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katiehassomebigasstitties asked: Just sending an ask to tell you what you've already heard. The new album is beautiful. Thank you for making this amazing music.

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Bear Flag

I’ve always loved California. Doesn’t that sound stupid? I come into these towns for 8 hours, go out to eat, see only old friends and people that like our band, play music, have some drinks and leave. What fucking perspective do I have? Still, it’s physical variety and beauty is really tough to match. On this tour, for instance, we’ve scorched in the desert, sat on the beach in Solana, had a $15 vodka soda ‘neath the palms of LA, and dragged an old bus up into the ruggedness of Yosemite. That is more geographical variety than is held by most countries. Even if I don’t get to spend enough time here to get what some may call a ‘true’ California experience, I absolutely love my version of it. I believe it’s place as a destination in the American psyche is firmly held.

Vail/Avon/Beaver Creek

At the top of Beaver Creek Resort at the start of what was to be my last run of the day, a blizzard hit and came out of nowhere.  A half hour earlier, Banjo and I had decided to take a break in the lodge halfway down the mountain.  We’d been skiing for a couple hours and thoughts of burgers and beers were dancing in our heads.  The sun was shining bright and warm when we walked those awkward, ski-booted steps toward the aging siding and glass doors of our watering hole.  The place was packed.  We found the shortest food line, bypassing burgers, soup, sushi, tacos, and salad bars, for the apparently less popular pizza station.  Jesus this must be Vail.  Anyone who’s been forced to eat the fare at our local MN ski resorts knows the selection is based on how many baggie-wrapped cheeseburgers you need to survive for the rest of the day.  Pizza in hand we hit one of the two bars and got a couple brews.  It being so crowded, we asked a couple if we could join them at their table.  They were from North Carolina and almost done with a ten day ski trip in Colorado.  They were music fans and charming people and we found lots to talk about.  They also had nearly matching neon colored full body ski suits, which was rad.  Eventually Ryan and Pete came to join our table and we firmly outnumbered the Carolinians.  We finished our food and drinks and were anxious to get back on the mountain as this kind of day doesn’t happen that often while on tour.  Expecting to walk back out into the beautiful sunshine, I was surprised when upon opening the door the very breath was sucked out of my lungs by what must have been a fifty mile an hour wind filled with snow.  We are gallant young men though and there was no doubt in our minds we were gonna head up to the very top and ski the whole damn hill for our last run.  So, up we went.  The temperature had dropped considerably in the time of our boozing and it wasn’t long on the chairlift before we realized this last run may be a little bit more about survival than fun.  We skated off the lift at the top and everything disappeared in a cloud of white.  I couldn’t see the tips of my skis in front of me and only by pull of gravity could I tell which way was downhill.  The zipper of my jacket flipped up in the wind and promptly froze to my chin.  With thoughts fearfully turning to the Donner Party we got on our way.  There is only one way to warmer weather when on top of a mountain, my friends.  We made our way slowly down by staying between the chair lift posts on one side and the fuzzy line of trees on the other that came in and out of view.  As we descended the weather steadily improved and by the time we got to the bottom it was a pretty nice day.  So much so that Banjo and Pete, forgetting the icy hell above, decided to head up another lift for one more go.  Godspeed, I’ll be at the bar.  I found the closest one and warmed up with coffee and beer and was sore, windburned, and happy as hell.  Eventually Ryan and Banjo found their way to the spot and we fondly relived our wonderful day on the mountain.  The neon sign has always been the unspoken meeting place for this bunch I run with and I believe even if this would’ve happened in 1995 our mobile phone-less butts would’ve found the same seats next to each other.  The reason we were all able to spend this day at Beaver Creek was the Snowball music festival.  An outdoor festival in March in the Colorado high country.  Hours after our ski trip we had witnessed Deer Tick play at 9pm in zero degrees.  They managed to rock very awesome and took away anybody’s petty “it’s too cold to play well outside” excuses.  We had almost made it through the mildest winter in memory back home and here we were, dumping snow, cold as hell, and scheduled to play outside the following day.  It was a great weekend.

Houston

It began as just another day on tour.  We had arrived in Houston sometime in the morning and had spent the sunny day exploring the city.  It had been years since we’d been there and it was good to be back.  After sound check at Fitzgerald’s we had some dinner and were settled into our various pre-show rituals of writing, pacing, trying not to drink too much beer, chain smoking, emailing, phone staring, reading, etc.  It was quite warm in the room by the time William Elliot Whitmore had finished up his wonderful set and we were ready to go.  There was an air of excitement backstage as we had no idea if anyone was going to come out to this show and the house was packed.  We played through our set, felt good about it, and said goodnight and thank you to the beautiful people of Houston.  Or so we thought.  After the gear was loaded out we were hanging outside the club (this was December and we were really soaking up the warm Texas air before our return to Minnesota) and decided to cross the street to a beer joint we’d noticed when we pulled in.  As we were about to depart, a large, blonde gentleman slowly rolled up into the parking lot on a……. Segway.  This dude had taken a shining to our lovely, talented instrument tech Molly and was coming in to try and seal the deal.  While he was distracted he let several of us try out his future machine and we were all having a weird, wonderful time.  ”To the bar!” someone cried impatiently. “To the bar!” was the reply.  To the bar indeed.  We went, we drank beers, we remembered old touring stories.  A few of us had noticed the disappearance of the mystery Segway man when he appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.  He somehow figured out how to put that thing in reverse and deftly navigated between two picnic tables, backwards, and rolled up next to Molly with a bouquet of roses in hand.  God damn this guy was good.  Now, it kind of kills me to skip the next part of this story but, after careful consideration, I’d rather not embarrass the people involved (not that they have anything to be embarrassed about, just that some things should be left at the bar in Houston).  So, fast forward a little bit to Molly, Banjo and I were trying to help someone out when Segway guy turned sour - or maybe his love-veil had been lifted.  It was clearly time for him to go away but our MN passive-aggressive vibes were lost on this giant Texan.  Patience had run out and I then got to utter a phrase I’d never thought I’d say and one I’d be happy never to repeat: “Listen man, get on your Segway and get the fuck outta here!”  It did not go over well.  I mean, I’m all of 5’8” and this monster was not about to have little ol’ northern me tell him to two-wheel it outta the bar in his own goddamn town.  As things heated up and hit the shoving marker the solid soul in Banjo swelled outward and lifted him right over a picnic table and landed him between the two of us, separating us and slightly scaring Segway man.  He got on the future machine and was gonna cruise away but decided he’d use his new mobility to come back and taunt us a little.  This dude was cruising back and forth behind a fence on his fucking Segway yelling “I could take all you motherfuckers!”  No joke.  I don’t know if you’ve seen someone ride one of these things but the motion a body has to make to turn around every ten feet is righteously hilarious.  I’d hit my limit with the man and some kind patrons were holding me back as I tried to jump the fence that was the barrier between me and me probably getting my ass kicked, but it shortly turned into a scene of pure comedy.  Soon he thought better of his possible battle and took off onto the dark streets of Houston.  So long, soldier.  Thinking the night was over we began to head back.  But, never underestimate Houston at 3am.  Suddenly we heard a loud, metallic crash from around the corner and this Jeep comes flying down the street and takes a left turn at much too high of a speed, shooting sparks from below it all the way.  As it swerved across four lanes of empty (thankfully) road we could see it’s front axle hanging down, disconnected from the passenger side wheel.  This obviously made steering very difficult, if not impossible.  Seconds later the tow truck that this Jeep had apparently been chained to moments before came chasing after the outlaw, tires squealing and lights flashing.  Good god it’s time to get the hell out of this town.  It’s too awesome and who knows what will happen if we stay.  We got on board the bus and, as if to jinx the whole thing said, “Jim, get us out of Houston!”  We backed up out of the parking lot, Jim put it in drive, and the bus died.