"Stately, plump Decemberists' Guitarist/multi-instrumentalist Chris Funk came from the stairhead of the tour bus, bearing a trap table on which a lap steel and an electric mandolin lay crossed. A second-hand baritone guitar, unstrung, was sustained gently behind him by a quaint silver dolly. He held the folk instruments aloft and intoned:
-- Introibo ad vehiculum manus.
Halted, he peered down the dark widening bus aisle and called out coarsely:
-- Come up, Colin! Come up, you fearful frontman!
Solemnly, he came forward and mounted the cloth upholstered bus seat. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the other band members, the surrounding country, and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Colin Meloy, he bent toward him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Colin Meloy, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of his road case and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, balding and hued like pale oak.
Chris Funk peeped an instant at the upcoming fall tour schedule and then covered the itinerary smartly.
-- Back to Britain! he said sternly.
He added in a preacher's tone:
-- For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine UK and Ireland tour: Smart suits and inflatable whales and Garrulous Crane Wife (TMT Review) narratives. Folky/Klesmer/proto-prog/Irish Jig/pop music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those Portland Indie-rockers. Silence, all..."
From Swerve of Shore to Bend of Bay:
Just trust me. That whole thing was really clever.
