http://moe.org/rss http://moe.org/rss http://moe.org/web/desktop/themes/moe/images/logo-moe.png en-us Wed, 19 Jun 2013 02:54:08 -0500 http://moe.org/news/salt-lake-city-show-canceled- Tue, 18 Jun 2013 17:39:51 -0500 http://moe.org/news/salt-lake-city-show-canceled- http://moe.org/news/brooklyn-show-added-dedicated-to-longtime-fan Sun, 16 Jun 2013 06:52:30 -0500 http://moe.org/news/brooklyn-show-added-dedicated-to-longtime-fan http://moe.org/news/colorado-single-day-tickets Fri, 14 Jun 2013 09:58:58 -0500 http://moe.org/news/colorado-single-day-tickets http://moe.org/news/summercamp-usb-customers Thu, 13 Jun 2013 14:30:48 -0500
Missed out on this year's Summer Camp USB? You can still grab all the sets through moe.'s livedownloads site!]]> http://moe.org/news/summercamp-usb-customers http://moe.org/news/haze-video-contest-winner Mon, 10 Jun 2013 12:22:10 -0500 http://moe.org/news/haze-video-contest-winner http://moe.org/news/moe-in-relix-summer-stars-feature Wed, 29 May 2013 16:31:25 -0500
]]> http://moe.org/news/moe-in-relix-summer-stars-feature http://moe.org/news/high-sierra-schedule-and-contest Fri, 17 May 2013 11:18:04 -0500
Create your custom schedule for a chance to win a pair of 4-day passes! The festival takes place in Quincy, CA July 4th - 7th and tickets are on sale now!]]> http://moe.org/news/high-sierra-schedule-and-contest http://moe.org/news/final-moedown-lineup-announced Fri, 10 May 2013 05:46:17 -0500 http://moe.org/news/final-moedown-lineup-announced http://moe.org/news/moe-returns-to-nycs-beekman Fri, 19 Apr 2013 05:17:29 -0500
General on-sale starts on TODAY at 12pm Eastern.

The show is 18+, but a limited number of VIP tickets will be available for 21+. VIP includes an exclusive backstage party area with unlimited food & craft beer all night, limited spirits (Jack daniels, absolut, etc.) and premium VIP viewing area for show (next to stage).]]> http://moe.org/news/moe-returns-to-nycs-beekman http://moe.org/news/a-note-about-europe-2013 Thu, 11 Apr 2013 13:13:34 -0500 http://moe.org/news/a-note-about-europe-2013 http://moe.org/blog/lasting-impressions Mon, 08 Apr 2013 09:31:25 -0500
I try to remember things that place the whole experience in context. In Tahoe, on the north end of the lake, at Crystal Bay, right on the California-Nevada border, the caravan came to a halt. It, Lake Tahoe, is completely surrounded by mountains—big fuckers. The terrain is inclined and rugged, steep in places, covered with giant boulders, Ponderosa Pines, and patches of snow. Lake Cottages crowd the forest for the trees throughout the landscape, vying for a view of the lake, or mountains, or other trees and boulders. There, moe., et al,  hunkered down for 3 days; one off and two show days. Some of us, band and crew, went skiing. The rest of us lay low—sleep, drink, gamble—think about life and a deuce in the hole.

I was balls deep into reading, The Cell Biology of the Testis—Alien vs. the African Honey Badger: What If?, a friend of mine’s autobiography.

There’s nothing much else to do.

Crystal Bay is not a town but a place. Situated there are 4 casinos, 3 of them are run down and in dire need of renovation; a fire station, a few hotels, a log cabin that doubles as a high-end restaurant, and—thanks be to the heavens above—a newly opened craft beer dispensary. The place used to be an ice cream parlor, but it folded. Inside, the décor still looks like the ice cream parlor that was abandoned—a retro Andy Warhol meets Beaver Cleaver. Instead of a soda fountain and a soft serve behind the counter, on the wall, there’s about 50 beer taps. Suddenly, Crystal Bay got interesting.

But then it was over. Two great shows and we’re back on the bus attempting to get out in a snow storm high in the Sierras. It was 3 am and our bus driver had to put chains on the tires. It was snowing sideways. We had to make Las Vegas in 8 hours. It would take 10. The Hard Rock Café is right on the strip in the middle of it all. People walk the strip like narcotized herds of cattle, which many of them are: buzzed and bovine. moe. is to perform on the top floor of the Hard Rock, the third floor. Exhibits are displayed throughout the level. Myriad guitars signed by notable musicians are encased everywhere. There’s clothing, too. Stuff like, a coat Bruce Springsteen wore for ten minutes, or a suit Jimi Hendrix tried on, or ZZ Top’s formal wear. It’s not much steak, but the presentations sizzle. I’m setting up merch next to the Elvis room under a picture of Bo Diddley that’s framed with one of his square guitars. The level is closed to the public while we set up. It is cordoned off and there is signage up that says so. Yet people, buzzed and bovine, come off the elevator or escalator, ignore the signs and walk around the barrier to gawk. They wander from exhibit to exhibit in awe. It’s like they’re at the Smithsonian, viewing Charles Lindbergh’s plane, The Spirit of Saint Louis, contemplating how in the hell he could fly a thing, around the size of a one engine Cessna, across the country, let alone the Atlantic Ocean, and in doing so, usher in a revolution in aviation that would take man to the moon, Mars, and beyond. Except here, at the Hard Rock, they stare at some rock star’s pants, which are only strips of sequined, sparkly leggings attached to a padded ball pouch. Women gasp, but men suppress homo-erotic urges and equate the Spirit of Saint Louis to the amount of Budweiser they’re going to need to wash the thought of those pants and urges away. Is it me, Vegas, or is it really what’s become of the country? People are awed by bright lights, the pomp and pageantry of mediocrity, celebrate the lowest common denominator, and are hypnotized by the cult of celebrity. It is here where I have an epiphany: Wherever I go in this country the only thing I find we have in common as a nation is that English is still mother tongue, currency is still green, and shit still stinks. Vegas can do that to you.

If it doesn’t, then may I suggest a stroll down Hollywood Boulevard, the one in the City of Angels, and the street the Henry Fonda Theater’s located, and where moe. went to perform after Vegas. I suppose when the first Spanish settlers arrived and drove the natives out, and then squatted on the narrow plain between the hills and mountains and the Pacific, they must have thought they’d found heaven, or a piece of it. There are 18 million people looking for a piece of heaven on that narrow plain today. As I walk to the theater from the hotel there is much to see. Out on Hollywood Boulevard there are many dominatrix-dressed women walking about. Enough that I wonder if there’s a convention. They are happy, joking, and hooting, and are varying in size, shape, and color. One walks near me. Her ass cheeks fill a miniskirt-fishnet thingy and hang like plump ham hocks in a butcher’s window. It’s an impressive sight. Enough that the transvestite at the bus stop quits arguing into his-her cell phone to watch the plump dominatrix walk by him-her. By then, I notice a phalanx of motorcycle cops and small Public Works trucks begin to close down the boulevard. They’re driving around in tight circles like the clowns do on small bikes in a Shriner’s parade. They’re redirecting traffic and setting up roadblocks. We wonder what’s going on. One friend wonders if it’s the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade a week early. There’s so many cops, another wonders if Obama’s in town. Destitute street people are about, though, so it couldn’t be Obama, or they’d of been cleaned up. Near a Starbucks I passed, in the parking lot, one lay dead (nearly) drunk. He’s facedown under a dumpster in a drying pool of booze and urine. Out on the sidewalk, another guy, with big bushy hair and a wild scraggily beard, is laid out on his side, his back flat against a wall. Though his eyes are shut, his free arm is reaching out and up like he’s grasping for an invisible hand. If there’s anything I carry with me from this tour, it’s the amount of homeless people I’ve encountered throughout the country—everywhere. One bum, in Madison, Wisconsin, I can’t forget. A man—he could have been 45 or 75—I could not tell—passed by me, late morning. He had a faraway look in his eyes. His pace was quickened—by the cold? Man it was cold. It was the morning after a snow and was around 20 degrees. But I don’t know if he could feel it anymore. His coat was open. He may have mumbled. What I can’t forget, because it’s freeze-framed in my head, is the greenish-yellowish icicles hanging from his nostrils like stalactites … It really made me think ... Dammit ... It was cold in Madison …

… It’s cold everywhere. Even here in LA. That guy with his arm stretched out, in his own filth, reaching for what? Now that’s in my head, too. I try to convince myself that there are people who will always live outside of society, even if it’s in the middle of 18 million of them. …I’m distracted. My thoughts are interrupted… Hey, there is a parade, about 80-100 people, mostly women, are holding banners and signs and shouting out for women’s equality. Suddenly, a guy with a big, 5 foot high crucifix draped in colorful beads, runs out from nowhere to the very front of the marchers and parade bombs the procession for Christ. It’s like he’d laid in ambush, but the women don’t seem to notice or care. Neither do any of the cops. I imagine this is an average Saturday afternoon on Hollywood Boulevard for them. I don’t know what to make of it all. Between here and Vegas, I’m confused.  I sense no danger, and I’m not here to pass Judgment. I’d like to think, with these words, I’m leaving impressions.]]> http://moe.org/blog/lasting-impressions http://moe.org/news/moe-summer-tour-announcements Mon, 01 Apr 2013 05:05:27 -0500 http://moe.org/news/moe-summer-tour-announcements http://moe.org/news/moe-returns-to-stone-pony-summerstage Wed, 27 Mar 2013 12:12:53 -0500 http://moe.org/news/moe-returns-to-stone-pony-summerstage http://moe.org/blog/entry-x-if-music-be-the-food-of-love-play-on Thu, 07 Mar 2013 13:11:56 -0600
Unfortunately for me, just as I started getting comfortable in my role as a know-it-all, the tour bus rolled into Ashland, Oregon. And, “therein lies the rub,” for I discovered something I did not know. Ashland has Shakespeare.  I know what you’re thinking. Go on; “rank me with the barbarous multitudes,” for I have fallen amongst them. Imagine, Horatio, in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, a great center for the Bard thrives. Imagine further, moe. rolling up to a grand Elizabethan theater, America’s first this side of the pond, in downtown Ashland. Then imagine the bus rolling right on by, continuing down the street, and coming to a full stop in front of the Ashland Amory. Excuse me, it’s the Historic Ashland Amory (not to be confused with the ahistoric armory across town).

Being in Oregon has its perks. There’s no sales tax here (Next time, I’ll plan a shopping spree). There are a lot of microbreweries here, too (Next time, I’ll plan a bender). I’ll do my shopping and drinking in the minutes I have between setting up merch and doors opening for the show. Actually, I have more than minutes between set up and doors. I just don’t let anyone know, especially Skip, our tour manager, who, otherwise, will find a make-work project for me to do. I’m convinced, in another life, Skip was a Bürgermeister of a Bavarian hamlet. In my mind’s eye, I see him going about the burg, a commanding presence, in lederhosen and a feathered, Tyrolean Alpine hat, instructing Frau Blücher in the minutia of potato dumpling preparation.

I joke, for the record. The other day in Seattle, Skip covered for me so I could meet a good friend at the Starbucks by the theater, and then grab a bite to eat. What I spaced on was that there are 5 Starbucks near the theater, including the original one on Pike Place across from the fish market. Saying, “Meet me at Starbucks,” in Seattle is like Mr. Jones telling you to, “Look me up in the phone book,” and expecting to find the right one—unless you have a Jones for Starbucks. I took the path well traveled and met my friend in a parking lot.

The show that night in Seattle was a dandy. Orgone (rhymes with “bone”) kicked ass the opening set. I was happy to see northwest moe.rons show up and support them. They’re a great band and are a great complement to the tour. moe.rons got what they came for, however. moe. brought the thunder for the next two sets, right from the get-go, busting out with, “Captain America” and keeping it going right through “Downward Facing Dog” and the final bars of “Plane Crash.”

Meanwhile, back at the Historic Ashland Armory the doors opened. I guess because it’s Oregon, I’m thinking I’ll see a few Ken Kesey-Merry-Prankster-types amongst the crowd. I’m not disappointed. A veritable Madhatters club makes a gradual procession into the Armory—there are people in stovetops, an English coachman, bowlers, a homburg, myriad fedoras, and, God bless him, one Tyrolean Alpine (if he had asked me to yodel during “Yodelittle,” I think I would have). A few of the younger, spawn of Merry Pranksters are hula-hoopers, who chose to hoop their hulas right in front of me. These young, athletic, gyrating women block my view of the stage. Professional that I am, I make do with just … listening.

The show’s progressing at a good clip. Moe.’s blown through a few of my favorites, like “Mexico” and “Timmy Tucker.” Just when I think I’ve heard and seen it all for one show, early in the second set a 40-or-50-something dude comes up to merch table. He has a homemade5-foot wooden staff. It’s crooked and chipped, and I’m pretty sure he’s carved it with his teeth. Did I mention he’s wearing oversized earmuffs, too? He says something to me, but I can’t hear him. He’s a half foot shorter and mumbling. I bend and shout, “I can’t hear you over the music.” He then says, throwing his thumb over his shoulder towards the stage, “This may seem like a really stupid question, but what’s the name of this band?” I quickly wrote down a phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to him. “Call this woman,” I said. “She’ll have the answer—she knows everything.”]]> http://moe.org/blog/entry-x-if-music-be-the-food-of-love-play-on http://moe.org/blog/ix-entry-outtakes-from-an-outta-towner-downtown-in-portland Tue, 05 Mar 2013 12:54:19 -0600
The Ballroom is one of many reasons to like the city. For I do. I like Portland, at least the Portland I know, which is downtown Portland. It’s a unique place. It has character—the kind I like. People, no matter what their ilk, for the most part—even complete strangers—are openly friendly and civil. Nobody’s on the defensive. Simply put, in post-industrial America, it is unexpected urban behavior (I suppose there’s an argument here that it’s unexpected behavior anywhere, these days). Comparatively, it’s not to say that people in New York, Pittsburgh, Chicago, and Atlanta are not nice, it’s that most people in those places are not openly nice. It’s locked up and protected for the sake of survival. You have to pry it out of them, and once you do, you have a friend for life.

What makes Portland different? I have no idea. Walk a few blocks. Expressionism, the personal kind, is in fine form here. There are a lot of small businesses and shop fronts, the independent type, which speaks to a thriving entrepreneurial spirit. There’s Voodoo Doughnuts, and its distinct rose-colored packaging with the catchphrase —Good Things Come in Pink Boxes (no argument here); or Powell’s Books, every bibliophile’s wet dream (again, present and accounted for). Walk on and turn a corner, and there’s an amalgamation of hippies, the homeless, the hapless, and hipsters, both retro and moderne—populating the streets and parks and bars and stores. It’s that, or every state in the Union has emptied their wards onto the streets of downtown. I find it part of the city’s charm. I don’t sense danger (though I suppose there are dangerous places). The esoteric is alive and well. Different is entertaining, non-threatening, and, more than tolerated—it’s embraced.

My thoughts of downtown Portland are reinforced during the concert. People come to the merch table and say stuff to me like, “I can’t believe how friendly people are here?” or “it’s a wacky place.” I’m not affronted and neither are they and neither should you. Candor, after all, is what I’m blathering about. The one line that stands out comes from a Portlandian, when she said something along the lines, “I’m from Portland, but downtown—there’s no other place like it—it’s a lot of fun and flat out kooky.”

Maybe Montrose Ringler knew that all along. Such are the possibilities. Such are my observations: if you can’t find your head in downtown Portland, then you’re not going to find it anywhere.

I’m presently on a bus to Seattle … and the search continues.]]> http://moe.org/blog/ix-entry-outtakes-from-an-outta-towner-downtown-in-portland http://moe.org/blog/entry-the-viii-winter-tour-deuxime-partie Thu, 28 Feb 2013 04:54:16 -0600
Nah, I can’t do that to Jack.

I’ll sleep on the flight to Oregon. It’s gonna take a while from where I’m at. The compass is pointing west by northwest, and I’ll be jumping three time zones. moe. and crew will rendezvous there, in Portland. We begin the ten day crawl along the western seaboard, visiting familiar places and faces, and seeing all our left coast friends.

I have to admit, even though I’m yawning as I write this, this trip’s going to be special. I’d advise all you moe.rons venturing out for any of the upcoming shows to arrive early, because you’re in for a treat. Orgone (rhymes with “bone”), a down and dirty, R&B band out of LA, will be opening for moe. during Winter Tour, deuxième partie. That’s French for ’second part,’ Homer, in case you’re wondering. I don’t speak French, in case you’re wondering about that, too; or like, maybe, if your thinking I’m trying to impress you, I’m not (I can order a beer in Czech politely, though, in case you’re thinking we might ever be in Prague together, and thirsty).

Truth be told, I just like the sound of the French language—probably as much as you’re gonna like the sound of Orgone. I first heard them when they played at moe.down, 3 moe.downs back, and they rocked the proverbial house down.

And then, before your toes stop tapping and your hips stop swaying, it’ll be moe.time—two full sets of your favorite band. Yupper, this trip is gonna be fun …

Ah, well, so much to think about, so little time … so little sleep … to heck with sleep. I gotta go. It’s time to fly. No, really, it is.]]> http://moe.org/blog/entry-the-viii-winter-tour-deuxime-partie http://moe.org/blog/entry-vii-breaker-1-happy-moerons-presidents-daze-yo-mama Wed, 20 Feb 2013 14:37:59 -0600
Anyway, Winter Tour, Part I, hath endeth, and on a very upward note. The band back-ended the first leg of the winter tour with 10 shows in 11 days. That’s a lot of shows. On Sunday, February 17th, everyone in the band and crew went the four points of the compass out of Atlanta. Some drove, most flew, in search of much needed rest.  Even the previous four days seem a blur, now. moe. doglegged through the southeast and left 4 great shows in its wake at the historic Bijou Theater in Knoxville, the Lincoln Theater in Raleigh, the Fillmore in Charlotte, and the legendary Tabernacle in Atlanta. It’s a good feeling to watch moe.rons, young and old, old and new, pack into theaters to see and hear some of the best music this country’s got to offer. It hit home for me in Atlanta, sometime during the first set, when I walked out from backstage, and looked up at a sight to see: the floor and double balconies at the Tabernacle filled up to the hilt with smiling faces. That’s a lot of good karma, there, moe.rons!

Speaking of which, you’ll be happy to hear, how much the folks who work at the theaters have a genuine affection for you, the average moe.ron.  I hear it directly from the people at the venues. They like “our” fans, I’m told. Apparently, “we” shatter stereotypes they hold of the average rock concert goer. I guess it’s not that often they deal with hard-drinking, chain-smoking, music-loving, hedonistic, pacifists, who stumble in, stagger out, and tip handsomely. So, mi amigo.moe.litos, not only do you have exceptional taste in music, you’re very well-liked and welcomed wherever you go to see moe. Of course, I’ve known that all along. I‘ve had the pleasure of getting to know many of you over the years, at least your smiling faces, as a merch-toting, book-hawking, slob. So keep up the good work.

In the meantime, I’m kicking back, chillaxing, and catching up on reading, writing, and cigar smoking. I was gonna go to the bank, but I can’t. It’s the third Monday in February, Presidents’ Day, a federal, and therefore, a bank holiday. The thought of which, has really got me percolating about reason 4,573 of why the country’s gone to shit. Once upon a time, there used to be two days off in February, associated with two American Presidents, Abraham Lincoln (February 12) and George Washington (February 22). The holidays were unofficially collapsed into a single day in 1971, under something called the Uniform Monday Holiday Act. Contrary to popular belief, US Postal Workers were not the driving force behind the “Saint Monday” holiday scheme (there are 5 of them), they were only beneficiaries. No, the Act was a marketing concoction of the national travel industry’s lobby. As a result, Washington’s Birthday, now called Presidents’ Day, officially moved his birthday from February 22 to the third Monday in February, which meant that Washington’s Birthday would never again be celebrated on his birthday. More sadly, the observance of Lincoln’s birthday—the President whose will and leadership saved the country—and because of that, is widely recognized as the nation’s greatest President—would soon become as relevant as Warren G. Harding. I could go into a rant about how, over 40 years later, in a microcosm, Presidents’ Day has come to symbolize a radical mind-shift away from people thinking about civic responsibility and history, to conspicuous consumption and spending on anything and everything travel—cars, planes, gasoline, destinations, shopping, self-absorption--the usual. Or that when the passage of the Uniform Holiday Bill occurred it was done during great social conflict and war, when Americans, civilians and soldiers alike, were being bombed, shot at, and killed, at home and abroad, over said conflict and war—in Southeast Asia and on American college campuses and public buildings. (And you think Congress is oblivious now?) Today, George Washington is a caricature for ad campaigns, and Abraham Lincoln is so far gone, well, it’s like this—there are people going to see the movie, Lincoln, who: a) have no idea how it ends; or b) think it’s a movie about hot rods. Okay, maybe “b” is a little too cynical. But let me add this: Before, when there were two holidays in February, most people took those two days off and thought about two great American Presidents at least once during the day. But now, after 40 years, the only people who have the ‘holiday’ off are the moneyed interests: the banksters, Wall Street, and Government. Otherwise, you’re either working, unemployed, or happen to have the day off (like me), and at some point today, will probably curse the American presidency for it.

And that’s all I gotta say, except, if you don’t believe me, go ask yo’ mama!]]> http://moe.org/blog/entry-vii-breaker-1-happy-moerons-presidents-daze-yo-mama http://moe.org/blog/entry-the-vi-winter-tour-and-all-that-gas Sat, 16 Feb 2013 11:59:54 -0600
After the gig in Lafayette, we packed it up and went to Indianapolis for the band to do a Radio Show there the next afternoon. The radio station, WTTS, recorded and filmed the whole affair, in their Sun King Studio. moe. performed a short acoustic concert for about 40 or so lucky contestants. You can listen to the whole show here when you have chance: http://wttsfm.com/2013/02/moe-in-sun-king-studio-92/. It was all cozy and intimate, very laid back. Consummate professionals that they are, the band played a nice foot-stomping set, and were very well-received.

Late that night, we made our way to Knoxville, for a day off. I was all for it. After yammering about how exhausted I was, I slept for 12 hours, which I didn’t think I had in me. Bizarre really, to sleep that long into the early afternoon, then get up and go forage for breakfast. I was never a morning person, but I was never an afternoon one, either.

Now, I’m wide awake, and it’s 2:47 in the morning. I need to sleep. But I can’t. My mind is churning. We are gonna head to the venue at 10:30 am. We’ll pile our crap in the tour bus and drive a block to the venue—it’s a long block—the Bijou, over on Gay Street. Hmmm: Gay. That word’s evolution in motion. I can understand the street name, though. Gay is a traditional southern-type name, like Paige or Jimmie Dale. I remember Gay Pride, my sister’s best friend growing up. That was her name, Gay Pride. True story. Her family owned Pride’s Mill, on the Guilford Road, up in the Woods of Maine. Her mother was from the South, so it made sense to everybody up in Maine who named their kids, Mary or Jane (hahaha…maryjane) or Robert or John, etc., that she would name her daughter Gay. For me, throughout my life, whenever I’ve heard the words “Gay Pride,” there is no alternate construct, I always think of her. She was a really nice person.

Why am I thinking of that? WTF? I need to go to sleep. It’s now 3:24.

Why did I have a fajita with black beans and rice about six hours ago? That meal is boring through me one bean at a time. Oh, yeah! Life’s a gas.

… Ah, to doze off. Instead, I lay here in the dark. Every time I shut my eyes my mind churns and wanders. Hmmm, like—should I do laundry or buy underwear? Or maybe just wear the last pair till Sunday? … There’s no Starbucks near the venue in Raleigh, Thursday. That blows … I know the one in Charlotte is a mile away from the venue … If I go, I walk through a Confederate boneyard to get there. … Damn! Last time I spent a half-hour reading the headstones, and imagining the short, brutish, and blunted lives of the poor bastards. Does anyone stop and read them? ... That Asteroid—DA14—is set to pass earth on Friday. I wonder if it has a big brother—DA15—following it? … How can we rely on NASA to know if such a thing is coming? They can put a rover on Mars to split small rocks but they can’t see a rock half the size of a football field coming at us until it’s on top of us. … What if we went like the dinosaurs? … I read there’s a new theory on dinosaur extinction. Apparently, they asphyxiated themselves via methane poisoning, not by an asteroid slamming into the earth. There were so many of them, eating so much grass and meat, that they gassed themselves to death. … A greenhouse gas effect. Hahaha. It fits the current reality. Could that actually happen to someone?

… Ah to sleep … to unwind the mortal coil … Alas, the winds breach me underparts again, as loud as a turbine, and I wonder: if this is how the dinosaurs went, how content they must have truly been.]]> http://moe.org/blog/entry-the-vi-winter-tour-and-all-that-gas http://moe.org/blog/winter-tour-entry-v-etc-on-the-edge-of-veg Tue, 12 Feb 2013 08:29:08 -0600
It’s Sunday night in Lafayette, Indiana. moe.’s playing their 5th show in a row, and they’re tearing it up. I’m amazed. I really am. You go to a moe. show, you’re gonna get a 100% of what these five guys got to give. Stamina, a little tequila, love of the game—and the energy of the crowd—it’s there—the push—night-after-night—every show. A good example of that was the previous evening, in Chicago. All five members of the band sang lead vocal on at least one song because they had to. Rob has had the chest and throat funk, and his ability to sing is limited, as in, he really can’t or shouldn’t. He would sing once, anyway, and that would be for one of their signature songs, “Rebubula.” After the show, Skip, our tour manger, mentioned he thought it was a first—all five band members singing in one concert. I don’t know if it’s ever happened before. But it is what I’m talking about—the effort these guys give. When Vinnie had mono last summer he played for days until he all but keeled over under the Brooklyn Bridge—and then his wife came and forcibly took him home. It was an extraordinary effort. The thought of that, even at this instant, makes …

… Me? On the other hand? Right now? My ass is dragging. I have no stamina, but I will do shots of tequila, if only for the jolt, when need be. I’m in a reflective mood. Exhaustion does that to you. I’m 5 years into a gig that was supposed to be a summer job. “You can sell our merch and your book,” they said to me, “it’d be just like ya runaway and joined the circus.” True. It was. My first day on the job I was handed a broom, a shovel, and the way to the elephant stall. These years later, I’ve put on 25 pounds, my son calls me One-Eyed Grey Beard, and tonight, after 5 straight shows, I’m on the edge of veg. I feel like each step I take is through a snow bank. That said …

… You know I’m very grateful for the opportunity. It’s not lost on me that I get to hear world-class musicians play each evening on the job, even if it’s from the merch booth (near the elephant stalls). I’m surrounded by great people and the tour schedule gives me time to write the little stories I like to write. No, mi amigo.moe.litos, what wipes me out is the multi-tasking. Many things to do, seemingly all at once, all day long. It’s: Go! Go! Go! And here’s the rub, if truth be told …

… I’m a serial single-tasker. Always have been. I do my best work in installments. For instance, I just sold a sticker to a guy. That was hard enough. It was even harder not to ask him about his mullet. You don’t see that hairstyle too often anymore. You barely see it on someone in their twenties. I think: is the mullet a sincere expression of one’s fashion sense or sensibility? But the task at hand is to sell a $2 sticker. And before I can even begin to think about mullet sensibilities …

… My thoughts are interrupted by “Chromatic Nightmare.” I like the song a lot and Jim’s taking it to it. I feel like I’m dancing a waltz as I walk through a funhouse on a midway. Combined with Huffer our light guy’s lightshow, which, at the moment, is like watching currents of electrified spaghetti attacking the theater walls, well, it’s wild and surreal. And because I’m so exhausted, I feel like I’m on the verge of a flashback. Not that I’d know anything about such a thing, except for maybe that time in the Garden of Unearthly Delights, when I encountered all those pigeons with Mohawks. (Swear to God. They had Mohawks.) But I shouldn’t count that. Actually, now that I think about it, I probably shouldn’t even be talking about it. In fact …

… I’m starting to hear the opening refrains of “Mexico,” another favorite song of mine, which puts me at ease. I’m in a different place and time … there I am, drifting down to Ciudad Juárez, cross the bridge, over the Rio Grande, just south of El Paso, in search of Cubans (cigars, i.e.), donkey shows, and burritos; but instead run into hookers, drugs, and the banditos. Dicey, sketchy, and mostly, crazy—circumstances being what they were—desperate—I survived, if for no other reason, finding myself that day, “down in Mexico” …

…  truly yours, on the edge of veg.]]> http://moe.org/blog/winter-tour-entry-v-etc-on-the-edge-of-veg http://moe.org/blog/winter-tour-journal-2013-entry-iv-a-midwest-flurry Sat, 09 Feb 2013 12:06:39 -0600
                As you know, fortunately, the end times didn’t work out as planned, and  moe. is on tour. The band is doing a swing through the upper Midwest this week. All the moe.rons coming to the shows tell me how happy they are that moe. is back in “town” again. The band’s played in Michigan 3 times since September and Wisconsin twice since October, which has made these moe.rons ecstatic. It’s nice to see. We’re hitting Chicago and Lafayette, Indiana, too, and doing a radio show in Indianapolis, before going southeast.

On the road, you see all kind of things and meet many people. Every day is an adventure. In a coffee shop in Ann Arbor, the waitress, she calls herself a barista, is stern looking. Her hair is pulled back in a bun tightly, so tight the corners of her mouth appear creased in a permanent scowl. She kind of looks like the Joker working as a Librarian who hates her job. She’s giving me the once over, or maybe she doesn’t like my plaid coat. I smile. I’m not sure where she’s coming from. At this stage of my life I’ve come to know this much about the world of work and labor: Sometimes people end up where they’re at. Most times, people end up where they should.

I paid for the coffee and threw her a buck tip. I wasn’t sure if she smiled or hissed, but I stepped back just in case. It may have been too much, I know, but once again I found myself overwhelmed by the feminine mystique. Moving to a table, I do what I often do, pull out my pocket notebook and jot down a few thoughts and observations.

I leave the coffee shop and head toward the stage door of the venue, The Ark, where moe. will be playing an “intimate” acoustic show that evening. I hear a voice behind me, a woman’s, shouting. At first I think it’s her, the Joker, but it’s a woman with a camera. I noticed her inside taking pictures of pigeons on a magazine rack through the window, and rolled my eyes. Now she catches up to me and wants to take my picture. I’m guessing she likes her men in plaid. Red plaid. She said she has a website about humanism called the “Humanist,” or something like that, in Ann Arbor, and photographs the local scene. She saw me writing inside and wondered what I did. She said it like she thought I was unemployed. I said I was a writer, and she sighed before I finished saying, “and I work for moe.,” which meant nothing to her when I did. She took my picture with me holding my notebook near my face. By now, it’s hanging like a mug shot in a police blotter, somewhere on a day-in-the-life blog about Ann Arbor.

I’m now near the front of the venue, when I hear someone else shout out. I turn. It’s an old man with a crutch moving toward me like an Olympic sprinter.  I’m beginning to think that red plaid is the new day-glow orange, or vice versa, because every stranger, everywhere I go, has something to say to me.  “Can you help an old vet?” he asks. “I’m not a drunk. I need a dollar for a cup of coffee.” The degrees of homelessness in America, and throughout the world differ from place to place, as do the angles for panhandling. In New York last weekend, there was a kid with a sign that read “Why kid? Need money for drugs.” He was wearing Ray Bands, was dressed warmly, and compared to some of the human suffering and deprivation I’d seen along Broadway, he looked like a fool. The veteran in Ann Arbor repeated, “I’m not a drunk,” and added, with his hand held out, “even fifty cents will do.” A buck or fifty cents? This bum kept a tight budget. I’ll give him that. I look down the street at the coffee shop, and wonder how he’d be received by the Joker. I give him the change in my pocket, then look for the stage door. If I don’t get off the street, I’ll never be ready for show time.]]> http://moe.org/blog/winter-tour-journal-2013-entry-iv-a-midwest-flurry