Grinnell Jamzzzzzzz

Tonight we descend on this tiny little liberal arts community tucked away in a cornfield in Iowa. Bird Names were supposed to meet us at the I-80 Truck Stop (they actually have real semis in the place) but they missed out and we resort to calling them Turd Lames when we arrive. We all have a chuckle and set the night afoot with some proper sarcasm.

It's a night of delirium as we are all tired from our sold out show in Chicago the night before at The Hideout.



Collin plops down in a 50-gallon trash can seemingly high on delirium and COORS. He cracks us up and firmly establishes the fact that tour turns everyone into a 12 year-old.



My nephew Ross attends the college as an economics major. Last time we played he got up and jammed with us on our last song-he did the same this time, but with bari sax instead of alto. We rehearse the two note repetition of Blue Healer and he says just give me the key and I'm like well...there's not really a key. I mean I'm Ross's uncle and all the sudden I feel like the nephew when he says, just give me a key and I'm like ummm, ummm I don't really know how to do that.



He finds the pattern in about two minutes and we're good to go for the show.
We play and the kids are eating it up, each expressing themselves through their own respective dances ranging from eccentric hippy girating to stiff-hipped bumpin from some of the guys.

Bird Names jump up with us on the last song as well. I manage to get the sound guy off his lap top so he can turn on the extra mics for all of the extra players. Bill hits the beat and we're off on our journey of Blue Healer. Ross on bari sax, Collin, Nora and Phaellin, on drums, Al on melodica and David on guitar. It sounds like a train stepping on the gas and breaks at the same time, nearly ready to derail, but somehow staying on the tracks, kinda like Bird Names.

We finish, load and convene to a large room upstairs where some "crazy" kid has piled up all the furniture in a big pile. After putting back some Old Style Lights, David crawls under the furniture pile to go to sleep. Shortly thereafter, Nora asks the drunk dude who keeps coming in to plunk on the piano to stop. "And you are?" he asks. "I'm Nora," she retorts. He leaves and we can sleep now that the plunking has been silenced.
--Pat