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The Rest of You Can Eat Shit Long Winters Fall, 2003 Tour Diary
What follows is a chronicle of The Long Winters' Fall tour of the U.S. and Canada, supporting their labelmates and friends Death Cab for Cutie, whose latest album, Transatlanticism, was released one week into the tour to rave reviews and big sales. Though the band members have been good friends for a long time, and have toured together in various configurations, this was the first tour the two bands had ever gone on together. It was also the first time Death Cab for Cutie had ever toured in a bus, with a crew, as well as the first time the Long Winters had ever toured alongside a band with a bus and a crew... There was some trepidation at the outset that the tour might tax the long-standing friendships and mutual respect between the bands. Death Cab was going into this tour with a more ambitious plan than ever before; the bus and crew were only part of the stakes-raising. This tour would last longer than any they'd done before—48 shows in 53 days—with a more elaborate stage rig, including new samplers and keyboards, and sets that averaged 20-25 songs per night. For the Long Winters, the challenge lay in keeping up, both literally (on the long drives) and spiritually. In the abstract, we all knew how big Death Cab's national following had become, and what a great opportunity the opening slot represented. This, however, would be our first prolonged exposure to the reality of our comrades' success, and our first attempt to play in its shadow. Personnel The Long Winters: John
Roderick-guitar/lead vocals Death Cab for Cutie: Ben
Gibbard-guitar/piano/lead vocals Week One: No Sex, No Drugs, Some Rock 'n' RollWednesday,
Oct 1 Things get off to a brilliant start when we show up to the first show of the big Death Cab tour—as well as our first show ever in Spokane—three full hours late. It seems like there must be some excuse other than that we always have a hard time leaving Seattle on the first day of tour, but there it is. A brief visit to Barsuk HQ to pick up CDs turns into a two-hour meeting, and the next thing you know it's almost dinner time. When we roll into the club parking lot, we see Nick Harmer standing in the shadow of the humming tour bus, surrounded by beautiful young girls. Because Nick has traditionally been the band dad of DCfC, we're all a little worried that he'll be pissed at us for being tardy. But he just smiles and waves us into our loading bay like an airport traffic attendant. And the girls turn out to be his girlfriend's cousins. So much for blackmail. Once inside, we discover three facts: (1) The house sound guy is an incompetent boob; (2) Jon Byrd, Death Cab's enigmatic sound guy, is on the verge of killing the guy; and (3) Spokane, or at least Fat Tuesday's, is full of people who love the Long Winters. We take the stage like SWAT commandos, setting up our gear in record time. As soon as the monitor hell is sorted out, we play an excellent set, fueled mainly by adrenaline, then hustle to the merch table, where we sell more t-shirts and CDs than on our entire previous tour combined. An auspicious beginning. Thank you, Death Cab! Speaking of, they play a great show, which comes as no surprise to anyone, despite a disastrous P.A. system. The highlights are "Pictures in an Exhibition" (my favorite DCfC song, during which I dance openly and vow to do so every night of the tour) and "Transatlanticism," during which Jason McGerr performs the most stunning feat of metronomic crescendo I have ever seen. He plays the same beat patterns for something like 32 measures, never varying, only getting louder and louder, until the climax, which finds him pounding the kit with the full force of his entire body, like a gorilla beating a smaller animal to death with a bone. Unbelievable. I mean no disrespect to his predecessors, Michael Schorr and Nathan Good, when I say that Jason is the best drummer this band has ever had. After the show, I have two awkward exchanges. The first is with the house sound guy, who insists on clearing his cables right out from under me while I'm tearing down my keyboard. I politely assure him that if he waits just one minute, I'll be completely out of his way. He continues to yank cords out from under my feet, with no acknowledgement. I repeat myself: "Really, it'll take me exactly one minute." He responds sharply, "Is that one minute in addition to the three hours you were already late?" Point taken. (Prick.) Awkward exchange number two occurs in the backstage corridor, while I'm watching Death Cab's encore. A teenager on his way out recognizes me and stops. "Wait, are you the guy from Harvey Danger?" he asks. "I was," I say. "Dude," he replies. "You guys were my favorite band in fifth grade!" He is now a sophomore in high school. I feel fairly certain that I will continue to have encounters like this until the day I die. Tuesday,
Oct 2 I'm pretty sure this show was pretty good, but it's hard to say, because the local hospitality was kind enough to pump me full of bourbon all night long. I know The Long Winters played Madonna's ''Don't TellMe.'' I know I played Golden Tee 2004 during Death Cab's set. I know I danced to ''Pictures in an Exhibition.'' I know I was the last one off the Death Cab bus. I know the motel we stayed at offered free bananas and popcorn in the lobby, because I stayed in there for an inordinately long time after pissing off at least two of my bandmates by being the kind of drunk who looks you in the eye and shouts, ''I am so goddamn DRUNK!'' I know I'll pay tomorrow, but tonight I pretend to be wild, then crash on the dirty floor. Wednesday,
Oct 3 After a five hour drive and some gentle recriminations courtesy of my embarrassed bandmates, last night's revels hardly seem worth it. An unscenic tour through one of our nation's least inspiring states feels enough like penance for now. A storm front is closing in over Ogden, so when we arrive at the venue—a bizarre half-indoor/half-outdoor affair called Bricks—Death Cab's gear is on-stage and covered by blue tarps. This bodes ill. Still, it's only 5:30, so we have plenty of time to figure it out, right? Wrong. Doors are in half an hour, and our set is 6:30-7:00. We're in Mormon country. There are curfews to consider. Plus, the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is playing across town with Kings of Leon (rumor has it that when they heard about our show, the BRMC promoters reduced their door price to only a dollar; that's the advantage of major label tour support, ladies and gentlemen). How much rock can one shithole conservative town stand in a day? Exactly this much, apparenty. So, we basically drove all day to play six songs, in the middle of the afternoon, to a 9/10 empty club. It's a drag, but what can you do? Well, if you're a rock show promoter, one thing you can do is to let people know how early your show is starting. We play (very well, by the way) to about 75 people in a 600-capacity hall. It's actually pretty fun, given the absurdity, but a bummer nonetheless. By 7p.m., there are about 200 people inside and Death Cab is freaking out, justifiably. A long line of ticketholders is still trickling in during their first encore. The weather blew over, though, so that worked out, at least. Sat-Sun
October 4-5 Two radically different shows in two radically different towns. The Fox Theater in Englewood is the first big, beautiful room we've played on this tour; the first sign that Death Cab is a force to be reckoned with in other towns. There is a handful of high-profile shows going on within a day or two of ours (The Strokes and My Morning Jacket among them), but Death Cab for Cutie's name stands out boldly on the marquee. It's a bummer then, about the suburban Denver audience, which is lousy with heckling louts who make the Long Winters' set a bit of a drag. It’s still better than our last Denver show, at the atrocious Lion’s Lair. DCfC rises to the challenge to play a comparatively muscular set. Afterwards, Ben Gibbard and I discuss the way audience culture differs from region to region and how, the further away you get from major cities, the more likely you are to encounter hostility, violent dancing, and loud heckling as part of the rock show drill. Not that all those things aren't welcome in moderation, but tonight is simply more evidence that Denver pretty much sucks. Boulder, on the other hand, seems utopian—like a ski chalet full of foxy semi-hippies, good used record stores, and a sushi bar attached to the club. The Long Winters play a great set despite monitor issues that begin immediately and never improve, no matter how much John or I ask for more vocals. By contrast, the Death Cab set is a minor disaster. Added to the incompetent stage sound, they have serious gear problems, which gets them (particularly Ben) thinking too much, stopping songs, apologizing, and so forth. The fact is that the show was actually rather strong, if beset by technical difficulties. But post-show, in the downstairs dressing room, I make the mistake of declaring that "it wasn't as bad as you think," despite knowing that this is NEVER the right thing to say. Greeted with silence, I scurry out. When I come back, the rest of the band is tearing down the gear and Ben is sitting with his head in his hands, lamenting the low point of this young tour. Since there is no right thing to say at this point, I put my hand on his shoulder and head back to the merch table. Monday,
October 6 We spend our first, and much-needed day off driving across the indescribably drab state of Kansas, which may not look so big on a map, but just try driving across it in a state of fatigue while arguing over the relative merits of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. At great length, we arrive in Hays, KS, where the Holiday Inn is cheap, and the pool is closed. Plugging in the portable DVD player, we watch a documentary about the making of John Lennon's Imagine LP until John and Yoko's self-absorption becomes too nauseating to bear, then switch to All the President's Men. Motley Crüe we are not. Tuesday,
October 7 Fortunately for Kansas, Lawrence is a fantastic college town (although, the last time I was here I wound up watching the sunrise alone, naked, and crying in a hotel room—but that's another story). The Granada Theatre is palatial, and the promoter, Jackie, is a complete pro, as well as the only game in town. She has two shows tonight—the other is Holly Golightly, whose new CD I'm still trying to decide if I love or hate—at two separate clubs and several more in the coming week. Our good friends and labelmates Nada Surf played last night, and we missed them by just a few hours, though we will be seeing them in about a week. The bummer of this town is that it closes early, and by doors there is scarcely any food to be found. Michael has a Jimmy John's sandwich that ruins his whole day. The real event tonight is that the new Death Cab CD has arrived, and after almost a week of respectable showings at the merch table, The Long Winters concession is prepared to concede a mighty defeat. If the response to their new material at these shows is any indication, most people have already heard at least some of Transatlanticism online. That doesn't stop the line of people eager to buy it from stretching almost all the way across the cavernous room. Sweet Jesus, people love this band. It's not hard to see why. After some coltish first steps, the new songs have really found their footing, especially "Lightness," "Expo '86," and "We Looked Like Giants" (Ben's "Diamonds and Rust"). It's clear from watching people watch Death Cab that they have become one of those bands that a whole segment of a generation of kids has grown up listening to. They are more than loved. They are essential to their fans. It's a little creepy, and oddly touching. Encouragingly for us, they seem to like the Long Winters, too. A side note: after spending a good deal of the tour so far loving on ZZ Top, we are all chagrined to learn that their album El Loco, purchased by John in a gas station last night, totally sucks, "Pearl Necklace" notwithstanding. WEEK TWO: Show Friends vs. Show BusinessWednesday,
October 8 We commemorate one week on the road with not one, but two shows in Iowa City, booked by none other than Sean Haskins, former Showbox impressario, current U. of I. film student, and good friend to both bands. The first show, which is held at an on-campus bar is a complete waste of time: miserable stage layout (a huge wooden post right in front of me, thanks), miserable stage sound, miserable crowd. We were also super-late getting in, and tired, and cranky, all of which may have been factors, but we choose to place the blame externally—a policy which has stood us in good stead thus far. The after-show show, on the other hand, is utter triumph. It's just The Long Winters, on a makeshift stage, no more than six-feet square, in an Italian restaurant/ bar located in an alley behind the site of the "official" show. This is Haskins' current home base, and we lay waste to it, playing for nigh-on two hours, seated, quiet, and on the brink of becoming slaphappy from fatigue. We play everything we know, and a few things we don't, egged on by the increasingly drunken heckling of the Death Cab cast and crew at the bar, and a smallish, but wickedly supportive audience. Easily the best night so far. We've been on the road for the better part of the last year, often without a clear compass, but always with the vague idea that we would come out the other side "seasoned," which, loosely translated, means "able to play in a dump without complaining." Like all such shows, you walk in, take a look around, sigh, and wonder if it's even worth it to unload your gear. Then you start playing and realize that the intimacy of the place, and the small crowd allows you to be completely fearless (witness our five-minute faux-jazz experiment, and our Soundgarden cover) and to genuinely connect with the people you're playing for, who more often than not turn out to be on your side. My feeling is that shows like this are the measure of a band's character; if you can enter an absurd situation—like an Italian restaurant in Iowa, say—and make an actual show out of it, then you must be doing something right. Thursday,
October 9 Did I mention that we're playing tonight at the legendary First Avenue, home of the Revolution's climactic triumph in Purple Rain? Did I mention the show is sold out? And did I further mention that we're going on at 7 p.m. and playing for 25 minutes? Ouch. Curfew issues again. Daunted but not beaten, we play as well and as long (just the hits) as we can to a room that is half-empty when we begin, but which is soon half-full, if you know what I mean. The audience is glorious, calling out requests, and booing when we announce our last song. In other news, tonight marks the first sign of the rumored major label interest in Death Cab; a couple of big deal a&r reps are milling around the club before the show, shaking hands and saying the words "amazing" and "almost" a lot, which is what major label a&r people do. One side benefit to playing early, however, is leaving early. I bail on my compadres to see a bit of old Minneapolis with Court, my best friend from high school and his new girlfriend, Althea, who pull me out of a looming funk by introducing me to a new drink, the Monte Carlo (rye, Benedictine, and bitters), and filling me full of enough of them that I get up at a piano bar and sing "Dream a Little Dream" like the theater fag that everyone secretly knows I am. I get just drunk enough to fall asleep drunk on Court’s hardwood floor for two hours so I can wake up drunk and hit the long road to Chicago. Fri-Sat
October 10-11 And now, for a study in contrasts: Friday night at the Metro, an 1100 capacity room, which is sold out for Death Cab's two-night stand, is one of the most enjoyable shows I can remember. Despite our (unforgivably) late arrival, and the increasingly dissaproving glare of DCfC tour manager Mark, we blast through an incredibly energetic and well-received set. The club is staffed by totally competent, considerate professionals who make our experience more pleasant than it even needs to be. It's safe to say that if the indefatigable Jon Byrd hadn't agreed to do our sound for the whole tour (for a pittance, I might add), we would be lost. It's game four of the National League playoffs and the Cubs are about to put the smackdown on the Marlins, so Chicago is fit to explode. I'm downstairs when Ben announces the Cubs victory, but I can feel the building shake with the cheer that goes up. In all, it's a night that cements the fact that Death Cab is indeed massively popular, and affirms the notion that The Long Winters are holding our own alongside them. Saturday night, while Death Cab plays with Pinebender at the Metro, we play a last-minute show at a club called Subterranean, which is located (ironically) atop of two flights of stairs, staffed by indifferent amateurs, armed with a crappy P.A., and headlined, tonight, by a local band called The Redwalls, who sound like the Beatles, circa 1963, and look like the Strokes. Tonight is their CD release show, and they just got signed to Capitol. I learn this when, trying to make small talk after an awkward exchange with the singer, I say "so, you guys are on Undertow?" (Undertow being the Chicago label releasing their CD.) And he responds, a little agressively, "Uh, no, actually, we're on Capitol. We got signed to Capitol. Records. We're on Capitol." Best of luck. Later on, I interrupt him receiving a blow job from his girlfriend in the dressing room, so maybe he won't need it. The show is an abomination, played to a crowd of less than 50. We're out of there as soon as possible, tails between legs, freshly reminded of the relative luxury afforded us by touring with Death Cab. Sunday,
October 12 Ladies and gentlemen, exhaustion has now been achieved. It's basically our twelfth day without a rest, and six more to go before we get one. As we're called for sound check, I see John sprawled on a padded bench, Michael staring blankly at his book, and Eric leaning against the side of the stage. The show is hard to remember, even as it's happening, but I recall the following: the delight of seeing former Stranger office manager Beth Hejny (whom every straight staff member still has a crush on), a really good cup of chicken soup, and, after the first song, stealing a pizza from some kids in the front row and handing it around to everyone in the band. A nice room, but a nice bed would be nicer. Monday,
October 13 Given our state of fatigue, a meltdown is not only predictable, it's practically necessary. We are once again noticeably late in arriving, which provokes an argument between John and Mark Duston. I am not privy to the words they exchange, but I can guess that they are not pretty. The upshot is that John is absent during our very brief set-up and line check time, which in turn, makes everyone else have to act as his roadie, which in turn makes everyone mad at him. He, in turn, returns mad from his "talk" with Mark, and moments later, we are on-stage, all of us frustrated and exhausted, playing in a college rec. room with bad sound and a (huge) weird crowd. About a third of the way into our set, John snaps at me on-stage and I withdraw into a ball of humiliated anger so tight and intense that my head starts throbbing and I have to choke back tears. After the show, I fade back into the student center and have one of those "What have I done with my life?" dialogues with myself, then fall asleep on a cardboard loveseat lit by fluorescent overheads, missing my wife and trying to cry. Afterwards, I am talked down by Michael and Eric, and then have a perfectly pleasant conversation with Nick and Ben about Woody Allen and Outkast. Touring is funny that way; you can be rescued from emotional tailspin by the most pedestrian chat. And I was. Tuesday,
October 14 Much better. First of all, it's pouring rain, which reminds us of home, which is welcome. Secondly, we have an in-store at a great independent record shop, where they offer us fresh-baked cookies and our choice of two CDs per band member, free (I select the two-DVD reissue of The Kids Are Alright, thank you very much). The kids at the store, however, are far from all right, at least the superobnoxious pseudo-punkers up front. One of them even has a mohawk. What they do however, is allow us to close ranks. We deflect their heckling with a barrage of insults that we have likely been saving for each other. Then we have a good laugh and head to the club, where we play a truly slamming set, our first ever in this underrated town (site of at least one miraculous Harvey Danger show, if memory serves). Death Cab, after a considerably worse time with the record store hecklers, play an equally enlivened show, during which I dance on chairs with Kris Kay, and scream my applause. A side-note: A piece of graffiti in the microscopic dressing room catches my eye, though I've seen it before. "Roadie's Pledge: If it's wet, drink it. If it's dry, smoke it. If it moves, fuck it. If it don't, put it in the van!" I amend that pledge in honor of our tour: "If it's wet, wipe it up. If it's dry, read it. If it moves, discuss it. If it don't, discuss it anyway!" WEEK THREE: I'm Definitely ShakingWednesday,
October 15 "Hello... you Detroit MOTHERFUCKERS!" is how John greets the audience tonight. Having achieved and transcended exhaustion, we are now on the other side of it, which is probably the best place to be given our current situation. The current situation is a massive theater, full of 1,000 zombies. Even if we’d had a chance going in, we lose them completely with our Madonna cover, which hits a little too close to home, I guess. I take a quick survey of our performance: weird, maybe, but certainly not sucking. Therefore, all this dead air is the crowd's fault—a judgment later affirmed by Death Cab, who enjoy a similarly embalmed reception—and we respond in kind. A request goes up for our song "Samaritan," which we honor. John introduces it with the following words, which somehow seem to sum up not just tonight's show, but the prevailing spirit of what has become a genuinely fun tour again: "All right," he announces. "This one goes out by request... and the rest of you can eat shit!" We are entering the home stretch. Thurs-Fri
October 16-17 O, Canada. The best part of these shows are that we've been joined by Nada Surf, our friends and labelmates, who are always a pleasure to see and an inspiration to watch. The worst is that we're now third on the bill and get only half-hour sets. La la la. The Toronto show is being taped by the Canadian Broadcasting Company (The Long Winters perform a heroic tribute to Canadian artists, covering Neil Young and The Band, in their honor), and videotaped by a three-camera crew that had shot a Death Cab video earlier that afternoon while we were eating donuts at Tim Horton. This information makes me pause to consider what a different experience this tour must be for them. Though they're buffeted by the comfort of a bus and crew, they're also juggling a host of album-release-related promotional activities—press, photo shoots, video shoots—and the mounting interest of several major labels who are beginning to salivate over them. Whether they will sign or not is a matter of much speculation in our van, as is the relative wisdom of either decision. What I can't help admiring, though, based on my own experiences, is the stealth with which they greet this onslaught of gratuitous adoration, and the confidence of their performances every night. I've been watching Death Cab shows for more than five years now—from their third show onward; I'm sure I've seen them play 50 times—and I can honestly say that they are at the peak of their powers. I am alternately proud and jealous of, thrilled and scared for, and humbled and impressed by them. Side note: We almost get into a fistfight with the incredibly pushy Canadienne in charge of counting every band's merchandise and extracting the club's percentage of the band's earnings. Without getting into the whole debate about the ethics of merch percentages (which I could), is it too much to ask that the venue reps be just a LITTLE gracious while they steal from the bands that bring people in? Saturday,
October 18 Showing up at the University of Vermont after a night spent in the van (couldn't find a motel) is one thing. Discovering that there is no P.A. in the room—which looks like a miniaturized dining hall set from a Harry Potter movie—is quite another. This, the day of the last show before three days off in New York City, began with a dramatic tableau in the waiting room of the Jiffy Lube where the van received a much-needed oil change this morning. While a roomful of emotionally uptight New Englanders sat waiting for their cahs to get fixed, a radio pumped out a steady litany of shitty pop hits by artists like Jewel, John Mayer, and the Barenaked Ladies. Across from me sat an elderly man wearing one of those ancient radio earphone headbands. Its little speakers were perched about three inches above his ears, blaring opera at full volume. Despite the fact that the room was already filled with loud, unwelcome music, this old guy was determined to assert his right to play what he liked, at maximum volume, to whomever happened to be in the room. It was an uncanny, if abstract, depiction of life in a touring band. The day ended with a truly ludicrous, incredibly fun, and untenably loud Long Winters set at UVM. Michael, our drummer, was absent, because his septuagenarian father was getting married in New York, so Ben Gibbard played drums. And since Ben was playing drums, Chris Walla decided to sit in on guitar. Why not? The answer to that question came when a door at the side of the stage opened and several golf frisbees came flying toward the band. Next thing I knew, Walla has dropped his guitar (wailing feedback) onto the stage, and bolted through the door. What looked like a lark became serious as the song ended and he still wasn't back. Turns out the first frisbee had hit Chris in the mouth, bloodying his gums and tearing into his lip. He gave chase and landed only one blow before the culprits—whom he didn't see—got away. I'd never seen him so pissed (or so virile). He spent the rest of the show, ours and theirs, playing like a motherfucker, where normally, he is more of a wizard. Every good band is composed of some combination of wizards and motherfuckers. In DCfC, the ratio is 2:2; in The Long Winters, it's more like 1:3, and I'm not naming names. Afterwards, we had a bit of a bro-down on the bus, drinking beer, listening to Outkast, laughing at the absurdity of the night, and realizing that this was, in effect, the last night of the tour proper. Only two shows remained, and both were in New York, which promised to be a zoo. Tuesday,
October 22 After three incredible days off, we all awake stunned to the news of Elliott Smith's death, apparently by suicide. Stunned, shocked, but not surprised, and sad above all. The sorrow comes in waves; the sensation is as different from the loss of Kurt Cobain as Elliott Smith's music was from Nirvana's; as we all are now from who we all were then. Tonight is the Barsuk showcase at the CMJ music festival. Irving Plaza has been sold out for weeks. It's a big deal by ordinary standards, but the sadness has cast a pall over everything, making such a show seem almost indefensible. What was meant to be a big fun party will now have to serve as a wake. Smith inspired both of these bands, to say nothing of the other bands on the bill, our label, and each of us personally, a great deal. He was such an important facet of NW music, even (especially) after relocating to Los Angeles, that the thought of celebrating NW music without acknowledging his ugly, brutal, sad death was unthinkable. Just as unthinkable, however, was the thought of tainting his memory by trotting out his holy name at this crassest of crass events: a music industry convention, the exact kind of place that made him writhe with public discomfort when his star was on the rise, and which he eviscerated in the song "Angeles." It'd be glib and juvenile to suggest that the music industry killed him. But it certainly didn't lift a finger to help him. And so, and so, and so... Everyone is wrestling with the question of how to pay tribute, or how not to. The first two bands—Kind of Like Spitting and Jesse Sykes & the Sweet Hereafter—don't mention it; they both play inspired, abbreviated sets. The Long Winters are third up. When a kid in the front row snidely demands that we "play one for Elliott," John replies soberly that every one of his songs is for Elliott Smith, because Elliott Smith influenced every one of them, because Elliott Smith inspired him to strive to be a better songwriter. The moment touches me, at least partially because I'm glad someone said something, and that it was neither gratuitous or sentimental, but real and simple. Nada Surf is up next, and they echo John's sentiments, going on to play an inspired set. For the whole of Death Cab's set, the only reference to Smith's death is the small black "XO" struck to the breast pocket of Chris Walla's shirt. they play a lively and confident version of the show I've been seeing for the last three weeks, alternately joyful and serious, sweet and dour. (I can't help but notice, as they play "Pictures in an Exhibition," that my dancing is physically blocked by a stiff crowd of major label weasels who are too busy talking to pay attention to the show.) The high point comes at the end of the song "Transatlanticism," when all the other Barsuk musicians join the band on-stage to sing the stirring chorus of "come on, come o-o-o-o-n." Then, during their encore, as the final chords of "Blacking Out the Friction" give way to their cover of Bjork's "All is Full of Love," Ben instead sings the words to Smith's "Say Yes"—"I'm in love with the world, through the eyes of a girl..."—and a wave of recognition spreads across the packed audience with cheers and applause. It's the perfect gesture for many reasons, not least of which because it affords a cathartic swell of emotion; in all this thinking about his death, I hadn't had a chance to remember Elliott Smith's songs, and this one in particular, which expressed such naked hope in the face of despair, had me sobbing. "Say Yes" was never one of my favorites before, but it is now. A few nights later, The Long Winters play our last show supporting Death Cab, again in New York City, after a surprisingly excellent show in Arlington, VA (where I lose my irreplaceable prescription sunglasses), and a total abortion of a non-show in Philadelphia, PA. The Bowery Ballroom is sold out, and both bands play really well. It may well be the best show of the tour in terms of our performance, and crowd response. John and I join DCfC on-stage for an impromptu reading of Tom Petty's "Free Falling," as well. Afterwards, there are fond goodbyes and godspeeds as we head off for a month in Europe (that will spell the death of this LW incarnation) and they continue around the U.S. But in every real sense, the tour had ended on the floor of the Irving Plaza, and we were all in the process of moving on. |
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