We had a show in Warren, Ohio this past weekend.  It was the second time we’ve played in the Buckeye State.  The first stop on our summer tour last year was in the seemingly deserted, yet eighth most populated city in Ohio - Youngstown.  A city that had flourished during the steel boom, the drive through downtown had made us uneasy for the sole reason that there was no evidence of recent habitation.  No open stores, no cars, no pedestrians, the occasional tumbleweed, etc.

We played a decent show at the Royal Oaks on the outskirts of Youngstown.  The promoter that had booked us, Trevor, warned us not to go more than a block west of the bar.  Danger to the west, desertion to the east.  It was something out of a bad horror movie.  Thinking we would not eat for the rest of the tour (we ended up being dead wrong about that), we gorged ourselves on sloppy barbecued ribs and delicious chicken wings (gratis of course) and then played the hell out of our instruments.  Because no one that showed up to the bar wanted to pay the $5 cover to see a band they’d never heard of, there were about 20 people just outside the bar door, beers in hand, playing some sort of beanbag throwing game that reminded me of the interactive tic-tac-toe game we “won” from the “raffle” at our 2008 New Year’s show.  Trevor was so horrified by this scene that he was convinced he’d never see us in Ohio again.

Cut to present time.  The first omen of our Ohio sequel: the sign at the New Jersey/Pennsylvania border on Inter State Seventy-Eight is torn in half, dancing violently with the winds – it read “lyvania omes you.”  If I didn’t know any better I’d say it was the name of a rare Lennon B-side.

Warren is much easier on the eyes than Youngstown.  We saw people, and cars.  The storefronts were lit in luminous neons.  The sign for the venue we were to play at, The Boom Room, was a marquee barely larger than a college ruled notebook. This was no good indication of the size or condition of the venue. It had two rooms, a large one with the main stage and seating, and a smaller one with a bar, and a small stage with house instruments used for their open mic night. Having only recently opened for business, it was in great shape. We hauled our equipment in and while waiting for the first band to start, stepped out for a cup of tea. As we exited the bar, a voice echoed from behind. “Don’t think I drove 25 minutes just to watch the Bad Apples walk out!” It was Trevor. He had come with his girlfriend, on Valentine’s Day, no less. “What better way to spend Valentine’s Day than at a Bad Apples show?” BJ had wondered aloud not an hour prior. Trevor was clearly privy to this.

We didn’t end up going on until nearly 1 am, probably the latest we’ve ever started a show that wasn’t an impromptu acoustic affair at a camp site in Illinois. We played our balls off. By the end of the hour and a half-plus set, I was painfully sober. There are some gigs where we get free drinks. This was not one of them. I gave myself a two beer limit in order to not break the bank. They were sloshing around in my belly well before we even had to think about setting up our instruments. Oh well.

After packing our equipment, we sat at the bar, eating popcorn, drinking water, waiting for Nate, the promoter, to finish closing up shop and take us to his house, where we would sleep that night. We talked with the bartender/owner’s girlfriend about that ubiquitous hot topic, the economy. She was saying how the cost of living in Ohio is really cheap (a house similar to ours in Jersey would go for about ¼ the cost per month in Ohio), but people were still struggling to make ends meet. People living by themselves found roommates to cut their costs, and were still unable to pay their bills. Jobs were very difficult to find anywhere. And, to top it off, she said, was that there was nothing to do in Ohio. She’s not wrong about that.  Unless the Apples are in town, of course.

We also got sucked into talking with the token loner alcoholic who stays at the bar until he’s kicked out when everybody wants to go home. Alcoholics are the same everywhere. Unshaven, smelly, and gleefully obnoxious. Times like these bring out the best in the Apples. Rather than make a subtle escape, we’ll take the opportunity to freak out some squares and run with it. The alcoholic made lewd comments to the bartender and turned his toothy smile toward Dave for approval. “That’s inappropriate,” Dave kept saying. BJ and I nodded in agreement. The alcoholic was offended by this. During our set, he was watching intently, whooping any time we did something extraordinary (which was often – we are extraordinary men). Yet with a few more beers in him he decided to give us some advice. “You guys gotta cut the nerdy shit! You should be putting Bon Jovi to shame!”  The Budweiser was clouding his vision – we clearly do not possess the physical features necessary to accomplish such a task.  How we were half a day away from the jughandles and full service gas stations of our beloved New Jersey and still unable to escape the musical anomaly that is Jon Bon Jovi is beyond me.  We did not take kindly to the man’s suggestion.  “Do you guys ever laugh?” he gushed, with the same wide, inebriated grin that had accompanied the end of his previous 63 sentences.  His happiness turned to horror as we simultaneously broke into maniacal, side-splitting, genuine laughter.  Apples 1, Squares 0.

The final stop on our trip was to pick up the house bass rig at Buddie’s Tavern in Parlin, New Jersey so that we could use it for recording a bass track on our new album.  Our buddy owns it and had given us permission to take it.  He said he would call the bar to let them know.  He didn’t.  The bartender was reluctant to let us walk out with such a beautiful piece of equipment without knowing for sure if she would ever see it again.  “If anyone asks, just tell them the Bad Apples took it,” BJ said matter-of-factly.  Strangely, this satisfied the bartender.  And we were on our way.

-Albis