VOICE FROM THE THRONE: Steve Kiraly's Diary, Kaspar Hauser Summer Tour, 2007

7/19/07, Day One
Kaspar Hauser 1, Mother Nature 0

I took some pills. I knew I shouldn't have, but I was willing to sleep at almost any cost. It was the worst kind of sleeplessness, too, where you're coherent enough to unwillingly function, but not drowsy enough to drop. Anyway, the pills put me down for about a solid 5 or 6 hours the night before, but I had this strange, old, bitter taste in my mouth and everything smelled weird.

Load out was actually postponed due to torrential rains in Chicago. Luckily, we didn't see any leaks in the Uhaul trailer in the morning, and the basement didn't flood, and we didn't manage to forget anything substantial, and so we managed to head out by 10am. Our day's drive, however, followed the path of the previous evening's storms and we were pounded on for a lot of the way. Sometimes there were only fuzzy glimpses of the freeway traffic at each quick pass of the windshield wipers, like watching every 10th frame of a movie. Sometimes the company of AM radio can make anything seem worthwhile.

We arrived at Tom's parents' new house in time for a spot of dinner before heading to Pats in the Flats. We kept eating; Mrs. Comerford kept offering. I felt sort of awkward being among 3 complete strangers commandeering their kitchen, but they seemed to appreciate it sincerely. As we lugged our bags downstairs, I took note that we were dressed like a bunch of septegenarians ready for shuffleboard in our plaid shorts and light vacation clothes. I dropped the hint, "You guys aren't going to wear shorts tonight, are you?" "Well no," chimed Matt, "guitar players can't play in shorts. But you can, b/c you're the drummer." Sounds good. Let it be known.

Pat's in the Flats is a legendary club in Cleveland's receding industrial section, at the crossroads of a fuel and asphalt distribution center accessible by truck, rail, and boat. Large, dirt-caked trailers make the hairpin turns at this intersection all evening, and with the door the the club left wide open they can catch brief samples of whoever's playing at that moment. Pat (pictured above with Steve, 4th from left) gave the history of her family's club since 1946, and it was like a time warp to sit at the bar/lunch counter that used to serve local laborers 3 squares, cash checks, and serve liquor. The club was integrated even before integration became a prominent topic in the 60's b/c everyone here was just trying to simply keep a job, feed their families, and make their lives work. Race was inconsequential. Pat's has been doing shows off and on since the early 90's, and the many records and stickers affixed to any affixable surface of the club gave indication of all the bands and shows that have kept Pat's thriving.

Our show this evening was booked by Jeremy. Jeremy, in July, is fully dressed in dusty mechanics pants and a red thermal undershirt beneath his smudgy "Human Aftertaste" alt-rock T. His hair is a thick brown shock sticking straight down in front of his face and behind draping his neck from his blue skullcap, looking as if he were the embodiment of a Misfits-Nirvana offspring. It was unclear at first who was playing or when. As 8 o'clock eased into 9, and 9 into 10 without anyone playing, I began to think that we were waiting for people to emerge from the many large industrial tanks in the neighborhood, picking themselves up, dropping their tools and setting down their hardhats, and proudly walking shoulder-to-shoulder to Pat's in flannel and denim. Truckers would crudely hug their rigs at askew angles against the many sprawling barbed-wire fences, traffic be damned.

Well, that didn't happen. But still, it wasn't a bad night. Notable early acts were the goverment conspiracy-themed songs of Michael Christopher (a.k.a. Michael "Christ It's Over"), singing, playing guitar, and playing an assembly of kick, snare, and hi-hat beats from a couple foot pedal apparatuses. Derek Deprator ("Derica") played his blues solo set next, and I guess I'd be blue, too, if I were a young, cross-dressing, white blues artist in the Land of Cleves. Derica was actually my first impression of Pat's when, as we pulled in, a deep, alarming "HAY!" from inside a small red Honda startled me. The look of confusion on my face must have been priceless as I looked and couldn't figure out what I was seeing. We finally got to play at about 12:15, then Battery Collection followed to the thinned-out audience as we began loading out.

7/20/07, Day Two
Defying Physics

The next morning began with a great breakfast laid out by Tom's parents, enjoyed on a quiet patio surrounded by birds, trees, butterflies...morning breezes licking our necks as we indulged in fresh fruit, fresh coffee, and a variety of other Mom-made items laid out in casserole dishes and pans. Even more impressive is that they came to the show the prior night and lasted the whole time, and still massively outfunctioned us the following morning.

It was a long mostly uneventful drive to Philly. Stops were spent watching Matt hustle from shop to shop trying to find smokes, as if he were panhandling for change or hawking stolen watches. Simon manned the wheel for most of the day. I felt insecure about letting someone drive who doesn't even own a car, but sometimes you just have to let things go. He was excellent, and I enjoyed sitting contently in the back seat the whole day watching the Pennsylvania hills roll past, voluptuous like baby fat. We got to the show late, and as I approached the corner cafe I was intrigued at the game of musical Twister going on. Auxiliary House (pictured above, 2nd from left), an 11-piece band from Chapel Hill, NC, somehow managed to place everyone onto an 8 X 12 playing area: drums, guitars, horns, organs, xylophones, etc. They entwined and moved together in drifts like a sea annenome. They were swell folks, too. We put our hooks in them and will definitely be bringing them and their huge Partridge Family-Heaven's Gate bus to Chicago.

As we set up to play, it became apparent that we would not be able to shell out the KH rock at our normal level, so instead we tried to rock. Rock meant rummaging through our set list, finding the quieter, more ambient tunes, and then finding ones that we could scale back to just rock, but still give it a pulse. Only after our set did I realize what a challenge this was. It came off quite well. I think it made us more scrupulous about our playing and made the set really tight. We even did an encore at the behest of Auxiliary House. And we played it past the 10'clock music curfew, b/c we're still, after all, punk rockers.

7/21/07, Day Three
Day of the Fams

Day three found us waking at Simon's parents' house outside of Philadelphia. As we had craftily informed them, Tom's parents had quite a layout for us the previous morning in Cleveland, and so rising to the occassion of parental competition, Simon's parents responded in kind. They even managed to present some fruit that we had never heard of, pluots, giving the KH diet another entry it so badly needs (on the road, Tom pretty much susbsists on Vitamin Water and rice crackers). After breakfast, I tried my hand at a plumbing problem they were having at the house, but unfortunately managed to do little more than remove a shower handle in one of the bathrooms.

We hit the bricks to DC around 11, and it seemed that we were there before we knew it. We pulled into town like clockwork with Tom's sister Kate waving us in from the sidewalk. Since we got there early we were able to relax a bit and continue enjoying the royal family treatment. Matt and Kate's kids Owen and Celia kept their guests entertained, which I think is understood to be obligatory in the child world. Neighbors waved at us as they lounged on their porches and said, "So, you're band"...which kind of puts you on your guard b/c you never know what their impression may be. Are we the church band? Are we the bad cover band? Do they look at us and think we're going to spend the night passed out high in their front yards?

I lived in DC from 92-95 and it is always an pretty intensely emotional experience for me to return b/c DC is the jewel of my youth; it's where I spent some of my more formative years from 1993-1995. I took a stroll late Saturday afternoon and managed to find the first house I lived in @ 223 8th Street NE, not far from the house we were staying. I can't believe how small the house looked and how narrow the streets appeared. On the way to the show, I tried to explain to everyone how surreal it was that, as a DC bike messenger, I had been in each of the buildings we passed hundreds of times. That was so long ago.

As we pulled up to the venue, we saw our dear friends John Durlam and Carol Bales spying a menu posted at a restaurant a couple doors down. John (pictured above with Simon, 3rd from left) played bass on the "Quixotic/Taxidermy" record, and he and Carol (pictured above with Steve, 4th from left) drove all the way up from Chapel Hill, NC for the show. We always seem to pick right back up where we left off each time we meet. Their battery of one-liners (which will remain unprinted!) and antics pummeled me all night. I totally forgot that we were even there to play.

The Grog and Tankard is pretty much a dive with a stage dropped in the middle of the room. After load-in when Simon and I were moving the car, I announced that we weren't going to park the car right away. The fabled Dischord House was merely around the corner, and as cheesy as it would appear, we must at least stop by and give a look. I've read stories of visits being common, and, if noticed, Mrs. MacKaye even offering visitors lemonade. Dischord House was exactly as I had remembered it from photos. Humble, distinct, functional. There was a bust of Jefferson (I believe?) on the porch. We hastily snapped a photo and proceeded back down the street to park.

KH went on a little after 10. I thought we played really hard and well (b/c our rock was backed-up from the previous night's session of rock) and we had some good between-song banter with family and friends in the audience. We were sandwiched in the 2nd slot between two bands that mostly played covers, and I spent most of that time hanging out in front with friends, watching the whole DC social spectrum glide and pass along Wisconsin Avenue. Finally around midnight, Soul Creation kicked out a set of textbook DC go-go, which I was glad that eveyone in my group was able to behold. If I wasn't so completely drained already I would have been up on my feet with everyone else in room cutting a jig. Even Tom Comerford danced. It was quite a site seeing the skinny Iowa corn farmer himself at front of the stage, banjo smile on his face, having a good knee-elbow hoedown.

The Grog and Tankard's manager pulled a Houdini and magically disappeared at the end of the night when it was time to get paid and leave. We were told to follow up, and any sensible person knows that this isn't promising, but we'll see (as I edit this a week later, a check has been sent!). On our way back to Matt and Kate's, as we drove by the Capitol building against the pitch black 2am sky, we were suddenly swarmed by frantic red and blue police lights out of nowhere. I knew immediately what was up.

"Sorry, sir, but since 9-11 we can't allow any 3-axled vehicles within this proximity of the Capitol...especially ones labeled 'U-Haul'". I'm sure we didn't look too threatening with Illinois plates, potato chip bags and books spilled across the dash. As we turned around another friendly patrolman approached us in his car and offered directions to where we wanted to go, which worried me b/c I knew where I wanted to go, just not the specific address, and I surely didn't want to tease any more suspicion or trouble that would further delay us from finally getting home to sleep. He seemed to understand and gave us a good detour.

As Tom noted, the one-way street system can be pretty unkind and the most inconvenient times. Upon approaching our base for the night, Kentucky Avenue became a one-way street at the intersection before. We decided not to go against the direction of traffic and tried to detour around the block, which turned into a detour back across the river to Anacostia. It's nearing 3am, and Anacostia is nowhere to be lost at any time, so we made illegal U-turns and drove against one-way streets to get pointed back in the right direction. We noted that there is no wrong way as long as it's paved, and it's only illegal if you get caught. With that we skadaddled back to base and wandered to our beds to sleep.

7/22/07, Day Four
Past Lives and Parallel Universes

This turned out to be quite a long and eventful day. We woke up in DC, partook of another great family breakfast with Matt and Kate, and hit the road to NYC. The drive was pretty quiet until we arrived at the Holland Tunnel to enter Manhattan and were turned away by the police, again b/c of the trailer, and were directed to use the Lincoln Tunnel. Not very convenient, especially since we had just spent almost an hour in shuffling traffic and paid our tolls. Tom had to quickly consult our various maps and determine not only how to find the Lincoln Tunnel, but then how to find the club from where we would now emerge in Manhattan, and how to get there by 7pm. We missed on-ramps and missed some turns, but Matt had the steering wheel in a headlock the whole time as we would aggressively backtrack to make corrections. It was funny how Matt epitomized our perception of a NY cab driver, and we became suspicious of him. Was he actually a NY cabbie in an alternate universe? Was he a reincarnated kamikaze pilot? A medieval knight killed at charge by a rival foe? It definitely gave pause. Also, I just noticed that he is always well-groomed and shaves every day, as opposed to us other gangly members of the crew.

The rock gods smiled upon us, b/c as we were jockeying around the narrow Soho streets trying to find 95 Stanton, an inexplicably large parking space, well big enough for a car and trailer, opened up at the front door of the club. On Sunday the parking is free, the doorman is sitting right there to watch for any break-ins, and we don't need to move until 3am, which is plenty of time. Also, in NY, b/c of parking logistics, you usually use the house's backline, so we hardly even needed to load anything into the club.

After getting settled and getting something in our stomachs, we were able to hang out, talk with visiting friends, and meet some New Yorkers. Jen Charles, my former bandmate from RNCD, had organized and promoted the show with her new band Tall Black Girls, and folks began to show up. Everyone was really swell. I have never been to NYC before, and I was quick to realize that my expectations of what New Yorkers were like was a pretty bad misconception.

The first band tonight was Alexcalibur (pictured above, 2nd from left). The band delivered with the accuracy and force of heavyweight body shot combinations. The shirtless Alex himself was a cross between Iggy and Tom Jones, dancing, writhing, and engaging the audience. The guy didn't stop. Later in the night I saw him hop out of the club and bound down the street like a young deer to the corner shop.

We played next, and it went OK I guess. I hate using other people's equipment. It was hard to balance myself on that drum thone b/c it was obviously made for someone who preferred it much lower. All the drums and cymbals needed to be raised as well. It's just really difficult to make it feel like your own. I think I had a few rimshots b/c the snare wasn't exactly where it usually is.

Finally, Tall Black Girls played (pictured above, last from left). I was surprised when I learned Jen's band would also be playing the show b/c not very long ago she told me it was just an idea. I'm told that they've been playing for only about 6 weeks. The room was packed and they booted out the rock without mercy. The best thing I love to see when bands play is for them to have FUN. It was great to see them laugh and joke with all of their friends in the crowded back bar. The singer had me just by her lusty New York accent. If she told me to go to Hell, I'd gladly go twice.

"You guys were great!" she said as she descended upon us the back room as we were picking up after our set and she was preparing for hers.
"Thanks!"
"No, I'm just kidding. I didn't even watch you guys", she laughed unsympathetically.

"You were great, too," I smiled.
"I haven't even played," she purred.
"I know."
"I like where this is going," she grinned.

We hung out for about an hour more, thanked all of the wonderful folks at Arlene's, Tall Black Girls, and Alexcalibur profusely, and peeled off down the street to another bar to sit a bit longer with a few friends. During the course of the night I would sneak out and take a walk around the block or down the street to see what I could of NY, and as we sat at a booth at Iggy's, at 1:30am I still had the urge to peek around. Again, my expectations of New York were completely driven back by how differently it actually presented itself to me. I didn't perceive the building or streets to be dirty, but instead having a softness to them. The streets were an abstract gray background that gave distinction to the people themselves, weaving along the rims of the sidewalks and meandering through the NY scenery like small, kaliedoscopic tributaries. On every occasion their presence gave the feeling more of comeraderie and welcomed belonging. At Iggy's, our group of 8 was approached by a tough, stocky, tattooed, stubble-headed bar local whose greeting was a sort of mean, stern pointing motion to the NY Yankees logo on the cap of his outstretched hand. I've heard of how hard core Yankee fans are and I thought, OK, here we go...

"Right the'a, baby" he smirked.
Then qualified, "Well, we haven't had a good yea', but we've been doin' good lately." I then noticed that Tom and Paul in our group had White Sox hats on. We then all smiled and quickly and began chiming in about the Yankees and White Sox.
"Salud! Welcome to Iggy's," our friend proposed to our group as he hoisted his pint out to us and patted his ball cap back over his head, backwards.

We met back up at Arlene's Grocery at the car. As we began parting ways with our friends, I again shook Joe the bartender's hand as he pulled down the awning on a darkened Arlene's. We had a brief discussion and decided that at almost 3am that it may be wiser to find a hotel up the road in Connecticut than to try to park in Brooklyn, where we would also risk being broken into. I felt OK taking the wheel, but shortly after exiting the Bronx, fatigue really began to lay into me. And unfortunately, we weren't seeing the many exits for cheap motels as we had hoped. In fact, there were none. We began getting off exits, looking, and getting back on. We got off, we got back on. Off. On. We exited near Bridgeport, CT as we spotted a Best Western, but no one answered the bell. Also, at 4:30am, we also found that we had managed to enter the one freeway exit in Connecticut apparently without an on-ramp. It took another short while to find our way back onto the freeway and at 5am we checked into a Holiday Inn up the road. We wearily tugged our bags from the trailer, loaded up, and lugged our stuff to the 6th floor.

7/23/07, Day Five
"When people in New England invite you into their homes, they really mean it."

Boston is unmitigated chaos. We made our exit to Somerville and were held at a light with the other lines of exiting traffic. When the light turned green, it was as if a director with a megaphone from somewhere on high shouted, "OK...and...ACTION! EVERYONE GO CRAZY!". Everything moved like a spilled bag. Cars accelerated and then gravitated this way and that way. Dispersed pedestrians wandered from one side of the street to the other. Small, leather-skinned runners bounded from one narrow street across to another. The streets have names, then don't, then become something else. I'm told that where the streets are not marked, it's assumed that "you just know". Tonight we were staying with Naomi and Stefan, who are college friends of Matt. We had a nice bit of relaxing as more friends joined and Naomi laid out a beautiful spread of eggplant and baked sweet potato slices from her formidable battery of casserole and baking pans. I didn't realize it until I said it, but my stomach's been full the whole tour. We are so fortunate. Tonight is the second to last show on the road.

If you keep peeking under rocks, eventually you will find something moving. Spitzer Space Telescope (pictured above, 4th from left) is a solo artist originally from Michigan, now transplanted in Boston as he attends BU. As a solo artist, he sings with the conviction of fighting words, sounding very much like Woodie Guthrie. His sandy hair bobs and his body gyrates spastically as he plays his modest acoustic guitar. His rapport and between-song banter kept the small room spirited and jovial. He ambled from song to song like jumping rock to rock, teasing that his set had already been spent. I was invited to accompany him on tambourine for a song, and as I played I realized that he had already broken the tambourine with his, er, enthusiasm, and I carefully played it just hard enough so that I wouldn't cut my hand on the broken plastic. He was great and will remain on the KH radar.

After the KH set, Canada (from Michigan), a group that includes two celloists, played for the small remaining group. After the show we all hung out a bit with Jerry, the owner of PA's Lounge. At first, I wasn't quite sure how to interpret his terse personality, but later as we hung out I understood him to be reserved, but forthright. I guess that's the Boston way.

"White Sox need to get back Aaron Rowand, " I stammered as the day's box scores flashed across the television. "Has he been traded yet? I heard rumors that he would be. When is the trade deadline anyway?"

"Aaron Rowand: wuhst 2nd half playa' eva'h."

And so it went as we delayed our load-out, sitting at the dim bar, partaking of the Boston wisdom that only comes in monotones.

When we later returned to the house, Naomi patted around the kitchen in her bare feet, making us popcorn and putting out beer and chips. We stood around for a while quietly snickering and joking. Matt talked about his Minnesota fighting days. Naomi engaged Matt to tell the story about him throwing a can of Coke at a cop's wife. We wrapped things up and unloaded the dishwasher.

7/24/07, Day Six
The Deal with Sluggo

I was awoken by Tom's distinct easy drawl telling me that Naomi was about the serve breakfast. I picked myself up and began organizing all the various blankets, sheets, and sleeping bags that Naomi and Stefan had laid out for us. At the table, Tom and Simon were chatting over plates of eggs, coffee and other side dishes, and Naomi stood pensively with spatula at the oven over a new row of pancakes.

By the time we were nearing Ithaca, the hills were so steep and road so winding that I began to doubt whether the place existed. We arrived at Tom's friend Steve's house at around 7 with him waving us in from the front. We parked the car and trailer on a steep hill around the corner. As we walked to the house, treading along the steep incline of the pavement felt strange to my midwestern legs. We had a very enjoyable dinner with Steve's friends and family on the sunny back porch and they were such a pleasure to spend time with. They had such friendly faces and were so sincere in their inquisitiveness and fascination about the band and the tour and how it all worked. We later laughed that we felt like it was "doing press".

We arrived at No Radio Records and began to set up near the back of the store, which we did in a hurry so that we would have time to rifle though a few bins of records. The folks from Steve's house arrived and wandered into the store as well as some other locals. I felt we played as if under a microscope, which I mean as complimentary. Everyone appeared to be giving their complete attention here, and in playing clubs that hardly every happens b/c there are so many other diversions going on. Anyway, I noticed this and was further moved by the earnestness of the Ithaca group. We even got away with playing "Mercury", our opener, again as an encore, b/c more people had entered the show who had missed the beginning. We ended up staying late after the show, still very much enjoying the company of our new Ithaca friends, and leaving around midnight.

The drive the Jamestown, the place we had booked a hotel room, was little over 3 hours away from Ithaca. Outside of Ithaca I felt more like we were throttling through space as the pavement markings and reflective road posts gave the form of passing constellations against the deep black. As the first driving hour gave way the second, and the second hour to the third, I laughed at Tom as he would try to engage conversation for the sole reason of keeping me awake. On the drive out of Ithaca, Tom asked, "So, what's the deal with Sluggo?", and so when I would get tired I would tell a Sluggo story...about going to Exit with him after an RNCD show and watching him dance with Carol and how I could feel the floor bow back and forth as he jumped around to "Blitzkrieg Bop", about how he's a ref for the women's roller derby league and his surprising agility on roller skates, about how I thought he was a roadie for Naked Raygun. Later into the 3rd hour of driving, Tom's eyelids narrowed. Simon was dead asleep and, leaning forward, appeared to be hanging himself on his seatbelt. Matt sat quietly behind me, presumably asleep. I looked back over to Tom, and his eyelids had closed.

7/25/07, Day Seven
Nether Worlds

We awoke in Jamestown, lugged our stuff back to the car behind the hotel, and walked across an intersection to a local diner. As we finished breakfast, reality found its way back as work rang me on my cell and requested that I be on a conference call later in the day. It didn't really bother me, though. Somehow, dealing in the structured world is really a simple thing for me. I deal in a calculated world of facts, and outcomes are logical, mathematical solutions. I like wondering why the "check engine" light suddenly displays out in the middle of nowhere, or wondering if the spare tire is flat.

It rained for a lot of the drive back to Chicago. The traffic moved like rushing ghosts in the white mist and spray. Massive diesels droned like giant poltergeists. It was oddly satisfying to know that any brush with something so massively powerful would be fast and final.

We pulled into the neighborhood around 9:30. We unpacked the car and trailer and laid everything into piles: Tom's stuff, Simon's stuff, Matt's, mine, stuff that goes into the basement, and stuff that gets reloaded into the car for tomorrow night's show. We soon regathered quietly at the open door of empty trailer, save for a couple piles of stiff blue moving blankets.

Tom began slowly whimpering, crying, then sobbing hysterically as he fell to the ground in his plea to the heavens, "NNOOOOOOOOOOO! WHHHYY GOD!!??!? WHHYYYYYYYYY!!??!?!???!??!!"

Matt pressed his palms firmly to his ears and fell fetal into the grass, shrieking "I can't start the show without MY BASS! THE SHOW IS STARTING! I can't START WITHOUT MY BASS!"

Simon climbed placidly into the back seat of the Jeep, gently rocking back and forth, catatonically murmuring "When do we go on? When do we go on?"

No show tonight, guys. I drove the trailer back to the dealer. It hopped and skipped behind me in its weightlessness, happy to be going home.

I went back to work on Thursday, and it wasn't at all the meteoric plummet back to Earth that I had feared. For the most part, things were pretty much in order. People hovered around me in the morning asking the stereotypical band questions about money ("Yes, we signed a record deal and became millionaires. That's why I returned to work."), groupies ("Groupies? I don't remember. I was too high the whole time." Or, I had a good one I didn't get to use--"Groupies, hell yes. And by the way, your dad doesn't look very flattering in hot pants."), and trashing hotels ("We hire roadies to do that and won't be bothered to.")

I hustled home as quickly as possible, changed, and made way to South Union Arts. It is an old church in the West Loop area with these great, high ceilings that fully fill the room with sound. The bands set up on the altar, which is a series of platforms considerably high above the rows of seats out on the floor. Navigating to set up on the altar was a bit of a challenge; as it had been assimilated to showcase bands, there was some interim construction that had left some broad gaps in the altar floor. Cables were also strewn wildly across the many sections, further making it difficult to load in and get organized. As I lugged my bulky gear up the different levels of the altar to the apex, I couldn't help but think of Stations of the Cross and the whole story of Jesus carrying his lumber through Jerusalem on the way to his crucifixion. I'm not religious, but the magnitude of sacrilege of that thought made me shudder, but what brought levity was looking up and seeing...a neon crucifix. Yes! It was a huge Jesus and his cross powdered in soft white light, his stigmata in glowing fuchsia! It was brilliant. I could do no more than grin and shake my head. It would be genius if that neon image were ever on a pack of smokes.

I felt pretty drained and admittedly was pretty apathetic about playing the last show. I was honored to be playing with everyone on the bill that evening, but the novelty didn't at all match our experience of the previous week. I hung outside the church for a bit, then after a while I went inside, plunked myself down in a back pew and alienated a pretty good perimeter around myself. Necking Party (pictured above, 1st from left), one part drums and one part organ, began the final festivities. I had seen Casey play keys in Love Story in Blood Red, and he definitely held his own as an individual performer. I joked with him that Love Story was holding him back. Kong Frederick played next, which is another permutation of the far reaches of Jason Frederick's creativity. Jason poured himself over vocals, acoustic guitar in hand, backed by drums and backup vocals. I always look forward to seeing him play b/c his lineups are always interesting, and his musical ethic is unfailing. Nick played a Stanley Ross solo set (pictured above, 2nd from left), complete with a GNR cover, and then Kaspar Hauser played.

We had a good time and with the high ceilings, we sounded like we were giving the room a good wallop. It's always strange to play a room and know almost everyone there. I always take note of who's paying attention (Nick and Jim get an "A" for the King Pop handclaps and a C+ for the "duh-nuh-nuh-nuhs" they noted in Mercenary--Jim missed one). As we finished our set with "Surrender", Nick took the initiative to spryly leap onto the altar of rock and spin up the volumes on the guitar amps, then raise his arms in gleeful victory as he fell back into his seat. With that, we found another gear and were "all alright" as the song says. We belted out the final verse and climax, and let the last notes disintegrate.

7/29/07, Epilogue
Kaspar Hauser

I'm having quite a laugh proofing this manuscript. I can't believe the stuff I remembered NOT to document (Tracy Trouble, you owe me a drink...No, you owe me two). For all of my silly observations and asides, there is twice as much that I could have written. During the whole trip, all 4 of us were humbled by the enormity of generosity shown to us. A most sincere thanks to everyone who took us in, fed us, treated us all like family, and came to the shows. We sometimes have disagreements over what we're doing or what we should be doing with this band. Of course we want to do more and get bigger and better. But the one point that keeps bubbling up, the one aspect that we are very conscious of and protective of, is that we enjoy playing in this band, and we can't let that change. Your support and encouragement helps to bring us much happiness and fulfillment, and hopefully we have reciprocated this happiness back to you in some way. In my eyes we're on equal footing, and collectively, this collaboration is far more than just a band on stage.

Steve Kiraly
wildcats1987@hotmail.com
www.myspace.com/kiralycustompercussion

Photos by: Steve Kiraly, Matt Seifert, Kimberly Ludwig, Will Comerford, Alysia Galt-Theis, Stevens Weed, Thomas Comerford.