In Columbia, MO. Tour delirium has come and passed. I’m tired but, ultimately, feel clear and happy.

We drove all night from Oklahoma City. There have been lots of nights like this: driving all night, each of us, except the driver and a chosen keep-awake cohort, sequestered in his or her bunk, dreaming the ride away. I’ve been having crazy dreams, I think, as a result of the night-long stretches of sensory deprivation; the dreams of Major Tom, the lonely space-voyager: emerald-green pools filled with nude bejeweled women, and my father bursting in the vaulted marble room to deliver a dancing musical sermon straight from Jesus Christ Superstar; Bruce Hornsby arranging a meeting with me on a street-corner in Harlem to discuss the possibilities of our touring together, and when we get to the subject of our mutual love for Neil Young, my mouth fills up with the soggy loam of a forest floor; our bus flipping on Broad Street in Athens, and me moaning over the corpse of my splintered 12-string and my destroyed Tanpura-box.

Everyone is having these deeply colorful dreams of tumult. Kate Burnet suggests that maybe it’s the exhaust we’re all breathing.

Reading the coolest book right now: Julian Cope’s Japrock nerd-out (ed. note: Japrocksampler). Badass: an esoteric dive into the Oriental psych/noise I’ve been obsessed with lately and an astute history lesson on the evolution of the postcolonial Japanese mind. The subject matter is making me yearn even harder to skronk and wheeze rather than strut and rawk. Wanna play some out-there shit, some terror-noise, when I get home. Butoh meets The Butthole Surfers.

Got it after we picked up a surprise acoustic show at this amazing bookstore in West Hollywood. It was killer. My old bud Anthony Berryman hooked it up after our second LA-area show fell through. Played with an Australian noise duo called Naked on the Vague and local youngsters Black Black, whose members included one or more scion of the guitarist from Bauhaus! They were great: these skinny little waifs dressed in ornate costumes who sounded like The Archies covering Joy Division’s first record. And since it was Mother’s Day, and their moms were present, of course, they did a thoroughly inept version of The Carpenter’s “Close to You.” It was killer!

Our version of Ayler’s “Bells” knocked the crowd out, and I was stoked to find they dug even our acousto-redneck skronk-pysch. We sold some merch, the owner loved us and gave us discounts on his amazing stock, and he even bought some LPs for his store. One of my favorite shows thus far for sheer novelty and surprise. The place was called Family and you should check it out. They had everything I’d ever want to buy, book-and-movie-wise, and the owner was a sweetheart.

The West Coast treated us great. In Seattle, all the punters knew our songs, sang along, and I got crowd-surfed. Rowdy night. Stayed with my cousin and virtual little-brother Chris on the outskirts of town. Got way too O-minded that night, too, thanks to him.

In Portland we recorded a secret cover-song for a split 7-inch with Atlas Sound that should be coming out this summer. The engineer was this great audiophile supernerd named Nicholas Taplin, who was unafraid to work 15 hours straight, all night, on the tune. I did my vocals after my 85th beer, as the sun came up above the river outside the warehouse space. Got that feel, you dig?

Then, next night, we did a great show at a fancy lounge/hotel nearby, and we incensed the crowd to the point where they actually physically assaulted me, and I puked on stage as a result, and then we got called up for an encore!

We then spent a day in the redwoods and around Arcata with some dirtbags. It was great - hanging by campfires then wandering around lost in the dark primordial forests.

The San Fran show was sold out, though, sadly, we didn’t play with my faves Thee Oh Sees as once was planned. Dwyer and his crew leave for Europe soon, and they wanted the time to prepare. The show was loud as fuck and sloppy, and the crowd went batshit. I was drunk and blinded my the stagelights, and knew not what was going on, really, which probably contributed mightily to the sense of disorientation our ridiculous volume and fatigue-statures smeared all over the junkies and drunks crammed into that room.

Next day, kicking it in SF was amazing. I love that city. I got to hang with Dwyer a whole bunch, and he played me some of the new Oh Sees jams, which are amazing and heavy and psyched-the-fuck-out. He also dropped me the DVD that Tomlab just released, of them playing in weird stageless locales across SF. It’s beautifully shot, and it’s got non-album versions of old jams. That band is stone-great, and you should check out the film, called Thee Hounds of Foggy Notion. It’s the kill, straight up, and it comes with an audio soundtrack CD that includes an old Scottish ballad I can’t get enough of called “The Highland Wife’s Lament,” which, incidentally, was sung by Brett Elkland’s fine ass in The Wicker Man, also starring Christopher Lee! Boo-yah!

I had time, too, to climb Buena Vista park, eat a hamburger, and still hook up with this art-collective who filmed us playing acoustic on the bus, and then marching around The Haight playing our shit and some Ayler-jams, parade-style. It was amazing, and I think it’s to be featured on a website called something like “Take-Away Shows.” Folks were leaning out of third story windows, playing trumpet and braying along. The film crew was completely blown away, and we can’t wait to see it; we attracted crowds and had to dodge delivery trucks whilst crossing streets and still stay in-key! Keep an eye peeled.

We picked up old Athens homeys Justin Flowers and Nick Givins for the ride to L.A. We had a great time with those old cats, and of course they got in on some jam-action on the couple shows they were present for.

By the time we hit Visalia, though, I was delirious with fever: the once-around “Dark Meat Space Aids” everyone gets while on tour. I barely made it to stage, was about to pass out, and thusly introduced a new crowd-participatory game called “If the Singer Starts to Faint Please Catch Him.” It was a deeply psychedelic show, though, low-key and crazed at the same time, as I was in a weird hallucinogenic state: steadily oozing fluids all the night long, my head adrift with sickness. Everyone said it sounded amazing like it was underwater: constrained and strange and evil.

Then it was LA, where old Athens comrade Brian Buchanon had ready at the venue an enormous painting of an owl, perched behind the stage. I was still sick as all hell, but we brought it nonetheless. Doubtless, the owl helped. Kris and Al got to meet a childhood hero, who was our biggest fan in the club: Norwood, the bassplayer from Fishbone.

I had a great time in L.A. Went to Venice Beach to swim amidst the carnival glass-walkers and the dope-sick teens and the dog owners. Forrest and Tim and SJ even saw - no shit - Governor Schwarzenegger! I swear to God! He was cycling with his daughters, and he nodded to them in recognition as their mouths fell agape in disbelief. When the Governator rode past Forrest, he even heard him say something like “My Butt?” A definite highlight, even for us not involved. Living history, dawg!

Nonmusical highlights, besides Arnie of course, include eating a turkey sammich in the Grand Canyon, swimming in the Pacific some, hitting topless-friendly Barton Springs in beautiful Austin, free food at a lot of places, and hanging with the Quiet Hooves who we met a few days back,

Nonmusical lowlights include the whole of Denver, CO, the rising price of diesel and bus-repair (though it’s running like a top, now), driving straight from Northern Arizona to East Texas being pursued by a goddamn snowstorm the whole time, and faux-sodomizing a douchebag overvigilant bouncer from stage with my guitar, and having to worm my way out of a beatdown as a result. All I can say is: FUCK YOU FORT WORTH, TEXAS!

More later.

Jim McHugh