Possible interpretations of the term friendship: We celebrate each others successes. Frequently share stories and food. Have commonalities or relish in what is not common. We don’t bear hardships alone. Drink each other’s burbon. Sleep on each other’s floors. Sometimes we fight, or borrow without asking. We have left errant urine on the seat of a toilet, and pretended that we did not. We have typically shared exactly as many humiliations as we have squares of chocolate; and what it amounts to is describable, but unquantifiable. Side note: we love charlotte.

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Simply put, this is a story of american rock and roll. The sun sets over the sound, old friends come out, and the floor becomes lava.

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It is time for liberals to take back the flag. Here’s how we’re making a difference:

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It was feeling like the end of the world. So we went to the edge of the earth to get kayaking and fishing lessons from hardened marines. Feeling crazed? Why not lay those paramilitary fears aside and go for a stroll on the beautiful beaches of coastal north carolina? The gang survived a schism, an impostor, and a heated argument revolving around the rules of interception. Details after the jump.

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In several easy steps we prepare for change: First, travel east.

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Last-minute Brother Reade show at Black Sheep skate shop in Charlotte was a success. The jam session was awesome. The cops came! They even put someone in the car!

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One night ever, in the history of southern pines North Carolina, this happened: a local bartender does fleetwood mac covers, accompanies self on keyboard. A hip-hop dance troupe perseveres through cd-skipping tough times to the end of their dance routine, a separate solo rendition of ‘thriller’ was also performed (not to snitch, but MJ stole that whole shit from Bob Fosse, for real). And then this rap group played the drums.

The event wasn’t without fallout: doors were ripped off hinges, the skin was ripped off of fried chicken, and rocks were virulently thrown at the broadside of barns. Below: Darkness gazes wistfully upon spaceship summoning equipment.

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Brother Reade “Always a Lady” mini-tour rips through Asheville, Winston-Salem, and Raleigh. A hurricane wasn’t enough to ruin Chuck Berry’s performance the night before at Raleigh Wide Open, and a nine-year old in an affliction T-shirt giving us “two thumbs down” wasn’t enough to ruin ours.

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Ah, fuck yea fest. Annual bringer of chaos, beauty, confusion, and a mile-radius of human pheremones to our very own echo park. We, as per usual, adore you. A ton of awesome big bands played, but the real action was on the margins. Triumph of Lethargy takes the clinic by storm! Mike Runion warms the crowd for Jeff Garlin! High Places braved the “after negative approach slot” without the “wall of skinheads” that had visited them in premonitory nightmares. Children lurked on our dinner at the Bright Spot! Need we say more?

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I don’t exactly know how to explain the pictures found here, but let me just say this: Once upon a time, in southern california, where it is pretty much summer most of the time, Bobby and I were invited to a welcome back party for a friend of ours at her parents’ house. Let’s say the parents’ house in question was, um, made completely out of marble and had a ton of gorgeous indoor/outdoor space and strange and beautiful exotic flowers growing everywhere. There may have also been delicious homemade kabab on the barbecue and more than a few kinds of cardamom-oriented desserts and like, i dunno, rosewater gelato or some shit. So anyway, this party also sort of overlooked the ocean, and occurred on a not-too hot kind of misty day with juuuuuuust enough sunshine to make the pool worth a dip. But i’d be lying if i told you that the hot tub wasn’t where the real action was at. So, yeah, fun times, boys and girls hanging out in bathing suits by the pool, and then all of a sudden, our friend’s dad’s like “who wants to see some guns?” and then things got pretty awesome. Dear mama: please don’t click on the jump unless you like bikinis, assault rifles, alcohol, and copious amounts of saturated fats. Oh, and ziplocked and freeze-dried cross sections of human brains. Don’t wanna leave that out. (more…)

Show at the smell on fuck yeah eve. Mae Shi, Japanther, Brother Reade. Hosted by the tireless Jim Smith. It woulda been a smorgasbord if the law ain’t shut down the vegan hot dog stand (wtf?!). More after the jump.

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We were invited out to Las Vegas to play records at the POOL Tradeshow. Three days, three nights of beauteous, oxygen-rich meandering accompanied by the mellifluous sounds of ubiquitous slot machines. Notwithstanding a seemingly endless bonus round at the palm springs airport. Details (albeit scattered ones) follow.

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Mysterious pics from usun et al at ooga booga. Most of those in attendance were still raving about Mark Borthwick’s ginger-permeated culinary proclivities. Say what you will about the man, he knows what to do with raw fennel. If you don’t know, wendy yao’s shop in china town is lovely, the lucky dragons really are lucky, and rob barber from high places does a mean ny tough guy pizza maker dance.

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Boadrum 88. Imagine you are sitting at a drum set, surrounded by 87 other people who are doing the same…well, 86, because one of the other people has a seven necked guitar. Now imagine the person with the seven necked guitar holds up a white staff with a trident at the top. Once he has the attention of all of the other drummers, he bashes the seven necked guitar with the staff. Chaos ensues. Being surrounded by good bros and statues of primordial tigers fighting each other was really just icing on the cake. Come see us tonight at sugar (and tomorrow night at the clinic) if you missed it or you just need more drums). (more…)

Brother Reade played a concert in the courtyard of the J. Paul Getty Museum. It was Jams’ first ever DJ gig outside of Moon Dogg. It was Bobby Evans’ five thousandth DJ gig outside of Moon Dogg. We actually interacted with security guards in a way that didn’t involve us getting kicked out of a parking lot for skating. Dan Deacon made like 1001 people play ‘london bridge’ in the getty courtyard, but you did not hear that from me. What in the fuck is the world coming to, really? You can find proof this actually happened on a site we don’t even maintain. No, really. Go here. Love to Lynnel and Arlie. Up the punks. (more…)