An older crowd trickled in later to check out the quirky pop of new hometown heroes Pocket Novel Mystery, as the two Tampa bands loaded out, and collected something in the neighborhood of $20 apiece for their efforts.
The Mercy Seat guys were offered a place to sleep by a local friend of Martin's who, while obviously put off by the notion of extending the same invitation to four more men, did it anyway, bless him. Armed with sleeping bags and a couple of cases of cheap beer, we entered the startlingly familiar collegiate apartment to find ourselves in the midst of a small after-party in honor of whatever jam band had played in town that night, complete with tie-dyed fashion, a barely coherent dude on Ecstasy, and the aroma of that really potent pot that always smells like a skunk that died two summer days ago.
McFarland, Martin and McCarthy revealed an interesting Mercy Seat tradition by breaking out a set of bocce balls for a wee-hours match on the lawn, and later, after Pullen tired of playing with the dog and Kyle disappeared to go sleep in the van, everybody managed four-and-a-half hours of unconsciousness.
By the time The Beauvilles' van reached the outskirts of Atlanta Wednesday evening, the cloying, too-sweet smell of Red Bull had worked its way into everything. DIY touring in the new millennium is all about Red Bull, MapQuest, and not having to use truck-stop bathrooms. (Thank you, Borders; thank you, Barnes & Noble.) And hyper-trendy online community MySpace.com, where a band can not only find other bands in other cities with whom to set up shows, but also connect with live-music fans they've never met in cities they'll be playing on the road:"So, did you meet anybody on MySpace who lives in (insert city name here)?"
"No, but I did 'talk' to this one girl in (insert other city name here) who said she was gonna try to come out, and bring, like, five or six friends."
"Cool."
(The above exchange occurred at least once every day that I rode with The Beauvilles.)
The bands couldn't secure a shared bill in Atlanta. The Mercy Seat was booked into a little underground bar called Ten High, while The Beauvilles played The Earl, an excellent venue in increasingly hip East Atlanta. It was easily the coolest room in the biggest city of the tour, but it was also a Wednesday night; while twice as many patrons socialized out in the separate bar/restaurant section of the place, the trio played a loose, chaotic set to less than 20 onlookers, most of whom were part of another group's entourage.
Most were impressed, and made a point of approaching frontman Kyle afterward at the back of the darkened red-and-black space where they'd set up their merchandise. He was his usual socially adept self, gracious and funny, but was privately disappointed in both the turnout and the sloppy performance.
Not to mention the pay.
"The club didn't break even," he explained, meaning that The Beauvilles wouldn't be making any door money on this stop.
Then he smiled.
"But the soundman bought a CD."
Planting seeds.
After the night's final band - a poppy group of identically suited guys called The Californias who, while obviously talented, were entirely too happy for most of us - we decamped to Ten High. The place was locked up when we arrived, the show over and The Mercy Seat gone to The Clermont Lounge.
(A trip to The Clermont is pretty much tradition for all out-of-town scenesters visiting Atlanta. For those who've never been, the storied nightspot is basically a cross between a vintage strip club and a David Lynch movie.)
A bar. A 2:30 a.m. last call. Another Kyle disappearance. A rambling Tudor-style house on the outskirts of town. A long, hot shower. A comfortable sofa.
The next day, following that other visiting-scenester tradition - an extended, aimless walking tour through the various overpriced shops of Little Five Points - Kyle was located via cellphone at a new friend's apartment. With Thursday more than half over, the Dodge van went north and east, and delivered the band into the surreal, frayed-nerve experience that was the night of the Spartanburg show.
The past catches up with the present here, in the parking lot of a seedy, mildew-caked Days Inn located at the edge of Spartanburg's worst neighborhood. Last night's rain has abated, but it's still cold, with a toothy breeze. The Dodge van pulls away, leaving me in front of Room 111, which the desk clerk has been trying to get The Mercy Seat to leave for half an hour now.
