Omg rly? Yarly. 11/6 12pm No Lover playing with the fabulous LA band Semi Sweet @ R Bar right around the corner from the Wiltern. BUT:

To get in you need a special secret password! The bar only holds 100 people so we’re going to let in those folks who are cool enough to come up to us at the show tomorrow and ask. Or check our twitter feed right after we play at 8! ~~ See you there?

Dustys Fall Tour Video Blog: Week 3

New York to Florida

Track Sticky Blood

From The Sticky Blood EP

EP available at:

thedustys.bandcamp.com/album/sticky-blood

Touch:

myspace.com/thedustysmusic

twitter.com/thedustys

Blog:

thedustys.tumblr.com/

Cut by Rasheed of CromagnonJazz.com

We got people in Boston. We got people in Philly. We got people on the beach in Florida. And you know we got people in DC.

On stage at the Boston House of Blues: “Anyone here from Weymouth? *some applause* Anyone here from Needham? *three dudes go insane cheering* Good towns!”

Met friends in the cold drizzle, across from the photograph that is Fenway. “Carl Sagan called it “America’s Lyric Shoebox,” said one in his Needham accent. It sounded good.

After the Bravery played, the floor of the HOB was ankle-deep in beer and cups. One friend offered us some couches close-by. Unfortunately she didn’t mention the raging college party going on right next to the open curtainless windows of our living room. Banging on the glass, slamming into the wall fighting, screaming at each other about how is bein more ridiculous—this must be how fish feel about their idiot air-breathing feeders.

Philly seems forever away but actually is reached pretty quickly, back through New York’s snarls. The rest of the night was a blur of faces. Old friends drove up from DC to taunt our rockstar airs and travel beards, buying us drinks. Philly connects, family members: buying us drinks. Drinks buy themselves for us. Some of us made the punk rock afterparty, others pass out, others drove back to DC through the sudden mid-atlantic winter.

The first time spent apart the whole tour is in our own beds, alone. Then we gather at the 9:30 Club for our homecoming, discovering we’ve been spared an indignity. The other opening band, poor bastards, had their van swiped from a hotel parking lot back in PA. It’s a tragedy, but an opportunity for US Royalty to sweep in from an outdoor show and whirl onstage, as well as for us to be in the second spot for our hometown triumph. Walking through the curtains, playing the best and tightest set we could imagine, the music sounding crisper and more confident than possible, as if we were miming to backing track of a much better uglier group, the faces of friends and distant acquaintances and just “Oh I Know that Chick From Somewhere” nod and dance and come to the afterparty and dance to our friends bands, thee Lexington Arrow, Death By Sexy, out long past bar time but not even drunk just giddy on the love. It felt good.

Back together in the van 29 hours later, we were still riding that high down to Norfolk. The venue’s bigger than expected, and the dressing rooms are insane, ping pong tables and pool and two TVs and a dining room and a hot-tub for the headliners and trained penguins carrying drinks—but the real wonder is the packed house on a Tuesday, practically dragging us down the street to Hells Kitchen, where the tatooskulls bobbed to terrible 00s punque, Say Anything, Today’s The Day.

By the time we get to Charlotte the rain and sickness has caught up with us again. The sound on the tiny stage is like playing in wind tunnel and we’re looking at rock and roll from the outside, like the puppets who play our songs are falling apart at the strings. But everytime someone comes up and hugs us or asks shyly to take a picture with us it’s a shot stronger than your best speedball baby.

(I hate to keep going back to this narcissistic point — “OH WE’RE SO GREAT EVERYONE LOVES US” but the fact is that A. if we weren’t attention whores we’d be playing chamber music or working as accountants, not making crotch-thrusting rock music. And B. even if it’s only a byproduct of being from out of town, everyone we’ve met so far from Ed Hardy sporting black baseball cap dickbag to soccer mom to misguided teenage emo kid has been more than effusive—more like totally familiar, as if we should know their dreams and hobbies based on our presence on a stage in front of them. So it’s only partially narcissism— I also want to point the real heros from this or any tour: the roadies. They get us drugs. I LOVE YOU ROADIES.)

Down in Florida we played in a tiny club in a strip mall next to a bible store, where it’s 100 degrees and some sorority girl at the foot of the stage keeps yelling “I WANT TO FUCK YOU” and then more specifically “I WANT TO FUCK YOUR DRUMMER.” We drove across the everglades, slept in earshot of mating flamingos, lay on a beach where the water was 10x warmer than the air. Day off, we wander around a no-name town alone. Thumbnail-sized green frogs stuck to every surface outside our motel…even they seem to want something. We signed their legs, and drove to Atlanta.

Also posted on Brightest Young Things, who are awesome.

At our merch table every night we set up an email list and on that we ask for people to write haiku(s) about how awesome we are. Here is a selection of what we have so  far.

Some of which are not correctly Haikuing.

Baton Rouge LA wins the best city for Haiku contests so far because they are a college town and when you give college kids an assignment they like it the best.

If you came to the show, let us know which one is yours!

******

The show was great

you boys are so wonderful

Dustys, you got me

******

What an awesome show

I will come back to see you

I will bring some friends

******

Im a total drunk face

Dirty dirty things are coming

Im so awesome but not really

******

I <3 BASS PLAYER

?

?

******

this is kind of strange

having trouble writing now

the concert was great

******

Your concert I saw

The songs were so good

The dustys- YAY YAY

******

Cheers to awesome nights

Heres to the times of our lives

Dustys blow your mind

******

Im here with courtney

to watch the bravery show

but your band was cool

******

Excellent set guys

your originality

was quite refreshing

******

ITS MY 21st!

XXXXXXX

XXXXX

******

So tight! Dustys are the shit

but i cant buy a cd

Refrigerator

******

This is difficult

I do not know what to write

Hope this will suffice

******

JAEGER JAEGER DRINK

WITH RED BULL SAUCE

MAKES A HAPPY GIRL TONIGHT

******

the dustys rock hard

make my feet and soul run wild

i cant feel my feet

******

the dustys are cool

sometimes they play sweet songs

I lied. All the time.

******

Your cymbal skills

are rocking come back

to baton rouge

******

rings of tree, marks the

passage of time. A wood

written life.

******

LOUISIANA

HOT LIKE BETWEEN YOUR MOTHERS LEGS

A TROPIC JUNGLE

******

DUSTYS ROCK FACE OFF

HAD NOT HEARD YALL BEFORE

BUT WANT TO HEAR MORE

******

and this one which we do not agree with but still made us LOL

bravery suck fest

living things blow gay horse balls

dustys FTW

Just announced: @ Big Star Bar! “official” bravery afterparty! No Lover performing! Free! Midnight!

Thanks to j from the crash kings for setting it up! Alex Chilton supergroup coverband a distinct possibility! Exclamation •

2rd Video+Blog! Shot by us, written by Peter, edited and set to the second (and huge international hit) song on our EP Dangerous Little Signs by Rasheed the Willing.

We played the license plate game on the way across the midwest to the east coast.

Ames Iowa has about four Hard Rock radio stations, that play either 80s hair metal or new recordings by washed up classic rock bands. If Stevie Ray Vaughn were alive today he would live in Northern Iowa.

Breakfast in the morning after the Minneapolis show: apples, peanut butter, and regret for partying so hard with intimidatingly friendly Lutheren people.

Chicago finally seemed like a real city, stores crammed so close together around the Vic Theater with signs in a hundred languages. The theater was huge and sounded like a dream, but we had to jet right after we played to go play an afterparty with our sideproject band No Lover and the amazing snotty pop-punk IL band the Safes at a bar called the Darkroom in the Ukrainian Village part of town.

Darkroom was dark.

The Exit we were looking for off Lakeshore was elusive, but we circled the museums til we made it out of the city and on to Detroit.

Faygo was dripping from the walls of St. Andrews Hall because it is the home base of a little old hip hop group called the Insane Clown Posse (who we’ve been accidently mirroring the whole tour, playing before or after them in various stunned towns everywhere….we even saw their caravan at a truck stop: two tractor trailers painted with evil circus shit—presumably full of orange drink?).

Gold For Cash joints and rebuilt art studios lined the route back to our friends place in downtown Detroit. He gave us a drunky historical tour of the demolished stadiums and dirt-cheap artisan spaces springing up.

We poured Hot Sauce the BBQ he spread out for us in his art deco home, right next to the BBQ joint he owns. Mindblowingly spicy and good after wearing ourselves out on stage.

We irrigated the heat with local wine and jelly beans.

Ko from the Dirtbombs and head of the Kokonuts lived right next door and came over at 3am to give us advice about getting into Canada. We tried not to geek out while she informed us about not hiding merch and being polite to the customs agents even if they toss your laptop on the cement.

Last stop before Canada: Duty Free for cigarettes and gas…we stuck to the total truth about what we had in the van and what we were doing and breezed right through.

245 Kilometers to Toronto, whatever that means.

Nine looney dollars for a liter of gas, which works out to: ummm.

Rural Ontario is like a Coen brothers movie about emptiness and isolation. But Toronto was alive, and in a European way just slightly more fashionable and antique than an American city somehow.

Parking behind the club in the pouring rain, moving amps and keyboards with laconic British stagehands, playing in front of a sparser crowd while coughing into the mic—our bodies and souls felt shit heavy from too much booze and smoking and hard travel.

Quality Inn, Buffalo. A day off spent in Dennys looking at video of people dancing as we play, remembering why we’re pushing ourselves around the countryside and why we exist.

Rochester to New York City in the morning. We split up into various corners for the night, Park Slope, Williamsburg, Staten Island. Corner Creek whiskey is delicious, only available in Brooklyn, and medicinal.

Terminal 5 is a converted dance club with neon 80s railings on the Upper Balcony reserved for Very Important Persons with VIP Passes like actor Justin Long who had to wait forever to get in because the guy at the ticket counter didn’t recognize him. We played to what seemed like a massive sea of blank faces. Did they hate us? Did they even recognize us as musicians or did they think we were a still life painting called Four White Dudes Gyrating with Electricity? But as soon we were done 15 teenager gaping at us like the Stones just touched down from planet 1964 mobbed the merch booth by the door. We ran out of M, L, and XL.

Did the woman who got naked during the Bravery’s encore and humped a random stranger on the dancefloor until she got kicked out have a Y chromosome? It was hard to tell under the plastic surgery. Then after the show late late late on the way across the river, right at the height of the Brooklyn bridge, Peter remembered we never got paid so we had to tear ass back through Manhattan to Hell’s Kitchen past saturday night madness everywhere on either side before they turned out the lights.

From zenith to nadir is moment by moment on the road so far…we have no idea what is coming next.

Dustys Fall Tour Video Blog: Week 2

Minneapolis to NYC
Track: Dangerous Little Signs
From The Sticky Blood EP

Touch:
myspace.com/thedustysmusic
twitter.com/thedustys

We Love
No Lover 
myspace.com/nolovermusic
Cut by Rasheed of CromagnonJazz.com

Also Posted on: Brightest Young Things.com