We get to the Port damn early, pulling into the backstage parking lot before the morning mist has yet to lift from the harbor.
A huge tanker chugs past, like a block long condominium set adrift by a jolting shrug of the San Andreas fault.
I pause a moment, guitar case in hand, as we unload.
I squint up at the stacks of containers moving past, then down to the waterline where the filthy port water is churned turquoise by the prow of the ship.
Propelled forward by submerged violence, I wonder at the sheer horsepower generated within that steel hull.
The miracle of fuel re-imagined as power, the massive screws twisting endlessly in battle against distance and time.

Nick got there even earlier, and has already staked out a prime spot near the stage.
We have room for not only our pop-up and merch table, but also for Nick’s straight axle gasser, Dethtrap.

It gives our staked space the cool feeling of being back in the pits, of those 1970’s evenings out at Ascot or Orange County International Raceway, where we would race under the lights on the tight MX track while just beyond a chain link fence the garage built cars smoked their tires.
The night air perfumed with the acrid sweet funk of melting rubber.

We’ve pulled an early set time, but that’s okay.
It’s just a thrill to be back here at a festival, though Tucker went through hell pulling this one off.
Through re schedules and band changes, the fest remained a torn flag on the horizon, a beacon to end this nutso Summer.
There is still the delicious vibe of chaos going on.
But the bands are indeed piling in and the stages have been set, and it looks like against all odds this thing is going to launch.
We get up there and do the thing:

We play alright, though it it is always interesting to air our setlist under the midday sun.
Forty year old songs of longing and desperation, nocturnal as raccoons.
Perhaps they are better suited to the late nights in sweaty nightclubs?

I wander the festival grounds, the vast space starting to fill in with all the people who have sensibly arrived after our set.
People come up and apologize for missing us, ask how it was.
I assure them it’s all good, though a shame they have missed one of our all time great performances.
We walk away from each other, each reassured by the white lie, faces intact.

Familiar faces everywhere, there is a sense of relief in the air.
The lines snaking up to the food trucks start growing long, the port a potties start reeking with their astonishing stench. By god, it is a music festival after all!

Back at the merch stand we huddle beneath the pop up, watch as Paul grumpily rejects another potential customer.
We don’t have that one in that size he repeats yet again.
But most people stop by not to look at our meager selection of T shirts, but at the car.
Nick stands by Dethtrap like a proud papa, pulling the pins to tilt forward the hood again and again to show off his build.
A mild ’61 Dart repowered and rebuilt to 357 cubic inches of primitive power, 500 horsepower atop a 2900 pound car.
It is Southern California.
As people stop and look at the car, the sight of it seems to conjure sweet memories of their own late nights in the garage.
Huddled over engines or flat backed underneath: a pal’s reassuring hands gripped upon their ankles to pull them out on the dolly, a four speed transmission cradled heavy upon chest, precious as an unexploded ordnance.

My brother JB comes by and I watch as he and Nick talk, and I know he is telling the story of his own ’72 Nova that he built and rebuilt, the most notable marker of his high school life.

And those memories are mine as well.
The nights pestering him for a look by shop light at the hulking big block, until he would finally send me to a corner of the garage with valve seating compound and a suction tipped wand to grind down the valve seats on a cracked head.
I haven’t thought of such things in decades, but I am instantly back in that Cerritos garage, long before we had the notion to egg carton the walls and turn up the amps.
I smell the upturned hubcaps filled with gasoline to soak dirty parts, hear the clatter of tools dropped out of reach and the string of cuss words that followed.

The three stages go non stop and the crowd sweeps back and forth with each changeover.
Every set seems a victory against the threat of a shutdown, under broken security lines or viral load.
The day gains terrific momentum, like pistons unleashed of gravity, sending propulsion to crankshaft with each miraculous ballet of intake and compression, ignition and exhaust.

The HoeDown lineup features several acts that tend toward rockabilly and sleaze rock, their mirrored audience looking like a generation longing for the days of leaded fuel and cigarette machines at full service gas stations.
Pinup dreamboats that look like they should be perched atop the classic rods and the greasy haired rockers who look like they should be underneath in the grease pit.

Back in the pits, another crowd has gathered around the gasser.
Marshall, my old pal who spent his career as a Ford mechanic, comes by and looks it over grimly, like a man who’d be happy to never peer at another greasy motor in his retired life.  
But then Nick opens the hood and Marshall grins, and he goes, aw jeez, what have you done here….and then they are both pointing and talking.

An old punker stops in front of the car.
In typical uniform, short pants and Vans, a faded Suicidal Tendencies Tshirt washed thin through the years and stretched tight over expanded waistline.
He holds hands with a young boy, and though I first assume it his son, I do a quick calculation and realize he is my age, and therefore that is a grandson.

His eyes come alive with memories of past cars, the sweet torture of working part time jobs and counting a pile of soft bills weekly until he could buy his own ride
And then, in the time honored tradition of So Ca Speed, he starts customizing.
We take what we love and then immediately want to change it.
Faster, and louder.

The boy squints at the gleaming motorwork and tilts his head in wonder.
He has looked under a hood but once, that at his Mom’s Mercedes E Class wagon.
He discovered only a bland sheath of plastic cowling covering a small city of computers and injectors.
He knows only of the sewing machine efficiency of vehicles, bland couches that transport him to soccer practice, silent as a block in solitary.

PopPop points at the motor excitedly, relieved to finally show his grandson these things, to be able to explain how the gas goes from there, and mixes with the air here, and explodes there, and exhaust comes out there.

“That?” he asks in response to his grandson’s whispered question.
He squats until his face is level with the child’s.
They both point to the chrome contraption crowning the motor.
“That’s a carburetor,” he says, as if showing his grandson the last of a near extinct seabird.

And later this night, he will hold his grandson upon his shoulder as the pit rages for Suicidal, and the boy will look wide eyed at the sweet violence, pure as the blue spark that ignites gasoline and propels us onward.

Awesome concert photos by Ron Lyon @Ronlyonphoto

I stand at the bar waiting for a Red Bull.
It’s past ten o’clock, you see, and I am unused to being up so late.

I stifle a yawn and try to snap back into nightclub mode, for we still have a set to play.
For the past glorious 18 months I would usually be tucked in bed by this ungodly hour, playing Golf Clash on my Ipad until it slips, finally, from my loosened grip.
Another day ends with a sigh and snore even before the tablet clatters to the ground..

The Daughter is suddenly at my elbow.
She has has migrated toward Dad With His Wallet Out, opportunistic as a hyena sidling up to a lioness chewing on the haunch of a downed wildebeest.
I sigh, ask the bartender to hold up, and ask what she’d like.

She is apparently fetching a round for her crew as well, and she recites an order of highballs and fruity seltzers that sounds like an incantation to summon fallen Indian warriors:
White Claw, Moscow Mule, Seabreeze, Ice Pick……Geronimo!
The bar space before me is suddenly cluttered with slim cans and cocktails concocted from cinnamon whiskey and fluorescent mixers.
I slide two twenties across the bar, and when the bartender looks down at my cash dubiously, surrender two more bills.

The Daughter has already danced back into the darkened depths of the club with her arms filled with drink, while I shell out my last cash for a suitable tip.
But I smile, for I am, at least for a single shining moment, a useful Dad.

Spider is up on stage, and it’s good to see our old pals once again.
The room is ruled by youngsters, dancing out of sheer joy and pent up energy.
Elbows fly, legs pump.
The club adopts the giddy vibe of a dog park, the butt sniffing attendees going crazy and off -leash.

It’s our old bandmate Alf up there on drums, slamming the skins and having a blast.
He plays with a renewed energy, and I have to admit it is bittersweet.
Like seeing an old flame now thirty pounds lighter and remarried, happily moved on from a hilarious yet doomed relationship.

It occurs to me that Alfie was the first to be a Father, though he is years younger than me or Kimm.
He started a family admirably young, and now counts Grandkids among his audience while he sips bronzed beers during his Sunday patio sessions.

I wander to the cordoned off backstage area, where Nick huddles with the other drummers.
They warm up their wrists and complain about singers.
Steven from Shattered Faith catches us up on his rockstar twins from The Garden, and their plans to play at vast halls on their upcoming Fall tour.
I wonder aloud if they perhaps need some aging punk rockers to open the show, or maybe even sell merch.
No response.

Bobby shows me photos of his own grandkids on his phone, unable to resist gushing while he talks of their crawling adventures.
Punk rockers reduced to big old softies, I tell ya.

I wonder about my own legacy.
“Now here’s a record your great grandpa made, waaaay back in the 1980’s,” I imagine a future offspring saying.
A toddler chews on the corner of a faded 12″ EP sleeve, my photo on the back: a long dead numbskull grin searches for a trace of dignity in the future
“Oh, here we go. Here’s a song grandpa wrote, it’s called Wetspots. It’s about pre cum.”

The Shattered boys hit the stage, and it is always wonderfully jarring to see Branden up there stage right.
He appears as if a hologram from their younger selves amongst their graying heads.
His slim Thunderesque guitar posing is a cruel reminder of what we all once were.
But he stands next to Pop, and Spencer looks over at him with fatherly pride.

As Anthony tunes his bass backstage, he eyes the cans of Modelo floating in the melting ice water.
I can tell he is tempted to grab a couple for stage, then hide the rest under seat cushions for after the show.
Usual backstage etiquette.

But tomorrow he and Amy will be hosting a party for baby Nova’s first birthday, so he grabs a Monster instead.
After taking a sip he makes a face as if he has just tasted the tears of a sad, sad clown.
It will be our first time meeting his kiddo as well, having watched her grow up these past twelve months by cell phone photos and emailed video clips, isolated safely while the world went about it’s deadly viral business.

I will watch his baby destroy a birthday cake with her bare hands, have her first astonishing taste of sugared icing.
And the world, it will suddenly open up to her, with all its sweet joys and bitter consequences.
I resist reminding Anthony that soon he will be Dad With Wallet, but by the time his daughter is drinking age a round of drinks will cost the same as a 12 volt Lithium car battery.
And he will pay it, and gladly, if just for the chance to stand next to his Daughter for a moment before she disappears into the night.

We play and it is one of those nights.

The bass drumhead breaks, I forget half the words to forty year old songs.
We are off by just that much, a millisecond of groove lost after the long layoff.
But Who cares? seems to be the theme of the night, as people are happy to just be out and together.
During our third attempt to play You Lie I look over and Alf is up onstage again with us, shouting along to the chorus.
He conducts us successfully to the end of it, and I hug him in grateful relief.

When we play Make Me Feel Cheap we bring up Max, Kimm’s son to join us onstage.
He stands next to Pop, and the eyes get a little weepy out there on the dancefloor.
Max, the spitting fucking image of Kimm at that age, straps on Kimm’s Gold Top and joins in with ease.
The crowd loves it, senses how much we love it, and we keep him up there for the set closer of Got a Gun.

With Max up there I have an unnerving sensation in my periphery, that jeweled corner to my left, where for the past forty years I have felt the reassuring presence of Kimm next to me on stage.
I see him as a young man, and imagine that I am young once again as well.

But we get to the final choruses, and I find that I am winded.
Out of practice, out of shape, I croak along to the final shouts, then finally just step back from the microphone.
And it does not matter.
The song blasts on, and young Max steps up to the mic and sings my part.
I watch as the pit boils and the crowd yells, while a new generation carries on.

Kimm and I head into the club as The Berzerkers start their set.
It is dark and packed, and it all comes back to us in an instant.
That throbbing visceral pulse of bass beneath shrieks of drunken joy, the air thick with humidity, dancing bodies sweating in close proximity.
It all feels so distant yet immediately familiar, like the bitter arguments of parents heard through the drywall of a childhood bedroom.

We are both wearing masks, though we quickly abandon them, as no one in the entire club wears them.
It is less a sign of confidence than we don’t want to be confused as Anti-Vaxxers, or perhaps some other cowardly cult that believes in things such as witch burning or the flatness of the planet.
No, we have come cautiously to this first night back, tentative as monkeys first encountering open flame.
We’ve spent the ride down to San Diego hyperventilating, the truck cabin air perfumed with hand sanitizer.

We prepared for the gig grimly, as if for battle.
Taking out the gear stored over the past 16 months since our last gig.
I found the strings on the Rickenbacker corroded to rust, had to consult YouTube to remind myself how to restring the wonky tailpiece.
When I unpacked gig bags left untouched since the Viper room, I found a sweaty T shirt that had moldered into a wad of gray, like a hairball coughed up by a shuddering jungle cat.
We practiced, and during breaks we rushed out to gulp at the sweet night air, so out of shape were we to yelling lyrics over roaring guitars.

Ant flexes his sore digits, his fingerpads unused to the cruel thickness of bass string.
His hands now familiar only to the keyboard tapping of home office and the gentle head cradling of infant Nova.
Nick searches his phone for clues to these songs unplayed for so long, somehow keeping them separate from the setlists of Lower Class Brats or Final Conflict in that file cabinet brain of his.
Kimm and I, we just ask each other the same question yet again: Are we really ready to do this?

The Berzerkers wrap up a quick set, the HB crew killing it with their melodic take on frantic Punk Roll.
Familiar faces start floating up to say hello, and I instinctively back away.
I have become enamored of the 6 foot radius clause, have begun to think it shall remain my own personal no fly zone for the remainder of my days.
But the people come in closer, 2 meters then one, and suddenly I am in within spitting distance of these old pals I have not seen in so long.
I hold out a fist, the expression of combat now turned safe greeting, but it is ignored as my hand is grasped in sweaty handshake.
What’s more, that hand is pulled in body tight, and I am suddenly wrapped in a bro hug, body to body with another living human, the thing we have been taught to regard as a Hefty garbage bag full of germs intent on your destruction.
But I somehow survive the hug, and we pull back amazed, amazed at a night out among friends, each of us wearing a smile that even an N95 mask could not hide.

Love Canal goes on next, Bosco playing guitar as well as singing tonight, Arab serenely holding court over the rowdy night that he arranged.
The band is tight and hot as the dancefloor mutates into pit. I am pushed against the back wall by a windmill-armed skanker, someone throws a can into the lights, sending a spray of fruity seltzer down my shirt.
And suddenly all thought of airborne toxicity vanishes from my thought.
Oh yeah, I think. This is a gig!
The soundman asks the guitars to turn down, someone is hustled the back door, his collar collected in the bouncer’s meaty paw.
These things, the Déjà vu details of a thousand nights before; the smell and sights, the noise and filth.
By God, I’ve missed it.
And I just know if I go into the bathroom, the toilet will be overflowing with piss and unspeakable flotsam.
And it feels alright, ya know?

It is our time to set up on the stage, and I surprise myself by being nervous.
We are here to play a set of songs rehearsed to instinct, some of the tracks dating back forty fucking years.
We have replayed this scene so many times, the hectic exchange of gear on and off stage, the quick hellos between guys rolling and unspooling guitar cables. We will tune and line check, squint down at a printout of a setlist and do it all once again.
But it seems new, and we have to pause while arranging the backline at one point, not able to remember if my amp usually sits stage right, or was it left? (It’s right.)
The soundman cuts the house, and the crowd comes in from the smoking patio. I turn to face them and suddenly realize I am not nervous, but excited.
Honored, really, to get to do this once again, to play for these people who have come out to join us.
And I tell myself to remember this, in the futile hope that I will never take it for granted again.

We play and it is over too quick.
The crowd was great, drunk and happy.
As if they are immune.
Immune to any more bad news.
To the new variants, to the warnings of another drought, to a Western sun bloodied by firesmoke.
For all we know we may go back once again, back to a lockdown.
But for one night at least, we are given the chance to see friends, play some songs, remember what it was like—how it should be.

A guy comes by just as we finish loading.
He introduces himself and says great set, asks if we might take a photo together.
As we say good bye, he holds up a fist, expecting that very least of human contact, knuckle to knuckle.
But I surprise us both by grasping at his hand and then pulling him in, and giving a total stranger a hug.

–

It’s Thursday and we’ve somehow lost two hours of our lives up there.

We hit the terminal running in Minneapolis, determined not to surrender any more of our precious senior years to the Central Time Zone.

Into a rental minivan, onto the 35 West.
Google Maps is set to Glueks downtown.
We hit scan on the FM and it skips along the unfamiliar stations.
Christian Rock gives way to Classic Oldies. NPR, Banda.
Stop at a station dropping the hip hop hits of the 90’s.

We’re down, apparently, with OPP.

We haven’t snacked since a surprisingly decent breakfast pizza at LAX.
Some raw almonds and ginger ale aboard Southwest flight 728, saving ourselves.

For this is a Midwest swing, and we are fully prepared for our dietary pyramid to be reduced to a mere rhombus containing only the two vital food groups: Meat and Cheese.

A gorgeous Indian Summer day is finally giving way to the shadows.
We stroll up First Avenue now, torsos packed with sausage and pretzel.

We pull up to Mortimers and find a nice crowd for a Thursday. Our pals Alisha and Norm kick off the night with their new act UFO TOFU, the kids belting it out like the hardcore Sonny and Cher.

We play and it’s a great set, confusion and noise, feedback screaming out of the unfamiliar borrowed gear between songs. Just how we like it.
The guitar cables are soaked in beer as we roll them up at the end of the night.

We load out into the cool Minneapolis night humming the Mary Tyler Moore theme song, considering the musical greats borne from this city of lake and snow.

The crew at Mortimers reminds us to take our meals that they have graciously kept warm in the kitchen, and we retire to the AirBnB with the luxury of meatballs and braised meats upon sturdy breads.

Halfway to Chicago, but the schedule just cannot justify the 45 minute detour to descend from Waukesha to hit our beloved Mars Cheese Castle.

Not to worry, as there are many palais de fromage along the 94.

We stop at Ehlenbach’s Cheese Chalet to test our lactose tolerance.
They, along with several of the cheese huts we pass, believe the common deer mouse is the prime mascot for their silky wares.

It is an odd campaign, when you think about it:
Our product is sure to attract thieving vermin–IT’S JUST THAT GOOD!

It’s just a vat of tailgate spread and some water crackers, thanks, for just across the street is a Culvers, home of the motherfuckin’ Butterburger!

We continue down the highway toward Chicago and its gift of Friday afternoon traffic.
We are insane: We dip fried cheese curds into the Cheddar spread.
We inspect each morsel for the telltale pellet of mouse endorsement, but sadly find none.

Naps at our fave dive, Heart O Chicago (no blood tic tac toe on the mirror this time-boo.)
Then it’s up and toward Liar’s Club and whatever hijinks Herb has in store for the night.

The White Castle on the corner of Ridge sits there like, well, like a castle.
We’re stopped next to it at the light, make jokes about the hideous food, memories of late nights we fell onto the sacks of wee burgers like tweakers upon air conditioning units.
The food is disgusting, we all agree.

We pull through the drive through and order sixteen of them, then avoid looking at each other as we gobble them down.
Shameful, as if eating small sparrows intact.
Onward.

Oh, Liar’s Club, you goddamn slut of a bar. We love this place.

We walk in to find Herb and the crew have outfitted the stage with bombastic sound gear and lights that make it look like a Ozarks strip club.

Hazardous Youth and our pals Destroy Everything kick it off proper.
It’s loud as fuck in there.

I know the fellas are trying to keep a lid on things, but Herb keeps pushing water glasses of Jameson in their faces, pulling the night further into madness.
Silliness ensues.

We play and it’s a good one, like playing in someone’s basement after sitting in the hot sun drinking beer at a Cubs game.

Pics: MXV!

Pics: Patrick Houdek

Yo, Rod Stewart! Oh no, what the fuck up with your hair?
The girl behind the counter reaches out toward Kimm’s head.
What? Lemmee touch it. It’s stiff right? I bet it’s stiff.

She tousles his hair and then turns her attention to Anthony standing beside Kimm.

Alright, alright then. So what you want, you fuckin’ Keanu looking motherfucker?

Our dear mate Roy suggested a trip up to the famed Weiner’s Circle for a late night snack and some verbal abuse.

Anthony immediately falls in love with the place, going back in for yet another char dog and to trade more insults with the crew.
Soon he starts insulting the other customers as well:
“Hey, don’t wait on this ginger motherfucker,” he tells Rhonda behind the counter.

“You shut the fuck up and sit down, I got this,” she says.

Shoreline Drive and it’s Saturday.
We decide to dive into the touristy center of town.
We show Nick the sultry Chicago River, then the parking structure Bob Newhart used to sleep it off after a long lunch with Jerry the pervy dentist.

We hit Harry Caray’s and take pictures with the holy cow.

We act like caffeinated tourists without a trace of shame, the sly benefit of growing older and simply not caring.
If there was a giant foam finger nearby we would put it on.

It’s nap time in the Dodge Caravan as we set cruise control to 78 and hit the 90 East.
Now the sky darkens, clouds pregnant with mysterious moisture.

When the rain comes, it falls in angry sheets.
The Bridgestone Dueler S/Ts plow into the pooled water on the highway, then release hold on the asphalt and hydroplane the length of a shuttered shopping mall.
We drift across two lanes and it is thrilling.
I check the rear view as we regain traction. The lads snore peacefully still, unaware of the miracle of life.
I dip a water cracker into our trusty glovebox cheese spread to celebrate.

Now That’s Class , our home in Cleveland.
Paul stocks a full line of the finest fortified wines;
there are pallets of Olde English 800 in the basement.

A sign behind the bar: Women in their third trimester drink for free!

We pull into the back and smoke from a BBQ envelops us.
We walk headlong into the beefy perfume, then shed gravity and float along like Bugs Bunny enthralled.
Upstairs now to Paul’s living quarters.

He has food for us–sausages, yes.
Also some chimichurried ribeyes, then some local Walleye recently murdered on the banks of Lake Erie.
We eat and head downstairs toward the noise.

Nick has his concerns with the backline, hasn’t played behind the fortress of cinderblock since his teens.
We tell him it’s gonna be fine, it’s Cleveland.
And it is.
We play again, another set, another rendition of these songs let loose into the ether.

We cannot find anything to eat after the show.
We pull into one drive thru after the next, vacant except for the one cursed soul who is sentenced, apparently, to sit there all night and repeat: We’re closed.

Not a worry, as our action man Beenie puts on his CH3 onesie and pulls out his Seen on TV cooking gadgetry.

We eat, we sleep.

Sunday and it’s a bitch downtown.
The Browns have the home opener, on the thrilling verge of their 18th loss.
But we are just across the plaza at the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame , of all places.

Our pal SuLee gets into the building gratis, and we wander the halls both disgusted and humbled.

There is a tote board where you can put in your own votes who should be inducted next.
Reggae pioneers 311 have 20,000 votes, plus.
We cannot find New York Dolls or Starz anywhere on the list.

But I stand before Elvis’ shiny gold suit, marvel at how dainty Prince’s lace gloves sit still.

I’m staring at Joe Strummer’s weathered Telecaster, thinking of the sound and sweat.
I drop a CH3 guitar pick to the ground in front of it.
An offering? Perhaps just proof to myself: we were here.

Closest we’ll ever come.

Later at Cleveland Hopkins International, the crowds gather around the bar TVs.
The Browns have chased the Steelers into overtime, and now an interception gives them the chance to win it.

The chance to break the shameful streak that this city has accepted, like all its curses, with humor and booze.
It is this close.
These people can allow themselves, finally, the unspeakable image of victory.

But as we board, a unified groan spreads throughout the terminal.
A blown kick, the game ends in a tie.

They didn’t win, but they have not lost.
That’s us.