Australian rockers THEART kick off their U.S. tour in Las Vegas, N.V. with Faster Pussycat, and check in with Naked to let us know that, yes, they’re still alive, and yes, this shit is about to get crazy.

Today we woke to all the charm of a highway ‘Waffle House’. Everything’s enormous so I can only assume we’re in Texas. Houston actually.
To reflect on the days past since our last installment has proven a little more difficult than expected. A) So much shit has gone on I don’t know where to start, and B) Alcohol’s insistence on erasing crucial facts from ones memory banks, while cute at first, is working against us all at this point.
Opting to abandon my bunk on the long haul from Vegas to Santa Fe proved a winning move. Soaring plains reaching out to the far flung, snow capped mountains of New Mexico was a sight to behold. It ain’t often an Australian sees an Indian on buffalo back, but in my inspired, bleary eyed state, I was sure one would appear.
True SouthWest hospitality was the flavour of the evening as we were given a white table cloth, fine dining outing on arrival. Chad from Faster Pussycat insisted, with a mouthful of foix gras we don’t get used to it, as the tour rolls forth, shit’s gonna get gritty. And gritty it did as we rolled into last nights show in OKC. I don’t think I saw a full set of teeth all night. I did however see to the noble task of breaking one of the ‘rules of the bus’. Before hittin’ the road we were sat down for a few ground rules;
Don’t shit on the bus
Don’t fuck on the bus, do it in the trailor
Don’t leave a mess after partying on the bus
and finally,
Don’t fuck the merch girl (unless you intend on marrying her.)
Sounds easy right? Well I’ve been having nightmares about unconsciously dropping a load in the dunnies after a big night out.
Ironically, that ain’t the one I broke. The OKC suitors were just too exotic to pass up on this evening, romance grabbed me by the jugular and nothing less than the back of the tour bus would do! Of course, Faster Pussycat finished there show early and walked right into a gailstorm of genitalia. I’m talkin’ full swing mid-coital martial arts.
The slandery was soon to subside for a good ‘ol laugh and the all too predictable post show party ensued.
Currently, guilt and nausea coalesce in my belly, but you know what, I cannot wait for what adventures tonight will bring. Houston, we’re fuck’n coming to getcha!

Written by Catherine Powell