California Screamin'

Wednesday, May 26 -- Goleta, California: On the way to Goleta, Matt talks about his birthday a couple weeks back; at 27, he's the baby of the band. "But I don't feel that old," he says. "Greg Ginn was older than me when Black Flag recorded Damaged." Then everyone starts trading stories about all the times they've either been shot or shot somebody else -- apparently par for the course when growing up in Peoria.

Plea for Peace has the night off, so Planes headlines a venue in Goleta called, aptly, Hard to Find. During the day, it's a Christian learning center. The six-inch-high stage has a huge bookshelf filled with Christmas lights and stuffed animals. Against such a backdrop, Gared makes a speech that he's to reprise on stage throughout the trip: "We're not an overtly political band, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that we need to knock that half-wit needle-dick from Texas off his fucking throne." The kids cry hallelujah.

Thursday, May 27, and Friday, May 28 -- Hollywood, California: The drive down the 101 is short but gorgeous. Seaweed rots on the beaches, and oil rigs loom on the horizon like battleships. Gared, Dave and I have a long talk about our grandfathers and the wars they fought. Skynyrd and Bauhaus blare out of the van windows.

The tour is taking up a two-night residency at the Troubadour in Hollywood, and I finally get to meet everyone else during soundcheck. Mike Park tells me about his high hopes for -- and frequent disappointments with -- Plea for Peace. "This is the fourth one, and I think it's the best so far," he says, "but some nights it's just a party crowd. Everyone's drunk, and they don't want to hear about politics."

Or open their minds to anything new. Although Planes slays the stage both nights, the trendy kids there to see Cursive just slouch around, eyeing each other's meticulously disheveled outfits. On Friday, as the last squeal of feedback stabs out of Matt's amp, a sassy tenth-grader brushes past me and mutters angrily to his friend, "There's a difference between noise and music."

Saturday, May 29, and Sunday, May 30 -- Pomona, California: In contrast, the two nights at the Glasshouse in Pomona are amazing. The bands are on fire, and the kids aren't afraid to get their hair messed up. We have a real hotel room this time, and Gared runs around the fancy pool trying to catch lizards. Later, he tells the best story of the whole trip: "When I was in fourth grade, there was this girl in my class named Amy Davis. She was it. I had a huge crush on her. One day, we stayed in during recess to finish some project, and I was so stoked. But while we were sitting there together, she blew this huge booger down her face. Then, a second later, she sucked it right back up into her nose.

"Immediately," he finishes, "I started puking all over the place."

Monday, May 31 -- San Diego, California: The worst show of the tour. The crowd is impenetrably placid, and Planes plays even more desperately than usual, pushing with every erg of force and fury in their bodies against some unseen barrier. After Gared falls on his ass in the middle of a song, he tells the audience, "Sorry, I ate shit real bad there. It's not like falling down when you're nineteen. I'm a little denser." Even his anti-Bush rant is greeted with little more than a sea of crossed arms. He ends the set with his usual, heartfelt departing line -- "Take care of each other" -- and it just bounces off a force field of cool.

Tuesday, June 1 -- Victorville, California: A mid-tour funk sets in. The van has begun to smell like chicken-fried ass. A quick dip in the ocean outside San Diego augments my usual morning shower: a layer of deodorant and a stick of Polar Ice gum. Tonight's show is at a place called the Avenue, located in a Victorville strip mall. Halfway between San Diego and Vegas, the town feels like a rat's maze with a dead end. The native kids rock accordingly.

Wednesday, June 2 -- Las Vegas, Nevada: The drive through Death Valley is apocalyptic. Everyone stares blankly at the bone-dry landscape, listlessly whispering along to every word of Jawbreaker's Dear You. The blast of the AC when we get inside the House of Blues kicks us all back to life. Planes actually whips up a pit tonight; a dozen or so kids somehow figure out that it's actually okay to physically express yourself at a rock concert. Even Saul Williams is spazzing out on the side of the stage. A late night of drinking and gambling is made even more surreal by our stay on the 34th floor of the Mandalay Bay, the luxury hotel that rises above the House of Blues. From our wall-sized window, the lights along the strip blink epileptically.