Red Mole Tour America (Part 2)
BALTIMORE. WASHINGTON. KNOXVILLE.
Our gigs at the Maryland Institute College of Art were sensational, if unattended - it was good practice for the forthcoming work. Everyone around us in Baltimore, the city made painfully sad in the Randy Newman song - Drunk lyin’ on the sidewalk, sleeping in the rain, and the people hide their eyes, cause the city’s dyin, And they don’t know why, Oh Baltimore, ain’t it just hard to live, was generous and kind. I listened to a Robert Palmer concert at the local town hall, Bad Case of Loving You (Doctor, Doctor).
We moved on to Washington DC, did a gig at the NZ Embassy, followed by a stay at the deputy NZ ambassadors residence at a prestigious address - the best stocked wine cellar - booze hospitality - foreign dignatory ra ra - no expenses spared, that night the dep ambassador was watching Steinlager win a best beer comp - not biting the hand that fed us we shared in the unlimited stocks.
We drove out of Washington in our 1969 Pontiac Le Mans Wagon (car and plates purchased in a Puerto Rican hood of NYC - which would cause a few probs later in the trip). Packed to the gunnels - two wheel bearing blow outs - one just before Richmond, Virginia on a Sunday night – found an after hours garage where the ‘southern’ mechanic didn’t say one word to us, but fixed the car - we drove on - the opposite bearing smoking as we approached Knoxville, Tennessee. The Moles sailed past us stopped on the side of Interstate 81, in their 1970 Buick LeSabre. The mentality was ‘look after yourself’ - actually, I think they did back up and offer a few bucks for the repairs.
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA.
Got off Interstate 59 at Birmingham, Alabama - the race riots of 1963 seemed a not too distant memory when we stumbled into a classic southern black barbershop, looking to use the bathroom – hostility at first – what’s honky doing here - but we were soon forgiven, if you weren’t whitey with an american accent - you could be intriging and fun even.
Driving that evening somewhere south of Tuscaloosa we were pulled over by the local highway patrol – they’d run our New York plates. The cops approached, hands on guns - license and rego - license in my luggage sir - was allowed to get out and look for it - your plates belong to a 1967 Ford Galaxie they said. Oh really, we just bought what came with the car. Where are you headed? New Orleans. Ok, just get out of our state. So we did – crossed into Mississipi, where there was an actual border station manned by armed police - where are you headed - New Orleans, just passing through - OK go, don’t linger in our state.
NEW ORLEANS. SAN ANTONIO.
The Muso-Lighting section of the Red Mole troupe arrived in New Orleans. Our hosts were more interested in giving Jan a good time and would have preferred to get rid of her humdrum associates so they could show her the real New Or’lins - the New Or’lins boys couldn’t quite get it together to have a crack and we all ended up down in the French Quarter. Bourbon Street was touristy then but we certainly enjoyed some fine RnB. In San Antonio our Mexican hosts wasted no time telling us who really owned the place. Texas has a very similar history to NZ in the respect that the so-called gringo colonisers were initially invited in by the extant natives, but took it upon themselves to decide it was their manifest destiny to take over completely. Anyway, we appropriately performed for the Mexican American Unity Council.
AUSTIN. EL PASO.
Seventy miles up the road was one of the best gigs of the entire tour. Esther’s Pool on 6th St in Austin was a venue made for the type of theatre that Red Mole excelled at and for this night we revived the political cabaret from Carmen’s Balcony days. The stage at Esther's had been built adjacent to the window facing the street, which was highly effective for advertising your presence. I have visited Austin many times since, but back in 1979, 6th St was a low rent seamy part of town, so it’s now claimed that Esther's was a significant factor in the development of Austin’s entertainment district. This was the time of the Iranian hostage crisis at the American Embassy in Tehran. A hysterical Christian fundamentalist (scary) anti Iranian demonstration marched through the streets of Austin. We left for Albuquerque via the slightly longer route through El Paso, stopping there for the night beside the Rio Grande. The river was reduced to a trickle at that time of year and so we were entertained by the sight of ‘wetbacks’ crossing unimpeded between Mexico and the US and vice versa. Border control seemed to be a different concept back then.
ALBUQUERQUE
Met Lori at the University of New Mexico during a lunchtime Campus Concert – she made a bee line for me and then her dad dropped her off at our gig that night at Central Café Torta in downtown Albuquerque. The Moles had a field day with jokes about adolesent infatuation - this sort of fodder often appeared in a script that night - she was a part time waitress at a family restaurant - she said come along – I’ll get you all a free meal – poor girl regretted that.
‘Numbered Days in Paradise’ played at The KiMo Theatre, a beautiful 1927 Pueblo Deco style building saved from demolition by the citizens of Albuquerque in 1977. The Apache staff thought we looked hungry too, one of them got his mother to bring in her home made quesadillas – the best I’ve ever tasted. Seldom has there been more nervous expectation in a world of pain and desolation. The earth is drying up. We stand at the beginning of some mass confessional. The sun is about to rise, perhaps. Skinwalkers pass through a new landscape. Artifacts of the machine age litter the space. Cactus. Dogs howling. No birds. We are in the pits. Leaves fall from above. After the skinwalkers, the sky brightens. A group of country folk pass with large birds effigies. The sound of insects. Enter the fool – dances in silence except for the locusts. The fool sings a song.
SANTA FE. TAOS.
I did return to New Mexico and contacted George Koumantaros, who’d produced the Mole shows when we first arrived in Santa Fe, December 1979. Swapped life stories from the last three decades, we’d both had the whole catastrophe – lawyers, guns and money.
We took the high road to Taos, stopping at the Poanaque Pueblo where for three bucks I recorded a Commanche Buffalo Dance - instantly incorporated into the subsequent Red Mole show at the Wayfarers Inn. One day while driving, I took a wrong turn, nearly colliding with a police car - License and rego? I dug out the bollocks paperwork I had. We’re going to have to confiscate the car, said the Chicano cop. Where are you thinking you’re headed anyway? Los Angeles California. Just kidding said the cop con el sentido del humor caustico – just don’t linger in our State.
LAS VEGAS. LOS ANGELES.
Wanted to experience Las Vegas on the way to California so hung out on the strip for a few hours, then carried on through the night to LA. Through the Cajon Pass, early on a light and airy morning, looking out across California towards the Pacific Ocean, had me channelling all the migrants who had made this journey before, the beauty and hope for this place was awe inspiring. We were booked for a two week season at the Odyssey Theatre in Santa Monica. The LA Weekly informed that this group had garnered favourable reviews for its ability to pointedly and entertainingly satirise our political and social foibles without becoming shrill. The Hollywood Reporter didn’t think so, citing Alan as a rather maniacal MC, offering several rambling monologues that were embarrassingly bad. The Hollywood Drama-Logue spoke of a hostile emcee, who says to America (‘so much more consequential than our country’) that ‘we’re glad to be under your nuclear umbrella’. It was designed to shock of course and, what the hell, it was Hollywood.
NEW ZEALAND
We travelled directly to the Sweetwaters festival in Ngaruawahia on 28th January 1980. As the penultimate act of the epic festivities, the Moles performed a Cabaret set for the hard core remnants, then did a Students Arts Council tour the following month. A great end to a journey which had run its course. On the final night at the Auckland Uni Rec Centre I meet with Harry Lyon to discuss the formation of a new adventure, which was to become our band, Coup D’Etat.