Bridezilla’s HOLIDAY CARMEN-SPARKS rubs David Yow’s beer belly and tangos with Suicide’s Martin Rev on the band's dream first visit to New York.

Arrival, New York

Virgin Atlantic are one forward thinking airline, at the frontier of modern aviation, stylistically at least: black leather seats, pink disco/mood lights, mini boarding passes, cartoon safety video, "rockstar" crew, cool-cat pilots slugging down coffees outside the cockpit. Bizarre.

Twelve hours across the Pacific Ocean, turbulence from an electrical storm, and plenty of passing time. Ms Hall, upon recommendation, watched Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid for the first time, much to her delight. I sighed my way through Casablanca ("Here's lookin' at you kid") while Pia giggled out loud throughout The Boat That Rocked. The elders, Daisy and Joshua, slept like babies, eye-masks, earplugs, neck pillows, plane socks, felt blankets in tow.

After an age of tossing and turning, Flight VA001 managed a smooth landing in to LAX Arrivals. This led us to a brief customs and immigrations encounter, then a flurry of logistics to get us to the departures terminal for the connecting flight to New York. Here we reconciled with the fact that a) there wasn't a slither of anything remotely vegetarian to eat and b) that sometimes Burger King fries have to suffice for a hearty meal. While in waiting, we met a cheery young pilot, who offered us the rest of his chocolate sustenance bar after we had stared inquisitively at it for an awkward length of time. He relieved us of all our fears of flying, explaining the statistics and likelihoods of danger in the air, and quelled our concern about the new Boeing Dreamliner’s resilience to lightning.

The next six hours on board, Neil enlightened me to a band he previously managed, Telstar Ponies. He then attempted to play video games on a broken screen. While the rest watched soft porn infomercials and feminine hygiene ads, I listened to Celine Dion’s Titanic song and Rod Stewart’s ‘If You Think I’m Sexy’ and slept. Hard times.

Pia and I stayed at Ms Monica Mcmahon and James Bellesini's house in Carrol Gardens, Brooklyn. Monica answered the door in her stunning dressing gown and made us a good old fashion cuppa. After catnaps and showers we headed to an all-American diner. Huevos rancheros, orange juice, "cwofee", flap jacks, maple syrup, home fries, bacon and eggs, you know the deal. Neil Robertson, “Manager of The Decade”, made some dud food versus music jokes. Like when Nirvana was on the radio he whipped out "smells like eggs florentine spirit". Or at Browns Cafe in the East Village, Millie asked him to pass the chai tea, to which he replied, "You can get it if you really want, but you must chai.” On another day, Josh was eating nut mix and proclaimed, “I like the cranberries”, to which Neil replied, “You like silverchair too.”

Hilarious. Moving on…

On the day we arrived, we played a show at The Bellhouse in Brooklyn with our much admired friends and fellow Australians The Drones. Being severely jet-lagged and confused, this show was more of an act than a gig. You could call it an experimental/installation art piece. All I remember from this night was a cream cheese bagel and the old-fashioned photo booth. Oh, and the first episode of Glee. Sleep time.

The next day we had a radio/video performance we knew little about. We met our publicist, Grace Jones (funnily enough). We winced our way through an acoustic performance of 'Beaches', 'White Feather' and 'Heart You Hold'. Then the sun came out, and we did a devastatingly bad interview that revealed far too much about our lame selves. All of this was filmed in the loft of a lawyer’s apartment in Manhattan.

“I pulled myself up by my boot straps, puffed my chest up with courage, and quietly, politely, with batted eyelids, asked him if he would dance with me.”

From here we picked up Martin Doyle and met his gang of gentlemen before wandering the streets of China Town, Little Italy, and SoHo. Our feet were well tired by the time we raided Duane Reade's for cheap cosmetics and staggered our way in to The Annex. Here we met a young man with long frizzy orange hair, red fingernails, eyeliner and a baseball shirt. He spoke a lot and informed us that the venue was to be demolished in a few days. The supporting band had a catfight out the front about amps, I’m told. Pia had a siesta in her guitar case.

Daisy helped the bar man slice limes. The rest was history. I wept little tears of joy backstage after our show, I was overwhelmed after hearing that someone from Matador had watched, and that yes indeed I was finally playing a show in New York. A bit of a dream come true for this lady.

Upon waking the next morning on this whirlwind tour, we cabbed it to the bus stop, where the ATP coach would drive us away to our weekend haven in Monticello. Aaron, our man of sound, brought us a paper bag full of cream cheese bagels. We developed throbbing hearts for this man. As Neil said, "He's the kind of guy who is Just Right".

Personally, he impressed me by recounting Mark Ibold tour stories and informing me of his appreciation for gamelan. Kutshers Country Club was the be all and end all. Here was where All tomorrow's Parties really began. The stench of chlorine emanating from the hot pool room, the very Jewish “Justine's custom make-up” stand, Frankie playing classics like "Go to Rio" in the foyer, the people, the music. This place was a time-warp. Chandeliers, carpeted walls, porridge ceilings, the faint smell of lavender, plush pink and grey hotel rooms. Reminded me of Murder She Wrote.

All Tomorrow’s Parties, Kutshers Country Club

So this was the beginning of what was to become one of the longest days of my short life. Stage One, where the walls were a mixture of silver and blue houndstooth and a planetary space mural, featured performances I shall never forget. The Drones played Wait Long By The River And The Bodies Of Your Enemies Will Float By, The Dirty Three (and Nick Cave on his white grand piano) played Ocean Songs, The Feelies won me over with Crazy Rhythms, Suicide made me want to jump through the roof playing their first LP, and Jesus Lizard stage dived, ruined my ear drums, and turned me on.

Later that night I actually had the opportunity to meet David Yow, after begging Mr Mike Noga to introduce me. He was drunk as a skunk – him and a friend were prodding each other's beer bellies – so I decided, in a rather tipsy/tired state, to take a rub for good luck and ask whether this was an ultrasound? Way to make an impression. The things you say without thinking. I was led back to The Drones hotel room (number 911 coincidentally, as it was September 11). There was a little party taking place riddled with Australians. At this point in time, I thought of my high school personal development class and “just said, ‘No’” to the poisons of a rather cliched rock'n'roll lifestyle. Feeling very young, I zipped out the door and headed south. I ran into the chivalrous Warren Ellis, who escorted me to my door, because my mother would have wished him to do so. It’s true too. My guardian for the night.

Our All Tomorrow's Parties America debut! Preparations: I had a stern word with the lighting man to not use purple lights, I stole fake flowers from the flower pots around the hotel and attached them to my mic stand and I draped a discarded peachy pink table cloth over the crowd barrier. I waited until The Melvins left the room, of course, for this sickeningly effeminate display. Circulatory System had great big smiles for us as we sneakily peeped our heads through the curtains sectioning off the band rooms. Their violin pick-up was faltering also. We were prepared for the morning shift of a few early birds, and slapback from the emptiness of the room. To my great jaw-dropping surprise, we had a wonderfully full audience to see us. I enjoyed the show, I enjoyed watching new faces and their reactions and I had an awkward time trying to avoid watching myself in the mirror facing me at the back of the room. It was how I would have imagined having sex with a mirror on the ceiling would be like. Perhaps.

Post show, I backed and forthed from this and that; and when I say “this and that” I mean incredibly rare and inspiring shows like Atlas Sound and Deerhunter, Shellac (whose drummer took the time earlier in the day at the merch stand to congratulate me on the show), Autolux, Boss Hog and Animal Collective (which was so intense and raving that it went way over my head).

Looking like a rabbit in headlights, Neil and I searched for Millie (lost in the abyss with Dead Meadow) and Pia (probably in The Deep End aka the bar next to the pool). In the name of this “search”, I began tapping my feet and clicking my fingers in the back room to a DJ from The Make-Up. In the corner of my eye I spotted a dark character leaning against a wall, just observing. It happened to be Mr Martin Rev of Suicide fame. I pulled myself up by my boot straps, puffed my chest up with courage, and quietly, politely, with batted eyelids, asked him if he would dance with me. He replied with a very cool and calm nod, took my hand and lo and behold, he danced. With me. I like to think of this moment as The First Dance. It was a romantic blur, I kissed him on the cheek and thanked him, and we parted ways. We gave up the search, which was indeed a lost cause, and headed to our hotel room.

An early morning black-and-white film on the television took my fancy, and lulled Neil to sleep. It was the tale of a politician who organised raids on the very brothels and drug cartels he was visiting privately himself. I was entertained. The politician knocked loudly on the prostitute’s door, so loudly that Neil literally leapt from his slumber, from his foldout double bed, to answer the door in case (as he hoped) it might be Millie. I thought it was quite amusing. Once again Neil fell asleep, and I hate being the last one awake in a room, so I tippy toed out the door on one last mission to find the girls. I did not find them, but I did end up at a party in somebody's room in the other wing of the hotel. We were like a tin of sardines in that smoke and laser filled box of a room. My solution to this claustrophobic atmosphere was to jump off the single bed on top of the people. Essentially, I crowd surfed my way out of the party. They held me up, grabbed my ass, and hooted and shouted ... and I was out, back in to the hallway, back to my room, back into my bed, and finally, devastatingly, asleep.

Another long, very long, day. I don't know how I managed to survive on so little hours of sleep and practically an absence of food.

Anyhow, The Boredoms (“9 Drummer Boadrum”) were an exhilarating start to a hangover, and nursed me through the mobile massage I received. I took it easy. I walked around the lake with Millie and a Sleepy Sun representative, then continued on to “Play Equipment”: The Maypole, The See-Saw and The Swing. Not a good idea. Hurried to the lift, where none other than Jim Jarmusch entered and quizzed me for directions to his room, which I gladly gave. He is a remarkable looking man, you could spot him from a mile off. He was standing at the back of every show, honest to god, a true fan. Caribou, Deerhoof, Crystal Castles, Super Furry Animals, Boris, I caught bits and pieces of all of these in between sleeping and marvelling at Oneida's Ocropolis 24-hour improvisation. As day turned into night, Flaming Lips made their parting speeches, rolled in balls, popped balloons, confetti flew, lasers took aim, and I played The X-Files pinball machine and beat Neil at snooker. I heard that Steve Albini's gaming room was full of poker faces, and hour followed hour until I ended up in the hotel lobby, where an improvised indie love-in was in full swing, Bradford Cox being at the centre of it. I did my bit and played the tambourine at the junctions he directed. I also started a sing-a-long to 'You Are My Sunshine' (the first song I learnt on piano as a child). As night became morning, the artistic Disneyland that was All Tomorrow's Parties New York, came to a close, and we were the last ones on the dance floor.

A nostalgic journey back to Manhattan, but it bred great things. After much ado and a ticking clock, I bought the most glorious “Holiday” guitar from a little store in The East Village. It was commissioned by St Vincent of all ladies. I rushed that guitar straight to the stage at The Bowery Ballroom, where we supported Autolux. The stage manager's preaching that Metallica and Nine Inch Nails played on “this very stage” that we were about to trample on, stuck with me. He missed the mark a bit in terms of a fitting inspirational talk, but nonetheless, what a dream!

+

PART TWO: Tacos with The Drones in Los Angeles.