Magnolia Electric Co. Tour Diary Vol. 5: Eugene, Oregon

There are large portions of high school I’d like to permanently expunge, Eternal Sunshine-style, if anyone knows a trusted method to do so that doesn’t involve anything shaped like a spaghetti strainer. Jason Groth of Magnolia Electric Co., in his fifth entry in his running tour diary, tells of one way he comes to peace with his demons. The sentiment here hits home an iota more than the sleepwalking-themed entry from last time, which was freakishly close to something I did as a teenager. Mag (the shortest iteration of the band’s name–I did a Google) is on a western tour with labelmates Ladyhawk.

A can of Icehouse (the coldest beer in the world) will stay even colder if you wrap it in a bandana that has seen some wear. I’m not sure if it’s just the fabric or if the old sweat has something to do with it too, but it works. Ladyhawk, living up to their Bob and Doug McKenzie image, have rolled up to each and every show with a cooler full of either Icehouse or Natural Ice, and usually, as they step out of their van, you see them holding what looks like a Stephen Tyler creation — bad American “beer” festooned in colorful rags, the same bandanas they wear somewhere on their bodies or around their gear on a daily/nightly basis. We’re usually onstage for soundcheck and we see one of them walk in, cigarette dangling (usually unlit), cold, wrapped beer in hand, and a look on their faces not unlike a look a freshly-turned eighteen year old has on his face when it’s spring break and he’s on his Grandparents farm with four or five other dudes, drinking without worry, smoking pot around the fire, still living on disposable income and mom’s and dad’s dollars. It’s really something actually, and it gives me the same feeling their amazing shows give me — this uninhibited celebration of the things that are what we always heard rock and roll was about — great songs, a great show, and doing whatever you like (the members of Ladyhawk, though, have not yet gotten arrested on this tour, nor do they seem to break more laws than drinking in public — I’m not with them twenty-four hours a day, though).

It happened this way in Anacortes, WA — a beautiful little town on Fidalgo Island. We were playing at the Department of Safety that night, a great art-space/collective/venue (formerly a fire station) with some amazingly nice folks (and the remote-controlled monkey head I was talking about in the last one). We were soundchecking and, through the old garage windows, Ladyhawk did what Ladyhawk does in celebration of getting across the border for the third time on this tour. They seem to have no trouble making it across, even with their coolers ready to accept the prize at the end of the line. We, however, were not so lucky, our fair country charging us $5.00 for our commercial goods and even making fun of us for potentially being Bears fans. I described my fear of going in to Canada before as panic. Coming back is more like waiting to get punished by your principal. Even if you’ve done nothing wrong you’re suspect — thanks to your hundreds of thousands of friends (in this case) who have returned from British Columbia with the best pot in the world. It’s more annoying than anything because my country is supposed to be my country and, well, it just feels unfair when they won’t let you back in. And, worst of all, they make you pay. I think they can just smell my fear. But, long story short, we made it. We got fed some amazing homemade soup and hung out with the people who, on a daily basis, host strangers with such a gracious attitude that it makes you, as the stranger, feel completely at home and happily indebted. It was great, too, to see some faces from the cancelled show the night before who drove across the border to see the show. Also, this is the first show I’ve had a Slurpee onstage instead of a beer. Thank you, 7-11.

The next day was oil change and laundry day. Real people actually go three months between oil changes. On tour it’s usually an average of seven to ten days, depending on which side of the country you’re on. The weather was absolutely gorgeous and, for a moment, I felt like I was on vacation. I also had my first black forest cherry donut, thanks to the Donut House in Anacortes. What a good donut. We were on our way to Seattle, I had a donut in my hand, Prince was in the cassette deck, and the windows were open — it may as well have been 1995. The massive amount of coffee, on top of all this beauty, really made me feel like an excited teenager, hitting up Lollapalooza and salivating to see Pavement for the first time. Free of fashion, obligations, bills, and girlfriends. There are, of course, numerous ways to interpret that last statement, but I’ll focus on the most positive one — I felt like I had a goal, I was renergized about music, I felt carefree and ready to perform well for the good folks in Portland.

Portland, OR, has quite the concentration of good looking, stylish people. It wasn’t long after we arrived that I started to feel a little underdressed, very Midwestern, and outside of the circle. The show was at a place called Holocene, which some locals had called “Shallow Scene” when I asked them about it, claiming that it would be all scensters in sausage-casing looking jeans, horizontal stripes, and perfect shoes (not to mention asymmetrical haircuts). I don’t find these things to be offensive like they do, but upon entering the venue I could see why these fellow outsiders felt, well, like outsiders. It’s a beautiful club, laid out like a scene from A Clockwork Orange, with a very nice group of good-looking, skinny Portlanders running the show. We were treated very well and the surroundings were comfortable, but the whole thing made me really self-conscious. True, these people were paying to see us play (and Ladyhawk and Blitzen Trapper) but as the club filled up with these beautiful people I got more and more nervous. When you get right down to it I was nervous that I wasn’t as cool as these people looked, plain and simple. This coupled with my ever-present pre-show nerves had me walking all over the club, constantly excusing myself from conversations, and urinating more than any human should in a thirty minute time period. But then came Ladyhawk — some of them wearing shorts, all of them full of Natural Ice or Icehouse, none of them shaven, and my nerves calmed completely. I had been thinking about high school a lot since I missed my ten year reunion on July 29th. I heard some reports about who was there and what they were doing and, frankly, those petty high school jealousies, just like the high school thrills I had been having due to the nice weather and the good coffee, came back in force. But after the Portland show, this incredible sense of triumph prevailed, as if I had once again defeated those demons from ten years ago by simply having the balls to play a guitar solo in front of 300 people. You should try it sometime if you get the chance, it really works.

My favorite album of the year so far is Fox Confessor Brings the Flood by Neko Case. And the song that secretly made its way into my brain and was, probably, the unconscious reason I started comparing everything to high school was “That Teenage Feeling” (mp3). The first time I heard it, back in March, I was floored by her evocation of that impossible feeling of conflicted joy, regret, and uncertainty that plagued and fueled my high school days. If only in those uncertain, bad-journal-keeping days had I been able to write “But now my heart is green as weeds, grown to outlive their season” when I wanted to impress girls. What an image — the eager heart with nowhere to go. The recording is all atmosphere that sounds like clouded memories, with Neko’s double-tracked harmonies coming down like rain when she sings the chorus. There aren’t that many lyrics but the one that, no doubt, set this whole nostalgia parade in motion is the pre-chorus that goes “And nothing comforts me the same/As my brave friend who says/’I don’t care if forever never comes ’cause I’m holding out for that teenage feeling.’” Ladyhawk was my brave friend in Portland, and that whole sentiment is precious to me — there have been so many times when that indescribable feeling hits me again and all I can think of is some obscure memory from my awkward, glasses and pleated-pants wearing days of drama class and a capella choir. It’s both terror and utter happiness — truly “That Teenage Feeling.” The title alone does the trick for me as I never had the vocabulary to describe it before, and Neko Case picked it apart and it works. What a great album, what a great song, what a strange way to feel.

I’m in a place called Cozmic Pizza in Eugene, OR. It’s all hippies, parents, and teenagers in here to watch a band that consists of acoustic/electric bass (Violent Femmes style), djembe, acoustic guitar and Kawai digital piano. There’s one extremely annoying, Jesus-looking hippie who has been bugging me all night, giving the staff crap, and bowing to everyone. It really feels like a high school cafeteria, only everyone is saying the word “beautiful” without fear of a beating and there’s beer. Really the only feeling I have right now is the urgent need to leave. Jesus-looking hippie just started playing a Dave Matthews song.