Tour Diary: Red Fang, Part One

November 6, 2011

[Red Fang is currently out on an American tour with Mastodon and Dillinger Escape Plan. Their longtime roadie, Chris Coyle, will be bringing us diaries from the road for the next several weeks. Check out the dates here.]

Just because we had to drive from Portland to LA on Halloween doesn’t mean that we couldn’t dress up for the drive. We spent hours digging through thrift stores and combing online auctions to put together the best outfits possible. But don’t take my word for it:

David was Rip Van Winkle…

John was Dwight Schrute…

Aaron was the fat kid from that show about the dudes that pop wheelies and shit…

Bryan was Rob Zombie…

And I was a homeless woman.

For the total effect, look at this photo while a large handful of garbage cooks in your microwave.

11/1/11 Los Angeles, CA.

Let’s not pull any punches here, folks: the first show of the tour was a little shaky. Like a hobo in detox type shaky. You see, keeping with the ongoing theme we have of either van or health problems, Bryan had to get to teeth yanked a couple days before we left, leaving him a little loopy when he got on stage (AKA whacked out on goofballs). There was a point during their first song (“Hank Is Dead”) that I thought he was going pull out his phone and Shazam the rest of the band to see what song they were playing. Actually, it wasn’t that bad; I just like to use every chance I get to publicly embarrass my closest friends. ‘Cause we all know that when you blow out someone else’s flame it makes yours shine that much brighter.

I hope he doesn’t get mad at me—he is so sensitive. Look at him:

What do you think he’s thinking about while staring out that window? His own Mortality? Things he could do to make the planet a better, kinder place? My money is on cigarettes. He likes those.

11/2/11 Sacramento, CA.

You know there was a good party the night before when you wake up, walk downstairs and this is the first thing you see:

Totally off the subject here, but can we talk about something that has always stupefied me? A little something called “Tour Pocket.” If I was at home the most there would be in my pockets at any given time would be three bucks in loose change, keys and a phone but some how after two days on the road the contents of my pockets, in just my jeans keep in mind, equal this:

What the shit? And this isn’t even that bad. Usually there’s half a dozen bottle caps and cigarette butts, receipts that are so old they are almost clear and assorted drink tickets that I’m convinced I can use at other bars, yet never do.

The part that scares me about all this is I think I’m a step away from being one of those crew guys I used to make fun of with the utility belts that make you look like a bloated road-worn Batman. I guess it's time to start auditioning sidekicks…

11/3/11 San Francisco, CA.