St. Louis was next. One of our favorite cities from last year’s tour, we were excited to come back. This time would be different, though. Last year we camped at an RV Parque about 15 minutes outside the city, setting our tent up on the gravel spot provided for us, wedged between a highway and train tracks that never ceased to be busy. Our current trip to St. Louis was destined to be more comfortable, and much more interesting - it was our first 2009 tour experience with couchsurfing.com, a website where users can sign up as a surfer, host, or both as they travel the world. Each user creates a profile, and you can easily search for people in the area you’ll be traveling and find someone with similar interests and who is just fun to hang with.
I initially found our eventual host, Nate, because his profile indicated he was a musician. It seems like a fellow musician would be a good choice, but you never know for sure until you meet in person. We arrived at his house at midnight. Since he had to get up early, we chatted for a few minutes and then retired. Turns out Nate was a drummer in multiple bands (including a funk band), and worked at an arts center that reached out to individuals with disabilities. He also happened to bear a striking resemblance to Dave. After this brief meeting we could tell we’d get along pretty well.
We stayed with Nate for about four days. In that time, we learned a lot from him and his roommate Ian - about croquet, stenciling, and death metal. We shared stories of music, food, and travel. Two nights we were there, parties spontaneously erupted at the house. During one of these parties, a bandmate of Nate’s told us, chuckling between gulps of beer, that we had picked the right place to stay in St. Louis. By the time we left, we felt like old friends more than couchsurfers.
During one of the many food conversations, Nate informed us that there was a pizza place nearby called Pointers which had a pizza eating contest. They made a 12-pound, 74-slice pizza that, if consumed by no more than two people in under an hour, would yield a prize of $500. Being from New Haven, we are obviously pizza aficionados, and are no slouches when it comes to eating pizza either. On more than one occassion we have gone to Pepe’s or Sally’s and eaten an amount of pizza most people would classify as obscene. Doing a little research, I found some pictures of this pizza, and to Dave and I, it seemed like $500 in the bank. One of the stipulations was you had to have either two meats or four vegetables on the pizza. This was never in doubt between the two of us (sausage and bacon, obviously).
On our last day in St. Louis, Dave and I trained all morning by chugging glasses of water to expand out stomachs. This proved interesting when we had to go out and do some errands (find new camera battery, go to bank, etc.). Luckily Best Buy had a bathroom. Most of the other stores did not.
We kept chugging water until it was go time. When Nate first heard we were actually going for the challenge, he jumped up in excitement. He was as ready as we were. We drove to the restaurant, but were extremely dissapointed to find that they only do the contest once a day BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. What the hell? This was a most frustrating turn of events. I’d like to think they were just afraid of losing $500 when they saw a large red-headed man with matching sunglasses burst into their tiny establishment demanding to eat a 12-pound pizza.
We left St. Louis for a show in Lee’s Summit, Missouri, just outside of Kansas City. The next day we had to be in Iowa to headline a Jerry Garcia birthday festival, and we didn’t know where we would be staying for the night. Usually if we’re playing a show and the people there know we are a traveling band, by the end of the night somebody will offer us a place to crash. So we went into this show figuring we’d scope out the scene and maybe score a place to set up our tent.
The venue was a bar/restaurant called Jerry’s Bait Shop, apparently named after a large fish that was swimming in a tank near the stage, weaving in and out of a marching drum that was placed in the tank. The menu was a mixture of American, Mexican, and Italian, and they specialized in pizza, though it was more reminiscent of Papa John’s than anything else. It was somewhat of a hot spot. Though I can’t imagine there’s much else to do in Lee’s Summit.
We played about an hour and a half set in between two cover bands. Despite being the odd band out, the crowd was into us, and people were dancing. But our set was done early. Once we finished the place started crowding up, and by the time the last band started there was hardly any room to walk around. Their set consisted of classic rock covers. Bill Withers’s “Ain’t No Sunshine” and and Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” were highlights for me. But the vibe we were catching was that we weren’t going to find a place to stay. It was 10:30, still pretty early by musicians’ standards. We decided it was time to head to Iowa.
Arriving at the Hidden Acres Music Farm in northwestern Iowa at 4:30 am, it was hard to tell that a festival had started the day before. There was a firepit with no more than four people standing around it. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the purr of the nearly idle van engine. One of the men by the fire came up to us as we pulled in. He was happy to see us, as they had had a few last minute band cancellations. We set up our tent underneath a tree, next to the only other tent in view, and got some much needed shuteye.
The scene was much the same when we woke up. A few more tents appeared in the daylight, and several of us drank coffee around the fire, which had now been going strong for over 24 hours. There were mostly locals in attendance, but it appeared that the festival had gotten some pretty good press and the word was spreading. We met food vendors from Arizona who were on the road, traveling to different festivals and setting up shop. They heard about this one online and happened to be passing through, but were not holding out too much hope for making much money with such a small number of attendees.
As the afternoon progressed, some people filtered in, but not enough to write home about. There was a woman who showed us a newspaper clipping talking about the festival, and there were some kind words written about us too. But she didn’t end up staying for the night after witnessing the nothingness that was happening all afternoon. Most people weren’t about to leave, though. Even though they paid a hefty fee to get in and were put off about the lack of liveliness, there was nowhere else to go. Cornfields surrounded us on all sides. They were sticking it out.
The festival organizer was becoming more dejected as the day went on. His mood trickled down to the guests, who by now were mostly hardcore festival goers who found out about this 11th annual fest online on jambase or in the newspapers. Everyone was peeved. We tried to tell them that we would rock out no matter what, but no one had any reason to believe us. Their virgin ears couldn’t have known how serious we were.
The setting sun was our cue to get ready to play. The price of admission also dropped significantly at sundown, so there was a sudden influx or attendees as we were setting up. The crowd was now up to a respectable 50 or 60 unsuspecting heads, all of whom were still unsure of the validity of the festival. Our work was cut out for us.
But, as history shows, Bad Apples thrive in times like these. Channeling whatever negative energies were being tossed around the farm, we played each note more ferocious than the last. The intesity was worthy of a crowd of 10,000. The people in the audience sensed this and grooved along with us. No one could stay sitting. It could have been because of the cold, but the vibe from the crowd said it was because of the funk. Bill, the festival organizer, came on stage with us to sing a couple Dead tunes in honor of Jerry, “Samson & Delilah” and “St. Stephen.” We also played an inspired version of “Casey Jones” later in the night.
After a two-plus hour set, the festival had been deemed a success. The arduous boredom that had plagued the farm earlier was now a distant memory. The crowd was now being sociable instead of holing up in their own tents. The festival organizers and attendees thanked us profusely. As we sat by the fire, drinking beers and listening to the late night jam sessions, we couldn’t help but think that this is destined to become a trend. It already has to a degree. We have an uncanny ability to bring people together. Someday, this will prove to be our most valuable asset. But until then, all we can do is keep rockin.
-Albis
