#bruce springsteen

Day 6: 30 July 2009 – London

Back of a black cab

We wake up at John’s apartment in London. It is decorated quite tastefully, and crammed to the ceiling with books and records. This is exactly the kind of man you want on your side, if you are in a rock band.

We gather in the living room in our pajamas to drink coffee and eat croissants. It’s almost like Christmas morning, the only other time a bunch of adults sit around in their PJs. I spot a special edition of Spice World high on the bookshelf. [Allow me a tangent here. I used to hate the Spice Girls. And then one day I got a terrible flu. I was wracked with chills and fever, moaning and sweating into my bed. A kind friend brought me emergency supplies: a vat of soup and a VHS copy of Spice World. Over the next 24 hours, I watched the movie on a constant loop, falling in and out of consciousness. I began to hallucinate that I WAS actually a Spice Girl. When I finally pulled through, I knew all of their songs and was a true fan. The same sort of thing also happened to me with Bear Grylls.]

I broach the delicate subject of Spice World. I suspect his possessing it has no irony. John is completely un-snobby about music. On the drive, we’ve had totally sincere conversations about how great Bryan Adams is. And John also recently released a compilation of Bruce Springsteen covers (which we contributed a song to). Evidently, this homage to the Bruce was a controversial move; some indiepopsters just can’t concede the merits of a working class bard from Jersey.

I side with John not only on the Springsteen issue, but on the entire philosophy. Great music gets made all over the world, in every genre imaginable. And I suspect that most bands draw influences from places far afield of their own “file under” genre. Hell, Motley Crue just wanted to sound like the Sweet and Slade, both great bands. Too bad It didn’t work.

Anyway, I probe a little deeper and discover that Jerv is batshit crazy for Ms. Emma Bunton, aka Baby Spice. We spend the morning watching videos from Emma’s solo career. She’s a much better singer than I remembered. Plus Jerv says the press is always teasing her about her weight–which makes me root for her even more.

Then we go walk around London. We see Hyde Park, the Natural History Museum, Prince Albert memorial. We pause for a pint in a truly old pub that is full of old oil paintings, flickering candelabras, and antique furniture. “How do you not spend all your time here?” I ask John. He just smiles.

at the scarsdale

Before the show, Nick and I hit an internet cafe and I tell him how I really, really would love it if we could have just ONE show where I can simultaneously hear myself sing, and my keyboard doesn’t cut out, and we don’t make any mistakes, and the audience goes crazy. Nick then reminds me that the show I desire is a perfect storm, the likes of which rarely happens. I then remember that not being perfect is still fun.

The club, Barden’s Boudoir, is in a basement, really cozy and cool at the same time. On the bill are two great bands, the Still Corners and Hong Kong in the 60s and all three bands playing have female singers. This never ever happens.

We have our best show of the tour.

at barden's boudoir

I am terribly sad to be bidding Lawrence and John farewell.

Tonight we’ll be pulling an all nighter, traveling to Sweden starting at 2AM. It seems utterly insurmountable.

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.
xo
HL

Just a band and its will to surviiiiiiiiiiiiiive

Wednesday, June 21–Philadelphia

My throat starts hurting first thing. It feels familiar, as if I’ve been waiting for this all along. Only two more shows to go; hopefully, I can limp it home like an ailing car, block by block.

I nap in the hotel while the boys go in pursuit of a famous cheese steak. They bring me back one, but tell me they have misgivings, that the cheese steak joint might be really racist, that it had plaques honoring the officer shot by Mumia, etc. We find out later that this is a well-known racist cheese steak joint.

A homeless man calls Mike “Rocky.” As in “Got any change, Rocky?” Mike is slight and a redhead. Perhaps that’s the default address here, like Hoss or Boss or Man.

The Standard Tap is a 200 year-old space, beautiful and glowing with warmth; you can feel that people have been having a good time here for centuries. The person we’re playing the show with tells us that this bar has only recently started hosting shows. Normally this would be terrifying, but in this case it’s intriguing.

The stage is very small, an arched alcove, and we have to rig up my kick drum so that it’s hanging off the front, in order to accommodate the whole set. I have fantasies about kicking it into the audience on the last song. A couple of songs get bailed on because of my throat, but it’s the most fun we’ve had on stage, with a head bobbing audience who knows the words. Every person seems 100% like they want to be here, like they’re in it for the night.

After the Midwest the Dandy mentions dwindled, but have now been replaced by Counting Crows references about Omaha. We get two of these tonight.

To me, the difference between a person who makes art and an Artist is not the quality or quantity of what they produce, but their orientation to the world. They are like aliens our planet gets to borrow. Kurt Vile, who headlines the show, is an Artist. He is a crazy cocktail of seemingly incompatible elements—looks like Robert Plant, sings like Dylan and Jagger, plays like Sebadoh Freed Weed era and early Liz Phair. When I compliment the show he says, cryptically, “It gets worse every time.” He gives me two CDs and, along with them, the sense he is insanely prolific.

I befriend a guy named Patrick and because I am a singing drummer, we discuss Don Henley and both admit how much we like him. Perhaps, Patrick offers, Henley has too many “yes men” around, and this results in too many un-questioned musical choices, subverting his shot at worldwide domination. We make a plan to start a club called Henley’s, where only Henley’s music can be played. Henley himself will give regular live shows. We decide a California beach is the best Henleyesque location, but that there are obvious franchise opportunities and soon we will evangelize the whole country. Henley himself, of course, will be deeply grateful.

Kurt Vile’s posse has brought its own turntables and records, and once he’s done, they hold court in the red, womblike room, full of the totally game, totally onboard, crowd. Springsteen comes on and we laugh about how perfect, cliché even, that is in Philly. Who would have thought that the indie kids actually do love the Boss? Soon, the DJ quits pretending anyone wants to hear anything but the Boss, and the night turns into a total Springsteen fest. Everyone is dancing, going crazy. Patrick is not only a Henley devotee but an unbelievable dancer, whose style is a hybrid of Springsteen himself and Westside Story. He incorporates chairs into his routine, kicking off them like a donkey and swooping his leg over the backs. As a matter of fact, a lot of people start incorporating chairs. Patrick gets a glass shard in his hand when I show him how to do a vaudevillian dance move called a “coffee grinder.” As people get drunker, chairs go flying, and the waitress keeps saying, “All right, I’m shutting this party down,” but then she stops to dance.

I leave with a renewed appreciation of the Boss and in awe of how cool the people in Philly are. This is the most fun we’ve had on the whole tour, hands down.

In bed, the fun dissipates and I am unable to sleep, swallowing compulsively to gauge how screwed my throat is. Now it’s not just my throat—I’m officially sick. I pray we don’t have to cancel tomorrow.