1 Dark Meat and Monotonix outside the Cake Shop
Emily Armond’s Tour Diary, Part 2
Bus troubles, cops, bar fights, and food wars — it’s just another night on Dark Meat’s tour
By Emily Armond
Published: May 6th, 2008 | 4:05pm
For the next two months, piccolo player Emily Armond will be traveling on a bus with 12 men as part of Dark Meat’s 2008 spring tour caravan. While touring, Armond has graciously agreed to document what happens “on the bus” and “off the bus,” and what it’s like to be a woman touring on the road with so very many boys. Check venuszine.com for weekly updates about Dark Meat’s road shenanigans in support of the band’s new album, Universal Indians (re-released April 8 on Vice).
April 20, 2008, New York City
Last week I didn’t have much to say, but this week I could write a book (and someday I will. I’ve always been in it for the money). I’m at the Cake Shop, and we’re rounding up the troops to go get filmed on the bus for MTV2.
The bus, our humble home, is a 1972 GMC 35-footer that reads “SPECIAL” on the destination scroll up front. It has been failing us this week. Yesterday we spent six hours sitting on a grassy knoll at BMI airport while Forrest (drummer and bus owner) and Curtis (roadie, vocalist, and perpetual troubadour) ran around getting dirty. They’re our mechanics. After the tire man came, we made it 30 miles before the radiator hose sprang a leak; that was another two hours in the grass, this time behind a suburban shopping center. This is also after half the band spent a day in New Jersey waiting on repairs. Patience is becoming rare.
The venue in Norfolk, Virginia, fed us a family-style meal. A huge bowl of pasta was placed at the center of the table, but instead of passing it around like civilized people, 15 forks went flying. The bowl was empty in less than a minute, and then arguments about who was next for the fresh ground pepper ensued, a microcosm of our family function if ever there was one.
We had our first of two run-ins with the cops in Norfolk. We went to this girl Betsy’s apartment after the show — not the soberest bunch as you might imagine — and she had wine, beer, and records. Not long after an enthusiastic sing-along to Dylan’s “All I Really Want to Do,” there was a knock-knock-knock at the door. We figured it was an angry neighbor, but it was a cop who said, “You think I could come up here just to say hi?” Betsy made it OK by showing him a nude self-portrait in charcoal and asking him if he wanted to come to her art show. Crisis averted.
Next was Raleigh, North Carolina, where we had a hometown crowd for Jim, Ben, and Dylan, our Carolinian members. The bar was packed and we played well and played loud. Then we went to our trumpet player’s mom’s house in the suburbs to park for the night and shower in the morning. She had a big plate of pastries and let us do laundry. We were on the back porch laying out clothes in the sun when man in uniform #2 came sidling up. “The neighbors sent me over to check you guys out,” he said. He came inside to see all the suspicious coffee drinking and lounging going on before giving us the nod and walking puff-chested back to his patrol car.
Off to Richmond, Virginia, the home of our confetti player Deuter (aka Herbal Wang, our stylist). He cooked a big meal and kept the Cosmopolitans coming. The show was in an old firehouse-turned-art space, and things got slightly crazy. Afterward, we split in half so some could go to New Jersey for bus repairs, and the rest of us could join the Deuter party wagon.
We went to some bar and sat in a corne, refilling our glasses from a bottle of whiskey that Jim smuggled in. At the end of the night, Curtis decided to smash a table’s worth of cocktail glasses. A Dark Meat fire drill followed: We were out the door in 10 seconds. The bouncer was going to kill someone until he saw Deuter, who is not a small dude. Walking back to Deuter’s house, he realized he’d left his keys on the bus, so I had to play burglar and cut his screen and climb through a small, high window.
The next day, the others were sitting in Vineland, New Jersey, while we went for a swim in the James River. ’Twas a sight to see, eight paint-smeared hooligans [Ed. Note: Dark Meat wears face and body paint at its shows] river-walking in slow motion with arms out for balance. A rented minivan got us to Baltimore, where Monotonix took it to the streets at the end of the night: Yonatan was on top of a van with his guitar, and Ami and “Gever” were in the middle of the street with sweaty people dancing all around. It was one of the happier sights I’ve seen in my 25 years.
We were late to Philly (more bus problems), but the show was great again. We played some warehouse space that had swings and hammocks and an old piano. A bottle of absinthe went round and our violin player Molly blew all of our minds playing with Curtis on piano. I watched her tell someone off with music. She’s our newest (and youngest) member, and her talent is staggering.
Now we’re back in New York, and I’m sad because Monotonix will be gone tomorrow.
Issue #35
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