Ahh... Nothing like the invigorating scent of a freshly minted blog. Once again, as the self-appointed chronicler of the ongoing trials, tribulations, testicles and triumphs of Exhumed, I shall attempt to encapsulate our mildly retarded escapades into a vaguely digestible format for your reading pleasure. Now, to pick up where we left off:
For those of you who don't know Ryan, he is one of the genuinely nicest people you could ever meet and a killer engineer who runs Arcane Digital Recording in Phoenix (well, Chandler) where we tracked the guitars, bass, and vocals for “All Guts, No Glory” (for full details, read the older blogs here). Oh yeah, and he also writes some of the heaviest riffs known to man in Landmine Marathon, who we were really stoked to have playing the show with us that night in Phoenix. We divested the van of Wes' moving stuff early that morning and he left for Tempe while the rest of us went to shower and get some rest at Casa de Butler. Ryan kindly took Deedee and I out to run some errands and get some miscellaneous stuff we needed but couldn't afford until generating some cash from the first show. We grabbed lunch at Qdoba and eventually headed over the venue.
Gravehill gets all Maiden on your ass with three guitars - sorry Tom, that makes you Janick Gers!
Thankfully Rob and I had about four hours in between sets, so I headed back to the hotel for a shower before the Exhumed set got underway. We took the stage a bit behind schedule, but not too late, and the set went down pretty well, considering that it was nearly 1am - a lot of these all day / two-day / three-day events turn into endurance tests after a while. Like I said, festivals in small-market cities aren't particularly glamorous or anything, but all the folks there, attending and playing, were 100% into the whole thing, which is what really counts in the end anyway. We scarfed some pretty good pizza from the place next door and retired to the hotel for a few beers and bad tv (the Mary J. Blige “Behind The Music”- yeesh!) before crashing out.
The often imitated, never duplicated Wes Caley at CIM, doing what he does best: finger-tapping solos with his tongue out.