Immigration Song

So yeah.

It's been a while. 

Blame Canada.

"Internet, eh? Is that aboot muskie fishing, eh?" (That's a crude stereotype of a generalization of the whole of Canada talking to me about the lack of world wide webbing opportunities whilst in Toronto.)

But now that we're safely back in the states, I'm gonna do my best to catch you up on a couple days of blogging. 

I wish I hadn't used my 8 Mile reference in my Chicago blog. Turns out, the place we were playing is actually above the club where all those rap battles were set. Actually, before our show was even over, the line was already forming for the club's after-hours transformation into Detroit's rowdiest hip-hop venue. Still, no Mekhi Phifer.

One of my favorite things to do on this tour is hang out around the bus, looking discombobulated with my hoodie up and watching all the girls in line pontificate whether I'm a musician or not. Usually, after a few whispers and texts shot between each other, they come to the inevitable conclusion: Not famous. Move along. We're wasting time we could spend trying to find Alex. In Detroit, for some reason, I had about seven different sets of girls approach me and ask me if I'm I'm worth talking to. (I was also referred to as a David Cook wannabe. I had to look up David Cook on Wikipedia and when I found out who he is, I decided that I'm officially offended and utterly, utterly confused.)

So the show was pretty crazy. This was the first venue that I can recall where both smoking and drinking were pretty widely embraced, which didn't change the fans at all (since, let's face it: Most are almost a decade away from doing either.), but it did make the crop of parents a much more visible force. Within five minutes of Forever The Sickest Kids' set starting, two drunken mothers had spilled beer all over my Matches posters and tried to barter for backstage passes with unspeakable sexual acts. It was right about then that I decided the lack of smoking regulations were a very good thing for me.

The Rocket Summer closed the night and there was almost more stage diving and crowd surfers for Bryce than All Time Low. Which both pleased and disturbed me. 

After the show, we had to cheese it for the border pretty quick because taking a tour bus into Canada is a notoriously tedious activity. It was a good thing we left early because, yep, we were pulled off the bus for a vaguely intrusive interrogation. 

(To set the scene, please refer to the photo of the Matches at customs.)

There's something really kind of humbling about going through Immigration with rock stars. It's never more clear that, dreamy they may be, they're no better than a part-time Rue 21 sales associate in the eyes of border guards. 

Guard: What's the name of your band?

Shawn Harris: The Matches.

Guard: What are you guys, British?

The Matches: [Confused.] Um, no.

Guard: What kind of music do you play?

The Matches: Um...

Guard: So you're playing a rock and/or roll show?

Shawn: Yes.

Guard: With real instruments? 

Shawn: Usually.

Guard: If we open up all those cases, we aren't gonna find black tar heroin instead?

Shawn: Usually not.

Guard: What was that?

The Matches: Usually not, sir. 

After a few cavity searches (those were actually optional but really, how often do you get that kind of experience?), we were on our way to the land of Tim Hortons.

TORONTO

To tell you the truth, Toronto was pretty rad. I'm not gonna say it's clean. Everyone says that. But it's definitely tidy. And there are a lot of signs that seem weird at first, but when you think about them, they're very useful (like the: "Watch for Elderly Pedestrians" signs.).

We unfortunately couldn't give out our free subscriptions in Canada, so I spent most of the day assuring kids that all of our posters were in fact free. 

Aside from that, there wasn't a ton to report. I found a pizza shop down the street and was stoked there was no line, but that all changed when Forever The Sickest Kids found it too, bringing with them a moving posse of teenage hormones and screeching that will haunt my dreams for weeks. And then I couldn't get my pizza for an hour.

But on the trip back to the U.S. last night, we had our first night without any girls on the bus, giving the Matches and I the opportunity to watch the testosterone-heavy Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid. Three out of four Matches agree: Paul Newman is a badass. And he makes incredible salad dressing.

So the red flashing light on my laptop either means my battery is low or my stories have gone waaaaaaay off focus. Either way, I'm gonna start to load in at our Grand Rapids venue.

I'm sad to say, today will be my last day on the tour. For those of you who've written all those awesome comments and marriage proposals, thanks. You seriously know how to make a kid feel like he's doing a decent job and not at all like he's the weird guy who somehow has the access code to the Matches' bus. 

Later guys.

AP Tim