A couple of months ago, as a way to tide people over during our ongoing hiatus I wrote an ass-load of tour stories from the last trip through Europe and posted a jumble of photos to the band’s website. I couldn’t have done it without Gaynell and Thad, our web designers. Thanks to both of you. You put in a lot of hours on something that at best can only be defined as a labor of love. Thank you.

To our listeners & readers: Possibly corny as it sounds, though we’re still “on hiatus” from touring, that doesn’t mean we’ve stopped considering the people who support the work we’ve created. The European Tour Stories were my way of giving people something they could casually read and hopefully enjoy while we’re busy vanishing into the ether for a while. It wasn’t like posting rough sketches of songs, or piling up a stack of live tracks and digi-camera videos from our tours, which in some respects would have been a whole hell of a lot easier (and I’m sure some of you would have appreciated that more). But more so, I tried to give people a glimpse into our lives and our music while on the road. I’ve received an avalanche of positive emails from people about the tour stories. Thanks for taking the time to read. That was a lot of written mayhem to digest. Gold stars for robot boys and girls everywhere.

Despite the mythology, being in a band on tour isn’t A) often, B) always, or C) ever: piles of cocaine and rampant sexual antics night after night, (unless you’ve got obnoxiously overblown financial resources, limited self-control and mad-clout with the masses- and then it’s another matter entirely, R.I.P. Keith Moon & John Entwistle, you were giants of brave excess and musicianship). Naw, for most bands- touring is making art, meeting new people, seeing new places and simply finding out over and over again if you’re strong enough to thrive in an environment where with every minute you’re newly asked to weather ever-increasing hardships of exhaustion and poverty that come with a life in music. It’s a hilariously aggressive exercise in self-immolation and humiliation from time to time, creating what can only be described as an exasperatingly deep dissatisfaction with yourself and everyone else in the immediate vicinity. And yet, at the same time, it is this very same dissatisfaction that makes the whole thing worthwhile; you see life for what it is, for what it isn't, and most importantly for what it can be if you are only willing to swallow your misgivings and plow on ahead through the darkness. Under these circumstances we're not always the people we would most like to be to ourselves and to those around us; the conflicting daily rituals and shifting comfort zones make it an impossible challenge for even the most patient and forgiving souls. But quite often it is perfection; touring and playing music are the most engaging, fall-down-funny, intelligent, physical, animal experiences I can think of. To fully know the rewards (and the damage done) will require a lifetime of reflection. I will now tell you a few stories; a quick collection of abstract mental snapshots from life on the road over the last few years.

Sometimes you wind up in the lap of luxury, astounded at your own good fortune- asking yourself, “What did I do to deserve this? How did I get here?” The answer is: You earned it. You earned it as honestly as many people will ever earn anything worth having in their whole lives. Often more honestly and more worthwhile. You wrote a mess of songs, you lived on floors covered in other people’s refuse, you froze your ass off, you ate next to nothing, you slept not at all, you performed in front of alternately excited or apathetic and hostile crowds from one end of a country and back again a zillion times, and for every dollar you earned you spent or lost $100.00. And you lived to tell about it.

So yeah, when some random weirdo in Las Vegas tells you his dad is a professional gambler for the mob and then asks you to stay over at his family’s dilapidated desert mansion- HELL YES, YOU STAY THERE!!! Take a dip in the pool. Sleep till 9 am, eat a few olives, make an omelet and watch some cable TV. Because yes, goddammit, you earned it. Whatever you do, keep one eye on that sister of his. She looks crazy enough to kill a couple of people just for the sport of it. For all you know Dad wasn't away at the casino, most likely he was six feet under outside next to the pool. Even when the place has that sort of a vibe, just roll with it...pop a few olives and do some laundry. Be cool, don't make a mess or place too many demands. And always be sure to say thanks...and mean it. Because without these people, even the crazy ones, life on the road just wouldn't be as interesting or occasionally comfortable.

And then other times you don’t get the lap of luxury. Uh, no, people. Nope. Sometimes not at all. Aw shit, you almost never get the lap of luxury, let’s be honest. Often you get the whole bull, the horns, the balls and the bullshit. Sometimes you have truly bizarre and wonderful chance meetings with interesting, albeit occasionally horrifying and tragic characters. Sometimes you walk down an unfamiliar street at 4 am in a well known violent part of town (well known except to everyone but your self of course...). Sometimes you just hope you’ll get out of the club without scabies or a slit throat, (because that Louisiana vampire dude with the sores all over his neck offering you a “bump” from his 8-ball looks like he could put the hurt on you somethin’ fierce in the next half hour). But you take your chances and opt to decline, knowing it’ll get ugly either way. Because that’s how these things go, they get ugly regardless of whether you decline or accept. He knows it. And more importantly, he knows you know it too. The only one who doesn’t seem to get it is his fidgety, half-dead girlfriend with the wandering eye and antagonistic smear of a mouth (if the chain-smoking doesn't get her, eventually the 8-balls and heroin will). Sure enough it gets ugly. Priceless but ugly.

And then sometimes things are just so wrong and yet so comical; the small things that should not be but are and there is no getting around them. Occasionally one is struck with the overwhelming sense that this whole life is a universal joke gone awry. An in that moment if one starts laughing he may likely never stop. Like that time when a smug Chicago-stockbroker-ex-brother-in-law-of-your-bandmate’s-former-girlfriend came to your show and said, “Gosh, being in a band seems so easy, it’s not like this is a real job. I mean you just get to drive all over the place playin’ music and getting’ laid! What an easy life, you guys got it made. Have fun while it lasts, sheesh, wow! You guys got it easy!!! Wow! Well hey, I gotta be at my real job early in the morning, so hey, gotta go! Yeah, wow, hope you sell a million guys….”

He stood there yappin’ his fat face off on the sidewalk out in front of the club, stunning in his tan Dockers and braided leather belt, nonchalantly swinging the keys to his renovated loft and high-performance German automobile. You stared at him blankly; it was all you could do not to laugh like a lunatic on a high bender. Instead, you stared expressionless, fantasizing about how you’d love to just take the face off that bastard with one great big kiss, inhaling his idiocy until you’d suffocated his lungs and swallowed him whole into your belly. You wanted to step on puppies right in front of his big, soft, stupidly self-satisfied face just to show him something fantastically awful. But you didn’t do it. Because you like animals. And because the show that night was awesome. Life at that moment felt pretty goddamn great and pretty goddamn terrible for the good ol’ Juno boys band. You tell yourself that your life is at least better than the life tucked away in that braided belt at any rate….

Yes indeed…. Assumptions and assholes. Hookers, drug dealers, Denny's, Fresh Fields, lying asshole mechanics, kindly tow-truck drivers, pimps, gangsters, white belts, punk belts, romulans, cartigans, harsh metal dudes, sweet southern belles, "art-scenester-intellectuals," sub-morons, abused kids and housewives, suicidal teen-agers, attack dogs, dead dogs, baby kitties, lamas, simulated wood-grain paneling, ceiling fans, failed air conditioners, shag carpet, fragrant flowers, other men's urine, hot tubs, inflatable mattresses, cars, trains, planes, vans, skateboards, bicycles, bums, beautiful ladies, dead socks, handsome fellas, bitter pills, unbearable bastards, redneck boyfriends, estranged girlfriends, human feces, stalkers, straight politics, queer politics, racist politics, green party politics, conservative politics, liberal dogma, republican war-mongering, misguided patriotism, geo-positioning systems, moral bankruptcy, modern miracles, microwave ovens, George Foreman grills, poverty, popsickles, thunderstorms, terrorists, cell phones, flat tires, set lists, stage plots, broken tube amps, electricity bills, tough practice spaces, too many guitars, not enough guitars, foreign languages, fancy currency, terrible coffee, insomnia, sleep deprivation, weekly paper music columnists, shiftless publicists, saintly publicists, fat cops, lazy lawyers, conservative farmers, lovers, friends, family, foes, foot fungus, self doubts and universal truths....on and on and on....and on and.... Unexpected joy and generosity. It’s a mind-fuck every day. Sometimes it’s new and exciting; sometimes it’s just monotonous. Always requiring daily re-evaluation. Always demanding more persistence and determination that you ever thought possible. Greater reserves than your conscious mind can fathom. And sometimes when those reserves are depleted you must lie down for a time. You must rest in hopes of recharging your physical being and your creative self. You need to do things of lesser consequence than playing music and sometimes things of even greater importance. Sometimes it lasts a few days, sometimes a few months or years, or even the rest of ones’ lifetime.

So I will end this Update with a remarkable letter we received from a nice person named Allison in Vermont. This letter is amazing. So amazing in fact, that I initially thought it might be a hoax. Have no fear; Ms. Allison gave us her consent to publish it unaltered. We’ve never met her. But she’s a real person out there in the world who occasionally listens to Juno songs as the soundtrack to her life and most bizarre thoughts. Astonishing. Allison, wherever you are now- thank you. Your story has everything! A great, incredibly creepy story! A boatload of good questions! A whole bunch of talk about your favorite bands! A mess of totally implausible but true-life events! It’s got humor and goodwill. It’s got style! The letter perhaps most of all has got hope and encouragement. Thank you. If we can keep everything on course, at some point during the fall we’ll schedule some recording for an e.p. And then we’re touring Japan in January. To all the rest of you, thanks for reading. Politically and physically it’s a very dangerous world right now. Be a source of calm, creativity and goodwill. Try to take care of each other.

Best Regards,
Arlie/Juno

Subject: about this is the way it goes Date: Wed, 7 Aug 2002 14:26:01 EDT

Oh my. this is really stupid on my part but I didn't realize that you were still around. I had a taped, taped, tape of a tape of yours that I fell in love with. It was in a box of stuff I was getting ready to send an ex. I listened and it was unmarked so....I didn't even know who was making the music to begin with. I had just moved to this small town in the mountains of Virginia (job transfer) and it was snowing and I knew no one and I was wondering what I did. All I did on my days off was drive around and listen to that tape. I swear I could probably play all the parts by heart if needed.

I’d always hit track 9 (mp3 873KB) about the time I got to this telephone substation. Everyday I see this place and there were never any cars in the parking lot. the strange thing was that it was right next to a graveyard. the graveyard was small...maybe 50 or so graves..and it backed right up to the wall of the substation. It just made sense to me that since there were never any cars at the place that the dead people in the graves must run the telephone substation. It developed into this whole idea I've got now that we always chalk it up to fiber optics and shit…but it's really dead people taking your voice from one end of the line to another. I decided that this must be one of the jobs you get when you die. My friend asked me who decides who gets what job when you die. I think it's post mortem lottery perhaps. But...another thing that the ghosts do are those 'automatic' doors at Walmart and places like that. no…not electronics...ghost technology I say. ghost doorman duped by the post mortem lottery. that is what I thought of for your track 9.

So....finally the ex ( who moved to providence , RI ) came for a visit and said...oh...that's Juno. he even gave me the CD because he'd grown out of it. he said he didn't think you guys were around anymore and that you only had the one cd out. I never really looked into it further. Oddly enough..there is a song on the taped tape that is not on your CD.....it says something about "fashion bleeds...something something....spitting fire, in the eyes…of the least suspecting patron..."it has kind of a military cadence to it. It is so very good...do you know what it could be? Anyhow. It's my fault completely for not investigating this further....But, I always forget what I'm looking for the moment I step foot in a record store anyway. So. I can't say enough how fucking excited I am to see that you are still making music. Thank you so much. I think I would've had a very miserable experience if I hadn't lived in your cd for the first few months of my move. thank you thank you thank you. I appreciate that you do this for us to consume. It really means a lot. I'm just so perplexed by that whole creative process anyway. Plus, I grew up listening to such different things. I think around 11 was when I developed my own sense of music. I grew up listening mainly to Bowie (and his incarnations) Cocteau twins, Dead Can dance, cure, felt, kinks, buzzccks, exploited, joy division, gg allin, swans , this mortal coil, current 93 , psychic tv , death in june , X ...things like that.

So...being 28 now…I get really excited when I hear something new that I can get lost in. It's like that CD gave me a whole new realm of music that I'd never been exposed to before. It's almost like an addiction because i fear the day I can't find something new that makes my mouth water. it's getting harder and harder. It's funny because I find that like my Bad Brains of the eighties is like my dad's Dion of the 50's. Oh well. the purpose of this email is simply to thank you. I would also like to know your top 5 albums ever...or of 2002...whatever is easiest....just so I might learn of a new band or two to check out.

thank you in advance, Allison