Hello world

Allow us to clear our throats. This is the beginning of a new era of Eux-ness. We have doubled. Eux Autres are now four. Yoshi has joined us on drums, and Nevada has rejoined us on keyboards. We couldn’t be happier about this. In celebration of this new incarnation, we are…

Pressing things.
A new 7″ is at the plant. It will be a beautiful object. Clear vinyl, silkscreened jacket by Yellow Owl Workshop. Two brand new songs with the new lineup, orderable soon. Pre-orders will get an extra special something from us.

Covering things.
We have a new song coming out on a compilation from Where You Are is Where It’s At Records. The comp is a 2-disc ode to the poet laureate of Americana, aka The Boss. Besides being an incredible performer and one of the most important songwriters of the last century, his work always intrigued me because he wrote a song, “Nebraska” about Charles Starkweather, the serial killer. Starkweather also happened to be both of my parents’ garbage man in Lincoln, Nebraska, when they were kids. Spookiness.

For the Springsteen compilation, we chose to cover “My Love Will Not Let You Down,” a song that walks the delicate line between bravado and desperation. The track was supposed to be on Born in the USA, but it got cut from the album and has only shown up on live recordings and a B-side collection.

Other bands on the comp include Glam Chops (Eddie Argos from Art Brut), Darren Hayman, and Help Stamp Out Loneliness. We’ve got our song streaming on myspace, so go check out.

Recording things.
This weekend (March 8th/9th) we’re recording again with Jason Quever (Papercuts…great new album out soon, btw) in SF. The songs are a little darker, which is what the doctor ordered–it’s been a long winter, at least on my side of the country.

May as well make some music to keep warm with.

Look for these and our last October’s session on an EP of new Eux Autres goodness this summer.

Scheduling things.
We’ve confirmed for both the San Francisco (May 21-24) and NYC  (May 14-17) popfests and are currently putting together a UK/Europe tour, including a stop at Indietracks in July. Give us a shout if you want us to come to your town and we’ll do our best to make it happen.

Glad to be back with a new site, a new lineup, and new news.

Thanks for listening.

She’s My Cherry Pie

Monday, June 12–Omaha

Yesterday, a day off, we lay around our mom’s house. I took an hour long bath, shaved my legs, exfoliated. Did laundry, which gave me a great deal of pleasure, since I am a self-professed laundry pervert; it thrills me, really.

The boys are apoplectic about the US Soccer Team’s performance—they’re nearly hoarse from howling at the television.

Mom cooks us a beautifully simple dinner on the grill: barbequed chicken, asparagus, zucchini, and fruit salad. The fruits and vegetables are heavenly after all the crappy road food. I take a nap to catch up on sleep. My pre-show nerves seem to be getting better daily, helped by the natural relaxation Omaha exudes.

We have a new member of the crew, our friend Mike, who will be selling merch and breaking kneecaps. He is like a member of the family, blends right in, and I am happy that I’ll be able to get a lot of reading done while he talks to Nick in the car. I’m not much for talking on drives, but recognize my shotgun seat duty enough to keep up my end of the bargain.

The show at the Goofy Foot is a total blast. A member of the first band, a woman named Dana, had emailed me a week ago—we went to high school together—to let me know it would be a reunion of sorts. From the distance of Portland, her being in the opening band seemed uncanny, but in Omaha, it’s no surprise. There’s so much interconnection. At the show, I am introduced to Mike Loftus, a neighborhood kid who I have heard about for years but only met once. “Mike,” I say. “I met you at a birthday party when we were eight. I was in awe of your dancing skills.” His eyes get big. “We were eight? So, uh, what have you been up to since then?” I laugh. “Oh, not much.” Mike and Dana’s band, The Third Men, are great and right as I run to the bathroom, I hear them break into “Jet,” a song I love but never thought I would live to see performed live. They kill it (in a good way).

The next band, The Family Radio, epitomizes why I love Omaha. It’s this indescribable trio with folky/jazzy/poppy songs, and a congenial warmth. You feel as if you could watch them play all night long. I feel guilty that they have to stop on account of us.

Our show goes really well, with the most enthusiastic audience we’ve had, people laughing at our dumb jokes for once. I find my mom in the sea of faces, and she’s beaming as if we’ve won the Nobel Prize. Afterwards, I don’t want to leave; I wish the bar would stay open all night, but then I remember there’s cherry pie waiting at Mom’s. The energy is totally manic back at the house, Mike Arnold pumped about his first tour, Mike Larimer anxious about his road trip to San Francisco in the morning, Nick drunk and throwing our merch money around, screaming, “I’m rich, BEAATCH!! Mom laughing at her house full of crazy people.

I’d stay here another week, easy, just doing laundry and eating cherry pie.

No sleep till Brooklyn

Sunday, June 11–Western Nebraska

I open my eyes and it’s light out. Check the clock, 5:30. On cue, the cop cruises by, pauses, and for some reason keeps going. We’re pulling out right as he circles back around. Communion missed.

We have eight hours of driving to do. We’ve driven ten hours each of the last two days. We have just slept under two hours. This is going to be very painful.

I love early morning, and despite the botched plans, I am grateful to be up at 5:30, to watch the sun rising. Fingers of fog stretch along the plains, enveloping cows, and the light is pink on our faces.

As soon as we cross into Nebraska, I am happy in a special way I am only happy here. The cottonwoods make my heart swell.

We switch driving every ninety minutes, because that is the longest one of us can safely drive in our current state. During the switch-off, the new driver does jumping jacks before taking the wheel.

Finally, the State Capitol juts above the horizon. It is a thick tower with a golden dome, atop which a statue called The Sower tosses seeds from a basket; hence its nickname, The Penis of the Plains. Seeing it means we are almost home—home in the homeland sense at least.

We suspect we that we smell quite bad but that our ability to smell ourselves is impaired by our proximity. This idea seems scarily large–resonant and deep–a nightmare metaphor for our mission out here, on the road.