having a moment at the College Perk. There are many pussy jokes that an uninhibited rob could make here, but luckily, he is reigning himself in.
Pookie and Heather having a moment at the College Perk. There are many pussy jokes that an uninhibited rob could make here, but luckily, he is reigning himself in.

 

 

Says it all really. I don’t even remember why it happened. But Jason kissed me. He needs to quit smoking before he gets any more sugar from me.

Yesterday was a long day. The yardsale, making food, preparing for the night. I had my first art opening in four years. It was an incredible night.

Daniel Lee has possibly the most spectacular voice I've ever heard. And weird pants. Weird shoes. I hadn't noticed those. Good lord.
Daniel Lee has possibly the most spectacular voice I’ve ever heard. And weird pants. Weird shoes. I hadn’t noticed those. Good lord.

The opening itself, at the 1448 Gallery, was a great success. Michael Vain and Kali were just – immensely wonderful to invite me to show with them, and then to have the opportunity to play as well… Audrey and I once had a show like that, at a Borders Books. Her watercolours covered half the space, and my scary scritch art covered the other half, and then we played a show at the end of the month, with her in front of her work, and me in front of mine. I remember it being a Lovely night. I did something similar in a gatehouse show back in the Commons at MICA, and then again at the Moon Cafe in Annapolis, but eventually the shows petered out because I was having too much work stolen.

Oh yeah, the ladies of Perk. Perky ladies.
Oh yeah, the ladies of Perk. Perky ladies.

So now I’m reinvigourated. The show went so well – not many familiar faces, but a decently filled room – and the faces that WERE familiar were old favourites. It was strange to think that Kali and Terri and Michael have known me from the Beginning. Back when I ONLY played shows at the Rabbit and the New Deal Cafe, they came to each of those shows, and encouraged me with accolades and cake. It’s strange to think that it’s been so long, back from the Audrey era.

Amy's face's guardianship from the corner made the show complete.
Amy’s face’s guardianship from the corner made the show complete.
DCF 1.0
Performing next to a rusted out gate covered in my art. A very good feeling.
Performing next to a rusted out gate covered in my art. A very good feeling.

It was good to see Michael, usually so serious and unapproachable, really getting into Will – rocking out in the back of the room. It’s one thing when one can move the audience, but when one can move the artists around you – and KEEP moving them years after their first exposure – that made me feel really powerful. Like I was accomplishing something GREAT.

Terri watched from the back, like she always does. She’s an unobtrusive willowy creature of eye-contact and hair. My parents are the opposite – smack-dab in the middle of the room, my mother mouthing the words. Yeah, a room full of People from the Beginning. It felt like some sort of anniversary, or a birthday, or … I don’t know. Very much a celebration of accomplishment.

I'm holding one of Kali's pieces. It would be really cool if a guitar could be made up like that and still be playable, and not be godAWFUL heavy.
I’m holding one of Kali’s pieces. It would be really cool if a guitar could be made up like that and still be playable, and not be godAWFUL heavy.

It was almost like a big thank you show to the people who’d REALLY supported me over the years. Longer than almost anyone else, with the exception of Amy. The room felt incomplete until I noticed that my portrait of Amy had been set unobtrusively against the wall, facing the stage. The beautiful Raven Jen even appeared from my past and wandered in near the end of the night.

A very good night.

And then we had to race to PLOJ.

Chelsea and Beau up from Richmond, VA for PLOJ.
Chelsea and Beau up from Richmond, VA for PLOJ.
The crowd at PLOJ XXIX. I think this was our first Pot Luck with two fiddles. Or perhaps the first one with two fiddlers. And three or four banjos. I think the guy right in the middle there is from Florida!
The crowd at PLOJ XXIX. I think this was our first Pot Luck with two fiddles. Or perhaps the first one with two fiddlers. And three or four banjos. I think the guy right in the middle there is from Florida!

I don’t think I’ve ever been very late to PLOJ before. I usually aim to get there by 4, and I’ve frequently been later than THAT – but I don’t think I’ve ever arrived AFTER things had gotten started. Until last night.

It was bizarre walking into things Already In Progress. It was hard having to greet everyone all at the same time, rather than getting my greet on one by one as people straggle in. All in all, I’d say it was probably (as much as I hate to say it) my least favourite PLOJ. Very formless, meandering, drum heavy… and a pathetic spread. Almost no food at ALL! Thank God my tabouli rocked as hard as it always does. Thank God Dan’s chili was as scrumptious as it was… thank Richard and Kelly for THEIR chili. And of course, Mara’s chocolate chip cake. I guess, really when it comes down to it… that made everything okay.

With PLOJ XXIX ending at 2.30am or so, returning to the Lloydholme with the Kerwaths in tow (Chelsea and Beau and Chelsea’s WHOLE family!!) and being awakened by David making breakfast at 9am (no complaints mind you, some of the finest bacon I’ve ever had… but 9.30 am isn’t REALLY a time to me anymore) – today’s band practice was a threat on my personal horizon. I was eager for it, but going INTO practice exhausted isn’t a good start.

Because of random circumstances, Heather and I actually end up arriving at Sharif’s house for practice separately. I navigate my car into his little Bowie neighbourhood, pick my parking space with care, and avoid a tiny obstacle.

A tiny, grey, furry obstacle. Rumpled fur and a trail of viscera that stretches almost to the curb – there’s very little in the world that’s as sad as a roadkill kitten, and I was thankful that I’d gotten there ahead of Heather. I knew it would break her heart to see the tiny body, and I didn’t know WHAT to do. It was right in front of the house, and there was no way she was going to miss it when she arrived – Sharif didn’t have a shovel or anything, and I’m not of SUCH a strong constitution that I’m able to pick up a dead kitten and throw it in the trash, or even a bush.

I’m not sure if I did the right thing. When the neighbours weren’t looking I stole a big empty pot from the yard and overturned it over the kitten in the middle of the street. It’s not the right thing, really – but it meant that Heather wouldn’t see it, and no-one else was going to smear it further along the street.

The pot wasn’t QUITE large enough, and the emotions that roiled through me when I felt the giving squish as I set it down on the kitten’s tail are indescribable and unpleasant.

Band practice itself was fantastic. A great day spent with friends, jamming on music that you Love. That’s the way band practice is SUPPOSED to be, and I don’t think it’s BEEN that way for a long time. It’s made me all the more eager for Tuesday’s Funk Box show. I was fearful everytime that Heather stepped outside – I was afraid she’d move the pot, but I didn’t want to tell her, and I couldn’t just say “don’t mess with the pot” – I returned to the Lloydholme exhausted, elated, and relieved.

Heather selling dolls at her parents' yard sale. How could I have let THIS Lovely Heatherbeest see a dead kitten? I knew it would ruin the day... there is also an evil side of me that will be amused at whoever lifts the pot. As long as it's not Heather.
Heather selling dolls at her parents’ yard sale. How could I have let THIS Lovely Heatherbeest see a dead kitten? I knew it would ruin the day… there is also an evil side of me that will be amused at whoever lifts the pot. As long as it’s not Heather.
Brennan and some new friends at the Royal Open Mic, back on last Thursday. It was awesome to see this table bobbing their heads and dropping their jaws when we ripped up the stage. Unfortunately, the owner was unimpressed.
Brennan and some new friends at the Royal Open Mic, back on last Thursday. It was awesome to see this table bobbing their heads and dropping their jaws when we ripped up the stage. Unfortunately, the owner was unimpressed.
Heather's working on making found-object necklaces. This is the first product of her creative wiles - she's got a couple of them by now, and soon she'll be pooping these things out left and right, and hopefully selling them at shows. I'm in Love with this key - I think it was one of the random ones from inside my Saturn. Maybe my Dad knows what it was for, but I sure don't.
Heather’s working on making found-object necklaces. This is the first product of her creative wiles – she’s got a couple of them by now, and soon she’ll be pooping these things out left and right, and hopefully selling them at shows. I’m in Love with this key – I think it was one of the random ones from inside my Saturn. Maybe my Dad knows what it was for, but I sure don’t.

July 20th, 2004.

Tonight we brought home a stray. Not a kitten bent on flight and skies, but a fellow rockstar.

Daniel Lee has been on the road for four years – and for the past several months I’ve been hearing about him from Brennan, from Mitzi, from Amy. He’s spectacular, and deserving of a better following than he’s got. But I base that on the fact that his following is made up merely of people that have heard him. I don’t think there’s a human alive that can listen to him and not be moved. He makes me want to set my guitar down and step back from it slowly, nonchalantly… as if to say… who me? I don’t play guitar… why?

Daniel, Gail and I eating sushi on the streets of Baltimore, waiting in line for the Funk Box open mic.
Daniel, Gail and I eating sushi on the streets of Baltimore, waiting in line for the Funk Box open mic.
Daniel Lee on stage at the Funk Box.
Daniel Lee on stage at the Funk Box.

He asked me if I wanted to join him on a song – I’m glad I didn’t. I Loved being able to wander the Funk Box open mic and watch people’s reactions. People didn’t even notice me as I moved through the multicoloured light, they were transfixed by Daniel’s ferocious onstage presence.

There was a moment at the end of a song when he brought his fist down to his strings like a death blow. Silencing the feedback like he’d knifed the guitar.

Far better than Jimi Hendrix and his pansy-ass guitar torching.

We played the Funk Box open mic tonight, and by chance ran across Daniel, as well as Prout of Hudson & Prout from Mick O’Shea’s. Prout showed off what he does solo – lots of reverb and spectacular looping tricks… he turned a Howie Day cover into a techno tune worthy of a rave.

But we’ve retired from the muggy Baltimore night and have retreated to the Lloydholme. Daniel’s making three foot tall Love letters with which he plans to woo someone at dawn. Heather and I are reciting Lord of the Rings lines and getting the CDs together and being branded geeks by the Love-lorn Daniel.

And we’re ALL soooo high on marker fumes.

July 21st, 2004.

What an amazing night. The Funk Box was worth every moment of angst. What an amazing night. Best gig we’ve ever played, perhaps. Two djembes beat out drum kit any night. And well air-conditioned. Score. I want to play THERE forEVER.


Sitting later that morning, listening to Underfoot with Daniel, we Love to be able to Introduce incredible things to one another.

Rocking out at the Funk Box. I think it was just such a relief after everything that had gone wrong, we really let loose. It was like a soap opera leading up to this gig – both personally and professionally, and then tonnes of things with the Lloydholme (and on top of everything else, David’s truck’s air conditioning just died!)… it was such a relief just to get up there and play. I’m going to have to write it all in the Journal eventually, but I’ll have to exclude names, or SOMETHING… I don’t know. It’s just… so much as to be unbelievable.

I’m still recovering from the sheer power of last night’s gig. Getting to play the songs that MEAN so much to me, rather than just our typical “bar set” was spectacular. The fans and friends who’ve missed that really responded – much flipping, cavorting, and general joy. A good time was had by all. AND we made our quota for the night, so hopefully we’ll be returning in a couple of months.