Magnolia Electric Co. Tour Diary Vol. 1: Omaha, Nebraska and J.J. Cale

(A quick preface, from marathonpacks) I first met Jason Groth in the summer of 1998 when he showed up at my apartment with a mutual friend, saw my turntable, and graced it with the Kinks' Village Green Preservation Society, which he had freshly purchased and with which he was visibly enamored. That summer has gone down under many headings, but one is: it was the summer I started loving the Kinks. Jason has that sort of effect on his friends; when he likes music, he talks about it with a fervor and genuine understanding that tends to eliminate any response other than complete complicity. That summer, if memory serves, he was playing guitar and writing songs for a Bloomington avant-punk conceptual band called Cadmium Orange, which would occasionally perform Wire's Pink Flag live in its entirety, which would then result in the local record stores selling out their copies the next day. These days, Jason plays with Magnolia Electric Co.,* which has just embarked on a Western tour with Ladyhawk, and along the way, he has amazingly agreed to keep a running tour diary for marathonpacks. He will update us every other day with notes, ruminations, pictures and songs from his time on the road, hopefully working the same mojo over you all that he did for me. Welcome him here, and of course, if you're able, catch him and the band on the road.
*Jason also plays with the Coke Dares, the Impossible Shapes (from time to time) and Whippoorwill.

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Every time I go on tour I am reminded that the romantic idea of the road trip—more specifically, touring—is strikingly similar to that of the romantic relationship. First, there's the waiting. I suppose the more romantic side of me would call this "anticipation," but let's face it, it's waiting. Three of us in Magnolia Electric Co. drove from Bloomington, Indiana, to Omaha, Nebraska yesterday. It took eleven hours. That's a lot of waiting; waiting to get out and use the bathroom, waiting to stretch, waiting to drive, waiting to find just the right music, waiting. We have XM Radio for this tour, a luxury I could have never imagined when I started solidly touring back in 2000. Like other digital media, it actually requires more attention: when you know you can see what's on every channel, you have to constantly look at every channel to see if there is something better to listen to. And here's our second comparison—the road trip involves choices, and also the decision to believe that you are or are not in the right place (or, in the romantic relationship sense, the decision that this other person is worth the time you are spending with them and the potentially dangerous amount of trust you will put into them).

We did find a nice little ice cream shop somewhere in Iowa called the "Dew Drop Inn"/Dairy Sweet. I had a chocolate malt. It was delicious and, at the time, worth the wait. Like a second date, almost. This is our third similarity—the akwardness of anticipation had passed, and the decision had been made to wait it out together, to let the "love" foster (or, in this case, to get the tour started) and to have some fun, and food, along the way. Who knows what might happen now.

The band had not been together in the same room since April 1st at the close of our tour with Destroyer. We needed to practice. Some nice folks in Papillion, NE, had offered space in their guitar store for us to reintroduce ourselves to one another for a good, solid four hours. The store's called "D Rocks." They don't even know what it means, I think. Fourth comparison—at this stage, which is most often the first load-in or soundcheck but was a rehearsal in this case, it really sinks in that we're all in this together. We will rely on each other for a lot more than we would ever have to in any other situation for the next thirteen days. The same is true in the new relationship—you've decided you're an "item" and some things work and some don't, but there's that feeling of need for the other person, and that dread that something could go wrong. Truly, at this point you can still get out. But there's that notion that, if something fails, you're screwed. But it's a different kind of screwed than, say, when I destroy a song by playing a major instead of a minor chord. But stick with me here.

The point of all this is that people will always revel in the mystery that is love, and will also revel in the mystery that is touring with a band. Both things can be extremely rewarding. They both offer perks that cannot be found, in their "complete" form, elsewhere (touring: connecting with an audience, seeing the world, playing to live, etc.—relationship: companionship, understanding, sex, etc.). Both things are also, however, really, really hard work. Touring is, most of the time, like being married to three or four people who all live in a moving metal box. Relationships can leave you wondering why people even try to fall in love. At best both are life affirming and wonderously creative ways to connect with others. At worst they are gray areas that are clouded by waiting, abuse, and uncertainty.


J.J. Cale's song "Thirteen Days" (mp3) from his album 5 (buy) says everything that I've just written about touring and more, in less than three minutes. I love that it's a waltz—it's not driving, forceful, and decided like a good 4/4, but instead it's circular and in three—and it highlights all that is romantically mysterious about touring to the non-touring person in shades of gray that almost sound like he's lamenting the fact that he has tuberculosis or something. "We've got enough dope to keep us all high" might as well be "We have enough money to eat this week" laced with the depression of addiction. He talks about dancing women and sound men without any color at all—the girls make the people pay attention, and the sound man artificially creates the sense of "bigness" when, in fact, the band is a lot quieter in real life. And then the pre-chorus and chorus—"Sometimes we make money, sometimes we don't know/Thirteen days and life to go" sums it all up. It's the musician’s curse—putting yourself in these situations of uncomfortable closeness and vulnerability for little to no money (at least in comparison to what other artists and people of the same ilk make) to keep playing. There's no denying that there is an endless amount of satisfaction with both playing music and (to carry the comparison further) a good relationship. Yet they are both much grayer than most would have us believe.

Cale lays it all out: the drugs, the sex, and the travelling, without saying things are good or bad, but certainly implying that everything is laced with hard work, struggle, and not too little sadness. He says "Migrant worker is the name of this band" and asks for audience attendance—some people like the band, some don't, and that's that. Too many people would have you believe that touring is all fun, drugs, drinking, and groupies. Truly, it is a bunch of strange people in strange places trying to sell their wares to people who may or may not care. I've never heard anyone say it more clearly than J.J.

Magnolia was doing this song on the last couple of tours, and every time we played it I fell in love with it a little more. To be frank, playing the song was complete joy; the changes are satisfying, the lyrics honest, the melody wonderful, and even the backing vocals would make my night every time. This song isn't just catharsis (although I'm sure it is for some), it's just a great, honest song.

But the truth is that none of us would be doing this if we didn't like it. The same goes for relationships. Who knows if the good outweighs the bad, because there certainly is a lot of both. And as I sit in this terrible coffe shop in Omaha, I am revelling in the anticipation that is load-in and soundcheck in three hours. Here's to touring.

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Be sure to check back Friday for the second installment (click here) of Jason's tour diary. In the meantime, listen to "Dark Don't Hide It" (mp3) and "Cross the Road" (mp3) from Magnolia's latest, Trials and Errors. Buy it, and everything else they've done, from Secretly Canadian.