By Chris Lane
By Jeff Balke
By Aaron Reiss
By Angelica Leicht
By Dianna Wray
By Aaron Reiss
By Camilo Smith
By Craig Malisow
We sadly amble back down the stairs to get the whole picture. Turns out, after a good 12 hours of power drinking, TMIBH bassist Lawrence mistook Lacey's roommate's closet for the restroom, and emptied the contents of his beer-soaked and bloated bladder all over her shoes. Needless to say, this Ozzy impression didn't sit well with Lacey's live-in, and everyone in the apartment that did not pay rent was immediately kicked out on their asses. On the way out, Bim (drummer, TMIBH) pissed down the stairs for good measure.
Trojan Horses Got Nothing on Us
This might not be the smartest thing I've ever done, and I'm sure my bandmates will resent me for it, but I'd like to give America's hipsters some advice: Don't, under any circumstances, let us stay at your place.
Now, we're not bad guys. Really we're not. But get six of us (band plus roadie) into a tiny apartment, and you'll find out what it's like to be infested with human termites. We will drink all your beer. Wine? Yeah, that too. Do you mind if I have an apple? No? Now your refrigerator is going to be cleaned out. We will stop up your toilet or, worse, see to it that it overflows. We will use all your hot water, your clean towels, drink all your coffee and tie up your Internet. Sorry, didn't know we weren't supposed to let your cat out. After we leave, you might find your shower doesn't drain as efficiently as it once did. You guessed it: We each shot a load in your tub and, perhaps, in your bottle of conditioner as well. Some of us even twice (Shawn).
So, what kind of person lets a band of misfits like us stay at their house, anyway?
Some are clearly disturbed individuals. Like Paul, whom we met a couple of years back in Portland. Paul spent the night snorting fat rails of coke while cranking the new Ween album at bone-crushing volume, all the while screaming at the top of his tar-black lungs, "THIS SHIT IS FUCKING GENIUS, MAN!"
Some people who open their home to us don't open it to us at all, but to a gang of people hoping to "keep the party going!" In these instances, we're just bait.
Some girls who put us up are groupies. Not every female fan who opens her home to us is in it for sex. Quite the contrary. But when said female's fridge is coated with photos of her posing with other bands that have stayed with her and all conversations either begin or end with which bands she's, like, totally friends with and used to date, we tend to get a little suspicious about which one of us she has in her sights (Mike).
Sometimes it's not sexual at all. My wife believes there are certain girls (and guys) who have us over for "scene cred" or the ability to say, "Heard of them? Yeah, dude, they only stayed at my house in 2003! Jeez!"
The ideal host is one who's just a good ol' salt-of-the-earth music fan. He (note: this type of person is never female) thinks what we do as a band is interesting, understands that life on the road is hard, and may say, "If you guys need a place to stay, I'll cook for you." He does it because he enjoys and respects our contribution to music. We're much more respectful of these people's places, which is to say we've never jerked off into a bottle of their conditioner.
The Band (Part II)
Roy Mata is a master of the auditory arts. A bartender by trade, Roy talks to strangers for a living. This is an extremely valuable quality to have in a bandmate. There goes Roy, before we've even unloaded our gear, talking to the bartender on staff about regional shots ("That's called Smurf piss here? It's called Smurf cum in Houston. Do you mind giving me a taste?"), what they hope to "ring" tonight and various other odds and ends of keeping the drawer on the up and up. Bands sharing a bill with us give him free merchandise because he actually took the time to get to know them. We call it "bro timing," and when Roy is engaged in the activity of getting to know a stranger, he is then known as "Bro-time Roy."
John Adams shouldn't be in our band. In fact, for the first three years of its existence, he wasn't. When times called for a lineup change, he was the first drummer we thought of and the last one we thought might do it. He was simply too good. He had played with all the Dream Theater-listening techno wizards who read Hammer-On Monthly while working on extended solos in public at Guitar Center. He needed something new. We may still be a joke, but our drummer is better than yours.
One hundred and thirty pounds. In case you're wondering, that's the perfect weight for the lead singer of your band. It means he can climb walls, PA speakers and anything else put in front of him with tremendous ease. It means he can leap onto a wobbly bar table and not turn it over. It means he can be passed overhead through a crowd with the greatest of ease while singing. If you're lucky, he won't complain if he's accidentally dropped. When your singer is 130 pounds, there is no end to the combination of things he can do. And he will do them. Night in. Night out. It will blow your mind. Shawn Adolph weighs 130 pounds.