So here's what's up for anyone who might care:
On 12/21/2013 around 3pm, Direct Hit's van was stolen off the corner of Michigan & Wabash in Detroit, while we were stuffing Triple Threat Pork sandwiches into our faces at Slow's on the way home from our last show of our latest tour in Toronto. The doors were locked, bags and valuables were hidden, it wasn't parked far out of sight, and we thought given the number of rich people wandering around on the main drag that it wouldn't be an issue to stop for an hour to eat in the area. Boy were we wrong.
All told, we're out between $20,000 and $25,000 worth of stuff - all our gear, all the money we earned on tour, all our leftover merch, our suitcases, the loft we built, everything. And that's about 6 months after losing/replacing half of it anyway after our practice space burned down (see here: www.facebook.com/notes/nick-woods/and-then-all-of-my-shit-burned-up/10151607126589564)
. Turns out when you name an album "Brainless God" the dude upstairs starts to really get a hard on for lancing you with the ol' divine wang whenever he/she/it gets a chance.
All that being said, we're not the first band who's had their shit jacked, and we're not gonna be the last. Other groups have had it way worse. So we're not gonna sit around and bawl our eyes out like a bunch of twangs - We have a fuckin awesome tour to go on with Elway and Red City Radio out west in a few weeks, and fuck you if you think we're missing a single one of those dates because The Lord has a problem with the name of my dumb garage band's second LP.
We're also stand-up enough dudes to have bought both car insurance and homeowners insurance in case something shitty like this were to happen. If Geico and Progressive aren't lame, hopefully a lot of the loss will be covered. But since "insurance" is pretty much synonymous with "lame" in 2013, and checks leave those institutions with the same swiftness that Louie Anderson leaves the toilet after taking a dump, we'd really appreciate any help you might be able to toss our way in the mean time.
If you wanna help, here's how:
Our pals from Charlotte, Dollar Signs (www.facebook.com/dollarsignsmusic
), have been cool enough to let us record a cover of one of their Christmas tunes, which our friend Shane (bobbyperurecording.com
) is letting us do in his studio tomorrow for free. If you want a copy delivered to your inbox on Christmas Morning, all you gotta do is PayPal $2 (or more if you feel like it) to firstname.lastname@example.org. Just make sure you include your email somewhere so it gets sent right.
If novelty Christmas music isn't your bag, you can also consider nabbing a shirt or hoodie at our store (www.theshopmerch.com/collections/direct-hit
And if stylish apparel ain't your thang neither, then you're always welcome to head over to our Bandcamp page (directhitsucks.com
), download some of our old shit, and send us a few bucks that way.
All of that being said, no one reading this should feel obligated to send us anything. Our good friend Kyle Stembaugh said it best: A band is a really awesome hobby, not a job, and anyone who plays in one should feel lucky if anyone at all is interested in it. It's for that reason it's impossible for me to really describe how it warms my cold, black heart to have gotten so many texts, so much email, and so many comments and messages from our friends all over the world over the last day asking how they can help out. DH is an extremely lucky band, even with two shitty accidents in the last year. We know it, and you all should too.
If we weren't planning to be out on the road again in a few weeks, that support would be more than enough, and I wouldn't be begging for your much harder-earned-than-mine Xmas money. We're not trying to (and will never) get rich off this shit. But it'd be awesome if Tim Browne didn't have to listen to Danny screaming about Spacehog in the back of his minibus for three weeks straight, while we destroy their gear every evening. So really, this is all for him.
Our friends are the fucking best. That's the kind of thing dudes who wear gym shorts onstage say to the point where it becomes meaningless. But in this instance, it's really the only thing to be said.
Merry fucking Christmas,