Endpoint/Sunspring split:Written In Rock
From Louisville Punk/Hardcore History
| |||
| Record Label: | Slamdek | ||
| Recorded By: | Mike Baker @ DSL | ||
| Released: | 1992 | ||
| Out of Print: | yes | ||
| Formats: | 7" - 250 made | ||
The 7" of Rick Springfield covers.
Endpoint Side:
- Jessie's Girl
Sunspring Side:
- Love Somebody
Written In Rock
An account of the 1993 Endpoint/Sunspring U.S. Tour
Over the summer of 1993, eight bright young individuals from
Louisville and one young whippersnapper from Indiana packed up some
stuff and took to the road. For the next twenty-three days,
Endpoint and Sunspring, partners in rock, would spend each night in
a different town and find out inconsiderably more about what it's
like to be human. When you're in the right frame of mind, almost
anything can sound like a good idea. Our first manifestation of rock took us to the familiar turf
of Sweet Saint Louie. If you remember, there was quite a flood in
St. Louis at this time. Our entourage was auspicious enough to
avoid a run-in with these waters. We relished a sunny afternoon reaquanting ourselves with old friends and getting to know some new
ones. Let's just say Forrest had a particularly good time. The next five days were nothing short of a quick 120 hour preview of Eternal Damnation. A handful
of cancelled shows, a flat tire, a dented door, and a crash course in the logistics of taking two
vehicles on a 9,000 mile journey were just a taste of what they held. During this introduction to the
tour it became painfully apparent that there really is no place like home. By the time we reached Show #2/Day #4, the 91-degree stagnant air of Copperus Cove Texas was as
humid and hot as Hell itself. It completed the scenario perfectly. We pulled into town in the early AM
after a breezy 21 hour drive from St. Louis. The single day we spent at the club Little Vegas was
seconds shy of an eternity. All afternoon a young band preparing for their first show (opening for us)
dedicatedly stumbled through their "version" os "Enter Sandman" a nerve racking 2,476,522 times. We all
grew a fond hatred for this tune as the day dragged on. The four highlights of our day were: 1. Our first oil change. 2. Dining at historic Luby's
Cafeteria where one of the Cove's more sane citizens once drove his truck inside and opened fire on the
patrons killing twelve of them. 3. When the show finally began and we knew we were hearing the
performance of "Enter Sandman" for the last time. Shit never smelled better. and 4. When we were
leaving, a woman walked around the building and edited the bad words out of everything that had been
written on the walls that evening. Apparently she does this after every show. Leaving Texas we realized that it is its own country (or soon will be). They killed Kennedy and
they'll kill you, too, if you don't watch yourself. As the sticker says, "Don't Mess With Texas". They
mean it. On second thought, "Fuck Texas" was suddenly popularized as the first catchphrase of the tour. Our next destination was a hop, skip and a jump from central Texas to the Grand Canyon. All day.
All night. We drove. Suicide anyone? We wheeled into Big Crack National Park an hour before sunrise
(that is, 26 hours later, or 20 hours in Male Bonding Time). Several members of our ministry almost
plummeted to a splattery death. The traditional "Do not stray from the designated path" signs were
ignored and let's just say that our gregarious punk ethic almost bought the farm in a big way. Your tax
dollars would have been spent scraping our emo guts off the big bottom. We were slowly beginning to learn a few things: 1. The pretty girls per capita is grossly huge
number in Louisville and our eyes were getting sore away from this luxury. 2. If you own the only grocery
store within a 40 mile radius of Grand Canyon Village, you can charge whatever you want. and 3. The
Painted Desert is something everybody should see, but if you drive through it at night it slightly spoils
the effect. Somewhere in New Mexico an ill-fated bird became lodged in the front grille of the van. "The Boyd",
as he was affectionately dubbed, recieved many a jealous glance from the other tourists. We made a sign
and offered free photos of The Boyd to passers by. After annoying literally hundreds of foreign and
domestic tourists, we even had a few takers from ambitious photographers. Maybe they were doing a piece
on them crazy American entrepreneur kids who are high on pot and that rap music the kids listen to. In
any event, Chad made it abundantly clear that he passionately hated The Boyd, and the tour's exploitation
of it. On that note we said "Hasta la vista" to Big Ass Hole In The Ground National Park. Mid-afternoon
found our weary eyes enroute to a basement show in Tucson. While this was our shortest jet to date, it was truly an insane experience. Cokes were poured on
heads and sunburn reached an all time high. The wonderful, dry, cooling air of the Southwest was
beginning to relax the troops. In no uncertain terms, the scenery was (as your stupid mom would say)
"Somethin' else." Why would anyone want to live in the city? (Well, besides the easy access to food,
shelter, entertainment,education, seven inches, cartoons and Atari). A gargantuan thunderstorm and the cover of nightfall checked into beautiful Tucson just as we did.
We stayed with some nice folks in an Edward Scizzorhands neighborhood. Here we prepared our first ramen
feast of the tour. After a few hours, before we went to sleep, we were relocated to some other house and
an RV. Alas, we slumbered. The next day, after record shopping and eating generous portions, the basement punk rock party show
commenced. It was in a 15'x15' concrete room with an inch of dust on the floor. The crowd was gracious,
yet timid. The Tucson police turned out to be just as courteous as they ignored our unusually loud
launching of the hardcore rocket. Fun was had by all and there is still dust all over our equipment as
three months later. Without the wink of an eye we were on our way to the paradox of paradoxes, the Republic of
California. First, in Simi Valley, we met up with Strife, Ashes from DC, and Herr Remsing. We all shared
the next few shows. Under the careful guidance of our buddy Andrew; pizza, videos and cliff driving all
awaited us.
San Diego put us in contact with long lost Louisvillian Thom Hornung, and Mario Rulblaclabalbaba,
who is just long and lost. Fella, they were sure some kinda sight for them sore eyes. This outburst took
place at the Chabalaba Cafe and was full of surprizes. The building has a huge plate glass front, so most
of the people who came just watched from outside. Also, because of amp problems, Endpoint's set was done
as a four piece. Pat sat out and Duncan played bass through his guitar amp. You don't see that every day. In Hollywood, we were lucky enough to add onto a show making it a six band bill. Everybody played
about 20 minutes each. One of the six bands was none other than FACE "Fucking doin it for the kids
Negative Approach Toxic Reasons hardcore twenty five years old and still a fucking loser" VALUE. The Erbs
came just at the right time and breathed life back into our souring steps. Call the Value Hotline. In Huntington Beach we played a show that 400 kids each paid $7 to get into, and Endpoint and
Sunspring combined walked out the door with $23. Is there a problem with that math? You figure it out.
It was a fun, eye-opening show, though. We moshed at Denny's with Dennis who broke our little hearts and
wouldn't take us to Rev HQ. After shitting in the toilets at Dischord and Touch and Go, it really hurt to
be snubbed. There would be no "Fart Today" jokes. After some quick gushing, we bid farewell to Ashes, Strife, the Value, and took a northward course to
Rosewood. Here we had the crazy fortune to cross paths with Scott Sinker, whom Sunspring had rocked with
in Viginia. He set this show up for us under a huge red sculpture by the side of the highway. The only
catch was, "If it gets busted, the cops can confiscate you equipment." Oh, that was no problem. Just
think of all the space we'd have in the van without all that shit in there. We camped out there by the sculpture all day, fought off bees, slept in the cars, talked with some
super nice local folk, and spent the rest of the day setting off car alarms with a Nerf football. Things
were starting to get sketchy with food. Myself and others were starting to pay the price for having too
much rock and not enough sleep. When you can't afford a sandwich, the last thing you'd want to have to
buy is medicine. Certain members of Sunspring didn't speak to each other much this day. Maybe that's why
we seemed especially inclined to mingle with strangers. It was truly a unique experience. The next day we had off. We had a swift 13 hour hop up to scenic Logan Utah. Our day off was spent
two different ways, as the two vehicles split up for the first time since St. Louis. Kyle, Forrest, Rob,
Chad, Duncan and Andy back tracked 93 miles and enjoyed a day of sight seeing and raising havoc in San
Francisco. Then they spent the night on the road. Jason, Pat and I immediately took to traversing the
desert and mountains of Nevada. We took in a lot of scenery... along with a lot of pizzas. The car
reached Logan just after midnight and the van pulled in about 10AM. Logan is one of the weirdest, greatest places you can imagine. It's a community of 26,000 people who
live at the end of a two lane road 7,000 feet up in the mountains. It's a lot like Salt Lake City Jr.
The air is clean, yet salty. Our day there was spent patching up our differences, stuffing our faces at
Taco Time, walking around, jumping on the trampoline, and watching "Falling Down" three times.
Inspiration was afoot and, unbeknownst to us, another hearty helpin' of bonding was just around the corner. In addition to all this fun, both bands rocked with an unbridled vengeance that night. The crowd
connected and everything clicked in the way you always hope for it to. Our day apart from each other
seemed to have served its purpose well. The clear mountain air and the giving people of Logan were just
what we needed to prepare us for... It was just over 700 miles to Rapid City South Dakota. If someone told us what was about to happen
in advance, we would not have believed it. It was again Hell that awaited us under night's blanket of
darkness. The first nine or ten hours of this trek was as good as could be expected. Long, straight roads,
majestic scenery, reasonable morale, and a 70's Elvis tape in the boot. When the aforementioned darkness
took us under its wing that unsuspecting evening, so did the Devil. The last two hours of the trip
quickly became three. Then four. The roads just as quickly transformed into windy, rocky dirt paths.
The van's engine became irrational and the car's windshield caught a rock. It was stop and go for at
least two hours with the van overheating in this isolated Wyoming lunar terrain. Had the van stopped for
good, we would have been hours from the nearest help. Except for the lights of our vehicles, all we could
see was blackness. Standing out there in the vast openess with no light and no sounds was pretty eerie.
At this juncture we realized three important things: 1. If you're unshaven, punk rock, you have bags
under your eyes and you're in the middle of nowhere, your chances of getting motor assistance are
significantly decreased. 2. Fenster means "window" in German. and 3. Amanda White? Noo. We were lucky. We made it through in one piece with both vehicles in working order. You could say
that the spirits were willing. (fart). The last 45 minutes of darkness also happened to be the last 45
minutes before we reached Mount Rushmore. By now we all felt like this was a pilgrimage. We were on a
mission for God and nothing could stand in our way. The magnificent sunrise at Mount Rushmore that
awaited us was just a reward for our noble, tireless efforts. Who knows if YOU've ever been to Mount Rushmore, but let's just say it's a bona fide hunk of shit.
Bullshit. The cathc phrase for the rest of the tour, perhaps the rest of eternity, was "Mount Rushmore is
small potatoes". We expected a blowtorch and we got a wet match. The fact that Alfred Hitchcock and Cary
Grant once walked into the visitors' center was much more impressive than the small potatoes shaped like
heads stuck up on a mountainside surrounded by the subpar Gatlinburg. After this let down we had to muster the strength to kill 15 hours of partly cloudy skies in Rapid
City. It wasn't so bad. We were saved by some cool cats with a live S.O.D. concert video. Touring
really pays off. The Rapid City show was with Shelter and 108 and all that that entails. After which we
were met with the news of the cancellation of our show in Omaha. Pay attention, now, this is important. The show in Omaha was to have fallen between two days off.
It's cancellation created three days off between Rapid City and Minneapolis (a ten hour drive). We were
severely low on money, and the thought of feeding nine mouths for three days with no shows and no place to
stay didn't sit too easy with the gang. With a big deep breath of excitement, we issued an emphatic negatory to that course of action. We
decided to embark upon a twenty hour homeward expedition to Louisville. Clean, safe, cheap, secure, humid,
Louisville. No sooner had we thought of it than we had arrived at the end of that 1,217 mile jaunt. It was good to be home. So good that Sunspring decided it would be in the best interest of certain
life insurance companies if the three of them spent no more time together in close quarters. The last
four shows of the Endpoint/Sunspring U.S. Tour were indeed Sunspringless. Endpoint delivered the goods
twofold to finish the tour rendering more equipment unusable in those four days than in the previous
twenty. Minneapolis, Madison, Chicago and Detroit were all glorified by this obstreperous harvesting of
dissolution. Afterwards everyone was thanked graciously. Soon everyone returned home with a large understanding of how small we all are, and a somewhat larger
understanding of how big our country is. Very tired and very poor, as it ended, we all knew more of what
each other was about. Friendships are time honored, and we'll surely never forget each and every one of
those 8,349 miles we shared as Louisville's travelling minstrels of rock. Moreover, we'll never forget
how it felt. These small potatoes are the precious times, they don't come back. (sniff, sniff)
