New York City rock n' rollers The Octagon recently dropped their second album, Nothing But Change, on Serious Business Records and it's pretty stellar.

We now - exclusively - share Zachary's diary with you. It's a fascinating look at life on the road.........

DOWNLOAD: The Octagon - "The Narrow Road to Oku"

THE OCTAGON TOUR DIARY
written by Zachary Mexico of the Octagon

THURSDAY 1.24
Will and I meet up in Williamsburg in the afternoon and load our amps and drums and instruments and sleeping bags into the leased Ford Explorer that has taken the place of our poor blue-on-blue van.

Bunny’s flying straight from his grandfather’s funeral in sub-zero Indiana to our show tonight at TT the Bear’s in Boston and I have that nagging ache in my stomach that happens before something goes wrong.

Luckily, everything goes right: our drive goes off without a hitch and we listen to the amazing new Ween album “La Cucaracha” and stop at a gas station to buy some Twinkie-flavored lip balm for our friend Dom.

Will and I load our gear into TT’s, and Bunny gets to the club a couple hours before we go on. We head next door to the Middle East for some Mediterranean snacks. Will and I reminisce about one fateful evening ten or so years ago, when we came to this place to see Ted Leo.

I was wearing a pair of too-small shoes and walking unsteadily. A jacked-up security guard thought I was drunk and told the bartender not to serve me. Will, defending my honor, made a snide comment to the security guard, who responded by putting Will in a headlock and dragging him into an alley behind the club.

The show goes well: Will’s drumming is great as always, and Bunny’ bass playing solid, and all of our singing is on point, although we find out from the crowd after that the sound in the club is terrible. Not sure whether it’s a personnel issue or an acoustics issue but everyone we talk to after says that they couldn’t hear any vocals or guitar. We watch Get Him Eat Him and Mahjongg, who both turn in energetic performances despite the room sound, and bail to our friend Dom’s house. He makes us egg and cheese sandwiches; we drink wine and watch cable TV. I sleep in the same bed with Dom and his enormous pit bull Benny while Will sleeps with the other dog on the couch.

FRIDAY 1.25
We wake up, pile Dom’s dogs in our car to drop them off at the vet, bid farewell to our pal and his canines and head north.

When we arrive at the Radio Bean, in Burlington, Vermont, a jazz quartet is playing on the tiny stage. A small crowd of college students and local bohemians are hanging out, drinking from steaming cups of coffee and pint glasses of local microbrew. The Bean, as it’s known locally, is an awesome little café/bar/music venue. The walls are decorated with the work of local artists. The owner runs a low-power FM station from a storefront next door. It’s the kind of counter-cultural oasis that seems to thrive in college towns, and a welcome respite from the tyranny of the standard “rock and roll club.”

We’re the ostensible headliner of the evening: a local band called The Famous Roman Mob has been scheduled as our support—the local alt-weekly described them as “Eurotrash-rock.” As showtime approaches and they’re nowhere to be found, we inquire with Nicole, the manager/bartender. She says: “it’s pretty common for bands to not show up.”

And so The Famous Roman Mob is a no-show, and we load our drums and amps and instruments into the club and set up on the tiny stage in one corner of the room. At Radio Bean, performers are responsible for their own sound: we turn on the PA, Nicole hands us some microphones, and we go about trying to achieve the best sound that we can.

Playing at the Radio Bean presents a unique set of challenges. First, the stage is small, maybe thirty square feet, and there are people sitting at tables directly in front of the performers. That makes it difficult to move from your position during the show: if you get a little bit too “into it” during the middle of a song, you could find yourself knocking over the beverage of the fiftyish couple who are practically in your lap. Second, the room itself is very small, and not necessarily suited to a rock band as loud as, say, us. So you have to play a little bit quieter, but not too much quieter, as then the songs will be stripped of their power and dynamism.

We start the set with a new surf-tinged instrumental called “Howlie,” and continuously go into two other new-ish tunes, “Burn Unit” and “Song for Lulu.” Then, we pause for a second, and Nicole hollers from the back of the room: “The vocals are too loud!” We turn down the PA and continue playing.

In order to get closer to the Burlington vibe, we insert improvised jams into the middle sections of our two-and-a-half minute pop songs: I’m messing around on some pentatonic scale, Will flails away behind the drums, and the Bunny’s doing some little bass runs. Sometimes, when we improvise, it sounds like shit; other times, it sounds great. Luckily, tonight we’re pretty on, and we’re all pretty exhilarated by the time the last song of the night, “New Sensation,” comes to a close.

It’s only eleven-forty-five, and the club’s open until two. We decide to go back on stage for another set, consisting of a few songs we didn’t play during the first set. (Although, we probably could have just played the same tunes and it wouldn’t have mattered: except for a few friends and relatives, the crowd from earlier has left and been replaced by a new set of people.

So we get back up there and play a few tunes and jam for a while and then head over to the Three Needs, a bar down the street. The vibe is hippie-frat-party-in-a-ski-lodge. Somehow, the guys from Cult Maze, who we’re playing with tomorrow in Portland, show up: they’ve rocked another gig across town. They’re pasted and jovial; we have a couple beers and then go back to Will’s cousin Michael’s house; it doesn’t really have heat, and we bundle in our sleeping bags and pass out. It’s like camping, but inside.

SATURDAY 1.26
Pennycluse is a Burlington breakfast institution: excellent chow, if you can brave the crowds. The wait time is forty-five minutes: Will buys some socks at the outdoor shop, I hit a little boutique down the street and buy the Times, and before you know it we’re scarfing down local eggs and fresh tangerine juice. Jackpot.

We head south down Route 89, scoping out stunning, snow-covered mountains in the distance. We listen to the first Thirteenth Floor Elevators record. I just finished reading “Mind Eye,” a biography of the band, and relate some anecdotes from the book to Will and Bunny. Those guys took LSD before every rehearsal, show, and recording session. Unbelievable. The music is fabulous, even Tommy Hall’s wackadoo jug playing. It sounds totally original and out there in 2008; it’s hard to fathom what people in 1966 would have thought when the record was released. Roky’s voice is raw and captivating. One of the best ever.

We make a quick stop to use the exceptionally clean bathroom at a New Hampshire service station. (Note to bands: If you’re ever in Warner, NH, off Route 89, check out the Irving station. They clean the restroom every half an hour and it’s sparkling.) Another quick stop at Wendy’s—the Octagon’s roadchow of choice when no Chick-Fil-A is available—and we head north on 95 to Portland.

Portland is snowy; we find the venue easily and park outside. Inside, the Cult Maze guys are drinking beer and waiting to sound check. The vibes at the Space Gallery are amazing: it’s a large non-profit art space on Congress Street next to the Maine Academy of Art. The walls are covered with new exhibitions, including one that consists of three knit superhero costumes. We joke about putting them on and wearing them on stage.

We drink a beer with Cult Maze and Ian, the awesome dude who runs the shows, an ex-Williamsburger who has returned to his Maine roots. Then, we do a full soundcheck, our first of the tour: the room sound is unbelievable, and we’re psyched up. We decamp to Margaritas, a chain Mexican restaurant down the street—kind of like a New England version of Chili’s—to meet Dom and Bunny’s girlfriend Caroline and her friend Megan, who have come up for the show. Nat Baldwin, who Will knows from his days on the road with the Dirty Projectors, shows up and we head back to the venue.

I miss most of the opening band, some local upstart kids called the Rattlesnakes, because I’m running around the streets of Portland looking for a suitable place to go to the bathroom. When I get back to the venue, the place is packed with people, and Will and Bunny are already on stage. I quickly plug in, tune my guitar, and grab a bottle of water and a glass of wine (in a coffee cup: apparently there’s an arcane Maine law that makes it illegal to drink onstage.)

We tear through our set and the crowd is feeling it; the sound and vibes in the room are great. All of our singing and playing are spot on. Sweaty, we break our stuff down and head off stage.

Cult Maze are up next and the local kids go crazy. I go up front and join in the fun while Will and Bunny hang back and sell some merch. After Cult Maze is done, we hang for a minute and discuss future tour plans. Ian pays us and we thank him profusely: it’s been a great night.

We pile in to a convoy of vehicles and drive, through a raging snowstorm, to Megan’s family’s house to crash for the night.

SUNDAY 1.27
Megan’s family live on the water in Kennebunkport: when I wake up, the ocean is raging outside, and Will’s left early to go practice in New Hampshire with Nat: they’re heading out together in February in support of Nat’s new album.

Bunny and I hang with our friends at Megan’s parents house for a while; Dom and I go out to the water and take a bunch of photos.

We pick up Will at the 7-11 in Kittery, Maine, and proceed to Boston. When we get to Great Scott, we realize that, once again, we’re the only band on the bill, and it’s still snowy and cold. I recognize Ben, the soundman—he used to be in the band Unbusted—and we go grab some quick pizza before soundcheck.

The soundcheck is great, again: Ben’s thorough, and we play a few tunes and get comfortable. Bunny’s brother shows up. I buy a beer, tip the bartender Joe $5, and warn him that the crowd tonight might be less than optimal. He’s sympathetic.

A bunch of our friends have showed up, and a random couple in their forties, and it’s showtime.

We blast through the set—because there’s no one in the room we’re really relaxed and we play great. Will’s singing is awesome, and we finally play our new tune “Hound Adams” the way it was meant to be played.

We don’t get any money, of course, and pack up our stuff and head in the car for the long slog back home to work our day jobs for a couple days before our show at Union Hall in Brooklyn on Wednesday.