By Derek Shelton.

Richmond’s melodic punk/hardcore band This Black Box is on tour in the Northeast region of the US.  This is the first Indie Road article from The Well’s Derek Shelton (Magazine33), and is intended to entertain as well as give a glimpse into the lives of road hungry, smaller level touring bands.

We arrived at our practice space on a dreary, unseasonably cold October Friday to load up the gear around 10:30 a.m.  We arrived at our show in Blackwood, New Jersey at 7:30 that night.  The intermittence was a fun-filled adventure through pounding rain storms, intense traffic jams, cold temperatures, and steadily increasing road rage.  This drive was the first endurance test of the weekend.

Yellow Bear (our 1986 beauty of a Chevy van) arrived at the Savage Rock School (yes, a B-rate NJ rock school) just as the first band was starting their set.  I would like to point out that this venue was a former dentist’s office, adding to the ambiance and obscurity of the show.  From a glance around the room it was abundantly clear at this point that this was going to be an interesting first show of the tour.  The sparse ‘mall-core’ crowd consisted of about a dozen or so high-schoolers rocking out to Exit 34, a NJ pop-punk band in the vain of Blink 182.  Honestly the band wasn’t bad, and god knows they showed us up that night.  As I stared at the clean cut kids with thousands of dollars in equipment on stage, including full wireless guitar and bass setups, I realized that you couldn’t get more cliché suburban New Jersey pop-punk than this, and I loved it.  After they wrapped things up, we took to the stage with a quick setup, and started what would become the worst show of our lives.

About halfway through the first song I realized my guitar was making not a drip of noise.  I played it off for a minute, and quickly began checking cords as our two song rock block continued into “The Starving Time.”  Half the song had gone by when I affirmed that this was not a cord mishap, that the amp was actually the cause of the problem.  I can only imagine how much these kids thought we sucked at this point; two songs of fumbling around, playing poorly, with little to no vocals.  The guitar player of Saint Brazil, the last band stepped up and offered me a guitar head.  I plugged it up, tuned up the Fender, and after a brief hiatus entered the third song.  We were already so angry with ourselves and the situation, and things just kept going downhill.  Because of the delay we cut two songs from the set and re-entered with a longtime favorite of ours, “Against the Odds.”  Fifteen seconds later half of Patrick’s drums fell on top of me, as an array of kids scrambled on stage to help out.  As I listened to Patrick’s enraged screams I took comfort in the fact that he was still pounding the snare drum in a fury that clearly must have left multiple Jersey kids deaf for two days.  After this mockery of a start we played three more songs back to back to back, sloppily I might add, and wrapped things up as soon as we could.  We packed up the van, penniless, and headed to the store for a 30-pack, thinking for sure we would be freezing our asses off sleeping in the van all night.  New Jersey 1, This Black Box 0.

As the reality of attempting sleep in Yellow Bear became clear, we scrambled to find somewhere to crash.  My friend Alex saved the day, putting us in contact with Jeremy, a super cool dude who plays in Philadelphia’s Band Name.  We jetted over to downtown Philly to crash at Big Mama’s Warehouse, a converted communal warehouse living arrangement, print shop, and recording studio, among various other uses.  Everyone who lived there was entirely too nice to us, and we couldn’t have been more appreciative to be able to stay with those guys.  Kudos!

As we dusted the cobwebs off our eyes Saturday morning we knew that things could not get any worse.  We were headed to Brooklyn to play at The Lonestar Bar, a western themed watering hole on 5th Street and 77th.  This was another benefit show, which while we fully support and endorse, meant another show with zero income.  This fact can aggravate even the most charitable band when you have to pay over thirty dollars in tolls just to enter and exit the borough you are about to rock.  We arrived early and checked in with Big Tony (but don’t call him big), an authentic Brooklyn neighborhood celebrity.  We had about six hours to kill before our set, so we hit the subway to check out Coney Island in the rain, and to find a slice of real Brooklyn pizza.  After affirming that Coney Island was as carnival-like, bizarre, and greasy as I could ever have imagined, we hauled back to the venue, pounded some coffee and overpriced PBR, and were ready to play. 

There were two bands before us, and two after us on the night’s bill.  The first band was a 60s style rock and roll band with members, well, in their 60s.  We are a melodic punk/hardcore band; we were confused at this lineup to say the least.  The band wasn’t even bad, just, out of place.  The second band was a slight improvement genre wise to say it kindly, meshing bad pop-punk and radio rock into a scramble that neither respective genre wanted anything to do with.  We had no expectations of this crowd liking us as we crammed our gear into the low lit barroom corner, and frankly we didn’t care.  Maybe it was the cheap pizza in our stomachs or the $12 pitchers of PBR, or more likely the disdain for the last night’s mockery in New Jersey, but these ingredients all flowed together to fuel one of our band’s best performances to date.  We killed that Brooklyn show, hands down.  We played our eight song set furiously yet smoothly, as the crowd became increasingly interested at whatever it was we were doing up there.  Sure, some of the older crowd headed for the door, but the rest of the show goers seemed to give a shit, which is an amazing thing for band morale.  The set continued smoothly, and a few people even sang along to our cover of Alkaline Trio’s “Armageddon.”  Hell, a Brooklyn dude even bought us some beer.  When we finished the last song we dripped sweat and high fived, realizing we had well made up for last night’s embarrassments.  The last band of the evening, Never Say Die, was a really cool hardcore/pop-punk band that was actually playing a reunion show that night.  We finally felt like we were at a punk show as the flannel-clad brigade rocked hard and complimented us on our performance.  This show ended up being so much fun despite the obscurity of the lineup.  This was yet another reason why I love what we do; you can end up having a great time despite the oddball circumstances of the shows and lineups.  After we sold a few cds and cleared our over inflated bar tabs we headed back to Philly to yet again sleep at the warehouse, our oasis in the desert of the northeast.

We crashed hard when we arrived at the spot, half-drunk and exhausted.  Around 11 we awoke to find Jeremy cooking us a “Band Name Breakfast”, one of the rare highlights of being a guest at Big Mama’s Warehouse.  Jeremy went out of his way to cook us all delicious Huevos Rancheros, even deep frying the tortillas for crispiness….what a guy!  After breakfast, in appreciation for the food and lodging, we did all the dishes in the warehouse, a sizeable feat considering over a dozen people live there.  Patrick kicked our bassist Chris off the washing stand after a poor performance, reassigning him to the dry and restock position.  After a crucial skate fest in the warehouse we said our thanks and goodbyes, and “did Philly.” 

I was hell bent on running the art museum steps, Rocky-style, so we headed there first thing.  Forty-five minutes later we were parked and performing Philly’s most cliché-tourist exercise known to man.  We snapped some photos, found out we couldn’t afford the museum, and headed back outside to dismal cloudiness.  The weather proved to be against us once again, leaving us cold, wet, and ready for cheese steaks after little time roaming around.  Battling all odds of finding parking in downtown Philly, we headed to Gianna’s for an authentic cheese steak (and vegan Philly’s!).  Fifteen minutes later we were in bliss, stuffed from some of the best food I’ve had in quite some time.  Gianna’s was the 821 of Richmond, packed full of punks, crusty kids, and authentically good people all around.  You could smell the crust punk creeping from the dank walls.  Fighting all urges to lay sedated in Gianna’s booths for hours, we mustered the courage and replenished energy to leave and head for the show.

Sunday’s show, the last of the tour, was at the Black Sheep House in south Philly.  We arrived early and found several bands already loading in.  We went in search of coffee and beer, were ripped off by Philadelphia’s take-away beer policies (we bought 7 PBRs for $10), and returned to the show to hear sounds coming from the basement.  Mazz, the promoter, informed us we would be playing last, which I wasn’t too excited about, but I was in no position to complain about his booking policies; he was cool enough to hook us up with the show and we appreciated it.  The first three bands were heavy, almost doom-punk/thrash with rigid, screamy vocals, twelve minute sets, and loud crunchy guitars.  I liked the sets, but I knew we were slightly out of place on the lineup.  The fourth band, Mean Streets, was more our style, with kind of a classic melodic punk feel, and catchier vocals and songwriting.  They played a fun set and bridged the gap between genres, making us feel a bit more at home.  As we setup I had already come to terms with the fact that the majority of the crowd and even bands had left, a disappointment for sure.  When bands leave shows early and don’t even watch the touring bands it can make you extremely agitated and pissed off.  It is just a completely rude and jerk move to say the least.  We setup quickly and played a fast, hard set, spilling our guts out to the few kids still in attendance.  It was kind of a bummer to see such a small crowd still around, but the show goers who were still in attendance were uplifting and positive to our sound.  We hung around for a few minutes, sold a cd or two, got paid by Mazz, and hauled five hours home to Richmond.

This weekend was an endurance test for sure, but I think that’s what being in a band is…who is going to give up, and who is in it for the long haul.  I am glad to say that despite the burdens, we are in this for the long haul.  That being said, two non-paying shows, equipment mishaps, terrible weather, and poor attendances are weight on the backs of touring bands.  It was a tough weekend, but we had so much fun, and met so many awesome people.  That is what touring is all about at this stage of the game; playing your heart out, making friends, and seeing new places.  We lost some money, had one bad show, and played a few shows for no one, but it didn’t matter, because we had a great time.  I don’t regret it for a second, and wish I was going on the road this weekend.  I can only imagine how much fun we are going to have on our two week winter tour; I’m ready to load up the van and turn up the metal!

-Derek

Check out This Black Box on myspace @ www.myspace.com/thisblackbox

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