“So. You guys wanna hang out?”
No, I didn’t want to hang out. I wanted to be in a bed, in a Home, because I felt like I was 150 fucking years old, standing in the concrete yard of a disheveled student co-op in Santa Barbara, face to face with this large child in a denim jacket with no shirt underneath. I could see his eyes were starting to go wide, too, with glassy, dark, dinner plate pupils that heralded the arrival of the ecstasy in his bloodstream. Denim Jacket was going to have a great night.
This show was going to suck dick.
We had been on tour for the past week in Southern California, driving to and fro, to points far disparate, due to my perennially poor planning of every tour I’ve ever booked, and my white-hot burning love of sitting in traffic for as much of my life as possible. The drive from ten miles north of the Mexican border to Santa Barbara had been a breeze though, and by the time we arrived at what I quickly assessed was not a show, but a loose collection of about 50 extremely fucked up 20-year-olds, who had all—every single one of them—just ingested copious amounts MDMA, I was in high spirits. “Here’s something you may not know about me,” I gritted at my tour-mate, “I love driving in horrific, soul-rending traffic, and I love college parties where everyone is on drugs, because the music I play is known primarily for its Party Spirit.” Or, I would have said that to her, but her entire head and torso had suddenly been engulfed under the dress of a partier who had made the quick decision that my tour partner and she should share an intimate moment in the close confines of her blouse. She frantically emerged milliseconds later, wild-eyed, breathlessly excusing herself from the saucer-eyed girl. “I have my own clothes, thank you though!” she fumbled awkwardly, as she backed away.
This show was going to suck a Grocery Outlet bag full of cut-rate dicks well past their expiration date.
“Do you want me to, uh, introduce you when you go on?” Denim Jacket sauntered up and breathed in my ear.
“Yeah, sure man. That sounds great.”
“Ok, cool. Who are you again?”
“Actually, I have to tell you something, man.”
“I am way too high to introduce you.”
By the time we played, the ecstasy was in full and perfect effect. The entire party swayed to every note as One, like a stand of willows billowing in the summer wind—that is to say, a stand of semi-college-aged willows billowing in the candy-sweet euphoric wind of shitty amphetamines. They were Feeling us So Hard. This show was actually not going to suck the aforementioned dicks, it seemed, and had in fact turned into a beautiful, drug-addled Love Fest, with us as its Guests of Honor. I’ve never been hugged that many times after a show in my life, or told how incredible and life-changing my music is. They loved us, you guys. Well, they loved everything, and we happened to be inside the Love Blast Radius. So anyway, I guess the moral here is that you never know how a show is going to go until you play, so suck it up and play your songs, sweetheart. The moral here is also that if everyone at your show is on ecstasy, they’ll probably be pretty into whatever you do. Like, REALLY into it.
So, you guys want to hang out?