Don't be afraid. I haven't abandoned you. I know it's not like your reliable Pitch music editor to simply vanish like this, cutting nearly a week of work and letting a column go unfinished. But I had to go; the gods demanded it of me. When one of the greatest Kansas City rock bands of all time calls to ask if you'll be their roadie on a fast and dirty trip to California to play two Warped Tour shows, then it doesn't matter if your children are starving, your wife's in labor and your mother has gone off her meds and found the key to the gun cabinet. You have to go.
The moon was almost full when I left town at around 2 a.m. Monday with local rock stars the Werewolves. You probably haven't heard of this band, and that's because I've changed the name. If we survive this tour and stay out of jail and make it home not torn asunder by chain-wearing teens with red-and-black-dyed hair and white belts, then I'll tell you who the Werewolves really are (if you can't figure it out for yourself).
The reason that I, a journalist inexperienced in the ways of the rock-and-roll road, was asked to join the Werewolves on this journey is slightly beyond me. Perhaps they thought that, of the many men they knew, I would be among the least likely to annoy the members of the band to the point of bloodletting. I admit that their previous roadie, Virgil Wolf, who was injured just before this tour, left some enormous shoes to fill. He, unlike me, knows how to restring guitars and shit. The best I can offer is a strong back and a hearty liver, plus that most essential of road trip tools — a high tolerance for boredom.
Before we arrived at these fairgrounds in Ventura, California, we had traveled for some 30 brutal hours straight, with brothers Nero, Skeet and Shifty Wolf doing all the driving. I did my part by filling the uncomfortable passenger seat during the past two nights so that the others, including guitarist Tommy Wolf, could stretch out on the van's benches. We're dragging a two-wheel trailer full of merch and equipment, and the van itself is a monument to filth, refuse and uncouth odors. Years-old porn mags and chip crumbs from previous journeys cover the floor, and we add to it whatever rubbish we accrue during the long day. Having spent two nights without clean bed or bath, smoking and removing shoes at will and subsisting on gas-station food, well, you can imagine the rough level of dinge our roving lair has reached.
But now we are here. Skeet, Shifty, Tommy and I have spent the first few hours of the tour stop postering the fairground fences to alert people of our show at 6:50 tonight. We stapled a few posters to the trees outside until someone in line at the gate called us "shitheads." After that, we switched to duct tape — people in California care about their trees, evidently. With the posters up, the band members well-rested, and a liquor store in walking distance, we should be fine. Now, emo, metal and punk bands rumble on the various small and less small stages in the hot SoCal sun. Later, we travel across Los Angeles to play the parking lot of Dodger Stadium tomorrow. Then it's back to KC. I'll keep you posted as best I can.
Until then, give the �wolves a howl, baby. Ain't no one else reppin' KC out here.
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