Sniper Glue issue number 9
The real, live papery issue of this was printed on 9th September 2004
contact � [email protected]

Just read Charles Jackson�s �the Lost Weekend� recently and it blew me away. I�ve been a fan of the film version for a few years but, as is usually the case, the book is much better. The fact that it�s the most honest, brutal account of alcoholism I�ve ever read is even more astonishing when you consider that it was first published in 1944. Although my favourite writer is most probably Charles Bukowski, he tends to take a more romantic view of alcoholism. Most of his stories concerning drunkenness (and those are MOST of his stories) dwell on the lighter side of it, as if it�s a fairly safe little hobby to be a drunk. Jackson doesn�t let the reader off the hook so easily. He fearlessly chronicles the day-to-day horrors of someone addicted to the bottle, a 33 year-old loser named Don Birnam. The night terrors, the shame, the self-pity, the DTs, the lack of bladder control; it�s all here, in this unassuming little book, often out-of-print but which I found (while drunk, incidentally) one night while in between pubs, in Waterstones, in a crisp new edition. The book contains a lot of surprises which were not included in the film version for obvious reasons - such as flashbacks concerning the main character�s homosexual encounters while at school -but the bleakness of the alcoholic ward, the melodrama of the drinker, the shame, the shame, the shame are all there, immortalized forever on the silver screen. It�s strange reading about all this when you�re sober but I can�t really read when I�m drinking and, if I do, I instantly forget what I�ve read. Unlike Bukowski, �the Lost Weekend� doesn�t make you wish you had a drink in your hand. It makes you really fucking glad you�re not like the guy in the book � even though he�s constantly telling himself that HE�S not like that either, not REALLY. I like the fact that Don Birnam is such an anti-social drinker � he doesn�t pretend that he�s doing it to �be sociable�; he�d rather drink alone in his flat or alone in bars than hold meaningless conversations. I think a lot of alcoholics feel like that, that the only time they ever truly feel alive is when they�re alone with a bottle and their own thoughts. It�s sad but true. It still shocks me how literature can put thoughts you�ve had all your life onto paper. It�s what�s SO amazing about books, I think. I�ve never read anything like the passages in �the Lost Weekend� where Birnam is mentally debating who to borrow money off for a drink or worrying about the fact that the liquor stores don�t open until 8am, etc. And I suppose that�s because most people don�t think about such things, but I have and I know a lot of other people who have too. I don�t actually know anything about Charles Jackson except the little blurb on the inside of this book (and that doesn�t tell you much) but if I found out that he wasn�t a drinker then I�d be even more amazed by this book. I also love the fact that he doesn�t cop out with the ending. The film version ends with Birnam promising his nice girlfriend that he�s going to stop drinking, whereas the book leaves you in no doubt that, no matter how many terrible things have happened to or are likely to happen to Don Birnam, his only true love is for alcohol. Many not the happiest of endings but one which I think is very true to life.

Got a tape from Andrew and a letter from Maggie. Had a coffee and the rest of last night�s cold chips. Had a shower. Saw John just as I was leaving. I got a 44 bus to Vicky Road, got a quiche from Greggs and walked through Queens Park to Shawlands. Was in Sir Johns for 2 and John M was in and Gordon had just walked in before me. The cops had been round at John�s in the middle of the night again (broke his door in �cos he didn�t hear them knocking!) about a complaint about his TV being up too loud. So, after they�d gone, he spent � an hour hammering the lock back on to piss off the neighbours! Oh DEAR! They were asking how John B was settling in, etc. Jim had been in earlier, according to John, but was visiting his father-in-law in Wishaw General. He did come in later, though, after Joe and Cat. I gave them the new SRM tape. Joe had to go for his blood test results at some point. Other people were in � Ronnie, Arthur (sitting at the next table), Joe and Carla, Mary, etc. It all got pretty blurry for me at some stage. Can�t recall when I left but Andrew rang while I was on the bus and I ended up standing about Dumbarton Road chatting to him until my battery ran out. Then I spent some time in John�s room, drinking cider and playing each other a couple of songs on acoustic guitar.

CD REVIEWS

DON CAMPAU / RAY CARMEN � ALL OF IT (LONELY WHISTLE / CUT & PASTE)
[email protected] / [email protected]
A 6 track CD collab between 2 of the USA�s longest-serving home-taping luminaries. I�m not sure if this is meant to be an EP, as the booklet only prints the lyrics to the 1st 2 songs, as if they are the star attraction or something. Anyway, the title track is a tasty little number which is somewhat reminiscent of H�sker D�, musically at least. Don and Ray take turns at lead vocals and both have their own special charm.  �Use of Force� has some very nice organ going on, adding an almost celestial feel to a great song. �Alone on the Bus� is a melancholic story-song with some great backing vocals by Robin O�Brien. It�s probably the stand-out track for me. It all ends with �Ideals�, which sounds like an out-take from �Songs for Drella� or one of Leonard Cohen�s recent albums. There�s something for everyone here, in fact. It�s the sound of the summer!

ROBIN O�BRIEN � ILSANJO (LONELY WHISTLE) [email protected]
I�ve heard quite a lot of Robin�s stuff over the years so I�m pretty familiar with her warm, folky voice and plaintive acoustic guitar songwriting  style. But this release is a real revelation. It�s the most accomplished thing I�ve ever heard from her. It starts off with the title track � a multi-tracked acapella affair � and then continues on through another 15 beautiful songs, with minimalistic yet extremely effective accompaniment from oboes, keys, etc. And it all comes lovingly packaged in a nice booklet with all of the lyrics. It�s in the Official Reviewer�s Handbook that I must compare these songs to other artistes.. but I don�t really want to because, although I can hear the occasional trace of Joni and Eitzel, Robin O�Brien seems to be doing something pretty damn unique here and that is a rare and precious thing. These songs ooze soul. You should get yourself a copy. 

WIRELESS � TERMINAL BROADCAST STATION (ARMCHAIR ASTRONAUT)
[email protected] (Review by Gary Simmons)
10th August 2004
It�s raining, it�s pouring, the buttock biter�s gnawing. England�s �weird� weather continues. Trisha is on ITV1 with yet more of those vile monsters who all look as if they�ve come from the same disgusting family� the tasteless garments & tacky trinkets say it all; there�s the obligatory baseball caps, the contemptible trainers, the loathsome �pants�, the pathetic & downright vulgar piercings, intermingled with the Desmond Morrisesque anthropological truths of the participant�s posture, the �I am exposing my genitals to you� open legged cocky studio slouch otherwise known as the �cunt-loafs-about-a-lot�. Oh, & furrowed brows rule the day� at least that�s how it all seems to me. 3 million fucking years of evolution & here is �civilised� modern man at his peak, here in the 21st century. If thee ancestors could have been witness to THIS they wouldn�t have fucking bothered to have invented fire! Bother? Hah! I know I�M not going to anymore, fuckin� fuck it!! Here, in 2004, in the bleeding 4th richest cunt-ry in the world, an underclass of Wellsian Morlocks herald in another dark age. I can�t bear to think about it! I need cleansing. I need purification� & what better way to achieve this (spoken in true middle England washing powder advert style) than to put on a delightfully pleasant CD-R by WIRELESS, a disky entitled �Terminal Broadcast Station�. 9 tracks here at just o�er an hour long, put out by Armchair Astronaut, tee-hee, who ��exist to promote altered states of listening by making available limited edition releases from sound-breaking sonic shamanic improvisers WIRELESS & other related artists�.

The first couple of times I played this release I was laying on my beddy, knob handed, feeling very drowsy & lethargic & I dozed off for most of the time, waking occasionally to hear short sections of the CD which then in turn played a big part in sending me all the way back to the land of the sluggish, wherein aficionados of the �Why bother� doctrine of life conduct their rallies. It�s a good place to be for those of us who can�t quite bring themselves to suicide & so take long overdue flight from this �industrial world�.

�Terminal Broadcast Station� invokes in the listener a land quite the reverse to THIS stinking one. It�s a happy, quiet place, where doctors sick notes last for life, even though there�s nothing actually wrong with you, enabling you to receive your dole money (increased by ten fold) without ever having to make that dreaded twice monthly journey down to the �Job Centre Plus� & where sumptuous pints of heavy (Tartan Special is recommended) are on the house in every pub in London & Glasgow & that under-aged catalyst of slimy dicky-tube-seepage-in-yer-lycra-cycle-shorts�Miss rouged breast-rosebud-just-a�pokey-mounding-on-her-little-chest 12 year old libido igniter, all pale blue �n� black uniform lagged & pony-tailed fragile angel nymphet that you saw casually scrutinising the incitement-to-go-paedo covered teen-girl magazines in sainsburys�She�s there too, collecting fucking Nectar points, & eyeing you softly with a demeanour that rules out any other interpretation aside from the universally welcome �I�m asking for it� variety. Jesus-ass-fucking-all-the-mindless-cunts-who-have-been-given-too-much-runway-technology!! IT�S ENOUGH TO BRING THE DEAD MAN BACK TO LIFE!!! �You lie. She�s not�. What? �I said July was hot�. Then I became her.

This is a promised land where airliners have long ago been hi-jacked and flown into full-to-the-brim football stadiums (aim for the new wembly arch, it�s really easy-peasy now lads), where government ministers have all been herded into their respective talking-bollocks chambers & blown to kingdom fuck, there the aids-a-delic virus has mutated into one that can be caught as easily as a common cold & the few people who ARE left are vegetarians & THEIR only interest is science�not for profit, because the filthy bastard monetary system has been abolished anyway (so fuck taking any notice of that sick note shite I wrote earlier!), but for the benefit of all mankind, & there�s space exploration & earth sciences & roads are as empty as they are shown to be in those ludicrously overblown & nauseating car ads & everyone smiles & says �Good morning Garina� (coz I�m a hot fucking chick now, right?) like they did when we met people coming in the opposite direction on a clifftop walk during that June 1982 holiday in Polperro. Bunches of keys are redundant, pointless. Laws are unnecessary, �celebrities� have been slaughtered, Bush is hanging by his neck on piano wire with a cruise missile shoved up his arse, GG Allin has risen from the grave & does a shitty-show-a-night, the Sex Pistols play 24 times a day, on thee hour, every hour. Anyone worth their salt has a Blu-ray recorder to transfer their bulky VHS tapes onto (4 hours of High Definition quality on a dual layered disc is MORE than adequate) & Sid Vicious is riding Shergar back home, breaking into a gallop now as their outline is silhouetted against the shimmering orange orb of the rising Martian sun & Simon Morris assures me, via interplanetary smoke signals, that the both of them are safe & well. The postman has just delivered my license to kill�

Then I woke up.

ARNOUX � CARDINAL BALLADES (SELF-RELEASED) [email protected]
This limited edition CD comes in a cut and paste cover with a colour reproduction of a painting of a woman playing a violin. Instantly recognisable, then, as the work of Lonnie Methe, from Omaha, Nebraska, a soul-mate of sorts, although we have never met. Ever since I heard a copy of his mainly spoken-word tape, �the Days of Wine & Proust� (which has since been released in a slightly different form on my own label), I knew he was the real deal. (If further proof is needed, see part 2 of his tour diaries elsewhere in this issue). Arnoux, then, is one of Lonnie�s art rock projects/bands. I�ve never really known exactly what �art rock� is, but the term does seem to fit this stuff rather well. Careering wildly from lo-fi to slightly lower-fi and back again, this CD comprises home and live recordings by Lonnie and no less than 9 other people playing such things as saxophone, violin, accordion, banjo and clarinet. At times unsettling, at times beautiful, I really can�t think of anyone to compare this to, or really how to describe it. Sometimes the vocals are like the dying howls of a wounded animal, sometimes they�re whispered right into your ear like the confidences of a lover, but there�s always something pretty spooky going on somewhere in the background. I couldn�t listen to this late at night unless I wanted some pretty fucked-up dreams (and I get enough of those already, thank you very much).

9 ON BALI � GIST (WANTED RECORDS) [email protected]
A 4 track CD EP from 3 guys called Dan. It�s spacey guitar/keyboard psychedelic rock like stuff. Best track to these jaded ears is #2, �the Ballad of Tony & Angel� . Not sure if that�s a �Last Exit to Brooklyn� reference. I read the book about a year ago but can�t be bothered to check. Anyway, it�s a good song, with weird shit high pitched keyboard squeals coming in towards the end to unsettle the listener no end. It�s got a fucking good tune too. 3rd track, �Bemo�, is an instrumental with the emphasis on �mental�. �Alibis� has some real live drums although, to be honest, they don�t sound much different to the drum machine which accompanies the other tracks. The keyboard solo in the middle sounds like some naff 1970s TV theme � like �Robin�s Nest� or something. Great! It�s all good stuff and I like Dan Susnara�s English singing voice (makes a change from all the British popsters who want to be Yanks).


SENSA YUMA � UP YOURS! (IRON MAN / RED GIANTS) www.sensayuma.net
11.40 on a sunny Friday morning is possibly not the best time to review an old-school punk CD with song titles like �Mindless Violence� and �Fuck the Government�, especially considering I didn�t drink much yesterday and wanna get out asap to rectify that fact. But this doesn�t start off TOO bad. 1st track, �War�, is pretty decent melodic punk. The guy�s voice doesn�t do the music any favours, though. It�s as cliched as those song titles I mentioned. I like the cover photos of a matador being gored by a bull and Prescott punching the guy who threw an egg at him, etc, but this is just way too derivative to hold my attention on this bright sober morning. Maybe after a few drinks I�ll like this better. Shall we find out?� // 7pm and things have improved greatly since the last part of this review.. after a pint in the Counting House, 3 in the Horseshoe and another in the Griffin and, now, with 2 litres of Summerdown cider and a bottle of rose wine to hand, I�m ready to �tackle� the HILARIOUSLY named Sensa Yuma again (I never �got� the joke name earlier � which just goes to show how thick I can be when sober). OK, punk rock, let�s go.. Actually, some of this is laugh-out-loud funny but I�m sure it�s not MEANT to be.. �Fuck the Government� is quite the party classic.. Shame these sad twats actually MEAN it, maaaan. Tell you what, lads, I heard a Pixies CD in a record shop earlier and they�ve done more to �fuck the government� than you�ll ever do in your wildest dreams, �cos people have actually HEARD of them. Oh, plus they�re original. And good (You can tell I�ve been drinking, can�t you? From my flowing prose and my glowing nose!) OK, I like how the singer mis-pronounces �Decree Nici� even though I bet he was a Latin scholar at Cambridge.. THAT�S brilliant, �Stu-pid� (funny name.. in 1980, maybe). Right, track 5 and I�m getting really bored now. This isn�t bad � in fact I know a few people who would probably like this � it just ain�t my �thing�. It�s better than a lot of shit you hear on mainstream radio, but I�d rather play my Uncut �Americana 2004� comp CD, which is what I�m gonna do. Looks like I�ve failed the Punk Rock Test yet again. Maybe I need my sensa yuma checked.

Woke at 9.30 and made my breakfast. Read the paper and watched �the Wright Stuff� then shaved my head and had a shower. Went next door to say goodbye. Mac had been sleeping and was dead cute as he licked me goodbye! While waiting on the bus, Jenny texted me to say she was gonna leave a Murakami novel behind the bar at the Auctioneers for me, so I texted her a couple of times about that. It was Fair Monday so I had to get a bus to Lanark then a train. When I got back, after 2, I went to Tickets Scotland and bought my Richmond Fontaine ticket off Kenny�s mate Vinnie. Then I ate my sandwich down by the Clyde. As soon as I sat down, it started to rain (it had been nice and sunny before). Typical. Went to the Auctioneers for 3 and the 2 Johns and Andy the baker were in. I picked up the book Jenny had left, got a pint and sat down. Andy only stayed for a couple. That moustachioed twat who told me once he was a lollipop man sat down with us at one point and John M basically told him to piss off. He was really pissed and went and hassled someone else. I asked John M if I�d been out-of-order in Maxwells last week �cos I couldn�t really remember much and he said it was Peter who was out-of-order (after I�d left he started a fight with someone and John walked out in disgust! He said Peter went round his house the next day to ask him what he�d done!) Stayed there drinking with the 2 Johns till closing-time then me and John B got a subway back to Kelvinbridge. He bought some vegetable pakora from Barbeque King and ate it in my room (he gave me a few bits). We watched some videos � the George Best documentary which was on recently, the John Martyn documentary, some GG Allin, etc, drank and chatted till 4.10am.

Hysterical drunken rants? Is THAT what you�re after? Well, that�s what you�re gonna get, bitch. James Nesbitt.. I hate him worse than Stalin, �cos Stalin was just evil and being annoying is worse than being evil. I hate those adverts he�s in for Yellow Pages (Nesbitt, not Stalin), I hate fucking �Cold Feet�, I hate his smug, sad-eyed Irish face. And I hate the cunt opposite me right now, on this train journey to Hell (Lanark, actually) with his smelly chips and his oh-so-original gay boy look. I�ve just been in the housing benefit office and I hate THEM more than anything.. the 40 minute wait in the benefit-fraud-leaflet-decorated hating room, the 20 minute wait in �booth 2� while Mr Smooth Cunt tried to find my �file�.. everything, everything. I hate it ALL. Apart from the cider I had in the Cunting House (I omitted an �o� there, for comedy value). That was a safe haven, all the hot hotsters in their summer garb, fresh from the George Square bag-pipe festival. Ooh, I wish I was still there, but today�s a �not drinking� day.. I�m just tapering off so I (hopefully) don�t get the DTs later. Was drinking from 2pm yesterday with John. Vodka! Smirnoff too, no shite for US alcoholic gods. Then to the Horseshoe for more vodka and beer and karaoke. I sang �Wichita Lineman�. John did something which I didn�t know. Other people did other songs. It was all good. A lot better than being dead or tied-up in some serial rapist�s dungeon.. I imagine. Sorry, I�m meant to be writing about HATE.. gotta try and stick to the theme.. theme-show, dream-show, stream ho. Time check � it�s 3pm, Friday 13th (AARGH!) August.. too hot on this train. I feel like passing out. No one�s been to collect tickets yet but they�ll show up eventually, like cunts always do.. why isn�t everything free? Why are trees green? Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? You know, I �hate� the sun, but it�s been raining all week, except today, and I hate that too. I think I hate being alive. It�s shit, isn�t it? Everyone agrees, it�s just that most people don�t admit it. Just bought my ticket.. cheaper than it should have been �cos I didn�t tell Mr gold-chain-wearing ticket man where I REALLY got on. Small victories please my small mind.. and my small cock. Ass mall. I�m losing it. I need a drink. Can�t have one. At least I got Gary�s letter today. He�s one of very few reasons why London shouldn�t be bombed. I enjoyed it when he and Maggie came to visit the other week.. more so in hindsight, �cos I prefer most things after they�ve happened. I�m a miserablist, destined never to be happy.. I can�t �live for the moment� �cos I  always think �the moment� is shit. I prefer nostalgia, �cos it�s like a dream.. and I prefer being asleep to being awake �cos it�s like death without dying. You�re totally free when you dream.. and life is not freedom. Life is conformity and toeing the line and wearing a smart suit and getting up at 6am to work 8 hours for some cunt you hate and who hates you. Life is misery. I long for the safe comfort of the nursing home. In bed all day, morphine flowing through my veins like sweet honey.. I wouldn�t even mind being �abused� by the staff, as long as I got my dick sucked. A punch is just like a kiss, really. Love, hate, they�re the same thing. Different sides of the coin and all that. So, actually, I LOVE James Nesbitt and his hilarious adverts.. I LOVE the housing benefit office, I LOVE trains and sun and rain and I LOVE this silly, silly life. It�s a RIDE, as Bill Hicks said. This train, this life, this rollercoaster. It�s only a ride. I�ll miss it when it�s gone.

Diary Of Recent Tour Debacles 2000-03 (part 2)
by L. Eugene Methe

March/April 2002 NATURALISTE "A Clamor Half Heard"
East Coast Tour
Christopher Fischer, Charles Lareau, and I flew out to the East Coast, for two weeks of dates. It should be said that both the group--and friends back home�were genuinely frightened at the prospect. And we were afraid that half of the dates would fall through.

New York, NY @ Free103.9 Space 3/29/02; House Show 3/30/02
First show of the tour.We flew into New York on the Thursday before Easter, where we would spend the entire holiday weekend at Brian and Jonathan's loft in the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn. Less than an  hour after arriving,  we decided to check out some bars. I don't remember a whole lot (for I had a number of vodka tonics at the Omaha and St. Louis airports)...but towards 4 a.m. or so there was a scene. Brian was disapointed by the weak quality of his martini, and a complaint to the bartender swiftly brewed into a screaming match. We were asked to leave. I have only spent a total of 7 days in NYC the past two years, yet every one of those days has found me with physical and mental hangovers of unparralled intensity. Friday morning would be an ominous start. After a few hours of troubled sleep, I nudged Fischer awake with my foot. He had fallen asleep on the floor--cans of beer surronding his head, one curled up
in his claw-like hand. Slowly, the rest of the house arose and we headed to a hipster diner for brunch. The Williamsburg neighborhood is apparently the indie-rock capital of the world. (and I thought Omaha and its Saddle Crap was godawful enough, but it's nothing compared to the drab electro-clash stylings there.)  It was a lovely afternoon...Spring in bloom...Beautiful young girls wearing bright Easter dresses. Brian and Jessica had bloody marys. I had a vodka tonic. Fischer had a cup of coffee. Charles had a glass of orange juice to start. Midway through the meal, I ordered a pint of Stella beer, while Brian and Charles split a large bottle of Chimay. Everyone started to feel better, so instead of taking the subway we walked across the bridge into Manhattan, then bummed around Chinatown,  before stopping off for white russians at a bar in Little Italy. I swear that I peed for nearly two minutes straight. A guy in the restroom even patted me on the back, he was so impressed: "Well done," he said. He had another round of white russians. Then a round of beers. We then went into the once legendary CBGB's, finding an exhibition of paintings by an Omaha associate, Kenny Adkins, hanging there--nice stuff. We had a few more beers at the Mars Bar across the street, before taking a cab back to Brian's place. There we cracked open a few bottles of wine, and forced down some takeout. Late evening arrived and we figured it was high time to head to the show.  Free103.9 is a radio station and performance space. Russ Waterhouse put together a stellar  line-up of bands, and a pretty large crowd began to assemble. (This was important for us, because some of the NY bands had played in Omaha with Naturaliste a few months earlier and it was a complete debacle. I had chased people around while howling like a monkey. Kids were rolling around in broken glass. And there's that one dolt in Omaha who is always lurching around at houseshows with his schlang hanging out. Everyone was sort of out of their head) The SB opened it up with a lengthy pysch drone. I dig the SB a lot, but in my hazed out state those tones were cracking me up. Plus Jonathan was passing around a bottle of Jim Beam. Naturaliste went on next. Never has a band had so much difficulty setting up for a show. It is such a daunting task that many times we have decided not to perform. Adding to the confusion was a DJ spinning records. I don't think anyone from Naturaliste can offer a very clear view of what happened, but here's what I seem to recall: us taking turns berating the audience; Chuck exchanging words with the DJ; Chuck throwing a keyboard at him.  A few shoves(?)...before Chuck was escorted outside by Brian and thrown into a taxi. Me, Fischer, and someone I don't remember quickly packed the gear up and carried it the ten blocks or so back to Brian's. Our NYC "debut" lasted perhaps 4 minutes.

At this point, it would have been good to call it a night; but of course that wasn't the case. We walked to the nearby Greenpoint Tavern, racing through the streets of Brooklyn like children, kicking a soccer ball around. Chuck kicked a light pole and broke a toe before cutting his forehead open on the pavement. Not more than an hour passed at the Greenpoint Tavern before we were booted out for reasons I will not address. I will only say that Jonathan saved us from further humiliation. Russ (the show's promoter) and D. Retteman happened to find us outside the bar�Chuck sprawled out on the sidewalk, bleeding. We went back to Brian's loft and dropped car tires off the 5th floor roof, to see how high they would bounce.

Saturday. It is, of course, a rough one. We are schelduled to perform at a house party in the evening, but are having a hard time getting enthused. Fischer, Ehrlichman, and I bum around Brooklyn awhile, having a few drinks at an empty Polish bar, before revisiting the Greenpoint for some 32 oz. beers. That took the edge off a bit. A crazy old friend from Omaha, Darla, met up with us. Fun times. We decided not to perform, but backed up the singer/songwriter Ehrlichman instead. He played the same song three times in a row, while we contributed amp static. At some point the host asked us to stop. I vaguely recall playing some form of stickball at a diamond in the early morning hours.

Easter Sunday morning. Around 6 a.m. I accompanied Chuck to an emergancy room in Long Island that seemed to have the smell of death. I will not go into details. Suffice to say that it was not the proper way to spend Easter morning. After leaving, me and Chuck walked around Long Island for awhile, before I started to feel very ill. I shat out my soul in the restroom of a nice restraunt, packed with families having Easter brunch. I sat there imagining how horrible it would be for someone to bust down the bathroom door and find me dead. After an agonizing period locked in there, I very sheepishly re-emerged and ordered a bottle of Pilsner Urquell.  Later on in the day we headed to Philadelphia, where we were actually relieved to find the show cancelled. We had a low-key night hanging out with Newton in the suburbs and got a much needed good nights rest.

Chapel Hill, North Carolina @ Skylight Exchange 4/02/02
For some time, I had been growing very tired with the "freenoise" geek scene, and this show only added to
the frustration. We arrived mid-afternoon at J. ___'s house, greeted by a blank expression and "I didn't think you guys were gonna show up". Apparently he had been on a cocaine bender the past few days and was a little tweaked out; nonetheless, the show was still on.

There was time to kill, so we had some dinner rolls and cocktails at the cool bar next to the Skylight.  An hour later,  J. enters in a mad panic, informing us that we have to get the show started now. (Even though it is 8PM and there's only 4 people there!) Afterwards, he doesn't say a word to us, too busy occupying himself with setting us his equipment...a mixing board and four huge PA speakers. Finally he speaks: "I thought it was going to be a lot louder". A real music critic indeed. He went on stage shortly, playing a godawful dull tape he recorded the night before through the PA at extreme volume.

To be honest, I've never thought much of artists who just play pre-recorded tapes into amps. The freedom
that exists in these scenes is completely wasted on geeky goofballs, or the overly academic, soulless
free-improv artists. (I guess Naturaliste has always been about summing up the human condition via our
performances. We hone our craft through life experience. Of course, this only adds to the hit and miss nature of the shows).

Anyway, the last thing we needed was an hour long set of dull,  purely egocentric electronic noise...and we
certainly didn't want to crash at his house and listen to Cock ESP records all night, so we packed up our
equipment while he was still performing and drove off. I realize this was a shitty thing to do, but we ended
up having a nice enough evening at a few bars before settling in a motel outside of town.

Funny, less than a year later I played at the same place in Chapel Hill and had a pretty bleak night too.
I remember getting paid with a copy of Axel's Castle by Edmund Wilson (which is a great book by the way). At least our host for that night was also more pleasant to be around as well.

Charleston, South Carolina @ some bar
This was the first of  three shows with the Horsefeathers from Houston. We easily consumed a twelve pack of Natural Ice beer apiece at the bar, so it was somewhat alarming to find no one in the Horsefeathers drinking, except their bass player Ralf. Thus I don't feel the two bands ever really clicked together very well. There was a most beautiful friend of Charlie's in attendance who spoke to us of returning to family in Palestine to join the fight. In a moment of skewered thinking,  I called her a "bra bomber", but fortunately no offense was taken.  Performance wise, Charlie joined us on one stringed fiddle. We also joined up the with the singer/songwriter American Tenants for a few songs. Overall, our set was pretty dull, perhaps heightened by the fact that we didn't feel like we fit in. The night carried on to... I woke up the next morning in the backseat of our rental car, bloated like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I looked like a stump. I walked into our host's house and was immediately tossed a can of Red Dog beer by McCallister. We then went to the beach in order to breathe the fresh ocean air, but ended up sitting in a dank bar for hours. At some point, I slipped away and viewed the ocean by myself--it might have been the only moment of peace the entire tour.

Athens, Georgia at the Flicker Theatre 4/04/02
This was pretty pathetic. The Flicker Theater is pretty beautiful inside and the place was full. We arrived late, so the Horsefeathers had already started playing. After each one of their songs, a table or two of people walked out. So by the time they were finished, only the promoter, the local band, and a few others remained. The club owner came up to us saying we could only play five minutes. She seemed very angry. Considering the length of many Naturaliste sets, this was not really a problem for us; but it still is unreasonable and insulting to treat any touring band with such disregard for their efforts. We played for a few minutes (Fischer had one of his better saxophone solos) and exchanged some angry words. Oddly, when we were leaving we found A _____ (Bright Eyes, Now It's Overhead) drinking there, whom I has shared a bill with some years previous. I told him how Athens needs to be bulldozed. (I used to live there) The Manhattan bar beckoned. As much as I can't stand Athens, the Manhattan is one of my all-time favorite lounges. Otherwise, after visiting a few old stomps, I was completely bleaked out and we decided to drive for a few hours before settling in at yet another motel room for the night.

Nashville, TN; House Show 4/05/02; Radio Show 4/06/02
Last stop of the tour. We are all looking and feeling haggard, but Nashville awaits...one of my very favorite cities. Our friends Jay and Carrie from the band Butler set up a house show...and house shows seem to always turn out best. After an incredibly tense two hour ordeal dropping off our rental car at the Nashville airport, we relaxed with a nice dinner and a few drinks. Jay and Fischer started working on a gallon of "Turbo Dog" malt beer. We were joined by Stuart and some strange hession fellow drinking Jagermeister. There was a very good turnout at the show, but after intriguing performances by Butler, USA for LSD, and a nearly two hour set by the Horsefeathers, the place is almost empty, so we decided not to play...it was turning out to be the tour that wasn't a tour. It felt more like a 100% proof road trip.

So, I was blasted and in low spirits and told Fischer "Find your own way back in Omaha". The Jagermeister
fellow had actually spent the entire night passed out in his car, but he woke up and kindly offered us a ride back to Jay and Carrie's (for Jay was curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor when we left). 

The next day was ROUGH. Felt wretched. Appolyptic hangover and tweaks. But it was still nice hanging
out. We visited some museums, watched E.T., and had medicational beers throughout. At midnight we did a live radio broadcast at Murfressboro State University. The set ended with some pretty down and out, doom and gloom rambling, which had to have been a shock to anyone listening at that hour hoping to hear Death Cab for Cutie crap. We flew back to Omaha on Sunday, where it felt so strange to step back into my cramped Dundee studio (which people kindly nicknamed 'hangman's attic'). I was due back at my office job the next day, but ended up calling in sick four days in a row before finally telling my boss "I'm cracking up...I gotta get outta town" and resigned. I made arrangements with a co-worker to meet me at the Green Onion bar with my paycheck, but management had already confiscated it and docked me for two weeks of unearned vacation time. It thus seemed a good idea to cash out my 401K plan...

(part 3 will appear in the next issue)

ZINE REVIEWS

I don�t get too many zines these days � thought the internet had killed them all off, but it looks like I was wrong again �cos here�s a bundle of the things (all done by the same guy, admittedly, but y�know..)

ELEPHANT MESS best of issues 1-10 & issue 12 � see below for address
1ST issue of this came out in September 1997 and it�s a personal zine full of musings on life, love, growing up, etc. I�ve always liked zines like this. It takes quite a lot of nerve to put your innermost thoughts and fears out in print for the whole world to read. A lot of personal zines just end up being embarassing either because they�re badly written or just TOO much (an example I can think of is a zine I got years ago detailing this girl�s self-mutilation and stays in mental hospitals.. it wasn�t that it was written poorly or anything, I just couldn�t really cope with hearing all about that kind of stuff when I was going through a lot of problems myself). There�s a lot in this compilation of �Elephant Mess� I found myself relating to and, perhaps surprisingly, none of it comes over as TOO teenage angsty (although it often sails pretty close). But that�s mainly �cos the guy can actually WRITE. I like the cut and paste look and the fact that the writer obviously has compassion and isn�t just on a whinge bender. It�s also great that�s he�s carried on writing in this same manner for all these years �cos issue 12 is a new-ish issue (which came out this year). It�s exclusively about his high school days and includes photos and detailed accounts of how he felt at the time, especially concerning his girlfriend. There�s an especially good piece called �Schools are Factories. Schools are Jails� which puts forward a very convincing argument. 

THE FAMILY GEEK issue 2 � see below for address
This has (very) short pieces on independent publishing, voting, music, comic and zine reviews (�Sniper Glue� issue 6 is described as �drunken self-pity� which is pretty damn accurate, I think!) but it�s largely (and it�s a small zine) taken up with addresses of distros and other zines, etc, which seems a bit pointless considering this is meant to be a zine in it�s own right. I mean, why not just put a list of addresses on one sheet of paper, photocopy it and send it out along with your other zines? Seems to me this could easily be incorporated into �Elephant Mess�, or vice-versa (�The Family Geek� IS a better name!) But what the hell do I know?

THE JUNIPER issue 1 � [email protected] / Dan Murphy, PO Box 6352, Boise, ID 83707, USA (same address for all the above zines too)
Bizarrely, this is a GARDENING zine! It includes a gardening diary and seems to have an eco-friendly, �cars are evil� sort of ethos. This would have probably appealed to me a lot more when I was a vegan, about 11 or 12 years ago and, even now, in my non-vegan (but VERY vegetarian) life, there�s some entertainment to be had from reading this. Just �cos it�s so unusual. Again, I think Dan would be better off incorporating this into one of his other zines �cos they�re all pretty small. It would make for a more rounded, varied read. But the whole point of publishing your own stuff is that you can do exactly what you want (and I always hate it when people give me �advice� on what to put into �Sniper Glue� and what to leave out) � so good for him, I say. Plus, he�s made me want to take a look at some of the other zines that are out there �cos, like I said, I thought they were all on the net these days.
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