
EDS NOTE: Entry #2, from Zack of the Ex-Girlfriends. You should listen to them right here,
and then read on! —Kelly O
"We wake up to two pugs named Dave Grohl and Chris Shiflett, taking turns sitting on our foreheads. Our first show is in Ikebukuro, at a bar called The Manhole—a tiny smoky basement bar beneath an optometrist's office. All six bands get a 20-minute sound check (that the other bands watch, dutifully) followed by a meeting that apparently happens before every show, wherein each band is introduced to everyone in a huge circle, and then they welcome us to Japan. The level of commitment here is humbling—playing a show is a seven or eight hour chunk out of the day, not the two or three hour stumble-into-the-Comet Tavern shit that we're used to. Every band we play with is incredibly polished. Before the show, we go to a bar to eat, and our waitress comes out with a live squid in a bag for our approval as she brings our drinks. We nod like we know what the fuck we're looking at, and half an hour later it comes out, sliced up and raw. Halfway through picking meat off it's back, a stray chopstick pokes the squid in the face, and Pete swears he sees it move. We ask if its still alive, and our friend Yuto says, "Just a little bit."

Our show is amazing, everybody's super-enthusiastic. Afterwards we go to an after-party—called "uchiage"—that's all-you-can-drink-AND-eat for 25 bucks. They teach us how to yell "SIT ON MY FACE" in Japanese. We get tanked and video tape a urinal with a built-in video game that measures the volume of pee in the bowl."
Quote of the day "There is nothing like a bidet to wash the shame of beer shits off your ass."—Mike Loftus
EDS NOTE: Entry #1, from Mike of the Ex-Girlfriends. You should listen to them right here,
and then read on! —Kelly O
When we got to Narita, after a short wait, our friend Hiroki drove us straight to a punk show, where he fed us many Budweisers.
Let it be known, that we hadn't eaten in quite some time. The possibly least responsible member of our band proceeded to get smashed. Chris fell in love with a super sexy bass player, and was super pissed when we made him leave." —Mike, guitar
Quote of the day: "The best part about people thinking you're Kurt Cobain is that when you can't get it up, you don't have to be embarrassed—you can just pin that shit on him" —Chris, drums

You might recall that the last time I hit the road with Shabazz Palaces, I wrote a couple tour diary entries on Line Out; well, I really don't have time to do that this time, but I can definitely tell you that the shows with The Helio Sequence (I love these dudes) have ranged anywhere from cool to a-fuckin-mazing, that our spin through Florida was a much-needed holiday in the sun, and that my music selecting in the van has been pretty damn good, as usual. Long drives have given me an excuse to play, besides a great deal of Prince's and Lil B's catalogue, all of Alone/Together, that Karriem Riggins album from last year that I never peeped:

But I clearly remember his vague resemblance to Iggy Pop—long hair, gently weathered face—and his boyish friendliness. I also remember the music playing on his car stereo: fuzzy, stripped-down, bluesy rock 'n' roll that wrapped its hazy arms around vocals that were half-sung and half-spoken, which also bore a resemblance to Iggy Pop. I leaned forward and asked the driver who it was.
"That's me!" he said, smiling. At the end of the ride, he handed me two home-burned CDs, pulled out a marker, and signed them "Ted Narcotic."
I remember a few other cab rides with Ted over the years—he's a memorable guy—and, one recent rainy night, I hailed a cab downtown. It was Ted. He drove a friend and me home while playing another one of his songs, this one with a glazed, tinkling piano/guitar combination that sounded like the Velvet Underground. As he gunned up a hill, his voice warbled over the speakers: "You say you want something wholesome... Well, I'm reading your letters from a prison cell. Is that wholesome? I'm stuck in Folsom."
At that moment, he made a hard but smooth left turn, cutting in front of oncoming traffic that a nonprofessional might have paused for. "Nice," my friend said. "My turn?" Ted asked, grinning into the rearview mirror. "Or my turn of phrase?"
San Diego: We smoked DMT and smeared blood onto ourselves. A big Mexican guy kept screaming at Steve the whole set and calling him a faggot. It got heated and slightly physical. Steve gave him the mic and started throwing saliva at him. He swung the mic at Steve. I grabbed him around his head and security threw him out. He bitched and moaned at us the whole time we loaded out. When he asked Omar Rodriguez Lopez for a signature, Omar signed his name then scribbled it out while saying very evil things in Spanish.
Did the DMT make u feel like you were on a tropical beach?
Yes. Nick entered into a geometric world of shapes. 3D hexagons and tetrahedron spheres.
Describe the beach. Was Steve nude?
There was no beach. Steve didn't do it. He watched.

On the way to work this morning, the Shuffle gave me this:
That bass is the perfect sound for walking to work on an overcast autumn morning.
Yesterday it was The Briefs, today it was the Overton Berry Trio. The Shuffle must be in a local mood.

This past Friday, I drove the wrong way on I-90 for two and half hours. Mad Rad and SOTA were in Bozeman, MT and we had a show in Spokane, WA. Instead of going west, I went east, toward Billings and the Dakotas. I had no idea. Nor did any of the seven others in the van. It was raining hard, the wipers were on high, I was in a tunnel of road doing 80 mph on cruise control, and making good time (going the wrong direction). We were listening to Radiohead and Lymbyc Systym. Thom Yorke will do that. He’ll lock you into to a highway, whatever direction you’re headed. I would have kept going too, for another quarter of a tank, had people not needed to pee. The day, like the music, was grey and muzzled. Clouds and mist hung from the hills. I had manipulated the van sleekly through traffic and massive grim tankers, through the pouring rain and wind. Satisfied such good time was being made.
I walked into the gas station mini mart to go to the bathroom and look for wasabi peas, and asked the attendant how far to Spokane, expecting to hear an agreeable distance. Like 4 hours. The woman behind the counter (who looked like Shelley Duvall from The Shining) said, “10 hours.” I said, “No, Spokane, Washington.” And Shelley Duvall said, “Yeah, like 10 hours. You’re pretty much in Billings.” She was strange and overly generous, as if she wanted us to stay, and play doctor with her. We should have only had 4 more hours to go. She had to have been wrong so I took out my phone to GPS it. The GPS would make everything straight. My GPS said, “540 Miles. 8 hours and 39 minutes.” (Don’t know where she got 10 hours from.) Oh my fuck.

An antler hunter shot a sow grizzly bear in the Blackfoot-Clearwater Wildlife Management Area on Sunday. The antler hunter was not Terry Radjaw. An unidentified Missoula man encountered the bear and two cubs near the Boyd Loop Road. People were in the vicinity and they saw the bear come after the guy. FWP game wardens determined the sow's death was justifiable self-defense.
The second bear death involved a 2-year-old grizzly that had killed chickens earlier Saturday and returned to the same property three miles east of Ronan late in the afternoon. The bear was then shot by the landowner. There is a huge increase in chicken production in the Mission Valley and the bears have keyed into unprotected chicken coops.
In non-bear news, Missoula's Total Fest Music Festival is happening August 18 - 20. Ten years and running. Get there. The Palace is an excellent venue to play. Justin the soundman is the man. He dials in golden levels, is nice as hell, and accommodates your every audible need. Now I'm going to go try to find out what an antler hunter is.
((More Missoula pictures after jumping, including one of a Glow in the Dark Tickler Ring dispensing machine.))
((Pictures of our journey to Towelie after jump. See Darwin sleeping on the beach in LA, and see the guy who tapped his balls when he woke up. His name was Horacio, and he wore a suit for 365 days straight.))
We had to get on the road though. There was whining from that member of our group who now has a tumblr devoted to his trademark intoxicated ridiculousness (of which I've now seen epic examples of. "Now get in the fucking van," I quoted for the tenth time this trip; it's a snippet of Jeff Goldblum dialogue from Deep Cover that's in a great De La song.
Crossing the bridge as the sun and the water were freaking each other off fantastically, iPhone selecta yours truly threw this on, one of my very favorite Womack tracks. I love when he starts involving the "little engineer" in the song on the third verse, or just starts talking about whatever like he always does. It was a hit in this van. A night off in beautiful Winnamucca, NV awaits us; tomorrow, a show in that very sexy and tolerant city of Boise, ID. Later.

Larry. I have to pee. Can you pass me back that Gatorade bottle up there?

I am sitting behind Larry Mizell in a van. We are driving from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Mad Rad:Mash Hall mobile to next show. I-5 N. Window vision is highway conveyer belt. Buffalo Madonna dropped a chicken sandwich in the van a couple nights ago. The van smells like chicken sandwich. And Venice Beach.
I have been staring at Larry's hair for a long time now. I see faces. It's like being at the laser dome, only different. Larry has amazing hair. Inside Larry's hair is a planet of hip hop data, acumen, and insight. If I was to cut off a curl and eat it, I would turn into Wikipedia. I am now going to play with Larry's hair. And touch him on the right shoulder.
Larry, I can't believe we are in the very same van, ON THE VERY SAME BLOG. I am blogging about you right now. This is a ripple in time and space and Taco Bell. What are you listening to? Describe it in three words. What do you see out the window? What is your favorite ghetto-tech album of all time. What were you thinking about just now, before blogging in response to my blogging that we're on the same blog. What is your favorite Lionel Ritchie song?
There was a problem at the show in Las Vegas. A disagreement? Misunderstanding? Words were spoken. Darwin had started DJ’ing, and apparently it “wasn’t hip hop enough” for the house DJ. So Darwin cut the track and went with the Chris Brown song “Look at Me Now” featuring Busta Ryhmes and Lil Wayne. That wasn’t hip hop enough either. Or maybe it was too hip hop. The promoter of the show, (Vanilla Ice white guy in dreads who was a “rapper”) had a problem with the Chris Brown. More words were spoken. The people at the club were, how you say, “Being complete dickheads.” So we bolted. No show was played. Sometimes you have to make that call.
Vegas is active. Radjaw fell in a lake at the Bellagio (with his phone), P Smoov got a concussion, Buffalo and Darwin rode mechanical bulls. There were 136 oz frozen drinks called The Scorpion Bowl. Radjaw later put his phone in a bag of rice to whisk the moisture out. In casinos, 85 year-olds attached themselves to slot machines. Vegas sex workers work. Vampires are in. Cover bands play Barry Manilow into the Eagles into Guns n Roses with head set mics and pony-tails. At one point we were walking around trying to find a buffet in the broad day heat of early afternoon. Buffalo says being in Las Vegas is like bouncing around in a pinball machine trying to get the high score. Larry Mizell and djBlesOne from Mash Hall are here, saving all. Don’t Talk to the Cops (their other thing) is hopping with cuts. Larry is the Speaker of the House, his mind is a Rolodex of info, facts, and knowhow. And no one this side of the Mississippi puts down better upright Bboy dance work than Bles. His collection of moves and footwork is a regal gangly hurricane mirage.
Back to van world, Biggie Smalls Ready to Die is the travelling musical companion, coating curves in the road, flattening the land, a juggernaut un-fraught. Biggie-beats are funk based blastings.”Bullets heat seaking.” Even dollops of cadent scroll-words. Rhymes cut before and after beats, knot tied, moat-meaty throated.
Larry is reading Occult America by Mitch Horowitz. “The secret history of how mysticism shaped our nation.” He could be starting a cult. I ask if it has anything to do with Whitney Houston. He says no.
Darwin pees in a Gatorade bottle. *Desert Mist* Gatorade bottles make for good pee receptacles. But during the fill phase, there is always the, “Oh my God what if I have more pee than the allotted bottle can hold?” Cause pinching off ain’t fun.
((See Pictorials After Jump.))
This is part of an ongoing series in which Seattle duo Brain Fruit travel through India, Istanbul, and Berlin. You can find all the previous entries here. —Eds.

A Saturday night in Taksim, Istanbul turned into an unexpected Persian/Turkish birthday party starring the ever-so-talented house band Tatavla Keyfi! On the suggestion of Olympia/Seattle's own Ian Ackerman (pictured above right, now a resident of Istanbul), we climbed three flights of stairs in a dark alley and emerged into a club no larger than a standard-one bedroom apartment. Unfortunately, the name of the club eludes me due to the alcohol-induced brain damage we sustained over the next five hours. Anyway, the club was completely full and we were immediately identified as foreigners/non-turkish speaking freaks. The first two questions we were asked were "Do you have a reservation?" (We didn't) and "How did you find this place?"
Luckily, the band's manager overheard the conversation and quickly came to our rescue by seating us at her table. Little did we know that we'd just been sat in the INSANE PARTY ZONE. The 49 year-old Persian woman at the table was visiting for her birthday and special arrangements had been made to make it her best. After a few beers/Rokis, any awkwardness melted away and we were all hugging, dancing, and drinking. Some old Turkish men broke it down, hands above their head, feet stomping to music half the speed of any western dance music. Soon everybody was gettin' down to some crazy saz shredding/accordian pumping goodness. The 5x10' dance floor was filled with people hands over shoulders doing a stompy circular can can. We left at 3 am when the food poisoning from earlier that day started kicking in. Hell and a cab ride later, our hostel beds welcomed us with pissed danish teens aplenty. The next two days were spent shitting water every 20 minutes and choking down fruit and powerade. Was it worth it? HELL YES. As no photos were captured at this event, please enjoy some evil photos I took in the underground Basilica Cistern instead:


This is part of an ongoing series in which Seattle duo Brain Fruit travel through India, Istanbul, and Berlin. You can find all the previous entries here. —Eds.
Flourescent lighting in bars is hilarious. Who needs that flattering darkness with a heavy red hue? I want to be able to see all the irritated pores on my friends' faces as they sip a piss-colored 650ml foil-labeled Thunderbolt. Other highlights included cafeteria-style seating and a urinal that looked like it got diarrhead on 15 years ago. When flushing the toilet, I couldn't help but be reminded of that one time I stuck my fingers into a booth cushion at the Cha Cha.
The prices were right; I might actually go back there. Plus, I really need a photo of a baggy-pants Indian bro with a goatee and mullet wafting his polo shirt back and forth in front of the air conditioner. Lighten up those sweaty pits do.
JC/BBO, WMTS shout.
This is part of an ongoing series in which Seattle duo Brain Fruit travel through India, Istanbul, and Berlin. You can find all the previous entries here. —Eds.

After a few weeks of Indian food, you need a break here and there. Ronald, Where Y'at!? Happy Holi from McDonalds, it's time to go to the local fancy American restaurant. Seriously, this Indian McDonalds was fancy pants. Two floors—what?!

Even though we'd cleaned ourselves of Holi for a second time, we still looked like some sort of giant, bloody zombie foreigners. We quickly ordered a pair of Chicken Maharaja Mac meals and a single Mc Aloo Tikki burger (?!!??!) and retreated to a nearby booth. The Maharaja was exactly like a Big Mac, but the patties were all smooth/white/subtly spiced. I'm still not sure exactly what the Mc Aloo Tikki was, but we think it was some sort of dal masala curry patty thing. Weirdest fast food award. I feel satisfied that I can go yet another 10 years without McDonalds.

Q: Indian spiced fried chicken?
A: Does chili go with cheese?
I smell Indian KFC in our future.