One does not forget the first time one sees a handgun sitting on a bar. This is why I will always remember “The Spanish Moon,” the romantically-named venue that I played last night in Baton Rouge, La.

The Spanish Moon emits a mysterious warehouse-turned-roadhouse rockabilly goth energy peculiar to Louisiana venues. Imagine Anne Rice directing Chuck Berry in A Streetcar Named Desire, and you’re on the right track. The club is tucked away in a deserted warehouse district under a bridge over the Mississippi River. One expects Huck and Jim to arrive at any time and ask if they are on the guest list.

The 9mm I saw when I first played The Spanish Moon in Summer 2002 was black and small, just like 9mm’s on TV. I suppose I lead a sheltered life. TV excepted, I had never seen a handgun before that day and have never seen one since.

“Oh, excuse me,” blustered the promoter of the Summer 2002 show. He was a large, fat man who may or may not have had a beard. “That’s my gun,” he said. He removed the gun from the bar.

“Oh,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” continued the possibily-bearded promoter. “I’m an undercover police officer working on busting the white slave trade in New Orleans. By the way, my wife made some red beans and rice. Do you want some?”

“Yes,” I said. Predictably, this show—booked by an alleged undercover police officer—was not well-attended. However, that bowl of beans and rice was the best bowl of beans and rice I have ever tasted.

When I returned to the Spanish Moon last year, there was no gun and the allegedly-bearded undercover officer/promoter was replaced by the promoter pictured above. This promoter and I argued about my now ex-band’s set time. In my mind, our set time that night was more relevant than the Iraq War, global warming, and AIDS in Africa combined. I sent repeated emails to my now ex-booking agent and the promoter himself complaining about our set time for no good reason.

Eventually, I came to my senses and apologized. However, my now ex-band never recovered from the set-time mishap. We began the tedious process of breaking up the next day on the way to Austin.

Curious to see if the promoter held a grudge, I e-mailed him a few months ago to ask for another Baton Rouge show. Unbelievably, he accepted and booked a show with the Apes, a D.C. band of note. Not that many people came, but I didn’t care because the Spanish Moon promoter and I had buried the hatchet, and everyone was friendly. To celebrate, I ate half a bag of potato chips.

I am sorry to report that, despite the Moyer–Baton Rouge Peace Accord, the white slave trade still persists in post-Katrina New Orleans.

When some think of Atlanta, they think of Ted Turner, OutKast, or the Coke Museum. I think of the Eyedrum.

The Eyedrum is a is a “non-profit organization developing contemporary art, music and new media in its gallery space” where, on two separate occasions in the early aughts, I played to no people. After my second bad show at Eyedrum, my now ex-bandmates and I agreed that Eyedrum was “bummin’” (“bummin’” was an expression we often employed). In the ten years I played in that band, this is one of the few things we did not debate.

I will say that the Eyedrum once let me sleep in their venue. For this, they deserve credit.

“Sure, you guys can sleep here,” said the Eyedrum representative. “However, I’ve gotta leave. Once I leave and take the key, you can’t leave Eyedrum and get back in. So don’t leave until morning. And, once I turn out the lights, you can’t turn them back on again. So, I’m turning the lights off now, and you must immediately go to sleep. Good night.”

Don’t get me wrong: Eyedrum did me a favor when I slept there. However, the favor made me hate both myself (the favor recipient) and Eyedrum (the favor grantor), as if I was an underage person seeking to procure alcohol, and found a sketchy guy with greasy long hair in the liquor store parking lot who was willing to purchase alcohol on my behalf for a can of beer.

For years, no matter how desperate I was for an Atlanta show, I would not contact Eyedrum. Then, I began receiving email and snail mail solicitations from the group. Unbelievably, Eyedrum had mounted a capital campaign. I did not donate, but one day, was so desperate for an Atlanta show that I emailed Eyedrum. “I am on your donation list,” I wrote. “You send me solicitations. Can I talk to you about a show?” No one replied.

Luckily, I was able to avoid Eyedrum this time in Atlanta and I played at ISP with this good Atlanta local, an industrial-ish outfit. Payment was not excessive, but people wandered in and out of the venue in a Downtown 81 fashion that I appreciated. During the show, the mic shocked my face twice, but I twice recovered. I even sold a T-shirt.

Still, after the show, I fled Atlanta and stayed at a motel in Montgomery, Ala. Who knew whether Eyedrum would find some way to strike again?

I last toured through Gainesville in 2002 or 2003. I am not sure of the date because I have done all I can to block it from my memory. The last time I was in Gainesville, my very un-hardcore band played a terrible hardcore show after five hardcore bands in a tiny dilapidated room. After five hardcore bands finished their sets, they and their bevy of friends immediately left. Thus, my band played to an audience consisting of one gentleman wearing a bike helmet. In case the bike helmet did not appropriately convey his leisure sport of choice, the gentleman was carrying a bike as well.

This gentleman biker was very friendly to me. I suspect he sought something that transcended casual friendship. This did not make me uncomfortable because he was a man, for I find the romantic attentions of either sex flattering and energizing. However, the gentleman’s whole viciously bike-oriented identity doomed his attempts to woo me. I am not interested in biking.

Fortunately, my show in Gainesville here last night featured a slightly larger and more enthusiastic audience that did not seek romance. An opening band graciously agreed to fill the opening slot on short notice after another popular local band cancelled due to a family emergency. There was some speculation that this “emergency” was related to a better show this band was playing elsewhere, but such rumors went unconfirmed.

I recorded this opening band’s set with a ridiculously expensive Microtrack mini-recorder I purchased before tour for no good reason. After the show, I learned that the band lived nearby. I walked to their house with one of the members and, through a miracle of modern technology, we downloaded the set I had just recorded on to his MacIntosh.

“Sounds good,” the band member said, listening to his set.

“What do you do when you aren’t doing playing music?” I asked.

“I work in a very large studio down here where Zappa guys do a lot of recording,” he replied.

I know little about the music of Frank Zappa and was not aware that his sidemen came to Gainesville so frequenly to record at one particular Floridian studio. Thus, I sat in silence and thought about Guy DeBord and postmodernity as the music I had just heard live and loud in a large room played back to me through tiny studio monitors.

Yesterday, after a five-year hiatus, I returned to my favorite phallus-shaped American state. Adventures awaited.

After an excruciating drive, I arrived in Jacksonville at this record store around 2 p.m. There, I performed for approximately eight people. These blessed eight were enthusiastic, purchased some of our recorded musical commodities, and proved able conversationalists. In addition, the record store doubled as a semi-anarchist bookstore and the best vegan bakery I have ever patronized (Sorry, Sticky Fingers and Black Cat. This place has Bakunin on you).

My only problem with Jacksonville: some suspicious crusty punks. I am working to defeat my prejudice against lurking crusties and their dirty dogs, but the prejudice persists. Happily, these crusties proved benign. I was even distracted from their lurking when I sold a CD to a skinhead. I’m not sure why this skin wanted to purchase my overly precious postpunk music. I can only conclude he was compelled to support me because I, like him, am bald.

Five hours later, Ybor City was blowing up and I was at ground zero. Ybor is Tampa’s “Latin quarter” where partiers throw beads and celebrate the suspension of open container laws. Though they were far from Boston, the three gentlemen pictured above were partying hearty in St. Patrick’s name. I failed to note their handles but, judging from the signs they are throwing, they are from the west coast of somewhere.

Meanwhile, at the club, hundreds of Silversun Pickups fans were clamoring for rock action. Would these intoxicated Floridians enjoy the overly precious postpunk my band had prepared? Indeed, they proved as enthusiastic as the DIY set in Jacksonville. Jolly persons emerged from the 500+ throng to purchase approximately the same amount of merch I had sold to eight people in Jacksonville five hours before. A puzzle reared its head: is it better to play for hundreds of people to reach ten who enjoy your music, or just go right to those ten people directly? My bandmates and I do not know.

“I thought I would hate a stadium rock tour,” said a friendly Silversun Pickup after the show. “But I love it!” Later, he retreated to his tour bus. I wondered if I too would love stadium rock life and its associated decadence. However, I am too old and bald for decadence and, gracious as they were, the Silversun Pickups did not invite me back to their tour bus to engage in any.

I am not built for strength or speed. Strength and speed are the business of Olympians and the physically-gifted. However, I am built to last—that is, I can play numerous shows in a row on an empty stomach with little time to rest my precious vocal cords. Lack of sleep is a problem, but not as big a problem as one might expect.

Because I am built to last, I will take the opportunity to play a show at 6 p.m. in Durham, N.C., and then another in Raleigh, N.C. at 10 p.m., and then a third in Jacksonville, Fla. at 2 p.m. of the following day. This absurd itinerary allows less than five hours for sleep and demands seven-plus hours of overnight driving time as well as the ability to consume only potato chips and Coca-Cola. In addition, there’s no time to blog!

“Three shows, 24 hours” is a harsh itinerary. However, because I am built to last, I endorse this itinerary. This may be an error on my part. However, to err is human, and I myself am human. Thus, I err.

Fortunately, North Carolina proved kind this weekend, so this “three shows, 24 hours” itinerary was endurable. First, the Durham “instore” (an informal performance in a record shop) was set up by a very gentlemanly Southerner named “Chaz.” Not many citizens attended the instore, but the quality of the audience (Chaz, some N.C. friends, and a few D.C. transplants) more than made up for its small size.

Four hours later, I played with this good band in Raleigh at this club. Many people came, some because the club is closing to make way for a gentrified downtown. This is nature of clubs and people—people don’t always go to a club but, when the club closes, bemoan its closing and attend farewell celebrations. Strange.

Still, the large audience warmed my heart when, five hours after the show, I argued at length about the price of a room with the owner of a run-down motel in Summerton, South Carolina. My heart was not in the argument—when bargaining for less than five hours of sleep and a lukewarm shower, weariness trumps thrift. So, I paid $51 to the owner, and he provided less than five hours of sleep and a lukewarm shower.

When our bargain was struck, the motel owner said, “My friend, I am not trying to rip you off.” Perhaps he was my friend. After all, he provided commodities necessary for sleep and showering (beds, water, etc.). However, I thought these commodities were worth $40, not $51.

Perhaps my friend make up the difference and buy me an $11 lunch if I return to Summerton, S.C.—that is, if an $11 lunch is available there.

This is Derek. Derek is the chef at the Firebelly Lounge in Wilmington, N.C. who made me a $5 taco salad last night. Derek’s taco salad was superior—the beans spicy, the onions masterfully grilled, and the flour tortilla oily and decadent. Unfortunately, Derek’s $5 taco salad was the only good thing about my trip to Wilmington.

Bands are often dogged by “people problems”—that is, no one comes to their shows. Because I have faith that my band is not terrible, I blame my people problem last night on a phenomenon called “Wilmington itself.” That is, the street in front of the club I played was under construction and devoid of citizenry. Perhaps because of the popularity of a national sporting event, the city was deserted, and, because few people were on the streets, even fewer were in the club watching my show.

I suspected Wilmington might present a people problem. Still, I was seduced by the city because the Wilmington promoter, a trustworthy gentleman, had offered a “guarantee”—that is, a guaranteed amount of money for my band whether or not a people problem presented itself. In dollar form, the guarantee was equal to the lowest three-digit number that exists in Cartesian mathematics.

Many musicians oppose guarantees. “Guarantees aren’t punk!” they exclaim, grow scraggly beards, and cook with excess garlic. I take exception to this mentality because I support “making gas money” and “eating.” So, if you’re a promoter offering a guarantee, you will have few problems seducing me.

There was a spot of trouble, however, when the promoter’s subordinate—a new employee—had to pay me last night.

“Well, we didn’t do too well tonight,” the newbie said.

“Indeed,” I said. “Wilmington has a people problem.”

“We are splitting the money evenly amongst the bands,” the newbie said.

“That is fine with me,” I said. “As long as you give me the previously-agreed-upon three-digit guarantee.”

The newbie hesitated. Would the promised guarantee be reneged? I pondered my options. I had a decade’s worth of experience on the newbie. However, he was taller and larger than me. In lieu of fisticuffs, I used the Jedi mind trick on the Newbie. C’mon newbie, I beamed. Give me the previously-agreed-upon three-digit guarantee.

“Okay,” the newbie said as he paid me. “I will give you the previously-agreed-upon guarantee.” My Jedi mind trick had worked. This was a relief. I do not excel at fisticuffs.

Because I enjoy Gothic themes in American literature and the beauty of the kudzu, I am a great lover of the South. Thus, I lobby for tours that follow “the Southern route” to the West Coast. However, I am also a great lover of financial solvency. Thus, I dread tours that follow “the Southern route” to the West Coast.

As anyone who has ever toured or considered touring knows, the former Confederate States of America do not have a stellar rep. Shows south of Mason-Dixon and east of the Mississippi can be hard to find, and when they are found, are often ill-paying, alcohol-fueled, or just plain weird.

In 1997, in Greenville, N.C., a guy at a house show had to give me a ride to another house to pick up a microphone from his friend. He drove me across town in a pickup while drinking a beer (in flagrant violation of open-container laws) and talking about his prospective army service. Of course, this interaction could conceivably take place in Boston, Mass., or Portland, Ore. However, there was something “Faulknerian” about it.

Because of my love/hate relationship with the South, I feared our first show at this converted police station in Richmond would be a bust. Typical doubts troubled me—i.e., “Has anyone in this town heard of us and will anyone come to this show?”—but I have had a few negative, “Faulknerian” Richmond experiences, including a heated exchange with an audience member at a house show in 2005 who screamed “I hate myself!” at me repeatedly.

Fortunately/surprisingly, last night’s show went well. The opening bands were decent and very loud. The audience was attentive. Some merchandise was sold. Internet and vegan food were available. Most significantly, no one drove told me about their prospective army service while driving me drunk around town.

So, I look forward to returning to Richmond and cultivating the unlikely flowering of Richmond/D.C. punk scene unity. After all, in quiet moments—on its grand avenues and in its swampy summer climate—Washington, D.C., fancies itself a Southern city.

Still, D.C. is a government town—i.e., a watered-down version of Faulkner’s south. This is fine by me, as I prefer watered down versions of “the real thing.” This is why I eat at Taco Bell when I want Mexican food and enjoy trips to Astroturf Park in Silver Sprung, where this person recently had a bad date.

My name is Justin Moyer and I am a rock and roll musician from Washington, D.C. This weblog, which I call “Iceland,” details many wonderful and terrible adventures undertaken between March 14 and April 28, 2007, the dates of my band’s upcoming six-week U.S. tour. Failing financial disaster or personal tragedy, I expect many noteworthy things to happen during this 42-day period, and am here recount these happenings for your entertainment.

Going on tour is an unusual pursuit. When one plays “underground” music as part of an “underground” scene—as I have for a decade—the financial rewards of travel are limited, if not nonexistent. Of course, live performance offers much personal satisfaction, including the opportunity to meet and greet a motley assortment of fellow Americans, sleep on “some guy’s” floor, and eat at Denny’s. However, after one plays in dirty venues with questionable toilet facilities to tiny audiences in numerous second-tier cities like Buffalo and Baton Rouge, these personal rewards seem fleeting. As musicians reach retirement age—that is, turn 30, as I did two days ago —the whole idea of touring can evoke depression.

“Why go back to Pittsburgh again?” asks the depressed 30-year old musician. “I’ve played to no one in Pittsburgh at least 10 times since 1998. Besides, I have a drug problem and two illegitimate children.”

Yet the musician continues for no better reason than that he/she is a musician. Since man first huddled around fires in caves, musicians have entertained the masses. Why? Only because the masses are there to be entertained. Of course, musicians can brood in their basements, puterring with ProTools and stroking their egos, until Armageddon. However, if one stays in one’s basement, one cannot entertain anyone, and one cannot eat at Denny’s. Not entertaining anyone and not eating at Denny’s is no fun at all!

Thus, in pursuit of my vaudevillian existential dream, I began booking this 40-plus date tour in December. The process has continued these four-plus months and now will bear fruit of unknown quality.

I now set about eating this fruit and telling you about its digestion.