Fidlar Tour Diary Part II: Psychedelics, Germs and Pranks

By Ian Joulain Wed., Jan. 23 2013 at 8:39 AM

Categories: Punk

Alice Baxley

[Editor's note: Highland Park four-piece Fidlar made a name for themselves last year for their explosive skate pop-punk. As we wrote in March, they were either on the brink of getting huge or flaming out; looks like it was the former. On the eve of their just-released self-titled debut album -- and show at Amoeba tomorrow -- we embedded and traveled all over fucking California with them! Here's part one.]

The Catalyst -- Santa Cruz
January 19, 2013

It's pre-show in Santa Cruz, just after 8 pm. With various members of the Fidlar posse sitting on a stained carpet in club the Catalyst's green room, bassist Brandon Schwartzel paces, belting out various verses from the Punk Goes Pop catalogue. Before long, the guys are improvising reggae songs about Red Stripe, joking about starting a fake Internet feud with Odd Future, and about hatching web pages called LAbandbeef.com and bandfights.com. It's early in the night.

There is beer, and it is poured out onto the floor in the name of Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer. As Schwartzel sees it -- Rudolph got got. Either that or the guys would simply like someone to guide their sleigh as they proceed to head out all over the globe, from Santa Cruz, Tokyo, Hamburg, Paris, and Dublin, back to Los Angeles.

Slowly the room starts to fill up with members of the bands who are touring with them, Pangea and Meat Market, and the alcohol consumption ramps up.

Max Kuehn, Fidlar's drummer, sits down and pours himself a hefty glass of Jameson. He notes that you have to "claim your shit" -- your booze -- or someone else will drink it.

Still, most everyone has managed to do some drinking in the past few evenings, as well as the drug 2C-B. (A member of Pangea provided the psychedelic, and snorting has been the preferred method of consumption. Unfortunately, it stings like a bitch.) Lodging is often not sorted until the last moment, and too often the person driving is drunk.

Sitting in a chair, devouring a slice of pizza, lead singer Zac Carper is asked about how he expects these next few months on tour to pan out. "It's nerve wracking," he says. "I get nervous a lot." Caravanning around California with friends and family is one thing, but connecting flights, customs, language barriers, and not having access to good Mexican food is another.

Elvis Kuehn, meanwhile, would like to put a stop to the "slacker punk" moniker that writers have bestowed upon them. "It's frustrating," he says. After all, it implies that the band doesn't take its music seriously. "We work hard, we play well live...and it's not like we are fucking around," he says. People are quick to judge their songs solely by their lyrics, without taking note of their oft-inspired melodies and structures.

It's almost showtime, and Carper is looking out at the stage. It's an all-ages performance, and the room is jam packed. Carper is honestly surprised, noting that it's only the second time they've played Santa Cruz.

After a final shot of Jim Beam, Elvis takes the stage. The band tears into "Cheap Beer," and soon the stage is filled with sweaty teenagers and drunken stage divers. Folks' feet dig into each other and blood is drawn.

Before "No Ass" Carper is asked to clear the stage. He does so half-heartedly, but one song later it's more crowded than before. As the final bars of "Wake, Bake, Skate" ring out it's full out pandemonium. Bodies everywhere.