Woke up bright eyed in a comfy bed with enough time for a quick shower and coffee before Molly drops me off at our friends Colin and Rebecca’s house. Thanks, Molly, you’re an ace. Our friend Colin is a classic NY chooch; they wrote the fanzine called “Slice Harvester” where they reviewed every pizza joint in Manhattan. It’s a hell of a collection of writing/journalism. So them and Rebecca moved to Pittsburgh recently after a stint in Austin, Texas; but the two of them didn’t just bring their smarts and their fashionable looks, they brought their dog Gus. Gus is an adorable, chubby bloodhound. I walk into the crib and Gus is chillin hard in his cowboy hat and carhartt vest. I am dying, he’s just the most precious goon. We take a walk around the block that takes about 45 minutes. He’s got tiny stems, what ya gonna do. Colin tells us stories of embarrassing Jadakiss in public, and Paul Wall trying to pick up Gus. Soon we say our goodbyes and are on the road to Buffalo. I haven’t been to Buffalo since like….1996? Maybe 1997? All I know is Elliot Smith was on the radio with that song “Son Of Sam” and I was wearing a t shirt from that skateboard company, Fuct. The 90’s were bazerk, I tell ya.
It’s snowing and nerve wracking but we listen to “In The Wee Hours” by Frank Sinatra, and it’s a very comforting contrast to the chaos outside. The storm is back and forth, and then there’s talk about a big storm hitting Buffalo around showtime. This puts us in a pickle—do we risk it crash out in Buffalo, or do we bail immediately after and cross the border, or rather, the opposite side of where the storm should hit? Jarrett informs us that we cannot cross with unsealed liquor (aka what we had in the whip at the dry show the night before.) We have a lot to consider here. Hit a kinkos to get our printouts for the border, then a bank to dump off our cash. It’s a real lavish lifestyle, the punk rock.
Mohawk Place is a legendary nightclub in NY State. One of those places that has all their promo headshots from the ‘90s on display. Walking around, I can’t help but wonder how many times Ween played here. Probably a countless amount. I bet Mercury Rev played here a ton too. There’s a lot of history in those floorboards, and we’re gonna make a little history ourselves tonight. Everyone is a smidge jokey and punchy tonight. We still don’t know what to do about our lodge and/or our departure. Jarrett’s been talking about Amy’s, which is one of his favorite spots to eat on tour, which I’m down for…it’s food, fuck it. In the meantime, I’ll have one of the tighter falafels I’ve had on this tour.
Tina Panic Noise kicked the night off with a noisy display of grunge era riffage and the snotty brattitude of punk rock, circa now. Great band, and that singer can howl. Radiator Hospital blasted off per usual…they just keep getting tighter and tighter with each show, and it’s really beginning to hit me how bummed I’m going to be when this is all over, and we go our separate ways. The moment you say goodbye is never the way you envision it. Screaming Females of course do a killer set, which everyone in the band was pleased with…definitely a shift from the night before. I don’t know what happened the night before. You want every show to be the one that stays with the people that come out, but sometimes it goes off the rails; someone forgets to eat, someone has the nightclub jitters, someone is worried about something else somewhere. You never want to let it show, but here you are in the wrong key.
It is decided that we should GTFO of Buffalo tonight to beat the storm. If we crossover the border now, a) it won’t take forever to get through and b) we will be on the otherside of the storm front that’s headed to Buffalo. Radiator Hospital gets a foot ahead of us, and through the border with the quickness. “We got eight beers for us when we get to the hotel,” texted Sam. We get through the border with lighting fast efficiency and we suffer some really scary stretches of wind and snow before we can breathe easy again. We book two motel rooms for us and Radiator; then they text saying they got a room on their own.
“Aw man, too bad we won’t be able to celebrate with those beers.”
“Yeah sucks to be you.”
Touche, Radiator, Touche.
We check into a motel in Hamilton, Ontario where there were definitely crimes committed. However, the room looks safe from creepy crawlers, and bitey-bugs so we sleep comfortably. Like queens, kings, princes, and paupers of rock. It’s who we are.