DOWNLOAD: Harry & The Potters and Uncle Monsterface, "Girls" (mp3)
Day five:Donkey Kong; the barking of a dog proves less worrisome than the bite of its soundman; the inappropriate uses of Oingo Boingo; Uncle Monsterface ponders the transformative properties of old laundry
Marty Allen: My voice is still scratchy and hoarse due to the rock and roll life, so I've taken to limiting my conversations, stopping smoking, and constantly eating lozenges. It seems to be helping. Departing from Charlottesville, Jesse and I were treated to an intense and confusing pilates (and other assorted exercises) lesson, courtesy of the still-superhuman Marisa, then given more amazing food and a replacement pillow, and sent on our way.
Joe: Raleigh, North Carolina! We’re sound checking and recording some songs on this crummy old piano at King’s Barcade that we can use later today for our song-for-the-day.
Marty Allen: I'll confess, we were a little intimidated by Raleigh. King's Barcade is a dusty, bedraggled little joint. The arcade part is a handful of old-school games like Donkey Kong and Galaga which seem like they're there less for nostalgia and more like they've just always been there -- some of them look like they might work, others are straight-up covered in broken stuff.
Paul: One of the reasons I was psyched to play at King’s was because of the video games. Last summer we went to the fantastic Barcade of Williamsburg and had a blast playing all those awesome old games. Unfortunately, King’s is not nearly as well stocked. They have about a half dozen games, of which the only real exciting one was Donkey Kong. This game is hard. I pump in about $3 before I even get past level two.
Marty Allen: The back room features a partially caved-in bathroom and is covered in deeply off-color graffiti. One scrawled warning reads, 'I hate it here,' and another reminds us that ‘Everyone can be replaced.’ We were so ready for the foreboding banjo notes to kick in that James had already started squealing.
Jesse: An ancient, black barking dog, Georgia, greets us. I like dogs the way Uncle Monsterface likes people, so despite her bark, I see a wagging tail and ask if I can let her come over and say hi. “You’d better not,” says the soundman. He looks like the kind of guy who, were you to get into a fight with him, you’d come in second. We’re a bunch of Yankee punks who sing songs about Harry Potter and breakfast cereal and this is -- gulp -- a real bar in the South. A lot of the apprehension evaporates when Marty, courteous as ever, calls the soundman as “Sir.” “Fuck that,” the soundman smiles, “I know I’m old enough to be your father, but call me Eric.” And with that, King’s becomes a very friendly place and one of the highlights of the tour.
