"It's really all about Savannah, and the weekend shows," says McFarland from the shotgun seat of The Mercy Seat's borrowed, battered ride as it hurtles south, pulling a little rented U-Haul. "The shows during the week aren't going to be amazing, but it's pointless to come all the way out here for one show."Though the two bands might seem quite similar - talented unsung-veteran trios, each with a stand-up bass player and a singular take on fringe-rock - their respective sounds, attitudes and methods are markedly different. They even tour differently. The Beauvilles plan in broad strokes beforehand, then surrender themselves to the chaos of the road, splitting up for hours at a time and scrambling to find a place to stay; it's exciting and unpredictable.
The Mercy Seat, on the other hand, moves with steady, unified purpose; there's a friend, relative or hotel reservation awaiting the group in every town. There's a daily budget of $130 that includes gas, lodging and a $10 per diem for each member.
There's even a ledger, into which goes the money made, the money spent, the number of CDs sold, the names of every club employee met, and little details about every stop, like how much free beer they received or that a particular person was extraordinarily cool. The whole thing doesn't provide the roller-coaster ride of The Beauvilles' method, but it's also comparatively worry-free, and The Mercy Seat's straightforward, largely unflappable low-key enthusiasm is infectious.
Plus, they all smoke cigarettes; we're allowed to drag away in the van (stubbing our butts in an empty chewing-tobacco tin), and the smell helps counteract the odor of Red Bull that's as omnipresent in here as it was in The Beauvilles' van.
Today's destination is Jinx, a small Savannah venue whose hospitality, sound quality and sizeable regular crowd has endeared it to many touring Tampa Bay acts. Both of these bands have played the club before, and the knowledge that they'd be there, in a college town starved for nightlife, on a Friday night, has probably played a larger part in getting them through the past three days than they'd care to admit. If tonight sucks, it's doubtful even The Mercy Seat will remain undaunted.
Once in town, we head straight for the offices of WRFS, the Savannah College of Art and Design's radio station. Having lost its spot on the FM band in the wake of the FCC's review of low-power radio, WRFS makes do with an extremely weak AM signal and Internet streaming at www.scadradio.org.
But it's promotion, and both bands are greeted warmly by the station's young staff, and given five minutes or so each of interview time. (This, and a preview for tonight's show in the local alt-weekly, go a long way toward explaining the groups' love for playing here - they didn't see show previews in any other papers along the way, including Creative Loafing, the Weekly Planet sister paper in Atlanta, to which both bands submitted press kits and events listings.)
The anticipation dims a bit when the hotel McFarland booked online turns out not to exist, forcing The Mercy Seat to waste over an hour looking first for it, then for a suitable alternative. Following an additional half-hour of touring Savannah's gorgeous old-section architecture (read: getting lost), they arrive at Jinx to find some familiar faces amongst the staff, and spirits improved once again.
Beers are cracked, The Beauvilles' Kyle disappears for the umpteenth time, McCarthy beds down backstage for a nap that won't end until The Beauvilles' sound-check wakes him hours later, and McFarland, McMillan and I go in search of the 15th slice of pizza I'll eat since leaving St. Petersburg on Tuesday.
When we return, the doors are open but Jinx is still pretty empty, and the opening act has called and cancelled. The assorted band members crack more Pabsts, fiddle with their respective instruments, and try unsuccessfully to keep their eyes away from the entrance to the building, doubtless wondering if, after everything, tonight's gig will be just like the others.
It's not.
Though the house isn't exactly crowded when The Beauvilles take the stage, it is by their third song. Among the throng are every single person they met at the radio station, and several drunken screamers; Kyle matches wits with the loudest of them between flawless, energetically rendered tunes.
The patrons eat everything up, from Kyle's now slightly tour-ragged melodies to Pullen's tight, frequent and completely over-the-top drum fills and McMillan waltzing and dipping his upright bass around the stage. The set ends with Kyle atop Pullen's kick drum, guitar neck skyward, as Pullen circles his kit pounding the cymbals.
And the crowd, as they say, goes wild.