….she pointed at her heart then she pointed my way
She shook her head no, that was all she had to say….
January, and we gather on rainy nights and–would ya believe?-even Saturday afternoons!– to sift through the riffs (and raff) that have collected the past few years.
Now we are into that messy business of assembling parts into songs: throwing out the stuff that simply doesn’t come into form, coaxing out structures from disjointed bits.
I imagine an exhausted working mom coming home and staring into the fridge, wondering what sort of meal she can throw together from the chilled ingredients staring back at her.
It’s harsh business at times, you bring in a part that sounded just huge when you were playing it on the couch last night, but once you play it for the lads it is met with a shrug and meh.
You’ve brought the latest finger painted masterpiece home, but this one will not be hung on the refrigerator.
So you throw it out and move to something else, try to get a grip on how that can become a song.
There was one sketch that Jay sent me that kept coming back in each session.
4 derivatives of a D chord, played on the beat 1-3-5-7 simple and pure.
But what the hell we gonna do with that?
We hauled it out each time and stumbled along until giving up and throwing it back on the pile til next session.
But it only takes a small reflection to get a handle on a song, a different perspective.
A glimpse that reveals that thing, like a print or sculpture viewed from a side alcove of the gallery instead of from straight on: Ah.
The riff of course echoed Clash City Rockers, so we set about to basically rip that off, down to the very break (yeah yeah!) in verse two.
We call it homage, not plagiarism, by the way.
We’ve found that if you start with a song in mind, you’ve got a nice jumping off point, but it ends up somewhere else indeed.
Most people have this strange Déjà vu tingle when they listen to it, but they can’t quite place it, unless some asshole comes right out and explains the trick.
Oops.
So now we have a handle on what we’re gonna do, time to start putting the parts together on chart.
Of course we can’t read music, silly–much less write it!
So we jot down notes, making up names as we go along, anything to jog the battered memories for the next time we tackle the song in progress.
We come across a series of descending chords and a brief intellectual discussion on the actual musical term ensues:
What is that, what ya call it, a glissando? Opposite of crescendo?
Nah man, that’s a modulation redux! Look it up….
What? Get the fuck outta here, that’s what’s know as retardāre.
You’re the Retard!
No you are…!
Sigh.
We settle on calling it a dogleg, for lack of any better term, and move on.
When you write a new song, you can’t help but compare yourself to that 19 year old kid that so effortlessly made up a song that somehow connected way back when.
You come to the realization. You are not going to write like that kid, you are not going to sound like him.
There has been a lifetime of pain and boredom, a novel of hilarity and small index of triumphs.
So better or worse, we are on the other side of that divide: can’t call it wisdom, pray it’s not cynicism, but we have become separated from the idealistic kids in the garage, and can only wave to them from other side.
We hit the ground San Antonio and try to remember the last time through this nutty town 82? 83? Never?
Kimm and I talk about crazy nights in Texas and correct each other: em, no that was El Paso, had to be….no, no- It was Austin, the girl with one leg…
We continue talking as if we have been here before, but our gray matter has been rinsed and squeezed one too many times to recall.
Punk bands in the “Veteran Class”--ahem, they tend to hold a few key items as badges of honor.
How many years since the first record released, how many shows still per year.
And most important, how many original members ya got?
That’s a tough one, as very few bands are able to count off on more than an index finger and thumb, some even less.
In our own case it’s always been me and Kimm sure, but we’ve been through an army of good lads who have contributed to past campaigns.
But that’s the very nature of this thing, isn’t it?
You almost dare each other, how many days are you willing to take off work, how many vacation days will you give to a sketchy tour in lieu of a trip-finally!– to see her folks back in Des Moines.
And so every year we ask each other if we are ready to map out yet another year out there, the triumphs and humiliations, the hours of boredom interrupted by the jewel-like minutes of sheer joy, playing your music on a stage with friends.
Lazy touristsAnd so it was a kick to the gut a couple years ago, when our dear Alfie decided to sit out the upcoming year. There were grandkids to think of now, a new interest in hoppy craft beers, Halloween decorations that took four months of planning.
We said our reluctant farewells and set off to find new drummers as we had done a dozen times before, but this felt much different. Alf had been longer than any other chap in the CH3 trenches.
He had seen us from the garage dicks of the 90’s, just cranking the amps and drinking the beer for our own amusement, to bringing it all back to a touring act once again. The wild memories we shared, the inside jokes that could bring tears to our eyes with a single word.
But Alf needed some time off and we wished him well.
And so it was a real treat to have a weekend out in San Antonio with the Spider crew who have somehow persuaded Alf to get back up on the stage once again.
We check into rooms that we have the ridiculous luxury of being in 2 nights in a row!
Can’t remember the last time we were not chased out at noon by the cleaning ladies, and set about making the room into a home:
A few last minute venue changes have the bands confused and wary, and we wonder if this is going to be one of those weekends, a disastrous failure we’ve become all too familiar with over the years.
But promoter Angel handles it all in stride, getting us settled and directing traffic. He never seems fazed all weekend, god bless him, as I can see his phone constantly vibrating like a pocketful of angry wasps. The booking agents demanding to know what the deal is, the bands asking for their pay up front.
He and his crew handle it all with unflappable charm, and the weekend turns out a success.
We are there in plenty of time to see Spider play, and they do indeed rock it all out, Alf’s familiar ferocious drumming a perfect complement to the guys, Hector’s wild man front man gymnastics out front.
.….you’ll break yer leg, kid!It’s our turn to get up there and do the stuff, and the set goes over well, some gray heads in the crowd nodding to the songs of their youth, some liberty spikes bouncing along as well.
Feel free to crop this yourselfIt’s not long before Alf and Anthony are hanging off each other and arm punching like the 2 knuckleheads they are, and KImm and I are sure this will either turn to fisticuffs or homoerotic wrestling as it has so many times in the past.
Luckily, its been a long day for the Spider crew as they are in the midst of a week out on the road and they retire to bed.
We are left to scour the deserted San Antonio streets for melted cheese, and-finally-sleep.
Saturday:
On the advice of the locals we report to Pete’s Tako House for their flour tortilla masterpieces.
Legitimate.
We get back to the fest in time for our late afternoon set, and play to a moist club. It feels just right, playing these songs, many over three decades old, to a crowd packed into a sauna mid day.
It’s like we are back on that first swing through TX, what? 1982?!
Sweat pours onto guitar necks, salt blinds our vision, and we wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.
Then it’s catch up time yet again, chattting the day into night with the lads from JFA and DayGlo Abortions, the sparkling Adicts crew and Starving Wolves.
With Khepi Ghoulie
These festivals have become such a nice convention of familiar faces, and we prod each other with stories of decades past, gigs in weird places, funny stories of terrible people we’ve all known.
We have a bit of time to kill before sundown, so we grab the crew and do that most touristy of San Antonio things and hit the Riverwalk!
It is like the Jungle Cruise at Disney, but the wild animals are in the boat, and the guns are real–ammIright, people? yee haw!
It’s back on dry land for the headliners now, and Adicts and Fear do a perfect job of capping the day.
FEAR!
It’s been hot as hell, confusing and loud, but ain’t that what it’s supposed to be?
We sneak to the lounge next door to see the fading hopes of a LA-NY World Series drift away, and are soon joined by the rest of the Spider crew, come to rest their weary feet.
After the Yankees finally surrender their post season to Houston I catch up to Alfie again, and he grabs me around the neck and smooches me a good one on the cheek.
“Ya know,” he shouts into my ear hole, “I love ya guys, love ya!”
It’s just grand to see Alf out on the road again, and though we have the bittersweet perspective of having to watch each other from the audience now, it’s worth it just to be out here in America with the nut one more time.
“Love ya,” he says yet again, as he has been drinking since their noon set.
“Ya know, I was a fan before I joined the band , and I’m a fan again.”
And I take that back with me, through the night and all the way home, one of those little moments in time that keep us going.
All day long we hear him cry, he says that he was framed….
When we start a new project it’s like staring at a blank wall, paintbrush in hand.
You can’t quite believe you are going to end up-some time, somewhere-with a fully painted upstairs. But you gotta start somewhere.
Jay had been on me for five years at least. Sending tapes in the mail, actual cassettes recorded in his home in Hanover, Germany. Then reluctant concessions to the binary technologies, emailed wav files of song snippets.
C’mon man, he would message in the middle of the night. You guys need a new record—you hear anything here?
Kimm would show up to practice with a riff or two. I kept the usual journal full of lyrics and song titles, scribbled down in those odd moments of inspiration that strike in traffic jams or upon awaking from feverish dreams.
But somehow, it just never seemed like the right time to lay down a new album.
Truthfully, you ask yourself, why?
If our most notable achievement has been to just continue playing, well, you can’t really blame the people who come to see us for wanting to hear those songs.
Oh, you know. That first EP, Fear of Life, that’s the stuff we are known for.
And you have to be goddamn grateful that you can travel around and have a handful of people know some songs you wrote alone in your bedroom, a whole lifetime removed from the creaky old guy who’s onstage tonight.
The set list inevitably reflects that: We hit em 1-2-3!, Fear of Life, Catholic Boy, Manzanar–boom.
You see a 50-year-old man in the crowd come alive, see this former 16-year-old kid somehow awaken by the gleam in his eye. He hands his beer to his frowning wife and pulls up his pants by the belt loops before jumping headlong into the pit. He shows the kids how to open this goddamned thing up! and he’s singing along with the lyrics I have honestly forgotten and mumble, winging it. The song ends and he raises his arms triumphantly, lets out a whoo! towards the ceiling. He looks expectantly to the stage for the next song:
Got a Gun? Maybe fuckin’ Separate Peace! Love that one!
Now, this one here, here comes a new one, I’ll say, just recorded last year……,and the light goes out.
He tucks his shirt back in and grabs his beer, swallows it down and guides the wife outside for a smoke.
You’ve lost the momentum started by 35-year-old songs and the people catch their breath, make their way to the bar for a refill. Or – worst of all-peer down, faces illuminated by the tell-tale glow of cellular phone and check their Facebook messages while you stumble through a new one.
Yeah, every veteran band knows this routine. Do you stick to the safety of the crowd favorites, or feed the creative soul and throw out some new stuff?
Some artists refuse to play the songs the crowd loves *cough* Paul Weller *cough* for fear of living in that past, no matter how glorious.
I didn’t want to play the song That gave people so much hope I turned my back and turned away Here’s the rope that made me choke
But earlier this year, finally, it was back to work.
We had an unusually rainy winter, perfect for getting together on the weekends and woodshedding some ideas. And then you have fuckin Mike Love as Commander -in -Chief now, so some of that teen indignation is resurrected, embers from yesterday’s campfire brought back to glowing red by the breeze.
Jay set a hard date-Superbowl Sunday!- to come out and start pre-production, so we started working backwards. Set a recording date, brought out all the tapes and notes.
I switched off the Vizio and sat there a moment in the quiet.
I’d just been filled with 18 hours of heartbreaking imagery, stories from people still shattered by a world’s shameful actions. I looked down at the dog, and she looked back at me but would not come close for a scratch: probably pissed that she, too, had to endure those horrific images painted by an inferior breed.
That was some necessary Television, once again reminding us of the very power that the glowing screen can have.
But later that night sleep is impossible, and I whisper for Alexa to play Straight to Hell for the eighth time in a row before giving up and switching on the tube once again.
Let’s tune into SportsCenter, see what’s going on in the good ‘ol NFL for some lighthearted fare, shall we?
Whaaaaat?
And then it seems Dear Leader has taken to the airwaves yet again, like a drunken Uncle commandeering a Thanksgiving table with his vast repertoire of racist knock-knock jokes, and turned our mindless escapism into a political shitstorm–Nice!
I’m in need of some comfort food from the Cathode Ray at this point.
What I wouldn’t give just to see Lucy stomping grapes or Gilligan getting bonked on the head with a coconut, yeh?
This week: Walt and Jesse cook up a new batch
Television has changed to the point we can’t even call it TV any more.
We are now all isolated in our own video bubble, with personal playlists backing up the DVR, Netflix series watched in narcotic marathon sittings.
The next episode starts in 10,9,8–o shit.
Well, maybe just one more episode, just one more hour of life surrendered to the couch.
Might as well order up some fucking Papa Johns and give up the last of the dignity.
We haven’t watched a commercial at normal speed in four years, and suffer the anxiety of being left far behind if we’re not careful, ashamed we haven’t even watched a single episode of Game of Thrones.
Gone are the days of reporting to the den on the hour for a shared evening of family entertainment. Just try to make your daughter sit down and finally watch Caddyshack with you as it is rerun yet again on TBS.
….so I’ve got the going for me, which…Hey! Where’d you go?
It’s not 25 minutes into it, you cracking each golden quote aloud in sync with Carl the Groundskeeper, before you turn to get a reaction and find you are alone on the couch. She has silently escaped upstairs to catch up with her beloved Housewives on Bravo on Demand.
I get it.
It’s a real commitment of time and effort to take on a new show with all this content, but there’s something you need in your life, one golden corner of actual cable that is punk rock in animated form:
Awwww yeah! Rick and Morty, son!
We finally have the anti hero we need in these dire times.
Forget about Tony Soprano and Walter White, the central characters with Character, who you gotta root for regardless of their horrors.
It’s an animated show, sure. And the late night time slot on Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim may have you writing the show off as just another crudely drawn yuckfest for the dabs and Jack in the Box crew. But it is a lot more.
Rick and his goofy grandson Morty have taken us along on a magical journey all right, though a lot of the realities we visit seem to have a lot to do with fart jokes
But Rick Sanchez does Not. Give. A. Fuck.
While we think we need the answers to the daily problems that seem to be cursing us all, the racial strife, the world disorder brought down on us by dotard maniacs, Rick has bigger fish to fry.
Rick stands guard over the very construct we call reality, and is probably the only thing that keeps us from being absorbed by some grasshopper corporation or slipping into a dual reality where people have butts for faces, but what ya gonna do?
Rick stands on the very ledge of the existential void, has seen and done it all.
And it apparently is not pretty. He stays drunk most of the time, not wanting to ponder the meaninglessness of each reality, the horrors of every plane of existence that he visits or creates.
He is GG Allin with portal gun. Take a shit on the floor, indeed!
Besides, Rick has that hair favored by so many of your more mature punk rock stars. Hell, put him in a Propaghandi tee and cargo shorts and he’s ready to rock the RiotFest yo!
Each episode finds some nugget to melt your mind, and will have you feeling along the drywall as you walk the hallways, lest you fall through a portal to woogy oogy land or some goddamned Cronenbergian nightmare.
We are dealing with the very fabric of time and space here, but that doesn’t keep R&M from also dealing with very Earthbound issues like family dynamics and haunting regrets.
And fart jokes. So many fart jokes.
….everyone’s got one, but how is it made?
Can it really be time for the Season 3 finale already? Oooo weee!
But what will we do without Rick’s bitter lessons, how will we get through the madness of this absurd existence without his reluctant leadership?
Are we left alone to make sense of a war fought for so little that costs us so much? Can we really be this close to global destruction again, the fates of innocent youth in the hands of egomaniac imbeciles?
Perhaps it is Morty who put it all in perspective for us, finally, with this heartbreaking speech to Summer from Season one.
I’m better than your brother. I’m a version of your brother you can trust when he says “Don’t run.” Nobody exists on purpose, nobody belongs anywhere, everybody’s gonna die. Come watch TV.
And with that, I turn off the box and finally sleep.
An 8am boarding call means a 4:30am wake-up call, when yer talking LAX!
Oh sure, we usually take to the skies from our beloved Long Beach airport, where the leisurely small town atmosphere allows you to saunter in just minutes before your flight.
We sometimes arrive in pajama bottoms 12 minutes before doors close and get waved through TSA precheck with just a chiding nod: Barney letting Otis come in to lock himself up after a night of hanging around some white trash moonshine still.
….do you at least have your boarding pass?
But we all fall victim to our sensible greed when choosing those Expedia flights months before.
Why, here’s Spirit Airlines going to Chicago, same time as Jet Blue, and at half the cost!
It’s not until the morning of flight, whilst you are stuck in the middle of a cattle call in front of Marriott’s 40 dollah a day parking that the regrets begin. That budget airline is now asking for 50 bucks per carry on and 4 dollars for a cup of water. You curse your former self for not shelling out for the Even More Room seats on Jet Blue-blah.
Sir, if you’d like to bend your knees that will be an extra 6 dollars. Debit or credit?
Hah–luckily it’s no big deal, these early mornings, as we’ve become infected with that Old Man superpower of getting up way too early every day.
Left to our own, it’s bedtime 9:45 on the Laz boy Recliner as Stranger Things scrolls through a whole season while we snore away , oblivious. But we’re up and clattering around the kitchen at 6am, whistling show tunes to the delight of every hungover teenager trying to sleep upstairs.
Mmmm! Revenge, is this what it tastes like?
New terminal 5 LAX
We hit Chicago in plenty of time to enjoy the late Summer weather, but the town is packed.
The ol CH3 luck of booking a show in direct competition to another show across town holds true. Tonight we are the spiky little Liar’s Club, while across town there is some sort of little gathering called Riot Fest? Hmm, shall have to google that one!
But it turns out a fine night indeed, a packed room of the true knuckleheads of Chicago and beyond.
Our pals in Airstream Futures kick it off with their guitar driven fury. Really excellent stuff, and when their new album is finally released sometime in the next decade you should check it out-hah!
Rock AF!
And then it;’s our Midwestern bro homies, Destroy Everything take to the stage and do that thing: bratty punk vocals over tasteful guitars, a Midwestern sound as familiar as Mom vacuuming outside your doorway as you try to masturbate with the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
Destroy Everything patrol car. Yo, where’s Morty?!w/ Springa and Herb!
Vandalizing the country, one city at a time!
These turn and burns are somehow even more exhausting than proper tours, the constant movement in so little time.
It seems we were just jolted awake by some digital peep minutes ago on the infancy of a new day, a few thousand miles away. Hours are lost in mid-flight, we play and have precious time to catch up with friends and then it is suddenly 4 am.
We’re now out on the sidewalk alone, and the sudden lack of movement threatens to topple us over as if the sheer momentum of the planet’s rotation has finally caught up. A sensible late night snack at Shwarma Inn and to bed by 5am.
Just a snack please.
Out on the road at noon, and we set our inner autopilots North toward our beloved temple of the Moo Cow, the Mars Cheese Castle!
Nicky has not been yet, and we regale him with tales of golden blocks of Cheddar, creamy Bries and nutty Comte’ blends. Of the communal vat of pub cheese that sits atop the bar, into which Anthony threatens to insert his face and not come out until lactose sated.
But as we pull up to the glorious gates, we are met with disastrous news:
Nooooooo!
Anthony jumps out and begins licking the block walls of the castle, though I keep telling him they are simply asbestos laced cinder block. He is beside himself, so we mosey over to then neighboring cheese shack and let him gobble up 3 pounds worth of cheese and sausage samples.
It’s no castle, but it’ll do!
Disaster averted, it’s a short jaunt up the 94 to Milwaukee and the Harley Museum.
Oh, you know our feeling toward the American brand, its embodiment of Kid Rock in clunky V twin form, but haven’t we always held a soft spot for those goofy AMF years and the wacky Italian 2 strokes they used to shill under the HD brand?
Why, what I’d do to have that Rapido back in the garage!
Imagine pulling up to Hog Night in Van Nuys on this baby!
Besides, they do serve a decent burnt tips app in the cafe, so we call it lunch break before taking the museum tour.
The swanky Hampton Inn, Green Bay boasts Serta brand foam top mattresses, decent sheets within the acceptable 800 count range, and hypoallergenic pillows (available by request).
Do you see people?
These are the things that matter to us now, keep your goddamned minibars and local hallucinogens–we need naps!
But it’s not 12 minutes into REM when we hear the racket from the street–
Tonight only, from Hollywood California, supporting Chicago’s own Destroy Everything…
Ah jesus, now what?
Ah jeez, really?
And there on the streets of lovely Green Bay, those goddamn Destroy Everything kids have commandeered the very aural airspace to hype the show with their Blues Brother Speaker set on the patrol car.
Sleep is now impossible.
I peer down at the streets, see whole clumps of conventioneers holding palms to their ears, shielding their children’s eyes to the sight.
It sounds like an Ice Cream man reading his suicide note aloud over a continuous loop of Mary Had a Little Lamb.
Top o the World Ma!
Ah well, time to hit the night anyway.
We make our way over to The Lyric Room on Green Bay’s revitalized Broadway district.
It’s a proper lounge with a music hall attached, and the vibe is very up indeed for this Saturday night.
We’re not sure why, but we have somehow earned a little pocket of goodwill way up yonder in this tight Wisconsin community. We’re told that these hearty Midwesterners even forgive us for the outlandish hair and costume jewelry of the Enigma Records era.
Hell, they even seem to enjoy those songs!
And so when Kevin Neal came into the club with the Airborne canvas that his late brother Brian had painted as a young lad years ago, it was a our very honor to hang it up as backdrop for the night.
Nick in front of the bird!
And that’s the kind of night it was.
In the name of–god help us— Scoobfest!, this was a night of remembrance and reunion. We were thankful to witness these old friends catching up after so many years, and though we didn’t know every face in the room, it was a true honor to think we may have lent some soundtrack to the wild memories they all shared.
We are taught yet again: a new thing to take home, to take to heart, to guard as a shiny family heirloom given to us with graciousness and with love.
And once again the night has gotten very late, very quick.
We have every intention of begging off, slipping away to the sublime comforts offered by the corporate motel chain, while the party rages on behind us.
But no.
We are, as always, the last in the club, and the last on the deserted street after.
Chatting with the last of the laughing locals, intoxicated on lagers and friendship, amidst piles of guitar cabinets scattered on the sidewalk like toys tossed aside by a cranky child unwilling to go down for her nap.
Plans are made to hit the all night diner for a last meal, a last chat with friends.
Turns out we’re not ready to go down , not quite yet, either.
Every parent faces this day.
The daughter comes home on a blustery December day, gray but for the gaudy Christmas decorations that graffito the suburban landscape.
She’s maybe 6 or 7, and asks the question you just knew was coming.
Hey Dad-Dad, is there really a Santa Claus?
This is Baby’s first existential crisis, the first questioning of the only reality she has known, a view of an alternate world – colder and darker – brought forth of recess gossip.
She is about to enter the cynical world, and it will not be long before she sees her first Kardashian or some fucking little bastard offers to show her a penis.
Dammit.
News item: The original Misfits will be appearing at Forum in Inglewood CA for their upcoming December 30th concert.
And the shit hits the fan.
We are 138….thousand smackeroos richer that is!
The punks online have become divided, incensed that the band has reunited for another one-off and sold out spectacularly. Others, not so lucky to have seen them in the grimy clubs way back when, have bought out the room in a day–I mean, c’mon–The Misfits!
I suppose there was a time when you would smile at such news, be it a bemused smirk or facial tell of joy, and then go about the day. But then along came a little thing I like to call The Internet-catchy, yes?
Have we become so cynical as to put down every small victory for the tribe? Has social media made it so easy to post up any slight immediate judgement before introspection and digestion? Be it an indictment on a band’s movements or a misguided defense of right-wing nationalists? Ahem
Yeah yeah, I know it’s hard to ignore the missteps the Misfits have taken, the public squabbles and Kiss-like merchandising.
And it’s just too damn easy to take the piss out of acts that are supposed to be serious or, god forbid, scary.
Is it a defense mechanism against the darkness?
I dunno, but why do you think Elvira has those glorious tits?
Those songs though.
How can you discount the long nights in the van, headlights carving out a tunnel though the moonless night, and everyone singing along whoa-ohs! to the gems we were gifted.
50’s melodies and crashing guitars, the perfect mix to transport yet another boring summer night driving through the tracts into a memory of youth.
And with Danzig, hell–there’s no need to spend precious time trying to decipher these lyrics.
For surely when Westerberg talks about rabbits In the yard, those aren’t rabbits, and there is no yard.
The Misfits want your skull.
Period.
Made it to the fuckin’ Fabulous Forum, people!
Home of Showtime, the temple where we once saw Keith Moon come out at a Zeppelin encore and smash Bonham’s kettle drums.
When Cheap Trick finally made it to headliner at the Forum there was a bit of a sting.
The band we first saw at the Whisky was now lost to the masses-but that is a different sort of discontent, isn’t it?
We had to admit an almost parental pride in our boys making it to Inglewood on their own merit, the rest of the world catching up to our great taste.
Who are we to begrudge anyone such an honor?
The long 1983 tour, we sweated through the Southern continent through July and finally made it up to Yankee territory just as the year surrendered to August.
We’d been in the van a month by now, and needed a night of gold star stature to remind us just what the hell we were trying to do here.
And so Kimm had somehow made some calls from Jack Rabid’s place and made arrangements to make a stop before the gig.
We pull up at a regular old NJ suburban pad, and after a polite knock that rattles the screen door, who answers but goddamn Glenn Danzig!
Oh sure, we’d met a few times before, on their West coast jaunts and at the disastrous NY eve show Irving plaza 1981, but now here we are standing in his basement as he rinsed out glasses to serve us tap water!
I dunno why this seemed strange, as we’d accepted the hospitality of a half-dozen punk rock heroes by now. Hell, I could still savor the soothing deliciousness of a pbj Biscuit had made me after a late night gig in Austin.
But I just somehow thought Glenn would live in a haunted castle or at least a trailer on the edge of a graveyard.
We had our waters and chatted a bit, he dug out some EvilLive t-shirts fresh off his screen and we traded merch. Then he yelled goodbye to his Dad upstairs (in a throaty roar, natch) before jumping in the Blue and White with us.
He pointed out local landmarks, (Here’s where Jimmy got clobbered, that there’s where Tammy flipped her Camaro)
And not to get too Springsteen on your asses, but it was pretty great driving through that golden Jersey landscape with Glenn in the van, he guiding us to some cool place to pregame before the show.
We thought he was taking us to some underground dungeon or at least a dive bar with Thriller on the jukebox and AB negative on tap.
But when we pulled into a strip mall parking lot, we got out and discovered ourselves at, of all things, a goddamned video arcade. And no beer in sight?
Glenn jumped out, looked into the flashing parlor, then back to us to follow.
He was just a kid like us after all.
And yes, that is how we spent the day, late afternoon rolling into darkness, in a bleeping booping video arcade, a stack of patina-ed quarters in hand.
And ya know what? We had a goddamned blast!
I rediscovered my love hate relationship with Centipede as Doug challenged all comers to Ms Pac Man. I think Jackie and Jay took on the local Jr High kids in a fierce air hockey tourney that is still talked about in certain circles as Glenn and Kimm went to the old school pinball gallery.
We were a band that relied-heavily-on drinking in the local flavor before a gig. And by local flavor I mean copious amounts of booze, sometimes to disastrously hilarious result.
Yet here we were reconnected to the inner child that welcomed a night off the bottle.
And when we finally encountered the all new Dragon’s Lair game in the corner, really a ground breaker back then that incorporated movie graphics in a rather clunky choose-your-path sort of game, we gathered around it and watched: amazed.
I saw Glenn staring at the game, and could imagine his thoughts, the world of fantasy where he roamed, merged with a new technology. Bringing the experience ever closer to the cinema that he loved.
And at the gig that night, he jumped on stage during the closer of Wetspots, and was promptly dog piled on by the local knuckleheads, keeping him in check, all in good cheer.
We had found the night that we needed.
Kimm singing along, 1982?
Now, who told you there was no Santa? I’m asking, the old stall tactic that every parent knows.
The kid only shrugs while looking away, a look betraying the shame and burden of understanding.
Heartbreaking.
I could only pick her up and swing her onto my shoulder, and then we stand before the big mirror in the living room. It’s the spot where I’ve held her since she was just an infant, to show her the reflected world: non-existent yet identical.
And then, together, we look and look back at once.
Dad and kid, one generation literally sitting atop the other, a man she will some day have to bury.
And then I ask her.
Well, what do you think is better? To live in a world there is no Santa?
Or to live in a world where Santa Claus will always come on Christmas?
We’re in there, Kimm and I– afterschool , after hours- at Faye Ross Junior High.
It’s the usual group of geeks gathered in the classroom, the kids who would actually stay after 6th period bell rang instead of bolting like all the sensible kids. They were probably already in the garage sniffing paint fumes or shoplifting Penthouse from Village Liquors, but we were in here with big acoustic guitars smothering our corduroyed laps.
Mr. Misajon is walking around the room, checking on each student as they struggle with the concept of tuning to the A he kept blowing through a pitch pipe.
He’s the cool teacher, all stonewashed flares and Puka Shells, and he takes this curse of teaching beginning guitar with ease.
“It’s like this, here and here,” he says, guiding our nubby stubs onto the impossible cables arched high above the warped necks. We give the strings a tenuous strum, but the strings yield only a skreech and awful clunk, like the distant thud of a drunken clown finally hurling himself out of a fifth story window.
Haven’t changed a bit!
Perhaps the very best thing we do in this punky community is come together for a good cause.
Oh sure, we’re all split into our different factions within any given scene, the straight edge and the boozers, the goths and the gutters, but it seems as though we all do indeed stand united against the normal world out there. And when one of our own needs some help, hell, where do we sign up?
Familia
I came to the first Save Music in Chinatown show 5 years ago, with no real expectations or explanations.
It just seemed like a nice way to pass a Sunday afternoon in a part of town I hadn’t visited since Madame Wong’s closed their doors for the final time in the mid eighties.
The space at Human Resources was all white, and somehow that made it an even more fitting blank canvas, to be colored and themed by the people and music brought together that day. That first show we all sat like children in a school cafeteria, hushed, mindful of our neighbors’ space, and listened as Bob Forrest struggled to make Sammy Hagar Weekend palatable to the 5 year olds that listened, rapt.
Bob Forrest
It is a Sunday afternoon, we are eating cookies and drinking coffee, and seeing the people we usually only encounter in noisy nightclubs: shouted hellos into each other’s ear canals the only sense of community.
Like strange creatures brought up from the depths of the sea into the light of day, we all stood there blinking in the afternoon light, and had the chance to say, Friend! how have you been? and hear the actual response.
The next time it was our turn in the white room, and we found ourselves facing that toughest of all audiences: sober people and their children. Kids have the most open and honest reaction to music, and when a crew of earplug-wearing toddlers started their own little mini pit at our knees, it was probably the moment of validation that we had been chasing all these years.
Sangin’ with Tony
It is such a rare treat to see these bands in such a setting: The Gears bouncing around the room, as if playing to a more innocent time long gone. There’s Jimmy Decker of the Crowd getting loose and wild and sharing some curse words these kids had probably already heard, but perhaps not by a dancing man in a suit, and said with such glee.
Crowd!
The gals of BadCop BadCop rocking hard, inspiring a new generation of little girls to pick up guitars. And The Adolescents playing for a crowd that is able to sit and watch, actually watch the magic of Kids of the Black Hole being coaxed out of wooden guitars and drum shells.
BadCopx2
The show moved across to Grand Star, with Bruce Lee standing guard out front. A newer generation of bands, always eclectic, mirroring Martin’s wide range of musical appetites, are always represented on the bill. I imagine these are discoveries made on his impressive journeys into the LA night scene, often accompanied by flyer artist Eloise, a kid that has more stories to tell on any given Monday morning than most of the staff at Castelar.
with Uncle Steve
These shows have become such an institution on the Los Angeles music calendar, and an honor to be invited to play. You almost have to remind yourself that they are put on foremost with a purpose: a sincere effort to save music education in a public school. In these days when the Arts are in very real danger of being cut in the name of efficiency, we are faced with the threat of what is truly lost in the absence of art.
Alley Cats
Sure, those first songs we learned in the after school program were corny– Baby I Love Your Way and Country Roads!– but it is because of that program that we are up there playing our own corny songs today.
We were given the possibility to sit under industrial fluorescent tubes and have a patient man, used to teaching kids already, show us the magic and thrill of bringing something out of the string and wood. It’s a trick that never fails to astound.
And if that is something that can be accomplished in a few lessons, you consider what else a child capable of, with maybe just a little bit of help.
I hit the strings again, bearing down, but could still only coax a muted question mark. I turned and watched Kimm as he clamped down onto the strings so hard his tiny cuticles turned white.
We chewed our tongues and eased off a bit, and followed Mr. Misajon’s gentle advice.
“Yeah man, don’t try to strangle it. Relax, that’s it, just push when you need to.”
We took deep breaths and shook the cramps out of our wee paws, and assembled fingers on the staircase again.
We strummed down, and heard for the first time that chime and sparkle of steel string against neck, the strings kissing the wood between frets with just enough contact to make the chord sing.
We looked at each other, astonished, and hit the strings once again, calling the religious alarm that would follow us home and into our lives to this day.
We go right into Manzanar now, and as I grab for the F# I can tell the strings have dropped a half step at least in this heat. I look out at the sun baked field, where a few hardy punkers have the sand to start a fledgling mid day pit, but the reasonable ones stay back in whatever shade can be found.
A beer can comes sailing toward the stage, and I savor the baptism of a few precious drops of cooling liquid as it just misses my head.
We’ve drawn one of the very first slots of the day, but console ourselves with the fact that the sun is at least at the far reach of it’s radius directly overhead, and the next poor bands will be playing straight into its blazing stare.
But what the hell, it’s a rare invite to play a big fest, so who are we to bitch about set times?
Ah, 1982, is that you I hear scratching at the backdoor of my battered hippocampus?
The Eastern Front up yonder Berkeley was indeed our first big daytime fest, but I don’t recall any water bottle filling stations or safe spaces back then, brother!
That day was hot and grimy, and quickly dissolved into a drunken mess, sort of an Altamount for the punkers who would’ve welcomed a stab to the gut over a trip into those bubbling porta potties in the north forty.
A few hazy images, of us drinking from our warm Old English jugs at 10 am and trying to lure a squad of new wave chicks into the Blue and White, while Grant & Bob from Husker Du could only shake their head at our antics as they walked past.
Stevo got into a mortal battle with a gopher who had the bad idea to poke its head above ground, the Vandals singer ultimately removing the rodent’s trachea with a pocketknife.
Then our boy Duane decides it’s reasonable to tip one of those fetid Port a Potties onto its side, while a poor punker is still inside intent on the business at hand. It was only Big John Macias from Circle One stepping into the mob, muscled arms raised, that stopped the subsequent lynching.
The day is mercifully finished at some shitbag motel, where Larry calmly pours a beer down the back of the television set, causing the poor Quasar to spark in protest for just a moment before surrendering its fuzzy image of Fred Mertz to darkness–a proper end to a day spent on the edge of reason, kids in the wild, animals of the Savannah literally on the kill without a thought of nutrition, hydration or safety. Punk.
It’s a new day when we roll into the Glen Helen Ampitheatre grounds for set up.
9:30 am, and we unload drinking sensible grande Americanos, not a 40 of Olde English in sight.
It’s already a balmy 101 degrees as we set up the merch, but everyone is cheerful and relaxed.
I mean, c’mon! How can you not grin when you are doing a soundcheck at 11 am and look right across at a Hello Kitty jumpy next to a circus tent.
Jumpies, people-jumpies!
Its our first clue that the It’s Not Dead Festival is a going to be a bit different from that dusty day 35 years ago. We are taken by golf cart back to the catering area, careful not to make too much noise as the idling tour buses contain the snoring headliners.
We are shown to our air conditioned trailer, and get this–we get the goddamn thing for the whole day! Usually we are kicked out of festival dressing rooms as soon as we are done playing, and stand like traumatized first time mothers kicked out of the maternity ward, holding backpacks bulging with energy drinks and waters swiped off the catering table.
It’s all fine hellos and catching up, as these big bills tend to be. Call it high school reunion for the graying punkers, or perhaps more of a support group for the survivors. All I know is that it’s grand to say hello to a lot of people we’ve known a damn long time!
Kevin Seconds
Uncle Lars!
Keeping the lucky streak intact, we once again draw the opening slot, so we ring out the first chords of the day on Stage 2 just as the first hardy souls come streaming into the Festival grounds.
The day holds, I don’t know, a million bands? So the set times are just that: set.
We are given a serious lecture about not going over 30 minutes, so it’s all business at hand: 40 year old songs with a few of the new ones sprinkled in to keep the crew on its feet. There is no time for the usual Rat Pack banter today baby!
We’re over and done while the majority of the crowd is still emptying their backpacks on the security tables, but we played our first set back from the long layoff, and it went pretty good.
We were able to pull off some of the new songs without messing up too many parts, kept our bone marrow from boiling over and suffered only minor heat stroke.
Work’s done, and it’s our turn to go be festival fans now!
Lyman and crew put their years of Warped experience to good use with this one, as there were cool-off misters and water bottle filling stations, not to mention a steady bank of ATM machines humming happily next to the merch booths!
Still, I worry about these kids, drinking so much alcohol in this unrelenting heat.
Let’s hydrate! And sunscreen! Have you goddamn people ever heard of it?
It is a major chat fest and band geek out for us, a rare treat to see bands like GBH and Buzzcocks betraying the road map of wrinkles upon face and putting out blistering sets of great sounding classics.
We eat lunch, do some interviews, huddle in the trailer when the white spots start dancing across our fields of vision.
The heat and the hellos, running from one stage to the next in classic festival juggling act fashion, the day stretches on into weeks it seems. Murphy’s Law is on at the same time as Buzzcocks, Kevin Second’s acoustic set bleeds into GBH downbeat.
The temperature has settled begrudgingly at 106 degrees, as if it’s too hot for heat itself to make any more effort.
The day continues and we’ve become a tribe now, communed in a battle against the merciless Sun. All eyes on the hills above Glen Helen, that will soon be tucking this bastard fireball away for the night.
A resigned cheer goes up as the first shadows fall across the dusty field, and the unlit side stages go dark to the last horn blats of Voodoo Glow Skulls.
The crowd makes its way over to the main stage now, grateful for the relief of darkness, but burnt.
Sinead starts wailing mournfully above the Chieftans for the usual Dropkicks intro of Foggy Dew as the exodus continues toward the sound: A ghostly landscape of tired legs shuffling in the dust, as if through a smoky battlefield.
But there is plenty of laughter and smiles among all these tired faces.
We start our checkout of the merch and begin loading out the boxes as Rancid kicks into Roots Radicals, Lars singing his guts out on the last night of their tour.
I walk back to do a final sweep of the trailer, and pass the Grim crew at their motorhome, a big screen TV showing the McGregor/Mayweather debacle.
Tim Armstrong is now singing about hanging with Lars on 52nd and Broadway. For a fleeting moment I sense the confluence as they sing about nothing more than friendship, while the bored looking champ fends off the feisty leprechaun, who is at least putting himself out there and leading with his heart. I struggle to make the connection, but my brain is fried.
I step into the empty Star Wagon for the last time today, the little space that has been a godsend on this boiling day. We had the rare luxury of coming back here to literally chill out, while the masses of true fans stayed in the dust and heat, rolling as one to their favorites.
I take every banana and water bottle left and feed my bursting backpack, as habits die hard, and take one last look around the trailer.
It’s quiet and cold in here now.
I feel that stab of punk rock guilt, to be standing here in comfort while a few thousand kids stand out there in the dirt and heat, singing along to their heroes.
For a fleeting moment, I consider taking one of the last beers out of the mini fridge and pouring it down the back of the plasma TV mounted amidships.
But what would that be? An uneasy assurance to myself that I am still that carefree and careless punk of 3 decades back, that a true spirit lives on?
Instead I tidy up the trailer and put all the recyclables and garbage into the proper trash cans.
When last we left the lads, staggering about the wilds of Tijuana after a gig in search of the mythical Monkey Bars of Avenida Revolución— this back in goddamned April 2015 !–the rascally Yemini Civil War was still in its adorable toddler stage.
Green Day had finally been elected into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and we left Don Draper sitting in the lotus position on the brink of the frothy Pacific: the genius idea to sell brown fizzy water to the masses in the guise of brotherhood the only insight gained from a 2 week stint at Esalen.
…another dream is tossed to the Sea!
We thought it was a good time to take our well earned sabbatical.
After all, you kids were doing OK, and it was time for you to start your own C level punk rock bands and suffer your very own brand of decades-long indignities.
And we left you in the hands of an eloquent, thoughtful World Leader, a stable economy and the promise of a nationalized Health Care system finally on the horizon.
So yeah,
Been a while, am I right? Anything new happen while we’ve been away?
Gahhhhh!
Sheesh!
I leave you goddamned kids alone for a couple years and what happens?
It’s as if no one ever learned from those classic cautionary tales of the 80’s!
C’mon now! You didn’t see this one coming?
What is this, some sort of grand experiment?
Were we so bored with progression as to to wander into this alternate reality where Biff gets to keep the Sports Almanac and 70 year old men take to Twitter at 3am like junior high girls flushed on their first Zima?
I say again: Sheesh.
Alright, enough of that, we won’t be wasting any of your precious toilet reading time on Dear Leader any more.
Lots of things to catch up on, so let’s get started.
Yeah, the band went a bit underground for a couple years.
A few lineup changes, the usual minor plastic surgery, new pets and all the weird behaviors they inflict upon the household.
Some heartbreaking farewells to people who were so dear to us.
And yeah, as you might’ve heard, we got a new record!
Duh!
Why do you think we’re here people?
Listen, I know it’s a new world out there.
A place where words such as alt right, fake news and Impeachment are abruptly copied and pasted into the daily lexicon.
We’ve lost that very last delicate morsel of innocence that we were saving for the Dodger’s pennant run, spent our National Goodwill on the moon pushing the goddamned Sun out of the way for a few precious moments of childlike awe.
We look around, at this world we all hold some sort of blame in creating, and can only struggle to make it through another day. Shudder at what the next morning will bring.
But your old pals are back now, and if things are not going to be better for a while, at least you will have pictures of food and guitars to soothe your battered soul.
Tuxedo Rickenbacker and Tot Poutine. Boom.
Oh, I’m sure in the next few months we’ll get back to the regular blog subjects: those fine greasy meals consumed at 3 a.m., the Golden age of Television we currently enjoy, poorly attended shows in cities that didn’t want us to visit in the first place–ya know: the usual.
But we return in full on whore mode, ready to sell off the last of our dignity to get this new stuff out to you.
We’ve got some tour dates lined up, a spiffy new web layout and even our very own in house store to shill our wares to you suckers.
I want you to savor the quiet time you were gifted, as you will soon be very sick of us as we continue this shameless promotion.
So feel free to kick around the new digs, scroll through a few meaningless Instagram posts, trust us with your credit card number or Paypal account and we’ll send you a T shirt. And if you do not also see an Alibaba charge for 25 kilos of alpaca food show up on the monthly statement, hey- bonus!
Alright then, let’s be careful out there kids, talk soon.
Vague directions whispered in the night.
Crude maps hastily drawn upon cocktail napkins, set aflame after committing route to memory.
Groups of drunken Marines staggering down Avenida Revolución, one Lance Corporal holding a bloodied elbow against his torso.
His screams still echo in mind: That fuckin’ chimp took a bite out my arm!
Yes, we are here in search of the mythical Cantina de Chango: The Monkey Bars of Tijuana!
It’s a fine sunny Saturday as we meet at the Pierview in Oceanside, one last headcount before the border crossing.
It’s a first for us, playing south of the border, and we are traveling with our pals in Walk Proud and Skaal as backup.
And, yes, we are always eager to spread the ol CH3 gospel to new lands and all that.
But also the chance to drink alongside a shrieking Gibbon or perhaps a rotund Orangutan? Well!
We number fifteen or sixteen, and vow to not leave a man behind.
Well, maybe Paulie or Arvin, we could probably spare those guys–but that’s it!
From the swanky Rodeway Inn it’s a quick walk to the pedestrian border crossing and we’re in country!
We chatter, giddy as school children, each holding hands with our designated buddies: sweaty palms sealing this pact.
We imagine the doors opening to a darkened bar, and the denizens turn as one to inspect the new comers.
Azure spots dance before our eyes as we adjust to the darkness.
We finally make out wee forms smoking and drinking at the bar.
Dwarves? Wizened old wisemen?
No, these are certainly Hominoid creatures, yet somehow…furry.
We are corralled aboard a creaky yellow trolley and barrel deeper into the city.
The blue haze of wood smoke hangs in the air, the nightclubs along Revolución coming awake now as sun sets toward Wild Sábado night.
We peer out the windows for any sign of le Pub Monk, but nothing.
Ah well, we are here to do a job, and soon load into the TJ Arte and Rock club off Avenida Miguel Negrete.
It is a proper club, big old PA, lights……fog machine!
I don’t know what we were expecting, perhaps a cartel-run chop shop, or an outdoor stage of pallets with amps powered by generator?
But we find this Tijuana a very cool place.
To a person, everyone we run into is courteous and happy.
And the clubs are even nicer due to the lack of Guerro Bros from SDSU!
Past trips to TJ, the only dangers were obnoxious fratboys treating the town like a disposable playground, acting like drunken……well, monkeys!
After load in we head out for Tacos and beverage:
Our SD local bub Dennis guides us over to tiny Ruebens, and though we are initially disappointed that no one is swinging off the fixtures or flinging feces about the room, it turns out a jolly little haven!
The night is alive now.
We make our way back toward the club, passing packed restaurants and clubs full of life.
We peek hopefully into dim alleys and darkened doorways for any sign of prehensile tails, listen for the tell tale shriek of haplorhine primate boozing.
No?
Alright then, Showtime!
Systematic Abuse is ripping it up when we get back to the club, and then our buddies in Walk Proud take to the stage:
It isn’t long before Steve lights up a smoke onstage and Karl shocks the crowd by stripping down to a tiny thong.
But that’s the beauty of this place–freedom!!!
And then we’re pushed onstage and do the thing once again–ándale!!
There is tequila, oh yes there is.
We end the night skanking to 45 Revoluciones and hugging it up with a dozen new pals.
All too soon, we’re corralled back into the shuttle for the border, but not before walking the tourist gauntlet for mandatory supplies:
Bacon wrapped Hot Dog? Check!
Liter de Patron? You got it mate.
Switchblade and Homer Simpson Cookie Jar? Handled.
Some wise guy brings the ubiquitous surfing monkey onboard, but this only reminds us of our failure to drink à la Jane Goodall.
Eh. nevermind.
We make it back across to the boring old USA and are soon snoring away, a syncopated symphony of restless sleep.
We dream of a world where the apes serve a jaunty Moscow Mule, then light your fag with a snap of the Zippo.
But until that day, we have indeed met the monkey, and we are them.
Lyman and crew put their years of Warped experience to good use with this one, as there were cool-off misters and water bottle filling stations, not to mention a steady bank of ATM machines humming happily next to the merch booths!
The CH3 Blog 