Sir Millard Mulch Summer Tour Journal (2002)

This is a fake tour journal I wrote in 2002.

July 26, 2002
w/Dovetonsil
Stone Lounge
Jacksonville, FL

We show up in Citrone’s hometown, and Citrone meets us at the club. When we get there, we are mobbed by these annoying foreign people who barely speak English. They are chanting for Larry. Larry gets out and smiles to them and gives them hugs and signs countless copies of Victims Family and Plainfield albums. I tell him we need to get going, or else we’ll not have enough time to soundcheck. He says to wait just a minute and I get pissed off and tell him that soundcheck is more important than talking to a bunch of foreign people. Needless, to say, Larry gets pissed too, and he motions for all his foreign followers to of course FOLLOW HIM around the corner and they get out cameras and start taking pictures of him and putting mini-tape recorders in his face. We go ahead and soundcheck without him, and he shows up later, angry, and tells me that those people were really important, that they wanted to put him in a Foreign Magazine. I tell him when he is in my band, he needs to spend his time promoting me, not his own bands. I could care less what other bands he plays in, as long as he does it on his own time. I am already paying for his expensive hair weave out of my per diems, as he requested, but he is still being a baby the whole drive so far. He demands “less talking” when we drive and is antisocial. Any time I have tried to bring up details about Victims Family albums, he ends up getting impatient and disinterested. I dunno what his deal is, why he is so hard to hang with. So anyway, Citrone runs home to see his wife and again and we all go out to eat, except Larry, who stays in the van and is pissed. Walt says to give him some space, that this is demanding music to play, and that it is easy to get pissed when you are on tour. We told Citrone we were starting our set at 10:00 p.m., and he shows up at 10:00, with drumsticks and earplugs, and thinks we’re just gonna start. His wife stands in the back of the room and won’t say a word to me the entire time. His band was scheduled to play right after us. I say, “OK, let me just write you a setlist,” and he blows up and turns to Larry and says, “Man, I don’t blame you.” After the show, Larry quits the band. I gladly buy him a ticket home. I switch to bass. One less mouth to feed.

July 27, 2002
w/ Melt Banana
Howling Wolf
New Orleans, LA

Some really hot young lady showed up tonight and was burning holes in me with her eyes. Everyone joked and called her Fire Woman. Harold and Citrone were going nuts over her, but she wouldn’t give them the time of day. She just kept staring at me, pretty creepy. Every time I’d walk by her she’d just stare, even if I said something. She wouldn’t smile or say a word. She would be leaning against a wall by one of our enormous video displays, and all of the sudden she’d stand up straight and flip her hair back and kinda get in my way on purpose. What a weird experience. I’m definitely not into the groupie thing. She stood around backstage all night and never said a word until after the show. She walks up and gets way too close to me and introduces herself. “Sinthia – spelled S-I-N.” I shook her hand and tried to be cordial but that was a big mistake – she wouldn’t let go of my hand! I try to pull away but she grabs onto me with both arms and won’t let go. Walt and Harold start laughing really hard, as I squirm and look at them, like, “HELP!” She starts this awful high-pitched yelping that sounds like something out of a bad alien monster movie. This goth kid comes out of nowhere with a camera, wearing all black and pigtails and takes a picture of us with an insanely bright flash. I’m sure that’ll look good on record. Let’s hope Maureen doesn’t find it. I stop squirming and stand there and look both of them, like, “WTF, can we stop this nonsense now?”. She lets go of me and straightens herself up, smiles, and the two of them bolt down the hall and out the back door. I dunno if they were playing some kind of prank, or what…

Harold does one of those “oww!” things and sticks his tongue out at her as she runs by. He walks up and is like, “Dude, are you crazy, that chick was fine and she totally wanted you!” I’m like, “yeah, whatever, what a freak,” and I start winding up cables and packing up my stuff so we can go. Walt says she spent like 30 minutes signing the mailing list. He shows me the page where she wrote her name really big with a thousand different weird caligraphy pens and glittery paints.

AHEM. So anyway, the show tonight went pretty good. I remember seeing Mr. Bungle playing here in like 1995. This is where I first sat down and talked to Trey and did that big long interview. I also remember that during the Mr. Bungle show I fell asleep on the floor. Another odd coincidence was that Melt Banana was opening for Bungle that time, and now they are opening for us tonight for one show. They’re alright, but too noisy for my tastes. I guess it makes sense to have them play though, as we steal some of their fans because of the Bungle thing, and they are so noisy that it makes us seem like we really play tight. But there is definitely something really weird about this club. I remember that we also saw and hung out with Nomeansno here many years back, when Rob Wright beat the high score on Galaga or Gattaca or whatever you call it.

(NOTE: It surfaced later that the groupie and her “boyfriend” with the camera were just playing a joke on me afterall. The guy got it all on video tape, and did it as a sort of documentary for a film class.)

July 28, 2002
Mystic Theatre & Music Hall
Dallas, TX

Wow, what an honor it was to play at the same place They Might Be Giants played only like a week before I did. Having my name across the big marquee on the front of the place was really the first sign that I actually have made it big.

When we got there and loaded in, the soundman was a total bastard and wouldn’t even let me on the stage. He kept looking at me like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I walked right up to him and got in his face, and said, “Hi, my name is Sir Millard Mulch and Trey Spruance of Mr. Bungle is a fan of my music,” and handed him a CD out of my backpack. He took it and acted surprised, and shook my hand, and asked me if I needed anything. It’s amazing how you can getting treated like a king in some town you’ve never been in if you just use your industry clout.

Citrone was still camping out in the van, and was whining about how we got to the show 2 hours ahead of schedule…apparently he was mad that he could have used that time to shop for hippy clothes or something. I suggested he walk down to some of the thrift stores in the area, as Dallas has a little area called Ellum, and I knew it was around there somewhere. He looked at me like I was totally insane, and turned to his best buddy Walt (our soundman) and said, “Come on, Walt. I like you. Let’s go get some vegetarian food. We don’t eat animals,” and the two of them departed.

A couple of kids started to show up and ask questions and give me CDR’s. I was having a pretty bad attack of low-blood sugar, and pretty much just rudely walked away from them. I told them I have soundcheck to do or something and walked down the block to a payphone and called Maureen.

Later, the soundman comes running out the back door where we are parked and starts yelling that the show is going to get shut down. He’s pointing towards the front of the place and is in some kind of panic. I go running in there, trying to get through the crowd and try to get to the ticket box to find the owner, who was a complete jerk earlier. Kids are grabbing me. He’s standing in front of the place with his arms in the air like some kind of messiah, and telling all the kids to go home. They’re getting really rowdy. They see me and swarm. They pick me up on top of the crowd and all run into the place, right past the bouncers and security guards. I’m laughing my ass off, but kinda scared. Is this some kind of weird Cacophony Society thing again?

They throw me up onto the stage, and I look over to see Citrone looking really mad, as usual. He’s yelling at me, but I can’t make out the words. The crowd is throwing paper cups and are so loud it is deafening. Finally I look down and see that I forgot to write him a set list. I don’t know why this frustrates him so much, since every show we play the same 10 songs, and we’ve been on tour for over 3 weeks now. He grabs me and pushes me down, I land on my wrist wrong and feel pain shoot up my arm. I am so mad I almost grab a mic stand and beat the crap out of him.

He grabs a mic and starts into this tirade about how I am irresponsible, unprofessional, never going to go anywhere, and that he can never tell when I am joking. He tells the audience that no one is every going to appreciate what I do, and that I can’t just go around pissing people off.

I grab my bass and walk out of there, get in the van, and drive up the street. I feel like just driving home. I call Devin and he is sleeping, of course. I tell him what’s going on and he seems not at all surprised and just says, “OK.” I tell him, “OK,” and get off the phone and drive some more. I was so angry at that point that I almost called the tour off.

I drove through a Taco Bell Drive Thru and I thought it was gonna take forever. Walt calls while I am sitting there and asks me what’s up. I tell him I am pissed, and he says something along the lines of, “You should have thought of that before we started this tour, but now you are stuck with it so you gotta deal.” I tell him I am just getting some food and will be back shortly.

I sit in this parking lot of a Safeway and feel like total hell. I don’t know why everything always falls apart like this. I hear something in the back of the van and get startled, and whip around to see it is Harold, just waking up. I had no idea he was in there. He sits up, nods to me, strokes his goatee, and looks out the window to see where we are. I laugh. He asks, “Is that Taco Bell?” and I tell him “yes.” He says, “Aowh!” and rubs his hands together, jumps out the side door of the van, and runs towards Taco Bell. I sit there and be angry, reciting Ani DiFranco lyrics in my head. He comes back a few minutes later with tons of food and a huge drink. I have no idea where he gets the money to buy all this food, since he didn’t go on this tour with any money, and still here he is living like a king.

I shake my head, laugh, and decide if I can just be more like Harold, maybe I can make it through the rest of the tour. Harold doesn’t know I am paying Citrone $1200 a week. With this show cancelled, it’s gonna put a big ‘ol dent in my credit card for absolutely no reason. If Citrone hates the situation so much, I dunno why he bothers to come back for more. I wonder why he would go through with doing a whole month-long tour.

We drive back to the venue and Walt & Citrone are sitting outside the place with the gear. I hope to avoid the promoter and just get out of there. A few kids are crowded around Walt & Citrone, asking questions. Citrone won’t talk to me, and Walt is just interested in getting the hell out of there. We have a 24-hour drive to Seattle ahead of us, and Walt is gonna drive all night. He has this friend there who owns an emo label and is gonna put us up for the night. Walt arranges all the gear in the back of the van in ways that would make James Pitts jealous. Kids give me more CDR’s, and a couple cool comic books. Harold tries picking up some teenage girls with tons of piercings and weird hair.

I take shotgun, and Citrone and Harold go straight to sleep in the back seats. I think Walt is mad at me, but can’t really tell. I sit there and stare out the window most of the night. I hate living in a van. We stop at some gas station and I buy horrible chocolate cookie bread things.

July 29, 2002
Motel Room
Near Boise, Idaho

I could have killed Harold tonight. He shoplifted Vodka from a gas station and insisted on drinking it in the van. Citrone and Walt told him to throw it out, so he chucked it out the window and almost hit a cop car. Luckily there wasn’t a cop in the car (it was parked) and we got the hell out of there.

July 30, 2002
Roy Hatters Music Hall
Seattle, WA

We ran into Michelle Branch at a McDonald’s here. She seemed really upset. I pressed my luck and gave her a CD. To my surprise she was a big fan of mine, and she told me that just by coincidence her bassist was sick that day and she was upset she had to cancel a show, as it was her birthday, and asked me, “Will you PLEASE play bass in my band tonight?” Needless to say, I went ahead and cancelled our show, at a crappy coffee house up the street and showed up at Roy Hatters Music Hall with my bass. The rest of the guys went out to see some movie or something.

As usual, it was a total fiasco trying to get into the show. I told the dumb ass bouncer that I was playing bass in Michelle’s band tonight, and would you please let me in so I can tune my bass, hurry up because my fingers are freezing and they need time to thaw out. After grabbing the keyboard player by the back of the shirt as he walked by and almost getting tackled by his bodyguard in the process, I explained to the bloke that I was indeed the bassist they needed tonight. After shaking my hand and apologizing, Ted, as he turned out to be named, led me through the labyrinth of deli trays and make-up artists to Michelle’s dressing room, where she was warming up her vocal chords by singing scales. I entered, embarrassed, and she stopped and smiled at me, warmly. She walked over, gave me a hug, and “Thank you, Millard Mulch, for showing up…this is probably my best birthday present so far!” Speechless, I pointed to my bass case and she signaled to one of her roadies to come and tune it up for me and set me up. She offered me some Cheeto’s, and we hung around and talked for a while before heading out and watching the opening band from a special balcony to the side of the stage. The rest of her band and a couple of her friends joined us.

The opener was this extremely talented girl from Birmingham named Teresa Sinbad who won a radio competition some months ago and ended up getting signed to the same talent agency that manages Michelle. Michelle said this girl might be getting signed to Maverick, but not to tell anyone. I ordered a Sprite.

After a few songs a guy with a big flashlight walked up and indicated it was time for us to get ready for showtime. I must admit, I have never been this nervous. We stood there, and as Teresa Sinbad came off stage, Michelle shook her hand and posed for a picture with some other people from the radio station that was sponsoring the show.

Michelle’s manager or something (a woman with a clipboard) said through a walky-talky to kill the lights, and I never heard such an uproar. Thousands of kids were screaming in excitement. We all got escorted onto the stage by the same guy with the flashlight. I found by bass, but realized I forgot my sunglasses in my backpack. I ran back across the stage, almost tripping over some midi cables and found them just in time to run back out as the lights came up and Michelle started strumming the intro chords to “Everywhere.” I was so nervous I could barely stand up, and I didn’t even wanna look out at the audience. I stood there, trying to remember how the songs went as best I could. I tried to calm myself by just staring into the stage lights. The bass rig (Hartke) they had there was enormous and expensive looking, but still sounded nothing like Larry’s.

I made it through the show playing every note perfectly. I had luckily listened to the album just about every day through headphones on this stinkin’ tour. This is the most important show I have ever played, and would love it if my shows went this well.

Turns out I ended up appearing in the meet & greet after the show. They cleared the whole place out except for like 20 lucky fans and let everyone into this side room. I got a lot of weird looks, but got just as many ladies look at me, thinking I was cool. They asked me a million questions about Michelle. I had to tell them I had honestly just met her in a McDonalds today and it was my first time playing with the band. They looked at me like I was insane, and kept asking about my glasses. Some of them gave me their e-mail addresses. I didn’t know what to say. I signed some CD’s that I never played on. (As if that’s anything new!) Michelle’s manager got me a taxi to go home right after the brief meet & greet, as Michelle & band would be flying straight from here to Japan to start a tour there.

I went back to Scotty’s house (Walt’s friend with the emo label) and there was a huge party going on. I exchanged brief niceties with my bandmates and went out to the van and slept, kinda.

July 31, 2002
The Dockside Cafe
Portland, OR

Woke up feeling pretty sick at around 7. Walked down to some horrible bagel shop and bought an orange juice to try and get rid of my sore throat. Chris Higgins called my cellphone about 5 minutes later and told me Tom Green was in town and wanted to know if I could meet them for a late lunch and go out on Tom’s boat. I hate boats, and I hate Tom Green even more, but I hadn’t seen Chris in a long time, so I figured what the heck.

Everyone else got up around 8 and showered and we drove down to Portland. Harold was holding us up forever, he kept demanding to stop at a 7-11 for a Slurpee. Walt tried to calm him down but he kept insising. After stopping at about 30 different exits we finally found a 7-11, but the Slurpee Machine was broken or something. Harold kicked it, flipped the clerk off, and walked out of the place. The clerk mouthed off to him and Harold acted tough and we left. I don’t know how to control Harold’s temper sometimes.

We got to Portland around 4:00, loaded in our gear and as usual the rest of the band split to go and get something to eat. I took a cab over and met Chris and Tom and we sat on a damn boat and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The thing about Tom I don’t like is that he is extremely boring in person, except for the fact that he asks me 1000 questions. I kinda made some excuses that I needed to work on some guitar arrangements with Harold and Chris & I headed back over to The Dockside. Tom said he’d meet up with us later. Why is it that annoying people always follow me around?

The show went OK, and I am mainly just looking forward to getting to San Francisco so I can hang out with my friends and relax. The distance between me and my bandmates seems to be getting greater and greater. They are spending more and more time away from me. That’s fine, because I have plenty of other people to hang out with. It’s not like I don’t see enough of them in the van every day.

August 1, 2002
Bottom Of The Hill
San Francisco, CA

We played at Bottom Of The Hill tonight with Mike Watt. The place was strangely empty, except for a few people, including Trey. We made a deal that I’d help him play a huge prank when I move out here in September. I had a sore throat from sleeping in the van with the window open last night. Ralph brought some copies of his autobiography that Alternative Tentacles is publishing. It’s a cool book, and I took some time after soundcheck to flip through it while Trey and I ate some Indian food downtown. Trey says it is probably the best book written about a rock band in the past ten years. I am looking forward to reading it.

Watt put on a great show. I got to sit on the stage, next to his cabinet. I thought I was gonna crap in my pants. Some of those low notes are insane, Thunderbroom and all.

So anyway, I don’t know why there weren’t many people there. It’s odd how the rest of the band seems to completely not want to be around me most of the day, except for Harold, who sometimes tags along. He keeps asking me if Citrone is bisexual.

SandwichGirl showed up at this show and I gave her a free T-shirt. I really hope there are more people at tomorrow’s show.

August 2, 2002
Great American Music Hall
San Francisco, CA

Les Claypool called me last night and he said he’d be at the show. I invited him to show up and we’d do a duet, since we hadn’t actually been able to get together musically in all the years we’ve known each other.

It was fun getting to hang out with Larry and Ralf from Victims Family, too. We hung out and went to this little Mexican restaurant on Haight Street that has these excellent Burritos for under $3. Puffy from Faith No More walked in while we were eating. I congratulated him on getting the Ozzy gig, since I know he was a fan from way back, probably before I was born. Harold almost bugged the hell out of Puffy about it. Walt had to go back in and get him after we all walked out.

Citrone was in a rotten mood as usual, and went off for most of the day shopping for clothes in Haight and some vegetables in the Mission. He had some article to write for a newspaper and stayed up the entire previous night typing on my laptop. It was a nice thing to have him shut up and stop singing at the top of his lungs. He gets into these annoying moods and sings really loud. Harold thinks he’s hilarious. I know he is just doing it to annoy me.

Halfway through our set tonight, I broke a bass string. It was definitely a first. Citrone laughed and threw water at me. What is it with
drummers?

Before the show Walt got in a huge argument with the promoter over the placement of some huge snake or something. Walt got out his huge flashlight and was running all over the place, yelling at the guy. I guess the guy realized Walt already had a few beers in him and that he wasn’t gonna back down.

When Les walked out on stage during my keyboard solo the audience went apeshit. I dunno what it is about that guy, but he’s got the magic. I’m just lucky to be able to steal some. We did this bizarre duet, him on this weird one-string bass that he plays with a drumstick and me on my PSR.

Trey didn’t come to tonight’s show for some reason. Either that or I just didn’t see him. When we were talking last night after the show he said he might be making an appearance again. I saw Mike Patton out in the crowd though, smiling, as usual. Having so many famous and unique musicians in one town can definitely work to your advantage when you are as opportunistic as I am.

I guess people would rather just see one show in the same town. To my surprise, tonight’s show was sold out and we sold our entire stock of T-shirts, and over 100 CD’s. Nothing like a warm welcome from my flavorite city in the world.

August 3, 2002
Day Off
San Francisco, CA

We decided we’d allocate just a day off in San Francisco to hang out. Harold kept talking about how he was gonna find some weird “Trey Spruance” amps at pawn shops. Well, unfortunately he did. He found this bizarre contraption that looks like it should be attached to the head of Locutus or something. It’s just got an input, an output, and a button that doesn’t seem to do anything but make it sound worse. It’s small enough to fit in a brown lunch bag (he was actually carrying it in one), but he is convinced this is what is going to give him that Trey Spruance sound. It’s got one tiny speaker on it about the size of a headphone speaker. At Larry’s house he plugged it in and it was awful. He plays all these blues licks through it and is totally excited. I pull Walt aside and tell him we have GOT to do something about this. Harold is so stupid for trading a $700 amp for this weird little box that sounds like hell. He insists that if you mic it with a good condenser it’ll sound great. Ugh. Harold just won’t let up, no matter how much Walt and I tell him there is no way in hell it is gonna sound good. We’re gonna look like idiots. I figure once we play a show and he sees how bad it is he’ll get rid of the damn thing. I have a Pod with me, so he can use that in a total emergency. So we’re not completely screwed. Citrone thinks the box is cool and encourages Harold to try it out. Idiot.

August 4, 2002
Chapman University
Orange, CA

Our appearance on Chapman University’s radio show ended up cancelled because Harold locked the keys in the van about 30 minutes outside of Los Angeles. Luckily, it started raining, too. It’s like 8 p.m. As luck will have it, after AAA came and we got back on the road, completely soaked and barely enough time to make our appearance, we blew a tire and spun out onto the median. We get out to try and put the spare on, but the spare was flat. Citrone starts cussing at me and pushes me down into the mud. Harold gets between us, and things get really ugly. Walt is sitting shotgun, wrapped in a blanket and seeming to sleep, probably in anger. Citrone and I yell at each other for about 5 minutes and we decide to ask Walt if we can use his cellphone again to call AAA. He says he thinks the battery is dead and doesn’t even wanna check. Great. So we sit there a while and a Highway Patrol comes by and shines lights on us. A few moments later a firetruck, an ambulance, and another 3 cops pull up, all with sirens. We all feel like idiots as people come running up to the van. We wave our arms and say we are OK, we are all alright, but they can’t hear us over the sirens. The van IS covered with mud and looks pretty bad. Two firemen are running towards the van with axes. Walt gets freaked out and gets out of the van. Cops swarm him. He starts cussing at them, and they wrestle him to the ground. More cops pull guns out on me, Citrone, and Harold. I just about shit my pants. It seems they are saying down on the ground. I fall down in the mud face first and start crying. One of them tackles me and forces my arms behind my back. I hear glass shattering, apparently one of the firemen smashed the driver’s side window. More cops show up. They are yelling something at us, but we can’t hear them over the sirens. This is totally unreal, and I don’t think I have ever been so scared in my life.

They throw each of us into a cop car and proceed to completely dismantle all our road cases right there in the rain. All our stuff is getting wet. They’re digging through our backpacks and clothes. I look out the other window of the cop car, and Citrone is just staring at me, angrily. A cop walks up and bangs the window with his fist, and Citrone starts yelling and banging his head on the window. The cop rolls his eyes and walks away. We sit there for hours. They bring out dogs, dudes in huge black puffy suits, helicopters are flying around, and newscasters are starting to show up. I try to ask people what is happening, but they won’t tell me. I have never had to pee so bad.

After several hours of wondering what the hell is going on, the cop in the front seat of the car I am in hears something on the radio to the effect that they’ve got the wrong guys, in special cop radio code, whatever it is. The cop gets on the loud speaker and relays the message to his “team” and they all drop our stuff, open the doors, undo the handcuffs, and drive away, in an instant. By now all the ambulances are gone, as are the firetrucks.

We all stand there completely in shock over what just happened, trying to piece it back together. They must have thought we were terrorists or something. I think we went into a state of denial, except for Harold, who was grabbing big piles of mud and throwing them at the cop cars as they drove away. Walt calms Harold down and we call AAA again. We put all our gear back away while we wait for AAA. About 90 minutes later, the same guy shows up and says, “Bad, night, huh?” and is a total annoying moron.

He tows us out of the mud and puts the Death Shuttle onto his truck and drives us, all 5 of us, crammed in the front seat of his truck, to a 24-hour tire place outside of Los Angeles. Only in Los Angeles. Citrone gives Harold a kiss on the face and Harold gets all huffy and wants out of the truck. Walt gets pissed and tells everyone to grow up.

We buy another tire on Walt’s Imprint credit card, and get a huge stack of paper towels from the bathroom and proceed to dry our gear off. Harold starts insisting that he gets a shower right away. It’s like 5 a.m. Walt tells him we’ll be in a motel soon, he can take one there. Harold says, “No way, I can’t wait that long” and grabs his suitcase and heads to the bathroom. We all look at each other and shrug and go back to drying our stuff off.

We get to a Motel 6 at the next exit and sleep for about 2 hours. Citrone wakes everyone up by singing in the shower loudly. There’s that damn annoying singing again. “Lalalalalalalalalalala. LALALALALALALA.” I walk over and sit in the lobby for a while and read travel brochures.

Walt pulls the van around and we get in and drive off towards Los Angeles. I go to sleep in the back, and Citrone takes shotgun. He turns on the most incredibly annoying funk hippy music you have ever heard. I think it was that annoying Lollypop JellyBone band he always listens to. Awful. Tape and cardboard are flapping in the wind on the window that was busted out. What a tour.