View from the venue in Wheeler, OR. Photo by Jess Matthews.
America Hearts and Olivia Mancini & the Mates combined into one superband for a West Coast tour, playing sets of songs from both bands. We asked them to send us some thoughts and photos from the road. This week, Jess Matthews sends in an account of the experience.
It is hard to notice the nose of your long board start to slip under the clear Malibu water. When this happens, the board slows. I begin to fall forward. For a brief second, I see the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains above me before looking down through the transparent water to see the large, dark rocks below. While flying through the air, I try to keep my body flat, so as to not introduce my knee or elbow to a rock unnecessarily. The skyline, the sky and the water all turn to white water. On the beach, photographers line the famous point break to capture hot dogging long boarders, including bikini-clad women surfing impressively in the 60-degree water.
The carnage from the Malibu waves. Photo by Jess Matthews.
“Los Angeles, in particular, looks like a large earthworm you could cut into twenty sections without killing it.” French philosopher Jean Paul Sartre gave this account of his trip to America written in 1945 along with his reflections on the occupation of France. He was writing for a literary audience that was curious and skeptical of increasingly influential American aesthetics.
More than 60 years later, the difficulty and tenacity of LA is reflected in the works of even the most successful American Artists. In 2009, Miley Cyrus’s gave this account of her first visit to Los Angeles in “Party in the USA”: “I hopped off the plane at LAX with a dream and my cardigan. Welcome to the land of fame, excess. Whoa, am I gonna fit in?”
Much like touring, the allure and the difficulties of LA are generally well known but impersonal. Though discomfort is inevitable, waking up on a half-inflated air mattress or finding over-ripe bananas left in the back seat of the car still comes as a surprise. I don’t consider swirling in the white water or leaving a tiny amount of blood on the Malibu shore part of those difficulties.
Los Angeles show goers. Photo by Jess Matthews.
The people of Oregon seem quite American; they drive SUVs and wear plenty of sneakers and fleeces. But, it is hard to imagine them really fighting about taxes, tea and imperialism, what with the way that they barely drive the speed limit.
On the drive from Wheeler to Eugene, we passed through small coastal towns as they were setting up for Fourth of July parades. The single lane streets were lined with ocean views, folding chairs, flags, and hot dogs. We took advantage of the sunshine and practiced on a bench in a deeply green park. Older ladies and dogs walked the path that encircled a small group playing with swords and devil sticks in the middle.
There were no fireworks during or after the show.
Olivia Mancini, Jess Matthews and Kristin Forbes practicing in Eugene. Photo by Sammy Ponzar.
We drove the beautiful and long drive back to Berkley; four hearts in a can in search of a country song. The glass and beige-molded plastic of our Ford Escape’s door vaguely reminded me of a cubical wall I’ve spent a lot of time near, though I never actually laid my head on that wall and slept drooling.
At this point, we had established our tour mojo, roles and responsibilities. On stage, we moved seamlessly between songs, getting more rocking by the day. Off stage, Sammy [Ponzar] was the primary driver and photographer. Kristin [Forbes] was in charge of what we called Crisis Management, which included everything from collecting merch money to finding the keys to the car and repairing our clothes with her sewing kit. Olivia [Mancini] declared situations, “Great,” or the more emphatic two-handed version,“GREYT!” and asked other bands if we could borrow their gear. I was the primary DJ, and ensured that we took enough rest stop breaks.
The Starry Plough was full of D.C. transplants and Super Natural fans. To hear people cheer when we started playing “Be My Jones” thousands of miles from D.C. made my nervous goose bumps swell. The entire night was unexpectedly homelike. We were sad to part ways with Super Natural as we continued south.
A great rockabilly band opened for us at a Japanese Restaurant in Fresno. We ate teriyaki and tempura in a booth while they played: Went to a party. Met Skinny Jim. She came with me, but she left with him. Skinny Jim.
The owner, a small Japanese man, told us that his daughter lives in Dupont Circle. He has never visited D.C., but he seemed fairly upset when he found out that we have a zoo. His daughter never mentioned that—why would she keep the existence of the zoo a secret from her father? Did he dream of opening a zoo before moving to Fresno? Does he suspect that she left secretly to work at the zoo? Does he simply love pandas like everyone else? Or is the thought of his daughter and a panda in the same city simply too consuming, like cat videos or the biding for spring?
I didn’t ask these questions.
