Yesterday I dreamt I was eating large puss filled sticky brown millipedes. As I crammed them into my mouth their legs were still wiggling and it made me gag with each bite. Last night I dreamt that I drank a long tall glass of sour milk. There's something wrong with me isn't there? I think it's the days off. The never ending onslaught of days off. Spare us. spare us all. A day off in Dallas. All those bars. All that PD money. We'll never survive. It's too hot in Dallas. Too hot and too much meat. They should develop solar jackets for cows so they could cook themselves as they wander around the fields, using less energy - more fuel for big cars. Just a thought. The first thing I see this morning in Dallas is a box of tampons flying across the hotel room. Bo (the bus driver/dolphin tamer) is throwing a brand new box of tampons at Greg (the tour manager)."Here you go Greg."
"What the hell are these for?"
"Well you been so pissy lately I figured you must be coming on."
"Get out! GET OUT OF HERE!"
Bo runs off down the hotel corridor laughing his head off. Ahhh, life on the road. What a merry band of men we are. I haven't seen Kafka or his little men with hammers for days. I slept well. I ate well. I played well. You'll never take me alive Kafka. Let the crew throw tampons at each other if it keeps them happy, I don't care, just don't let the little men with hammers find me. At night Greg and I hit a few bars in Deep Ellum, the bohemian side of town. There are outdoor gigs and indoor gigs all over the place. We manage to blag into all of them for free by flashing our laminates at the door. We hook up with some Pitch sympathisers and they invite us to another bar for after hours drinking. We wouldn't normally break the law, but we didn't want to hurt their feelings and so we trundled along. In the after hours bar we sit and drink the owner's beer and chat about the gig tomorrow night and how stupid it is that an English band is going to play on independence day. They are nice people and all goes well until the owner asks me the name of the band.
"Pitchshifter."
"What did you say?"
"The band's called Pitchshifter."
"Get the fuck out of here!"
"What?"
"Get the fuck out of my club. Don't insult me a minute longer by drinking my beer and get the fuck out of my club before I get you thrown out."
I guess this guy really doesn't like our kind of music. We are ushered to the front door by an entourage on people. Fair enough. It's his club and it's his beer and if he wants us out then we're gone. Out on the street Greg lights up a cigarette and we stand in amazement on the pavement wondering why this guy hates Pitchshifter so much. Maybe his girlfriend played one of our LPs backwards and found the hidden "kill yourself for Satan" messages and decided to top herself.
As we turn around to leave the guy pops up in my face again:
"You and your fucking band have absolutely no say on what goes on in your career. You are meat puppets like all the fucking rest. I fucking hate you. Get the fuck away from me."
Now he's pissing me off. I'm not in his club now, I'm standing on the pavement. You can talk to me like shit in your own club and you can throw me out. But you can't talk to me like that on the street. I tap the jar head on the chest. I tell him that he's talking to the wrong person and should shut up. He doesn't hit me. I take a cigarette out, tap it on the packet and flick it in his face. He doesn't hit me. This guy's a dick. Greg and I stroll off laughing and make it back to the bus. I wonder what made that guy freak out when he heard the name Pitchshifter? Maybe he read an interview where it explains we're English and that none of us eat meat:
"Those pinko Commies don't even eat red meat! If they ever come to my club I'll show those European fags what for! I bet they drink mineral water too - fetch me my shotgun."
Can't wait for tomorrow night:
"Good evening, we're Pitchshifter . . . from England."
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