Tarantino killing love...the kind that makes you drive 135 miles on a school night to see your favorite Australian sex pop band play a 40 minute set in a church with no parking. This is a tale of stress, fishnets, and cocaine stains on someone's dick???
I was introduced to Chase Atlantic by someone who vaguely resembles a certain purple, normal type, first generation Pokemon. So, Rattata baptized me in this devil music over the summer of 2015, about a year after the release of their EP, "Dalliance." In terms of marsupial anatomy, the band was still in its joey stages, hanging out in the pouch of indie pop. Until drugs. (yuh.)
Between the lines, white tee shirts got thinner, hair greasier, sneakers chunkier, and sex appeal more of a trademark than a power move. I first saw these precious wallabies play as an opening act for Sleeping With Sirens on their Up Close & Personal Gossip Tour in 2017, crammed within a sea of preteens and their eye-rolling boyfriends at Chain Reaction. Six songs with shit acoustics and I was the only one freaking out. A story for another shirt. The next four sets I saw were over the course of Warped Tour 2018 and HOLY HECKIN FRICK THEY KILLED IT EVERY TIME????? Only Mitty Cave can pull off a bulletproof vest in 100 degree heat. Needless to say, my allegiance was sealed.
Now, the evening I'd like to shine a streetlight on. (Because on this particular San Diego street, there were none.) Chase Atlantic were going on tour and I'll be DAMNED if I wasn't going to see those lil' magpies flip their flippy hair all over the place again. As a rule, Anaheim is my first choice, then Los Angeles, then Santa Ana, then hell...............................and then maybe San Diego. I just can't with the drive. But for those smol koala bois, I'd do it. Seeing as I'd be elbow deep in a Thanksgiving turkey during their Los Angeles date, I put on my big punk pants and planned a damn road trip. I'm a busy woman, I keep myself on the run most days, so I had this shit scheduled out in Sharpie to the minute.
I picked up my friend Mags in my super glue and sawdust Toyota Corolla and we hit the ground running. This car (called Starla) did not have the best track record. She was old, she had trust issues, her registration was hella expired, but I loved her. I soon found the one thing that Tarantino killing love does not do: prevent panic attacks. It was dark, the drive was long, nothing but desert on either side of us and you know that feeling when all of a sudden the air is way too still and you can't breathe and holy fuck the world is ending someone help? That was happening. I called a family friend, a medium and a healer, and asked her to surround the car, Mags and I in the white light. Then, I called my mom, downed a Peace Tea, and remembered that there was some damn good music at the end of this journey. On we went.
We got to The Irenic about 30 minutes before Chase's set time. Which, as it turned out, was just enough time to park half a mile away and walk through brisk side streets, hoping my fishnets didn't snag on the tumbleweeds. Strike one. I didn't know the venue was a church, a fact that only gets more hilarious as you know the band. I don't vibe with churches. Strike two. We get inside, the boys do their little hop-walk onto the stage, and for a moment, I forget about the horrid circumstances in which we put ourselves to get here. We drowned in shitty gas mileage for "Swim", we jumped the gun for "Triggered", and we went to a church...for "Church". Somewhere in there, Mitty said something about there being cocaine stains on his dick, which is where that came from. And 40 minutes in, we were high on the vibe. 40 minutes in. And then, church curfew hit. Strike three.
We snagged our edgy black long sleeves with bright red lettering and 'yuh's cascading down the shoulders and meandered out of there as slowly as we possibly could, hoping to catch a last glance of those sweet little dingos. Nothing. The walk back to the car was in no ordinary darkness. It was...advanced darkness. I swear, the hash slinging slasher could have been 5 feet in front of me and I wouldn't have known. It's a wonder we made it back to the car at all. I shot back a five hour energy and put the pedal to the floor. I wanted my bed, and I wanted it now. Mags and I sang emo anthems with the windows down until we couldn't feel our faces...and then the road work. Five lanes condensed to two, every other car a cop. I thought the world was going to * f u c k i n g e n d *. Mags had to hold my hand, I was hysterical. An hour turned into two, turned into three, turned into wishing for death. When the road finally opened up, I was a hardened woman with one hand on the wheel and the other firmly grasping my fifth cigarette. I dropped Mags at home and flew through Carbon Canyon like a bat out of hell. 20 minutes later, I was in a parking space across the street from my bed. Starla and I took a moment, along with a few deep breaths, to thank the universe for keeping us safe on that suicide mission. All for a few songs and strung out kangaroo babies.
Worth it.
♬
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