Upon arriving at Virginia’s NekoCon, the first thing we noticed was the stark increase in costumery vs. PAX. I mean, whoah, that was a lot of cosplay outfits. We, in turn, felt extremely underdressed, but were never the less treated with all the pomp and circumstance befitting a featured convention performer. It was a nice departure, however brief, from the rough-and-tumble lifestyle we had become accustomed to. I even got to hang out with my dad, who was treated to his first ever MC Frontalot show. He described Front as “a hoopy frood who knows where his towel is.”
Category Archives: Frontalot
I’ve recently noticed that my pre-show mood has been declining steadily since I left for tour back in September. Where once I was bright-eyed and bushy-spirited, now I am a dark cloud of brooding silence who wishes for nothing more than to be left alone while playing Angry Birds. Industry friends have informed me that this is a critical stage of the transformative process one goes through when becoming a “pro.” I believe the answer is far less profound: failure to eat at Biscuitville. Hopes for improvement at tonight’s NekoCon event are dim, as we have passed into Virginia with nary a greasy wrapper in sight.
No segue here, folks, we’re getting straight into the action: our show at the Laboratory in Gainesville. This was our second time playing at the science-themed eatery and performance space, and while they had fewer beer beakers that previously, they more than made up for it with an improved sound system, stage and fancypants green room. Larry the proprietor is a fairly amazing guy who runs a tight ship and is a true champion of the arts, so if you find yourself in the land of gators, I suggest you swing by and catch whatever act is playing that night. On our night, those acts were Rappy McRapperson, King Pheenix, Emergency Pizza Party and DJ RoboRob. And Brandon! All in all it was a stupendous show, with lots of nerdy dancing, sweating and general revelry. Gainesville is definitely on our must-play list.
Here’s what I dreamed last night: that I was on tour with MC Frontalot (I’m not much of an escapist) and the routing had us darting between the US and various European cities. In Brussels we witnessed strangely-shaped airplanes flying impossibly slowly at very, very low altitudes through the city streets, apparently filled with sight-seeing tourists. “This is our last European date on the tour,” Front said to me. “I don’t think they can do that in the US.” Driven to experience this foreign form of informative transportation, I started searching the internet for “low altitude airplane tours.” Nothing came up. Somehow my perspective changed to that of a third-person observer watching as a man shouted “LOW ALTITUDE AIRPLANE TOURS!” while his wife waited impatiently in a canoe. “George!” she yelled, “you’d better get in this canoe right now or I’m going to leave without you!” George paused. His response was timid yet desperate: “Low altitude airplane tours?” The dream then revealed itself as an advertisement for some new search engine. THIS IS WHAT NERDS DREAM ABOUT. And also how they pad their word count!
I was going to start this post off with a pirate joke, but a quick browse of the archives alerted me to the fact that I would be repeating myself. Instead, I will be merely laudatory and state that Arkansas truly is a glory hole of natural splendor. Most states are a chore to drive through, see, but the one time home of the unfortunately named Archibald Yell provides eye candy at every turn. It felt fitting, therefore, that we respond by spreading the nerdy love in not one but two – yes, two! – cities. Those cities were Fayetteville and Hot Springs. This is their story.
Windy are the Kansas plains / littered with the night’s remains. So goes the famous poem “I Am Bored In The Tour Van” by reclusive indie poet F. Percival Spruce, author of such lesser-regaled verses as “The Window Defroster Makes My Butt Sweat” and “What Smells Like Pee?” I can’t help but feel solidarity with the man as we travel from Wichita to Fayetteville, searching fruitlessly for a breakfast dispensary in what appears to be a tastiness desert. But lo! Our new Garmin has just found us the shiny and promising Penny’s Diner. Thank you, Kendric Beachley, for saving us from hanger!
Holy consistency, Batman! The blog du Vic returns for another exciting season of tour minutiae, replete with questionable facts, perilously fancy prose and banal photographs made all funny-like by the use of alt tags. Who can resist? Not you. Nor should you, for in this modern world of tweets and wee bitly links there is a call, nay, an insatiable need for thoughtful, in-depth prose crafted exclusively for
the self-aggrandizement of the author devoted fans of the Frontalot crew. And so it has arrived! Prepare to be entertainementized.
I would have written sooner, but I’ve been helping tend to the many injuries suffered by the various members of the Wheatus touring party. During that time we’ve traveled to an played York, Manchester, Stoke-On-Trent, Sheffield, and Kingston-All-Up-On-Them-Thames. Fan videos abound. I am certain also that the twittersphere is bloated with errata regarding our goings-on. What I bring to you here is something you can’t get anywhere else: the inside scoop. Would you like sprinkles with that?
I had heard from veteran touring musicians that life on the road became a haze of gigs and sleeping, that time became an elusive nymph, always laughing at you from right around the corner. “Balderdash!” I retorted. “I always know what day it is and what city I’m in.” I sit here now with my tail between my legs, recently informed about how ignorant I really was. For example: today, I called my lovely girlfriend Penelope at around 7am to wake her up and wish her a lovely day at work. “Why?” she responded groggily. “It’s Saturday.” My world as I knew it was turned upside-down.
Today I saw a man with a goat: a goat with a coat. In front of a moat! I kid you not! Such are the wonders that await people who visit the lovely Welsh town of Cardiff, as we are doing right now. I have little doubt that Dr. Seuss frequented this little hamlet where they spell Wheatus “Cwkzydd.” Britain is such a strange place! And we are here. By “we” I mean Wheatus, MC Frontalot, Math The Band and City Stereo. We travel in two enormous double-decker buses from quirky little city to quriky little city in the name of rock. You are probably asking: how did this come to pass? I will tell you, in as succinct a manner as possible.