Magnolia Electric Co. Tour Diary Vol. 4: Anacortes, Washington

The Pacific Northwest is beautiful and is a just reward for the usually nerve-racking travel one must endure to get there from the Midwest. The temperature went from 98 degrees in Missoula to 55 when we made our first stop in the greenery of Washington. One of the boons of touring is coming across candy that you don’t see everywhere. On that first stop in Washington I found Peanut Butter Mountain. It wasn’t as good as the Idaho Potato candy I had last year but it has its place. We were fifty miles outside of Seattle at this point — a city that, like Nashville or other “music” places, can be a tough place to play. More than twice while playing at the Crocodile there have been more monitors onstage than people in the audience. But we decided to give Seattle its due and listened to, in no particular order, Jimi Hendrix, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Stone Temple Pilots (were they even from Seattle?), and Pearl Jam. No one had Alice in Chains in their collection. And it was a dreary, beautiful day, and we were on our way to the hell that is playing festivals. The Capitol Hill Block Party, to be exact, which featured the Murder City Devils in all of their “we’re sorry we said we’d never play again together” glory. Our show was pretty good, if not hectic and full of stepping over piles of vomit on the street, and there’s a little recap of it that you can see here.

I finally got to visit the Pike Street Market (you know, that fish-throwing place) and discovered that it wasn’t as much of a tourist trap as it could be (although it certainly has some of that feeling to it). Had an amazing fresh salmon sandwich (the rosemary mayo was the kicker) and was told that Tom Petty had eaten there that day already and that Trey Anastasio would be there later that day. I got free coleslaw and some chowder in the deal, too. Tip those guys well when you see them next. And then it was off to Canada.

Due in large part to the amazing diplomatic techniques employed by our current administration, not only is being in a rock band a lot tougher but crossing into other countries gives me the same feeling I get when I am about to get a shot at the dentist’s office. Pure panic. My palms start sweating and I probably look like I’m hiding the drugs that they think I have but don’t. I become a mess. We’ve crossed the border a number of times over the last couple of years — twice we’ve made it through without any hassle, and the other four or five we’ve been charged between $35 and $700 to get in (taxes, immigration, etc.) It can be a money losing venture if you do not have a solid show or shows set up in Canada. Our show in Vancouver, at Richard’s on Richards, already had 300 tickets sold — we were pretty sure it was going to cover the almost $300 we paid to get in this time. It’s Ladyhawk’s hometown, too, and we were excited to let them host us. Richard’s on Richards is a big, sticky club with a huge drum riser (above). They pay well, they have a lot of security, and the sound is good. Everything seemed to be going fine — we had delicious Vancouver sushi and I took some Internetting time at a terribly named coffee shop (chain, I think) called Blenz (ed: it’s a chain). Then it was back to the club. I casually asked the sound man, who I saw outside the line going into the club, how it was going — his response was soundman-like but also a bit darker than usual — “fucking shitty, man.” I asked why and he said “the club is flooding.”

Yep, the club was flooding. The city’s system was backing up and there was a lot of water on the floor. The one picture I was able to take landed my camera in the hands of a security guy who didn’t know I was in one of the bands. It’s not that good but you can sort of see what’s happening (above). You can also see the security guy getting ready to grab the camera. I was able to snap another picture of him after we made nice in the back room. The result? Two, one good and one bad. The first was that a very nice woman named MJ helped us to move the show to a place called the Marine Club. Ladyhawk and Magnolia got to play. The bad part was that we didn’t get paid because it was an “act of God,” and it was. But everybody lost money — the club, the promoters, the bands, and so we made the most out of it. And making the most out of it landed me in my boxers outside of a locked house in Vancouver.

I’m not sure if this song has anything to do with the tale above, but I feel like it does, because in those situations — when things change rather unexpectedly and very quickly — one feels as if a big cosmic joke is being played on them. “I Started a Joke” (mp3) by the Bee Gees, from their album Idea (buy), was a hit for the boys from England/Australia/England again, and it was from their pre-disco, psychedelic pop days. They never lost the knack for writing a good, catchy song, but in those days the drama is as high as they seem to be. I have been obsessed with them for the last few months and this song was speaking to me as I woke up this morning. It even has the “I fell out of bed/hurting my head/from things that I’d said.” But the more I think about it the more applicable it seems. I guess the joke is that we get to drive around and play music for money. And I guess the world cries because not everyone is so lucky. But then the joke that’s on me, or us, is that sometimes crazy things happen, like a club flooding. I’m really grasping here, but the fact is all of the events of the evening made me think of this song and I’ve been thinking about it all day, and my English major education taught me one thing above all else — as long as you can support your argument, your interpretation is valid. I’m trying to figure out how us dying can make the world live, and I’d like to propose that if someone likes our music it can make them feel alive (as music tends to do), and the act of recording is similar to dying — you put a song on tape and it is buried there, forever memorialized on digital media, but potentially giving life, or the feeling of living, to the listener. You hope, at least. But really, the Bee Gees are awesome, and the fact that the song is as weirdly dramatic as our night in Vancouver makes it ring true in my life today. Listen to Robin’s voice as he goes into that bridge — pure drama, amazing melody, just a fantastic pop song.

The hangover’s now gone, the embarrassment due to sleepwalking has passed, and I just heard Mark Rice, the drummer, say “Do you know where the remote control is for this monkey face?” I don’t think I’m grasping anymore when I say that touring is very weird and very dramatic, and can be weirdly dramatic in situations when you feel absolutely compelled to move a rock show from one flooded club to another, second floor club in order to just play four songs. The punk rock-ness of the Vancouver experience was rather invigorating, and even though it cost us some money, it was worth it. And now there really is a remote control monkey head here in Anacortes, Washington making faces at me while the Bee Gees play over and over again. Time to go watch Ladyhawk rip the hell out of the place. So far, no flood, so maybe, besides the monkey, the joke isn’t on us anymore.