To San Diego and Back: On the road with Seasons and Manhattan Murder Mystery

"Let's throw up!"

-John Seasons

San Diego is shit. The sun always shines yet the landscape is never more than a sickly brownish gray. It claims well over a million inhabitants yet contains no sign of life outside of Sea World and the zoo. It abuts Tijuana yet the best Mexican food in town is at Jack in the Box. It's the eighth-largest city in the United States yet it remains little more than a suburb of Legoland.

Still, we managed to have a pretty good time.

*

My distaste for San Diego was rather pronounced before this trip, but given that such opinions were based solely on childhood impressions, I was prepared to change my mind. Growing up, I had a great-aunt and -uncle--truly sweet, good-hearted people--who lived in San Diego. We would visit them once or twice a year. They had a big house with stone tile floors that my brothers and I were incessantly forbidden to run on. My aunt had a doll collection that she was quite proud of, one which I'm sure was quite impressive, but it didn't hold much allure for a pre-pubescent, latently heterosexual boy who'd rather be sliding around on the slippery tiles in his socks than examining a cabinet of dead-eyed porcelain children. What I associate most with these visits are vivid memories of having to pretend to like Charlie Chaplin movies and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

We would, of course, leave the house on occasion. I recall several outings to the yacht club, where we would eat bland food and admire the America's Cup--yachting's highest prize--which was on display there, having been won several times by the American Dennis Conner in his legendary vessel Stars and Stripes. I didn't know what the America's Cup was--I must admit that, unlike most six-year-olds, I wasn't a big yachting aficionado, which is one reason why I felt so alienated as a child--and I wasn't sure why anyone would want to look at it in a display case surrounded by leathery people in blue blazers. I assumed it was just an old people thing.

Now I realize, from my perspective here in the future, that it's more likely just a San Diego thing. There's nothing to do in San Diego that's more exciting than staring at a boating trophy.

*

As much as I'd like to stand behind a bold denunciation for once, I must admit that perhaps I'm not being entirely fair. On our second day in San Diego we visited Balboa Park, parts of which were very nice. There were trees and flowers and a drum circle that was particularly arrhythmic, even by drum circle standards (unless the drummers were operating on an abstract plane far beyond the concept of rhythm as my puny brain understands it, but I'm pretty sure they were just old and stoned). Within Balboa Park we passed by the Museum of Man. We didn't feel like paying to get in, but it's conceivable that it would have been quite interesting if we had. But then again, I already know all about man. I'm a man, and frankly, I'm not all that impressive.

We spent a mere forty-four hours in San Diego. I'm willing to believe that, had we stayed longer, the city's charms would have become apparent. But there was no fucking way I was going to stay any longer.

*

It starts, as these things generally do, the night before at a Judson McKinney residency show. This was last Friday night at Casey's, the final night of his band's residency there. I was planning a laid back evening of moderation and cool tunes. I had a long weekend ahead of me, after all, which would see me driving to San Diego, where Seasons and Manhattan Murder Mystery had shows scheduled for Saturday and Sunday nights.

My original plan was to take it easy, anyway. But you know how that goes. I'm pretty sure the Yiddish proverb "Man plans; God laughs" originally referred to someone who was planning a laid back Friday night of moderation and cool tunes because he had a long weekend ahead of him but he ended up getting wasted instead. Because that's what happened to me. Before I knew it I was a gallon of Guinness deep and I was standing in a parking garage with a certain musician and a certain filmmaker and we were smoking weed and doing considerable damage to a bottle of vodka. I believe I also had a fairly extensive conversation with Groucho Marx, but I might have dreamed that up later that night.

But Judson's set was solid as always, if a bit sleepy compared to the previous week's. This had little to do with the music. The Friday before--in one of those inexplicable occurrences that makes you appreciate the relative diversity of Casey's--a bunch of frat-boy types and their lady friends crowded the front of the stage during Judson's set and they danced like mid-terms were finally over. They were all wasted, and I doubt any of them bothered to buy merch or to like Judson on Facebook or to tell their bros about the killer band they just discovered. But still, it was glorious and ridiculous in equal measures, which is always a good combination.

This past Friday, on the other hand, it was all about the music with minimal audience spectacle. And there's nothing wrong with that when the music's that real. Buy the new album, why not?

*

I'm going to try not to dwell on unpleasantness, so the rest of this post might be a bit choppy.

*

We pulled into San Diego the next day at around four--me, my friend Ian, John Seasons, and his girlfriend, all crammed into my borrowed car with John's gear.

This is the part where I would provide local color, but San Diego has no local color.

We got rooms at a motel around the corner from that night's venue, which was the Tin Can Alehouse; or, as Hater X would probably call it, the Flarn Can Flarnhouse; or, if you really want a reference point, I could call it the Silverlake Lounge South (Except Even Worse).

We hung around the rooms. The rest of Seasons and Manhattan Murder Mystery eventually trickled in. Pizza was eaten. VH1 was watched. We drank beer, we drank whiskey. MMM's Matthew Teardrop uttered the surprising words, "I'm gonna have to pace myself." I don't think he followed through on this pledge.

We walked to the venue. The first band that played that night played awfully and they played forever. John thought they were a far-too-devoted Pixies rip-off band, but I thought they sounded more like Pezz, the shitty band I played in when I was in eighth grade. And there are few bands you want to sound like less than Pezz. Believe me.

Seasons were up next, and they played a solid half-a-set to a barely cognizant audience before the sound person cut them off with a charming, "If you want your friends to play you have to end this song now."

This tempered our caravan's enthusiasm.

The third band was from L.A. also. I guess they play the Viper Room a lot? Yeah.

Then, against the staff's wishes, MMM played and, strangely, they weren't very good. The weight of San Diego and its small town ethos and its contempt and its complexes seemed to get between their strings. Or maybe they just didn't care very much that night. I don't know.

The last thing I remember is someone spilling beer on me, which I normally accept as part of the lifestyle. But I guess San Diego's law-and-order sensibility had infected me, and I took it as a personal affront. I punched the perpetrator in the face.

Not really. I just felt like the world was imploding. At some point thereafter I walked back to the motel.

Each band got paid twenty bucks.

*

The next day was long. I woke up with various characters on my floor. Even more arrived later on to watch football. I was hungover and hungry and I hate football. The very idea of San Diego felt oppressive to me.

I walked to the liquor store for cigarettes. As I stood near the counter, a gibbering maniac walked in, ranting and raving. Uh oh, I thought, we've got a situation. The clerk laughed and said, "Hey Bill! Looks like someone hasn't had his medicine today." He pulled out a small bottle of vodka.

Okay, it was kind of funny. But horribly depressing too.

Walking around Balboa Park got me feeling a bit human again. Going into that night's show at the Ruby Room, I was prepared for redemption.

And so it happened. The Ruby Room had a distinctly Echo-esque odor, but other than that it was a pretty nice place. It was done up all spooky-like for Halloween which--if such is your idea of fun--was fun. They had pool tables and decent drink specials.

Of course, it wasn't all fun and games. Members of both Seasons and MMM almost got barred from re-entering the club after they were caught drinking Canadian Mist around the corner. But after everyone calmed down , they were allowed back in. And ... everyone learned a lesson, I guess? I don't know. What's there to say?

The first and third bands of the night painted a very dreary picture of the San Diego music scene, but they wore neat costumes, so.... That is my attempt to be positive. Did you like it?

Seasons played second to an audience made up almost entirely of the people they traveled from L.A. with. Such a situation can be demoralizing, but, on a night like last Sunday, it seemed to be liberating. No one who hadn't seen them a dozen times before was bothering to listen, so they could do what they wanted, play whatever moved them, take risks. They opened with two songs whose combined length would constitute the entire set of a lesser band, and they were spellbinding. They jammed. The new stuff sounds sharper every time, the old stuff takes on new textures. They had nothing to lose, and, if I'm not mistaken, I think they had fun.

However, MMM, as is their wont, took it up a notch. After playing some new songs in as tight a formation as I've yet heard, to an audience made up entirely of their travelling companions plus one bemused local sitting on a stool, the band abandoned any pretense of putting on a show and demanded that all of their friends get on stage. What started as an on-stage dance party quickly devolved into a joyous, messy catharsis, as Teardrop's amp cut out and any pretense of playing songs was abandoned as well. The set ended with drums and bass and rowdy chanting and banging on whatever was at hand with drumsticks. "The hound dog has a bulldog," they chanted, "and the bulldog has a hound dog," which, I assure you, made perfect sense in context.

They had traveled over a hundred miles to be met with nothing but indifference and contempt and scraps. And they responded with chaos and celebration. For a band that sings such sad songs, it was a uniquely life-affirming display.

"Let's go back to L.A.!" the crowd on stage chanted. "Let's go back to L.A.!"