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-WINTER 2001 EUROPEAN TOUR SYNOPSIS, Part II-
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21.11.01- Our tour-bassist, Levi Fuller, was detained and then deported back to France by UK Immigration officials as we landed that night. He didn’t have a ‘work permit’ and had been instructed to walk off the boat as a “tourist.” He was starting to come down with some sort of cold (that would later prove to be much more than just a cold). Immigration grilled him for the names and addresses where he’d be staying while in the UK. Then they marched him down to an ATM machine to prove his bank balance. He could only get out $50 a day from that particular machine. They weren’t buying his story. When he didn’t come off the ferry with the rest of the walk-on passengers we knew something was up. After an hour of waiting in the van and freezing in the parking lot we figured they must have kicked his ass back to France. So we turned around and got back on the ferry to Calais in hope of finding him. We recrossed the channel in even rougher weather. Though no one got seasick, for the next three days each of us felt like he was reeling stern and starboard every time he stepped more than three feet in any direction.
Remi found us an automated motel with no late night clerk, just receipts providing entry codes and self-sanitizing toilets and showers. We watched early morning kids shows and caught up on the U.S. activity in Afghanistan and Pakistan. The situation in Israel and Palestine was getting worse by the day. The news we received beat the hell out of all the candy-coated reporting found on American television screens back home. That offered some slight comfort. Many hours later Levi appeared before us understandably frazzled and unsure of what to do next. Remi suggested we just get back on the ferry to Dover and tell the UK Immigration officials that we needed to sort this out. That seemed like a pretty sound approach, we had no option other than canceling the rest of the tour. And that was not an option. So we got back on the ferry. More bad coffee and soccer hooligans…. Once back in Dover, all told we spent the better part of 24 hours trying to prove to Immigration that Levi was our bass player. Thanks to the efforts of our booking agent, Jon at CNL, and to the work of Tom and Allison at Southern UK, we were eventually able to get him back into the country on a temporary ten-day work visa. Without them the tour would have been OVER. We missed our first show in Milton-Keynes, which had been shaping up for months to be a high point of the tour. But Christ, nonetheless we were happy to be in the country and able to continue on.
22.11.01- We played at The Peel in Kingston Upon Thames with four other bands, including a very good one named Tyler. However, here’s the problem with playing in England on a four-band bill at a pub. Time. Pubs legally have to close by 11pm. When the first band goes on at 9pm and plays for 45 minutes that leaves everyone else with less than a half hour to perform. We were headlining and didn’t even make it through 20 minutes before the soundman cut the power and told everyone to get out. Though we only got to play maybe four songs it felt good to be playing again after our ordeal in Dover. But not everyone was appreciating it in such relative terms; three guys had flown from Sweden to see us play and were understandably pretty bitter about our short set. I apologized and explained the circumstances. There was nothing more that we could do. That night we stayed with a skater kid at his row house in Kingston where we poured over skateboarding magazines and watched European MTV until dawn. |
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23.11.01- DAY OFF. In the morning we dropped our host at the skate/record shop where he worked and then went in search of email access and coffee. Tragically, that’s how we spent our first day off of the tour. We were far from the London city center and didn’t have enough time to visit any other far off cultural points of interest. So I phoned Allan Harrison and he asked us to come stay with his parents up in Buckingham for the night. Gladly. When Allan was a 17-year-old kid he came to Seattle and stayed at my house while interning at Sub Pop Records under the wing of my housemate Meg. He ate nothing but Milkduds, drank Slurpees and smoked menthol cigarettes. For his zine he interviewed local indie rock bands and wrote long, gushing praise or venomous diatribes as the spirit moved him. We’ve kept in touch. The kid’s now in school in Leeds and as far as I can tell may just be a bonafide genius with the written word.
Allan had booked our show in Milton-Keynes (the show we missed due to Immigration problems). The town where his parents live, Buckingham, is cute. Kids in school uniforms flipped us off as they crossed the street in front of our van. We clapped and laughed, begging them to do it more as we drove along to Allan’s parents house. No one seemed to appreciate our levity. Levi and I went supermarket shopping with Allan’s mom, hands down one of the most pleasantly awkward experiences of my adult life. I can’t explain. Then Gabe and I helped make dinner for everyone, while his father got Remi and the rest of the band snoringly intoxicated. Briefly we suffered through the lovely Milla in Luc Besson’s horrible film, Joan of Arc. Remi, as a Frenchman was deeply offended by its idiocy. Still, Milla in battle armor looked pretty good. Then we watched that Jules Holland character on the tele, marveling once more at how much better that program is than anything on America’s late night TV screens. Genius. We slept soundly. In the morning we thanked Allan and his parents profusely, their generosity was more appreciated than they’ll ever properly know. 24.11.01- Our trip to Scotland was quiet; the rolling green hills and meadows have a way of lulling one into a contemplative, albeit melancholy mood. The land was covered in a gorgeous gray mist. No one spoke much that day. My back and neck felt like I’d been in an auto accident and my voice had turned to no more than a gravelly monotone of deep consonant and barely audible vowel sounds. I’d started spitting up blood again, which is something that always happens when we’re on long tours. When I’m forced to sing too harshly over our combined cacophony it all goes to hell. In this band the one thing I can trust is that it’ll always go to hell. I’m sure the bleeding has something to do with the plates in my throat from the spinal fusion I received when I broke my neck. Oh well, not much can be done other than quit. In all these years of terrified soundmen telling us to lower our stage volume Jason’s never turned down his amp so that any of the rest of us was better able to hear ourselves. He’s the boy in the sonic bubble over on stage right. Consequently, as soon as a sound guy turns his back Gabe will turn his amp up, little by little. And then I’ll do the same. And then the bass goes up. Until before you know it the vocals are buried in the mix and Juno’s an eyeball-bursting ball of beautiful noise night after night. It’s truly the blessing and curse of the live Juno musical experience. |
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And then day after day the throat coughs up blood. Sometimes I really do contemplate finding another line of work. Staring out the window I started to imagine a life of book writing, gardening and lots of soft, experimental songs with plenty of room for singing sweetly. A life spent collecting recycled cans or clerking at a bank. As I said, Scotland puts one in a contemplative mood. Despite the obvious aches and strains of life on the road I was in Scotland on tour and that made me feel good and purposeful. As for the rest of them, though I’m no psychic I had an inkling of what spun around in their minds. Gabe and Greg had developed beards; a kind of symbolic armor that lent each some kind of “action hero” heartiness. Levi’s cold however, looked increasingly serious. We were sure he needed antibiotics and an airtight recovery chamber. We began to notice that Jason’s face was melting down his neck and his eyes always appeared on the verge of popping out of his head in a big sploosh of crocodile tears. He’d taken to sleeping at all hours, spoke very little and often only awakened in time to change his strings or grab some food before playing the show. The bubble seemingly had expanded to encompass his every thought and action. For better and worse, coping mechanisms happen. We were all so grizzled by this point. All this and we weren’t even half way through the tour.
And yet, upon our return to The 13th Note in Glasgow we enjoyed another excellent show. This time around we played in the 13th Note’s larger venue down the street from the club’s restaurant/cafe. Again, the club’s promoter, Simon, was very gracious. Shona, the sound woman did a great job of mixing that night, by far she provided us the best live sound we’ve ever had while playing across Europe. Should your band ever tour Europe and need a great sound engineer/tour driver: Shona Marshall:the_shonz@hotmail.com
After the show the club turned into a disco. I sat with a swell Scotsman named James Devlin and shot the shit like a couple of real jackasses. We talked about bands, jobs, and touring. We even discussed the pros and cons of romantic life, (it was impossible not to- the place was a disco swarming with hordes of Glasgow’s beautiful people). James was cool, opinionated and gracious to a fault. We stayed with two of Simon’s friends in their flat that night. They were fucking hysterical! While we slept our van got broken into. The cluck made off with a few cd’s and t-shirts by smashing out one of the back windows and reaching for anything within arms length. Here’s a tip: No matter where you are pack and park your tour vans with this possibility in mind. Apart from that one minor mishap, Glasgow really has made itself a crucial tour-stop for us; the people we’ve met and have worked with are all friendly and enthusiastic about music. I’m sure that element has something to do with why bands like Mogwai, Arab Strap, Redneckmanifesto, Flying Red Adair and Life Without Buildings are so good. Just simply that it’s Scotland and the young people seem hell bent on making music happen. I would recommend to anyone interested in traveling to Europe that Scotland be a destination priority. It’s an unbelievably beautiful place. The inhabitants are the best. Scotland is extraordinary. |
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25.11.01/26.11.01- As is Ireland. Sadly though, our dates in Ireland were thrown off a bit. We were booked to play two dates (Dublin and Belfast) with an artist we all enjoy very much. But those two cities fell through when inexplicably he pitched a fit about having Juno on the bill. And just like that we were cut from the shows. I wasn’t surprised as the artist in question is well known to be perplexingly erratic in his choices and behaviors when it comes to other artists he’ll share a stage with. Nonetheless, not being surprised still didn’t mean we weren’t heartbroken all the same. We’d made long drives for lovely venues we didn’t get to play in, which was hardly awesome. We apologize to anyone who came to either of the shows in Dublin or Belfast. We’ve fielded many confused and/or angry emails from people who thought we bailed out on the dates at the last minute. Sorry, it was entirely beyond our comprehension or control. And that’s about all we’ll say on that.
Though we didn’t play at Whelan’s/Temple Bar as we were supposed to, we stayed in Dublin with our promoter, Paul Timoney, and his friend Fergus for two days. Paul is about as wonderful a person as one could hope to meet in this world. His life-stories read like novellas filled with astounding illuminations; unwittingly he bestows insights like gifts. Paul is genuine and good God, he’s funny. We thank him and Fergus for everything they did and said on our behalf. We talked him out of getting drunk and starting a fistfight in our honor. I sincerely hope that we see both of them again in this life, and the next if such a place exists.
27.11.01- Our dates in Kilkenny and Cork were peculiar. What the hell am I saying? Everything about touring is peculiar.
We walked around the town and made our way up to the Anglican Church of Ireland and then over to an immodest castle on a gentle incline well above the city center. Our friends from Boston, St. James and Susan appeared before us back at the pub bearing much needed goodwill. As gifts they gave us phone cards! They were in Ireland visiting old family haunts and seeing Juno for what must have been the fifteenth time in three years. They took us to dinner at their hotel. Oh God, Susan and James, thank you! We ate some of the best food of my life. Their benevolence delivered us a much-needed break from the buns-and-cheese routine.
Back at the pub the opening band was in love with Nirvana and The Melvins, and they sounded like it. Envision three 17-year-old kids who will grow up to be brilliant one day if they can only stay off the hard drugs and not go prematurely deaf. The turnout for the show was surprisingly good for such a small town. The band kids took us back to their apartment for some 4am “partying,” which consisted of staring at a 5 ft. by 7 ft. poster of Nirvana while The Melvins blared from a boom box. Everyone chain-smoked and drank themselves into stupors. The band’s drummer replayed the drum solo portion of a Melvins song on the cd player about 12 times. I LOVE THE MELVINS but unless I’m watching the invincible Melvins live and in person I never need to hear that drum solo again. Or any drum solo. Scarred into my psyche. Eventually at around 4am the promoter had us follow him to a castle some 40 minutes outside of town. It had been converted into an astonishing hostel. But quickly our astonishment turned to fear. That place was spooky and colder inside its dank stone interior than outside. Still, I took a shower. Surprise, it was a freeze-attack! I put all of my clothes back on, including parka and got into my sleeping bag. The castle had a small dog in it. We loved him. He slept with Gabe for the five hours made available for such luxury. In the morning we walked around the castle grounds and said stupid shit like, “Well goddamn, that’s an honest-to-God Castle-moat! Right there! See it? But it just ain’t got no water in it! Damn, that’s cool. A castle moat, wow….” And then we drove to Cork, the second largest city in Ireland, or so we were told by the promoter upon arrival.
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28.11.01- Though our post-show visit in Cork, Ireland was nice, I gotta say that the show we played was a sonofabiotch. After a seven-hour drive we jumped out of the van and had to immediately load up three flights of stairs, dodging students with plates of food and scalding beverages as we advanced toward a towering stage at the end of a hall. We played in a university cafeteria during lunch hour. Here was an audience that had zero desire to see us perform. None. Zip. Nada. Zilch. No thank you. I think I can safely speak for everyone in Juno when I suggest that without a doubt we have never felt more out of place and fucked with in a live music situation in our whole lives together as a band. Far worse than having a dream where you show up naked in class. But we plowed through it with sheer sonic force. Our amp volumes were ridiculous. Juno annihilated people as they tried to eat rolls while watching nu-metal videos playing behind our stage on a giant TV screen in the ceiling corner. It was awful (-ly funny?) and felt totally soul sucking. But these kinds of shows happen from time to time. We just have to suck it up and do it to be done with it. Breathe deep and move on. The show time and choice of venue made little sense but it was the only thing our promoter could pull together. He was an extremely nice man. He put us up in a comfortable hostel across town that allowed us to easily move about and explore the surroundings. Cork is one good lookin’ city. Narrow roads, centuries-old buildings no taller than seven or eight stories, modern shops and restaurants and a river running right down the middle of it all.
Later that night Levi and I met up with the promoter and went to a pub where some seriously ur, uh…Blues jams were going down. White guys in leather jackets, berets and sunglasses murderized half a dozen standards while a handful of locals looked on in bemused apathy. Things got far better when two of the promoter’s friends joined us. One of them was a music writer and radio DJ who had formerly been a concert promoter while in college. He told us about a time many years ago when he’d gotten ripped off by Mark E. Smith of The Fall. Mr. Smith demanded payment up front and then billed himself and his girlfriend as The Fall after he fired all of his band mates during a fight on the night of the show. When the concert promoter protested, Mr. Smith replied, “If it were Mark E. Smith, my grandmum and a drum machine it would still be The Fall!” Give ‘em hell Mark! Such a fine story. In a light mist, Levi and I then walked over to an upscale venue across the city center to see the East Coast rapper Guru of Gangstar. The crowd ate it up. The ironic enjoyment of watching hundreds of Irish kids rapping along to Guru wasn’t lost on me. From Brooklyn and Compton to Cork everybody loves rap, myself included. However, the bass-to-treble response in this place was so out of whack it felt like we were gonna crap ourselves and burst an eardrum or two. Gabe, Greg, Jason and Remi went to the movie/toy commercial Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone. In a light mist, Levi and I then walked over to an upscale venue across the city center to see the East Coast rapper Guru of Gangstar. The crowd ate it up. The ironic enjoyment of watching hundreds of Irish kids rapping along to Guru wasn’t lost on me. From Brooklyn and Compton to Cork everybody loves rap, myself included. However, the bass-to-treble response in this place was so out of whack it felt like we were gonna crap ourselves and burst an eardrum or two. Gabe, Greg, Jason and Remi went to the movie/toy commercial Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone.
29.11.01- Exeter, England. The Cavern Club was good and the audience had energy. Much to our mutual delight we played with the band Tyler. It was good to see them again. The club seemed to have a lot of fine shows coming through it on a regular basis. I drew faces on The Owls posters stapled up on the walls. Our friend Joan Hiller was playing in The Owls at the time and we’d been leaving messages and defacing each other’s band posters all across Europe for weeks. While sitting down to a meal of corn pizza, Gabe informed me that it was Thanksgiving back home in the States. “Oh, really? Is that true?” “Yup.” |
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Normally Thanksgiving’s a day I don’t have much strength to participate in but I was picking through corn pizza and it sounded pretty goddamn good right about then. Totally exhausted on buns and cheese, I wanted a turkey and some pumpkin pie. But I wasn’t gonna get it in Exeter. I soon found myself at a payphone in the rain. I checked messages on my phone back home using the card St. James and Susan gave me, hoping to maybe hear the sound of a few familiar and well-loved voices. Not such a good idea. I stood there in the rain thinking about how very important calls sometimes happen when you’re not around to pick up the phone. Sometimes you miss the chance to say your goodbyes. That’s the nature of life and loss. Sometimes doing what you want with your life means losing the parts that get neglected or lost along the way. Sometimes it’s not your fault. Sometimes people simply don’t want to be found. Some people are undead and just drifting much more than they’re actively living. I never understood these things so fully as when I stood there in the rain listening to the sound of a certain voice captured on the line. She vanished more than ten years ago. Or maybe as many as fourteen years ago now. It’s hard to keep track. She reappeared on my phone and just as quickly was gone again. No forwarding phone number. No address or location. Just a voice sounding more lost than any I’ve ever known. Some of us spend our lives acknowledging our past while at the same time trying to out distance it. And some just run until one day there’s nowhere left to run. Happy Thanksgiving. |
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30.11.01- While we were away in Scotland, the savvy Allan Harrison very quickly put together a show for us in Leeds, England. He rented a P.A. and a vacant room above the Fenton Pub. The owner was a bastard and threatened to shut the show down if we opened the door to the fire escape, “One more time!” But the joint was full of people and entirely too hot. A girl fell head first down a flight of stairs due entirely to heat exhaustion. So Allan said, “Fuck it!,” and opened the door. Good job Allan! Somehow the alarm was disabled and the bastard never came back up. Thanks to Allan and all of the bands this was an exceptionally brilliant show. Everyone appeared pleased to be there. But damn, it was hot. Jason declared it his favorite show of the tour. We stayed at Allan’s student-flat where he lives with Emma and a couple of others. His home, I must confess is a disaster of staggering proportions. In the U.S. were his home discovered and ratted out it would surely be condemned as a Federal Superfund Site, to be draped in plastic and never disturbed again for fear of unleashing bioterror organisms onto the general population. Allan, sweet sweet person though he is, needs to lay off the bolognaise sauce and soda pop and get to seriously doing some dishes and vacuuming. How Allan? Why live like that? Sure, I’m busting your balls for the laugh but honestly, I only say this because we care for you… No one wants to see you die of dysentery or the dreaded Haunta Virus in your own home! Start with bleach and a chisel.
1.12.01- We got up early and drove to London so that I could meet up with one of my best friends, Julie the punk ballerina. She’d recently moved from Seattle to Brighton after marrying her husband, the writer, painter and musician Billy Childish. I was to meet her outside of a ballet class near the Covent Garden Tube Station. Jason had plans to take a train out to see someone that afternoon as well. We got dropped off and went our separate ways. Remi, Gabe and Levi made their way to the club, The Metro. Greg had decided to sleep in at Leeds and then drive with Allan to the show in the late afternoon. I found the ballet class but no Julie. I walked back and forth between the tube station and the ballet school. No Julie. Two hours passed. No Julie. Many days later I found out that she’d had to cancel our visit in order to celebrate Billy’s birthday with him at home. It was the proper choice, no doubt we’ll see each other again some time soon. I made my way through the busy streets, bumping into consumers shopping in droves for the upcoming holidays. The walk was long and pleasant. There’s really no better way to get a glimpse of a city’s character than to simply walk it for a few hours, admiring and reviling all the visual, auditory and olfactory information passing by. I eventually found the club but it was closed and not a person I knew was in sight. A Virgin Megastore dominated the block across the street. I went in and checked email for an hour. Nothing too interesting to report there. I returned to the club and found Gabe and Levi standing around talking with a few fellas. They turned out to be band members of Shiner and Aina. We made our introductions. They were all super-nice people. Super-nice, is that a word? They were friendly and funny. It seemed strange to me then, as it does now, that our first meeting would take place in London. We’ve been on the same label (DeSoto) for the last couple of years and have so many mutual friends. Better late than never I suppose.
Though the sound checks made everyone feel horrible, the actual show was OFF THE HOOK! Shiner played excellently and was friendly with the audience. This was their first time in the UK. They shook the Metro’s foundations with Drop-D bombs. Their current line-up is awe-inspiring. They played a bunch of songs off of Lula Divinia, an album I’ve very much loved for the last few years. Aina kicked out the jams. Imagine a cross between AC/DC and Jawbox. Aina is so very good. The show had originally been booked at The Garage (where we had played with Bluetip during the prior Spring) but it was moved to The Metro for some reason at the last minute. We were sure the whole thing was going to be a wash because very little information had gotten out about the venue change. But I’m happy to report that the place was red hot and crammed full of enthusiastic people. Let’s put it this way, the audience at The Metro was one of the best we’ve ever had the good fortune to play for in the UK. If you attended, thank you for coming. Jon, our booking agent at CNL came to the show as well. We owe him tremendous thanks for booking our UK dates and helping to get us out of the Immigration mess in Dover. The man is 100 per cent class and does solid business. In truth, he had a hell of a time getting us some of these shows in the UK and we really should thank him for it here. Allison, Tom, James and Jenina from our distributor Southern UK were at the show as well. It did our hearts good to see all of them come out. Southern UK’s publicist, James Batty put us up for the night. I wish we had James in our lives every day. He’s generous, hard working and full of more fucked up jokes and slang than a dozen stand-up comedians. At the end of the night as we were loading out the backside of The Metro, down the alley some UK boy band in a stretch limo staged an asinine “secret” arrival at a dance club. They had bodyguards directing traffic as a hired “crowd” and “groupies” squawked and hovered about the limo. “Paparazzi” readied their cameras for the moment they’d step out and rush into the club “unnoticed.” What a load of crap. After all those beers back at The Metro James was primed to take the piss out of the whole phony boy band scenario going down. He screamed until his voice went hoarse, “SHITE! SHITE! SHITE!!! THIS IS ALL SHITE! BOLLOCKS! FUCK OFF!!! YOU SUCK!!!!! YOU SUCK! YOU FUCKING SUCK!!! THIS IS BOLLOCKS! FUCKING SHITE, YOU FUCKING WANKERS!!! SHITE!!!!” This went on for about ten minutes. I’m not exaggerating. It was truly the most beautiful display of heckling I’ve ever had privilage to witness. A few hired crowd types had the ill sense to say, “Aye, ‘em boys have a lot o’ talent. You shouldn’t be sayin’ that!” And, “Aw, c’mon, they’re cute!” The Good Mr. Batty shut down these attempts at shushing him all the same, “FUCK OFF YOU WANKERS. THEY’VE GOT NO TALENT! IT’S ALL SHITE!” JUNO LOVES JAMES BATTY. Lastly, huge ups to Ashley Bird at Kerrang! In the morning we got up early to catch our ferry back to the continent.
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