New feature: On the Road with Sectarian Violence

The following is part one of a series of stories about the band that are set to be published by Rolling Marble, a new music publication (it is like a mix between NME and Ranger Rick...seriously cutting edge stuff). Enjoy!

On the Road with Sectarian Violence: Day One.

The world of rock and roll is anything but ordinary, and reporters for Rolling Marble are used to weird assignments.

Go with Gwen Stefani to get her eyebrows waxed -- and write about it? Done.

See what happens when you steal Keith Richards’ secret stash of Chocodiles? Done. (And I can tell you, it’s not a good idea. He gets cranky.)

I’ve profiled more bands than have ever played at Coachella and Lollapalooza -- combined. I know what Michael Stipe eats for breakfast every day, (baby bunnies, deep fried), although I couldn’t tell you the same about my own brother.

So when my editor, Rolling Marble’s cruel and lovely Editrix, called me and told me she wanted me to go on tour with some band named Sectarian Violence, I wasn’t phased. I kissed my girlfriend goodbye (What was her name again? Lucy? Lilly? Love you, sweetheart). I packed my bags, my notebook, unplugged my coffee pot and headed down to Los Angeles, where my Editrix says the band is based. I didn’t know it then, but I was barreling like sixteen shells from a thirty-ought six towards the greatest rock and roll adventure of my life.

The first clue that this assignment was out of the ordinary? When I pulled up outside the band headquarters in [soon to be disclosed location], Sectarian Violence had already split. Left town, taken off. No forwarding address, not even a postcard -- even for the sake of a front page spread in a national music rag like Rolling Marble. Most bands are scrambling to put me up for an all-expense-paid weekend: score me some weed, get me laid, play the new tracks, bare their souls. But not Sectarian Violence -- this one didn’t even leave a post-it on the front door.

I thought about ditching this story, turning back around and heading home to my girl. (Lulu? It’s Lulu, right?) But my Editrix is dangerous if denied. I learned that lesson the hard way in 1997, when I refused to write her a cover story about some screechy Lisa Loeb follow-up album. Jesus, my knee still hurts when it rains.

So I resolved to collect information about the band’s whereabouts as best I could -- from passers-by on the street. To be getting attention from my Editrix and Rolling Marble, this Sectarian Violence must be huge. Surely some of these Mid-Wilshire hipsters had seen them go -- wherever they went.

I stood out on the sidewalk for a few minutes, fiddling with my tape recorder, watching cars go past. Soon, my first mark ambled down the street. I knew he was hip because of the giant, fuzzy mutton chops hanging precariously from his square jowls. A man with this much facial hair would definitely know the tour dates for Sectarian Violence. As he approached, I saw he was carrying three half-empty bottles of hot sauce in each hand. I decided not to ask. Kids these days.

“Man,” I said. “I’m trying to track down this rock’n’roll sensation, this band that’s sweepin the nation, Sectarian Violence. You seen ‘em?”

“Yeah,” Mutton Chop said. “They left a few hours ago. They were out front of the building here, loading up a bunch of crap into this nasty, banged-up Corolla. Then they split.”

Intriguing. The band travels light. An electronica influence, perhaps? No need for a drum set? “Did ya see what they packed, buddy?” I asked, pressing play on my trusty Sony recorder. “Turntable? Omega 8 synth?”

“Buncha random crap,” said Mutton Chop, nervously clinking his hot sauce bottles together. “A baby Taylor guitar, a keyboard, a bunch of Johnny Cash LPs, and this wooden saggy-titted fertility goddess statue that was practically six feet tall. Didn’t look like they were gonna be too comfortable in that Corolla. The girl that was driving looked pissed, actually.”

I cocked an eyebrow at my furry new friend, and angled the tape recorder closer to his mouth. “Interesting…”

“I gotta go man,” Mutton Chop said, glancing nervously at the front door of the nearby apartment building. “I gotta do some homework, or I’m gonna flunk out of law school.”

To each his own, I suppose. “Did they say where they were going?”

“Yeah,” said Mutton Chop, as he loped away. “Something about their first gig being in Primm. In Nevada.”