Wednesday, June 17th. Toronto. Rancho Relaxo. Kinda mega shit-tastic: bands who were, let's say, not our style, suburban crowd who didn't give a shit about shit and a broken kick-drum skin that threatened to cause a fisticuffs. Short set, pissed off but our costumes looked real swell...
Hangin in the T-dot, eatin street meat and any other cheap eatables. NxNE: King Khan and BBQ Show, Black Lips, Health- super dope n' delicious. If only we were a real band and had wrist bands and free beer, all would have been plush and diamonds.
Saturday, June 20th. Loaded up our (not so) trusty van so as to best conceal our bandliness. Drive through rain/crazy heat/suburban strip malls. Get to the Ambassador bridge (this side of freedom land, 'sayin) chat up the border guard, our water tight cover story seemingly covering all our water. But oh no- orange flag= van search, nut-rub-pad-down. Somehow a fake Yankee 20 dollar bill is revealed. 3 hours go by as us and every ethnic minority are hassled and fondled before the oh so 'nice' secret service hipster tells us we can go (finally we can put our hands in our pockets!!) Get back in our now worse for wear van (that shit is BROKE!) thanks to the ruff treatment at the hands of the the macho men and head off in search of freedom. Navigate the choked mega urban autoroutes of the Detroit-mega-opolis before space docking at the ultra modern Trumbelplex... scrap that. Drive the empty 6 lane freeways of the now ghost town Detroit donut-city to find the Trumbel victorian mansion turned hippie punk heaven complete with home made stage and 18 chickens (well, Dreeko counted only 15, but that's a whole 'nother story) Decompress from our border finger bang with some sweet ass BBQ and none-stop keg beer. Amazing folks abound, Mint Juleps flow like wine, Burlesque wunder-kind Rita Riggs stops our hearts, or at least our minds, costumes are sweated into the carpet and punk is pitted against funk in the battle of the ages (I'd say funk rules the day- you cannot fuck with Rick James!) And yes pants were dropped for cold hard American cash. We love you Trumbelplex!!!
Off to Chicago. En route: 5 dollars worth of free fucking fireworks on the side of the freeway! Freedom Now!!!
Chicago: Birthplace of the skyscraper, home of Trumptower number Ivanka, so fresh and so clean. Our minds explode and spit themselves all over the wall after the desiccated husk of Motown. The air is full of the cries and whispers of people who exist and live in the city. Not a chicken or a goat or a horse or an empty lot is to be seen. Glass and steel abound and squish our starcrossed heroes beneath their Frank Gehry designed boots. Will they survive the affluence attack? Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion (or at least a continuation)....
