January 1999:
"I Wanna Be Where The Bands Are?"

By Jon Wurster

Hello dear music fan, I will be your guide on this tour. It is not for the faint of heart. You will see bathrooms so filthy that you will retch, food so unappetizing that you will vomit and a van so putrid that you will bring up. The band is called Superchunk ("At The Forefront Of The Second Wave Of 'Super' Bands" TM) and we hail from Chapel Hill, NC. Ok people, let's do this!

Mac, Jim, Laura and our tour manager Jason soon show up. I take full advantage of the manpower present and rope them into helping me move the piano that has been standing in the middle of our living room for the last three years. As we load up our van I overhear a bit of dialogue that may demonstrate what it is like to be on a full on, down and dirty rock 'n' roll tour:

Laura (looking worried): Matt?

Matt: Yes?

Laura (apologetically): I moved your banana bread.

As we head to Charlottesville, VA we begin what has now become a first day of tour ritual for the band. After Jason hands out the itineraries we proceed to wager on the predicted turnouts for the upcoming shows. If you guess the amount of paid attendees on the nose you get a mixed drink at the next show. The predictions for tonight are low. We have never had much luck in C-ville. The last time we played here was the final date of our "Indoor Living" tour. We were riding high after successful dates in Boston, NYC, Philly and DC and were prepared to go out on a good note here at a club called Traxx. No such luck. The kids stayed home that night no doubt saving themselves for the Veruca Salt show the next evening. The high point of the show was when our stage tech Jim stripped naked and joined a bewildered Beatnik Filmstars onstage to sing with them. The club manager went ballistic. Nobody's into nudity these days.

Tokyo Rose is a sushi restaurant/rock club that resides in a strip mall with a capacity of 250. During load-in Jim Wilbur contributes to Bartletts by asking the following: "we're pretty close to just down the street aren't we?" We are in the process of working on new songs for our next album and we use the allotted time at soundcheck to work on the five that we will be playing on this run. We actually get through them without any major errors, except for Mac, he's a little tipsy from the free-flowing sake and begins blowing into his guitar.

Dinner time. I don't like sushi so I cause a huge fuss and start going off about "the way things should be around here" and am abandoned by the rest of the party. I am relegated to eating a tuna sandwich in the club's bathroom.

There are exactly 198 paid attendees tonight. Laura is dead on with her prediction and thus will be the proud receiver of a Sex On The Beach tomorrow night. No, I guess she won't- seeing that tomorrow night's show in Baltimore has been moved from Filly's-'A Gentlemen's Club' to the Otto Bar. The show went way better than I expected and the new songs were met with actual enthusiasm. Thanks kids, but we gotta go to bed now. On the way back to the hotel we pass a store called Golfzilla· nothing more need be added to that.

We catch some late-night rock video action back at the hotel. The new Hole is my favorite. Utilizing a budget many times greater than the GNP of many small nations, the singer is truly going for it. She seems to really care·. about what I have no idea.

We are playing a 'fanzine release party'. This reminds me of the time on my first tour with Superchunk when we opened for a band in Champaign, IL called Dinklefritz at a party celebrating the release of their first sticker. Peter, tonight's promoter puts out a very good maga called Monozine. The issue we are celebrating tonight features various musical artists telling of their most debilitating illnesses. No mention is made of the time I got my legs so sunburned that I could not wear long trousers for two days and had to take to the stage in shorts , I was told that this did not constitute an illness.

After soundcheck we are off to an upscale eatery called Legal Sea Food. It's one of those places that thinks it's doing something exciting to 'thrill the discriminating gourmand' but in actuality it ain't. Four of us are shot down when the waiter informs us that the entrees we want are not available. I choose not to eat anything and go sit at the bar and sip Cokes all the while grilling the bartender about his earring: "where did you get it?"; "was it expensive?"; "did it hurt when you got it?"; " is it some kind of pirate thing?". I am quietly asked to vacate the premises.

While walking around the inner harbor area of town I glimpse the stunning beauty of the ESPN Zone super restaurant/bar/whatever, Planet Hollywood, and Hard Rock Caf„. I go first to the ESPN Zone and order a Larry Bird (vodka and tonic served with an ostrich plume) and try to strike up sports-related conversations with the patrons. I am snubbed after several attempts when it is revealed that my knowledge of the sporting world goes no further that March of 1981, the month and year that I succumbed fully to new wave music and joined a local group called Hair Club for Men. Why are you laughing?

Next stop is the Hard Rock. I begin wandering around the premises checking out all the rock memorabilia. The manager approaches and asks if he can help me. I tell him that my name is Claude Zeller Nettles, son of the late Ian Claude Nettles of the band Zeusroxxit and that I am unable to locate dear papa's 'spanking paddle' which he used during the band's show stopper "The Ballad of Ben Dover".

An assistant manager named Regina (pronounced Ra-gyn-uh) is assigned to help me locate 'Sir Whacks A-Lot'. She searches through a printout of the descriptions and locations of the various artifacts. As she looks my eyes catch a glimpse of a newly opened box that appears to contain ten or so pairs of eyewear. Upon closer inspection I realize that among other less interesting sets of glasses, I am only inches away from the infamous round rimmed specs that were once donned by Flock Of Seagulls axeman Paul Reynolds. I am about to flood my pantaloons with urine. Regina embarrasedly informs me that she can't find anything related to my father's band. I tell her to look once more and while she does I pocket the Flocksman's shades. Regina states once more that she has come up empty handed and I mumble something about "imminent litigation" as I hi-tail it out of there.

Time to head back to the arena.

I am pleasantly surprised by the sight of an old high school friend of mine who I haven't seen in about 12 years. We yack for a while and I put on my game face and get ready to rock. As we play I catch glimpses of about 7 young folks off to the side of the stage who are watching us. It hits me that we really are somewhat older than a good number of the people that come to see us. I begin to have the following conversation with myself: "what are they making of these four people jumping around onstage, these people who are the same age as their older brothers and sisters who have respectable jobs and families? Are they laughing at us? Am I laughing at us?" Not on your life-I'm too winded at this point in the show. The new stuff once again goes over well.

We are able to rise relatively late due to the ultra-short drive to DC. After one of the very worst dining experiences in recent memory-IHOP (Gentling: "International House Of Punishment")-it's off to the city that gave us both Tommy Keene and Void. We shop around for a couple hours and I purchase a ceramic football/candle holder (they are my one weakness) and head to the Black Cat.

The Black Cat is among the top five venues in which I enjoy performing. It is run by ex-Skinflint recording artist Dante Ferrando, he and his staff=good people. Where is our DC posse? Hardly any of our friends are in the house tonight. Maybe they got enough of us the 10 previous times we've played here. Ms. Rebecca Gates makes the scene and we are glad.

The gig portion of the night is great. There is something very wrong though. Once again the new songs go over quite well. This is unheard of for us. In the past whenever we played new songs to an audience we have usually been met with·. very little. Maybe a polite round of applause but certainly not cheering. This leads me to believe that we are poised for superstardom with this next record which by the way will not be called "The Pharaoh Who Was Such A Douche That He Didn't Even Get His Own Pyramid" as stated in a previous tour diary. We are currently leaning towards a phrase that Mac muttered last night in Baltimore: "Ever Wonder What·. Rolling Rock...Likes·To· Do?"

As we load out I am treated to the sight of journeyman DC guitar lord Brian Baker unlocking a bike from a tree. I tell him that I skipped my senior prom to see him perform with the Meatmen back in 1984. He responds, "Well, I appreciate that, I'm sure we were incredibly mediocre." How could five guys playing "Wine, Wenches and Wheels" and "ABBA, God and Me" in cavemen outfits to a couple hundred hyped up punkers be anything less than stellar, I ask you?

On the way back to the Days Inn we take in the usual late night DC sights: wilding youths, prostitutes and five separate public urinations. Sorry nation's capital but we must leave you in order to deliver rock unto the people of Gotham.

Sometimes when I'm onstage I just don't feel at all comfortable. Either the sound is weird or I'm situated so far away from the other three that I feel as if I'm playing in a different room altogether. Fortunately tonight is not one of those nights. Everything feels good and I am really enjoying playing the show. The attendees go nutzo and they don't boo when clams get blown. Clams=mistakes, and there are a quite a few 'em tonight. After the set proper we retire to the dressing room and decide what to encore with. I suggest breaking out our version of Sebadoh's tear jearker "Brand New Love". It is decided that it is conceivable that we can possibly pull it off.

Couldn't have been more wrong. The song is shambolic, what with forgotten chords and lyrics, hell, we even had to start it over once but it is for me the highlight of the show.

After the gig we hang with our friends and drink beer at our friend Phil's apartment. He shows us a hilarious TV prank perpetrated by the excellent comedy ensemble Upright Citizens Brigade upon doughy weatherman Al Roker. Serves him right for being rich.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I have Sunday Evening Disorder (SED). Like many of you reading this I used to get depressed on Sunday nights when I was a kid. The weekend was about over and soon it would be time to get ready for the school week to begin again. To this day I still get melancholy on Sunday nights and tonight is no exception. I sit backstage after soundcheck and stare off into space for a good twenty minutes. Our friends Bobby and Dirty Bill from Buffalo Tom's Band appear and my spirits are lifted.

Tonight's show is sold-out. We are surprised because we haven't drawn this many people in Boston in years. THE NEW UNDERGROUND LIVES!

The crowd tonight is somewhat reserved. Maybe they suffer from SED also. I enjoy the stage at the Middle East but the sound is very dead from where I sit. It feels as if not much rockage is coming from my drums. We are told that we must be done by 12:00 am. There is a huge digital clock onstage that serves as a constant reminder that you are under such restrictions. As we near the end of our set it is decided that we will play the encore portion without leaving the stage. After the set/encore we retire to the dressing cubicle and are met with the news that we can actually play 'til 12:30. We decide to try to redeem ourselves after last night and give another crack at "Brand New Love". We actually pull it off reasonably well except for when my drum set catches fire, what are the chances of that happening?

Upon my return to the hotel I am met with an e-mail from a fan who has some criticism of the show·we should try another closer besides "Precision Auto", we played too short, we forgot to play a song I told him we might play·so ok, thanks!

We will be playing a club called Maxwells in Hoboken, NJ this evening. One of the first times Superchunk played here they were supported by a band called The Smashing Pumpkins. Guess we showed them. As we load in I am astounded at how much nicer it is then when we were last here in 1995. The interesting thing about this place is just how uncomfortable it was to play. The stage is tiny and if there were more than two bands on the bill there was no room for movement what with all the band gear up there. There also used to hang a huge heater on the stage that many a musician cursed, sometimes audibly. The place holds only about 200 and there is no access to the stage except from the audience. I'm sure this was a real thorn in the side of many of the bigger groups that have played here·."Y'mean I have to walk through these idiots to get up there?"

I'll break now to relate an incident that actually took place within these hallowed halls:

A friend of mine was here in 1986 to see the Lyres, one of the best of the 80's garage/R&B outfits. Now, if you ever saw the Lyres you were no doubt treated to the sight of lead singer/organist Jeff "Monoman" Connelly chewing out at least one of the many members that floated through the band. Of course it was usually the drummer, ("faster!", "slower"!) but that's a given. While the band was setting up their gear my friend noticed that one of the roadies came back up onstage after visiting the bar holding a martini. He presented it to Monoman and awaited his 'thank you'. What he and the two hundred patrons were met with was a profanity-laced tirade regarding the fact that there was "a fucking lime in this martini! Who the fuck puts a fucking lime in a goddamn martini?!" My friend turned to the person next to him and said, "Man, he really treats his crew horribly". With that the just de-pantsed roadie strapped on the bass and began to tune up. He was a member of the band. I can't help but think that he soon left due to "artistic differences".

Showtime. We hit the stage and launch into "I'll Be Your Sister" by Motorhead. This is the first time I've ever played it in public. The crowd cheers but then gets remarkably quiet and remains that way for much of the night. The place is sold out but it doesn't seem like anybody really wants to be here. Monday Evening Disorder? As we play my mind wanders to a video I have of the Replacements playing here in 1985. I pretend that I'm Chris Mars for a couple minutes and catch a groove until I am shaken back to reality when the song ends and I'm still playing "Mr. Whirly".

We conclude with "Fishing", a straight up punk ditty that we haven't done in a few years. In the past Mac and I would switch places and I would sing the last line of the song. Sometimes I would preface the line by singing a little tribute to a band or artist from the town we were playing. AC/DC's "TNT" in Perth, Australia, Black Flag's "My War" or the Descendent's "Myage" in LA, JFA's "Beach Blanket Bongout" in Phoenix·you get the picture. Mac decides not to switch tonight and I am thwarted from crooning "In The Congo" by local heroes The Bongos. Not to worry, he does a couple lines from the first Gutbank album.

The ride to East Windsor, NJ is the high point of the tour as far as I'm concerned. On our first European trip a little post gig drinking ritual was birthed called "Shalom". It seemed our tour manager somehow managed to get us hopelessly lost every night on the way to the hotel and seeing that we had all that free beer that the club had given us, we decided to make use of it. Basically, a bottle of beer is passed around the van and everyone excepting the driver (hey we're good kids) takes a gulp and then says "shalom" before passing it on. Kinda pointless but what else is there to do @ 2:00 in the morning in a moving van? We decide to play the game tonight after a 2 year moratorium.

Jim pops in a comp he's made of the best of the new Springsteen box set. The songs are outtakes from his various albums and the majority seem to be best described as "party tunes". The tape is a fitting soundtrack for our drunken travels down the Jersey turnpike.

Let it be said that I am a fan of the man. I think Darkness On The Edge Of Town and Nebraska are truly great albums but I am astounded by the songs I am hearing flow from the van's tiny speakers: "Linda, Let Me Be The One", "Janey, Don't You Lose Heart", a head scratcher entitled, " Ricky Wants A Man of Her Own", and my new favorite song of all-time, "I Wanna Be Where The Bands Are". We go postal shouting the chorus to "·Where the Bands Are" over and over while pumping our fists in the air.

I catch a glimpse of a sign that signals the approaching exit for Freehold, NJ. This, as we all know, is the hometown of the Jersey Devil himself and I decide that when we pass the exit the bottle must be at my lips. Being under the influence I fail to actually verbalize this notion and when we pass said exit I snatch the bottle out of Laura's hand and shove it in my mouth. "What are you doing?!" she demands. "You know I've gotta be drinking it right now!" I shoot back. I wake up the next morning and instantly feel like something is wrong. My intuition is correct: the others have taped me to the ceiling. "Hey, that's not too cool."

We will be driving home tomorrow. A day later we will be Florida-bound. I'll be back.

We pull into our Days Inn and prepare to get some shrimp. Mac stays behind to watch a game of basketball played by two teams I couldn't possibly care about. On the way back from eating we listen to the Japanese metal band Loudness' mid 80's classic, "Rock and Roll Crazy Nights". Imagine if you will a band of poodle-haired Japanese boys playing standard mid 80's, vaguely hard rocking metal sung in barely comprehensible English. One of the more intriguing lines of the song goes something like this: "You come to see the show/ well, we're going to rock and shock you/ the sound hits you in the face / we're going to rock and pile you/ we're going to do all this". Back in the hotel, I am secretly hoping that the Heart: Behind the Music comes on again.

Tampa is just a hop, skip and jump from Orlando so we have time to shoot over to the superb independent store Park Avenue Records. The staff is very kind and the boss even buys several copies of Rock, Rot and Rule, a radio interview prank my friend Tom and I performed and have just released on our label Stereolaffs. I stick with tradition and purchase the new Neil Hamburger CD just like I did last time I was here. Mr. Hamburger is for the uninitiated, the lamest, least funny and in many ways most hilarious stand-up comedian of the late 90s. His new one is called Left for Dead in Malaysia. Can't wait to hear it. I also score with the just released Celebrities At Their Worst Vol. 2. Volume 1 featured many of the classics, like Kasey Kasem going apeshit while doing his radio show and Buddy Rich verbally destroying the members of his touring band. But it also contained many nuggets that I had never heard, like Orson Welles treating the ad copy he is in the midst of reciting for a frozen foods company as if it were a scene from Othello.

The gig tonight is at a club called the Rubb. We will be sharing the stage with a band from outer space called Man or Astroman? Until soundcheck today I had never met the Astromen before and they are very nice, for space people.

At dinner we notice that there are three separate news camera crews scouring the main drag of Ybor City for interviews with pedestrians. We assume that they are interviewing people regarding the impending Superbowl contest. Never one to not be up for embarrassing myself, I leave the restaurant and walk non-chalantly in the direction of one of the crews.

The plastically handsome correspondent stops me and sure enough, asks how I plan to spend Superbowl Sunday. My response puts forth the notion that in my orbit the Superbowl is the culmination of the amateur bowling season and that in keeping with tradition, I will soon be embarking for Kern, Indiana to attend the contest. "Son, the Superbowl is a football game!" the reporter snickers. I suggest that maybe he should tell that to the standing room only crowd that will be packed into McDenton's FunBowl to watch Milt "The Stickler" Rutherford take on Karl "Phil" Mertz in two days.

The camera's floodlight goes off and the correspondent shakes his head, imparts that "we can't use that" and heads further on down the street.

Labelmates the Rock*A*Teens open the show and remind me of why I like them. We're up next and Jason dissuades us from taking the stage in cheap and hastily assembled cardboard space outfits and saying that 'we're robots too". We play and things go well except for Laura getting something in her eye and having to leave the stage. Jim, Mac and I do a slow-jam version of "Detroit Has A Skyline Too" with the newly-sighted Laura joining in halfway through. The kids appear to like it although they seem to be saving themselves for MOA. We commence loading out after MOA's fine set.

We meet an insanely drunk and animated fan who can only be described as "being on eleven" and I curse myself for not having a tape recorder. He goes on about Laura playing the "lazy bass" and sings our own songs back in our faces with gusto unmatched by anyone I've ever seen. He is last seen hanging off the door handle of our van as we pull away. Bless you my son.

The occasion was New Years Eve '95 and we opened for San Diego troublemakers Rocket From The Crypt. I somehow got through our performance without making any major mistakes (although I'm sure this can be debated) and proceeded to "lose myself". I vaguely recall being onstage with Rocket shaking a tambourine, or was it my shoe? Next thing I know I'm waking up in front of Pete's bass amp a minute or so later. I tell this story so others can learn from my mistakes.

MOA are onstage doing it astro-style when we get there. It will be hard to follow them. We come up with the idea of having a human sacrifice onstage but can't seem to get any of the ticketless kids outside to fully commit to the idea. The show goes swimmingly regardless and the kids seem to enjoy, I know I did. But why did that one guy have to keep shouting for me to stop sweating so much.

We have a long drive home tomorrow so we only stay up 'til 5:00. The tour ends on a down note when a member of our party gets taken downtown for spray-painting a diatribe against local hero Tom Petty on a police car.

I will actually leave you with a line from Mr. Petty that I think best sums up what these past 10 days have meant to me; "Take back Vanessa Redgrave/ Take back Joe Piscopo/Take back Eddie Murphy/Give 'em all some place to go".

Puts it all in perspective, doesn't it? You bet it does.