Photos: Mike Brown
It had been a while since I’ve been on a legit band tour. My last band, The Fucktards, was pretty much incapable of touring due to a lack of a descent child molester van. We also pretty much started that band as an excuse to get free booze at local bars and to see how many girls we could make cry. I personally made seven different girls cry on lyrical content alone. Mission accomplished, Fucktards!
So when I got the opportunity to go on tour with local punk posers Fuck The Informer, I jumped in the van faster than humming birds can fuck. Boy, was I excited!
The last tour I went on was with dirty skateboard boys. But touring with a band is not too much different. I definitely have a ritual for when I go on any sort of tour. My ritual starts with what I call the Pre-Tour Beat-Off … and it’s exactly what you think it is.
When you are on the road, you never know when and where your next Masturbatorium is going to present itself, so it’s important to release the demons at the last possible moment before you hit the road. Ask any heterosexual man that has been trapped in a hot white capsule (aka the tour van), and if they are being honest they will tell you that going 70 mph through a desert has a strange way of giving you a massive boner.
Also, don’t ever count on getting laid on tour. A lot of bands recruit a resident tour slayer, and his job is to hump a grenade so the rest of the band can crash for free on the chick’s kitchen floor. The tour slayer might as well be a motel key with a heartbeat, and isn’t always a safe guarantee. We had none such slayer on the Fuck The Informer tour.
Even if there was some tour trim on this particular adventure, I shall refrain from publishing it in SLUG. Not because it might be embarrassing (I relish embarrassing this particular band), but more because of the golden rule of any tour: WHAT HAPPENS ON TOUR STAYS ON TOUR. Except for the shit I’m about to write about.
Allow me to digress to my pre-tour rituals. After my pre-tour beat-off, I pack my bags. I always travel way too lightly. One time I went to Seattle for a week with two pairs of socks, one pair of undies, a skateboard and a blanket (not Kidding). Packing light makes for a better adventure.
Or if you are like Abu, the lead singer of Fuck The Informer, you can do the alternative of packing light, which is to just lose all your shit on the tour. Like your key to the van, your drivers license, your credit cards. At numerous points in the tour, Abu was so fucked up he just kept saying, “You guys just think for me, K?” As we were sneaking him in and out of different bars that wouldn’t card us, I kept thinking that the only thing Abu didn’t lose on this tour was his virginity. He left that long ago in Salt Lake.
Side note: I left my virginity in a motel in Boise, Idaho. I’m bringing this up because we drove past the motel on our way to Portland, and I was like, “Hey guys check out that Best Western!”
Anyway, we officially started tour in Portland, Ore. I’ve been to Portland a couple times and man, if you think the hipsters and hippies here are annoying, just spend the weekend in that shit hole and get back to me. I’ve never seen so many fixed-gear fucks swerving in and out of tie-dyed retards. That whole city is truly one huge cultural disaster.
But the show FTI (they hate that acronym) played there was awesome. It was at this super seedy bar called the Jolly Inn that had no stage and was filled with bums milking the happy hour when we pulled up. One particular bum offered me and Tea Cup (FTI’s bassist) LSD as soon as we walked in. I instantly knew this was our kind of place.
The show was with legendary hardcore band MDC, which stands for Millions of Dead Cops, probably the best band name ever. And if you don’t know who these guys are, then fuck you in your face. I have no idea why MDC resides in the city of losers known as Portland, but they are by far the coolest thing this town has to offer.
After being asked for a spare cigarette and a dollar by hippies one to many Photos: Mike Brown Oh, how cute! The Fuck the Informer bass player, Tea Cup, and the Guitar Player Abu, about to enjoy a passionate French kiss. They love each other. (21) SLUG times, we packed the hot white travel capsule and headed south to San Francisco. The show there was at some local hotspot called The Bottom of the Hill. FTI played last and the band that played before them, Farticus, made everyone in the crowd who wasn’t affiliated with FTI leave. I kinda liked that because it was a classic Fucktards move, but not too cool for the touring band. Oh well, FTI rocked it anyway, like they were playing CBGB’s in 1979.
After the show, we had an off day in SF so we decided to test our intoxication thresholds for the night. My threshold testing started by me ditching the band to hang out with my buddy, Jake. He’s my one friend I have left from drug rehab and now he’s a lawyer. But he still throws down drugs every now and then like the criminals he defends.
This was one of those nights. Jake and I left the bar smashed and stumbled our way back to his apartment. We met up with Jake’s roommate who is a graphic designer by day and an amateur pharmacist. He gave us some Adderall to snort so we chopped that shit up and turned our boogers blue. Funny thing about legal speed, the people who actually need it don’t like taking it and the people who don’t need it, like me and Jake, end up loving it.
I don’t know if the Adderal had any effect, but we killed a 12-pack while sitting atop a hill in SF talking about guy stuff. Jake also lives on the most ghetto block of the mission, so on the way back I asked him if we could buy some crack to make for a better tour story. Jake said, “Fuck just buying crack, lets SMOKE some crack!”
On the walk back to his apartment we came up with our game plan on how to score some rock. We had to find just the right street pusher and we weren’t going to spend more than $5. Unfortunately everyone we asked wanted $40 for some rocks and I was on a tour budget. Oh well, maybe next time.
While I was snorting Adderall and trying to buy crack, Dick Snot, the FTI drummer was busy pissing his pants. Dick Snot has one of the most deadly blackout/pass out combos of any drunk I’ve ever met. And when the band got to the apartment they were staying at, the host, Matty, specifically asked Dick Snot to not piss his pants and not drink so much.
Matty jokingly said that he would break Dick Snot’s arm if he cracked another one of his beers, to which Dick Snot replied, “Why don’t you go ahead and try,” while cracking another one of Matty’s beers.
Matty then woke up around 6:30 a.m. to get a drink of water only to find Dick Snot encompassed in the odor of his own urine flipping over the guest futon, surrounded in a pile of his own beers. Matty then tried to hand Dick Snot a towel and asked him to just clean up the mess. Dick Snot responded by cracking the last of Matty’s beers while aiming a dark, sinister laugh at him.
Jokes on Dick Snot though, when he pissed his pants his phone absorbed a certain amount of not-so-mellow yellow and rendered itself useless. Ha!
Other shit happened on tour as well, but I don’t have the word count to write about it. So I’ll end it by going over my last tour ritual—the Post-Tour Beat-Off. And let me tell you, nothing beats a good tour except for a good Post-Tour Beat-Off. The End.
Fuck The Informer play SLUG’s Localized Friday Sept.,12 at the Urban Lounge. All proceeds benefit Sean Hennefer.