We get off the road in Birmingham. The Mapquest directions take us right through what appears to be the main Housing Projects of Birmingham. One of the units, right next to the club, is burned to the ground. There are five people in the club. Two bartenders, a couple guys at the bar, and a baby. Not sure who the baby belongs to. This is weird. There’s no sign of our posters. Nothing in the press. We know of no local radio support. We thought we were opening for Daniel Johnston. It’s Daniel Johnson, local singer-songwriter and he’s opening for us in a town where we know no one. When the sound man finally arrives he tells us we’re on at midnight or later. We have a 13 hour drive ahead of us to Austin where we have friends, press and radio support. We decide to bail. The booking agent is understandably pissed. It gets ugly. There’s no way around it. Birmingham is a fucked-up situation. We try to find the freeway. We can’t. Eventually we find our way to Interstate. Let’s get the fuck out of Alabama.