Heading west, things start to get a little weird. And that’s fine with me. Midwestern born and raised, but somehow the west always felt like home.
First stop: Lawrence, Kan., and the Replay Lounge. Played here before in another band and another life. I await the arrival of a friend with whom I once hiked Mongolian mountains and drank fermented mare’s milk outside the ancient capital of Karakorum. Our first meeting in seven years. Seven years. Seven years, a law degree, less hair, more stuff. On the television, they’re playing Anvil: The Story of Anvil. It’s a cross between Spinal Tap and American Movie, the latter of which I dislike greatly, but I don’t mind laughing here. It feels less like masturbating to humiliation porn.
And yet, I feel a little uncomfortable watching a movie about earnest rockers still reaching for success in their 50s as I’m about to play pop songs to five or six people in a room highlighted in vintage arcade decor. I’m in my fifth decade myself. Ok, only 30, but that’s 5 decades, having been born in 1979. On the other hand, with Hubbert’s peak just around the corner (or already here?) there won’t be much success to strive for, and certainly no use reflecting on such a hopeless enterprise as musical aspiration. There. Ironic detachment maintained.
Breezing through the quaint neighborhoods of Topeka, we stumble upon this lovely tudor.
Yet something seems amiss. Maybe this is no ordinary house.
Finally! A church for all those America-hating socialists that I’m always hearing about on 1400 AM. I wonder if our dear leader knows about this place? Anybody think Fred Phelps and Jeremiah Wright are old-time drinking buddies? Yeah, me neither, but hey, God damn America!
The Westboro Baptist Church, whose spiritual platform can be found at www.godhatesfags.com — actually that’s pretty much the sum total of their theology — The Westboro Baptist Church is clearly the favorite closeted son of Topeka. I’ve got a beard if you need one, Fred.
Just down the road is another monument to division in America. But also reconciliation.
Kansas is a place of flash points for American history — John Brown, the dust bowl, and Brown v Board of Education. The Monroe school has since been enshrined as a monument. Bearded park rangers now roam the halls. One of them knew that Illinois was next to Indiana. Aragorn in a gift shop.
Maybe it’s because they’ve kept the schoolbuilding nature of the place so intact, but this place is alive with the ghosts of the past.
Not too many people visiting on this Tuesday afternoon. Now that we have a black president, it appears we’re feeling pretty good about race in this country. We leave a note on the chalkboard commemorating this newfound racial harmony.
Before we leave we stop at a brewery for lunch. Pulled pork with cole slaw and fried pickles. They have a beer called Top Gun and thus feel it appropriate to play the movie on repeat. Goose dies tragically eight times every day. At the bar, there is talk of tasers, immigration and autoerotic asphyxiation.
Nebraska: The Good Life
As I’m sure you already know, there’s not much to see driving through Kansas and Nebraska. I’ve talked to some people who have very positive reactions to the implications of this phenomenon. Should collapse come, they say, there’s plenty of room for all of us. Surprisingly, I’m decidedly less positive. I might buy the theory if this was actually some kind of untouched wilderness of prairie grass and buffalo. But this is surely a heavily altered landscape. There is something here, a lot of it. Like Illinois, there’s a lot of one or two crops growing on fossil fuel-derived nitrogenic steroids. There just isn’t much else. It’s always been difficult eking out an existence on these plains, even when there were millions of buffalo and various and sundry other species. Something tells me, if you hit the reset button, it would be really difficult now.
Really I’m far more encouraged by the towns of 200 to 2,000 people. Though emptied out now, there is the infrastructure for reinhabiting and rehabilitating this landscape. Brick downtowns with movie houses, no longer functioning, but yet, there they are. There they remain. Waiting for new pictures to show.
On the road to Lincoln, given some tricks of the trade from an old sage. “Stay positive. And if you encounter negativity, run a counter-play.” Will do Colonel.
Lincoln Nebraska and the Bourbon. The name is an ominous portent. Arriving early, we get to sit in on the found footage fest which plays before us.
Two real finds of the night: First, our partners in action Carrot Carrot — check ’em out. They’re one of those rare bands that manage to make weird, difficult music that’s thoroughly enjoyable.
And the bartender. Drink tickets at this place were worth cold hard cash, not free PBR and half-off well liquor, so I decided to take advantage. Sorry barkeep, you were too good at your job for me to remember your name, but if you’re ever in Lincoln, seek out the man with the long, blonde hair behind the bar at Bourbon.
First up — the “authentic” Singapore Sling as determined by committee of regulars at the Singapore bar where the drink was invented. The inventor died keeping the recipe a closely-held secret so a post-mortem was necessary. I have no context to judge authenticity, but it was good — breezy Southeast Asia without being cloying, overly fruity or tasting like Robitussin, which I imagine is a distinct possibility. He also made me a lovely Manhattan. Both with real maraschino cherries, not the zombie fruits of Jake Lahne’s nightmares.
The next day I regret Bourbon’s generosity on the drink front. It’s easy to pass up macro-swill, much harder premium gin and whiskey, mixed by a man who is takes seriously his craft. I’m not a photographer by nature. I spent a year of my life traveling around various Asian countries, and never took a single picture. So it’s only later that I kick myself for not documenting these fine drinks.
Listening to the new Santah record on the drive through Nebraska. It feels an appropriate soundtrack. Very impressive work. Quality recording. Solid songs.
One last thing on Kansas and Nebraska before we leave — everyone says these places are boring (it may seem like I said that above) but here’s the thing — the interstate is boring. You drive on it because you can do 75, but every time I get off Ike’s highway, I realize that these places (Illinois too) are hiding all the good stuff, everything that’s provocative and engaging. A haunted house of a million acres.
One thing that strikes me is the dissonance between the hyper-productivity of these lands and the relative poverty of a lot of the people living on them. I guess that’s what happens when the real ownership is elsewhere, in banks and corporations. If this is a topic and region that is of interest to you, I highly recommend Donald Worster’s book Dust Bowl. The environmental historian presents the case for the dust bowl being a human disaster as much as a natural one.
Six bits on the centennial
Colorado is one of those states, like California, which I wish I could have seen before the population boom of the last half century. Of course, on the eastern side, it doesn’t seem like anything has ever happened here. But there are a few signifiers. You can always find the water in dry places by looking for the trees. There aren’t many, so they tend to stand out. Much of the way to Denver, there is a single line of trees just north of the interstate. On the south side, which rises above us a little, the ground is dry and parched, vegetation sparse and brown. A few horses or cattle hang back just beyond the rusting wire.
But down below, out the passenger window, the treeline keeps pace with us. And here there are fields. And great mechanical insects with many bowed legs, drinking the water out of its course and then relieving themselves all over the ground, making the these early crops a healthy neon green. It’s the color of money.
One thing I will say for Illinois — there aren’t irrigation apparati in every field.
Welcome to the West.