the fuck chronicles

with your host, Eugene Haggis

Eugene Haggis

Hi. My name is Eugene Haggis - friends call me Gene. I am the acting U.S. tour manager for the 1997 summer/fall fuck tour. It's not a great job but it's better than what I was doing before I met the fuck guys (I was head of security at a dumpy west side thrift store in Portland, Oregon). Anyhow, acting U.S. tour manager for a small-time band like fuck is not a particularly demanding role. Consequently, their label, Matador, was able to convince me to spend some of my free time documenting the trivial and meaningless details that pass for life on the road.

July 24, 1997, Day One - Los Angeles

OK. July 24th. Day 1. Our mission is to drive from Oakland to Los Angeles and arrive in time for a radio interview on KBLT. We leave Oakland two hours late but somehow make it to the interview on time (sort of). Since I slept through most of the trip, I'm not sure how we made it to Los Angeles in near record time in a big underpowered van on one of the hottest days of the year, but the smoke pouring from our vehicle's engine compartment could be a clue. Our host at KBLT is Paige and she is absolutely charming. My suggestion of canceling the tour and moving in with Paige is discussed briefly, but ultimately voted down.

Ted

Ted with "Hot Dot on a Stick" Hostess

After the interview and a tear-choked goodbye, we're off to our sound check at Spaceland. I should diverge for a moment and comment on what a fine establishment this Spaceland place is. Mitchell and Linda stand out as some of the best club bookers in the country. While we are loading in, we meet Dave, Tim and Steve from Two Dollar Guitar, who are sharing the U.S. tour dates with us. I can already tell that these are cool cats, much more interesting than the duds I am traveling with. I notice that they do not currently have an acting U.S. tour manager and make a mental note to investigate the possibility of a career move.

The show at Spaceland is uneventful. Two Dollar Guitar serve up a grand set with lots of songs from their last cd and lots of new stuff I haven't heard. We hook up with our ever gracious and entertaining host, S. Quinn, who has always functioned as a sort of guardian angel to fuck (she taught them how to silkscreen t-shirts, gives them a place to stay in LA, and helps them find good local car mechanics). I suggest we cancel the tour and move in with Quinn, but Quinn and the band say no.

July 25, 1997, Day Two

There is a photo shoot scheduled for tomorrow and another show at Jabberjaw on Sunday, but no official band business is planned for today. Ever enterprising and productive, the fuck guys create some official band business by parking illegally and letting the van get towed.

July 26, 1997, Day Three

Rebecca and Gene

Me and Rebecca

Today we head out to the Santa Monica Pier for a photo shoot for Bikini magazine, where we are greeted by our lovely photographer, Rebecca. After the required pictures have been taken, we retire to Hot Dog on a Stick for vegetarian corn dogs and lemonade. Across from the hot dog stand (which is staffed exclusively with darling young high school girls) is a women's volleyball tournament. Certain that my life could never get any better than this singularly perfect moment, I quickly lobby for the idea of canceling the tour and spending our remaining days on earth with Rebecca at the Santa Monica Pier, but no one is listening.

After the pier, we visit the Museum of Jurassic Technology. Ted says it's great and Ted is usually right about these things. After the museum, we pick up Eric (longtime friend and acquaintance) and head over to a barbecue at Tom and Diana's house, where Two Dollar Guitar is staying. We meet lots of nice people and have a great time. Ted gets to meet his hero (Mike Watt) and Eric gets to meet his hero (Nels Kline). Tom and Diana, our excellent hosts, are quickly becoming my heroes. By the time I get around to mentioning my idea of canceling the tour and moving in with Tom and Diana, everyone else is too drunk to discuss it rationally.

July 27, 1997, Day Four

An interesting Sunday show at Jabberjaw tonight. The guy at the door tells me not to wander too far from the club "for my own good." Wow. The opening act, some solo guitar guy, shows up for sound check but then decides not to play and goes home. Does he know something we don't, or is his seemingly bizarre behavior best ignored? Not being one to take any unnecessary risks, I spend most of the night in the van, hiding under the back seat.

We leave for San Francisco after the show. On the way home, the van's behavior becomes increasingly erratic and frightening (I am easily scared by unexplained car issues). We make it all the way back to San Francisco safely, but it is obvious that something automotively foul has cometh our way.

July 28, 1997, Day Five - San Francisco

I am of the opinion that nothing can bring a semi-successful tour back down to earth quicker than the onset of debilitating vehicular mechanical problems. I have also learned that when car troubles are afoot, my talents are best plied elsewhere. Consequently, today is a shopping day for me -- I guiltlessly abandon the fuck boys and their dysfunctional Dodge drivetrain and embark on a relaxing day of sampling the wares of a capitalist society run amuck. When I return to fuck world headquarters later in the evening, the van remains unrepaired and the noxious fumes of doom are everywhere.

July 29, 1997, Day Six

Great American Music Hall marquis

As the band continues to struggle with the errant van, I manage to polish off an entire box of out-of-date peanut brittle and six gummy bears I found under the sofa. After my nap, I do what I can to help prepare for tonight's show at the Great American Music Hall. Much to my surprise, the band manages to rise above the threat of impending immobility and offer up their best set of the tour. Special guests U.S. Saucer are exceptional, and Two Dollar Guitar are characteristically splendid. The show is a great success in every way and I graciously accept all the credit.

U.S. Saucer

July 30, 1997, Day Seven

After much deliberation, it is decided that Tim and Geoff will ride with Two Dollar Guitar to tonight's show in Eugene, Oregon, while Ted, Kyle and I will remain in San Francisco and attempt to make some progress on reinstating the fuck van as a functional member of society. During the course of the day, the van's problems are finally diagnosed (accurately) but not corrected. Out of options and time, Ted, Kyle and I leave for Eugene around midnight while Tim and Geoff serve as the official fuck representatives for the show at Sam Bond's (with help from Two Dollar Guitar Steve).

July 31, 1997, Day Eight - Seattle

Me and Cece pic

Me and Cece

After limping for 500 grueling miles up I-5 all night in the battered Dodge, we meet up with Geoff, Tim, and Two Dollar Guitar in Eugene. Over the course of our trip, I have concocted a clever plan which will allow us to get the van fixed without missing any shows. On the way to Seattle, we stop in Portland, locate a credible mechanic, have our diagnosis confirmed and make an appointment to return first thing tomorrow for the necessary repairs. We then continue on to the show at the Crocodile in Seattle.

Seattle has always been strangely friendly to fuck. Along with New York, San Francisco, Chicago and Moorehead, it has become one of the preferred fuck tour stops. At the Crocodile, we meet up with Christine (Crocodile booker), Meg (Velvet Elvis booker), Diane (Crocodile cocktail wait person) and Cece (Sub Pop publicist extraordinaire). Inspired by the proximity of these four irresistible vixens, I decide to commence the breeding dance and select one of these females as my mate for the season. Unfortunately, I am unable to make my choice quickly enough, and the moment is lost. However, the balance of the evening comes off quite nicely, with superb performances from fuck, Two Dollar Guitar and Seattle locals, Juno.

Me, Christina, and Diance picture

Me, Christina, and Diance

We leave for Portland immediately after the show, and after a brief repose in a fine Washington State-sponsored rest area (they offer free coffee and cookies), we make it back to Scott at the Portland Arco station (our mechanic/host) in time for our prearranged van therapy session.

August 1, 1997, Day Nine - Portland

While we are making the final repair arrangements, our pal Alyssa pulls into the Arco station for gas. She is on her way to the beach with a couple of friends and two very big dogs. Alyssa invites us to join the party and I am truly tempted, but I have a long and ugly history with big dogs. Torn, I reluctantly decide to stay with Tim and Kyle to monitor the van's progress at the Arco station. Ted and Geoff, obviously free from any crippling large mammal phobias, head off with Alyssa, her friends and the big dogs for what will certainly be a grand day.

After we drive the Dodge onto the gas lift in the service bay at the station, Tim and Kyle somehow convince me to remain hidden in the van so as to be certain that no mechanical flim-flammery occurs once our wounded chariot is airborne. The next nine hours pass uneventfully as the van is fitted with a shiny new torque converter and external engine balancer (the wrong parts had been used when the new engine was installed some 30,000 miles ago, resulting in a progressively violent series of vibrations and related maladies).

Meg and Ted

Meg and Ted playing Post Office

The show at EJ's is ok. Two Dollar Guitar and Transparent Thing are both very good (I missed the first band); fuck is nefariously oblique. Upon arriving in Portland, fuck were greeted with a particularly vicious and scathing review of their new cd in a local music rag. I think they really wanted to set the record straight with a special show. I don't know what they were worried about -- the critic (one John Graham) who penned the diatribe was obviously a victim of his own fears. I think he saw the name of the band, suffered a justifiable outbreak of penis envy and lashed out accordingly. I don't think he's vindictive by nature -- in another article he heartily recommended the new Bon Jovi record. Oh well.