Severe Rockin’ Warning: Tropical Fuck Storm Hit the USA

Erica Dunn shares some photos and memories of the Melbourne band's recent tour.
October 31, 2017, 2:39am

Do not read this expecting to see photos of Tropical Fuck Storm shredding. You will not see photos of shredding. No. Because the actual playing of the instruments makes up the smallest moments of the day. That sweet, 45-minute window is a tiny reprieve from the stretch of hours between, "that's our alarm, where are my clean clothes? I said left not right! Lefty loosey righty tighty, please no more Ozzy's Boneyard satellite radio, name your top three drinks, top three sex moves, top three islands, you can't say 'sex moves', do you want dill pickle or bbq chips?, when's load in? I'm starving, did you know I can dislocate my thumb?" Pass out, repeat.


You will see a demented family portrait of our forward roll into the United States of America, unceremoniously clutching the coat tails of Band of Horses and King Gizzard.

Beginning with our fourth gig ever and whining into a hum near the Gulf of Mexico, spluttering to adolescence by the banks of the Mississippi and cranking into a maniacal four headed monster at the foothills of the snow-capped rockies in Colorado. We covered 5,248 miles and 85 solid hours in the van together across 18 cities. Treasure these foggy memories as much as we do, I'll rant as succinctly as I can….

New Orleans, Louisiana. Arrival into this notorious party town to recuperate was someone's bright idea. In the natural world, iridescent spells toxic but no one in NOLA seemed to heed that warning. Fluro green grenade shaped 'to go' cups piled high in the streets and before we could judge, we were of course riding the wave of boozie slush, voodoo prayers and bejewelled souvenirs. May or may not have been kicked out of Larry Flynt's Hustlers. RIP jetlag.

Mobile, Alabama. Just made the first Band of Horses show after a bung GPS swung us into the Gulf of Mexico through the still barren hurricane annihilated beaches and bayous. Happy snap post show of the first place and runners up of the 2017 Hilton Olympics trampoline awards.

Grand Gulf Ghost Town, Mississippi. Gaz gets sanctified in this memorial chapel, moved from the floodwaters of Rodney, Mississippi to Grand Gulf. Once a bustling port town and a confederate stronghold it's been a ghost town since the beginning of the century.

Oxford, Mississippi. My favourite photos of Hammer, who is unable to eat breakfast because can't stop eyeballing a flabby white dude sporting a Trump hat and leather boat shoes. Note the southern vegan breakfast; two food groups tater tots and hot sauce!

Oxford, Mississippi. Who wore it better? Surely the only place to have a shotgun backstage.

Clarksdale, Mississippi. The infamous crossroads. Dropped my pick in the dirt and said a few salutations to the ol' fella. Remains to be seen if my skills have improved.

Memphis Tennessee. We subverted type and listened to Rhianna on the way to Graceland. This awkward family pic is your only chance to spy our enigmatic sound engineer Adam 'Donno' Donovan.

Little Rock, Arkansas. The story behind this photo is far longer than a few lines. Search words include: carny, bribe, abandoned haunted house, conceal and carry, running for your life, fake screams or real screams?

Boulder, Colorado. This marks our journey north to join King Gizz and their incredible string of sold out shows in venues I had to pinch myself to believe I was playing in. Faith in music lovers was bolstered by their fans who sent the Gizz crew adornments of gifts into the green rooms including donuts, weed and poems. Sweet Mercy!

Boise, Idaho. One snap of one sweet crowd. Fiona nursed a sore foot post show from kicking the shit out of the piggy-backed-to-the-max quadbox which prevented any onstage sound from being a possibility.

Portland, Oregon. After playing an insane sold out Crystal Ballroom, my night was propelled into fantasy by a personal midnight shopping tour of Mississippi Records care of Darren Hanlon and Shelly Short. This snap is in front of Andrew Loomis' only drumskin which went on every Dead Moon tour. My eyes wouldn't open properly here because swoon.

Seattle, Washington. After seven shows in a row we attempt a (healthy) cup of tea using the tools at hand. Fail. Opt for local drink of choice (a decision that would most positively inform the rest of the tour).

Seattle, Washington. May or may not have tested the cake before Joey's birthday ceremony. Stormed the stage mid Gizz set to offer salutations and good tidings and feed the crowd cake.

San Fransisco, California. The worst photo of the best night. Our insane gig schedule and run across the country culminated in Fillmore mania. The esky was filled, veteran roadie 'Zombie' was saluted, the Jimi Hendrix bathroom was used for baptisms, the ghost of Jerry Garcia taunted, the cosmic dust of Grace Slick inhaled. Gizz punters outmatched all for crowdsurfing dexterity and afterwards, lines for autographs revealed pilgrimages from Alaska, Mexico City, Alabama, Scorsby! Afterwards we took on the Tenderloin to find "one more drink"…

San Fransisco, California. …a few games of pool and a final family portrait to wind down an incredible dream tour.

Los Angeles, California. Jesus Saves and so does a beer by the pool.