Mr. Dunn’s first entry:
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.