"Someone gotta get us paid ASAP we owe our syndicates money."
On our way into Austin and some dipshit in a Chrysler with a Trump/Pence sticker cut us off, flipped us the bird. We followed him for a while till we run outta gas and had to peel off.
Been thinkin' pretty hard about gettin' a gun. Nothin' crazy. Just a handgun to point at someone if they ever fucked with us. Maybe perform some kinda cover fire retreat manoeuvre if the fascist paramilitaries ever show up. Lotta folk sayin' it's a bad idea for us to get a gun but they don't know what they're talkin' about. We're fine. Ice cold and in control. An' anyone sayin' we're alcoholics can go fuck themselves. I ain't an alcoholic. I got it under control. I think about alcoholics I think about my neighbour's dad puttin' a cigarette out on his forearm and holdin' a knife to his girlfriend's throat an' just laughin' an' laughin' then passin' out unresponsive on a deck chair with his eyes open Christmas Day 2005. I think about America I think about doin' whatever the fuck I want. I see an American flag flyin' free and faded over the car yard all ripped an' tattered around the edges — I just get such a jacked up feelin' you guys. Man. Such a feelin' of significance. Pretty happy to be out here runnin' around.
Twelve shows in four days. Man. That's called a work rate. Our guitarist Juice floated the idea that SXSW is like a fire trial for musicians. You try do four shows in a day, walkin' through the sun, crowds and music thumpin' against ya brain, with label folk come talk to ya all fresh as daisies not a hair outta place. You'll start crunchin' the numbers for yaself. Start seein' money floatin' all around, but somehow it's outta your reach. By 5pm the sweat and shit in ya arse cheeks rub together make a moist, abrasive feelin' almost unbearable in your pants, and when you're playin that many shows? Come midnight your voice go hoarse and guitar neck warped and saxophone all filled up with spit and beer and taco residue. Plus you gotta walk yaself home all rattled through your core, an' lie on a blow up mattress all spread, hopin' that sweet Texas air can salve your weeping arse. Feel the silence over you like a blanket. Man. It's one way to find out if you love bein' a musician. We decided across the board we do. Nothin' wrong with a little hard work.
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Gettin' a hot show off the ground's a feelin' that's hard to describe. When you see the young folks in the front row all pumped up on booze and sex feelings it makes you realise what it's all about. Makes you wanna grab your hog and scream Holy Corolla. And one a the benefits of playin' SX is they give you an "artist" wristband which serves the double purpose of reminding you what you're doin' there and gettin' you into whatever dang show you want. Hand Habits: holy toast. When a woman beautiful and true closes her eyes and sings cool and calm about qualities and feelings and bein' exposed to emotional pain, and then turns around and shreds on guitar, damn, I realised I been on the brink of tears for years and didn't know it. Kevin Morby: The man's got a way a makin' ya feel strong and weak at once. Or weak but natural and beautiful in that. He's got a tenderness an' simple cleverness come over you like a wave. Shame: You people better keep working. These young guys back in Australia get early success start thinkin' they're somethin special. Get the J play and tour the country like they're made of songs. Nothin' wrong with bein' special, just don't get to thinkin' that way. Someone over here will kick your arse. Wanna see ya on top of the game next time I see ya. Stay hungry.
Lot a folk sayin', "Roy, if you ain't makin' cash what the hell's the point of bein' there?" Jeez. Don't make me laugh. More than one kind of gains than bank gains, my dudes. Gains in the gym. Gains in self respect. And most importantly: gains online. Generating hot 'tent is part a me and Al's Triple Bottom Line. And we been generating. My stars. We been gaining tens of followers on various social medias all week. An' if you got a well pumped air mattress, free booze and breakfast tacos and all the self respect a young dog could want, well heck, doesn't feel like much else pieces missin' from the puzzle. Except money. Someone gotta get us paid ASAP we owe our syndicates money. All you kooks better get online and smash follow on our shit. My feet are fucked and Al needs a back alignment from this last week that better not've been for nothin'.
Ain't illegal to get lonesome from time to time on the road. You think jackin' off's sad? Try jackin' off on your host's air mattress after you let yourself down socially. Try jackin' off in a two-star hotel while your business partner's out buying a sim card. What a life. And when things get lonely? That's where the crew comes in. You gotta look out for one another, folks. Monitor each other's health. Diet. Physical fitness. Mind set. Watch each other's back. Cause there'll be times you don't realise you driven your bod and self respect back under the porch with late nights and masturbation and good times and look, I ain't sayin' it's illegal to sip a couple victory cold ones post show, sometimes it's not possible to avoid. We been playin with two new members to the act. Juice on guitar whom we still haven't figured out where he's from and Dave Jenk Jr hot Aussie percussionist, and I gotta say folks, the energy was hot and the celebraish' was nightly. More band members means more crew members to watch your back. Huge thanks to Juice and Dave for gettin' involved. We really achieved lift off. Huge thanks to Bad News Britt McCamey. Thanks for the hot snaps and for lending me cash. Huge thanks to Madfrog, Capon, and little Anna BB. That week went smooth as it could.
SXSW: You're fuckin' welcome. Next one's gonna cost ya. Bigtime.