Our Second Home on the Web
Current mood: indescribable
Category: Music

As you all may already know- 'Designer Codes' is upon us (Sept. 23rd!!!). So in anticipation and preparation come to our home away from MySpace.

www.wovenmusic.com

We're still going to be updating MySpace regularly and chatting it up with you guys through blogs and bulletins; just now we got another place for more media and more 'Designer Codes' news. Cool? Cool...

Woven | Los Angeles

12:25 AM - 2 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Designer Codes Release
Current mood: enlightened

While studying the Mayan calendar the other day we noticed something that caught our attention. So we did a careful cross-reference with the I Ching, comparing notes with some (Arizona Iced) tea leaves, and double checked our results with some chicken bones from KFC. They all said the same thing: postpone the release of Designer Codes until September 23rd.

Now, given how long a wait its been for all of us, we were prepared to ignore these omens. But then a knock at the Cat Toy Factory door changed our minds. A man, shrouded in shadows and 50% polyester, carrying an ancient synthesizer (I think there's a drawing of him on a shirt somewhere,) was standing in our doorway with a message. "Designer Codes must not be released until September 23rd."

As all of you know, you don't argue with an 8bit Monk...

woven | los.angeles

6:34 PM - 7 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

’Designer Codes’- even more news!
Current mood: grateful
Category: Music

Greetings and salutations Problem Children!

By now I'm sure you guys have heard about our little article in September's Alternative Press, but we have more for you. In case you aren't blog junkies and message board fanatics, you may have not seen how this album is starting to snowball- this stuff is getting really out of control! Word on the digital, internet street is we got something comparable to Radiohead's 'Kid A'. Awfully flattering, hope you all enjoy it as much as the bloggers do! Go ahead, leave a comment- show them you're OG since 'EPrime' and '8-Bit', old school status boy!

Woven | Los Angeles

More 'Designer Codes' Reviews:
17 Seconds (http://www17seconds.blogspot.com/2008/08/presentingwoven.html)
Have You Heard (http://www.haveyouheard.net/2008/07/19/woven-designer-codes/)
Americana UK (http://www.americana-uk.com/auk/modules.php?op=modload&name=Reviews&file=index&req=showcontent&id=3891)
The Devil Has The Best Tuna (http://www.besttuna.blogspot.com/)
Perfect Porridge (http://www.perfectporridge.com/2008/07/23/wovens-designer-codes-saved-my-wednesday/)

9:01 PM - 7 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Woven in Alternative Press Magazine
Category: Music

We're in the Sep. 2008 issue of Alternative Press Magazine 242

Go and buy it so one day when we're in a board meeting
with Alt press and they're asking us why we should be in
another issue, we can pull out the sales figures for issue 242
jabbering about exponential growth and a runaway freight train
that can't be stopped.


Thanks to the kind folks at AP for giving us a little shout.


Now go on and git it!

XOXO

Rich
Woven | Los Angeles


This is what the cover looks like:
(look at those dreamy eyes.... oh tony..)

8:49 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Cat Toy Factory party with Woven & A.I., June 11th, 2008

Now really, people. Do we need to have an actual reason to hang out with our friends and compatriots, dance till we're sore, drink till we're dumb, and watch one of L.A.'s premier bands, A.I., rip it up for us on the Cat Toy Factory loft? No reason needed. But if you really need one I'm sure we can come up with something to ease the mind. Yes, Woven also performed and we were happy to have Jonny step up and sing some songs with us - like old times! Love ya, bro. Along with everyone that came out and made the party a party, we'd also like to thank the fearless dj's and bands who came through and kept us on the dance floor till 5am: Daniel Merlot (Crash Berlin) - Jordan Strong (Uniting Souls Music) - DJ Hemingway - A.I. - Woven (is that weird to thank yourself? Probably, but we're weird.)

The Cat Toy Factory Crew

6:56 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

’Designer Codes’- Starting to turn some heads
Current mood: grateful
Category: Music

If you haven't heard, our follow-up to '8-Bit Monk', 'Designer Codes', is dropping Aug. 26th! Now of course a CD release party is being planned- we're tricking this party the hell out- and we are also going to be doing one very long national tour. But as we prepare, we want to give you some stuff to chew on and possibly unveil some mystery behind this album.

Some press peeps have decided to let you know what they think of 'Designer Codes'. Of course we eternally grateful for their love and support and we want you guys to be as excited as they are. Check out some of the already published reviews and get stoked, we sure are! We can't wait to let you beautiful people take a listen, we'll keep you posted on more articles as they come along!

Electronic Voice Phenomenon
http://elecvp.blogspot.com/2008/06/news-sound-woven-intermingle-with.html

Aiding and Abetting
http://www.aidabet.com/issues/298/298reviews.html

MP3 Hugger
http://mp3hugger.com/2008/06/woven-she-blows-my-amplifier.html
and
http://mp3hugger.com/2008/06/portrait-of-song-wovens-she-blows-my.html

We also got word that some big guys like us. We'll let you know what that is about soon enough...


Woven | Los Angeles

1:06 PM - 4 Comments - 5 Kudos - Add Comment

Cat Toy Factory Party - May 24th, 2008
Current mood: busy

Good times were had by all Saturday night as the Cat Toy Factory once again opened its doors
to a couple hundred of our closest friends: an incredible tribe of artists, thinkers, and lovers.
Woven and Ninja Academy helped represent L.A.'s underground voice, along with DJ's J-Logic,
DJ Squid, and Jordan a.k.a The Southerner. All the while, jams raged in the studio by anyone bold enough to pick
up an instrument (did someone say Protoculture made a 4am appearance amongst the jams?)

Thanks to all who came and showed each other what an incredible scene we have here in L.A.
It's exciting.

woven | los.angeles

3:15 PM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Does this page look like a billboard?
Category: MySpace

No. It doesn't. You know why? Because we don't accept all
those comments some of you folks try to post advertising
your band's smokin' single that made it to the 3rd round of alternative idol,
or your metal clothing line or your macy's gift card and whatever else people
feel they need to sell or advertise...
That's where the bulletins page comes in handy. Everyone can see it there.
I guess if you wanted us to know about it you can message us.

oh, and don't post a comment about your show in another state or another country...
that's just silly...


But please, people... it clearly says "post a comment about WOVEN"
not about YOU or your next battle of the bands show, or your new hat design for cool kids....
We don't do that to you or anyone else so please refrain from doing that here.
Sorry, but we don't get paid to advertise you so we kindly decline.

Thanks for understanding.

We the people.

10:16 AM - 8 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

tales from the west coast tour, part 2

Like Dracula sucking blood while skipping and lacing a young child’s shoes, The tip of California has been a mixture of the greatest kindness to us as well as farcical tragedy. This seems to be our story for the State of Washington as well. We took our RV, yet to be named as all great automobiles should be, into the town of Redmond, just outside of Seattle, for what was supposed to be a simple oil-change. It was a friday, which was a learning lesson in itself. Never take a vehicle in on a friday, unless you enjoy mechanics racing hotrods all weekend and whooping it up, leaving you in their parking lot for a spontaneous camping sesh. In our case, the oil-change went over swimmingly, with the small exception that our vehicle no longer started. Needless to say, this was an unacceptable state of affairs further aggravated by the fact that the mechanic took no responsibility for the state of our RV and was unwilling to help us get back on the road, causing us to miss our last show of the tour in Everett. However, the mechanic, whose name will be stricken from the record for the time being, was able to toss some extravagant figures into the air before fleeing the scene of his own shop; a $2500 dollar part called a fuel-injector pump. We would later find out that no such part ever existed for our particular vehicle, but also was unlikely to fit in any crevice, and would look most unattractive super-glued to the outside of the vehicle.
Though a great yearning for zen was needed and certainly craved during debacles of this caliber, the great fuel of panic won out in the form of a hasty rental expense of a Budget moving truck that would haul our gear and a Chevy Impala marked for hauling our enthusiasm-deficient and barely kempt carcasses back home. Factoring in the gas that it would take to fuel these two vehicles, which failed to penetrate into our poor and over-taxed heads, would have left us with the conclusion that our music studio would simply have to move further north. A significant lack of funds was imminent.
Our plan was simple and convenient; get coffee, think, and proceed. We decided that it would be best to get our RV towed to another shop. It was Saturday and all the shops were closed, making it impossible to talk to the shop and get a vibe for their workmanship and humanity, but our decision was simplified due to the fact that any mechanic at all would be more worthy of our trust then Al Dan. Yes, due to popular consensus amongst the band, we have chosen to reveal his name. Avoid Al Dan. No matter what. At all costs. And cost you, it will. Between being the personal foot massage therapist for the remaining non-jailed Enron executives and bringing your personal vehicle into Al Dan’s shop for servicing, I recommend choosing death. without hesitation. Not only can an oil and fuel-filter change turn a perfectly working vehicle into a stationary storage facility, but he may also get offended and yell at you for proposing that your car should be returned in better shape then it was received. So, yes, we would tow our RV to another mechanic, drive our rentals home, and immediately get to work at our respective jobs to pay the new mechanic for getting our vehicle running, at which time, a representative from our group would have to fly up to Redmond and drive our RV back down to Los Angeles. Clearly, not the most economical plan, but neither is five, suedo-healthy band members twiddling their thumbs, and perhaps other digits, when they could be back home and working, but instead are staring blankly into the distance, waiting for those who are waiting for the messiah to choose a different option.
A series of mid-day phone calls were fired out to all local mechanics, with the one exception of those named Al Dan. This put us in touch with a friendly mechanic named Chip. He recommended we get to the fuel filter and lubricate it with a bit of transmission fluid, as well as a process utilizing starter spray. A decision was made to go at the fuel filter ourselves. The air-filter, unbolted and removed from under the hood, confirmed to ourselves that we were both invested and committed. Tools were scarce. A conveniently located Auto Shop in the vicinity appeared as a great source of hope for transmission fluid, and it was. It was also our introduction to two of the coolest cats in Redmond, whose names we will never forget, but also have to be omitted for tax reasons and bylaws of the Carny Code. Really, starting a war between Redmond mechanics is no reasonable means of homage and repayment. These great specimens of human evolution kicked us down a bottle of transmission fluid for free. Marc and I offered them financial compensation and a puff if they would come help us out after work. A half hour later, they would end up at the RV, having turned down our financial compensation, and smoking us out when our stash finally took it’s bow.
It should be said here that the habits of the band vary. Only Marc is truly a pot smoker, while I am his occasional companion. Ory loves his hard liquor but limits himself to beer and has a love/hate relationship with text-messaging. I love my Cognac and am resigned to my cigarette habit. Steve loves his cell-phone. Rich loves his Wi-fi. Moss loves his Rice. Heather, our tour manager, loved her plane ride home. Her decision to fly home would occur in Medford, Oregon, and She would later say, it was "the best 350 dollars I have ever spent in my life." More then half of us have a sick and inexplicable addiction to "text twist", a boggle-like computer game that causes people to blurt uncontrollable things like "spin, fool!" and "spine, twine, wine, win..just do it...enter it now....any word man!!!" Currently we are marveling at Moss’s impressive 58,000 point score. Moss, being Japanese, routinely mumbles his way through the English language, adding to our awe. It also should be noted that it is Rich’s fault that we are cracked the fuck out on this game. It is because of Rich, that I slept on my laptop last night and used it as a pillow.
So, Chip, who inspired us to take our fate into our own mechanical hands, was with us by phone, right up until the NASCAR race stood to get fast and nasty. Our new mechanical friends and technicians were of great help in getting to the fuel filter past the endlessly crowded vegetable-modified fuel lines under the hood. We were finally at a place to prime the engine. Marc and I gave a quick spray of ether into the air intake followed by a quick spray of WD-40. Then we all scampered back for the turning of the ignition just in time for a monumental and unexpected blast. The WD-40 cap went flying. I was sure it was a piece of car. I was also sure something went drastically wrong but our new mechanical friends assured us these things happen routinely during this process. I was also sure we needed Anesthetizing, so Heather and I went across the street to split the cost of a bottle of wine, as whiskey and cognac had fled the scene of our price range. Chip was deep into his NASCAR race. He had told us he would call us back after it ended. Factions split into different camps. Some of us felt we should move on from our tele-guru while others were on the Chip-trip. So we waited, hoping some inexplicable event, like a gigantic effigy of L Ron Hubbard would land on the race track, bringing the good cheer of the races to an end.
Though L. Ron seemed to be checked out for good, the great protector did arrive in the form of a wise and patient automotive teacher. Our mechanical, and now very stoned friends were speaking to a gentlemen in the parking lot who appeared concerned about our situation. The great protector had spoken, raining fire and brimstone, swearing his allegiance to getting our RV on its way. The rain did not stop him. He was the most deliberate, single-minded, and all together zen mechanic we had ever seen. Approximately five hours later, We were celebrating our idling vehicle in the great protectors shop with black tea, musings on the twelve families that rule the world’s resources, and war stories of shady mechanics looking for a good time with our wallets.
We stopped ten minutes out of Redmond to return our rental vehicles, getting most of our money back, and raided a high security vegetable oil bin equipped with cameras and signs notifying us of the monitoring; a sure sign of life in the new age where used vegetable oil is a highly guarded commodity. Ory pointed out the forboding sign but it was met with apathetic shrugs. No one believed a camera would actually be on the premises, at least not until a series of head movements made it all too apparent.
It should be said that we prefer communicating with the restaurants creating an up and up scenario, but we were in a desperate pinch in a town with a restaurant industry that doesn’t believe in opening it’s doors on a sunday. Unfortunately, our vegetable pump burned out on us, due to the oil being stored in excessively cold temperatures. This left us in a bind. Being forced to rely on Diesel was not part of the plan. Money was as scarce as the prospect of a horde of supermodels who live to pleasure shower-free vagabonds with bad breath.
No pump. No money. No fuel. We had made it to Medford, Oregon and scrambled for a local merchant that might have a heavily discounted vegetable oil fuel pump with numerous and excessive specifications. Amazingly enough, we found a close match with an unfortunate deal breaker; twice the pumping power which would have caused an unbelievable mess of viscous nastiness in our wake. This would be frowned on, not only by ourselves, but by the veggie oil community at large, and for good reason. Never bite the hand that fuels you, no matter how good it might taste.
It was also in Medford that our tour manager decided she had had enough and jumped RV. We dropped her off at the airport. She was back in Los Angeles before nightfall, celebrating her escape, and gloating of her warmth and comfort by text message. In the old days, carrier pigeons would have died for such communications through involuntary reactions.
Filling up the tank in Medford had been easy, however, the expected barter for the fuel in the form of cash or credit proved difficult. Steve had his credit card unexpectedly canceled due to some vicious scammer overseas. This left us at the gas station with some old school "I Love Lucy" explaining to do. The problem was eventually solved, though I can’t quite recall how. But I know we left the gas station on good terms, and I assume that means we settled up on our bill.
For almost an hour, things went smoothly, until we hit the part of the 5 south entering California; an uphill climb that successfully took it’s wrath out on our transmission, leaving us waving cars and trucks around us just up ahead from a blind turn on the highway. The highway patrol came to the scene shortly thereafter and suggested over his megaphone that we get the RV out of the road before we all get killed. When we saw him in person he explained to us that we were the definition of lemmings waiting for the proper authorities to make obvious decisions. He was right, and he said it in the nicest way possible, but the gravity of his statement still fell with a thud.
Our RV with trailer had taken a major hit and was now part of an even larger caravan headed by an exceptionally burly tow truck. The tow to Yreka cost an extravagant 300 dollars, which we hope to get refunded from AAA, as AAA had no tow truck available that could handle our behemoth. However, our hopes are not high for reimbursement, as none of us have the passion for interfacing with corporate empires, haggling for justice.
It was at this moment that Moss, our sound engineer and master of miso, came to the rescue with his credit card. We are supposed to be paying him for his artistry behind the mixing console, and have still failed to hack up the cash for this tour and some of the last one, making this loan extremely generous. We would run into a financial crunch again at the transmission shop to the tune of 3400 dollars. Moss would come to our rescue again, only this time his loan would not only be extremely generous but borderline stupid. Really though, Moss has been one of our heroes; A Jazz hand wielding superman willing to use his credit line to save his band mates from ruin. He would not be the only hero of the day.
Bob is the manager at A1-Auto in Yreka. He is an incredibly cool and intelligent individual who loves music and plays guitar. He has a son named Brian who is also an incredibly cool and intelligent individual who loves music and plays guitar. If coolness and intelligence in and of themselves could topple governments, which it might, then these two persons could cause the British Empire to crumble, which perhaps is already under way, but for entirely different reasons. One fifth of our CD sales came from Bob. A fan buys a CD out of love for the music and to support a band they enjoy, but sheer fanaticism cannot explain two hundred dollars worth of excessively replicated auditory joy. This was an act of kindness. This was a love for the last of the struggling, dedicated, dreamer class who through poor planning and lack of funds, were no longer able to feed themselves.
That night was spent in the RV, in the parking lot of the shop. We hooked up power, made popcorn, and watched "Serenity". Sci-fi is a crowd-pleaser amongst this bunch, and this was the right kind of sci-fi b-movie to sink our android teeth into, and distract what was left of our cyborg brains. The transmission had been ordered and would arrive the following day. Bob had asked his exceptional crew if they would stay late the following evening to install the tranny and get us on the road. Everyone was aboard. All our ducks seemed to be lined up in a row and our only hope was that they were facing the right direction.
The next day came and went with no delivery of the transmission. A quick check of our ducks told us that they remained in perfect order, but Ford Motor’s ducks were in disarray. Our transmission was in Medford, Oregon. It was a nasty and completely unacceptable place for our transmission to be. Marc needed to get home as soon as possible to get the new album ready for mastering. Ory needed to get back to work to avoid an unpleasant eviction notice. Rich had to turn down a photography gig. I had to get back for a mad dash up to Santa Cruz where I work cutting dead cells off of people’s heads, and, well, point made and reasons abundant. This was bad news.
The only good that came out of it was Ford’s word that they would flip the bill for a motel, which would be beneficial now that our RV was disassembled and precariously on a jack. The other only good was the enormous hospitality and great company of the staff at A1-auto, who provided, without a doubt, the finest place to break down in all of California. The last only good is the extra media attention that we have been assured through Brian, who happens to be in high school studying journalism, and is writing his first article on his experiences with a touring, lemming-like band driving around on bad tires. Not only was the tire frightening, according to the shop, but also, our over-drive being stuck in the on position, may have played a chief role in the destruction of our transmission. Our right blinker has not worked for the entire tour. Ory eats cream cheese out of the tub when he is hungry. He heads straight for it, bypassing even bread.
At this moment, we are on our way back home again. Elliot Smith is on the stereo. Things appear hopeful. We have said our goodbyes to the great people we have met. In the end, it is always the people you meet that sustain the journey. With experiences like these, the cultural landscape feels rich and the possibilities feel endless. Empires have fallen for getting too decadent. Cultures have died out for losing their humanity. Families have become defunct for not picking each other up. But this has reaffirmed that the great spirit of civilization is alive and well, or at least, can be perceived as such when traveling through the right vortexes. We have received the greatest of gifts through our new-found friendships with everyone we have been lucky enough to meet. Those who have given us their time, energy, labor, and donations have also given us a renewed love for the human race and hope for it’s condition.
In no way does this mean the cynic has been put to death. The cynic has been elevated, still watching the wreckage of a greedy corporate agenda having it’s way with a beaten down and uninformed populace, wondering if our species is salvageable, and whether it is worth the enormous toll on our planet and it’s other creatures. These are big questions, and perhaps, too easily answered. But the cynic bows out, with the understanding that someone, somewhere has to keep a fire lit along the way, sustaining the journey for themselves and others, with whatever tools they have at their disposal. Even when the plane is sure to crash, someone still has to entertain the passengers, providing the adults with strong drinks, and the children with sock puppets. Even upon entering a black hole with impending doom written on everyone’s face, someone, somewhere has to take the time to admire their space suit.

4:44 PM - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

tales from the west coast tour, part 1

Some of the early details and most of the mid details of our winter tour are hazy. Complimentary drink tickets were in abundance, as well as a limited financial budget that still managed to generously support the free-flow of alcohol. If the retention of details seems to increase towards the end, this is because our finances had dwindled and drink tickets are difficult to redeem at a mechanic’s shop. Fortunately, even the heaviest of drinkers amongst us is still relatively what might be called a budget drinker; the kind Bukowski would scoff at were he not busy molesting some ladies shoes.
Our first stop was San Francisco. We played in a basement. It was pouring rain. Only half of us fit on the stage. The punk rock atmosphere of the club was self-evident, complete with a wall decorated to look like the interior of a commercial airliner. We played with some great bands like Solar powered people and Jub. Some of our favorite heads came out of the woodwork.
The rain followed us to Old Ironsides in Sacramento, a great venue passionate about the underground music culture. Then we, and the rain, took off to Arcada, where the rain decisively morphed into hail. We ate dinner with the nice fellows of the band Tanuki.
A local DJ by the name of Jason, with enigmatic liquor connections all over town, would later invite us over, and unsuspectingly assault our taste buds with one of the hottest curries any of us have ever had. Our host sampled it first, and our first clue should have been his admonition that the curry was hotter then usual. We watched Steve doing scissor kicks in his attempt to process the curry. Moss drank enough that our requests for jazz hands were honored and an acceptable form of gesticular entertainment was born. Then came the drunken Jenga, which went poorly. Our Janga skills, even drunk, were unrivaled but a problem came into play with the philosophy of the game. Heather’s position was that Jenga is a game of upwards momentum where the goal is to build the highest tower possible, together, as a team. The rest of the group and Milton-Bradley saw it differently, firmly rooted in the belief and the enclosed directions that the object of the game is to put the next person in a precarious position to topple said tower, so that the shouting of "Jenga" might ensue.
The next day we said goodbye to our great host and left for Ashland, Oregon. Ashland is a great, little town with a ton of co-ops. We played an interesting two sets at the Mobius, where we were able to unwind and jam for the second set. The Mobius is a multi-media venue for the advocation of green living and sustainability. Our show was streamed live on the net, and we were afforded the opportunity to chat with fans from all over the world. Later, after the Mobius closed down, we invited the staff and stragglers into the RV, for some late night drinks. One of our guests was inspired to exemplify her hairstyling finesse by taking Marc’s otherwise shaggy mane and creating a pompodour mullet of epic proportions and Rockabilly in the front, Metal in the back was born. It died several hours later.
From Ashland, we then moved North to Eugene. We arrived at the Black Forest in the good company of an American Anime Bartendress named Mac who invited us to play in her bar after seeing a Woven show in Hollywood. It was an eclectic evening of the brutal, progressive sounds of A((Wake)) and the visually captivating synth-metal sounds of Ninth Moon Black.
We spent a few good days in Portland where we were able to pick up a squeezy toy that appeared as a little, harmless alien ball, but when squeezed, revealed bubbled pockets of blood, worms, eyeballs, and bugs. We all celebrated its existence with extreme fanaticism and named it "As nasty as it wants to be." Even after it burst, creating a bloody toxic mess, we all still would swear to its magnificence. "As nasty as it wants to be", however, did not pay rent, and therefore did not have an apartment. Fortunately, our dear friends Sam, Casey, and Giovanna put us up.
The following day after our Portland show was Superbowl Sunday. Heather and Moss were very adamant about finding a sports bar with a big screen to watch the game. Heather was completely outnumbered, being a Patriots fan. I was routing for the Giants, but only because I prefer the random possible belief systems of a giant over the predictable nationalism of a patriot. The game ended, and the Karaoke began. Many pitchers were purchased, giving way to Casey bravely singing Envogue’s "No you never gonna get it" and Whitney Houston’s "I will always love you." Giovanna spit a mean version of Cream’s "White Room" and "Black Velvet". I went with Sublime, the talking heads "Wild, wild life", and Tori Amos’s "Corn Flake Girl". Steve ended the night with a rendition of a Violent Femmes classic, looking much like a flailing alien stuck on earth and passing the light years away with bizarre, frenetic performances, which, in all actuality, is very likely.
Due to extreme weather conditions, we regretfully had to cancel our Idaho show, with last year tour mates, the mighty Finn Riggins, leaving us to discover Portland for several days. For better or for worse, we came upon the grand Ikea of vintage stores, the House Of Vintage; an impressive collection of treasures of yesteryears. We were reluctant to tell Steve and Rich, known collectively as the Abagon brothers, of this magnificent palace. Their penchant for shopping, especially in a fine vintage store, is so wholly compulsive and startling that a one item shop could take hours to peruse. This place was a several hour journey just to discover the stairs leading up to the second floor. Steve made it out with his first bag intact, but his second bag would have to be sent to Washington at an extra expense, as his sensory faculties were so overloaded with fine vintage threads, that it was left in the store.
We then made our way to Tacoma, Washington where we played The Hell’s Kitchen; an aptly named establishment for fine punk rock and metal. We shared the stage that night with an inspiring and eclectic hip-hop collective who also employed the use of frenetic local artists who painted in streams of conciousness, much like the MC’s that commanded the mics.
We were invited back to a local Tacoman’s house to jam. Jeremy showed us down to the basement where we were greeted by a vast array of instruments, fine people, and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. There were no drum sticks to be found. Rich played the drums with two plastic coat hangers, in an impressive display of suedo-Primus renditions with Steve and Jeremy. The rest of us carried on paying homage to the night on various ethnic hand drums.
Although we did not know it at the time, Seattle would turn out to be the final show of the tour.

4:41 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment