As we drew closer to the Asheville area, the little Prius we're packed into started to struggle a bit -- we were heading up into the mountains. The landscape became increasingly lush and full, and an apropos misty light rain started to fall.
We wanted to drop our gear off at the New French Bar, the venue we were playing that night, but they weren't ready to transition from eatery to rock club just yet.
Although we could've grabbed food there, we decided to try a little place right around the block from the club called Salsas. It looked promising on first glance -- the sort of place where you could scarf down sloppy $3 tacos and $2 Coronas. Turns out, despite its shabby appearance, it had a fancy-schmancy, overwrought menu featuring things like $15 sweet potato quesadillas and $17 glazed carrot empanadas! We were dubious, but decided to eat there anyway since we were tired and starving. It also didn't hurt that we could keep an eye on our gear-packed car, which was parked across the street. But the too-eclectic-for-its-own-good food had some weird ingredient combinations and, while it initially tasted all right going down, an hour later we all had stomachaches! Jenny had it the worst.
After dinner, it was time to load into the club. We helped the waitress move the tables and chairs outside (they were heavy as all get out!) and then started setting up our gear. Shortly after, Cyrus and Dave from the first band, Klustafuck, arrived.
We'd been talking to Cyrus via MySpace and were planning to crash with him after the show. We immediately clicked with him and Dave -- genuine down-home Southern boys with charm and personality that just doesn't quit.
Their music was not unlike the guys themselves -- quirky, often hilarious, no-bullshit spaz-rock. Dave (bass) was dressed in overalls, red checked shirt and red cowboy boots. Cyrus (guitar) wore tight-as-fuck zebra patterned jeans with short leg warmers, a beat up T, and a July 4 party hat. They were backed by an incredibly talented drum machine named Juanita Pride. Yeah!
We were up next and played a passionate set that got the crowd seriously worked up. People were generous with both their compliments and financial support following -- we ended up having our biggest merch-selling night of the tour to that point, CDs flying off the table. One guy told SMV the music hit him straight between the eyes and said he felt there was "meaning" in what we were doing. Cyrus said Asheville's got some "art rock" bands trying to do a similar thing, but "they don't do it nearly as well as you guys do."
Of course, there's always someone who doesn't get it. That guy asked me why I was "so into noise" and told me I should "reign it in." We were a little taken aback at first, but then realized that the fact that he was engaged enough to comment was just another sign of how good the crowd was that night. It's good to have people *respond*, whether positively or negatively.
Following us was a handsomely-attired, beer-soaked punkabilly band called the Go Devils. They were loud, brash and ballsy and worked the crowd into a lather. At one point, an over-eager fan poured an entire bottle of beer on the head of the bassist, who accepted it with a shit-eating-grin on his face and then used the soaking as an opportunity to style his hair into a greasy pompadour.
After the show, SMV rode with Cyrus and his gal Gwen, while Jenny and I took on Dave. We headed over to Cyrus' place, a few miles outside of town in a quiet little oasis, while SMV and her crew made two stops: one at the grocery store for some ginger root soda and one at Gwen's place so she and Cyrus could steal beer & vodka from her roommates!
Cyrus had a great little house, with a terrific sound system, lots and lots o' vinyl and CDs, and some great decoration:
We hung out late into the night and finally had to beg off. Cyrus, Dave and Gwen continued to party on the back porch, while SMV and I hit the floor and Jenny took the couch. We slept well. What a night.
Next up: Atlanta!
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment