And so we are separated by the vast ocean again, the boys and I.
Adam, Eric and Henrik took the first plane home after the tour as to not miss those few trembling Stockholm days between bird cherry and lilac. It’s what we wait for all year, you know. Carl chose to stay on for a while, possibly to avoid the worst of the crowds in Ted’s new baby boy’s sleeping quarters, but now he’s home, biking around the town as always. As for me, I’m still in the old west , spending my days walking down to the corner meat market for tacos and fudgsicles and singing songs of freedom.
I’m writing you from a weed ridden porch in the hills of Glassell Park, the California sun spitting freckles onto my drum hardware bruised shins as I time travel back and forth across the continent in that big silver bus we recently left behind.
Remembering the first day in DC, how I hid behind the alley doorway outside the 9.30 Club listening to the crowd roaring over The Freelance Whales, afraid that they would leave before we even came on stage. Had we brought the bane of our existence on tour, TOO good a supporting act? How else could it be that the club was packed beyond full when last time we played it our instruments reverberated all on their own, like desperate prayers in an empty cathedral.
A figure appeared on the steps next to me as I lingered there in the setting sun. I’m still not sure if it was the ghost of tours past or just Adam in his new bathrobe, but who ever it was he deamed me ridiculous. We are after all five undefeated champions for the cause of live music, we’ve played our way across the entire planet for nearly a decade, and we’re on f-ing MERGE.
I agreed, but called the figure a cocky mother just out of lutheran righteousness, and then we played.
And you were there DC, and it was the beginning of the best US tour of our lives. No foolin.
In Philly the crowd kept the beat better than our old drum machine, in New York we basked in love, sunshine and Sazeracs, in Boston we were sick but happy. Montreal brought us joie de vivre, in Toronto it was raining and we never got to go to Kensington Market which is one of our favourite places in the entire world, but come night fall we drowned our sorrows in Caipirinhas and orange tape with some of the best people on this planet, and so we were saved.
In the ever treat that is Chicago we had steaks and friends to sustain us for the daunting drive across the midwest, but we spent half of it the night after when Minneapolis literally had us running on the walls.
Vancouver greated us with summer, sake and a ballroom that blew our minds entirely, and then we were on to the birthplace of "Work" - Seattle.
Beatiful LA shitkickers The Franks jumped on the tour with bravado and our dearest Seattleite Phil (Yes, Phil Ek, who else?) came to show us his new giant beard, give us hugs and plan a trip to Sweden for the upcoming crayfish season.
In Portland we fell in love with the Doug Fir Lounge all over again, and in San Francisco the same thing happened with The Great American Music Hall.
See, we may be sluts but when we put out we do it with real love and that’s not to be taken for granted on tour, let me tell you.
So it was with a clear conscience that we returned to the warm, familiar embrace of the El Rey for two nights in a row (also not to be taken for granted on tour, let me assure you). It was the end of our best US tour so far, and it was grand.
San Diego, forgive us for being taken off the stage after six measly songs, and Pomona, forgive us for only getting to play ten, we love you and will return to do right by you as soon as we can.
To all you cities, friends and loves in the USA and Oh, Canada, thank you from the bottom of our sometimes whorish but always loving hearts for having us.
We shall return, forget us not.
Always Your Gal In The Shadows,
Bebban
