I can’t say Canada wasn’t good to us. We played some small, weirdo places and the kids of Quebec, Ontario, Saskatchewan, Alberta and British Columbia came out from their remote dwellings on weeknights to hear what we had to say. Strangely, being that far North, in neglected, impoverished small towns reminded me of being in the South in the States; the same depressing truck stops run by one-armed half-wits; the same punctured hot dogs spinning tirelessly on the rotisserie; the same meth-induced blank stares and vomiting pink-haired punk rockers. As someone who spends a good portion of his life traveling various parts of the planet I can assure you that everywhere I go I run into people who like to drink beer. A lot of beer.

Several times on the tour I forgot where I was. Everyone was speaking English but in a sort of weird way. That silly accent. It took me a few confused moments each morning to remember that I wasn’t in The US, or Australia, or England or Guam. Of course, it often doesn’t really matter where I am. All the hotel rooms look exactly the same and in the morning I have to pause as I exit my room to figure out which direction to walk down the hall to the elevator. I have a 50/50 chance of getting it right.

The 2-hour ferry ride from Vancouver through the Strait of Georgia was serene and idyllic. I saw some chippy on the deck lighting a joint at 11am and I wanted to ask for a toke, but I figured it wouldn’t be worth it once I was keelhauled and detained at the border for the rest of the week. The guard at immigration as we crossed back into home territory seemed half in the bag as well. He was a bit too happy to see us. Fine by me; the sooner I get back to the US the sooner I can start looking for some proper drugs.

It’s certainly a relief to pay for real coffee with real money. No more purchasing burnt bean-water with those goofy Monopoly bank notes. That said, Canada is alright. I’m mean, you guys are North Americans just like me, so we have that in common for whatever it’s worth. Probably nothing. I like trees and eggs and you guys seem to have plenty of those, so as long as I keep my record clean I’ll most likely be back. Thanks.

From Trevor Dunn

As far as tours go this is a luxury tour. Sure there are the insufferable, digestion-abating drives (20 hours from Hamilton to Winnipeg, 11 hours from Edmonton to Vancouver) and the desperate attempts at finding fresh fruit along these god-forsaken highways but all in all, I can’t complain. Believe it or not, The Melvins Group, their booking agent and crew are a lot smarter than they look. They have planned ahead, noting distance, calculating guarantees and, in general, considering the well-being of all involved. That’s not always how tours are managed. I’ve been pleasantly surprised on this trip by how often I’ve been able to achieve a decent night’s sleep, work out in the hotel fitness center and have time to call my wife. Based on how much I write about food she seems to think I should be a food critic. I told her, “well, I have to eat every day, so it’s a relevant topic.” She responded with, “Yeah, but you have to shit every day, too, so why don’t you write about that?”

Ok, here it goes: I took three shits today. Now that is unheard of while on tour. I will spare you the details but I can only guess that it has something to do with doing 100 sit-ups and eating raw vegetables backstage. Our hospitality rider consists of water, one of those “pre-washed” vegi-packages and a few beers. We don’t bother with sandwich meat, candy bars, cheeses, bottles of whiskey, loaves of bread or potato chips. Contrary to popular belief the stuff bands get backstage is not free. We’re paying for it. Nothing is for free, you dumb-ass. Most bands get blind-sided by the potential glory and glamour of being treated like god damn royalty. Guess what, you’re one of 365 bands that passes through this dive every year. No one gives a shit. I’ll take the extra money and go find a spinach salad in a restaurant. But I digress.

Back to shitting: Usually the desire reaches critical point in the morning right after I slam three cups of the “bold” coffee that’s been brewing in the hotel lobby for six hours. However, often on tour one is subject to abrupt and extreme changes that the body can only do it’s best to adapt to. The sedentary nature of traveling, the different time zones, inconsistent sleep patterns, and sporadic meal times all affect the decisions my stomach and intestines seem to make on their own. Yesterday in Calgary I had the not unfamiliar experience of needing to drop deuce about five minutes before sound-check. The protocol goes as follows: whenever possible use the women’s public stall before the venue doors open. They are usually more thoroughly sanitized than any of the other restrooms especially the one backstage which has most likely been defiled by rock and roll slobs in countless and unmentionable ways. In Saskatoon the backstage toilet didn’t even have a door, kind of like prison. I may be a heathen but I retain some self-respect. I have convinced myself that the seats in the women’s WC have been wiped down by hundreds of germophobic females who are only at the show because their drunk boyfriends forced them along. Nonetheless, I use about a roll and a half of paper to create my own makeshift seat cover. Afterward, I over-soap my hands under scalding hot water, avoid the virus-scattering blow dryer, kick the door open and do my victory strut like a half-wit German Shepherd on to the next thing. Pure luxury I tell you.

From Trevor Dunn

As I sit in catering staring at a dish of over-cooked breaded tilapia and a bbq-ed chicken leg I notice a soreness in my back and forearms. It’s day-3 of our Canadian tour and already I am considering a massage or a sauna. I’m sure my stamina and tolerance will improve over the next few days but at this point I am feeling the affects of my shattered technique. I am bowing the shit out of the bass every night; horse hair breaking in clouds of rosin while I lay into the string eighty times harder than I would under normal circumstances, i.e. any other situation other than the Melvins. It’s fun but probably not very healthy. Oh well, sounds like everything else in my life.

We just got off stage and loaded the van, nearly ready to make our exit from the Ottawa Blues Festival and drive a couple hours towards Toronto. We are anxious to get back on the pavement so I’m wolfing down this bland but free meal. The beet salad leaks sadly into the rice pilaf. The mango salsa slides off the fish and mixes horribly with the bbq sauce. For some reason at these catering tents they never let you help yourself. All the food is sitting there at arm’s length but each dish has a waiter who happily decides on the portion and placement of it on one’s paper plate. It’s as if they don’t trust you with a serving spoon. I’m forced to point at what I want and say, “a little more please”. A gnat lands on my elbow.

Just across the road Fishbone is aggressively kicking out the last jam of their set. It’s an old tune that I recognize from back in the day when I used to go see them in the ’80s. I’m tempted to walk over to check them out but I’m also somewhat indifferent and lethargic at the moment. They sound good. They sound like a real band. A few minutes later from the main stage, across the other side of the road, a dj starts his set. Fishbone, veterans of true art-rock performance, just sweated out another set thirty years in the making. Meanwhile this dj bonehead mosies up to his “turntables” and a crowd of thousands goes nuts to his incessant bass drum and transparent, bubble gum crescendos. I bet he’s making at least twice as much as the members Fishbone combined. I don’t get it. He bobs his head as he mindlessly spoon-feeds a bunch of ecstasy-heads a pile of pre-recorded jive. The parallel hits way too close to home and I salt my tilapia beyond the point of tasting my own tears.