A Musical Mystery Tour in the South with Northmont

(The following story is based on a brief Southern tour I took with my band Northmont as we risked our lives and our sanity to bring our music to the Carolinas one muggy weekend last August.)

So as I write this we are speeding down Highway 278 with our lives in the hands of one Justin Tana. He's wearing his signature road attire: shorts, sleeveless T-shirt, and of course, no shoes. A native New Zealander such as him, has little need or desire for such trivial things like shoes, underwear, or even personal hygiene for that matter.

"It's so time consuming.." says Justin, "I'd rather spend my time talking on my cell phone, rooting, or better yet, hunting the elusive Albino Kangaroo."

The kangaroo, a figment of Justin's imagination ever since the "accident," has become quite a controversial topic lately. So we've all just collectively agreed to accept it's existence as reality to appease him. Otherwise, things get ugly and we have to break out the tranquilizer darts. Sweet dreams Justin...

So, our journey to the "Head" began a mere four days ago and has been chock full of mystery and adventure. Our first stop was a place called Wild Wings in Asheville, North Carolina.

While driving to Asheville, our fearless leader Ward was stopped by one of North Carolina's finest. Apparently, speeding is frowned upon in these parts. And speeding while talking on your cell phone, reading a map, changing out CDs on your Walkman, and drinking out of a gallon jug of water.. (all of which Ward is fond of) is punishable by death. Luckily for Ward, the officer that stopped us was quite merciful. So ten minutes and four cavity searches later, we were back on the road.

The show that night went quite well, and we rocked their small stage semi-acoustic style sounding just as huge as ever thanks to our sound-man: a talkative, mullet-sporting stud by the name of John. The only stage folly that night happened when Carlos discovered what happens to chewing gum when you place it upon a heated surface such as the top of an amplifier. If Carlos had not acted so quickly he might have been singing Green Day's "Basket Case" with a ten-foot strand of gum hanging from his mouth. We don't call him "Carlos the Cat" for nothin'... He's got cat like reflexes, loves to be stroked, and frequently urinates on items to mark his territory. "No Carlos! Not my shoes!"

So after handing out a bunch of CD samplers and eating about eight pounds of food, we headed off to our next gig at the Wild Wings in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina.

Mt. Pleasant definitely held true to its namesake in a visual sense, with beautiful bridges and waterways scattered throughout the city. Also scattered throughout the city were people, tourists, traffic, more people, tourists, more traffic, hotels with no vacancy, and giant flying cockroaches called Palmetto bugs.

As we searched frantically around the city for one hotel with a spare room we wondered to ourselves "What the hell are all these people doing here..??"

Little did we know that thousands of people had descended upon the city for the christening of a brand-new bridge five years in the making. Great..just great..out of the 52 weekends in the year we pick this one. Dammit! (Remind me to fire our booking agent.)

So we finally find a room at the Masters Inn Economy Suites: the room's overpriced and holds true to its name "economy." We enter our room to find a half-baked air conditioner that has cooled the room to three degrees below sweltering, a bathroom light that doesn't work unless you go "Fonzie" on it and whack it with your hands, no toilet paper, and a lamp shade that falls off if you breathe on it wrong.

When we arrived at the club that evening, we noticed that this particular Wild Wings was a bit larger and cooler than the last. But rest assured that when I say cooler, I mean that esthetically only. The Summer weather in Mt. Pleasant is kind of like walking around in a greenhouse wearing Arctic survival gear. It's hot..it's humid..it's muggy..it's miserable.

We load into the club, set-up, sound check, and prepare to rock. And rock we do... In recorded history I do not think 12 people have been rocked harder than they were that night.

As the night progressed we asked the staff about the low turn out, to which they told us that the big bridge party was LAST night. The place was packed and Kool and the Gang played for most of the night. Dammit! (Remind me to kick our booking agent in the grapes.)

Unfazed by the tiny crowd, we press on and play our songs... Justin gets hit on by an Amazon-type biker chick... we get requests for Black Sabbath and Crash Test Dummies (huh?)... all the while Carlos and Ward trade ass grabs and wet-willies. We always manage to entertain ourselves even if the turn-out is less than stellar.

What continues to puzzle me though, is that in between our sets I continually catch glimpses of large black blobs running across the patio and climbing up various outdoor walls.

"What the hell are those things?", I ask.
"Oh those things... they're giant flying cockroaches," our waitress Natasha replies.

Sweet... next you're going to tell me to watch out for the Giant Vampire Mosquitos or the Transparent Testicle-eating Toads... Get me outta this place !

That... we soon discover, is easier said than done.

Our escape the next day from Mt. Pleasant was hindered by the fact that the brand-new shiny bridge would not be open until 3:00 P.M. that afternoon. And on top of that, all the bridges in the surrounding area were closed as well. Our check out time was 11:00 A.M., which we stretched until noon.. but regardless we still had hours to waste until our release.

So being the impatient types that we all are, we decided to find a way off the island. There had to be an alternate route and we were going to find it.

Our attempt at finding an escape route was much like the Feds attempt to find the body of Jimmy Hoffa, Ponce de Leon's search for the Fountain of Youth, and my futile attempts at finding a Starbucks in the deep South. The journey also resembled a shape you all might be familiar with, not so much a square, not really a triangle, that's right a circle. After an hour or more of driving, cursing, and U-turns we gave up, ate some Subway, drank some coffee, and watched the clock.

Once three o'clock had arrived, we headed for freedom only to discover that half of South Carolina had lined up to cross their shiny new bridge. (Grrrrrrr...) So we wait some more and try to resist the urge to violently lash out at each other or anyone in a ten-foot radius of us.
Carlos and I resort to reading and some deep breaths, Ward on the other hand, resorts to finding Gospel radio stations, cranking the volume, and singing along. Fortunately for him, I wasn't able to act on my thoughts of reaching over and forcefully removing his vocal cords and feeding them to the dog in the car next to us because it was finally time to cross the bridge.

Freedom is achieved and a few short hours later we arrive in Hilton Head, South Carolina for our final show of our mini-Wild Wings tour. I'll spare you specifics but just realize that Hilton Head is a resort type island, it's summer, and there's only one road that leads you on the island.
Traffic anyone..?

So we get our hotel, which costs us a mere 170 dollars for ONE night, change our clothes and head for the club.

We arrive at the club to find tables on the "stage" and we're told to come back in an hour so they can clear our stage. We leave, come back, load-in, sweat profusely, and commence rocking.

The show goes well, and the crowd is fairly receptive. We hand out CDs, drunken middle-aged women dance in front of us, we smile, load out, get paid, and promptly leave.

After encountering a large cross-dressing black man and a semi-coherent cashier at the local quickie mart, we go to our hotel and prepare for the next day: our band vacation day.

The day is spent relaxing with each other pool side, enjoying each others company while our skin slowly simmers under the sun. We occasionally cool off with a refreshing dip in the tepid water.
Starved for entertainment, Carlos and Ward wrestle each other underwater while I discover the reasoning behind putting drawstrings in swim trunks. You see, Ward lent me his running shorts, which closely resemble swimming trunks, except for the drawstrings. So when you decide to quickly jump out of the pool, your trunks stay behind.
Scientists would argue that it's impossible to glimpse a full moon at high noon...well that day I proved them all wrong.

After completely embarrassing myself at the pool, we headed for the ocean. It was peaceful and relaxing and we all felt free and at one with the Earth. Our freedom was short lived though when we were confronted by a group of police men who kindly informed us that the beach was NOT a nude one. So much for freedom... but I guess that does explain all the stares, laughter, and crying children we encountered while walking on the beach.

We ended our vacation with a friendly game of mini-golf and it was an intense battle for supremacy amongst four formidable miniature golfing pros. Or maybe it was just four hacks whacking golf balls in every conceivable direction and occasionally finding a hole or two.

Once the smoke cleared Justin emerged as the winner by one mere stroke. Ward came in second, myself third, and Carlos brought up the rear. Good game fellas...good game.

As we head home sunburnt and weary, I think we all feel a bit closer to each other. Every mini tour is an adventure and every show has a story. As I glance around the van watching Carlos sleep and Ward drive, Justin is carefully urinating into a water bottle...ahhhhhhhhhh.. The life we lead.