In which a deranged
fan says he’d gladly pay the price…




On tour a few years ago, in the middle of nowhere in Texas, we stayed at a
motel I fondly remember as “The Crime Scene Inn.” (I think the actual name was
The Vagabond Inn, which should have been warning enough for us.) The place was
cheap, so I thought we should splurge and get three rooms. Then I realized why
it was so inexpensive. In my room, there was some bright yellow fungus thing
growing in the bathroom sink. Then I pulled back the covers on one of the beds,
and everywhere the eye could see was old, dried blood. I thought, “Someone was
murdered here.” Also, why wouldn’t the housekeeper throw out those sheets?!


I thought that was bad until I started comparing tour
stories with my bandmate Chip. His former band River City High was on a tour in
the summer of 2006, and they made a stop in Poplar Bluff, Missouri.
After their show, a couple fans invited them to a “college party.” So they
followed a line of cars to what looked like a disheveled frat house in the
middle of the woods – not a college campus.


Strewn about the lawn, there were beat-up cars with no tires
and dilapidated furniture. Inside was the stench of pot smoke, garbage, and
stale beer. Chip said that the family and town locals at the party all looked
eerily alike: missing teeth, missing patches of hair, and enlarged foreheads.
There were children running around with no shirts or shoes on. Everyone was
popping pills, drinking massive amounts of liquor, and smoking crack. After a
few minutes in the house, the mother of the household offered Chip a hit of
crack. It took an hour for Chip to convince his bandmates to leave, but they
finally agreed to ditch the Deliverance house filled with Gummo characters. 


Personally, the fucked-up incident that had me most scared
for my own safety was at a hometown show the same year Chip visited the Deliverance house. For weeks I was
getting these strange emails from a fan. At first, they seemed sweet, and it
was nice to get the attention. But the emails got more bizarre over time. The
guy kept referencing Vanilla Ice for some reason, and he kept repeating the
same mantra: “I would gladly pay the price twice for 1 minute 37 seconds of
your time, Ms. Kylee.” Then I started getting emails from different addresses
and different “personalities,” but they were obviously from the same guy. He
told me he was coming to one of our shows and that he would be bringing


Finally, the day arrived, and I was terrified. I asked my
friend Ted to look out for me in case anything happened. The door guy at the
club came up to me at one point and said, “Uh, some guy wanted me to give you
this check.” It was made out for some weird amount, like $117, and on the memo
it said, “I’d gladly pay the price twice.” The door guy then said, “He brought
in a garbage bag with ‘presents’ for you. I told him he couldn’t bring it in.”


At one point during our set, a guy jumped onstage and gave
me a kiss on the cheek. Moments later, my friend Ted violently threw the poor
guy off the stage. (Man, I love Ted). Thankfully, it wasn’t the “gladly pay the
price” guy, and oddly enough, I never did meet him in person, but I was freaked
out for months afterward.



This story originally appeared in BLURT #12. Loquat’s third album We Could Be Arsonists is out now on Nacional Records. Visit the band at






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