TSW Takes DC

This past weekend, the Surefire Way invaded our nation's capitol and after a bloodless coup, are now officially America's favorite rock band. It's true - we held a vote, which was inconclusive, but the other bands conceded, and the Supreme Court declared us as the winners.

Vin, and his wife Laura, picked me up in the Surefire minivan on Saturday afternoon and we began our odyssey down I-95. Being the generous drummer that I am, I picked up lunch for the Fiorillo's at Ess-a-Bagel; lox spread on an onion bagel for Laura and tuna salad on a pumpernickel bagel for Vin. Here's a recommendation for all of you out there... tuna salad is not the easiest food to eat while driving. So Vin, who is not the neatest fellow to begin with, dropped tuna salad all over himself, had it all over his face and hands while driving. Since I was sitting shotgun, it was my responsibility to hand the man some napkins to try to clean up. Vin, however, didn't just want me to hand him napkins, he wanted me to actually wipe off his face and hands myself. After explaining to him, in no uncertain terms, that I was neither his wife, nor his mother, the lazy bastard cleaned himself up and we were through the Lincoln Tunnel and on the Jersey Turnpike. I also brought a case of Cherry Coke Zero for the ride and got the Fiorillo's hooked on its delicious, artificial cherry sweetness. As America's band, we are by default, also the official band of Cherry Coke Zero. And puppies.

Several hours later, we made it to Scott and Natalie, and had about an hour to hang out and eat cookies before the show. That's right, chocolate chip cookies - this is some serious rock n' roll stuff here. At Natalie's, Vin noticed that there was a black magic marker out in the living room, and stated, "Oh Weiss, when you fall asleep, I'm gonna draw a Hitler moustache on you." More on this later. We headed over to Grog and Tankard and prepared to rock DC.

We were psyched to have two hours to play, so we decided to kinda wing an acoustic set in the middle of our original tunes. Thankfully, Scott knows lots o'tunes, and the rest of us can fake it. About half way through, I broke out the cajon to accompany him for the stripped down set. We also reached into the way-back machine and pulled out an old TSW favorite - There She Was, which sounded great at a slower tempo with the cajon. We just might have to try that one again... Let me say this; I've been a big fan of Guster for years, primarily because of el conguero, the Thunder God - Brian Rosenworcel, who is the band's percussionist. If you don't know Guster, check them out, if for nothing else, to hear some of the most creative and energetic hand percussion you'll ever hear. I have a new appreciation for Mr. Rosenworcel, because after only 20 minutes of playing my cajon, my hands were wicked angry at me, and this guy beats the crap out of congas, cymbals, drums, whatever for hours each night, for years. There's a well documented rumor out there that a few professional baseball players who don't wear batting gloves, instead urinate on their hands to toughen their skin. There was a moment during the set, when my fingers were throbbing, where I saw the value in doing this. The moment was fleeting, but it was there.


All in all, we had a great time - Scott's new tune, What the Hell was solid, the sound at Grog and Tankard was excellent, we had a fantastic crowd, and a great time in our inaugural DC performance. Afterwards, we hung out with listeners who had stuck around - because if there's one thing TSW does well, it's bring the party to you. If there's another thing we do well, it's play music, but the first thing is party. We had a rockin' time, and Vin even lost a dance off with a guy who had some Michael Jackson-esque moves. There's no shame in that loss, buddy, that guy was like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. He was serious. Later that night, Vincenz passed out on Natalie's couch, and woke up with some magic marker on his face. Luckily for Vin, it was a smelly magic marker and having it right under his nose woke him up and kept him from getting more stuff drawn on his face, though Scott and I still found it to be quite amusing. The lesson, boys and girls, is if you're going to talk a big game, don't fall asleep first.


So until next time, this is America's favorite drummer, the official spokesmodel for Cherry Coke Zero, signing off. Hope to see you all Friday night at the Knitting Factory where we plan to rock your socks off. Join the barefoot revolution, friends, it's liberating.


-d