Brother Dege US Summer Tour: UPDATED

6/21 Hardback Cafe, Gainesville, FL (w/ Piss Test)
6/22 The Warrior, Tallahassee, FL (w/ Piss Test + 2 TBA)
6/23 Ashley Street Station, Valdosta, GA
6/24 LL Creek, Waycross, GA
6/25 TBA / Contact us / GA or FL
6/26 Jack Rabbits, Jacksonville, FL (w/Piss Test)
6/27 TBA / Contact us! / GA
6/28 Star Bar, Atlanta, GA
6/29 Tin Roof, Charleston, SC
6/30 Fish, Hilton Head, SC
7/1 Fish, Hilton Head, SC
7/2 Evening Muse, Charlotte, NC
7/5 East Room, Nashville, TN
7/6 Bean Tree's, Hartford, TN
7/7 TBA / Contact us TN
7/8 Thirsty Devil, Tupelo, MS

7/29 Mid America Music Fest, Trenton, MO

FB Tour Event Page:



6/21 Hardback Cafe, Gainesville, FL (w/ Piss Test)
6/22 The Warrior, Tallahassee, FL (w/ Piss Test + 2 TBA)
6/23 Ashley Street Station, Valdosta, GA
6/24 LL Creek, Waycross, GA
6/26 Jack Rabbits, Jacksonville, FL (w/Piss Test)
6/28 Star Bar, Atlanta, GA 
6/29 Tin Roof, Charleston, SC
6/30 Fish, Hilton Head, SC
7/1 Fish, Hilton Head, SC
7/2 Evening Muse, Charlotte, NC
7/3 Nature Appreciation Day
7/4 TBA / America!
7/6 Bean Tree's, Hartford, TN
7/8 Thirsty Devil, Tupelo, MS

7/29 Mid America Music Fest, Trenton, MO
9/14 WNWWC, Charlotte, NC


Summer Tour: Updated

6/21 Hardback Cafe, Gainesville, FL (w/ Piss Test)
6/22 The Warrior, Tallahassee, FL (w/ Piss Test + 2 TBA)
6/23 Ashley Street Station, Valdosta, GA
6/24 LL Creek, Waycross, GA
6/26 Jack Rabbits, Jacksonville, FL / Chapel Hill
6/28 Star Bar, Atlanta, GA
6/29 TBA
6/30 Fish, Hilton Head, SC
7/1 Fish, Hilton Head, SC
7/2 Evening Muse, Charlotte, NC
7/4 TBA
7/6 - CONF - Bean Tree's, Hartford, TN
7/8 - CONF - Thirsty Devil, Tupelo, MS

7/29 Mid America Music Fest, Trenton, MO

9/14 National Whitewater Center, Charlotte, NC



HELP WANTED: We're BOOKING the first of two short Summer tours and would love your help. If you live in or near any of these towns (listed below w/attendant date) and know of a venue, booker, or promoter in the area, please email our girl Janet at Bad Blood Productions with relevant info or offer: badbloodproduction@gmail.com

Although we're taking a break from heavy touring in 2017 to record next album, we are going to do two short US stints to keep the wheels greased. And we like rolling around in the Van Quixote. We are a totally independent operation, so we really appreciate your help in keeping our little black train rollin'. Thx U!


6/22 BOOKING: Mississippi / Tuscaloosa / Birmingham / Mobile
6/23 BOOKING: Tuscaloosa / Birmingham / Mobile
6/24 CONFIRMED: Waycross, GA, LL Creek
6/25 BOOKING: Daytona / Orlando / Gainesville / Tallahassee
6/26 BOOKING: Daytona / Orlando / Gainesville / Tallahassee
6/27 BOOKING: ATL / Athens / Savannah
6/28 BOOKING: ATL / Athens / Savannah / Chattanooga / Asheville
6/29 BOOKING: Augusta / Charleston / Myrtle Beach, SC / Asheville
7/2 BOOKING ATL / Athens / Charleston / Charlotte / Asheville / Raleigh
7/4 BOOKING ATL / Athens / Charleston / Charlotte / Asheville / Raleigh
7/5 BOOKING Asheville / Chattanooga / Knoxville / Nashville
7/6 BOOKING Asheville / Chattanooga / Knoxville / Nashville
7/7 BOOKING Nashville / Memphis
7/8 BOOKING Nashville / Memphis / Birmingham
7/9 BOOKING Birmingham / Little Rock / Shreveport / Monroe / Ruston



New Limited Stock of SIGNED Brother Dege Folk Songs of the American Longhair & HOW TO KILL A HORSE vinyl. AVAILABLE.





30 gigs.
43 days out.
9 countries (Germany, Holland, France,
Austria, Switzerland, Slovenia, Croatia,
Hungary, Serbia).
Untold amount of miles.
It was a long one.
Brutal at times,
Mostly from me being sick
For first half of tour.
After 3 tours in 2016,
(2 Europe, 1 USA),
The band played better than ever.
Each of the guys in the band
Have been true warriors.
It’s easy to talk about
Jumping in a van
And touring for a month or two,
But the actual process of doing it
Is a whole other thing.
You have to be your own daddy
Out here
And avoid a lot of temptation.
Stay focused, sane,
The last four years
Have been a beautiful blur
That I’ve enjoyed the hell out of.
Got to meet so many amazing people & places.
And connect with them.
I’d like to extend a huge thanks
To everyone who got out of the matrix
And came out to the shows.
Also big thanks
To ALL the Brethren,
Past and present,
Who I’ve gigged with.
True warriors and friends.
It’s not easy thing to do,
This indie, DIY shit.
And doing it all over the place
Is sometimes a logistical nightmare.
But it’s totally worth it.
And you never regret,
Even when things go to shit.
So here’s to a killer 2017.
I'm putting time aside
To finish up the CABLOG BOOK,
As well as editing a best of ROADLOGS BOOK
for future release.
We’ll also be working on the new
Brother Dege album
In addition to doing some one-off
And festival shows.
If you feel inspired to do so,
Come on out. Hang.
It's also time for a little break
To rest, reconnect, listen,
And be human.
We don’t take it for granted.
Neither should you.



We built a sleeper loft
In the cargo hold of the van.
It’s just a baby crib mattress
(from Bjorn’s house)
That we threw on top
Of the road cases.
It sleeps one.
Great on long drives.
But it’s cold as hell back there,
So we borrowed a pillow
And blanket from a hotel
To add to the luxurious
Comfort of the experience.
It’s a little bumpy,
But not bad.
Today we had a 7 hr drive to southern Germany.
So I climbed in the sleeper bed
In the back
With a bottle of water,
A book,
And my “Donger.”
My Donger is a plastic laundry detergent container
That I use as a piss bottle.
It’s disgusting,
But it’s the greatest thing ever.
But it freaks out everybody
In the van if gets near them.
Like it’s radioactive waste.
It’s not.
Relax, man. It’s just piss.
Not gonna kill you.
Just make you feel weird.
So I crash out in the loft.
Zonked. Out.
It’s nice back there.
A bit noisy with the wind drag,
But it’s good for quieting for the mind.
And I can rest my voice.
If I’m sitting in the van with the dudes,
I babble for hours. About whatever.
It’s hard to shut up. Unless I’m reading.
We roll on. All day.
About four hours into the drive,
I hear Tom knock
And yell something unintelligible
Through the cargo wall
Of the van.
Tom’s got a northern England accent.
It’s kind of lazy and warbly.
Hard to understand at times.
I feel the van slow down dramatically.
We exit and pull to the side of the road.
What’s going on?” I yell through the wall.
“We’re being pulled over the cops.”
German polizei.
I roll my eyes.
We get this a lot,
Because we’re in a van with Dutch plates.
The polizei are always on the watch
For drug runners from the Netherlands.
I tell Kemmse, our tour manager,
To handle up on it.
Do the talking.
He’s a smart, healthy 6’5”
German from Bavaria.
He’ll handle it.
He’s also a trip: a total pack rack.
Keeps a ton of weird junk
In his pockets.
Like a lighters, ragged paper.
Pens, lucky charm stuff,
Ball Bearings, clippers.
All kinds of shit.
I don’t even know what it is.
It’s insane.
We’ve all got our quirks.
He also carries around
Sacks of empty plastic bottles
And cans which he claims
Are recyclable for 25 cents each
In Germany.
That’s all good and nice.
But when you’re in a van,
Packed with gear,
And there is a lot dude shit lying around,
You get a little annoyed
At having to constantly step over
His German Can-Man bags.
Don’t know how many times
On this tour I saw those bags
And was like, “What IS this shit?”
Back to the Polizei.
We’re getting pulled over.
Remember I’m in the back.
Kemmse hops out.
Calmly explains to them
We are an American band,
Touring in Germany.
All legit. Here’s the papers.
The van is a rental from Holland.
There are no drugs in the car.
Cops pull everybody out of the van.
I can hear them, grumbling, piling out
And walking to the rear.
I’m still in the back of the van,
Lying in the sleep loft.
I know we’re good;
We have no drugs or anything on us,
But if the cops are really anal,
We could get fined for me
Riding in the cargo section of the van,
Which has no seatbelts or anything.
Or whatever the violation is.
Also, with the current immigrant situation
In Germany,
It could be problematic.
Like maybe I’m some kind of
Jihadi stowaway.
They may want to run all the passports,
Waste our time,
And possibly fine me,
For riding in the back,
Stupid shit.
Outside, I can hear the polizei,
Going through everybody’s bags.
I have two choices:
Stay in the van, laid up, hidden.
Or hop out the back door,
Weird out the cops,
And possibly get fined & hassled.
I opt to stay in the van.
Fuck it.
I pull the blanket over my head
Wait it out and hide.
My Plan B is this:
If they search the back of the van
And find me,
I’ll exit with the Donger in my hand,
Act really weird, jittery, & sick
As if have some horrible strain of the flu.
I’ll augment this cover
By continuously sneezing and snotting
All over myself,
While nervously pacing around,
Waving The Donger.
In addition, I’ll do some improvised sign language,
Indicating that there is urine in
The Donger.
And that I am sick
And may need to puke
Or piss in The Donger
And that I would appreciate their help
If indeed that happens.
See how they like that.
I know it’s disgusting.
But it’s a plan.
So I just lay there in the back.
Listening to them outside.
Suddenly, the back door opens.
I stay still.
From a crack in the blanket,
I see a one of the cops
Direct Kent (bass) to pull his suitcase
Out of the van
So that they can search it.
One of the cops
Peeks in the door
And sniffs around
The back of the van.
I’m lying under a Mexican serape
And a hotel blanket,
Completely covered.
Apparently no one can see me
Because he turns
And immediately begins inspecting Kent’s bag.
I chill and wait.
Nothing really happens.
The cop never comes back
To inspect the rear of the van.
After about 10 minutes,
The discussion dies down.
I hear car doors slam.
A polizei pull off.
The guys pile in the van.
And we’re free to go.
I didn’t have to hit the polizei
With the Snot & Donger routine.
In relieved tones,
As we jump back onto the Autobahn,
I can hear the guys
Discussing the experience.
Nervous laughter.
Raised voices.
Somebody pounds
On the back wall, laughing.
“They searched us all.
Didn’t find shit.
You didn’t even have to get out!”
I nod to myself.
When in doubt,
Just lay low,
Do some Hidekwondo,
And keep The Donger the ready.



Eastern Europe is such a trip.
We played Slovenia and Hungary
And now are in Belgrade, Serbia.
The people here are amazing.
They’re used to going without the luxuries.
But they are full of soul and heart.
And humor.
We didn’t meet any whiney snobs
In Eastern Europe.
They don’t have time for that bullshit.
They’re just trying to get on with it.
The post-communist transition
Is still ongoing
And will be for a long time.
You see a McDonalds here
And mini-mall there.
But everywhere
You see the shadows of the old communist world
And it is fascinating.
Drab grey institutional structures,
Cold and merciless,
Stoic and immovable.
All around are the sad
Scattershot apartment block towers
That people lived in
And still live in.
The sides of each like some schizophrenic
Cyrillic tapestry of clothes lines, wind-whipped laundry,
Stripped paint, ragged curtains,
Skeletal windows,
And the omnipresent window AC unit
Which is everywhere.
There are window units mounted
To anything that does not move:
Banks, skyscrapers, tower blocks,
Kabob stands, vulcanizing shops,
And Subotica shacks.
Like post-millennial barnacles,
They are not going anywhere.
The natives call them “kilmas.”
You speed through the city,
Jostling for position,
Past bombed out buildings,
Pockmarked, crumbling,
And gouged with the last kiss
Of NATO missiles.
Many of the bombed out buildings
Are still there,
Either as a reminder
Or because they haven’t the funds
To tear them down.
Or the property
Has not been sold to the highest bidder.
The country towns are equally fascinating.
On the drive to Kladova,
Which sits on the banks of the Danube River
Right across from Romania,
We blow down tiny two-lane road,
Barely wide enough to fit two cars.
We dodge cratered potholes,
And whip through country villages,
Where we pass two cows
Walking down the middle
Of the two-lane road through town.
Just heading up the road,
Opposite direction as us,
With no masters,
Like a couple hoodlums,
Not paying anyone any mind.
Cyrillic alphabet signs call out the destinations.
At one point our GPS loses the signal
And we are left to find our way
Without the benefit of technology.
A dozen miles up the road,
We’re shuttling down a dirt road
Through ancient Serbian countryside.
We come to a one-lane bridge
Over a creek.
A farmer stands on the other side
And signals for us to come across.
“It’s OK.”
The bridge looks very sketchy
And old.
We’re not sure if it’ll support the weight
Of the tour van.
Half the crew votes no on the crossing.
The other half wants to go for it.
We turn around and backtrack,
And locate an alternative route
Through the brush and over the creek.
Kopornica wastelands.
Later than night,
After the gig,
While walking the darkened streets
Of Kavado,
We pass a pack of stray Serbian dogs.,
Wandering the alleyways.
I stop to pet one of them.
Another bites the leg of Alek’s,
Our booking agent and host,
Who brought us here.
We keep moving,
Through the biting cold.
So cold.
It’s a cold wrapped in cinderblocks
And bomb shelters.
“Does anyone in Serbia miss old days of
Communism?” I ask.
“Fuck no!” they answer.
“It’s all shit. All the communists
Are gone.”
Apparently, the only two things
Communism is good for:
Health care
And cheap vacations.
No one here misses communism.
At all.
Communism is not pretty.
The remnants of it
Are just like you would imagine:
Cold, grey, austere.
I would invite anyone
That imagines him or herself a communist
To visit a former communist country.
And look around.
Talk to the people.
Beyond all the Kilmas
And Cyrillic confusion.
There are the people.
And this heartfelt desire
To catch up with the modern world,
And whatever it may bring.
Good, bad, whatever.
Just like those two cows,
They just want to get on with it.



Sometimes things just disappear.
Completely vaporize from the planet.
I don't know if it's wormholes
or just dumb luck.
Leaving the hotel in Freiburg, Germany,
We accidentally lost our hotel room key
(hard key, not a plastic swipe card).
We were packing up the van to leave
When the key dropped on the ground,
Took a bounce,
And a roll,
And then vanished
Like a ghost in Medjugorje.
Only a few places it could’ve went:
Under the van,
Into the street,
Or in a drainage grate.
We searched all of them.
Several times.
And then we searched them
All again
And again.
We looked like blowtarded goons,
Wandering the street,
Peeking under cars,
Digging in the drainage grate (3x).
Hotel clerk was not enthused,
So we kept going back to the van
To try to find it.
But no luck.
It was gone as fuck.
Gone as a nun
At an outlaw biker rally.
Lost somewhere out there,
Floating around in space
On the other side
Of the universe...
Just laughing at us.



ROADLOG: Didn't have room for a jacket in my luggage when I flew from the US. Now it's F'ing COLD and I have a 2nd cold bug. So I bought this comrade coat at a thrift store in Hamburg. Now they call me The Moscow Mule.



TONITE: Brother Dege & The Bruhood hit the bricks of the killing floor in Langenfeld at Schaustall. Nov. 12.





Sittard, Holland.

My touring guitar player Tom

Can’t make the first few shows

Of this tour,

So I got another buddy, Pierre

To come over from London

And fill in for Tom on those dates.

Pierre is old school rock & roll as fuck.

Good guitarist.

Drinks heartily.

Ingests things.

Stays up late.

Plays a Les Paul.

He's from France

But lives in London.

Gigs nonstop.

This dude is living it.

Every time I’ve toured with him,

He is the last dude to go to sleep.

Every. Damn. Night.

The first day of this tour was

Was business as usual.

Pierre trained in from London.

Met up with us at the Bjorn house

Rather than get a good night’s sleep

The day before we roll out,

Pierre heads out to the bars.

Meets up with a girl he knows.

They gets some drinks

At a Mexican themed bar.

Watches a gypsy jazz band play a set,

Then he heads over

To the local punk rock bar,

Mustang Sally’s.

They drink till close.

Then Mir, the owner of the bar,

Locks the front door and they drink

For another hour or so.

Pierre and the girl leave.

She goes to her house.

Pierre walks toward Bjorn’s place

Where we are all staying.

At this point,

He’s really drunk.

Not sure where he is.

But he makes it to Bjorn’s neighborhood,

However, all the apartments look exactly alike.


He sees a car that looks Bjorns.

“This must be his place.”

Pierre puts the spare key in the door

Of the apt nearest the car.

It doesn’t work.

He tries different ways of inserting the key.

Nothing works.

Still locked.

He texts Bjorn and all of us.

“Hey, I’m outside. Can someone let me in?”

But it’s 4 a.m. We’re all sleeping.

No one comes to his rescue.

Pierre throws his backpack on the ground,

Using it as a pillow

And goes to sleep in front of the apartment.

It’s cold,

But he manages to pass out

And sleep.

Couple hours later,

He wakes, cold.

Freezing his ass off.

He tries texting & calling Bjorn

And all of us again.

No answer.

No answer from anyone.

We’re still sleeping

And not grinding the rails

Of the rock & roll night train.

Pierre decides to ring the doorbell

Of the apartment.

Pushes the button.

Immediately, upon depressing the button,

He realizes the buzzer sounds

Very different than when he rang it earlier in the day

Upon his initial arrival in Sittard.

This buzzer is much louder

And has an angry, harrowing quality to it.

Uh oh.

He double checks the address

He has noted in his phone.

Oh, shit.

Pierre realizes he’s at Apt #15

Instead of #19, which is Bjorn’s place.

Wrong apt.

As dawn peeps over the horizon

Pierre swiftly grabs his bag

And walk off down street to the correct apt.

Inserts the spare key.

The key works.

Thank god.

He’s quietly enters

And goes to sleep on couch.

Two hours later,

We all wake, pack the van,

And roll out for the first date

Of the tour in Germany.

4.5 hr drive.

Pierre recounts his adventure

From the previous night.

Drinking. Chick. Bar. Make out.

Key not working. Sleeping on sidewalk.

Buzzer. Bjorn’s. Couch.

We laugh like mental patients.

This dude is so rock & roll.

At one point,

On the drive to the show,

Pierre & I end up

discussing the benefits of cortisone

For vocalists

I’ve pretty much lost my voice.

Even my talking voice is raspy

And quickly fading.

Tonight’s gig will be rough.

And it’s the first gig of tour.

What a nightmare.

Pierre gets on the phone

And calls the promoter of tonight’s gig

And asks for the name & number

Of a doctor in town

Who can possibly help

Get me some cortisone.

You’d never guess Pierre

Spent the night partying

And sleeping on the sidewalk

In the cold outside.

This dude always impresses me.

He’s so composed and professional

On the phone. Articulate.

And he speaks three languages.

Such a badass.

She gives him the number

Of a doctor who is associated

With the venue.

Pierre thanks her

And immediatly gets him on the phone.

Pierre informs him of my situation.

Gig. Tonight. Singer. Cold.

Lost voice. Need Cortisone.

“Come straight to my office

When you get to town,” says the doctor.


I now have an appointment

With Doctor Mathias

In Worpswede, Germany.

Pierre, you are a certified badass.

“No problem.”

We roll on.

And settle into the ride.

Roughly 15 minutes later...

Out of nowhere,

Pierre begins to moan and groan

From the back seat of the van.

“Can you roll down a window?”

He asks.

You ok?

“My stomach hurts really bad.

I’ve got this horrible pain in my gut.”

That’s weird.

It’s cold,

But we crank down the windows.

Pierre rolls around

Doubled over with pain.



We all look at each other quizzically.

What the fuck’s going on with Pierre?

Did you eat something bad?


You detoxing off any drugs?


You got the DT’s?

“No. This has never happened before.

I don’t know what it is.”

At this point,

Pierre opens the side door of the van

As we’re still rolling stop & go

In gridlock traffic

And hangs his head out.

Apparently the windows

Are not providing enough fresh air.

“You gonna puke?”

“No. I’m hot. Need air.”

Traffic people in cars next to us

Stare at him in mild shock and confusion.

At the next stop light,

I suggest we switch seats.

I hop out

And he jumps in the front passenger seat.

He immediately hangs his head

Out the window like a dog.

A sick dog.

We precede through traffic.

People stare.

At the next red light,

Pierre suddenly

And with no announcement

Jumps out of the van,

Walks through traffic,

Stops and braces himself

Against a chainlink fence

And then begins

To puke on the sidewalk.

I jump out of the van,

Run across traffic

And meet him.

“You ok?”

“I don’t know.”

He pukes clear bile

Or something.

I walk him back to the van,

Which is now

Three blocks up the street,

Because impatient Germans

Began honking at Greg

Who is driving the van.

So he had to ditch us

And find a place to park.

We get Pierre back in the van.

Shake it off, cowboy.

We roll on.

It’s a mystery

As to what is wrong with him.

It’s looks as if two of us

Will be visiting the doctor.

10 minutes later,

We locate the building

Where the doctor’s office is

And park.

The place looks like

A euro mini-mall,

Housing 4-5 business.

Pierre and I hop out.

There’s no obvious sign


On any of the businesses

In the mini-mall.

Which one is it?

One of the front windows has the word “Medik”

Or something painted on the glass.

This must be it! I say.

I walk in and am confronted

By an dumpy-looking angry German woman.

Like every American asshole,

I assume everyone everywhere speaks English.

“Hi. I’m Brother Dege. I have an appointment

With Dr. Mathias. About the cortisone.”

She looks at me crazy

And forcefully barks

Some frightening German words

At me.

Very angry expression

On her face.

Maybe she thinks I'm

An immigrant who just wandered

In here

And assumes

I will do something unpredictable

Because of my cultural differences.

It’s sounds like she’s yelling at a bad dog

That has shit on the carpet.

It’s ok. We called ahead

And talked to the doctor, I say.

Pointing at my throat.

We have an appointment.

She ain't buying that shit.

She doesn't even know

What the fuck I'm saying.

She stares at me

As if I am a vile rat.

She barks angrier German gibberish

And maintains a safe distance.

10 ft or so.

I get the feeling she

Is about to call the police.

I turn around.

Look for Pierre.

He’s outside on the phone,

Apparently calling the doctor.

“My office is in the back.

You are at the foot care clinic,”

Says the doctor. “Wrong office.”

I wave goodbye to Nurse Ratched

And roll out of there.

The doctor is hilarious.

Good dude.

And he speaks good English.

Laughs his ass off

When I tell him about

Going into the foot nurse lady’s office.

And scaring her.

“She’s not a nice woman,” he says.

Doctor Mathias checks my throat

And quickly writes me a prescription for cortisone.

Thank you.

As I walk out of his office,

I point at Pierre.

Oh, yeah.

Can you check on my friend?

He’s sick, too.

Doctor laughs.

“This band is a mess!”

He then checks Pierre out

And writes him a script

For stomach meds.

We thank him and roll out

To the nearest pharmacy.

Acquire the medicine.

I pop three cortisone pills

In the van on the way to the venue.

Two hours later,

And after much stress,

My throat loosens up

And I can sing again.

Sort of.

Well, it is a passable

Version of singing.

We have decent gig.

The doctor gave me enough

Cortisone to last about a week.

We’ll see how this throat thing

Plays out.

What a fucking day.

Every time I think things

Will mellow out

And get boring,

Crazy shit pops off.