Hello, friends! Rob here.
Sorry for taking last week off. After spending a week not doing anything on Miami Beach, I really needed to rest up and take some time off from my responsibilities as Band Historian. But after a relaxing ten-day stretch of (mostly) time off, here we are en route to Chicago to start our last even remotely serious run of the summer. Things have been a little slow this summer as we have been in the exciting process of turning our booking over to the wonderfully capable folks over at Madison House. Starting this fall, however, we are going to be very very busy.
So there have only been three shows since I last checked in from Miami. The first show, which was in Miami, was all like cool and stuff. We had a fun little radio performance interview direct from The Stage the afternoon before the show, and the crowd during the evening was very warm and receptive. Miami is shaping up quite well for The Revivalists so far, and we can’t wait to get back.
As some of you may recall, a few months ago we had a date at The Shed that they had to cancel due to damage sustained in a tropical storm. I can’t say for sure what damage was sustained, because by the time we returned on Wednesday, the Destin venue was looking even better than I remembered. Also, there was a young lady named Jacqui at the show who had been in correspondence with Zack about a week prior because it was her eighteenth birthday, her parents were bringing her and some friends to the show, and would we please sign her guitar and some CDs and stuff? Of course, we said no.
I’m kidding, fergoshsakes! One of the really nice things about being in a band is that sometimes people invite you into their most significant moments, and you get to help them make memories and live fuller lives.
One of the less nice things about being in a band is that people will occasionally try to murder you.
Friday was a big deal. Home shows are always a big deal, and in this case we wanted to work up a sweet cover to mark the occasion, so we were rehearsing all week. The day of the show, we came in an hour or two before we had to get to Tipitina’s so we could run through everything and make sure we were as tight as possible. About half an hour before it was time for us to start packing up, I stood up to answer the call of nature and found, to my surprise, that I could not open the door. After a few rounds of a game called “I just saw you try to do a thing but I am going to go do the exact same thing and expect that it will work better when I do it because of reasons that I don’t feel like explaining right now” (which is a game all men know how to play), we agreed that we were stuck.
Panic set in immediately. I began to think about what I was doing with my life, and if I had truly been spending my remaining 134 days left on this blessed rock as richly, as productively and charitably as I possibly could. We considered drawing straws to determine who would be eaten first. I still kind of had to pee a little bit.
We called the office for help and then got back to work, because time spent wishing that you weren’t trapped in your band’s rehearsal space is time wasted. Pretty sure that’s how that one goes. A woman from the office came by and informed us that our door was not only closed, but locked. By a lock that wasn’t even our lock. It was a different lock. A lock of mystery. Of danger.
The doors at the Fountainbleau all have built-in key locks and latches for padlocks, both of which are only accessible from outside of the rooms. The padlocks latches are an option for extra security, and they also allow the owners of the building to lock tenants out of their rooms if they grow delinquent in their rent payments (an embarrassment which I assure you The Revivalists have never experienced firsthand…). We have a padlock on one of two latches, and the other is unused pretty much all the time, unless somebody else is using it to lock us in our room in a deliberate and somewhat feeble attempt to starve us to death.
As we later heard from our good friend Carly Meyers (who plays trombone with many distinguished New Orleans acts such as Yojimbo and Mike Dillon), the same thing had happened to her a little while ago when she was practicing in her room a few doors down. So clearly we have a serial killer on our hands, my friends. A serial killer who hates local music and who is still getting a handle on the whole “killing” thing, but a serial killer nonetheless.
Okay, maybe, maybe it was just a prank, but the economy’s in the tubes and the phrase “serial inconveniencer” doesn’t exactly sell newspapers.
Fortunately, we were saved by some very kind and industrious employees of the Fountainbleau Self-Storage Megaplex, and we were able to recover from the severe mental trauma that comes from being locked in a room for almost eight minutes and put on one of our raddest shows to date. You guys really helped with the radness factor, by the way. Thanks for coming!
And we hope to see you again! Goodbye for now!