Wendy's Wwad? What would Ace do?

The Dixie Witch Tour Chronicles – Part III

Thursday / June 26th – Day 4
Woke up sweating my ass off in the van, wondering what the fuck all I had done the night before. It was kind of fuzzy, but I recollected that it had something to do with a hotass 24 year old. After taking a shower and sleeping for a few hours, we took off for Tucson with Roger, bassist for Graves at Sea and our Phoenix place to stay…the latest hostage in our van. He was another desert hottie, so I was happy to have him along. The van started overheating again so we got to ride with the motherfucking heater on. I mean what the fuck? It was only 101 degrees, as we made our way towards Red Rock, legendary Tombstone, and the fires plaguing Tucson forests and homes. You could see the fires from the highway, and we wondered if we would even be able to get back to Phoenix on the same road, as the smoke seemed to be moving down the mountains at a pretty good pace.
We arrived at the venue early, which turned out to be a youth recreation center. There was no smoking allowed and no liquor for sale. Fuck, you couldn’t even drink on the premises (not even the parking lot). No one in the place looked over 18…and the ones who did needed to find somewhere else to hang out. Needless to say, it was a short set with some seriously horrible sound. Trinidad led off with, “Feel free to skateboard to this one”, and the kiddies did…all over the polished wreck room floors. The nightmare over, we went to the bar down the street where the Witch should have played in the first place, and tied one on before making the drive back to Phoenix and Rajmahal’s house.
<<<<Getting hammered in the desert

Friday / June 27th – Day 5
Woke up feeling like total ass, and had to take off across the desert to L.A. And when I say take off across the desert, I really mean it. There was nothing but sand and blazing sun to accompany the motherfucking 6 hour drive. Plus we had to turn on the goddamn heat again. Fucking hell! I thought Trinidad was going to die with that permanent fur coat of his. I liked it just because I didn’t have to fuck with my Robert Plant hair in this dry ass motherfucking air. As we choked on towards Palm Springs and the Joshua Tree, I couldn’t help but think that this must be what it feels like when you have a blow dryer on high heat pointed directly at you for hours and hours. As we passed the Betty Ford Clinic, Claytallica asked who was getting out. And then more of the motherfucking desert. When we passed through Indio and a temperature gauge, we noticed that it was a mere 117 degrees…yes 117 motherfucking degrees. And you thought it was hot in Texas.
Well the van was dying and so were we, so we stopped where Large Marge sent us…the Pee Wee Herman desert spot called the Dinosaur Café to cool off, let the van cool off and eat some shit off the 99 cent menu at Burger King (the café’ was a little too pricy for the likes of us rock stars). We goofed off under the dinosaurs and looked at a lot of touristy shit we couldn’t buy before continuing our journey.
The closer we got to L.A., the cooler it got. By the time we got to the City of Angels it was 76 degrees. As we were late as fuck, sweaty as hell, drained of all energy, and broke to boot…we headed straight to the Derby, this hoity-toity-ritzy-swanky joint in Silverlake where you would never expect to see the Witch. The drinks were overpriced (even for LA), with a bar surrounded by cush velveteen chaise lounges and leather booths. Well we stumble in all dusty stinky (well, not me) and road rough looking, while everyone else was clinking martini glasses and smoking outside. I’ve never seen so many suits and Victoria’s Secrets shimmer stockings and fur wraps in the summer in my fucking life! I was still wearing my desert garb (consisting of a veritable handkerchief-sized black halter, a polka-dotted black, pink and orange mini-skirt, and knee high Ace boots) that I had been wearing for 3 days straight. And I hadn’t even showered. But I’m not a big sweater, my hair was straight from the desert heat, I knew I didn’t stink, and I plain didn’t give a fuck. In fact, within an hour of being in LA, I realized these rocker boys were starving for some real rocker chicks. That was apparent. The plasticized pastel manicured face of LA’s music scene needed a good dose of Texas rock-n-roll.
This was to be the first of a string of shows with Unida (a band that’s badass-but-yet-another-shelved-victim-of-the-corporate-cookie-cutter-music-world…in this case the assholes being American-Records), featuring; John Garcia from Kyuss (vox), Arthur Seay (guitar), Paul Grey from Slipknot (bass) and Mike Cancino (drums). And yes, this is the same Paul Grey that I wrote about in the Iowa episode of the tour chronicles for crashing into another car, and getting busted for being under the influence with various sundries in his possession (syringes, cocaine, pills…you get the picture). This guy ended up being Curt and mine’s party bud for the remainder of our time together. The opening bands sounded typically L.A. and were, therefore, pretty fucking uninteresting. I got to see someone famous, in the form of Fairuza Balk, the chick who was the evil bitch witch in The Craft and Adam Sandler’s hick girlfriend in The Water Boy. She looked pretty fucked up, and grabbed Claytallica’s ass, even though she was there with her boyfriend. After the show she gushed to Clayton, “You guys were awesome, you were so…powerful”.

Clay & the Wicked Hick Witch>>>>>>

While Clayton and I were smoking a cig outside, I had just finished commenting on how I run into someone I know every time I come to L.A., when Mr. Fabulous (Dino Lee) came walking up. Shortly after his arrival this loud crazy rocker dude came running up to me, picked me up in the air, and started hollering in my face. While I was trying to remember where the fuck I knew this guy from (Clayton later told me), I fumbled through a conversation that I’ve had many times before (you know when you act like you know someone even though you don’t and say “man” and “dude’ a whole fucking lot). Of course it turned out to be Derek Christiansen from the B-Movie Rats, who has stayed at my house in Austin way more than once, whose band I’ve seen way more than once, and who I should definitely know by now.
The show was alright, but you could tell Unida was still getting used to their new bass player. Paul Grey replaced the enigmatic Scott Reeder, also of Kyuss fame but post-Nick Oliveri of Queens of the Stoneage, and formerly of the Dwarves, where he went by Rex Everything. Paul had only practiced with Unida a couple of times before the L.A. gig, but managed to pull it off alright. John Garcia’s super cool wife, Rachel, was there as well, and getting her drink on with Trinidad.
If the show was mediocre, at least the after hours at Derek Rat’s house were way better…up to the point when Curt made me cry. Boo fucking hoo. Used to Trinidad’s abuse, I could give a fuck if he was pissed-agro-disenchanted-fed-up-tired-of-worn-out-sick-of-me, but when Curt (Mr. No-opinion-having-est-freedom-rockin-needs-a-haircut-barefoot-playing-hippie-burnout) dissed me…I lost it. I think Curt did it because he was secretly pissed off at Trinidad and decided to displace his wrath upon me. It just happened to take place at a particular juncture in my life while I was feeling exceptionally volatile.
Anyways, I wandered to the van by myself under the pretense of what I don’t really know and woke to discover that I had burned a cigarette hole in my skirt and my handkerchief that was supposed to be a shirt, lucky that I hadn’t incinerated myself in the process. I had make-up all over the place, because I was bawling for god only knows what reason (everyone is allowed a breakdown at least once in a two month tour). When Curt found me, however, he apologized, hugged me, and we may have cried some more it was so gay. At any rate, I returned to Derek the rock-n-roll demi-god’s apartment, where I partied for at least 4 more hours before passing out dead drunk at 7:00AM.

Trinidad Leal and Rachel Garcia>>>>

Saturday / June 28th – Day 6
Woke up to Derek Rat waving party favors in my face, and we still had a fucking case of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the fridge. Derek whipped up some frozen hash browns in the microwave, and served them alongside some almost-homemade chorizo tacos (I admit my first chorizo experience, even though I’m from Texas). It was to be our only meal that day. Once again (it’s the sixth fucking time I’ve been to L.A.), I didn’t make it to fucking Venice beach. Instead of soaking up rays next to the Pacific Ocean, we sat around in an apartment all day listening to Thin Lizzy, Earth Wind and Fire and The Pretenders, throwing down, drinking beer and getting gacked out of our minds. Fucking losers! Or maybe just rock stars. We headed down to The Garage, a killer little venue in Silverlake, where we were greeted by a bunch of hot rocker boys, primarily our buddies from Phoenix, in the guise of Roger from Graves at Sea and the Sons of Serro. The Serro boys were openers on a rockass bill along with L.A.’s Sasquatch. Both bands totally kicked ass, and both have new CD’s coming out. Rick, the drummer from Sasquatch, had partied with us at Derek’s the night before, and had a chance to see Trinidad with his shirt off. He convinced the rest of the Sasquatch dudes about Trini’s legendary and ferocious furriness, and asked me to take a picture of Trini’s back for the flipside of their upcoming record. Tee hee hee.

Sons of Serro


The club was killer, with a live venue side and a hallway that led to a separate room where this rocking chick deejay was spinning ZZ Top. Later in the evening I got her to bust out Snowblind by motherfucking you know who, my main man Ace. There was also this completely dark room that came complete with those one of those peep-show-observer-style windows so you know that’s where the shit-went-down-and-illicit-activities-occurred. I’ll admit my work ethic was virtually non-existent that night, as I was more concerned with flirting with hot boys (especially my newfound rocker buddy Scott, from the Superbees, and formerly of Cathedral), enjoying the rock show, and acting like a drunkass goofball.
The crowd was blown away by Dixie Witch. There were even some of the same folks who had been at the Derby the night before, and you know people in L.A. usually don’t do that shit….meaning going to see the same band two nights in a row. One real highlight of the show was when motherfucking Derek of B-Movie Rats fame leapt up on the stage and sang She by, yeah you got it, motherfucking KISS. He was full-on-rock-star-style swinging the mic stand all over the place. The B-Movie Rats are on hold right now, and this motherfucker obviously needed to cut the fuck loose. I can’t say I remember much of Unida because I was rocking out to Iron Maiden on the flip-side.

Derek Rat and the Witch

Scott Superbee & Yours Truly

Sunday / June 29th – Day 7
Woke up hot as hell in the Phoenix rocker boys’ van after a crazy all-night party at the Sasquatch house, and took off en route to see crazy ass Felicia (Flea) and crazy ass Nikki in fucking San Francisco. We took off through the southern part of California past fruit stand after fruit stand, wind generators (I still can’t figure out how they channel electricity), vineyard after vineyard, this one spot that reeked of manure (and rightly so, since there were more cattle piled up in one area than I’ve ever seen in my life), and a truck and a field on that were both on fire. Claytallica inquired, “What up California highway fire, death and destruction?” Also on the way was the legendary Bakersfield, the setting for the badass James Woods (the actor with the biggest dick and highest IQ in Hollywood) movie The Onion Field, and home to Buck Owens (C.C. claims he pretty much owns the city) and Merle Haggard, as well as the location where Dwight Yoakum got his start.

Arthur Seay from Unida >>>>

We arrived in Frisco too late to catch the annual Gay Pride Parade, managing to miss alleged butt-sex-on-balconies and naked lesbians running through the streets. This was an unfortunate thing for Trinidad, who does such a great gay guy imitation that it’s kind of scary. We showed up at the Curve Bar just in time to set up and start working in the small ass space we had provided to sell merch. Then Flea and Nikki arrived, my troublemaking transplant friends from Texas, to get the party started early.
The opening band, High Tone Son of a Bitch, were pretty fucking cool (at least live), and featured one of the dudes from Neurosis, although they were so fucked up I was sure they had to have been neck-popping-skag or something. And who else keeps haunting me but Chris Spencer from motherfucking Unsane and Cutthroats 9? He appears in New York City late night at the Mars Bar, and then in fucking San Francisco he shows up at the Curve Bar along with Will, the monster drummer from Cutthroats 9 and this fucking insane metal band called Old Granddad, that is a ‘must-hear’ of metal. By this show, Unida was fucking kicking. They rocked ass, and the place was packed, even though it was a Sunday night.
After the show I dove into a car with Flea, Nikki, Will, and this crazy bitch named Amber (who almost killed us a couple of times), and went to her house. Spencer joined us later, and we started causing all kinds of trouble and doing all kinds of unmentionable things until 10:00AM. I was taking notes / snippets of the retarded conversation as it occurred, and it went something like this: cleaving-the-beaver- ovarydose-I-got-your-roast-beef-hanging-wizard-sleeves-and-the-beaver-cleavers- the-good-thing-about-smoking-speed-is-that-no-one-wants-to-drink-beer-or-sleep-or-anything-else-I-got-your-dingleberries-hanging-with-your-crinkle-tart-chowder….with “hella” thrown into the mix way too many times. Don’t even ask what all this means because I couldn’t begin to tell you. Suffice it to say that they definitely have killer drugs in the Bay Area.
To be continued…

Rock-n-Roll Q & A with Kurt Cofelt from Load Levelers / Zeke / Holy Terror

Who are your favorite bands / greatest influences?

Kurt Cofelt (guitar / vox – Load Levelers, bass / vox – Zeke) - the Pogues, Johnny Cash, Slayer

What is your definition of success in rock-n-roll?

Kurt Cofelt - $$$, $$$, $$$, $$$

Kurt Cofelt…on music / life in general –
It’s frightening how old I am…and I’ve loved rock-n-roll music from the start. When I saw Scott Biram at the Parlor and The Rev. Deadeye at the Way-Out Club in St. Louis, I felt the evil powers of rock-n-roll. Since 1984, I’ve been putting out albums, mainly speed metal and shit, and a lot of it had to do with my drug consumption. So then when I became a punk rock singer and moved back to Seattle, I consumed more drugs. When I played in Zeke, I was a professional dishwasher. At the same time I was also in Shark Chum, where I was a professional drug addict. When I got kicked out of Zeke for being a drug addict, I devoted all my time to Shark Chum …and drugs. Then, Dizzy had to go to prison for a few years. ..for drugs. And I became a professional dishwasher. Then I kicked drugs and washed more dishes.


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