On the Road with Verona Red Day 1: Champaign, IL

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Leavetakings

Everyone was meeting at the practice space on the north side of Chicago. Having been out of the country for a couple years, I hadn't had a chance to meet the new(est) guitarist, Adam or the interim bassist Steve. We started loading up some equipment in the van according to the drummer's detailed instructions. Having known Mike for 17 years at this point, it came as a shock to me to see him that focused and organized. I guess he had been saving himself for Verona Red all this time.

A few words on the setup of the van: Mike had bought a van that had 2 full rear benches. He ripped the last bench out, and built a huge wooden frame that fit inside the back. On top of the wooden frame there lies a mattress and some pillows and a solid 18-24 inches of space below the roof. The vast majority of the equipment is inside this wooden frame, or tucked in between the frame and the sides of the van. The sleeping arrangements, unless better options come along, are 3 gentlemen in their mid 20s arranged shoulder to shoulder along the mattress, one along the middle bench, and one in the passenger seat.

Initially our only company was the weird stoner/crackhead/vagrant that apparently routinely haunted the halls of the practice space, telling disjointed stories and bumming cigarettes. Then, Chris the guitarist and lead singer showed up to help load the van. Steve showed up in a black wife-beater and a bandana, which I would soon find out would be his standard attire for the rest of the trip. Chris instructed me to go pick Adam up at his apartment a few blocks over. He handed over the keys to his Jetta, and I ran up and down the block trying to find the car that Chris had so lovingly taken care of over the years. Feeling like an idiot, I called Mike to ask where the car was parked. His answer of "Right in front of the building" didn't not assuage my ego in the slightest. To my credit though, it was pretty hard to reconcile the Jetta as I had seen it years ago with the weathered, worn, dented, rusted pile of shit that was now parked in front of me. I carefully piled in, and went to go pick up the guitarist.

It can be a bit strange meeting someone for the first time. I pulled up to the corner, and Adam was nowhere to be seen. He popped out of his door several minutes later, and I threw the hazards on so I could help him with whatever he needed to bring down. I figured it would be basically what I had, a single backpack, in addition to his guitar(s) of course. In his living room there sat 2 hard guitar cases, and 2 hard suitcases. This, in addition to his slender personage and soft spoken manner, led me to believe that he might be harboring a vagina inside his jeans. As it turned out, the second suitcase had various work stuff inside as he would need to be taking care of some business at opportune times on the road. The jury is still out on the vagina.

After we drove back we put the finishing touches on the loading and we piled in. The drive to Champaign wasn't very daunting, so we set off in high spirits. On the road my job was explained to me. I would be helping to load and unload for the shows, minding the merchandise booth, and taking as many pictures and videos as I could on the camera provided to me. I also began to take notes on various quotes that I found hilarious at the time and other strange occurrences. One final thing I dutifully recorded: the results of the Adam Knoernschild Band Frequency Handjob Giveaway, officially named the "Adam Rubs America Radio Challenge". We each picked the band that we thought would get the most airplay during the entirety of the trip. Mike chose Foo Fighters, Adam chose Creedence Clearwater Revival, Steve picked Red Hot Chili Peppers, Chris went with The Doors, and I opted for Metallica. The winner at the end of the journey would receive a free handy from Adam, or "CumTickles" as he has been affectionately dubbed. Needless to say, Adam was really emotionally invested in CCR coming out on top.

Verona Red at the Cowboy Monkey

When we arrived in Champaign, the ridiculous directions and the asinine location of the Cowboy Monkey led us to circle the venue several times before finally pulling into the bank drive-thru in order to access the parking lot. Of course. It seems so obvious looking back on it.

The show went well, though it was on a Thursday and we were off campus. Steve hadn't played in front of people for a while, so he had a bit of the jitters. During one song he started rocking out a bit too hard and ended up almost knocking one of the amps over in his jubilance.

The Aftermath

A few songs and a few discounted beers later, and we were on our way to a bar called Joe's that I used to frequent during my years at the University of Illinois in lovely (erk) Champaign. It was strange to be in a bar filled with girls furtively attempting to rub the "Underage" stamps off of the backs of their hands. The more we walked around, the older and creepier we felt. That is, except for Steve, who wallows in creepiness as naturally as a hawk majestically soaring through the air, or a pig sullenly mucking through his own feces. We had planned to meet a friend Tim, who was celebrating his birthday that evening and had attended the show. However, Tim, in the truest manner of his family, burned too brightly too early, and never met up with us for the remainder of the night. This was unfortunate, as our plans involved crashing at his house for the evening.

Our plans and hopes for comfortable lodging dashed, we bought some drunk food and settled in the van for our first night.

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