Tour Diary #1

I bought Esquire magazine at LAX to read on the flight to Australia. Ordinarily I would skip over a men’s magazine and choose something slightly less stupid, but I knew I would be tired, and in coach, where there would be no option to watch a movie, and thought a magazine like this would be perfect as my mind clouded over around hour 12, or so.

The editors of Esquire have perfected this annoying, knowing tone in the front half of the magazine: “Okay, rakish male hovering around the date of your first high school reunion, there’s a right way and a wrong way to play this game, and we’ll grant you access to the former –wink – and direct you on how to slay life while maintaining a shimmer of cool that says you’re not even really trying.”

I get it; really, not a bad angle to take for the demographic, but in practice it’s tough to take. A few of the pages feature a little banner running across the bottom with sort of do’s and don’ts advice: “it’s alright to say ‘and so on,’ and ‘so forth’ but never ‘so on and so forth.’”  Thanks!

This lifestyle hubris may be contagious. On the flight I found myself wanting to communicate my own advice, Esquire-style, to some of the dudes on board: “Put on some fucking pants before boarding an airplane you idiot man-child.” It would go something like that.
Honestly, I shouldn’t really care. I don’t wear shorts on planes, and I suppose that gives me some kind tactical social advantage, with the added bonus of my not even having to try. And I mean actually not having to try, as it is equally simple to step into pants as it is shorts. But then again, maybe not.

I was also reading a biography of George Kennan on the flight, and anyone familiar with his, in my opinion, forgivable sort of conservatism could see another possible inspiration for this petty annoyance.

Someone knocked me on the shoulder just after I found my seat.
“Hey is your name Nick?”
“No.”
I felt like I recognized the guy, but just couldn’t place from where.
A few minutes later I got a text from an acquaintance of mine named Eric: “Hey, what are you doing?”
I knew his band was playing the same festival, and was about to respond, when, I got another tap on the shoulder.
“Hey it’s Eric!”
So the text had given me away. We’ve only hung out once, a couple years ago, so I hadn’t recognized him amid all the boarding chaos, and he explained that he was traveling straight from Mardi Gras, was pretty spent, and that this could account for remembering me as “Nick.” Pretty funny.

I live in LA while the rest of the band is from Washington so we were on separate flights to the first show in Brisbane. Once in Australia the festival promoter provides the transport and lodging for all the bands so we move as a sort of rock-herd from the first show on.
I meet a guy named Zok in baggage claim who is working as a tour manager for the festival, and he directs me into a van with a band called Glassjaw, the New Yorkiest New York band imaginable. Immediately after meeting them one of the guys asks me, “You’re a Jew, right? You’ve got to be with a name like Mendel. And what about your drummer, Goldsmith?” “You’re either a rock band or a law firm.” Etc.
Pretty hilarious guys, actually.

So I’ve got at least one band to check out tomorrow.