Saturday, November 17, 2007

Bad Ol' Days 2

So that winter I was baptized a Black Lip. The coming year was as a purifying fire that we would be forced to pass through. Precarious pinnacles were mounted, heart-breaking disasters shrugged off and laughed at, monies borrowed and never repaid, curfews broken, expensive equipment stolen and subsequently destroyed, freedoms wrenched from the jaws of defeat and bondage. Our strength was in accepting situations that would cause much consternation and hand wringing in lesser men and turning them into a slapstick routine. In this way we made the consequences of our oversights, our follies and foibles, work for us. We pulled ourselves free from the vicious circle of cause and effect. We were fettered only to one another and to the fifteen minutes a night that we had to be on stage to totally go off.
After I got to Atlanta we began to rehearse a little in preparation for a handful of upcoming shows at home and in New York. I’d heard all the songs a hundred times and picked them up pretty easily. I had a guitar at the time but no amplifier. Cole, who lives by the edict “the show must go on”, gave me his good amp. He used his back up which was a speaker cabinet with a detached head shoddily wired into it. The head did not have the protective casing around it so all the circuits and wires were exposed. To remedy this Cole pulled some empty Busch beer cases out of the garbage and duct taped them around the outside of his “amplifier”. People wondered if we had a corporate beer sponsor. When our audiences where particularly zealous they would often shower us with beer causing Cole to have to replace his “amplifiers” cardboard casing. He used this jerry-rigged piece of shit to play shows throughout North America for close to a year.
My first show was for Julie’s birthday party at the Alphabet house in Atlanta. It is a blur. I know we tried and mostly failed to play any real songs. There was no separation between the party and the band. People swarmed all over us and there wasn’t any room to strum our instruments. Birthday cake was plastered to the ceiling and the sound of shattering glass was heard throughout the night. I had a splendid time, although the experience wasn’t exactly edifying for me as a musician. We played one more Atlanta show and then the guys said, ”Fuck it. We’re good enough, I guess,” and we took our spectacle on the road.
We were slated to play live on WFMU’s “Dave the Spazz” show and we were chomping at the bit to get to New York. However, the van from the previous tour had completely shit the bed. The motor had seized or blown up or something and the thing wasn’t moving. In the end, Atlanta’s great nurturer Kristin Klein offered her extremely dilapidated Chrysler Town & Country minivan if she and Jane could drive us up there and participate in the festivities. The van was a mess: four bald tires, cracked windshield, full of trash, hood tied down with twine and bungy cords. In short, it was just the type of circumstance that the Black Lips thrive under.
We set out on a clear winters day. I was behind the wheel and we were tailing the Carbonas who were also playing some of the shows. We had barely reached the Atlanta suburbs when the half secured hood of the minivan van began to tremble and wobble around like a night crawler. I called it to the attention of Joe Bradley and we decided to press on. All of the sudden the thing flew back and slammed against the cracked windshield. Everyone screamed in unison, just like in cartoons. I couldn’t see anything but bent metal as I tried to keep the wheel as straight as possible. Joe managed to chill everybody out and hung his head out of the passenger side window to guide me to the next exit.
We pulled into one of those quick lube places to see if the guys could put a band-aid on our little problem. The grease monkey presiding over the place ran some screws through the hood and into the frame of the van while making a clear denunciation of any liability if his handy work should come apart again. This was fine with us. We had shows to play and no time to waste.
The highways were covered with a sludgy gray, icy mixture throughout that night’s journey. Finally reaching Manhattan, we barreled through a snow bank while entering the Williamsburg Bridge on our way to Alberto’s pad in Queens. Kristin had the wheel and everyone was franticly screaming conflicting directions to her the whole way. Alberto and Sonia, true believers in our quest, soothed our nausea and anxiety when we arrived with food, coffee and grass.
The day was spent resting and digging Alberto’s stockpile of cool shit. We were set to play WFMU that night and there was a lot of discussion about how we might make our performance as ludicrous as possible. Some of those idiotic plans made it into the performance, greatly tempered by the effects of whiskey consumption.
We got to East Orange, NJ a little early and sat around in the Green Room at the radio station downing Evan Williams. We were all quite nervous, I think. Jane and Kristin were going to accompany us into the studio as a cheering section. At this point, the Black Lips weren’t the hot shit musicians that their fans are familiar with today. We relied on noise and chants and cheering whenever possible to pad out our lack of technical proficiency. The recording of that night’s performance is a testament to this.
So, at the cue from Mr. Spazz, we began roaring through our set. We tried our best to whip up frenzy in that studio. We butchered a few songs. When I listen to the recording there a couple that I’m not even sure what we were trying to play. Jared did a fine job of PR spokesman in between fits of caveman jibber-jabber. Dave the Spazz summed it up nicely at the close of our set, saying, “What a mess.”
The mess of that night had only begun. We called Alberto afterwards. He and Sonia had heard the whole thing and loved it (I said they were true believers). We set out to meet them at some bar in Manhattan, high on a cloud to the last man. In the Holland Tunnel we opened the doors on the van and grabbed traffic cones off the road. We screamed and chanted and laughed the whole way. Nothing could have punctured our drunken joy.
At the first bar we dropped into was a band playing on the floor in the back. We all collapsed into the place and set up by the bar. I don’t know why, but Jared quickly developed a strong aversion to that night’s entertainment. After a few minutes he walked right up to the band, shoved the guy out of the way, and started screaming into the mike. I guess he thought these guys were stealing his thunder or something. The management didn’t stand idly by for too long before some hunk of humanity in the customary black leather jacket came to remove our boy. But Jared wasn’t about to go so easily. He began throwing his best licks at the guy as he backed towards the door. The brawl spilled out into the street for a minute or two before Jared booked ass out of there. As drunk as Jared was he probably wasn’t that hard for this guy to handle. Though, I think he may have landed a punch or two.
Needless to say, we had to get the hell out of there and fast. Jared had taken off around the block so I went to find him. He was hiding out in the stairwell of one of those basement apartments, thinking about what he had done. I reported back to the crew and we reconnoitered and set off again.
The tone for the night was set. At the Mars Bar I put my fist through one of the panel windows thinking it was plexiglass and we would all have a good laugh. It was not plexiglass and, in addition to a minor beating from the bouncer, I received some deep gashes in my knuckles. My pals found my lying in a bloody snow pile on the sidewalk.
Now everybody was stressed out about whether or not I would be able to play guitar with my wounded mitt. We went to Alberto’s place and I was doctored up with a torn t-shirt and some duct tape. I got a serious lecture and was ordered to report to the hospital first thing in the morning. We had another show the next night and I had to get my act together.
Jared offered to accompany me to the emergency room the next day. We walked the few blocks over there only to discover a line at least two hours long. No way that was happening. We came up with a story to tell the grown-ups about how the wound had been open for too long and there was nothing they could do. One of us had heard about this kind of complication somewhere before and it sounded good enough. On the way home we dropped into a place and had a couple of beers.
So we played that nights show and everything was cool. My hand, heavily bandaged, was no problem. It was, up to that point, the most attended Black Lips show outside of Atlanta. Cole welcomed our new fans with a golden shower. I think they dug it.

Saturday, September 22, 2007


This was the funnest parade i have ever attended. our first annual? bad kids parade.

Frontier Blues (fuck canada)

I've been sitting in a Mobil gas station in St. Albans Vermont for the past 4 hours waiting on some folks from Montreal to come down here and smuggle me over the border. At least I have a computer and some books and a shred of hope. I know the show tonight is gonna rule, so I really wanna go.
I've been to every country in Europe including Russia and most of the eastern bloc, Israel, Palestine, Peru, Mexico, about to go to Australia, New Zealand,Brazil, and Japan......and fucking Canada is the only Nation on the planet (other than north korea) that won't let me in?? a D.U.I seven years ago, and a little white lie 3 years ago. If I don't get in I get a little mid-tour vacation in scenic detroit.

i'm gonna learn to post pictures when i find out how. i want everyone to see how sad i am right now

Sorry for the delay

been way for a while because we've been on tour forever and ever and I just got a computer recently so now we'll be able to keep up. Did Sardinia, Italy, England, Scotland, and the eastern US. Tomorrow we go into Canada. Well, at least three of us. I'm banned from the great white north, and I have yet to find a Canadian willing to risk the endeavor of sneaking me over that ridiculous border. We're with the Selmanaires from Atlanta(who are great) for this leg, and the Spits for the west coast. Amazing tour so far, and a few interesting things happened in New York while we were there. Check these links below and see for yourself. We'll be updating alot more from now in almost everyday. 20070920/index.jhtml?rsspartner=rssColdFusion - 31k - Cached - Similar pages

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Jammin' in Jerusalem

We like to go to places that other bands don't go, like Sardinia or, in this case, Israel. The guys at Vice in the journalist part of the magazine wanted to coordinate their trip to Israel with our trip, so we all left on the same airplane from London.

When you get to Tel Aviv, the first thing you notice is that the entire city is overrun with stray cats. You can walk down the street and see like six stray cats just fighting and running around. It's crazy. We played in Haifa, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, and Haifa is a beautiful city. The show they set up for us was in the main square of the town. We got to meet the mayor and the chief of police of Haifa, and they served us up a dinner after we played. There were all these little kids going crazy, little seven-year-old kids jumping around and screaming. There was even one of them crowd-surfing, which was awesome. It was the first time we ever came across any paparazzi. We were sitting around talking and, all of the sudden in the distance, we see these people with telescopic lens in the bushes taking pictures of us.

One of our main hosts was from Jerusalem, so we went to go play there. One thing about Jerusalem, it's three-fourths surrounded by the West Bank. Of course you have the Dome of the Rock, which is a very religious place for any Islamic person, and for Muslims and Christians and Hebrews the city of Jerusalem is a holy place, but there's a really strong tension in the air. You can feel it. There's all these different types of people walking around and you never know quite what to expect. Right next to Jerusalem is the sister city of Bethlehem, and they'd basically be the same city except for these twenty foot guard walls that separate the West Bank from the rest of Israel. It's really ominous to see these walls. When we were driving by the Dead Sea we went right by them. You'd look over and see these massive guard towers and plenty of people with guns, civilians and the army alike.

The Vice guys and us cooked up this idea that we were going to play on the street in Jerusalem as well as on the street in Bethlehem, so we'd have played on both Israel and the West Bank. Unfortunately we never got around to Bethlehem, but we got a minivan and drove across the checkpoint, just flashed our passports and they waved us right into the West Bank. We drove into the West Bank and found some random square with a mosque in it. In the middle of the afternoon we just set up on the street with a bunch of guitars and started playing some of our songs. All of these old cops were looking at us, giving us dirty looks. Eventually all of these little kids came out of the woodwork and they were all standing around watching. Every so often a little girl would show up, but her father would quickly snatch her away from the performance—because rock and roll is not for girls, particularly not on the West Bank.

We played about five songs, and the kids were having a good time, and they just wanted to play our guitars and drums and stuff. To top it off we ended with playing "Johnny B. Goode." That was the one song that the kids actually recognized, so they tried to sing along and we gave them the guitars, and they started singing a Hamas chant to the tune of "Johnny B. Goode." It was really funny.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

The Bad Ol' Days

Hey Y'all. This is ex-Black Lips champion Jack. Swilley dropped me a line asking me to pen some of my most shamefully sublime memories from my tenure with the group. I know that I must live it up because I will never live it down. So, here goes....

I'll begin with the tall tale of my first tour with them boys. I was living in New York City when it all began. The ultimate ex-Black Lips champion, not to mention one of my best buddies, Ben Eberbaugh (r.i.p.), had just passed on in a tragic car crash. I returned to Atlanta to pay my respects and, while I was there, the dudes asked me to come on tour with them. In my mournful state it was an easy decision. I quit my NYC job and took off on the road with the Black Lips. From the outset I knew I had made the most irresponsible decision of my young life.

Ben's funeral had wrapped up only a couple of days prior to the scheduled beginning of the tour. Every bad kid in Atlanta turned out for it. It was just like the scene in "Suburbia" where all the punk kids fuck up the funeral of the dead girl, except there was about three times that many kids and none of the "parents" got pissed at us. It was actually quite touching.

The sadness of the whole affair was made particularly poignant by the fact that the Black Lips had just signed a record deal with Bomp!. I'm sure all y'all know about it, but that fact made it really heart breaking. We (the Black Lips and all us teenage buddies from Dunwoody) had always been way into Bomp! and all that type of shit, and it hurt everybody’s feelings to lose Ben right on the cusp of all that.

In spite of their sadness, the Black Lips decided to do what they thought "Old Gentle Ben" would want them to do and tour as a three-piece. Three days after the Old Boy's funeral they were scheduled to drive out for Chicago with the Carbonas. We got a huge party going at Die SlaughterHaus and a bunch of people came over to see us off. After a few cases of Busch, we set out on tour.

That night of driving would prove to be one of the most harrowing of my continuously mobile young life. It began at about 11 p.m. Atlanta time with everyone, except the perpetually responsible Joe Bradley, completely wasted. We were driving northwest toward Chicago. By the time we had reached Nashville the freeway was frozen solid. The van was slipping and wiggling as the tires tried uselessly to grab onto the ice. We kept morale up by inventing bawdy campfire versions of the entire Hank Williams canon. Jared had taken a leak out of one of the van windows and the pee created a sheet of yellow ice splattered in a wondrous, wind-swept pattern along the side of the van.

In northern Kentucky the drivers had to stop and rest their eyes. We stopped in some hillbilly burg called London. It must have been about two in the morning. We all piled out of the vans (Black Lips, Carbonas, Bobby Eubangi, Kevin Lee, Allen Suh, Alix Brown, myself) and started slipping and busting our asses on the icy parking lot.

Somehow, some of the guys got to talking to the late night Arby’s employees and told them that we were in bands. Well, these hicks were pretty impressed. I guess they thought that we were famous or something. I think it was Dave Rahn (Carbonas drummer) who worked out a swap of a couple of 7-inches for, like, 20 Arby’s sandwiches. We were all quite stoked on this deal as our beer was wearing off and it was high time we glutted ourselves with partial-meat product of some sort or another.

After the group gorging we returned to the vans and set out again on our treacherous journey. The snow was still driving hard into the windshield and visibility was down to about 18 inches, but we pressed on. I don’t know who was driving the Carbonas van, but Joe was getting the job done like a seasoned pro. I think a bit of Adderall might have been giving him the assistance that he needed.

As we struggled to find even filthier words to replace Hank’s lyrics we all began to notice that Jared was acting like a Down’s syndrome kid on a sugar rush. I mean, even more than usual. He was screaming and yelling and stumbling all over the van. He kept trying to sing along, but he sounded like his tongue was stapled to the roof of his mouth.

Jared’s behavior soon started pissing Joe Bradley off quite a bit. He was already having enough trouble seeing the road without a mongoloid mangling the English language at 55 decibels in his ear. So they started arguing.

Joe was like, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Jared.”

Jared responded, “You just tank um floom!”

Exchanges of this type proceeded for way, way too long. After a while, when everyone was fed up with trying to figure out what the fuck WAS wrong with Jared, we decided that some reefer might be just the thing to knock out his lights, so we lit a large joint.

After smoking the joint Jared normalized a little bit. It was then that he revealed to us what had so distorted his mind. Apparently, the backwater Arby’s boys had invited him into he back of the place to “do a line.” Jared assumed, as most urban dwellers would, that these humperdinks were offering him some coke. He was to tragically find out that he was wrong. This was a one truck stop, Kentucky shit-hole town and these cud-chewers were snorting METH.

So, as we proceeded to Chicago at around thirty-five miles per hour over the ice-bound interstate, Jared was twitching and fast-tempo foot tapping the entire way. The obscene honky-tonk rolled on and I think we may have stopped for more beer at one point. Eventually we reached Chicago safely and were greeted by friends new and old. The Black Lips and Carbonas played a few shows with the Tyrades and Chicago’s love affair with them was consummated.

The tour continued, many more shows were played and much more poison consumed. In the next few weeks every member of our entourage would have a chance to prove what he or she was made of as we sloughed our way through the jungles and mires of America. In Ohio, Kevin Lee extinguished the flames on the back of a burning truck driver while barrels of some caustic chemical exploded all around him. In New York, Alberto of Wowsville saw the Black Lips for the first time and is rumored to have exclaimed, “This is the future.” When we all returned to Atlanta I joined the band and the adventure proceeded.

More to come……

Monday, August 20, 2007

Euro Jams!!!

Well, here we go again. Back in the olde country. Just landed in England and we're trollin around searching for adventure. Tomorrow we go to our little paradise we call Sardinia. So we'll have some killer beach and food stories to tell ya'll about. For now it's cold and cloudy and there's no waves in sight. Get ready for our new beef with 50 cent, kanye, and that little cracker ass motherfucker Kenny Chesney. They're all bitches. Currently listening to CCR, and that makes me happy and love the USA for all the right reasons. My highlight of the trip so far was standing in the British Airways check in line with that delightful fellow "DENNIS RODMAN" I almost iced that motherfucker but Jesus got me feeling bad so I left that triflin' ass fool alone. He should consider himself the luckiest man on earth. I gotta go now my "ZIMA" is getting warm.
wordz of wizdom-" if you lose"-Inez

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Wilderness Treatment Center

When I was 16 years old I got expelled from school and got into a bit of trouble with the law. As a result my parents and the courts thought it would be a good idea for me to spend some time at a ranch outside of Marion Montana near Glacier national park. I spent three months there. Half the time working on the ranch living in a cabin heated by a wood stove, and the other half dragging a sled on cross-country skis through Glacier park camping and mountain climbing and wiping my ass with compacted snow. It was February. It sucked hard. Here's a letter I Cole wrote me that I found today while cleaning my room.

Dear Jared,
sorry it took me so long to write back. The show at the Earl went excellent. We are starting to get a good reputation around town. The El Caminos got a write up in the Creative Loafing(free Atlanta weekly paper) and we got mentione. Your mom and Jim(ex- stepdad of mine) came to Alpha Soda(diner cole washed dishes at) and said that you might get sent to a halfway house for three months, that's ridiculous! you need to work hard at whatever you need to do to get out of there. Jim also said that you wouldn't be playing with the Blacklips anymore when you got back, and I was about to tell him to shut the fuck up, but I figured I'd play it cool. Well I hope you make it back on the 27th. Don't forget the Blacklips and the house.

I did make it back on the 27th, and kept playing with the blacklips and moved into die slaughterhaus. I'm really glad i did.