Tony's Hazy Concert Memories

Ozzfest '07 Part 1: Calm Before The Shitstorm

2009-11-14T18:55:00.000-08:00

A sad scene at the Hard Rock Hospital. In room 666, the 12 year old festival lay there devoid of energy but proud still in denial that it had wobbled into a state dangerously close to comatose. "But, we were free this year", it protested. "We're going to come back next year stronger than ever". I smiled weakly and nodded, "Yes, yes, there there". I patted it's hand and said, "It's okay, you had a good run. Think about all those bands and those awesome day long events." The festival looked away and seemed to know it was over. There would be no encore, no "thank you, good night", no next year. The lights went down and with a smoky wheeze that denied anyone anywhere a satisfying crescendo of a death rattle, Ozzfest was gone and it didn't cost anyone a dime...

-----

After seeing Ozzfest the past two years up in Mountain View, CA with Keno (one with our sister-in-law Janet in tow), the two of us looked forward to the summer of '07 and another "roadie" to Ozzfest. The day long event provides one with sunshine and beer, people watching and laughter, rock and roll. We assumed that we'd land another weekend date in Mountain View and the world would continue to spin on its axis.

I'm the point man for these roadies and was spot on when it was announced that Ozzfest that year would be free with the purchase of Ozzy's 2007 release "Black Rain". Ozzfest had been wildy popular for over ten years but the economy had changed and it was getting harder and harder for these traveling road shows to tour. It was decided to have sponsors foot the bill and the bands in the lineup to make their money from merchandise and by playing their own headline shows on the off days and not be paid up front. I liked the concept but when the supporting bands were announced, I was a little disappointed with the weak assortment. Then again, I knew that much of the day would be made up of experiences outside of watching bands play so shrugged it off. I watched for tour dates and it turned out that the only California weekend date would be in a place called Devore. I had to Google it. Devore is a skidmark eight miles outside of San Bernadino in the high desert of southern California. Further research told me that the Hyundai Pavilion was the home of the US Festival back in 1982 and 1983, so as much as I was intrigued to see that site, I lamented the fact that we'd have to travel to the Southland.

I bought Black Rain on its release date in May of 2007 and promptly used my enclosed coupon and went online to land my two free tickets to the Ozzfest show of my choice. It was fairly easy and when I printed my tickets, I thought to myself that many folks would simply bring their coupon to the show expecting to use it to get in. (Foreshadowing alert).

I did some online recon and found a decent looking Best Western in Rancho Cucamonga and booked a room. The only things I knew about Rancho Cucamonga was that it was a town that was mentioned in a funny way by Bugs Bunny (along with Albuquerque) in those old Warner Brothers cartoons and that they had a Single A minor league baseball team. When we talked about the trip, we both schemed to get on the road early to make a weekend out of it. I looked into golf courses and made a tee time for the Friday before the show. When July rolled around, Keno and I had planned far ahead by then: he'd be off work that morning and I'd take the day off so we could travel down south so as to make our tee time.

We hurtled down south that Friday making good time until we hit I-10 and merged into the lava flow of brake lights. I hadn't been out that way in some time and it all looked different. Mega car dealerships, behemoth box store shopping centers, and new tracts of houses for as far as the eye could see. Some aggressive maneuvering got us past the crush of stupidity and we were in the open finally, all the time watching the clock. Our tee time was fast approaching but all we had to do when we got there was change into our golf shoes and crack a beer. We practically skidded into a parking spot at the course. Slinging our bags over our shoulders, we strode to the clubhouse double time. We paid up, grabbed a couple of beers and then were told that we'd be paired up with another twosome. Damn.

Usually not a big deal, getting paired up with strangers can be a bit stressful. You have to hope that they are equal to your skill level or at least not a lot worse or not a lot better. Personality helps too. Keno and I never have a problem making friends anywhere we go but you never know. This time, it was a couple of Hispanic guys about our age named Carlos and Bennie. Carlos was tall and heavy set while Bennie was shorter and stocky. They didn't look athletic at all, much less look like golfers. We all shook hands and chatted while the foursome ahead of us was teeing off. They seemed like cool guys but were a bit reserved. They were also locals who'd played the course often so they'd be able to help us out on angles and lies.

It was our turn up at the tee box. We all hit fairly well but I felt stiff and uncomfortable with my swing. Not a good sign. As we moved through the first few holes, Carlos and Bennie began lightening up, maybe seeing that Keno and I were harmless average golfers out for a good time. At least this seemed so to me because they lit up a joint on Seven and asked us if we'd like to partake. We politely declined and I was relieved that I didn't look as much like a DEA agent as I thought.

After the clubhouse turn, my game went to shit. Keno stayed steady, even making miraculous use of a horrible slice around a 120 foot tall tree to shadow the doglegged fairway. I however hit some divots farther than the ball and hit so many into sand bunkers that Carlos said I should have brought a beach ball. On Fourteen, I was near the green and just needed to chip up to putt. Instead, I somehow used the wedge like a croquet mallet and sent the ball scorching across the green and off the edge. Four times....

On Fifteen, I hit the ball down the fairway like a frenzied parent spanks their unruly child down the aisle in Wal-Mart, with short, wild, hit-and-miss swings all the while muttering things like, "I swear to God this is the last time we're doing this unless you shape up" and "Look what you made me do".

Sixteen was a short par 3, just what the doctor ordered to collect myself. I swung and looked up to see the ball taking off like the Space Shuttle but on course for the green. "Wow, you got all of that one", Keno bellowed. The four of us tracked the arc of the ball but I glanced down to estimate where it would land and mumbled "cart path" just as we all heard the familiar rattle and sputter of the beer cart. The ball was reentering the atmosphere when we saw the beer cart come over the hill and yelled, "fore!". The cute little gal driving the cart slammed on her brakes and smiled and waved, thinking she'd interrupted someone's swing. In fact, she stopped on the big cartoony X that marked the spot where my ball looked like it was going to land. Luckily, it hit the concrete about a foot to the right of the cart and she shrieked and curled into a ball like a pill bug. Meanwhile, my ball bounded about 60 feet in the air and then rolled harmlessly towards the tee box on Seventeen. I figured it was a sign for me to skip this hole and tee off on Seventeen. As I walked by the beer cart girl, I sheepishly apologized and she just blinked at me in shellshock.

Keno played out and met me on Seventeen, snickering. While Carlos and Bennie finished up, we scoped out the fairway. We both gasped as we looked over a pond that had to be about 250 yards across with the flag another 150 away. This looked impossible, but we started strategizing anyway. "What are you guys looking at?", Bennie asked from behind us as Carlos was taking warmup swings on the real tee box. Immediately realizing that we were setting up to shoot on the flag of Five, we both gathered ourselves and said something about the view. Later, we both laughed about the havoc we would have caused hitting back across the lake onto a hole we'd already played. The round ended mercifully and not a minute too soon. Keno shot respectfully but I stopped counting when I reached triple digits and still had a handful of holes to go. We headed to the hotel after picking up some beer for the room. We checked in, cleaned up and headed out for some dinner and for whatever Rancho Cucamonga had to offer.

It wasn't much as it turned out. We ate at TGI Fridays and then calculated that there wasn't anything to do here. I had done some research online and read about a club that sounded interesting, at least to provide the precious people watching we love. We drove over and pulled into a massive parking lot for a small club about the size of a ranch style home, only to be directed by lot attendants into an overflow lot. As the gravel crushed under our wheels, we both wondered what this place was all about. We got out of the truck and talked briefly with a security guard, a young African American guy that sort of looked us over with bemusement.

"This must be a happenin' place, huh?", Keno asked the guard.

He smiled and shook his head, "Yeah, it's like this every weekend. Gets crazy in there. You guys are heading in there, huh?"

"Might as well", I said. "We're here for Ozzfest tomorrow and looking to kill time tonight".

"Ohhhh, okay. Yeah, yeah, that should be wild out there tomorrow, man". He said it as if he'd figured out a mystery or just got the punchline to a joke told to him yesterday.

We started the trek to the club and my phone rang. It was Janet wishing us a good show. I love how concert people do that, as if we as fans are performing. I chatted with her for a few moments and told her that I wished she were with us. As I hung up, we were approaching the club and Keno asked me if I noticed anything. I looked around and said, "Oh. Yeah, we're the only white people here. Huh, what do you want to do?". He kept looking forward, never breaking stride and said in a chipper manner, "We're going in".

We paid the small cover and got our IDs checked and passed through the doors. We drifted through a glass door to the left and entered a smallish, dark lounge. A jazz quartet was killing on a Coltrane number that I couldn't place at the time. There were a few couples dancing in front of the band. We walked to the bar and got a couple of beers, then turned to lean on the bar to get a look at the layout. There couldn't have been more than 50 people in the place with many tables and booths empty. "Where are all the people for all those cars?", I asked. His brow was furrowed. He was trying to figure it out too. It was a fine place and the music was good but we were missing something. We took a seat to watch the band and hang out.

Behind the band was a smoked glass wall and you could see the reflection of the band's backs and of the couples dancing. I kept seeing the reflection of a large crowd of people and turned around to see them but we were almost against the back wall and there was nobody behind us. I didn't say anything to Keno but I noticed he did the same thing a couple of times. "Are you seeing people in the reflection too?", I laughed. "Yeah, what the hell?". As I focused on the smoked glass, I realized it was a partition! "Wait a minute", I exclaimed, "that's another room in there behind the band". Keno then recognized it and we both laughed. We grabbed our beers and made way for the glass door. Pushing through, we paused for a moment in a small, quiet foyer where the sounds of the jazz band drifted off before heading through another glass door where we were met with a blast of beats and a rush of warm air. The lights were flashing and a DJ was perched on a podium above hundreds of people gyrating on the dance floor. It was a different world. We were literally through the looking glass....

As we surveyed the room, it was confirmed that we were indeed in the minority here. We were able to find two other white guys, one dressed head to toe in Ecko clothing and one that looked like he mistook this place for the Elks lodge. Also, the bartenders were white. Everyone else without exception was black. We got some more drinks and tried to settle in somewhere to watch the action but it was so packed that you just stood where you were which meant a lot of bumping into each other. Once, I bumped pretty hard into what I thought was a rhinoceros but turned out to be a huge black guy in a pin striped suit and fedora. Instead of pummeling me into part of the carpet pattern, he laughed and basically picked me up by the elbow and passed me through on my merry way. "There you go, little man. Playa. Rocker. Whooo, go on now....", he howled. I think I may have said, "Thank you, sir".

Keno and I found a place on the edge of the steps leading down onto the dance floor. The air was thicker there due to all the body heat. We watched this gorgeous black woman refuse the advances of every man that came up to her. It got to the point where we were betting on guys. "Watch this guy, I bet he gets her to dance", Keno would say. Then she'd wave him off. After a while, we were rooting for the guys. They were coming at her like soldiers storming the beach. She waved off another, this one very polite and charming. "Oh come on, what was wrong with that guy, woman?", we'd yell to ourselves laughing.

We stayed a little longer and decided to head back to the room. We crashed pretty hard and woke up refreshed for a long day in the sun. Little did we know that we'd be heading into a war zone.

New Story Posted Below!!

2008-08-29T10:41:00.000-07:00

Seriously folks, scroll down for a brand new tale. I took a break (duh!) from the Heaven and Hell story to get one out about our trip to Tahoe for Robert Plant and Allison Krauss earilier this summer. It's a little lengthy and meanders a bit, but I'm rusty so hang in there.

Speaking of Heaven and Hell, Keno and I are seeing them this Labor Day Weekend along with Judas Priest and Motorhead. I haven't seen Judas Priest since high school about 25 years ago and never was blessed to experience the seminal Motorhead. To quote Henry Rollins, seeing a Motorhead concert "feels like being held down and beaten with a lead pipe" and "will change your life for the better". Somehow that makes perfect sense to me....

Keep your fingers crossed for action at the show and hopefully I'll have material for another installment of On The Road With Keno.

Thanks,

Tony

KIlling The Blues In Tahoe (Robert Plant and Allison Krauss 6.28.08)

2008-08-29T10:39:00.000-07:00

Always a fan of Robert Plant, I eagerly picked up the Raising Sand release last year. I figured the collaboration with Allison Krauss would go under the radar and he'd get back to his work with Strange Sensation with whom he released two fine discs recently. I immediately loved Raising Sand and wondered about a tour or some one-off shows here and there. I was surprised that many others shared my interest in the album and it became somewhat of a surprise hit, getting airplay on country stations alongside the watered down rock and roll that passes for that genre these days. Have you seen a country video in the last few years? I suppose it's good that the directors of those old Poison and Dokken clips are getting work again.

I silently decided that if a tour was to happen that I'd consider taking my wife to a show if it worked out and forgot about it. Then, in February, I saw the edition of Crossroads featuring Plant and Krauss performing live on CMT. I knew that I'd enjoy the Raising Sand material but the reworked and rearranged Led Zeppelin tunes featuring Krauss amazed me. Robert Plant seemed to really enjoy himself being somewhat of a music historian if not at least a man with a passion for American music. It was a cinch now that we'd make every effort to see a live show featuring these two and as a tour was announced I eagerly awaited the announcement of the dates.

Tickets for regional shows went on sale in March.The only weekend date that worked for us was a Saturday night show in Lake Tahoe at Harvey's outdoor amphitheater and after a very brief discussion, it was decided that we could make a nice weekend out of the trip so we'd get a pair of tickets when they went on sale. That happened with no grief as I was Johnny On The Spot as usual, sitting in front of my computer hitting the refresh button on the Ticketbastard website at 9:59am on the initial on sale morning. When it's big for me, you'll find me there at the desk with my coffee and a two day's worth of stubble, having done my seating chart research and making sure no other programs are running so as not to slow the search for tickets. I've put golf tee times off until after 10:00 before because of this and when friends ask why I don't just get tickets later, I shudder and stammer something about them being completely insane.

After securing seats, I began the search for a hotel room. We prefer to stay within stumbling distance from venues whenever possible and naturally I started with Harvey's Hotel and Casino since that's where the show was. It had been years since we'd been to Tahoe and that was a whirlwind weekend for a wedding so we didn't really experience all that the area has to offer. The one thing I did remember is that Lake Tahoe is not Las Vegas: there are a handful of hotel/casinos and the atmosphere is very different. I clicked on Harvey's website and was pleased to see that the property featured a Cabo Wabo Cantina, one of Sammy Hagar's ventures and a Hard Rock Cafe which we always enjoy. I clicked on room reservations and punched up the date of the show....

Coffee almost went all over my monitor but instead went up my nose and burned the back of my throat as I came close to a classic movie style "spit take" when I saw the prices. They wanted $349 for Saturday night! What? I looked at the rest of the calendar month to see that mid-week prices ranged from $79 to $119. What a racket. Not being familiar with the area, I was now in for some intense education of the region and accommodations. I found a Best Western resort 3 1/2 blocks from Harvey's on the California side of Tahoe for a reasonable price and gave Harvey's and the other casino properties the bird.

That was back in March, so we fast forward to June here. In that time, I had started a new job that had me traveling all over central California and I was a little concerned about being home at a reasonable time that Friday to make the drive up to Lake Tahoe. As it turned out, my boss was very appreciative of the work and extensive travel I'd done for him and I was done that Friday by ten in the morning. Mary worked her week out so that she was done early too and we were ready to roll by noon.

The recent fires in California have made for some terrible conditions and we both had cold and allergy-like symptoms the week before the show. I actually felt like I was getting sick but was psyching myself out that it was just the air. We laughed in the days before the trip that we'd just drink our way through the malady that weekend and work on getting better the week after. Sitting here writing the early parts of this edition feeling like shit makes me wonder if I got what I asked for.

As I mentioned above, we hadn't been to Tahoe in some time and a friend gave us a route to take that he said shaved an hour off of the drive. I was all ears, especially as we weren't looking forward to the ugly Highway 99 Friday traffic. We took his hand written notes with the GPS as a back up just in case and hit the road on a hazy and smoky afternoon that looked like a foggy day in January through the windshield of the car with the air conditioner on full blast.

We got off of 99 north of Modesto and headed east. We zipped along two lane roads through farmland and began our way up into rolling hills. Taking the instructed turns, we found ourselves passing through adorable foothill communities that had maintained their historic Main Streets. Then we hit some mountainous roads with hairpin turns along the American River that had us maintaining an average speed of 20mph and we wondered how we could possibly be saving an hour up here. We were especially taken with downtown Placerville and noticed signs for a Blues and Brews festival that would take place on the closed downtown Main Street that would interfere with our show Saturday, but made note of the idea to get back up here for other events. Getting onto Highway 50 out of Placerville had us on the home stretch and after all the winding roads, we were happy to get onto a road where we could open it up a bit.

Traffic was light and we made good time on 50. The air quality was also steadily improving and we were on the lookout for blue skies instead of brown. I'd forgotten how beautiful the mountains are in northern California and we made a pact to visit the area more often. We swooped down into South Lake Tahoe and pulled into the parking lot of the hotel. We parked and walked back to office to check in and nodded to many Harley-Davidson riders congregating in the parking lot. The pool area was alive with people frolicking about and laughing while a guy played sang classic rock hits and played his Casio over a P.A. with ease. "Looks like this is the place", I smiled.

We checked in and unpacked. We had stopped at a grocery store moments before to pick up some beer and bottled water. We popped open a couple of brews as we freshened up and toasted to our little getaway. The room was tiny but nice and an entirely mirrored wall lent to the illusion of a bigger dwelling. It also provided me with plenty of blue comments about the action later that night, but I'll be a gentleman here and spare my wife the embarrassment. 'Nuff said....

We made the short trek over to Harvey's and decided that we'd check out Cabo Wabo. It was fairly early still and it wasn't very busy but the waitress took good care of us. While my wife enjoys her Irish whiskey, we're mainly beer and wine folks but we figured we'd better have some of Sammy's Cabo Wabo tequila. We got some shots and beers and again toasted our weekend. Some food and a couple of rounds later, a woman came over and took one of those touristy souvenir photos that came out good enough to buy. Great, now I was stuck carrying it around all night.

After dinner, we headed to the casino floor to get a feel for the place. We have just a few rules when it comes to choosing our blackjack table; no Asian dealers (or Terminators, as we refer to them--nothing personal here but they waylay us every time), no playing alongside septuagenarians wearing golden shoes to match their golden purse to match their golden nail polish, and we do try to sit next to each other for obvious reasons. After a couple of laps around the floor, we settled in together with me at first base at a $10 table. We'd already broken in for a hundy each before I looked at the dealer and realized he had the deck in his hand.

"Shit", I whispered to Mary. "Single deck, handheld. Haven't done that in a while".

She shrugged and gave me a look that said, "what the fuck, we're here".

I hadn't played single deck blackjack in years and hadn't counted cards at a table in double those years. I was never good at it because I prefer to play the basic strategy and counting cards becomes a chore. I like the action of gambling and the inherent risk; trying to get an edge seems like a dirty job with no glory when you punch out for the day.

Right away, the rust showed from all those years of playing a multi-deck shoe. I tapped the table for a hit instead of "scratching" my cards towards me, I kept forgetting to slide my hand under my chips to stand, and even tried to double down on forbidden hands otherwise allowed because of the draw from four to six decks.

But after a few rounds, we were old pros. The drinks kept coming and we kept tipping. Our pit boss took care to get us player's club membership and the dealers kept us playing with their charm and wit. Our Economic Stimulus Package was floating us for the night so we broke in again and again when the chips got low. I call my stacks of chips "the skyline" as it looks like a cityscape at times. This night, most of the time the skyline looked like the suburbs but I didn't care one bit. Until I noticed it was 3am.

We both suddenly became aware of the fact the each of us was a genius and we'd better hit the sack so as not to be too tired on Saturday for the show. Mary had been up for almost 24 hours at this point and I was closing in on around 22. We stumbled back across the state line and down the slightly sloped road to the Best Western. We tried to count the number of drinks we had all that day and kept interrupting each other with, "no, no, you forgot the round we had in the room while we were getting dressed" and "wait, there was the 2nd round of tequila shots at Sammy's". Trying to tally up the beer alone we had while playing cards was impossible so we decided to safely underestimate our alcohol total to be around 15-20 rounds! Safe to say I'm sure the local Coors Light distributor call a call on Saturday to restock Harvey's.

Saturday came crashing in with the sounds of children's infernal playful screams and thunderous footsteps out on our second story walkway. We both grumbled something about how fucking early it must be but when I rolled over to look at the clock radio, it read almost 10am. Even knowing that we'd gone to bed so late, it's strange for us to sleep past 7 or so on a day off so I stared at the clock for a moment not knowing what time it was or day for that matter. We layed there taking inventory of headaches, sandpaper tongues, and bloodshot eyes.

We laughed when I mentioned that we'd packed our golf clubs. Fools! We were in no shape to walk across the parking lot, much less drive a electric motor vehicle across grassy hills. We took our time getting dressed and decided to just walk around Tahoe a bit, get some lunch, and maybe do some shopping. We didn't get out of the room until just after noon.

The fresh air seemed to wage battle against my second hand smoke filled lungs and the bright sunshine made quick work to help my body rid itself of the poison alcohol through the pores of my skin. Making our way up to the main road, I felt a little wobbly and lightheaded. Mary was faring better than I was so I made no mention of it. We decided that lunch was in order and saw the revolving ads for restaurants on the higher floors of Harrah's and made our way there. Up to the 18th floor, we sat at a window table and had a great view of the lake and mountains, despite the slight haze of the California fires to the west. It was about 1:30 in the afternoon by now and I decided that I'd try a beer and see how it went down.

I was so dehydrated that drinking that beer was like sucking on wet cotton. Don't get me wrong, it tasted fine and was cold as it needed to be (the mountains on the new Coors Light temperature sensitive label were a deep azure blue), but the remaining brain cells from the night before were screaming at me because they hadn't even cleared the dead from the gray matter battlefield and here I was assaulting them again.

From our perch, we could see the venue at Harvey's across the street. It was a folding chair and bleacher filled amphitheater set up in what looked like a corner of their parking lot, not what I had pictured in my mind at all. It was also breezy and I was concerned about the sound swirling around on all that blacktop. I tend to sweat the details but this time I forced myself to not care and just let the day happen. We'd also spotted what looked like a craft fair on the street below and thought it would be a nice distraction. On the elevator down, it was decided that we'd take a peek at the amphitheater too.

The craft fair sucked as most of them do but we found a booth where a guy was selling knock off prints of artist Michael Godard that were nicely framed and fairly priced. We thought about getting one as we strode over to the amphitheater. Upon closer inspection through the fence, the stage was quite large and the sound system looked quite capable of cutting though the breeze. Someone was pounding on a single drum, the haunting echoey boom of soundcheck. We went back into the craft fair and picked up the print and made our way back out onto the main street to visit some shops and then head back to the room to shower and change for the night. We popped into a local gallery that featured actual Godard works and when the shopkeeper noticed my bag, he noted that we'd already done some art buying and could he see it. I chuckled, a little embarrassed to show him this bootleg Godard but he was very polite when he asked if I realized it was a knock off. I told him of course, but it suited our needs at this time. He was very complimentary of our choice of work and then asked if we'd like to see some real stuff and we spent about a half hour in a back area of the gallery viewing limited edition prints and other pieces. Too pricey for us right now, but we vowed to one day get some good stuff.

Back in the room in the late afternoon, we opened a bottle of wine and tried to relax, maybe even sneak in a nap before the evening. We watched a meaningless baseball game and reclined on the bed but sleep would not come. We got showered and changed, finished our wine and then made that walk back to Harvey's. We decided to eat at the Hard Rock Cafe this time and it was packed with concert goers; you could tell by all the women with their boobs pushed up and out of short dresses and the pot bellied guys wearing black Tommy Bahama shirts, the standard uniforms for middle aged rockers.

Once done with our dinner and drinks (Mary opting for whiskey this time), we decided we could squeeze in a little more blackjack before the show and we sat down at a table right outside the Hard Rock. The dealer was a very nice woman that we'd noticed the night before due to her very butchy haircut and she was very chatty and personable. She asked if we were going to the show and mentioned that she knew the names but not the music. She started to tell us a story about her son-in-law driving through the mountains the day before. I looked at Mary and wondered where this tangent came from, but continued to listen. Apparently, her son-in-law came upon and straggly looking old hippie broken down on the side of the road and stopped to see if he needed help. It was just a flat tire, so he was able to change it for the old guy quickly an easily. It was a rental car, the hippie explained, and he had no idea of what to do up there in the middle of nowhere. The conversation as explained to us is paraphrased here:

"You don't know who I am, do you?", said the hippie.

The young man said, "no, sorry". The old man asked him if he had plans for Saturday night. This surprised the young man and when the hippie sensed that it was an odd question, he identified himself.

"My name is Robert Plant and I'm playing a concert in Lake Tahoe tomorrow night and I'd like to give you some tickets as a thank you for stopping."

So, the son-in-law gave Plant his name and he now had excellent seats and backstage passes to the show. The blackjack dealer said her son-in-law is just like that to stop and help and many others from the area are as well. I mentioned that I don't honestly know if I would have stopped and she told me not to feel bad because that's probably not an indication of who I am but how the world's made us out to be. Interesting.

I bottomed out fairly quickly but Mary was actually doing well. We knew we wanted to get to the show early and people watch, but I told her to ride out the cards for a while and see how it goes. She eventually took a turn for the worse and we ducked out to walk across the parking lot to the amphitheater. There was a pretty good line formed but was moving quickly. I listened to a lot of chatter in line and it seemed that many people thought this was a Robert Plant solo show and that "some chick named Allison Krauss" was the opening act. Now I anxiously awaited crowd reaction to what they would experience. Our tickets were scanned and we immediately bumped into a Coors Light vendor carrying my life's blood in a cooler styled like one of those old "cigarette girl" trays. What, not wait in line for a beer? I love Nevada.

Opening act Sharon Little had started and sounded good from the concourse as we looked at the t-shirts and got another beer. We strolled around a bit and decided to check out the opener from our seats and also have our bearings in case we were caught in the dash to seats after intermission. I can't stand looking for my seats with all the other drunken sheep during the first song or two. It's loud, dark, and inevitably some drunken mook is in my seat and I have to tap him on the shoulder, explain the situation and receive a "fuck you" glare when it's him that's made the error. Every. Single. Concert. Ever.

Sharon Little was very good and we vowed to buy her CD. What seemed to be folksy, acoustic tinged pop morphed later in her set into a loose and groovy jam. The breeze came in off the lake at dusk and Mary and I smiled at each other, knowing that each of us was glad to be there. She was fading a bit though after the wine, Jameson's, and beer so I decided to get her some water and something to munch on. A soft pretzel did the trick and she was back in the game shortly thereafter. We walked around the concourse a little bit longer and hit the port-a-pottys before returning to our seats. Note to Harvey's: let's look into putting some lights in the area where the bathrooms are. Once entombed in the pitch black plastic piss booth, you're on your own to get out of there dry.

The lights went down and the crowd roared while Mary was still in her Tupperware coffin. People waiting in line for the bathroom, food, beer, and t-shirts bolted for their seats as the opening notes of Rich Woman drifted to the back of the amphitheater. Mary exited and we calmly made our way through the drunk and confused to our seats. A tiny miracle provided me with no tank top wearing mouth breather in my seat and we settled in about halfway through the first song. The crowd erupted a few songs later when the retooled Black Dog chugged it's way into the set. I was very pleased that the crowd was responding positively to the stripped down and laid back Zeppelin tunes and the Raising Sand material. Apparently, most of us knew what we were getting into and the others I surmised were being very patient waiting for Plant to scream the opening to Immigrant Song. They would probably walk back to their cars wondering what the hell happened.

The set cruised along like a pleasant dream; much of Raising Sand was played and Krauss sprinkled in some solo tunes that I didn't recognize except for those from the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack. The Zeppelin tunes were given a different, if not new, life by Plant's subdued reworking and Krauss' touches here and there. She sang the lead on When The Levee Breaks to a great ovation and sang the Sandy Denny parts in Battle of Evermore with an eerie pitch that gave me chills (something that happened over and over by the way--the most times ever at a concert for me). For me, her most triumphant turn was a take on a tune I didn't recognize at first for some reason but turned out to be Trampled Rose, a Tom Waits song from Raising Sand. The slow, haunting dirge featured her voice soaring into the night air and hypnotized the entire audience.

The Raising Sand Travelling Revue (as Plant referred to the show) lasted almost two full hours and never lulled or swayed too far so as to lose any steam. Guitarist Buddy Miller was a highlight for me, subtle at times and bold at others. I made a note to pick up some of his work as well.

After the show, the masses filtered into the casino to keep partying but we were out of gas. I asked if Mary wanted to play some cards before bed but she sneered slightly and as I re-evaluated my own condition, I thought better of it as well. We walked like ghosts across the casino floor and out the front door, down the main drag and off into wooded street to our hotel. In the room, I decided a night cap was in order but Mary was already breathing deeply and softly, curled up in bed. I shrugged and poured myself a generous glass of red wine and turned on the tube. George Carlin had recently passed away and Saturday Night Live replaying the first ever episode which he hosted. I climbed in bed and reclined against a pile of pillows with my glass resting on my chest.

----------------------

The next morning, we ran through the identical routine of checking hangover symptoms and reliving moments from the night before, laughing and smiling. Then I noticed the red stain on my pillow. A moment of panic had me thinking I was bleeding and I sat up in a flash. Mary looked horrified for a second until we both saw the wine glass on it's side next to my pillow. We busted up, relieved that it was just a little wine. Then she covered her mouth laughing and pointed at my shoulder. Glancing down, the entire right side of my chest and my right shoulder were stained pink. What the fuck? I then moved my pillow and we both gasped, "oh shit". Suffice it's doubtful that I even took one drink from that glass and passed out, dumping the entire thing across my chest and down onto the bed. A three foot stain looking not unlike the map of Idaho now adorned the sheets, and the mattress, while having the sheets take most of the drink, now could never be sold at a garage sale. How I didn't feel it, I can only blame Mary for forcing me to drink so much and I was lucky neither of us rolled over on that glass.

We both sat there silently and wondered what to tell the desk. We've all left hotel rooms in some imperfect condition but this was very noticable and I didn't want the maid to have a heart attack thinking she'd stumbled upon the scene of a murder. It was decided that we'd fess up and take our lumps if necessary. We packed up after showering and looked back in horror at that bed as we shut the door.

Upon check out, the lady at the desk was very cheery and asked us about our stay and did we have fun, etc. We both half-heartedly said that we did but I took a breath and looked her in the eye. She seemed a little startled by our somber demeanor.

"Uh, I feel like I should tell you that it appears that we spilled some wine last nig---"

"You spilled some wine last night", Mary blurted.

I cleared my throat, chuckling a little. "Yeah, I spilled some wine last night and wanted your staff to be aware of it."

"Okay, I see. Well that happens from time to time. We have some stuff that takes out stains. Is it on the carpet?", she asked calmly.

"No, it's, uh, on the bed", I mumbled.

"Oh...well I'm sure it's not that bad", she assured me.

I looked at Mary and she raised her eyebrows. I looked back at the clerk, "No, it looks like a crime scene in there". Her eyes widened a little. I continued, "So yeah, you might want to notify them before they walk in there...."

She made a note of it and when I asked if we would have to make any kind of restitution, she said the hotel assumes losses all the time unless it were something like throwing a TV out the window. I smiled at that notion, thinking I'd pulled a minor rock star move passing out with a drink but I don't have the balls for the TV move. We never did hear from the hotel so it's assumed we aren't on the hook for the mattress. None the less, I'm drinking white wine from a Dixie cup next time...

The Maddening Sound of Keystrokes

2008-07-07T21:00:00.000-07:00

Back at the keyboard again after an embarrassing absence. Those of you that have faithfully come back time and time again have heard it all before; he's busy, etc. Whatever, let's move on. My mid-year's resolution is to get back to this blog and tell more stories whether you like it or not.

These tales bounce around in my head all the time but lately I just haven't wanted to sit down and lay them out. But I realize that even if it's just a few words a night, I need to put them together. I suppose I put the stories off until I can hole myself away and tell the whole thing in one fell swoop but who has that kind of time (besides full time writers, I mean)? Not that I consider myself a "writer", but you know what I mean....

So, I'll tell you all now that I do plan on finishing the Heaven and Hell story featuring our hero Keno and myself, but I've also gotten about 60% into my Robert Plant and Allison Krauss story featuring my wife and I up in Lake Tahoe recently.

I swore I'd never do this again after reading older posts where I made promises, but I'll tell you about what I'm working on for future installments:

Heaven and Hell, Part Two
Plant/Krauss in Tahoe
Concert Injury Report: Scars, dental work, scratches, etc.
My wife and how she tries to get me into fights at every fucking concert we go to these days and denies it later

The Plant/Krauss story will be up first because it's fresh. Heaven and Hell Part Two will be right behind because I know you all want to know if the author can take a punch....

Thanks everyone!

--Hazy Tony

Black Sab...err...Heaven and Hell '07 (Part One)

2007-11-16T18:44:00.000-08:00

April 18th,1982...15 years old.

It was a Sunday night and I had school the next day, so it was really cool that my parents let me go to this show. The Outlaws were onstage and I was enjoying their performance despite the fact that I'd never heard of them or their music. I was such a concert rookie that it never occurred to me that with their Southern Rock sound and good ol' boy looks what an odd choice they were to open for Black Sabbath. All I knew was that the band was about 20 feet from me, it was loud, and it was real.

I say real because just three months prior I'd seen Ozzy Osbourne live for my first ever rock concert. I sat in good seats, but far enough away so that the show seemed distant and something like a play or even a movie. Oh, it was loud to be sure. Loud enough to ring my ears for a few days, but I didn't feel connected to the band or the crowd. I'd only gone because Rod, one of my oldest childhood friends, wanted to go. I was only beginning to get into rock music and probably agreed to see Ozzy like those a half generation before me went to see Alice Cooper and those two decades behind me checked out Marilyn Manson; just to see the freak show.

I enjoyed Ozzy enough to know that I'd follow my boyhood chum to more shows and the next big one to hit Fresno was Black Sabbath featuring Ronnie James Dio on vocals. It took some research via Hit Parader and Creem magazines, but I was able to surmise that Dio took over for Ozzy in Sabbath and they were touring in support of their second album together, Mob Rules. I didn't know much more than that. I listened to Black Sabbath LPs at Rod's house and pretended to be as "into it" as everyone else, but it wasn't sinking in. I liked what I heard enough, but without a way to realize it back then, I was a music geek at heart and was uncomfortable without knowing more about the musicians, the band's history, etc. That's probably what keeps me from buying King Crimson albums today.

Back in the good old days, most all shows were sold as General Admission and for the Sabbath show, we decided to stand in front of the stage. Getting there early, we stood on the concrete floor of Fresno's Selland Arena under the house lights. It was kind of like hanging around the clock tower on the amphitheater lawn at my high school. That night, we saw everyone from school and tried to outcool each other (me pathetically so) and generally just stood around and cracked wise. I remember looking up into the stands and wondered if this is what it looked like from a Fresno State basketball player's perspective. Then Marco showed up.

Marco was the coolest guy I'd ever met. He was confident, funny, socially adept, and I suppose not bad looking to the feathered haired girls of 1982. We knew each other pretty well and I genuinely liked him, but when I saw him walk up with a soda cup in his hand, I was surprised. Even on my wobbly newborn concert legs, I knew that nobody drank soda at a concert. It was alcohol or nothing. Even though it would be a couple of years before I consumed alcohol before or at a concert, I endured dehydration symptoms if only in the effort to look cool. In retrospect and full hindsight, it is now apparent that consuming a Pepsi would not have helped nor hurt my cool factor during freshman year. The large red Ronald McDonald hairdo and thick glasses landed me firmly in such a class of uncool that it would have taken Sean Penn as Jeff Spicoli to walk around with a bullhorn during intermission declaring that I wasn't actually as dorky as I looked. Don't ask me why drinking fluids wasn't cool back then, I'm just here reporting the hazy memories.

Marco entered the conversation circle and I stared at his soda cup. The blue and red Pepsi logo was sweating and I envied Marco and his damned individualism. Nobody said anything, even though I had the feeling that more than a few of us wanted to. If I'd walked up with a soda, some stoner would have probably taken the glasses off of my face and thrown them onstage, smacked me on the forehead with his ridiculously over sized Goody comb and then lit my huge hair on fire with his Bic. I know it sounds irrational now, but I couldn't risk it back then.

The lights went down (my all time favorite and embarrassingly overused phrase when it comes to concert story telling---much akin to "So, there I was..." by our beloved war veterans) and I felt this crushing blow in the middle of my back. Light on my feet, I absorbed the shock and was amused to find myself carried about 6 feet forward. The amusement lasted just a moment as the flood of humanity closed in around me and a howling, whistling, roar from the seats above seemed to over modulate in my head with a swirling effect. The Outlaws (whoever they were) hit the first notes (of whatever song of theirs) and again I rode the wave as the crowd pushed forward.

I stared forward, wide-eyed like a baby and grinning like an idiot. I didn't know it at the time, but I was being baptized in a sort of backwoods dunked-in-a-dirty-river-that's-still-good-for-fishin' sort of way. The Outlaws rode their guitars like polished wooden race horses. They strode the stage and struck poses that seemed somehow heroic to me in that moment. It took a few years for me to hear the song again, but Green Grass And High Tides Forever somehow stuck with me and brings back sentimental times. Then it all ended with much clamor and clanging. All of us cheered wildly in appreciation of The Outlaws' efforts. The stage lights shone brightly on those of us up front, but I was able to squint and see the band members come out with their hands clasped in front of them as in handcuffs. I thought at the time that they looked like those guys in Ricky Ricardo's band with the puffy, layered sleeves. Then, they spread their hands with a upward swing of their arms to release dozens and dozens of Outlaws bandannas. Time stood still as the knotted fabric fell towards my face and I reached out as in a dream.....

Nothing.

Next to me, Marco held up an Outlaws bandanna in triumph. I blinked slowly and then watched him laugh and twirl it around like a gunslinger. In his other hand, I noted, was that goddamned Pepsi. Fuckin' Marco. He seemed to walk with some sort of aura about him and it all made perfect sense that he'd score some stage swag. I hated him. I loved him. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to be him. (For longtime and unbelievably patient Tony's Hazy.... readers, this provides a little foreshadowing to the July '04 Pat Tragedy multi-parter in the archives---when Marco rears his head again at the Clovis High Air Guitar Contest of 1985).

In the house lights, we congratulated Marco on his kill and went back to fucking off. Real estate was becoming more and more precious as the older fans crept forward to see the metal legends. I patiently waited with eyes forward until the arena darkened again and the mighty Sabbath took the stage. It was a simple stage with the four of them assaulting us with songs both new and old. I wasn't familiar with many of Black Sabbath's older tunes aside from radio hits I'd learned in my crash course during the last few months of rock and roll high school. But the crowd knew a whole lot more than I did.

There was a lummox of a young man directly behind me and he was banging his head forward and back with such vigor that his sweat doused a four foot circle of lucky fans. I glanced back from time to time to see what this cretin looked like and each time he looked a little different. Most of the time, he simply looked like a toad wearing a wet rat for a hairstyle and sucking wind heavily. Other times, he stalled his headbanging to emphasize a major shift in tempo, his glazed eyes looking right over my head transfixed on the stage. But what I remember most about this guy was that he sang--yelled hoarsely, really--every word to every song. Every word. Every song. Many of the people around me did as well. Apparently, Black Sabbath had many fans more ardent than I.

Why would anyone come to a concert to see a band and then sing the songs out loud themselves? It was April 18th, 1982. A quarter century later, that question would seem absurd.

-----

I won't go into the history of Black Sabbath and all of its incarnations here. There isn't time and it's all been written before. But I will note that I've been a fan of the band through all the lineup changes and swings in popularity. Some of my favorite Black Sabbath albums aren't even known by many of the fans attending subsequent reunions with Ozzy. For many, it's Ozzy or Dio and anything else just isn't Sabbath. There's merit to that thought, but the other work should not be dismissed wholly.

When I read online that Ronnie James Dio would be joining the early '80s lineup to knock out a couple of new tunes for a Dio-era best of album, I was happy but not expecting much more than a couple of throwaway tunes, much like the Van Halen best of featuring a couple of newly recorded songs with David Lee Roth and the new studio Black Sabbath (with Ozzy) tracks thrown together and tacked onto their live Reunion release. Before the album's release, plans had been made for a tour and I crossed my fingers for a weekend date fairly close to Fresno. Alas, the close dates were on weeknights and travel was impossible. I'd read that the NYC show would be filmed for a DVD release and felt good about at least having that to document the lineup's reunion.

The tour was a smash success and a second leg was added for North America. I cheered out loud at my computer monitor when I saw the Fresno date and immediately checked the calendar to make sure there wasn't a conflict. I noted that it was to be held at Selland Arena, Fresno's aging event center, as opposed to the newer (but not necessarily superior in terms of sound) Save Mart Center on the Fresno State campus. SMG, the huge venue management company that Fresno wisely called in to run both arenas, has done a good job booking both arenas appropriately with a few exceptions. One being the Velvet Revolver show a couple of years back at Save Mart Center; embarrassingly undersold, but still with a good number of enthusiastic attendees, the follow up tour was subsequently booked at Selland Arena. (A source of mine tells me that the Selland show was still quite empty--something that bewilders me when you consider Fresno's demographics and Velvet Revolver's pedigree). With Heaven and Hell, I estimated SMG to have made the right call here.

A call was quickly made to the stalwart Keno and, of course, he was in. I thought to call Chet, one of my oldest friends, but didn't for some reason. In the coming days, however, I did leave some voicemails for him at work, but never heard back. I was worried that I'd somehow offended him, perhaps at the Marc Ford show earlier in the year. It has not been unusual for us to go weeks and even months without contact, but I was a little concerned. I was Johnny On The Spot for tickets when they went on sale, scoring a pair 5th row center.

The unit would not call itself Black Sabbath, instead travelling under the moniker Heaven and Hell, also the name of the first album with Dio. I never heard an official statement of why the Sabbath name would not be used, but I first suspected that it was to avoid confusion in the marketplace. Ozzy had reunited with Sabbath a few times by now and the average classic rock radio listener might get to the Dio-fronted Sabbath show, see the diminutive Ronnie James howling away and say, "what the fuck?" After thinking about it more, I agreed with some online sentiments stating that guitarist Tony Iommi, who owns the rights to the name Black Sabbath, was simply protecting the integrity of the name for lucrative future reunions with Ozzy. Whatever the reason, I didn't mind the name at all. In fact, I was thrilled when I read that Heaven and Hell would not be performing any Sabbath songs from the Ozzy years, instead opting to stand on the strength of their few releases with Dio. This was something they could not do when Dio first joined. As much fun as it was to hear Dio belt out classics like War Pigs and Iron Man back then, I admired them for playing the songs from the Dio releases as if they were a completely separate entity from Black Sabbath. Do you think Yes could do this with Trevor Horn? Does anyone remember that era of Yes? Does anyone yearn for a Horn-era Yes reunion tour besides ponytailed, multi-sided dice throwing 40-somethings working in the electronics section of Target that sneer at customers that buy greatest hits collections? I didn't think so and that's why we move forward......

So, naturally, as the date of the show closed in, I immersed myself in the Dio-era Sabbath releases and burned copies for Keno so that he may do his homework. I got word via his blog that ol' Lefty Brown and Steve Portela would be in attendance and made a mental note to hook up with them for a brew and a laugh. Another friend of mine would be bringing his kids, so I'd have an eye out for him as well. I felt nostalgic for the time of my youth when we networked days before a show to see who'd be there so we could stand around and bullshit at the concert.

October 2nd, 2007...40 years old.

Luckily for us both, Keno was on vacation that week or otherwise he would have been out of town on the road driving his rig. We'd just spent the weekend on the coast with the wives in a rented house overlooking the Pacific so that Keno and his wife (my wife's sister Jean) could ride their bikes in some absurd 100 mile event. The girls remained on the coast as Keno and I returned to Fresno Monday evening. I remember not feeling all that well during the drive to the coast Saturday and was worried that I was coming down with something. I was quiet and reserved, almost polite or even civilized. Mary knew something was wrong and so did Keno and Jean as soon as we arrived. As it turned out, my blood alcohol level had dipped dangerously low. Much like those with blood sugar concerns, I have to closely monitor my situation. I don't know what I was thinking and it scared me enough to never let that happen again. After administering 720 CCs of Coors Light and roughly 180 CCs of red wine (exact measurements are thrown out of the window during times of crisis), I was on my way back to my old life-of-the-party self.

As a sales rep, I was able to schedule a light day for myself that Tuesday. That way, Keno and I could get together for dinner and a drink before heading to the downtown arena. He drove over to my place and then we headed over to an Applebee's in my neighborhood if only to get a reliable meal that would lie sturdy in our guts as we absorbed concussive body blows from the Heavy Metal lineup. A couple of happy hour priced tall drafts at the restaurant would help cushion the blow of the more expensive and tragically shorter beers at Selland Arena. I thought about stopping somewhere and getting a tallboy Coors Light to suck down before entering the venue. Keno was on board in spirit, but getting a little tired. Then he had an idea.

We left Applebee's to look for a liquor store. Keno, ever a keen proponent of the malt liquor 211, had recently tried a canned concoction of energy drink and malt liquor with an aggressive name that he couldn't remember (and I can't now upon this writing--I dunno, something like Powerbuzzz, Groinslammer, or perhaps Rage'N'Sleep) and asked me to find him a liquor store. His reasoning was that he could get both caffeine and his coveted malt liquor in one hellish swallow. I pointed out a wreck of a West Fresno liquor store close to the Highway 99 onramp that would most likely carry his infernal elixir. We pulled into the parking lot, walked in and dashed towards the wall of reach in cooler doors. I spied my beloved and always available Coors Light tallboys, ready and willing in their gravity aided rows. When one is pulled off of the shelf, another takes it place like a good silver soldier. Then he saw the silver and neon green cans. I cringed a little, having hoped that he'd have to settle for simple domestic beer.

"Yeah, that's the one", Keno laughed. But when he tried to pull a can out, it was attached to three others. "What the fuuuuu....", he growled.

We looked and could not find a solo can for sale, but compared the four-pack to the price of singles of similar product, even the over sized Silver Bullets. It was determined that the four-pack was a better price and it was decided that Powerbuzzz (name substituted for purposes of continuation) was it for tonight. We figured Keno could take the other two cans home for future use. The Asian clerk took our money and told us to have a good time.

We parked on a surface street a couple of blocks away from Selland Arena and popped open our cans of Powerbuzzz. I took a pull off of mine and swallowed what seemed like just a take from a can of Red Bull or Monster. Then, the malt liquor kicked back like a whip and I convulsed like a baby tasting lemon on America's Funniest Home Videos. "Jesus Christ, this is shit", I cried as I turned to see Keno dragging down what looked like half his can of Powerbuzzz.

"Oh, shaddup", he said. "Drink up and let's go". I looked into the mouth of my can and sucked down a good portion. We opened the truck doors and stretched out a bit. He drained the last of his can and I followed suit. I shuddered a bit, put my hand on the door to slam it shut so we could walk over to the arena when I heard Keno say, "whaddya doin'? We got two more cans right there".

How could I argue with logic set so plainly in front of me? I got the two last cans out of the cardboard wrapper and handed him one. I had no plans to drink all of this one, I told Keno. The good thing was, this drink looked very similar to a pure energy drink and we could most likely walk right up to the arena door without a sideways look from the law. But I was wary of downing this much malt liquor this fast and I was sure the energy drink portion of the concoction would burn a hole in my stomach lining. We stood a block away and with more than half of the second can to go, I'd had it and wanted to toss the drink away. Keno agreed and while I looked for a place to drop my can without looking like a damned litterbug, he said, "Look here", as he stuck his can into a thick bush. The branches supported the weight and I added my can to make the bush into a hobo Easter Egg hunt. One of Fresno's homeless was going to wonder why he couldn't sleep that night.

We ambled the last block to the Selland Arena noting that a slight crowd was filing in. I wasn't concerned too much about the turnout since I hadn't seen any print ads other than the initial announcement. I always worry when I hear radio ads for a concert that is days away. As I was slipping the tickets out of my wallet, I heard someone yell, "Tony!"

Next: Part Two. Reunions abound and we find out if Tony can take a punch!

Back In The Saddle (sort of)

2007-11-13T11:19:00.000-08:00

Greetings, patient ones!

Below, you'll find some new material after an embarrassing absence. It is the text of a letter to a friend that contains concert content, so I'll cheat a bit and forward that along to all of you to jump start the posts. I'm just sentences away from my first new Hazy Memory entry in quite some time. No, really.

In a day or so, I'll be posting the first part of a tale spanning a quarter of a century. Well, maybe span is not quite accurate, but at least it bookends that period of time. Many guest stars and a few reunions, plus the unyielding Keno appears again. You'll also find the answer to an ages old mystery; can Tony take a punch?

Thanks as always for finding me here. Leave a comment below the story or shoot over an email using the link on the right. I've always been enough of a whore to read praise and hate mail!

--T

A Letter To Paul (Gov't Mule, S.F. 11/07)

2007-11-13T09:29:00.000-08:00

Just yesterday, I got an email from my friend Paul (of Paul's Rants and Raves, linked over on the right) asking for a review of Gov't Mule's two night stand at the Fillmore. I started to reply, but began to ramble on and on. After a couple of paragraphs, I decided to continue the letter, but post it here as a concert tale. This way, Paul can read it at his leisure and not feel like I've clubbed him with a ton of text. It doesn't read like my prior efforts since I stayed with a correspondence style, but this way I can take a shortcut back to posting again. Also, I really didn't spellcheck or pay attention to structure or pacing. The letter follows below:

Hey Paul,

Thanks for sending the photo. That's a fine looking young man you have there. I'll show the photo to Mary tonight.

We had blast this past weekend, but how could we not? As I mentioned in my previous communication, we were celebrating a belated anniversary celebration and were ready to party and cut loose a little. We arrived early enough to enjoy a relaxing couple of glasses of wine from the reception in the lobby--much better than sweating out the traffic and feeling rushed to get something to eat and get to the show early enough, blah, blah, blah. We washed up and headed over to our traditional pre-Fillmore dinner at Benihana. I realize it's a chain and there are many excellent places in S.F., but we always have a great meal there close to the venue and usually meet some interesting people. This time, we dined with some folks that originally hailed from Iran. Nice people and one was celebrating his birthday, so we insisted that he have a glass from our bottle of sake. By the way, there is a tricky balance when mixing Sapporo and sake. Hint, lean a little more to the Sapporo side to play it safe.

After dinner, we timed it perfectly to walk right up the stairs and into the Fillmore. Looked at the swag (Mary got another great shirt----she's got far more concert shirts than I do by now) and we checked our coats. After securing a couple of beers, we talked to some folks from Bakersfield and some Mule first timers. Mary got it in her head that we were going up front this time so we headed out onto the floor to check out Grace Potter and The Nocturnals, where Mary got us about 6 people deep from the stage. I'd picked up her latest disc used out of town and liked it enough, but it wasn't winning me over. She was great live however, and I'm looking forward to seeing if the CD comes to life a little now that I've felt some "oomph" behind the tracks. Matt Abts came out for a little drum circle thing that was cool enough to see, but a little plain. (They did the same exact thing the next night sans Abts).

The Mule was awesome on Friday and the crowd was super cool and polite. After missing them last year, we were smiling and reminding each other how much we love these guys live. The sound was loud, but not overpowering, and very clean. I always bring my earplugs just in case, but rarely need them at The Fillmore--not even for the Black Crowes, who can do some serious damage to their fans. The setlist is below. My faves were Low Spark (always loved that tune anyway), Ohio with Potter, and Brighter Days to open set 2. We left a little early to secure posters of the show since we heard that they only had 100 per night.

11.09.07 The Fillmore - San Francisco, CASet 1Helter SkelterThorazine ShuffleTime To ConfessFeel Like Breaking Up Somebody's Home>Eleanor Rigby teaseWandering ChildShape I'm InLow Spark Of High Heeled BoysSlackjaw JezebelFind The Cost Of Freedom> w. Grace PotterOhio w/ Grace Potter & Scott Tournet

Set 2Brighter DaysLike FliesChampagne & Reefer W/ Elvin BishopThat's What Love Will Make You DoDrumsSoulshine tease> Trampled UnderfootSoulshine30 Days In The Hole>I Don't Need No DoctorEncoreOut Of The RainI'll Be The OneI'll Take You There

Saturday, we slept in really late as we shook the cobwebs from our minds and bodies. We had ideas of hitting a museum or perhaps heading into Golden Gate Park, but we were pretty whipped and decided to just go for some lunch and a long walk. It was a misty day, so the Park would have been dissapointing and I wasn't in the mood for the confines of a museum. We put on comfy clothes, grabbed the umbrella and walked around Japantown ducking into stores and the two awesome Asian malls near the hotel. The malls make you feel like you're in Japan, as much as I can guess. Caucasians are the minority and English is usually the second language, so it feels somewhat exotic. I also love walking around in the rain under an umbrella. In the rainy element and the Asian influence all around, I felt like I was an extra in the opening sequence of Blade Runner.

We went back to the hotel and shared a bottle of wine we brought from home to relax and watch some college football before getting cleaned up for the show. This time, we decided to try the restaurant in the hotel. The menu was a bit too adventurous for us, so we shared some tame appetizers of beef and chicken skewers and tempura mushrooms. The mushrooms were pretty heavy on the batter and we both felt a little thick afterwards. We went into the mall and shared some focaccia bread from Anderson's to take the edge off and settle our bellies. Then it was off to the show.

While Friday was sold out late, Saturday had been for a while and it seemed more packed this time. The crowd seemed different too, with more of an attitude and much less friendly in terms of making room as you walked by or apolgizing for bumping into you. After Potter's set, Mary was not feeling well and we think it was the mushrooms (that sounds like a drug reference, especially at The Fillmore) because of her shellfish allergy. It's so severe that she has to be careful of most fried foods in case restaurants share the fryer with all foods. She tried getting some fresh air and we moved about the Fillmore to try and find a good spot for her, but it was really stuffy in there that night and she almost felt claustrophobic. She stuck it out for the first set, but decided to leave at the break and insisted that I stay. As I wrote before on my blog, Japantown is really safe and the hotel is right around the block, so I felt okay about her heading back.

The setlist is below. My faves this night were If 6 Was 9, Southern Man with Potter, Streamline Woman, and I'm A Ram. Warren seemed to be in a really good mood, smiling and acknowledging the crowd quite often. I preferred Friday's set, but had they only played one night and gave us this, I would not have walked away dissapointed.

11.10.07 The Fillmore - San Francisco, CA Set 1:Grinnin' In Your Face Bad Little DoggieStreamline WomanDevil Likes It SlowNo Need To SufferChild Of The EarthLarger Than LifeIf 6 Was 9I Shall Return>Drift Away>I Shall ReturnSouthern Man w/ Grace Potter

Set 2:Patchwork QuiltBeautifully Broken>Bus StopMr. High & MightyBrand New AngelDrumsReblow Your Mind w/ Get Up, Stand Up JamI'm A RamMuleEncore 1:Shelter *Encore 2:After Midnight

Another great show. I ducked out after hearing the first notes of After Midnight and got another poster. It was raining pretty good as I left and Mary had taken the umbrella with her. Luckily I'd worn a jacket with a hood, so I dashed off to a liquor store to get a burrito (which is also a Fillmore tradition) since the appetizers had long worn off. I enjoyed hearing the rain snap off of my hood and unlike the others walking around, I was in no hurry to get anywhere. In the liquor store, I felt really old as four seemingly sober young people ordered two cases of beer, two mini-kegs of Heineken, and a bottle of vodka. It was 1:15 in the morning and they looked to just be starting out that night while I was almost out on my feet. I took my modest meal back to the hotel and tried not to wake Mary up by struggling with the wrapper. It was to little effect and she giggled at my efforts. I propped up a pillow and watched TV turned down low as I attempted to not sound like a wolf ripping apart a rabbit.

Sunday morning was a little more gentle on us and we gnoshed on a couple of doughnuts while watching NFL pregame stuff. We decided to get on the road and pick up fast food on the way instead of sticking around the city. Traffic was light and we made good time going home. Sitting at home watching the Raiders stink it up again, we kept doing that "oh, remember when....?" thing as we recalled all the good memories from our trip. I get to see Gov't Mule do a two night stand as a mutual gift for our wedding anniversary. Pretty damn charmed life I lead.

--Tony

Wabbit Season! Duck Season! Festival Season!

2007-08-31T18:33:00.000-07:00

With all the reunion tours happening lately, I got in the spirit and decided that it was way overdue that I reunite with my faithful readers, patient friends and family, and curiosity seekers from all over the globe.

Welcome back, concert story fans.

No story tonight, but news of what will be here soon. I recently corresponded with my friend Paul via email and mentioned to him a certain tale that I'm putting together. It's been rattling around my skull and colliding with the few remaining healthy brain cells that continually scatter when I down another frosty lager. It was originally going to be about this year's Ozzfest, but now with another festival on the docket, it has bloomed into a project piece. At the risk of running out of room in my title header, I call it Ozzfest Vs. Family Values: A Discourse On The Obvious Lack Of Affordable Orthodontics In America.

Tomorrow, September 1st, my steadfast concert companion (and fervent defender of the malt liquor 211) Keno and I will be heading up to Mountain View and the awesome Shoreline Amphitheater to catch this year's installment of the Family Values tour. Korn once again headlines with a gaggle of modern heavy acts on two stages. As Ozzfest veterans, we're ready to shop and compare. (Teaser: Family Values already has the upper hand in this battle due to a better line-up and we're visiting one of our favorite venues.)

As a qualifier, I should say that I'm not a huge fan of any of the acts featured on either bill and really go to people watch as much as to listen to music. But I will admit that now that I've picked up a couple of used Korn CDs to do some homework, I am duly impressed with some of their stuff. I'll be interested to see how the material translates live.

So there you go. A nice little note from the author. Hopefully, this project will get the juices flowing again and you'll see plenty more output from yours truly. Thanks as always for checking back and for sending along praise and nice sentiments. I do appreciate it.

--Ol' Hazy Tony
Fresno, Aug 31, 2007

Do You Hear Something?

2007-03-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

Hey patient readers!

Now you can read these sordid narratives while being serenaded by the likes of Rollins Band, TOOL, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and many others. I'll be adding more tracks in the next few days. If you don't like what you hear, you can control the player that's located at the bottom of the page. Scroll through the tracks or simply stop the tunes.

I borrowed the idea from Jason's site. He's really gotten his blog dressed up nicely. Check it out here.

More stories on the way. I'm thinking about the time I sneaked backstage at the Shoreline Amphitheater and met all the artists on the inaugural G3 tour just over ten years ago.

Check back soon and in the meantime, turn it up!

--Tony

Update--More New Stuff Below

2007-02-25T10:23:00.000-08:00

As always, the author thanks you for checking in from time to time to scan over his rambling drabble.

The roadtrip finale is just below this post if you've been waiting for me to wrap that one up. The last installment is a bit long, but I didn't want to drag it out to a part 5. There will be more Hitting The Road With Keno stories in the future including fables of Ozzfest, the grimy music scene in Hollywood, and the unlikely viewing of CSN&Y from a luxury suite.

If you're reading this on the day it is posted (Sunday, February 25th, 2007), tonight might be the source of yet another chapter in the ...Keno series. He and I are heading over to the Save Mart Center in Fresno to see The Who. This one's been on my radar for years and while I'm sad that they're down to two original members and I've assuredly missed the apex of the band's powerful presence, I anxiously await what will unfold before me this evening.

Thanks again and scroll down to finish up the four parter, Hitting The Road With Keno.

---Tony

Hitting The Road With Keno (Part Four)

2007-02-25T10:22:00.000-08:00

When we last left our heroes, the young man at the door to the Fillmore said something that stunned them.

"Hey", he said, "were you guys at the Warfield?"

----------

He'd given us a pretty good once over as we stood on the sidewalk just outside the historic venue and I was wondering what the hell he was looking at. When he asked about the Warfield, Keno and I looked at each other like this guy was hosting a 3 card monty game and we were the marks.

"Uh, yeah, we were. Why?", I stammered. "And how'd you know?"

Keno added, "Yeah, how'd you do that?"

The young man smiled and pointed at our left hands. "Your hand stamps. It's kind of our sister venue. You know what? Go on in", he said as he nodded up the stairs into the ballroom.

"Are you serious?", I asked excitedly.

He laughed a little and said, "Yeah, c'mon up. You made it this far. It's cool". I offered to somehow pay for tickets that didn't exist and he waved me and Keno off. His female assistant asked him how she was to account for our presence. Should she scan the "comp" ticket left at the door or just let us in. They were both grinning at the "pay it forward" thing they were attempting. Scanning the ticket twice would throw things all out of whack with bookkeeping, he said. Keno and I paused as they tried to figure this out and when the young man noticed, he said, "Go on guys, this won't matter. Have a good time".

We shook his hand and thanked them both profusely. We lept up the stairs and I began babbling about how that never should have happened and that it was like it was a rock and roll miracle. We entered the lobby and I immediately wanted to show Keno the historic concert posters adorning the walls of the Fillmore, but we quickly took a peak out onto the main floor to see Robin Trower mugging his way through a soulful solo. Keno was smiling like a child. Back in the lobby, we marveled at photos and posters commemorating the acts that have played there. We grabbed a couple of beers and headed upstairs to an area in which you can't see the stage but can hear the music from afar. In this area, you can order surprisingly passable food, more drinks, and lounge around with the ability to carry on a conversation at a normal level. But what I like about it more than anything else is the fact that the oldest and most historically significant concert posters are displayed up there.

Posters announcing Bay Area concerts with designs ranging from the simple monochromatic rectangles with block writing that were found on telephone poles in abundance in the late '50s and early sixties to the brightly colored cartoonish posters announcing many alternative acts of the '90s. Of course, in between those eras were the psychedelic posters of the late '60s which were the dominant residents of the upstairs area. After gawking at artwork we'd only seen in magazines and rock and roll history books, we decided it was time to actually head out onto the main floor to catch the end of the show.

Keno hadn't realized the history behind the Fillmore and when he saw names like Hendrix, Zeppelin, Joplin, the Dead, and many many others, he remarked how blown away he was to be in that building. Obviously, I'd failed to explain to him before we arrived just how much I love the place. I've stood on Civil War battlefields, gazed at the Constitution, looked over Gotham from atop the Twin Towers, climbed the stairs within the Statue of Liberty, and travelled deep into the Ozarks to walk the land on which my elders worked themselves to death. And when I step onto the boards of the Fillmore's ballroom dance floor, I feel no less of a sense of history than I do anywhere else in the nation.

We stepped into the crowd and the volume from the stage washed over us, but much more gently now than before with Rollins Band at the Warfield. While the show was a sellout, there was plenty of "personal space" on the main floor. We decided to make our way up front, but only as long as we didn't infringe on anyone's little stake. We didn't want to be "those people" that see a foot of real estate and plunk themselves right in front of you just as things are heating up when you've been there all night. As we strode deeper and deeper into the stage-lit jungle, I was amazed that Keno--who was leading this expedition--was able to keep going without breaking stride. We did jag to stage right a little, then a little more, but we were still making tracks. Before a few seconds had passed, we found ourselves right up against the stage, just to the right and in front of the monitors.

We looked behind us to make sure we weren't obstructing anyone's view. Not only did we not get any dirty looks, we got smiles and nods from all those around us. Amazing, I thought. Keno shrugged and laughed as he pointed to way back in the rear from whence our journey began lo those 20 seconds ago.

We watched as Robin Trower led his band into a couple more tunes. The great Davey Pattison was on vocals this night. Aside from the dearly departed original bassist and singer James Dewar, Pattison is my favorite Trower vocalist and he was in fine form this night. When he asked, I told Keno that these guys were all in their fifties and maybe pushing 60. He was shocked, but duly impressed. "They look like guys that might get together and play in their garage", he said, noting the lack of flashy stage clothing or physical histrionics. I nodded and said, "That's what rock and roll used to be. Just guys playing music without worrying about their hair or makeup or wrinkles".

A couple of women our age were rocking out beside me and one was well under 5 feet tall. I felt sorry for her because a pretty tall guy was in front of her, but she was grooving all the same. The big guy turned around and offered to move, but she declined. What a champ. I bent towards her and told her that she could stand in front of me because I had a clean view of the stage and she wouldn't block it. She said thanks and told me that I could put my beer on her head if I needed to put it down to applaud. Priceless.

The set ended a little sooner than I'd estimated. All in all, we'd been able to catch about 35 minutes of Trower's show, but it was free so we couldn't possibly complain. We joined the cattle drive out of the narrow stairwell and I stretched my neck to see if our friend was still manning the door when I spied another employee licking her thumb like she was turning pages of a newspaper. I moved my head to see through the crowd and was thrilled to see that she was passing out.........wait for it........Fillmore concert posters!

A tradition of the Fillmore is to hand out replicas of the concert poster commissioned for the night's performance, given that the artist has sold enough tickets to warrant a poster and therefore deem it an "event" worthy of such a commemoration. I guess Robin Trower was just such a night and I gave Keno the rundown as we shuffled down the steps, accepted our cardboard prize, and exited into the shockingly mild San Francisco night. Since we had taxied over from the Warfield, we were free for the evening and I suggested that we head over to The Boom Boom Room, catty-cornered from the Fillmore, to see a blues guy who called himself Chicken Man. Who could resist a name like that? And after the rock and roll karma we'd had so far, it had to be good.

We rolled up our posters and started to cross the street. On the way, we saw a beautiful woman with a cool looking dog. We casually asked what kind of dog it was and she replied with a breed I can't recall at this time, but it was a great looking dog. Keno patted the dog's head and I looked to see if there was a crowd over at The Boom Boom Room.

"Did you guys see the show?", the woman asked.

I assumed that she was from the neighborhood and was used to people roaming around at this hour. "Yeah, we saw the last part of it", I replied.

She smiled and said, "Wasn't it great?"

Keno and I both looked at each other, then at the dog, then at the woman. "You were there too?", asked Keno.

"Uh-huh. God, Trower's so killer on guitar", she said. "Have you seen him before?"

I hesitated for a second and glanced at the dog again. "Uh, yeah, a bunch of times back in Fresno. So, wait a minute....."

Keno was on my heels. "......if you were at the show...."

".......what did you do with the dog?", I finished.

She smiled and swung her body around a little. "I live just right over there and I went over and got him. I like to watch people come out of the place to see their reaction."

"Thank God", I blurted, "I thought you'd left him in the car or tied up somewhere all this time".

She went on to explain that she goes to shows at the Fillmore all the time and named a few of the recent ones. Poor Keno had no knowledge of some of the bands when I told her that I'd seen the listings for those shows or that I'd seen some of the bands way back when. As she spoke to Keno, I noticed that she was a little older than I'd first suspected. She had long, naturally greying hair pulled back from her face and a nice petite figure. I wondered how a woman like this could have been at the show alone and now stood on Geary Street without a companion other than her dog.

As much as I was enjoying talking to this woman, I was getting antsy to get into the Boom Boom Room to complete the rock and roll trifecta. When she asked what we were up to next, I motioned towards the tiny venue and explained how we'd been to two shows already. She really enjoyed the tale of our travels so far and said that we'd have a good time at the Boom Boom Room. We spoke for a few more minutes and I mentioned to Keno that we should head on over. We shook hands with the woman and introduced ourselves as we said goodbye.

Now, I'm normally pretty good with names. She said her name and I repeated it back to her, telling her that it was nice talking to her and I said my name; a nice little trick to help you remember names is to repeat what you hear back to the person. Keno is not good with names. Of anyone or anything. In fact, he tends to make up names for things and people. It takes some getting used to and when you spend enough time around him, you scare yourself because you begin to understand him perfectly. I've become fairly fluent in Kenoese.

Another problem with understanding Kenoese is that it becomes ingrained in your psyche and you begin to use Kenoisms in your everyday speech. The phrase, "ever since" becomes "every since". You don't go "all the way" down the street, you go "all the ways". It's so bad for me now that when I use proper English, it sounds funny. But aside from personal usage of Kenoese, there's also the overwhelming usage from Keno himself that can actually alter your memory so that what he names something becomes the proper name for that thing. Or, in this case, a person.

As we rambled across the street, it occurred to both of us at the same time that we should have invited this woman to the blues show. She could have taken the dog home and joined us for more good conversation and some good tunes. I turned around and she'd left. It was too late and I shrugged. We paid our way in and headed to the bar. Chicken-Man was in between sets, so we were able to get a drink and take a look around. The place was about half full, which is easy to accomplish at the small, narrow club.

"Man, that Angelica sure was a cool person", said Keno, rolling up his poster and securing it with the rubber band given to him by the bartender.

I looked at him as I fixed mine. "Who?"

"Angelica", he said. "You know, the woman we were just talking to".

I laughed and told him her name wasn't even close to Angelica and I asked where he pulled that name from. He didn't know as he is unable to explain the nuances of Kenoese and its power to change reality, however recent. I corrected him on her name numerous times in the next few months when we'd reminence about the trip. By relentlessly referring to her as Angelica and due to the influence of Kenoese, I cannot now remember her proper name and she is forever remembered as Angelica to both of us. I remember her name as not being exotic, but not commonplace either. But it is wiped from my memory and has been supplanted with Angelica permanently. Such is the power of Kenoese.

Standing inside The Boom Boom Room, we surveyed the clientele. We noticed a few people from the Fillmore crowd, including the lady that offered her head as a table, her attractive friend, and more than a few oafish drunken middle aged guys. Chicken Man was taking the stage for what I assumed was his second set of the night. He reminded me a bit of Bo Diddley and played what looked like a guitar made out of a hubcap and a shoe box. He had an all white, all female band, which I found strange for no good reason. They played fairly standard blues with a shuffle beat and Chicken Man sang with a soulful, gruffy voice. And like most live blues acts, it had people bobbing their heads to the infectous beat.

We found a couple of seats along the wall and watched the show. A few moments later, two African American ladies sat down near us and we exchanged pleasantries. I'd had enough liquid courage to venture onto the dance floor so I asked the one I thought was the more attractive of the two if she'd like to dance. She smiled and said sure. I smirked at Keno as I stood. I'd left him sitting there with a woman that looked like Aunt Esther from Sanford and Son.

We danced a little and made some small talk. She complemented me on my dancing and I asked her the prescription on her glasses had suddenly run out. She laughed. We kept dancing for a few minutes and as the song kept on and on, I glanced at the stage. Chicken Man was in a long, extended solo with his band hammering out a hypnotic beat. I was sure we had passed the seven minute mark and both of us were getting a little tired. We agreed to bail out and sit back down.

Keno was half grinning at me and half glaring. I'd left him in an awkward position by going out to dance. He had three options; ask her to dance, at least make stilted conversation with her, or just sit there silently. He had taken the third option and I laughed out loud. He was cussing me out in his head, but smiling all the same. A few songs later, I did it to him again as I escorted my partner out onto the floor. Once again, a bouncy little number degenerated into a redundant dirge and we nodded to each other that it was okay to quit this dance as well. I think we'd made it ten minutes that time. At least I got my cardio in for the day.

The show ended not too much later and we spilled out onto the street to look for a cab. Just as before, we landed one almost instantly and were whisked back across town to our hotel near the Warfield. On the way, I was telling Keno about the best microwave burritos in the world that Mary and I had found in a little bodega near The Hotel Metropolis. It was after a Gov't Mule show and we were starving. The area closes up like Beruit after midnight, but the bodega was open, mostly catering to late night liquor runs from the homeless using the handfuls of change they've garnered. We'd gone in with the initial thought that some crackers or danish would hold us over until morning, but when we spied the giant burritos in the case, the decision was made. It has been a tradition for us ever since.

The cab pulled up along the curb outside the Hotel Metropolis. We paid the driver and stepped out, being immediately converged upon by a panhandler. Keno had his rolled up poster in his hand and whacked the guy's outsretched hand, then quickly giving him a shot to the forehead, all the while telling him "no!" like you would a dog that had jumped up on you. The hollow "thunk" sound that the poster made on the poor guy's skull made me gasp, but we never broke stride towards the bodega. "You just hit that guy on the head", I said.

Keno barely looked over his shoulder at me. "Yeah?"

"You can't do that. I can't believe you did that", I scolded him. The homeless guy just stood frozen. He also couldn't believe that Keno just popped him.

We walked up to the bodega to see the guys that run the place looking back at us through the security gate. They had just closed and we made the same "awww" sound just like outside the Fillmore earlier. There was a 7-11 just over on Market and it was there that we found our early morning feast.

By now, we were buzzing pretty heavy and anything sounded good to eat. Keno chose some sort of burrito and I picked out a carnitas wrap. We blasted them in the microwave, paid, and scampered back to the hotel. In the room, we watched some late news while scarfing down the delicious burritos. A bag of chips and some good old San Francisco tap finished off the meal.

My next memory is waking up later that morning to the sounds of the city coming to life down on Market Street, muffled through our balcony door. I stirred and looked around the room. Taking a personal inventory, I discoverd that, with the absence of my shoes, I was still fully clothed and had slept on top of the covers of the still made-up bed. I could only assume that I'd finished my food and decided, much like a dog, that where I sat looked like a good place to sleep.

Keno and I rehashed the evening's events and pieced together the whirlwind night. Our rememberance took us all the way up to the burritos and Keno wanted to know what it was he ate because it was so damn good. I couldn't remember, so we looked for the wrapper. Mine was on the floor near the trash can so it looked like I'd at least made an effort to throw it away. We looked everywhere for his until we came to agree that he must have mistaken his burrito for rice candy and ate the wrapper.

We collected ourselves and decided to hit the road. But first, we needed to eat and concluded that the corner sports bar and grill would do us some good. The burgers were good and it was close enough to walk to so we wouldn't have to pay to park. Stretching our legs felt good and the brisk late Saturday morning air felt good in our lungs. We walked into the restaurant and our waitress from the previous night smiled when she saw us. She came over and took our order.

I told her that I'd have the same thing from last night and she remembered my order. Keno decided to back off of the double cheeseburger and just do a single. He looked up at the waitress sheepishly and said, "I don't think I could eat another one of those this morning. That was a pretty big burger".

She hardly looked up from her order pad and replied, "Uh, yeah, that was a pound of beef you had there".

She spun to turn in our orders and Keno just sat there stunned. "Jesus", he muttered. "A pound of meat?" He said it over and over until I told him to knock it off.

A few minutes later, she returned with our burgers and they were as good as I remembered. A few bites in, Keno put his down with disgust. "What's the matter?", I asked.

"This thing's big enough as it is", he said. "How did I eat the one last night? Did I just flat our make a pig of myself?"

He seemed genuinely concerned, looking at me, then at his current burger with disbelief. I reassured him that while I was entertained watching him attack last night's mountain of beef, no one else even noticed. Except for our waitress, that is, who came back to check on us.

"A little more managable there?", she laughed.

Epilouge

A couple of days later, I'd read online that at the end of the tour with X, Rollins Band would return home to Los Angeles for a stand alone show at the Key Club in Hollywood. I desperately wanted to go and see a full set from the band and I had a feeling that it would most likely be the last opportunity to do so. I let Keno know about it and he was on board as well. I'll write about that adventure later on this site. While it may not have been as whirlwind as the San Francisco trip, it did include some Walk of Fame moments, a few more beers, and some hobnobbing at the infamous Rainbow. Check back for more installments of Hitting The Road With Keno.

Hitting The Road With Keno (Part Three)

2007-02-16T12:16:00.000-08:00

The crowd had now come in closer to see with their own eyes what was the cause of all the aural carnage that is the Rollins Band. I could not stop smiling. Every note was so familiar to me from all the plays the albums got while I worked out in the garage. Back when I got my Mp3 player, I loaded it up and hit the pavement, running farther than ever before with Rollins screaming in my ears like a Drill Sergeant. When I joined a local gym, I quickly became almost physically sickened by the techno/dance/club songs that they played on their satellite radio. What made me sad was that there were so many cool choices and they picked a station that plays music with a backbeat that sounds like you're driving down the highway doing ninety with a flat and someone's playing a kazoo through a bullhorn. With Rollins Band tunes being volleyed across my brain through my headphones, I was sure that I was getting more inspiration that anyone else in there. The only problem was when a Rollins Band song would end and in the black hole between songs, I'd hear a smidgen of something like "I'm A Barbie Girl" or some other shit over the gym's speakers. Then, Rollins would slap me back into the workout as if I'd walked into a screen door.

As I'm wont to do, I stole glances around the Warfield to gauge the crowd's reaction, being careful not to miss too much at once of what was going down on stage. Not knowing what to expect, I was pleased to see the crowd really into it. I took another glance to my left to see the soccer mom grinning as stupidly as I was. She noticed that my head was turned in her direction, smiled, and screamed "yeaaahhh!!" at me loud enough for the people directly below our rail look up at us. I smiled wide at her and nodded. I wished that I'd talked to her before the show. I was fascinated that someone as normal as she seemed, not to mention female and even a little cute, was here and so into Rollins that she knew the lyrics better than I did. But then again, I probably looked like a Rotarian accountant that got lost on his way to the indoor driving range, so I felt like I'd found sort of a kindred spirit. I imagined that she felt the same way.

Rollins Band moved into the track Burned Beyond Recognition and the crowd shifted gears right along with the band. I was beside myself as I rotated my gaze from Rollins to Melvin Gibbs on bass, to Sim Cain on drums, to Chris Haskett on guitar, and helplessly back to Rollins. I say helplessly because, like a house on fire, he draws your gaze and you can almost feel the radiant heat of the onstage combustion. Keno was now fully engaged, smiling, nodding, and generally whooping it up. "This guy's a maniac!", he yelled into my ear. "It's like he's electrified or something!"

Two songs in and Henry Rollins was literally dripping with sweat, streams pouring off of his jawline and elbows. He was dressed in his usual stage garb of just a pair of black shorts and, at age 45, looked as muscular and imposing as ever under the stage lights. As he tore through the set, the stances he took and held seemed almost like those of a martial artist or even some sort of ancient warrior. It struck me once that he looked like a rock and roll Atlas, his shoulders bearing the crushing weight of a world filled with the musically ignorant and uninformed; those that buy Jimi Hendrix t-shirts at Target, but don't own Are You Experienced?, those that only consider the new releases in the Best Buy or Target Sunday ads, those that stop listening to anything released after the year they graduated high school, and those guys with the Faux-hawks.

The soccer mom and I sang (should read: yelled, shouted, or howled) along with abandon. A Rollins Band show almost seems like an aerobics class for degenerate rockers, so even though we were respectful of our personal space, she and I bumped from time to time in our enthusiastic bobbing and weaving. I didn't think much of it, especially since her husband was standing directly behind her, but then we had a Lady and the Tramp moment.

As I stated before, Keno and I were standing right at a waist high rail and I leaned my hip against it with a beer in my right hand and my left resting on the rail. The soccer mom brushed me again with her whipping hair and then slightly bumped me with her hip. I glanced at her briefly and she smiled. I gave her a closed-mouth smile with raised eyebrows in return, so as to convey a "what was that?" message. I leaned over to Keno and told him that there might be a problem. He grinned and said, "Uh, yeah, she's into you pal". I squinted at him in disbelief. "And her man is not having a good time with this", he continued with a nod towards the husband. Keno was right. When I pretended to look over my shoulder for a waitress, I saw the husband with a face that could easily have been a model for the monuments on Easter Island.

A few moments later, as the Warfield crowd was driven into a frenzy by Rollins Band's Starve, Soccer Mom and I bumped shoulders and then I felt her hand fall on my mine on the rail. I didn't move right away. Like I said about the hot desk clerk at the hotel in Part One, I'm bad at this sort of thing. I tried to keep my head bobbing and knee bending routine in check, but I was consumed with the thought of Stonefaced Husband clubbing me over the head with a pint glass. I subtly (at least I think I was subtle) started to move my hand away when I felt her squeeze it slightly.

Like the seconds during a car crash, a hundred thoughts went through my mind. The top five are listed here:

5. Does this chick need glasses? Can she not see (or now surely feel?) my wedding ring?
4. Hmm, is she hot?
3. Her husband's about my size; I think I can take him should he attack.
2. Where's that waitress?
1. Goddamit, she's fucking up my Rollins show!

I couldn't look as I pulled my hand from under her light grasp to scratch the imaginary itch on my left temple. It took me a few seconds to refocus on the show, but I was perplexed; she wasn't drunk or high that I could tell so I could not fathom what she was doing. I guess I was flattered a little, but mostly confused. I wasn't sure if Keno had seen her little gesture, but he was smiling at me when I looked over my right shoulder to flag down that damn waitress. Another round will help me shake the cobwebs from my head, I thought.

The set was flying by at a high rate of speed and as much as I was enjoying it, I was almost getting sad that it was going to end soon. Rollins Band was only allotted an hour to play and I had to fight like a junkie to not look at my watch. It reminds me of the times that I put a book down with a chapter or two to go because I didn't want it to end. Becoming self-aware, thinking about books and the crazy suburban wife next to me flirting like she was at a sock hop had me completely distracted for a moment before the crashing halt of You Didn't Need shook me awake. The opening notes of the band's hit Liar got the crowd cheering. What would have been an expected late set tune for the casual observer--like the average Aerosmith fan expecting Walk This Way as an encore--had me surprised. Rollins hadn't played Liar in years, in what I assumed as his reluctance to use it as a crutch or perhaps even as a defiant stand against the music industry that would have him (or any artist) wring every ounce of play out of a song's potential.

As for myself, I was thrilled to hear the song live for the first time. I leaned over to Stonefaced Husband, so as to make peace in case he'd witnessed the "hand incident".

"He hasn't played this in a looong time", I said with a big smile.

He recoiled a bit, but smiled. "Uhh...yeeaahhh. Cool."

I then realized that he didn't know who the fuck Rollins was, moreover he didn't care. He looked like he wanted either for X to start up soon or more likely just go home and watch SportsCenter. Before I could spin back to the rail, the soccer mom grabbed my forearm.

"Fuck, I know! It's been forever! Yeaaahh!!", she screamed as she spun back towards the stage, bouncing on her toes.

I "yeaaahhed" her back and took my position at the rail without looking back at the husband. Rollins took us all through the paces of his hit and the obscure Also Ran before letting go his grip on our collective throats. When the lights came up, I looked at Keno and he looked like a teenager that just got his cherry popped, his face a mix of disbelief and satisfaction. I shook my head, laughed, and asked him if he was ready to roll.

"Goddamn man, you tried to tell me what Rollins was all about, but......fuck", Keno blurted. I loved it. I knew he'd enjoy the music enough, but the look on his face told me that he enjoyed the spectacle as well.

We made our way past the milling crowd as they wandered towards the restrooms, merch table, or the bar. If we didn't have to hit the road to get across town, I might have been interested to chat with the soccer mom with the house lights on and without 120 decibels of rock and roll blasting away, if anything to just to get a read on her. I was curious to find out how long she'd been a fan, where they were from, and maybe silently try to guess her age. But, it was probably for the best that we jammed and just let her and her actions remain a mystery. We hit the passageway from the main floor to the lobby and because we were near the entrance and the crowd was moving further into the venue, we made our escape quickly. As we strode towards the doors, a bouncer said loudly, "No ins and outs, guys!"

"No problem. We saw what we came to see", I replied without looking back. We were a dozen steps up Market Street when Keno hailed a cab. We hopped in and told the man to make haste to the Fillmore. Robin Trower was waiting.

My theory about the time and money needed to traverse the city was correct. In just minutes, the cabbie had us across the street from the famed ballroom and at seven bucks, the ride had cost us a buck less than the cheapest parking lot I saw in the neighborhood. I handed him a ten and we scooted across the street to the Fillmore's doorway. There was no one hanging around so it was clear that the show had started a while ago. A man and woman were working the door as we walked up.

I'd seen online that the tickets would cost us $35, but we rationalized that even a partial show would be worth the experience of hitting two venues in one night, so we weren't deterred at all that the show was underway without us. I said hi to the man at the door, a young guy about thirty.

"Are there still tickets left?", I asked.

He smile-frowned and said, "No, sorry guys. It sold out just earlier tonight".

We froze in our tracks and both exhaled an "awww" like little boys being told that it was bedtime. The young door man said sorry again, but then looked like he was examining something about us. He then looked up at our faces and spoke.

"Hey", he said. "Were you guys at the Warfield tonight?"

Next: The conclusion to Hitting The Road With Keno-Part 4

Welcome A New Voice

2007-02-08T15:02:00.000-08:00

During a little break from the Hitting The Road With Keno series, I want to introduce my readers to an old friend of mine, Jason Kentros. I've known Jason since he was a teenager, but we hadn't seen each other in quite some time. His mother and Mary were very good friends years ago before geography separated them. Jason and I always loved to talk music and even back then, he had quite a varied and mature palate.

On Super Bowl Sunday, our doorbell rang and Mary answered. Jason stood there, but it took Mary a few beats to recognize him. It turned out that he was on his way to a Super Bowl party and because we used to throw a big bash every year, he stopped by to say hi. In any event, we were lounging around before heading to my sister-in-law's house, so we had a good chance to catch up.

It wasn't long before we started up on the music talk again and I wrote down this site's address so that he could check out my stories when he returned to his house in northern California.

It wasn't long before the blogging bug bit him as well and he's off and running. He has a very readable style and so far I've really enjoyed his approach. Look for concert stories (hopefully not Hazy ones--that's my gig!) and other insights there. He even gives me credit as an inspiration for him to start up his blog. Maybe the lineage isn't exactly Guthrie>Dylan, but I'm flattered all the same.

The link is over on the right sidebar along with friends Lefty and Paul. I think Jason's in good company over there. Check out Jason's blog today!

www.jksharkbyte.blogspot.com

Hitting The Road With Keno (Part Two)

2007-02-05T20:04:00.000-08:00

Now at dusk, the San Francisco sidewalk has emptied of shoppers and office dwellers, displaced by nocturnal beings just awakening. Kids that take 25 minutes to make their hair look like bedhead walk around adorned with $145 jeans shredded in the factory to give the privileged buyer the appearance of a junkie. Makes me wonder if some third world country villager is paid 3 cents a day to wear the pants for a couple of years to give them the fringed hem and faded thighs. African-Americans in huge parkas and baggy pants strut like tiny Michelin Men and tourists in shorts and t-shirts from warmer climes now huddle for warmth as the sun disappears over Union Square.

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Keno and I now hustled up 4th to Market Street and spun on our heels to turn left. We were now energized, our bellies full of beef and mouths full of Tootsie Pop. As we made our way past the next shift of street performers and the now more alert zombie army of homeless, I became more and more anxious. It hit me that I was just a couple of hours away from seeing Rollins Band in the incarnation that I most enjoyed on record. I looked around, wanting to remember that moment, and took a deep breath. The Korean camera store and the stench of urine are now embedded in my memory as an attachment to Rollins Band music; I'd forgotten that I was on Market Street.

We came upon the entrance to the Warfield Theater and found.......no one. The doors were open and for the first time ever, I did not have to wait in a line. I'd seen bands in this building ranging from Spin Doctors to Joe Satriani, from Gov't Mule to Tin Machine, and no matter what time I'd shown up, I'd always waited in line in the bitter cold fending off panhandlers and wishing I'd been smart enough to bring a tallboy or stogie to pass the time. Most of the time, I had the wife to wrap my arms around, so it wasn't all bad.

This time though, Keno and I walked right up to the bored ticket takers and strolled into a barren lobby. He looked at me and cocked his head as to comment, "hmm, big time concert you brought me to". I shrugged. I didn't care how many people showed up. We were going to have a great time, of that I was sure. I wanted to show him around the place so he could see the concert posters of the past and soak up some history. As I pointed out some of the memorable bands memorialized by their posters in the lobby, I watched carefully to gauge Keno's interest. I was thrilled to see his face light up when he saw the amazing artwork that was used to announce even more amazing lineups of bands on any given night. I smiled to myself for I had conspired to make this night a mini-tour of Bay Area music history.

The woefully underrated and sometimes overlooked guitarist Robin Trower was playing over at the Fillmore on the same night. While having a ton of exposure on FM radio with "Bridge Of Sighs", I would consider Trower more of an album and tour success. I'd seen him perform in Fresno a number of times at various sized venues. Once, I was told that Trower would be signing autographs after the show. When it ended, my buddy Chet and I gathered along with a few dozen other concert goers behind the Warnor Theater. Stagehands and security personnel scuttled about but we had no idea where Robin was. Finally, someone with a pass hung around his neck and carrying a radio had us all line up in the alley. Then, one by one, we were allowed to approach Trower, who sat in the back seat of a big black Cadillac. It was like a scene in a straight-to-video mob film.

The way I had this night worked out was that if Rollins finished up at a reasonable time, we'd catch a cab and head over to The Fillmore to catch whatever was left of Trower's show. At just 7 miles wide and 7 miles long, the city of San Francisco can be traversed quickly by any good cabbie and cost just a few bucks. I mentioned this to Keno as we got a beer and headed onto the main floor of the Warfield. In typical Keno fashion, he shrugged and said that it sounded good to him and that I was in charge.

Once out on the main floor, I went into recon mode and pointed out some good spots on the rail of one of the tiered sections. The rail provides the best vantage point in the place as far as I'm concerned. As I've mentioned here before, S.F. tends to draw mammoth humans that always stand directly in front of me at standing room only venues, so standing at the rail effectively removes that possibility and the next tier is a step down, giving an unobstructed view over the heads of even the tallest patrons. Keno agreed, but we both saw no need to stay there and babysit the spot. It would more interesting to hang out in the lobby and watch the crowd come in.

We took a seat along the wall nearest the entrance and watched people get patted down and chug their contraband liquor that was to be otherwise thrown away. I was struck by the age range of the entering fans. At 39, I figured to be somewhere near the upper reaches of the age chart graph, given the fact that X and Rollins (whether with Black Flag or his own band) have been going strong since the early '80s. In fact, I skewed smack dab in the middle and saw kids as young as 14 and former punks old enough to have sired me and/or the slightly older Keno wander in with wide eyes and broad smiles. I especially liked watching the kids come in and slow their walk to a scuffed footed pace with mouths agape as they looked up at the posters and then looked at each other with joy. I still do that, but like sex, it's never the same as the first time.

The Riverboat Gamblers started up and we listened for a few minutes from the lobby and it was confirmed that they interested us not even enough to watch from the doorway. We kept our seat in the lobby and continued to watch the parade of pseudo punks so contrived in their look that I realized they were, in spite of what I consider to be the lost punk ethos that they're shooting for, not that different from the dorks that wore spandex pants and shirts with unnecessary zippers while attending 80's metal shows. I especially love what I used to call the fake Mohawk; young men simply gelling their hair into a spiky middle while the rest of their mane hangs naturally. I almost admire someone with a true Mohawk because it's a commitment to the look. These other guys can twist and twirl their 'do into something passable at work or school if they have to. Then I find out the snarky, fashion industry name for it; The Faux-hawk. Oooh, snap!

When the opening band's set came to a merciful end, Keno and I waited for the young ones to exit the main floor and chose our moment to do the "Market Street bob and weave" to get back to the rail. Our spot was open and we set up shop. "Look at these people", said Keno. "They're all leaving the best spots without leaving someone to protect their claim".

"Amateurs", I hissed with a grin.

I told him to spread out a bit while I fetched a couple of drinks to last us through the set, but then a waitress came up to take our order. With all of the kids in attendance, she'd not had a ton of work that night, and I could only imagine that she sighed all the way through the opening set thinking about her tip total. We ordered up with Keno moving to cocktails to curtail the full feeling left from dinner. Me? More beer for the hollow leg. Keno scratched his head and wondered aloud where I put it all.

We went over our escape plan one more time; as soon as the lights came up after Rollins' set, we'd make for the door. No bathroom break, no looking around, no nothing. Exit signs and making tracks. Then we'd hail a cab and see if we could get into the Fillmore. I did not secure tickets for Trower's show because the timeline wasn't comfortable enough for me. If we couldn't get in, we'd simply head over to the Boom Boom Room cater-cornered from the Fillmore to see an old blues guy named Chicken Man. Short of going overboard and synchronizing our watches, we agreed on the details of the plan and toasted to the music ahead.

I took a few moments to look around and wondered how many, if any, of the patrons now moving towards us and down towards the stage were Rollins Band fans. As much as I love the music, I would still consider myself a latecomer because I became a fan a third of the way into his solo career and I'm only now warming up to the Black Flag material. I imagined some of the fans were there from the punk days and wondered what Henry was up to nowadays, without knowing the material. Others might be there for X, but were somewhat aware of Rollins Band stuff. I figured that many looked at Rollins as some sort of One Hit Wonder with Liar from the 120 Minutes MTV exposure. I knew why I was there and while I felt a little alone at the time, it wouldn't be long before I rubbed elbows with a kindred soul.

I was getting excited. I'd read enough of Rollins' tour journals to know that he was backstage now, pacing and breathing heavily like a fighter entering the ring. Keno smiled wide in anticipation, but I almost laughed knowing that he had no idea of the aural onslaught he was about to encounter. Our rail was filling up a little with a really "normal" looking couple to my left and a few youngsters to Keno's right. Then, the waitress tapped my shoulder. My internal Show-O-Meter gauge still read "Memory Function: Intact/Vision: Single", so I held up the reverse peace sign to tell her that we'd like another round. We watched as the floor filled up gradually with the bizarre mix that we'd watched enter the venue and we did a little pointing and laughing. Our waitress came back remarkably quickly and we tipped her well, partly out of pity and partly out of the fact that we'd been drinking and she was marginally attractive.

The lights went down (how many times have I used that phrase on this site?) and the band walked onto the stage. My skin tingled as I watched my favorite Rollins Band lineup take the stage and tune up for a second before Henry Rollins himself came out and took his position between two large monitors pointed not back at him from the stage rim, but surrounding him like a sonic bunker. He wrapped the mic cord around his hand more than a few times and squatted like a fencer as drummer Sim Cain counted off into "On My Way To The Cage".

I looked back at Keno only for a second to see his face contort into that of someone that has just witnessed a violent auto accident. I laughed out loud. The woman to my left screamed and then growled the opening lines to a song I thought nobody but me knew. I glanced over my left shoulder to see what I thought was a Soccer Mom rocking out with abandon. After months of anticipation, I was now within throwing distance from the band that had been my companion in the weight room for years. I bobbed my head with the beat and thought to check in with Keno.

I backhanded his shoulder. "Well, was I right?"

Keno didn't even look at me. His gaze was fixed on Henry Rollins and I couldn't blame him. I took my curled index finger and tapped his jaw.

"Holy shit", he mumbled.

Next: Part 3-- The San Francisco night welcomes two explorers.

Hitting The Road With Keno (Part One)

2007-02-01T15:37:00.000-08:00

I entered the summer of 2006 with meager concert expectations. Aside from what looked to be an annual trek to Ozzfest because the date fell on a fortuitous day of the week, and a few local shows scattered about in local watering holes that hardly garner mention, the season was dry. But then, Henry Rollins decided to get his Weight/Come In And Burn era band back together for a little jaunt around the country with L.A. punk pioneers X. I'm a huge Rollins fan. His music is very personal to me; I find it inspirational and use it in copious amounts at the gym. But it wasn't always that way.

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Back in the mid-nineties, I befriended a guy from a rival company. At the time, we each worked for huge soft drink companies. While we worked side by side on the soda aisle, we'd strike up conversations on all sorts of topics, music being a prominent one. We'd also bump into each other at microbreweries, bars, and live music events. I really liked the guy, but we never could find the time to just hang out. Finally, one day he invited me over to his house after work. I had the typical "things to do", but realized that sometimes you just have to chuck it all and have a lazy afternoon.

Charlie lived in an old house with wooden floors and a big step down living room. He handed me a Newcastle and went to his respectable CD collection to put some music on. Of course, he wanted to give us something to talk about so he put on some of his faves, which turned out to be an eclectic mix to say the least. First, he put on an Elvis Costello CD and I listened to his sermon on all things Costello. A few songs later, Charlie seemed to fidget and bolted upright. "Oh, I want you to hear this one", he said as he bounded over to the stereo. His stereo was impressive and reminded me of the old "hi-fi" rigs that audiophiles would piece together. Charlie's was a mad mismatch of shiny high tech and ragged garage sale. The components were strewn about shelves and tables as if he was in the middle of moving in. But, damn, did it sound good.

For some reason, what he wanted me to hear was a Jimmy Buffet song. Like most Americans, I really only knew Margaritaville and was always amazed that Buffet could still fill major venues year after year with his fervent following of "Parrotheads". So we listen to this song and Charlie tells me the story of the lyrics as it plays. Something about a drug running plane ride that goes awry. It wasn't awful, but it really sounded to me like filler on an album that you could find pretty cheap second handed. But I was completely engaged by Charlie's enthusiasm. It's the same reason I can read anything written about any band, even if I either can't stand the group or have never heard a note of their music.

After a couple more beers and a listen to side one of the Japanese pressing of Led Zeppelin III, I told Charlie that I would really like to hear some crunch from his massive Sony tower speakers. He grinned; it would be an hour or so before his wife came home when normal life would dominate the remainder of the day. He spun out of his recliner and in the same motion, spun his revolving CD rack. "Ha", he exclaimed, pulling a title from the still twirling storage device. I could only see that the cover to the CD was black with a black and white photo. He loaded the tray and pushed play on the CD player and giggled a bit as the first raucous notes shook both his floorboards and my musical foundation.

I'd never heard anything like the Rollins Band before. Raw, powerful, and like a caged animal unleashed upon unsuspecting prey, the pure force of the tunes slugged me as waves crash the helpless shore. While I'd been exposed to the song Liar via MTV, before this day I'd no idea of what Rollins was about. I was really surprised at how technically deft and musical the songs were. I can only compare it to understanding the almost invisible grace of boxing; seemingly brutal on the outset, but when watched with a careful and educated eye, it can be compared to ballet or diamond cutting.

Over the incredible din reverberating off of the vaulted ceiling and the wooden floor of Charlie's living room, he leaned over and absolutely screamed, "THIS IS THE ROLLINS BAND. LIVE IN AUSTRIA!!"

"YEAH?", I yelled back.

"YEAH!", Charlie bellowed. "FUCKING BRILLIANT, HUH?" He nodded along to the tune and smiled at the wall.

"YEAH, FUCKING BRILLIANT! I GOTTA GET SOME OF THIS STUFF!, I yelled, not knowing that it was my first step into a years long obsession with Rollins' music. I left his place that day and went to a favorite little used software and CD shop and found Weight (featuring Liar) and The End Of Silence from '92. In the months following, I'd managed to pick up the disc Charlie played for me as well as a few others. I played them in the garage as I worked out and on the headphones on long runs. I was lucky enough to catch the Rollins Band in 2001, which I wrote about here back in April of '04 (titled Alone Again, Naturally).

----------

When I heard about Rollins going back out with his old bandmates in the summer of '06, I was very excited and started making plans to see them up in San Francisco. I didn't care much about seeing X and cared even less about the opening band, Riverboat Gamblers, but the tickets were more than reasonable and I rationalized that it might be the last time I get the chance to see this band.

I initially asked my concert buddy Janet if she were interested. I'd recently burned some Rollins stuff for her son and I knew that she'd heard a bit of it. But she was really watching the finances and politely declined. I was a little sad because I just knew she'd love it, but I had to respect her very responsible choice. Of course, I also considered asking my brother-in-law Keno, but didn't think that Rollins was his scene. When I mentioned it in passing, he was a little put off that I didn't think he'd like it. What I'd forgotten was that Keno can roll with just about anything. I told him that I'd get the tickets and a hotel room.

The show was a Friday night and we'd have to take off after he got off work. We jammed up to the city and made pretty good time. I'd chosen the Hotel Metropolis, a funky place around the corner from the Warfield, because of the walking distance proximity to the theater. I'd stayed there many times, stumbling back to the room after Gov't Mule marathon shows. We checked in and made our way up to the 10th floor room. We had a nice little balcony that looked over Market Street. I stepped out to the sounds of traffic and yelling, but I was still able to hear the familiar sound of a beer can being opened behind me in the room.

I spun to see Keno standing at the threshold of the sliding glass door, grinning and taking a swig from a 24oz can of 211. He had a can for me in his outstretched hand. I hate 211; it's a gross malt liquor that Keno loves. To me, it has a sickly sweet taste and a vile aftertaste. But he and I have an unofficial tradition of slamming one before shows, so I popped mine open and chugged a bit, making faces like a baby eating mashed up lemons. As I gasped for oxygen, I wondered how this man, Keno, a lover of fine wines and quality cigars, could possibly enjoy a malt liquor like 211. Even the dregs on Market street drinking 211 were choking it down just as I was ten stories above them, the difference being that they were suffering the taste out of the day's meager panhandling and I was being punished due to some stupid pact.

We both finished our gun metal grey cans. Keno hit the head and for a reason I can only blame on Satan himself, I cracked opened another 211. Keno came out of the bathroom and smiled with his eyebrows cocked high.

"Well, now", he rasped. "What do I see here?"

Now, I should state here that all the way up to San Francisco I had been saying that I would not get trashed before the Rollins set. It meant too much to me, I'd said. I didn't care about the opening band or the headliner, but I had to be focused for the Rollins Band. I wanted to savor and remember every note, every moment. So when I committed to the second 211, Keno looked at me like Al Pacino in The Devil's Advocate. He may have even flicked his tongue. But I was in the moment and we had a few hours before the show, so I threw caution to the wind. Keno opened another horrible 211 and we leaned on the rail of our balcony watching the ants on Market Street bustle.

I'd turned on the T.V. and stepped in to check some baseball scores on ESPN. My can was empty. Keno crossed the threshold and shook his empty can and called me a pussy. I tossed my empty can at him and told him "you are what you eat", missing by a few feet. He was surprised that I'd finished at his pace. We looked at each other for a beat and agreed that we could split another 211 because somehow, perhaps by magic or demonic will, we had glasses in the room that we could use. While he used the bathroom, I split the can (which by now looked like a miniature tower at Three Mile Island) into those round bowl-like glasses that should normally only serve as after-brushing rinse providers. We tossed down the remainders of the infernal third 211 while watching ESPN and occasionally checking in on the Market Street tribes.

We now needed to shower and change for the night's activities. I went to shower first while Keno stayed out on the balcony. I came back into the room and started to dress and I heard Keno start the shower. I finished dressing and stood for a few moments on the balcony watching a woman scream at a pigeon, only to turn her rage towards a mailbox seconds later. I smiled and returned inside. Keno was finishing getting dressed, so I figured that I'd better get in the shower so we could get some dinner.

Wait a minute, I thought. I looked down and saw that I was already dressed. For a split second, I wondered if I'd simply changed and not showered. I could not recall the shower I'd taken 15 minutes ago. The 211 had induced some form of short term amnesia. When Keno looked up from putting on his shoes, he saw the puzzled look on my face and asked what was wrong. I told him that while I was positive that I'd showered and that there was proof to that effect, I could not remember it. He laughed, but then looked startled.

"What?", I asked.

His face changed from startled to horrified to complete confusion. "I don't remember mine, either", he sputtered.

We both stared at each other for a minute and then looked at the empty cans of 211. We looked back at each other. "What the fuck is in that stuff?", I asked.

Neither of us were drunk. A nice little buzz was making it's way into my head, but by no means was I out of control. But I had blacked out on my feet. To find out that we both had the same experience made me look at the clock to make sure that we hadn't slipped through some kind of time warping worm hole in the space time continuum. What seemed like an accurate amount of time for two men to shower and dress had passed, so now the possibility of a dimensional shift began to truly frighten me.

We both laughed at each other and shook our heads. We felt fine and made our way to the lobby. I remarked that I'd zoned out before while reading and had to reread the page and sometimes could drive for blocks without remembering specific red lights or landmarks, but had never completely showered and changed without being able to at least recall turning on the water. Exiting the elevator, we stepped up to the desk and asked a gorgeous clerk if she knew where we could get a good casual meal at perhaps a sports bar. She gave us a little tourist's street map and drew a line to a place a couple of blocks away.

She asked what we were up to and we told her about the show. She said it sounded cool and we playfully told her that she should join us. She giggled and said that she had to work all night, but that it sounded fun and maybe next time. I looked back as we walked out the door and she waved. I wondered if she was serious. I'm bad at reading those things.

We bounded out onto Market Street and it was alive with workers leaving their offices, tourists, the homeless hordes, and an abundance of street performers set up every hundred feet or so. We ducked and dodged our way up the street, pausing every once in a while to watch a juggler or magician. My favorite act was a trio dressed up in '60s regalia doing Hendrix covers pretty damn well. I'm always amazed to see full bands with electric equipment performing right there on the street. I meant to look to see if they'd brought a generator or had somehow patched into the city's power grid. I'd read that in New York City, some performers find a way to get power by tapping into a light pole or signal light.

Keno and I turned the corner on 4th Street and found the bar and grill. We were doing good on time and could relax and eat with time to spare before the concert. We were pretty hungry and agreed that we needed to eat in order to continue drinking or else suffer another possible Twilight Zone episode. I ordered a burger and fries with a beer. Keno asked our waitress if he could get a double cheeseburger. When she nodded, he asked her if it was pretty big because he was starving. She just smiled.

When she returned a few minutes later, I tore into my burger aggressively. Keno's was so big that he had to bite it top to bottom in the same place in order to make his way across the bun. It was much too tall to take a bite unless he could unhinge his jaw like a python. I laughed at him, but he kept at it like a beaver trying to topple a tree.

We finished up the good grub and paid our way. Our meals came with Tootsie Pops and we both did the Kojak thing on the way out the door. Market Street was twice as crazy now and the bay breeze was giving itself a stronger presence. We turned the corner towards the Warfield. Our whirlwind San Francisco rock and roll adventure was about to begin.

You Don't Have To Go Home, But You Can't Sleep Here

2007-01-12T23:49:00.000-08:00

I finally figured it out. After years of wondering what the hell was going on, I think that, in the early morning hours of one frosty December morning, an epiphany of sorts helped me towards an explanation that I can live with.

I have a tiny DJ in my head. And he's nuts.

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After all the years of seeing concerts, one thing that seems to be lacking is the subtle nuance of the between acts pre-recorded music. My friends and I would listen intently as the last echoey notes of the opening act finished their pinball routine off of the cinder block walls of the Selland Arena in Fresno and the house lights came up. Along with watching the crowd, which looked like some sort of Dawn Of The Dead floor of the New York Stock Exchange, we waited to hear the first notes of whatever the soundboard guys popped on.

Usually, it was something like AC/DC's Back In Black or anything from Zeppelin IV and that was fine with most of us. Sometimes, the more drunken mooks cheered the opening chords of a cassette tape of new Judas Priest album played on the P.A. as loudly as they would another actual live band hitting the stage. This could cause confusion in the men's room or the concession line because usually a loud roar means showtime and back then, it was a sin to miss the lights, smoke, and action as the main act cartwheeled, did handsprings, or perhaps even used trampolines and jetpacks to take the air along with that all important first power chord.

Every once in a while, a really cool crew would put on something that seemed only me and my friends knew; old school Thin Lizzy, pre-Burnin' For You Blue Oyster Cult, UFO, Pat Travers Band, or maybe even something under the radar like Ronnie Montrose's underrated, post-Hagar unit, Gamma. We'd cheer from our seats and pump our fists towards the long-haired dudes that stood in the pen that looked like it was squared offed with parade fencing, otherwise known as the mixing board area. As rare as it was, the moment when some older (damn, he must be, what, 35?) rockin' roadie would nod or wave in our general direction upon hearing our hollers in appreciation of Riot's Swords and Tequila might possibly have meant more to us than seeing some feathered-haired scag flash her tits at Rob Halford.

Let's play the "What's Sadder?" game! What's sadder; three teenagers high-fiving each other because some coked-up roadie put on a cassette over an arena's P.A. that each of them own and could probably hear in the car on the way home from the show, or, a woman in her late twenties with hair bleached so often that she could change the ph balance of an Olympic sized swimming pool all by herself just by diving in, sitting on the shoulders of whatever guy she's banging that week, all the while showing the last days of her gravity-defying fatty tissue to a gay man in classic Pacino Cruising garb? Results: Teenage boys viewing roadies as musical role models--Sad. Bleach blonde trying to gain the attention of a rock singer, failing due to the misfortune of having the wrong genitalia--Sadder. Pimple-faced boys trying to gain the attention of disinterested roadies due to the misfortune of having the wrong genitalia--Saddest. Pimple-faced boys looking at roadies at the soundboard instead of looking at real, live, actual boobs--Sadder than Sad.

Along with the music piped in between acts, there was what I always found to be the fascinating post concert tracks. To me, there were two distinct schools of thought, if there was any thought put into the music at all, that is. The first being the same type of tracks used in the intermission(s); loud, heavy, and rockin'. I assumed these were used to keep the crew motivated to get the stage broken down and the trucks loaded so they could roll through the night to the next town. The second, and far more interesting to me in the sense of a social experiment, was to use music so far removed from the night's entertainer's genre as to actually drive the fans out of the venue. I think this is a brilliant technique and proves to be much more efficient than part-timers in yellow windbreakers with "Security" across the back trying to herd rockers high, drunk, and/or otherwise chemically altered out of the arena. I have actually seen stoners cover their ears and shove their way to the exits upon being assaulted with The Carpenters and polka music. Once, when the lights came up after a Soundgarden show and I shuffled along with the rest of the balcony crowd towards the stairs, I watched a long haired biker stand in defiance in the middle of the emptying theater, flipping double birds to the giant P.A. system while Ebony And Ivory wafted over us all. He stood there with a grimace scarier than any mask and roared his disapproval with something akin to, "Fuuugherrrssss!! Ghhaaaaaa!!" I think of him every time my dog barks at airplanes.

--------------------

As I've mentioned before, I wake up with a song in my head every single day without fail. Sometimes, it's an old favorite I played recently or something I heard the day before on a movie soundtrack or even a commercial jingle. This does not surprise me or give me pause at all. Other times, the song is something I haven't heard in years. I might even own the record but haven't listened to it in some time. This makes me scratch my head and try to figure out why this particular song is playing on this particular day. And then there are the mornings where I think I may have lost my mind. The chilly morning when I heard what I believe to be the incidental music from the original Planet Of The Apes film was one such frightening wake up call and it was then that I decided I'd have to write down what I was hearing each day to try to find a pattern or some reasons

For two weeks, I'd roll over each morning and scribble the song title (if I knew it--I'd have look some up later after some auditions from the CD collection or some Googling) on a yellow legal pad. The following is what I woke up to over the Holiday Season:

12.20.06 Kick Out The Jams from Blue Oyster Cult's live album, Some Enchanted Evening. This is one of the first albums I ever bought with my own money, so it's no wonder why this lead-off track is embedded deep in my memory, but I haven't played the disc in at least ten years.

12.21.06 Spinning Wheel-Blood, Sweat and Tears. I have this on vinyl somewhere, but I never play it and even after thinking about it for much of the day, I have no idea of why it popped up.

12.22.06 All I Want For Christmas-Ini Kamoze. This one was thankfully easy; I'd recently heard it on Fresno State's radio station, KFSR. The lyrics are changed and the vocal stylings are hypnotic (a natural phenomenon for a reggae tune).

12.23.06 Abacab (live version)-Genesis. Another easy one; I'd been listening to this disc in the truck and the synth parts stick in my head anyway.

12.24.06 Pure And Easy-The Who. This one made sense to me because I listen to a two disc greatest hits set on my MP3 player at the gym often. What was maddening and probably "chased" me awake like the post-concert stoners running from accordion notes was that the song was stuck on a loop, playing the fade out, "There once was a note, listen", over and over and over.

12.25.06 Horsehead-The Black Crowes. A little mystery here. While I listen to a lot of Crowes stuff and this track is my favorite on By Your Side, I haven't put it on in a long time and many more BC tunes have been played since. Huh.

12.26.06 Birdland-Weather Report. A head scratcher of a morning here. I haven't put on this CD in over 12 years. I'm sure I've heard the tune in the background of a television show or a snippet here and there on a music history documentary, but I still can't fathom why it's here.

12.27.06 Vicarious-Tool. No secret to me here. Tool's latest release is in constant, heavy rotation on all my players; home, computer, truck, and MP3 player at the gym or on a run.

12.28.06 Love Is Like Oxygen-The Sweet. I just don't know anymore. I never liked this song, I don't own this song, and I'd switch the station quick if it came on in the car. The fact that it woke me up tells me that I was "chased" awake again.

12.29.06 Yakety Sax (otherwise known as the theme song to The Benny Hill Show)-Boots Randolph. I can't even begin to describe the feeling I had as I laid in bed with my hand on my forehead, wondering what the hell was going on in my head as I slumbered. I considered pulling the covers over my head for a few hours until something else took over the relentless, pulsating bleating sax, but I decided to get up and blast some Sabbath. That did it. Black Sabbath is like an unbeatable option in Rock/Paper/Scissors.

12.30.06 Aenima-Tool. More overkill, so a natural option.

12.31.06 Outback Steakhouse Holiday Season Radio Commercial Jingle-Artist Unknown. Okay, so I heard this little ditty more than a few times during the season and I guess I shouldn't be surprised to find myself humming along to it once it a while, but to hear it in my head without provocation? A truly horrific way to meet the day.

1.1.07 Ceiling Unlimited-Rush. Since reading Neil Peart's books recently, I found myself on a Rush jag, especially at the gym. This track is off of their latest release, Vapor Trails and it's a pumping tune. Great to drive to and it actually got me off to a driven start to a productive day. Made me wonder even more what possible purpose the other mornings' tunes were meant to serve.

1.2.07 Hungry For Love-Whitesnake. Some good ol' rollicking 'Snake from the days before Tawny Kitaen married David Coverdale and fucked his Jaguar. Once again, I own it, but haven't played it for years.

After two weeks of recording the songs I awoke to and taking a few moments each day to consider the possible causes that would trigger these musical memories, I came to only one conclusion. It was a troubling discovery and I don't know if there is anything medically that can be done to somehow remedy this heartbreaking condition.

It seems I have a tiny little DJ in my head. I don't know how he got there, but I'm now utterly convinced of his existence due to the latent facts that I exposed after the exhaustive process of elimination. There simply was no other explanation for these tunes. This little dude has carte blanche when it comes to my own private Library Of Congress, so even if I haven't heard something audibly in some time, he can pull the file and play it at his discretion. At the risk of stating the obvious, I have access to the "Library" during my waking hours, but the soundtracks to my dreams are apparently produced by the diminutive DJ.

I can only imagine that the tracks I wake up to are the "last call" type of songs you'd hear when you close down a bar. I envision the poor little guy spinning tunes through all of my flying dreams, violent fighting dreams, and bizarre nightmares (no doubt with Slayer blaring in the background). So by the time he's done providing the music for my nocturnal travels, I understand where a guy just wants his audience (me) to just wake up so he can get on with whatever it is he does in the netherworld. I've been shaken awake by earthquakes, by frantic women (for reasons I'll leave to the reader's imagination), and by buddies at the craps table telling me that the casino wants us to retire to our rooms. But I've never been more rattled than I was on the morning that I heard a diaper commercial echoing through my head as I rubbed my eyes and realized that the following phrase was somehow embedded in my psyche:

"I'm a big kid, look what I can do..........".

A goddamn Huggies Pull-Ups television jingle. I didn't know what that may have meant for the coming day, but I did feel around the sheets and was relieved to find that I neither wet the bed nor was I wearing polypropylene puffy grundys with Shrek or Finding Nemo logos stamped all over them. I have nothing against the good folks at Huggies or the gigantic chemical corporations that have developed the technology that allows toddlers to piss all over the beloved computer generated characters of Dreamworks and Pixar, but I thought that if I were to wake up with that infernal jingle in my head that maybe I could at least dream of pissing all over the set of American Idol or on Paris Hilton's publicist's Blackberry.

Wet night and good dreams...................

'06, Get Thee Behind Me

2006-12-29T23:20:00.000-08:00

Note: if you haven't been here in a while--and I wouldn't blame you after seeing the same meager offering from November time after time--I would like to direct you to the post before this year end edition. Scroll down a ways and get yourself a cup of tea or another cocktail. (It's a bit of a read..)

Christmas is over and as I look towards New Year's Eve (or amateur night as my wife and I call it), I look forward to 2007 as a year of promise after a year of unprecedented tumult. But then again, I had some good times all the while.

First off, as an example of how my year wasn't so bad, I'll list just some of the shows I saw this past year in no particular order:

* denotes that this show should or will be written about on this site.

Train (twice)--I'll not apologize for liking these guys. See them live to see why.

*CSN&Y--free tickets got me here and sneaking into a private box pumped up the volume.

Chicago--Vegas, drunk and dressed up. One of those damn "can I take your picture" people snapped the best fucking picture I've taken since I was five (pre-glasses), so I bought the proof. I'll take it to Walgreen's and print out a proper size to give the paper something to run when I die. It was that good.

Black Crowes (twice)--My wife and I took my niece down to Bakersfield to see these guys and about two songs in she looked like she'd been hit by lightning. Seems it was her first concert. Whoops, sorry babe, didn't meant to ruin it for the rest of your life. The second was a surprisingly jammy set at The Fresno Fair, which either enlightened or bored the mullet set.

*Rollins Band (twice)--my brother in law (the legendary Keno) and I went up to S.F. to see Rollins open for the band X. He had no clue as to who Henry was and basically was going on my word that it would be "rock and roll calisthenics". He was blown away and I took him on a little Bay Area historic venue tour that night after Rollins' set (sorry, X). He was so impressed with the short set that he joined me again down in Hollywood when Rollins Band headlined a post-X tour show as a finale at the Key Club a month later.

*Robin Trower--at the Fillmore a cab ride later after seeing Rollins at the Warfield. More to come on that one. A third show at another venue (The Boom Boom Room) after Trower made for a travesty from either Heaven or Hell, depending on your perspective or tolerance to alcohol.

TOOL--another show with the above mentioned Keno. Can't say enough about this unit. I think that somehow they are slowly taking over the world.

*Ozzfest '06--Ozzy was due to headline that night, but after some sort of Shaaarrooon move, he was moved to the second stage to perform at 4:30 in the afternoon in the fucking parking lot on the 2nd stage, where they sold no beer! Seems that he did this a few times on tour to get "closer" to the fans and I dig that, but after hearing "Over The Mountain" on what seemed like a boombox, my brother-in-law and I sought out yet another beer and met some awesome people at the "Backstage Bar" at the Shoreline Amphitheater. Disturbed and System Of A Down took on the main stage under the stars and rocked out, but Ozzy would have had the crowd declaring war on Saturn had he played later that day.

Honeytribe--what can I say, it's my most recent post here. See below, but give yourself a few minutes--it's a bit longwinded.

Zepperella--a mind-blowing all female Zep tribute band from the Bay Area.

Sadly missing from this list is Gov't Mule. For the first time in 8 years (or as I like to think of it--eight goddamn motherfucking years), the wife and I couldn't make it up to the Bay Area or down to L.A. While it pained me at the time, I learned that life could indeed go on, much unlike so many Deadheads that cry that the sky is falling when some splinter group of surviving Grateful Dead members decides not to tour that summer.

In the limited scope of held tickets, I have 50/50 expectations for 2007; Keno and I will check out Roger and Pete, better known as The Who, and a party of six (including the Kenos) will endure Rod Stewart in March, both shows here in Fresno. Rod is fast climbing my list of artists that I've seen multiple times. Dread Zeppelin leads by far at 22, but Gov't Mule is closing at 12 or 13, with Y&T (from the old days when they opened for everybody), Celtic rockers Tempest, and King's X holding strong at around 8. I think I've seen Stewart 5 or 6 times, all at the behest of my wife. I'm surveying clubs and theaters around the state like a hawk circling high above a rabbit's den.

So, onto the next Kill Last Year segment: Chris Brown, of Lefty Brown's Corner, told me over coffee that he was curious to see me write my list of top releases of 2006. I read his list with care and also traveled over to Paul's site, only to realize that not only had my friends bought and listened to much more new music this past year than I, but that I hadn't even purchased enough music released in 2006 to make up a top 20 like Chris. That's a bit embarrassing for a supposed music lover, but I've changed my buying habits over the years so that I rarely buy a release when it's a new one. I will seek out new discs from my old favorites, of course, but I tend to binge at used records stores on the coast or up in the Bay Area. I still buy what I want, but my patience has preserved my checking account. So out of the 50 or more CDs that came into my home this year, only 16 were 2006 releases.

They are, in no particular order:

Rose Hill Drive--self titled: This is the young band that I saw at a small club last year after a Crowes show up in San Francisco (written about in length in the epic seven-part Black Crowes tale on this site). This album could have been released in 1974; recorded with no Pro-Tools or auto tuning, and on analog tape, it sounds rich and meaty. The heavy riffs and punishing backbeat have been a constant companion of mine in the truck and in the gym. Side note: I'll be lucky enough to see them again when they open for The Who here in Fresno in February.

Honeytribe--Torch: Written about in the aforementioned Honeytribe post. Scroll down for more info.

Gov't Mule--High And Mighty: What might shock my close friends is the fact that I waited a few weeks to buy this one. Since I knew that I wouldn't be seeing them live, I almost couldn't bring myself to listen to it. I had streamed a few tracks here and there and when I finally bought it, I couldn't help but hear it in my mind as those tracks would sound live at the Warfield. The joy I get from listening to this outstanding album is bittersweet.

The Who--The Endless Wire: I'm not a huge Who fan, but I certainly dig the classic stuff. Like most rock fans, I was curious to hear what a band could do after a 24 year break from the studio. One of the big box chains had a great deal on this when it was released as it contained a bonus live CD and a live DVD. All this for under 10 bucks, so I picked it up. It hasn't grown on me like I thought it would, but the sound is stellar and I'll pound it down in the weeks before the show.

Black Crowes--The Lost Crowes: This collection of abandoned studio tracks was available in bootleg form for years, but the perfected production makes this one a keeper. I hope to see them bust some of this stuff out live in the coming years.

Hamell On Trial--Song For Parents Who Enjoy Drugs: I haven't even listened to this one yet. It was part of my stockpiling events at Boo Boo Records in San Luis Obispo late this year. After seeing Ed Hamell open for Ani DiFranco a couple of years ago, I've become a big fan. He's sometimes billed as "acoustic punk", and I guess that's fine in order for the press to assign him a label, but he's a songwriter, musician, and performer that almost defies description. He's a nice guy, to boot.

Wolfmother--self titled: I picked this up pretty cheap at the aforementioned big box store. I like this album and I could lend some of the sentiments written about Rose Hill Drive's album to save space.

Train--For Me It's You: No excuses here; I like these guys. We all need something to sing in the car. I just hope no one's heard me waiting at a light.

Skye--Mind How You Go: Haven't heard this one either, this time due to a stockpiling event at the dying Tower Records. Skye is the former lead singer for the trip-hop band Morcheeba. My wife loves her voice and Morcheeba was something that we could always agree on having on in the car. Skye's smokey vocals could be applied to jazz standards or modern pop, so I guess I should put this on sometime to see what she's done this time around.

Zepperella--Live At 19 Broadway: Live album from the Bay Area's all female Led Zep tribute band. I picked this up after a show of theirs here in Fresno. I love the album, not just for the music, but it helps trigger the visual memories as well. (Nudge nudge, wink wink.)

Chicago--XXX: I bought this, but only for the wife. I sat through it on the way from Phoenix to Vegas where we would be seeing these guys. Fine show and the album's okay. But it's not my mug of beer.

Rod Stewart--Still The Same...: A collection of classic rock standards. Uh, okay Rod, I'll take this as you putting your big toe in the water on your way to taking the plunge towards a full blown Faces reunion.

Black Keys--Chulahoma: A brilliant, but short, collection of Junior Kimbrough songs done by this duo. Guitar and drums will, as usual, draw comparison to the White Stripes, but these guys keep it raw and live sounding. They're at the top of my short list of bands to see.

The Raconteurs--Broken Boy Soldier: Speaking of the White Stripes, Jack White's side project brings back the rock to pop. I first heard these guys in a D.C. bookstore and had to ask the clerk what was playing. It reminded me of mid-era Zeppelin. When he told me, I made note to pick it up someday. When Lefty turned me onto a trial online music site, I downloaded it for free. It's on my MP3 player, but I do plan on getting the tangible product, probably used in a year or so.

Johnny Cash--V-A Hundred Highways: As a lifelong fan, I looked forward to getting this latest installment of the American Recordings series. I enjoy it, but it is a little difficult to hear the strength gone from Cash's powerful voice. Not my favorite of the bunch, but I think we should all feel fortunate that the Man In Black's passion for the art never waned.

TOOL--10,000 Days: Yet another masterpiece of "thinking man's hard rock". I think this could be the album of the year if it were more digestible for the mainstream. TOOL's output will ultimately be put up against that of the likes of Pink Floyd and Brian Wilson, and probably compete with modern day critic's darlings Radiohead, for recognition of their art. Don't get me wrong here; TOOL enjoy all the trappings of modern day success. 10,000 Days was a huge seller and the band regularly sell out venues around the world. So while TOOL might have a maniacal following, soccer moms aren't exactly blasting Stinkfist on the Expedition's stereo as often as Comfortably Numb. Yet.

So, that's my Top 16 for the year 2006. Check back here at this time next year for my follow up to the '06 shit I missed but bought used for a song at some musty joint in a sketchy part of some town somewhere that some sucker got a buck's worth of store credit for. Thanks in advance for that Highway Companion disc, chump.

As long as I'm on a year end jag, I want to thank Lefty for the book Kill Your Idols. I'm having a blast reading new perspectives on so-called classic albums. Another thing I realized was that out of the 34 albums profiled, I actually own just one. That genuinely shocked me. I have owned a few on cassette in the past and I've heard a good majority of them in their entirety by virtue of being at a party or on a road trip with friends that had them. No Nevermind. No Dark Side Of The Moon. Not even Sgt. Peppers. Unbelievable.

I also picked over the carcass of my local Tower Records recently and found the latest installment of the Best Music Writing series of books that Da Capo puts out every year. The 2005 edition, while a little thinner than previous years, still collects a varied mix of magazine, newspaper, and even some online essays about all genres of popular music. I highly recommend these collections to anyone interested in different perspectives than Spin and Rolling Stone. Another book that looked interesting and was cheap enough at a ridiculous 70% off was Lonn Friend's Life On Planet Rock, which details the former RIP Magazine editor's journey through the 80s and 90s at the helm of America's premier metal monthly. So far, about 30 pages in, it promises some good dirt.

Also, for those looking for more good rockin' reading, I highly recommend Neil Peart's latest, Roadshow: Landscape With Drums: A Concert Tour by Motorcycle. Peart takes his journal style and turns it into a narrative that takes us all a few steps into the very private world of this drum legend.

So, there you go; a top 16 with maybe a decent top 5 list within. A couple of books and a list of shows I saw that you probably didn't. Somehow, I don't see Entertainment Weekly looking me up as a consultant, especially because I don't have some group (or individual) called Gnarls Barkley on my list like every other major rag. Love that name though.

Happy and safe New Year everyone. Be good to those that deserve it and for those that don't, a good kick in the shins or an unannounced blow to the solar plexis might just bring them around.

One Honey Of A Thursday Night

2006-12-23T14:27:00.000-08:00

Oh, the things you see if you pay attention at a bar. A breakup, an affair, drunken people attempting to dance to a bass solo, what might surely be a broken arm, and sometimes, a killer band playing a dive bar in Fresno. Devon Allman, son of Allman bro Gregg, brought his outfit, Honeytribe, to town on an off night of the Gregg Allman And Friends tour.

After a couple of quick phone calls to friends Steve and Chris, both of whom by all means probably had more interest in being there than I due to their fanatical interest in all things Allman, I found out that I'd be flying solo. I was disappointed for them, but completely understood that weeknight shows get harder and harder to get out to as we get older. Responsibility sucks sometimes.

Even with some good directions from Chris, I managed to have a hard time finding the place. I must have misunderstood him on the phone, because I was driving around the wrong damn parking lot looking for Crossroads, the Fresno bar that has really stepped up to the plate by bringing in national touring acts and featuring live music most nights of the week. After stupidly wondering if it was the bar inside one of Fresno's oldest and mustiest bowling alleys, I tried across the street and found it alright. Plenty of cars in the parking lot had me thinking that maybe Fresno could sustain some sort of jamband scene if all these people were here to see Honeytribe. But I also realized that many were probably banking on the Allman name. Who cared? Folks were out to see live music on a Thursday night and I was one of them.

I parked the truck and walked up to the door to see a few ostracized smokers hanging out in front of the bar. I paused for a moment, pretending to look at my phone, and eavesdropped when I heard one of them mention the tour with Gregg Allman. I wondered if this person had any inside info or might be that rare Fresnan with an appreciation of the jamband scene. I tried not to look too obvious as I listened in.

"So, yeah, tonight they play here, then tomorrow they're going to play in San Luis Obispo, then Vegas I think. Last night, they played in Bakersfield", one of them said to the other two. The other two nodded, but weren't looking at the one talking. It was cold out that night and they were in T-shirts with assorted motorcycle and Nascar designs, so they were stamping their feet and hunching their shoulders against the chill. The first one spoke again.

"So that's what I heard anyway, they played Bakersfield last night and they're here today. Then they're back with Gregg Allman in San Luis Obispo tomorrow. Then I heard they're in Vegas or something. Cool. I think that's so cool", he said. I wondered what was so cool about the tour, and I think his smoking pals did too because one of them finally spoke up.

He took a drag and raised his head to blow the smoke away from the others. "Vegas, huh?", he not so much asked but stated. I looked up from my fake text messaging for a beat to watch as the first guy started in again. "Yeah, man, Vegas. But first it's here tonight and then onto San Luis. Bakersfield was last night", he said and then paused to add, "I don't know where they were before that, but it was Bakersfield last night".

I could have stayed out there until they snuffed out the coffin nails if only to see how many times he would make small talk by relaying the same four dates on the tour as a means to impress or avoid the silence made by three morons not yet drunk enough to high five each other or beat the shit out of each other, but I wanted a beer and needed to secure a spot to see the band that had played Bakersfield last night, was going to play here tonight and then move onto the coast and Vegas. Cool.

I went inside, found no one taking money at the door for the cover, so I walked over to the bar and got myself the requisite Coors Light and gave the place a once-over. I took note of more than a half dozen mullets, realizing that I would have lost the over/under bet. I didn't know what to make of the females in the bar. A few elderly types sitting at the bar mystified me. I even spoke briefly to one of them when she asked me if I knew who was playing onstage that night. About ten words into my description, I realized that she wouldn't know Devon Allman from a Jordan Almond, and I just said, "some blues guitar player guy". She smiled sweetly and turned back to her white wine.

Many of the other women looked like the typical "drinking" bar type; hairstyles that haven't changed from their high school days, no matter the decade. Pants, whether stretch or not, too tight with a long Looney Tunes or (again) Nascar t-shirt that covers both belly and ass, and an absurd amount of rings on every finger and more ear piercings than a pair of Nikes has grommets. With a few sips of my beer as a cover, I looked around and played the "If I Were Single" game, where I wonder which women I would possibly consider approaching if I were not married. Out of the dozens of females in the place, I took note of four that actually looked kind of sweet, intelligent, and maybe even able to feed and dress themselves without assistance on a regular basis. Of the four, one was immediately voted off of the island when she smiled at me as she walked by (more on that tactic later), almost seemingly to intentionally reveal an obvious gap where an otherwise prominent canine tooth would call home. I myself have prominent canines, and even though I passed on corrective orthodontia back in the day (I heard the magic word--headgear), I can at least take pride in the plural usage of the word canine.

Upon my first observation, it looked like I came in at just the right time to skip the opening band. While I usually enjoy Ron Thompson's work, I just didn't think I was in the mood for basic blues this night. But as I noticed that no one was breaking down their equipment, I realized that I'd arrived at their set break. No big deal, I thought, more people watching time for Tony, one of my favorite pastimes.

As it turned out, I hadn't seen Ron Thompson and his Resistors in quite a while and I really enjoyed his second set. I had turned to get another beer as they started up, so I didn't realize that he had a guest singer to start up this set. The guy didn't sound too bad, gravel voiced and enthusiastic. I left the bartender an extra buck as I took my bottle and turned around to watch the opener. I literally almost dropped my beer when I looked at the guest singer. As my faithful readers know, only a rear naked choke from a UFC fighter or perhaps a gunshot to the torso could make me drop my beer. I checked my grip on the Silver Bullet and did a double take worthy of a Walter Lantz cartoon character, most likely the bulldog that was always the patsy for Droopy Dog's antics. I may have even done the "Whaaaa?" gasp.

"Dad?", I said at a volume that could not be heard. I stared in disbelief for a moment or two, fixed on the singer's mannerisms and smile, thinking that this guy could be my dad. I took a few steps forward, the whole time laughing at myself for having to look closer at the stage to make sure this guy wasn't my father. He wasn't, could not be, I thought to myself. But then again, with every stunted move and labored step, the singer left seeds of doubt and I walked further up towards the half wall that separated the bar from the dance floor. As I practically squinted in a rock and roll paternity eye test, I began to fantasize that maybe my dad took off early on Thursday nights from his semi-retired position to sing blues like Froggy of the Little Rascals. After a few numbers, Ron Thompson thanked the singer and "Dad" stepped down into the dance floor crowd. I watched intensely as he shook hands with many folks from the local crowd, many of whom seemed to know him. Of course, it wasn't him, but the foggy and fantastic notion was almost as entertaining as the performance.

Ron Thompson took over on vocals and while he is a fine blues singer in his own right, something was either wrong or wrongly decided. His mic was really over modulated for my taste and while I realize that this may have been a desired effect in order to mimic the sound of recordings of the '30s and '40s, it was mightily annoying to this listener's ears. And don't mistake my interpretation of the sound as maybe filtered through a vintage mic or amplifier; someone at the mixing board was asleep or drunk or smoking a cigarette in the parking lot mumbling something about Bakersfield, San Luis Obispo, and Vegas. It was too fucking loud for what they were trying to do and it sounded like your elderly neighbor watching Jeopardy with the volume maxxed out on a 1972 Zenith console television as heard through an ancient sheetrock shared wall.

At times, Ron Thompson's vocals made me wince. He wasn't out of key or cracked his voice, but he topped out and sent the needle so far into the red that I was almost literally stretching my left leg out for the clutch so he could shift up and not blow the engine.

I think the most fun I may have had all night was simply watching people in the bar. I was truly curious to find out what brought people into The Crossroads that night. Was Fresno realizing an awakening to the jamband genre, or were patrons simply there like they were on any other given evening? It appears that the Central Valley Blues Society convenes on Thursday nights here and I watched many of them attempt to dance in their long sleeved CVBS T-shirts. I figured that many of them would stay for Honeytribe and I was right, but in the meantime, I watched them dance.

One woman in particular caught my eye and was third on my list of four approachable "If I Were Single" contestants (before the 7-10 split smile I got from the woman described above). An attractive blonde with a thick but shapely body, she looked like the foxiest babe of the class of '89 after seventeen heartbreaking years of trying to find a man in a bar that didn't still wear a suede jacket with tassels or style his hair like Don Dokken.

She fascinated me. I watched her dance with an older man and saw her smile when she met his eyes on the floor. After the song ended, she went back to her spot on the rail behind the dance floor and sipped her drink for a moment. I really thought they might have been a couple, but the guy walked by her and sat with some friends. Then, this woman strode off towards the bar, scanning the area like Arnold in the nightclub scene of the first Terminator flick. I couldn't take my eyes off of her as she simultaneously paraded herself and shopped for men. She glanced at me and I looked away, probably afraid of some sort of Medusa effect. I did not follow her with my eyes and turned my attention to the band starting up another number. A moment later, I saw her walk past me with another man in tow. They entered the dancing throng and she danced just as sensually as before, again looking into her partner's eyes and gyrating suggestively. Should I have looked away?

She cast herself into the sea of again and again, sometimes with a friend in tow, and every time she'd come back with a fresh fish. The bizarre runway type of stride she adopted was mesmerizing, not because it was sexy, but because it was as if she were chumming the water. The funny thing is, I've been married so long that I didn't recognize how blatant her intent was. I kept wondering where she was heading when she was seeking new dance partners. I laughed at myself later when I recalled thinking that she was unnecessarily walking past a good spot at the bar to order a drink and the ladies room was the other direction, so why does she insist on walking all the way around the bar? For as long as I've been seeing shows in clubs, watching football in sports bars, and generally hanging around in bars, it seems the powerful effect of being with the same woman for the last 21 years has dulled my primordial instincts and blinded me to the show that plays out in every bar in every burg every night.

I also watched a group of people in front of me sitting at the rail of the dance floor. One gentleman, an Hispanic that appeared to be in his fifties and not someone that I'd guess was here on purpose, was drinking draft beer from a pitcher and bobbed his head often but not to a beat that I could detect emanating from the band onstage. He asked the woman next to him to dance and they stepped onto the floor. The woman initiated a subdued fast dance routine that had her arms at her sides as she dipped and swayed slightly but accurately to the driving rhythm. The man, on the other hand, began to move in a way that had me thinking that he'd stepped on and been stung by a jellyfish. How this would be at all possible in a bar 250 miles from the nearest body of salt water, I have no idea, but I was generally concerned for this guy's well being and I looked at his feet just to be sure. No jellyfish, but his spasmodic thrashings then had me concerned that he was a fugitive from the law and perhaps the cops were tazing him from the door of the bar with one of those guns that shoots wires with little claws on the end that shock a perp into submission. If this were the case, billy clubs were in order because the guy wouldn't stop "dancing". After shooting a glance at the door to reassure myself that no cops or jellyfish had entered the bar, I tried to turn my attention back to the opening band.

But the patrons just wouldn't let me.

I turned to get another beer and while the Johnny On The Spot bartender gathered me up another bottle, I fished in my wallet for small bills. Even with the music blasting over my head like the blades of a helicopter, I detected a bit of commotion to my left. I looked up to see a large man topple from his stool and reach for the padded edge of the bar like a cat slipping off of a window sill that had just been polished. He clawed at it twice with each hand and his eyes widened as he disappeared from my view for a half-second before his feet took the place of his upper torso. It was like an out-take from Jaws.

I looked at the bartender and he was looking at the guy's feet in the air, too. He turned to me with his lips pursed in a way that said, "Goddamit". I handed him a five and asked him if he'd seen that. He shook his head in a manner that I can only describe as a yes and a no. We both leaned on our respective sides of the bar to watch the fallen king regain his throne. The feet sunk out of sight and a brief moment later, two arms appeared, much like the Swedish Chef's from the Muppet Show. Then, like a sea turtle fighting it's way through the dunes, he forearmed his way up to the bar to the delight of his friends. A few pats on the back and a couple of "are you okays" had him holding up his finger for another round. The bartender raised an eyebrow and lifted himself off of his elbow to give the wounded his prescription.

I watched as intently as I could without staring as the guy's friends went about drinking, laughing, dancing, and generally fucking off while he gave himself a little injury inventory. He sleepily looked straight ahead into space while absent-mindedly rubbing his wrist. A patron bumped into me as he ordered a beer and I turned around to see what hit me. He apologized and I told him there was no problem. Turning back towards the injured man, I saw his wrist now at approximately twice its twin's size. I am pretty damn sure that this guy broke his wrist or maybe even his arm, but he sat there for at least another hour before I lost track of him. I imagine he had to call in sick on Friday, assuming he had a job.

Not long after the spill, Ron Thompson and the Resistors ended their fine set and I watched many of the regulars check out of the place. Employees then engaged in a practice common among small venues that operate as bars or restaurants during the day and early evening, walking the floor asking customers whether or not they intend to stay for the headliner. Then they ask for the cover and provide a hand stamp or paper bracelet to show proof of payment. Not many people that I watched seemed to enthusiastically pay the cover, which indicated that the folks that were here this night just to see Honeytribe were in the minority. I paid up when the guy got to me and he placed one of those paper wristbands with an adhesive end that wraps around and sticks to itself on my wrist. He wasn't too careful and I would painfully rip out a bunch of arm hair later when I removed it. I wonder if those wristbands also serve as a sobriety check for drunkards wobbling out to their cars. If you tear off the band and don't feel any pain, you should call a cab.

Devon Allman and the rest of Honeytribe wandered up to the stage and began their set with not a lot of fanfare. Polite applause greeted them as they drove forward into a nice instrumental from their debut album. I had streamed a couple of tunes online, but otherwise would be learning on the fly. I'm of two minds when it comes to checking out a band that I haven't seen perform before. Sometimes, I do my homework and listen to the band's work intently, and while it can help me enjoy the music, it can also take the edge off by taking the element of surprise away. In this case, I was glad I waited until after the show to buy the CD. While the CD is fine, the band improvised and steered clear of simply playing the songs exactly like the disc this night. When I played the album later, I remembered the tunes I'd heard that night and I think it gave the CD a special "come to life" effect for me.

The band was phenomenal. Allman sang well in a husky, soulful voice and surprised me with his skills on the guitar. I don't know why I was surprised; for some reason I hadn't seen him as a guitar player. The other guitarist, Pedro Arevalo, is a tremendous slide player along for this tour. Because he plays bass in former Allman Brothers Band guitarst Dickie Betts' outfit, Great Southern, his guitar skills had me wondering just how incredible his bass playing must be. Arevalo's playing was sublime and I even enjoyed watching him simply strum along and provide nice little fills and nuances when he wasn't ripping our heads off with blistering slide solos. Rounded out by a pickless bass player (always a good sign to me), a smiling drummer, and a keyboard player that looked a bit like a young Jim Morrison with his beard and aviator sunglasses.

As the band moved onto other originals, I looked around to take note of the crowd's response. Most everyone was watching wide-eyed with smiles and they bobbed their heads with approval. I saw mouths drop open after Arevalo's solos and I imagined that most of these bar hounds hadn't seen anything better than a decent cover band since their high school days. Honeytribe seemed as alien to them as the notion that a ponytail on a man isn't cool anymore.

A guy next to me at the bar was grinning and whooping it up. He yelled the loudest after each tune and was the last one clapping as the band started another. He leaned over to me and started rambling excitedly, saying that he knew the band, well actually just the keyboard player and that he's seen them a few times and aren't they great. Then he mentioned that he used to live in Kansas City and that's where he met the keyboard player. He went on to tell me that he's a badass player; he had to be because he was in the number one Grateful Dead tribute band in the Midwest.

I stared at him and suddenly found myself trying not to laugh. I had questions, but he turned his attention back to the band. I wondered what ranking system was used to determine that this keyboard's former outfit was indeed number one. Is it like the BCS system used for college football. Who sits on the governing board? I suppose that it looks good on a resume' when your musical pedigree includes a stint in the number one Grateful Dead tribute band in the Midwest, but what if you played drums in number four? Would you even mention it? Is there a playoff between regions? Number two in the West goes up against the top contender from the East, I suppose, to then face this powerhouse from the Midwest. Something tells me that a California Dead tribute band would wipe up the stage with the boys from Kansas City.

A cover of Dreams wouldn't have surprised me, but it did. You see, it wasn't the Allman Brothers Band tune from their 1969 debut, but Fleetwood Mac's from Rumours. It took me a moment to realize that Honeytribe wasn't just dropping a tease of the song into one their jams, but playing it in full. What I admired was that they weren't trying to simply mimic Fleetwood Mac (which wouldn't work here) or attempting to reinvent the song. They played it straight as a rock song and it worked. The same approach was used on Bob Marley's No Woman No Cry, which also appears on Honeytribe's debut. Not much of a hint of reggae, but filled with a rock and roll sensibility with soul.

My favorite moment came at what I expected to be a set break. Instead of an intermission, Allman, the keyboardist, and Arevalo simply left the stage one a time leaving only the bass player and drummer. The bass player, George Potsos, kept playing while drummer Mark Oyarzabal sat still. Ah, I thought, a bass solo. Time for concert goers to take a smoke break, hit the restrooms, and certainly get another round. That all happened for the most part, but what surprised me was that the people on the dance floor stayed and actually continued to attempt to shake it to seemingly random notes plunked by Potsos. I watched him intently and I swear that he was trying not to look at the dancers, but couldn't help himself. Soon, like parents that try to discreetly leave grade school holiday recitals after their children have performed but before the actual end of the show, dancers left the floor in small groups. I smiled in wonder at the courage of the few that remained through a funky, tempo changing, and frankly, very impressive bass solo. The last two couples shimmied and shook, but without knowing what the bass player was about to do, they were chasing the notes like kittens after a laser pointer. Mercifully, after about four minutes of sheer agony, the drummer jumped in and gave the dancers something "with a good beat that they could dance to".

The other members of Honeytribe walked back to the stage one by one and joined in to the vague rhythm of The Doors' Riders On The Storm. When they were all up onstage, the entire band played a few bars of the instrumental version, segueing into another instrumental before saying goodnight. A perfunctory, but enthusiastically asked for, encore finished off the night. I hung around for a few moments to let the drunks sort themselves out in the parking lot as I had no desire to enter a destruction derby with the new truck. Someone was helping sort out with the band's merchandise, but I saw that Devon Allman was manning the table himself and signing CDs. I had already decided to get a CD after what I'd heard that night and walked over when the crowd thinned a bit. I also had spied a nice tour poster at the entrance and asked the security guy if I could take it now that the show was over. As he tore it down and handed it to me, the gal that was setting up the merchandise table pointed out to me that there were plenty of brand new posters available. I said thanks, but I like the ones that were up in the venue if I can get it. Something about the authenticity, I suppose.

I shook Allman's hand and spoke to him briefly. He was very appreciative to get the support on an off night. After talking to him for just a few minutes, I found him to be humble and not at all acting the rock star part that could be expected from a child of rock and roll royalty. I bought a CD and he signed it for me when I asked him to sign a couple of posters for my friends Chris and Steve, I got the feeling that he would have signed a dozen for me without hesitation. I said good luck to him and made my way outside.

Stepping into the brisk air felt good and I was glad to see the parking lot had a lot fewer El Caminos and 4X4s than when I'd arrived, so getting out alive looked probable. I started the truck and clicked on the radio. Listening to some late night sports talk radio that I'm not usually up late enough to hear reminded me that it was a weeknight. Plenty of good folks had come out to see a great young band on a Thursday night in Fresno and I was glad that I was one of them.

Now, let's see, tomorrow night it'll be, "yeah, Fresno was last night, Bakersfield before that, San Luis Obispo tonight and Vegas I think............".

Check 'em out:

Honeytribe http://www.honeytribe.com/

The Crossroads http://www.crossroadsfresno.net/

Ron Thompson http://www.rtblues.com/

Mullet info http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mullet_%28haircut%29

5 Little Things 11.16.06

2006-11-16T21:32:00.000-08:00

Hi folks. Sorry for the delay. A recent car accident sidelined me for a little bit there. I'm fine, but the Ford didn't take too well to the lady running the red light. I'll tell you all about it over on the other blog later. In the meantime, here's 5 little things.

1. The fucking Who got their album out before Guns and Roses. Talk about the tortoise and the hare. It's probably been said a million times already, but am I the only one who gets the joke about the supposed album being called Chinese Democracy? As in, never gonna happen?

2. I missed seeing Gov't Mule perform live on the West Coast run for the first time in 8 years. It just didn't happen for me. Listening to the brilliant new album has me almost being there, smelling the smoke and tasting the Anchor Steam, but it's just not the same.

3. Rod Stewart has put out a lackluster collection of classic rock cover tunes that I bought for my wife. She loves Stewart and I like him just fine, but I'm getting frustrated. After four volumes of songs for your parents' parents, he's now moved into songs for just your parents. I suppose he'll have to put out a disc of lullabies and an audio book of him reading the latest Tom Clancy thriller before he gets around to a Faces reunion.

4. Bob Seeger has apparently resurfaced with a new album and a threat to tour. Who will go if Jimmy Buffet is on tour at the same time?

5. I wake up with a song in my head every day. It's kind of like how those fuckers on Earth play some lame shit for the Space Shuttle astronauts to wake up to and we get a snippet on Headline News. I wish I knew how that song gets in my head because sometimes it's off the wall. Sometimes, it makes sense; maybe I heard the tune in a commercial jingle or movie soundtrack the previous day. Sometimes, it's a really kickass tune that makes me think my day is going to just be bitchin'. Today, it was a No Doubt tune that I don't know the name of. What the fuck?

Requiem For A Hangout

2006-10-11T09:08:00.000-07:00

We all lose touch with friends. It's a natural part of our lives. It's impossible to remain as close to friends as we'd like to think. Circumstances come into play that have us drift apart. I'm comfortable with that reality, but in this case, I think I may have in some small way actually contributed to a friend's death.

Tower Records is slipping away and it's too late for me to reconcile. I'm losing a friend and I never said goodbye. We just.....stopped being friends. It just wasn't the same after a while and I strayed.

As the malt shop was to '50s teenagers, Tower Records served me as a hangout during and after high school. While others were cruising the main drag, I cursed them as I was trapped in the crawling hormone stream as I tried to make my way into the shopping center's parking lot where Tower was located. It's yellow sign with red letters beckoned me and my friends to come on in and stroll about, soak in the sounds of the "now playing" selections, flip through the latest issue of Kerrang!, and agonize over which single album or tape I'd buy with my McDonald's earnings.

In those days, Tower was my primary resource for music related information. Long before the Internet made me savvy to such things as record release dates, tour information months in advance, band and artists bios, and even sampling music before you buy, this store was an information outpost that I would trek to so as to satiate my hunger for music. Then, I didn't even really know roughly when an album came out unless it was heavily pushed by the label on radio or in print. Some of the marginal acts I followed would thrill me as I flipped through their section and a new album would appear one day. I'd go over to a friend on another aisle and say, "Dude, check it out. A new Fastway album!". Conversely, endlessly browsing through the same old records could be depressing. Sometimes a band would have broken up and we wouldn't hear about it for months until it saw print in Creem or Hit Parader. I'd been flipping through the Rainbow section for months in vain, much like hoping the cute girl in Algebra II might notice me. When I found out that Rainbow had broken up, I felt as silly as I did when I asked her out and she said that her boyfriend sat two seats behind me in class.

In addition to serving my interest in music, Tower Records became a hangout for me and my tight-nit group of pals. We all were heavily into rock, metal, and progressive music and we'd have lengthy and sometimes loud discussions about the importance of Yngwie Malmsteen or why Zebra's second album was better than their first. We "got" Spinal Tap, and loved it as much the first time as people do today now that 80's metal has become a fond campy memory. We thought of ourselves as a heavy metal think tank or at least the rock and roll This Week With David Brinkley, but in reality we were probably primordial Beavises and Buttheads.

This store may not have actively encouraged loitering, but they never discouraged it either. We were never pressured to buy anything or rushed out the door after a while unless it was closing time. I once spent about 3 and a half hours in Tower without buying so much as a 45. Most retailers at the time might get a bit anxious to have 4 or 5 teenagers walking around their store in a pack, talking and laughing for hours on end, but not Tower. They were permissive, almost understanding what we found in that oasis. Today, chains like Borders and Barnes and Noble have actually capitalized on that business plan, serving food and drink to customers that might have been simply viewed as potential customers before they bought coffee and continued browsing.

After the local Tower Records moved from it's original location to it's current site, it never quite seemed the same to me. Gone was the long room with low ceilings. Gone was the familiar layout of albums and cassettes. And gone was sharing the parking lot with K-Mart and the old Pic-N-Save discount store. The new store was a stand alone building with vaulted ceilings and shiny new display racks. It was a nice place and still served my needs, but I missed the old store. When my parents moved us in 1980, I loved the bigger, better house with the huge pool, but I still have the most fond childhood memories of the small house before it and the tiny apartment before that.

But my friend Tower Records started acting differently soon after the move. They started carrying a dizzying array of magazines and newspapers that drew a crowd that I'd not seen before in the shop. These people weren't music fans. They were hipster slackers, sitting on the floor and smelling like clove cigarettes. The selection of music became narrower in my view as well. Many more mainstream top sellers monopolized floor space, as well as toys, posters, backpacks, personal electronics, and other non-music related products. Even candy and gum were prominently displayed not far from the latest release from Pantera.

But those changes weren't enough to keep me away from my friend. Tower still carried my music. The biggest problem I had with Tower Records was their prices. While lower than the ridiculous mall store prices in places such as Sam Goody, Tower seemed unwilling to lower everyday prices on back catalog albums and would only feature discounts on the Tower Top 25 or the latest releases from the major labels. In my halcyon days of music buying, in which I stockpiled the majority of my collection and replaced cassette and LPs with CDs, I'd drop serious amounts of money at Tower. In those days, the chain would have great sales where a customer could really score a good number of releases. For example, in a certain month, all titles from a label (Chrysalis, Columbia, Capitol, etc.) would be on sale. This was an exciting time where I could buy up a band's back catalog fairly quickly. But in the last few years, even if I really wanted an album, I couldn't bring myself to pay $16.99 for something like Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here.

And this contributed to my cheating on my friend. The primary paramour for me was the used record stores I found on the central coast of California. In towns like Santa Cruz and San Luis Obispo, I took sloppy seconds with someone else's love. A beat up jewel case? I've got extras. A torn booklet? No big, I hardly read them more than once. My heart would race as I'd exit Boo Boo Records in San Luis Obispo with 15 (!) CDs and having paid the retail equivalent of about 5 or 6 releases at Tower. The only difference in the actual product was the lack of shrinkwrap and that infernal "dogbone" silver sticker anti-theft device.

The torrid affair I have with these used shops continues to this day. It became such a force in my buying habits that I eventually stopped going to Tower Records except when I wanted a new release right away. Sometimes, I'd reluctantly have to plunk down the full retail price and I began to resent my old friend. When the big box stores started selling music at deep discounts, it became hard for me to continue my relationship with Tower. "Why can't you discount your product like those stores?", I would plead with her. The answers drew upon reasons as an unwillingness to use CDs as loss leaders to what I perceived as a stubborn line in the sand stance taken by the chain.

Now, I have only the fond memories of the past. I suppose that in all failed relationships, there are always moments of joy to draw upon and I'll try to do that. God knows there are many. But ironically, I can't recall the last time I stepped foot in Tower Records. The most dominant memory I have of being in a Tower Records has nothing to do with music at all.

--------------------

Dropping change on the floor gets everyone's attention and can be very embarrassing as you stoop to pick up your pittance. If it's a large amount of change, it's especially face-reddening as people wonder why you had so much loose change with you. They must think you're poor and feel sorry for you as you crawl about to gather your coins like a goose pecking at bread crumbs.

For a time, my sister worked at a video arcade (remember those?) and other arcade's game tokens would have to be sifted from the one's used at her arcade. She came home one night and gave me a box of tokens from an arcade that my friends loved to visit. I never took to video games, but still liked to go and hang out, playing foosball or air hockey. As my friends would now look to me as a conquering hero, I gladly accepted the box of tokens and on that Friday night, my friends and I played every game we could, giggling with glee at the free lives, endless pucks, and never caring if you tilted the pinball machine.

Not long after, that particular arcade closed and we found those tokens useless. Even my sister's arcade had all their games calibrated to only accept their own tokens. Now I had about a third of the original amount of tokens laying around and something came to mind one night as I got dressed for a night out at Tower with my buddies. I filled both front pockets of my 501s with tokens and picked up in the guys the '76 Sunbird as we headed to the shop for another night of browsing and arguing.

We did the usual kvetching and window shopping. My friend Eric was deep in thought, looking at a UFO album he didn't have. It was around 9:00 in the evening, but the store was fairly busy. I started over to him to execute my task. UFO's section was near the end of an aisle and I made note of the getaway path. I had let Randy in on my plans and tipped him off so as not to miss it. He wandered over an aisle away and tried not to snort his stifled laughter in anticipation. I sidled up to Eric. He looked at me and asked if I had that album. I told him no, but I'd heard it. I quietly took a step away from him and pretended to check out a Vandenburg album I already had. I glanced at Eric to make sure he wasn't looking at me and I reached into one of my pockets.

I dropped a huge handful of game tokens at his feet and quickly slid away in one motion. The clamor of the coins hitting the hard tiled floor made just about everyone stop and look up at Eric. The coins rattled, spun and rolled all over the place. He just stood there blushing so much I thought his face would combust. I was just a few feet away and I pretended to be as surprised as the rest of the customers. A little girl walked up and handed Eric a token that had rolled two aisles away. He took it and murmured a thank you as the girl's mother smiled and shook her head at him.

Randy and I slid off to fall all over each other with laughter. I was crying. He couldn't breathe. Such a simple thing had caused just the reaction I wanted. I looked around for Chet, our fourth this night. I saw him way across the store and he was just out of earshot, I suppose, so he immediately became my next victim. Eric wanted in on this one, so we plotted against him together.

Chet was actually going to buy something that night, so we waited until he got to the counter. There was a bit of a line, so we knew we'd be caught by a few customer's eyes, but enough people were shopping near the front of the store to still horribly embarrass Chet. As he neared the front of the line, we took our positions. I had given Randy and Eric each a good sized handful of tokens and I held the rest. "Whadya got there?", Randy asked.

Before Chet could answer, the clerk said next and Chet stepped up to the counter. We stepped with him. The clerk looked at us funny for a moment and gave Chet his total. As he reached for his wallet, we all let loose with the coins and this time the racket was such that a woman whelped in surprise. The clerk's eyes widened and his mouth opened. Chet looked at his feet in disbelief as the customers behind him, who had seen us act, guffawed. A manager came out from the office in the back of the cassette section with a twisted look of confusion on his face. Tokens rolled all the way towards the entrance and all the way towards the Classical section. We scooted towards the door doubled over from the terrible cramps from laughing so hard. Kids scrambled to pick up the tokens and Chet paid as quickly as he could, simultaneously stifling laughs and dying of embarrassment. As he reached the door, he slipped a little on the sea of change and I thought my head would explode as I howled at his predicament.

---------------

So now I mourn the loss of my dear friend Tower Records with only memories and maybe the sticky remnants of price tags on some of my albums. I'm sorry if I contributed to her death by ignoring her, but she didn't put up much of a fight either. I'll still miss the feeling of jealousy I'd get when I'd see someone walking down the street with that familiar yellow plastic bag filled with booty from a good day's hunting.

Back At It

2006-10-05T14:19:00.000-07:00

A little more production here today. See below. Also a new post over on Oh, Like You Give A Sh*t. Thanks for stopping by!

Hazy Tony

All Aboard The Guilty Pleasure Express

2006-10-05T12:49:00.000-07:00

This past spring, my wife and I stopped in Vegas for a couple of nights on the way home from Phoenix. We'd had a lovely visit with friends, but looked forward to a couple of "cutting loose" evenings at the Hard Rock Hotel. After a day by the pool sipping on $10 beers in cute little tiki cups, we showered and changed for a wild night out to see........

Train.

Yeah, I know. Not exactly what you might expect on this site after reading escapades of violence at Iron Maiden shows and Ozzfest shenanigans, but it was all that was really happening as far as rock and roll during our stay. We saw Chicago (the band) the night before at the MGM and they were actually pretty good, but I went mainly for my wife. This night, we'd see Train at a club inside the fairly new Palms Casino. The Palms is apparently the new hot spot for the young and beautiful to hang out and be seen. For instance, Huntington and Hart, the tattoo parlor featured in the reality show Inked can be found on the premises. It's a great casino; we didn't play there, but while waiting for the show to begin, we wandered around a bit and made plans to come back on our next trip through.

Add the fact that I was hit on twice at the bar while getting a couple of beers as Mary held our place in line. Either this 39 year old is holding up pretty well or those girls were pretty drunk. But who cares? Made me feel alright.

The show was held in a small venue that normally serves as a dance club. There was no opening act, which was fine with me. We did our usual routine of scouting out a good vantage point as this was a general admission standing room only show. Then we made some small talk with a couple that was from Vegas. The woman was a little tipsy and the husband was stone sober, which found him easily annoyed. They were very nice though, and we were relieved to be talking to "normal" people instead of a couple from the myriad of air-heads bumping into each other on the packed dance floor.

I had mediocre expectations of Train, so I figured I would be entertained enough to enjoy the show and not be too snarky. I've grown up quite a bit when it comes to criticizing acts based on my own merit system of qualifications of cool. In the past, I would sneer and poke fun at fans of pop or country, rap or whatever, turning up my nose while reveling in my own sense of lowbrow nobility. I don't know when I changed, but I'm glad I did. Even if I don't like something, I can appreciate the fact that someone does. Especially if they're into it.

The band came on and blazed through radio hits and fan favorites like Meet Virginia and Drops Of Jupiter. I was surprised at the musicianship I witnessed, even in songs I'd heard hundreds of times and deemed simple pop hits. Each player was engaged in the tunes and I enjoyed watching the interplay between them. Train fans know all the words to the songs. They smile wide and sway back and forth to the melodies. In time, I was doing the same. I had a dumb smile on my face until they blew my mind.

The familiar mandolin opening of Led Zeppelin's Going To California started and I looked over at Mary with my mouth wide open like Buckwheat from the Little Rascals. Not only did they play it, they nailed it. I was already impressed by the performance so far and at this point, Train had solidified some credibility with me. A few more originals later, they played Zep's What Is And What Should Never Be. Later, they pulled out Gallows Pole. I started wondering if it was Robert Plant's birthday or something. I also began to think that Train should do an all Zeppelin set sometime and release it officially.

Mary was making some small talk with a huge bouncer who was originally from Nigeria. This guy had arms the size of my waist, but was super nice. Mary pointed over to stage right and asked what the little area cordonned off was. He replied that it was a V.I.P. area and you needed a pass. He shrugged as if to say that he wished he could help us out, but then leaned in to Mary and said, "I can get you up front if you'd like". She checked in with me and I told her to go for it. She took our new lady friend by the hand and off they went. The husband and I raised our eyebrows and laughed as we watched people make way for our wives escorted by the bouncer we nicknamed Green Mile.

Mary and the wife stayed up front at the rail for a couple of songs, then returned to the husband and I. The bouncer had returned to his post near us after doing some rounds and I gave Mary a ten to tip him. She went over and discreetly put the folded bill in his hand. He thanked her and waved me and the other couple over. "How'd you fine folks like to see the show from the V.I.P. area?", he asked. We all nodded, smiling stupidly. He whisked us off into an oasis of sorts, away from the crush of youthful fans and into a lush bar with plenty of elbow room. It was seated directly to the side of the stage and we were no more that 5 feet from the performers. I was also relieved that the sound was still great at that angle. So we watched the rest of the show like big shots.

We left with a new appreciation of this band. Now I began to think that maybe I've overlooked other pop bands, pidgeon-holing them into the category of "shiny, overproduced, pablum for the masses". Train might be still just that, but I've been shown the other side by catching the live experience. They are a fine rock and roll band who are not ashamed of their pop sensibilities. We even purchased the entire Train catalog on CD (not all at once--we're not insane) and I actually listen voluntarily. I've sung She's On Fire in the shower more than once.

My name's Tony. Hi Tony. And...um....I'm a Train fan.

This recollection came to mind as I purchased tickets to see Train tomorrow night (10.06.06) at the Big Fresno Fair. My wife and I were on the fence, but started remembering how good the show in Vegas was and decided to go. I'll most likely see the Black Crowes' performance next week (10.11.06) at the Fair as well. On a "six degrees" note, Train bassist Johnny Colt was the original bass player for the Black Crowes.

Tony Goes Boom (The Black Crowes At The Fillmore Part 7!)

2006-09-21T21:20:00.000-07:00

The Black Crowes truly stunned us number after number. We both sang along with tunes like Soul Singing and Jealous Again, and we relished the fact that Mary's Perch was servicing us well with her able to see and both of us four steps from the bar.

But, as it is every single time I visit the City By The Bay, I was assailed by gargantuan people whose method of attack is to stand directly in my way. It's only appropriate that the Major League club here is named The Giants. God knows enough of them have stood in front of me so that I witness concerts like a 25 cent peepshow. Except this peepshow costs upwards of forty bucks, a hotel stay, dinner, and beer at six-fifty a pop. This time, a couple of drunks--one about my height and one roughly a UPS truck's height-- came wobbling from the bar area and the short one plopped himself right in front of me. The Goliath took a step in front of us and looked back at Mary, then tapped his buddy's shoulder and pointed at Mary, shaking his head as if to say that he shouldn't stand there. His little buddy nodded and they both scooted back towards the entryway to the bar. As the 7-foot-whatever dude glanced back at us, Mary tapped him on the shoulder and said thanks while I gave him a nice "thumbs up". But it couldn't last.

I noticed that patrons were facing a bottleneck when they left the bar area to squeeze onto the main floor. The two guys were standing directly in the path of the de facto traffic lane. I figured that they'd have to move eventually and assumed that they'd simply make their way out into the sea of humanity somewhere. Alas, after getting bumped a few dozen times and having beer inadvertently spilled on their shoes, they both slid a few feet to their right which landed them--you guessed it--right in front of us. Over the music, I heard a couple of whiny groans behind me. I turned around to see two ladies with deflated looks on their faces. They'd done the same as Mary and I by getting to the Fillmore early and securing a nice spot. Mary could actually see the stage from her perch and ordinarily I'd suffer my fate as predetermined by the Rock Gods for a visit to Frisco and just grin and bear the limited view. But this guy was huge. Eclipse huge. And I really didn't want to stare directly at the generic surfer t-shirt graphics between his shoulder blades all night. I had an idea that might solve everything.

I stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder. He swung around and looked down at me. I leaned upwards towards his ear, standing on my toes, and motioned back towards the two ladies. I told him that he was blocking our view. In a belligerent tone, he asked me what I wanted him to do about it. I stiffened a bit, trying not to get fired up, and told him that I appreciated that he was so considerate before when stepping in front of Mary. I proposed that he and I switch places (a difference of about 3 feet from the stage) because where I was standing was up against the wall and he would be able to see over my head easily while the wall guaranteed that he would not block anyone's view. A win-win for everyone.

"I don't think so", he smirked. He swung around and turned his back on me.

His drunken dismissal of my logic infuriated me and everything fired at once inside my head. This only happens once in a while and when it does, it scares everyone because I act so out of character-- kind of like Bill Bixby on Friday nights in the late '70s. I put my hand on his shoulder and surprised myself by jerking him back to look me in the face. I gritted my teeth and pointed my finger in his face, explaining that I couldn't understand how he could have been so cool a few minutes earlier and become such an asshole now. I asked how it makes no sense to him to step a few feet back to make everyone happy with virtually no effect on his enjoyment of the show. His little buddy looked at me as if I were a talking dog. The giant blinked slowly and his huge head rocked a little on his tree stump neck.

"Fuck off", he slurred and stepped towards me. I put my shoulders back and started forward when I was yanked back by the collar, hard. It was Mary. I turned around to see a frantic look on her face. She told me to back off and try to enjoy the show. We were having a good time, she told me. I looked back at the giant who had turned around, probably satisfied in his thinking that he'd intimidated another member of the Lollipop Guild.

The two ladies behind me patted me on the shoulders and thanked me for trying to reason with the behemoth. "What an asshole", they said, but I wondered what would have happened if Mary hadn't grabbed me. At the very least, it would have been a nasty scene at a very cool show and I would have been just as much of an asshole as this ape. Things like this have only happened a few times and, in fact, once before at the Fillmore. I guess that scent of spilled beer, sweat, and patchouli residue gets my Irish up for some reason. As much as I like the music of the genre, I'm such an anti-hippie. Must be all the Dial I use on a regular basis.

The giant and his even more wobbly friend stayed around for a while, but I was able to see enough to enjoy the show and so were the gals behind me. Soon, the band took a break for intermission and the lights came up. I prepared myself for some choice indecipherable threats from Shrek, but he only glanced my way and scuffed his heels towards the bar. Mary and I made some small talk with the ladies and generally people-watched until the band came on again.

This time, our view stayed unobstructed and I guessed that the two mooks had made their way farther up front so that they could ruin the view of many more people and in turn invite more spilled drinks and verbal thrashings. The Black Crowes drove on and on into the night, sounding better and better. I would gander at the cameras from time to time and noticed that most of the shots seemed to come from stationary, as opposed to hand held, cameras. Much like those at a football game. I wondered if any of these cameramen had shot manly men crashing into each other on a gridiron and, if so, how they felt about filming spindly, twirling, and slightly effeminate Chris Robinson. Especially with the knowledge that (at least back then) he was boinking Kate Hudson. Hard to keep it steady, I imagined.

The show was phenomenal and showcased the Crowes' hits such as Hard To Handle and Remedy, but also delivered renditions of album tracks I would not have bet on. Willie Dixon's Mellow Down Easy, while played by the Crowes for some years by now, still surprised me a little. It was fun to hear its thumping beat and the band really let it rip. I was completely caught off guard when they chose The Band's The Night They Drove Ol' Dixie Down for a closer. It seemed to be a little anti-climatic, but then again, there had been a few climaxes already. You gotta let 'em down easy sometimes, I suppose.

When the house lights came up, Mary and I decided to hang around for a moment to let the initial crush of people mash their way down the stairs. I was anxious to get out soon though, as I wasn't sure what to expect across the street at the Boom Boom Room. So we made our way past those waiting at the merchandise booth and coat check (more venues need to add a coat check counter) and joined the cattle drive. Mary and I both looked forward to getting a souvenir poster of the event as that's the norm for sold out shows at the Fillmore. But by the time we reached the bottom of the stairs, the posters were gone. Why they don't produce a fixed number for an event they know is sold out, I'll never know. So in the end, we had no Instant Live recording and no poster. Shit.

We poured out onto Geary Street with the rest of the crowd. Jean and Keno weren't picking up their phones, so Mary and I shrugged to each other and headed over to the Boom Boom Room, out of which we could hear some riff-heavy blasts coming out of the open door. As we approached, it got louder and I got excited. A bonus show! Ten bucks apiece and we were in the door. The difference of the volume from the sidewalk to just inside the club was remarkable. I leaned into Mary and squeezed her a little to thank her for coming here tonight and laughed into her ear, pointing to the band. "Fairies Wear Boots", I said. The trio was into the opening riffs of the Black Sabbath romp. "What!?", she replied, most likely thinking I'd offered up a Dungeons and Dragons inspired non-sequitur. "It's a Sabbath tune", I told her. "Ohhhhh, of course", she said with more than a pinch of sarcasm. We strode to the bar and got a couple of drinks. Over the absolute wail coming from the stage in the long, narrow club, the bartender could hardly hear our order but was able to garner that I'd like a Coors Light. He shook his head and thumbed over his shoulder to the beers available. No Coors Light. What was up with this town? I got a Bud Light and Mary got a Anchor Steam. We made our way up front to the surprisingly sparse dance floor in front of the stage.

I had expected more of a crowd what with flyers posted around the neighborhood, website info, and print ads boasting this event as being a post-Black Crowes party. Usually, that's enough to get folks to stumble on in or, in my case, actually plan ahead and fret over it. As we stepped closer towards the stage, I was actually shocked at the volume of this band. I've been to hundreds of shows and my ears have withstood the bombastic attacks from the arena acts of the '80s to club acts playing to crowds of 40 with a PA built for 400. Still, we ventured forth, drawn into the heavy, heavy riffs and clamorous drums.

I had done a little Internet homework on Rose Hill Drive, but was still a little shaken at their youthful appearance. The sounds emanating from the stage were telling my brain that the musicians should have been close to or at least my age. My eyes betrayed those thoughts, because these kids were half my age. I was trying to imagine how they possibly swam upstream against the whitewater current of Modern Punk, rap-rock, rap and hip hop, emo, or whatever else the fickle music industry is feeding this generation. They fought the current indeed and landed themselves on Rock Island. I could only surmise that they'd spent long boring summers, trapped in their parent's basements without the freedom of a driver's license, listening to boxes of forgotten Mahogany Rush and Robin Trower cassettes long since abandoned by their cool, stoner uncle Bobby. How else could they have come to this musical conclusion?

The music was guitar driven, to be sure, but the drums and bass were equally present in the excellent sound mix. But as I said, it was loud. Free-throw-to-win-the-game loud. Train-whistle-in-a-tunnel loud. Motorhead-in-your-kitchen loud. Louder than I've heard music played since I stuck my head into a PA during AC/DC's Back In Black at a junior high dance---and lived to hear again days later. We spied our new friend from the Fillmore line across the room. Mary went over and tapped her shoulder to say hi. The lady smiled, but didn't seem to recognize Mary, a woman that she'd spent a half-hour talking to just two hours ago. Nancy Reagan was right on those public service announcements; that's why they call it dope. And now I know.

My wife by my side, I stood in defiance of this aural assault. I was getting punched in the chest by the bass drum kick hard enough to worry about skipping a heartbeat. I think I was visibly bent backwards just slightly to absorb the blows. I looked at my wife and she was wincing a bit and I was reminded of the scene in Indiana Jones where Harrison Ford and Karen Allen are tied up and forced to watch the opening of the Ark. Just like in the movie, I was sure my face was melting for witnessing this event. While So while Mary and I were both enjoying the tunes immensely, she leaned over and showed me that she'd taken her ear plugs out of her pocket. I turned my gaze back to the stage and gauged the volume again. I nodded and reluctantly took out my plugs too.

The new earplugs we'd purchased a while back were much better at filtering high levels of volume instead of muffling it like the old foam jobs we'd smashed into our ear canals for years. While the model I wore had little pegs to handle them by that made me look like I had Martian antennae, I was glad to suffer any strange looks for the ability to hear the next morning.

More people starting coming in, no doubt drawn by the incredible music flooding out the door and into the streets. The dance floor was getting a little crowded and a couple of college-aged girls were really rocking out, swinging their long hair and spilling their beer. Mary got whipped with the locks a couple of times and did not take to it kindly. I tried to settle her down, but realized that she was having a Bill Bixby moment just like I did earlier. Then one of the girls stumbled and bumped into Mary from the blindside. She didn't even acknowledge it and Mary suddenly had just had enough. She turned and walked towards the back of the club. I followed to make sure she was okay and she sat down at a cabaret styled table. I sat down, but she motioned for me to stay up front where I was having a good time. She was just at her limit for putting up with people, she told me. While I was there, though, I got us another drink--another brew for me and a double whiskey for my love. That ought to loosen her up, I thought.

I delivered the hefty Jamesons, kissed my wife, and ventured back into the onslaught. It was loud enough were Mary was sitting and even with my earplugs firmly in place, walking towards the stage was like leaning into gail force winds while getting shot in the solar plexus by batting cage pitching machines. The sound was clear and clean, not distorted or topped out at all. I was loving it.

One song later, Mary came over and said she wanted to leave. Before I could plead with her to stay, she was telling me to stay and that she would walk the short blocks to the hotel. I paused; now what was this, I thought. A trick? A test? Usually, anything remotely sounding like "I'm going, but you can stay" could end up messy if I was stupid enough to agree to it. But when I started towards the door, she looked me in the eye and told me that she meant it. I looked at my watch. It was about 12:20am and I figured the band would play until 1:00 or so. I wasn't worried about her walking back alone because we were in what I consider to be the safest neighborhood in the entire city. So I walked her to the door and kissed her goodnight.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come back with you?", I asked.

She gave me a reassuring smile and told me to stay. I was thrilled with her attitude and really grateful to witness the rest of the band's set. She started out the door, but then looked back at me. "Just do me a favor and don't drink anymore. You've had quite a bit today", she noted.

"Yeah, you're right. No problem", I replied.

She walked out the door and I made my way back towards the stage. When I was passing the bar, the bartender caught my eye. I looked back over my shoulder towards the door, leaning way over as if I were trying to look around the corner of the doorway. With the coast clear, I put up my index finger to get that last Bud Light. The Perfect Crime. Until Mary reads this, that is.

I went back up front and was nodding along to the raucous nouveau classic rock sounds of Rose Hill Drive and watching the crowd smile and cheer for every unknown but suddenly loved song when my leg suffered a little earthquake. I grabbed my thigh and it stopped. Momentarily, I was relieved, but a little concerned about this. Just then it happened again! "What the fuck?", I said aloud, although it was impossible for anyone to have heard it over the crushing mortar blasts coming from the stage. When the third earthquake came, I grabbed my thigh again and felt something rumbling in my cupped hand. It was my phone. Set on vibrate. I rolled my eyes at my own stupidity.

I immediately thought it must be Mary and reached into my pocket. I instinctively looked at the caller ID feature and mouthed what I saw; JANET. "It's Janet", I said excitedly to no one that could conceivably hear me and I flipped open the phone. I raised it to my ear and thhhwwakk!!! I'd forgotten that I had my earplugs in, the ones with the stems sticking out. After ramming the one on the right deep into my ear canal, I recoiled like I'd taken a left roundhouse from Clubber Lang, even stumbling a bit. I turned from the stage, hunched over, and started towards the back of the club all the while yelling into the phone, "hold on Janet, I can't hear you, hold on babe". Rose Hill Drive's throbbing attack sent out a repeated strike that seemed to send off audio shrapnel that had me literally ducking and weaving my way towards the exit so as I could make myself heard. I felt like I was in a Die Hard movie, minus the bare feet and broken glass.

When I reached the door, I held up the phone to the imposing bouncer and said, "Hey man, can I take this outside and come back in?". He nodded and I started across the threshold.

He smacked me square across the chest with his meaty forearm which made me emit a sound which I can most closely spell as "awook". I looked at him incredulously.

He smiled with a curled lip, "You can go out with that, Mate", he said with a thick British accent, pointing at my cellphone, "but not with that". He then pointed at the bottle of Bud Light in my left hand.

"Oh shit, I didn't even realize....", I stammered to the bouncer. "Janet? Janet, hold on. I'm right here", I was yelling into the phone as I turned back into the club. I looked around for a place to set my beer and saw what looked like a nice empty black table right at the exit. "How's this?", I asked the bouncer.

"Fine, I suppose", he said grinning.

With his approval, I released the grip of my beer to set it on what I thought was a convenient table by the exit but in fact dropped it into a what was the dark abyss of a trash can. I heard the heartbreaking crash of a half-full bottle against the remains of other dead soldiers, those having been truly emptied in the heat of the battle. The bouncer laughed heartily and I sneered a bit as I slid by him on my way out the door.

The sound of the show drifted off in the distance as I walked down the street a few steps to revive Janet's call. "Are you there, buddy?", I asked.

"What are you doing", Janet said more than asked. She sounded a bit sleepy and I was now even more confused to get the call at this hour.

I told her I was at the Crowes after party. "Where's Mary?", she asked with concern. I explained why I was alone in a nightclub in San Francisco as I strolled along Fillmore Street, up to the corner bodega and back towards the Boom Boom Room. I lost track of the conversation for just a moment when I tilted my head to listen to the crushing wave of volume coupled with whoops and hollers emanating from the door of the club. When I asked her what she was doing up at this hour, I was regaled with tales of her white trash neighbors coming over to drink beer and generally keep everyone up past their bedtime. Scott was asleep, I was told, but she was wide awake and remembered that Mary and I would most likely be up at this hour. So she thought she'd call to check in with us.

We chatted for a few more minutes. I smiled and nodded at passersby and gazed up into the misty night in Japantown as I found myself swept up in the fact that I'd had a most complete day. From coffee to baseball, from a brief nap to true rock and roll, from a beer to near fisticuffs, from the Fillmore to the Boom Boom Room. Now on Fillmore, happily talking to my concert buddy with a pinch of bittersweet joy, I slowly walked back to the club to see the end of the Rose Hill Drive set. As I was ready to tell Janet that I had to go, I heard the familiar wheeze of the last breath from the amps and cymbals, then a "thank you, good night" over the PA and when I saw the trickle of humanity's worst present themselves into the cool early morning hours, I realized that I'd missed the last few minutes of the show.

"You still there, Ton'?", Janet asked as I stood a few feet from the door looking at the British doorman. He smiled as he put his index finger to the side of his nose and flipped it towards me with a wink. I shrugged at him and the gave him a friendly wave. Somehow, while I would have normally been bugged out missing the last minutes of a great show, at this moment I was relaxed and happy to get back to my sister-in-law. "Yeah, bud, I'm here", I told Janet. I went on to tell her about the shows and included the requisite "you would have dug it" tagline. I went on to tell her that I really wanted to someday show her the Fillmore. Janet and I are kindred spirits of sorts and I can't wait to see her face when she walks into that venue. We made a "pinky swear" over the phone that night to see a concert there sometime if only to share the "Fillmore Experience".

"I wish you were here", I said as a goodnight.

"I wish you were here, but I'm really glad you're there", she replied.

We said goodnight and I clapped my phone shut in front of the bodega. I sighed and spun around to take in the night air and thanked God for my place in this world. I stood there, bathed in the flickering light of the bodega's neon sign, smiling like an idiot, and when I caught myself aware I didn't care. Alone on a corner in a bustling city at 1:30am, after a whirlwind day, I laughed at myself and bounded back to the Miyako Hotel.

I swiped the keycard and tried to enter the room as quietly as possible. I kicked off my shoes and emptied my pockets on the endtable as I stared at my wife with wide open night eyes. Mary stirred as I quickly brushed my teeth and tumbled into bed. "How're you doing?", she asked.

I rolled over and looked her in the eyes. "Are you kidding me?", I asked. "I couldn't be better".

Epilogue:

The next morning, our bodies came to collect on the advance we'd taken out for the weekend's activities. We must have made a Robert Johnson type of deal at the crossroads, because Saturday should have been a total loss after Friday's consumption and sleep deprivation by all accounts, yet we (Mary and I, that is; Keno and Jean never made it out again after the ballgame) were able to get up and party even harder Saturday night. But Sunday morning's bill was hefty and my headache was nothing compared to the wobbly feeling I had all over. The weird thing was, I didn't feel sick. I felt like a walking, breathing earthquake, except that I wasn't visibly shaking or trembling. My heart felt like it was in a paint mixer at Home Depot, my legs were as strong as a flamingo's, and the texture of my tongue told me that I must have eaten the lightbulbs in the hotel room sometime in the night.

The four of us decided to go out and get some breakfast. A brisk walk and fresh air would do us all some good before heading home, we thought. A walk down to Denny's on the corner would have been fine, but we just kept walking and walking until we basically hit the water. The hilly urban terrain made for a good ally to my dehydration during the Monday morning attack on my calves. Unlike Custer though, I saw this attack coming. Also like Custer, I was unable to do much about it and the Gatorade volleys barely made a dent in the cramps' onslaught. Perhaps a preemptive strike of Vitamin D and Magnesium might have kept the savages at bay, but, again, I was like Custer and too proud to call for help beforehand. Instead of scalped, I was calved.

Mary didn't fare much better. She woke up fine but had a delayed reaction to all the weekend's craziness. She had to stop more than once to catch her breath and fight back queasiness. She was on a death march fighting nausea on her way to eat breakfast, all the while knowing that food didn't even sound good at this time. Dead Woman Walking.

Jean and Keno were fine. Fine after a good night's sleep with a few good hours napping the late afternoon before. We watched from a few lengths back in the pack as they bounded up and down the steep sidewalks of San Francisco. But Mary and I trudged on in our misery, knowing that we'd made the most of our weekend and that we'd beaten the body clock into submission. We were taking rabbit punches now from our bodies without the ref stepping in and once in a while, a haymaker after the bell, but victory was already ours that Sunday Morning Coming Down.

Quick Update

2006-08-31T12:48:00.000-07:00

Just dashing something off to let my dwindling readers know that I took an old post and tweaked it a bit so I could send it off to a few places. Today I found out that it has been posted on a local website, Valley411.com and I'm pretty happy about that. I'll keep everyone up to date if it (or anything else of mine for that matter) turns up elsewhere.

In the meantime, I almost finished the Black Crowes story last night, moving into the final paragraphs. It's going to be a long post so I can wrap it all up and move onto shorter and newer tales. Check back in a day or so to reach the end of that one.

Thanks again,

Tony

Plugs And Panties (The Black Crowes Part 6!!)

2006-08-21T22:28:00.000-07:00

So we were hungry.

Hunger? Not really. More like some sort of primal urge. I avoid the word instinct because that implies a minimal need. What our bodies cried out for was sustenance of the deep fried species, whether it be of shrimp, chicken, or potato. We were fucking hungry, so yes, hunger does not quite suffice.

But as we dressed for the Black Crowes concert, we briefly discussed what it was we were hungry for, where we could get it, and how much time we had to do it all. Our first unanimous decision was that our traditional Fillmore pre-show meal at Beni-hana was out for two reasons; the first being that we were probably profiled as the "Lucky Cat Americans" and would not only be turned away but possibly accosted by members of the Japanese Consulate as blasphemes to the cultural importance of fortunate kitties. The second and more logical reason being that there was not time for a onion volcano.

So we ended up at a Denny's. Good old reliable Denny's. There we had some light fare from the appetizer side of the multi-fold laminated menu from Heaven. After paying for our grub, we decided we'd better hit the restroom before waiting in line outside the Fillmore (for the Black Crowes if you've forgotten), so in that Denny's we visited California's second most disgusting facilities. The first place winner being a unisex token-taker in a Popeye's Chicken on Market Street in San Francisco circa 1989 that actually rivaled the toilet in Trainspotters. Standing up to pee never had a bigger benefit.

Mary and I crossed the street to the same little bodega from the night before to pick up some pre-show refreshments. Mine was a Coors Light Tall Boy and hers was the cutest little pair of Jameson's bottles (also the same as the night before). While I paid, Mary went next door to get a cup of coffee feeling like she needed a caffeine boost. I guessed the Red Bull wasn't doing its job, but she had a plan. When I took our little brown bag of goodies next door, she was just getting her Joe. She had gotten me the fountain drink cup I asked for and I poured the Tall Boy into it for the walk to and the wait outside the Fillmore. The Barista looked at me with slight contempt, but I just smiled and raised my cup to him as we left.

We both were excited to finally be on our way to the show. The line outside the Fillmore wasn't too long, so we would be assured a pretty good spot in the standing room only auditorium. With Mary standing 5'3" and not wanting to stare at the back of someone's head all night, we always try to find a spot off to the side or in back of the Fillmore. We find it ironic that most people go to a general admission venue early to get a spot up front and we go early to find a good vantage point to see over or past those people.

We got in line and Mary drank one bottle of Jameson's discreetly. I sipped on my beer and we made a little small talk with some folks in line. Earlier in the day, I had excitedly told Mary about Instant Live recordings. Some bands, including The Black Crowes, have struck a deal with Instant Live to produce and sell live recordings of concerts that are available for purchase just moments following the conclusion of the show. CDs are made from the master recording from the board in just minutes. Customers simply sign up and pay at a booth before the concert and pick up the finished product as they leave. The prospect of listening to a CD in the car on the way home of a recording of the concert you just left is pretty mind boggling. Mary and I agreed that we'd have to buy this one.

A fellow in line next to us turned around, not being able to help but overhear our conversation and told us that he didn't think that the show was going to be available as an Instant Live product. When I asked him why, he pointed to a huge RV type of vehicle parked next to the Fillmore. I had seen it, but assumed it was for the band or crew. In fact, it was a mobile recording unit and it was then that I found out that the band was shooting a live DVD that night. As it turned out, the Crowes did not want the material that was going to be on the DVD months later to be available on CD immediately, most likely to avoid competition between the formats and see a potential loss in DVD sales.

I couldn't argue too much with that decision. As it was, I pictured myself fortunate enough just to be there with the way tickets sold so fast, and getting an Instant Live CD would have been icing on the cake. While I now wouldn't get that icing, I would later be treated to a visual and not just aural memory of the evening. The reward would just come much later.

I was still working on my beer and reminded Mary that I still had another tiny bottle of Jameson's for her in my pocket. She sipped a bit more of her coffee and smiled. I handed her the whiskey and she poured the contents into the remaining java. Swirling it all around, she winked at me upon the completion of her master plan. I tried a sip and was surprised that it didn't taste too bad, although it wasn't something I'd drink all night. We talked a bit more with the people in line about past shows, the Fillmore experience, and the usual "get to know you" stuff. Mary seemed to hit it off with the gal in line in front of us in particular and I was happy just to watch her talk to this woman, figuring this would get my wife nice and loosened up for the inevitable crush of humanity that is a general admission show . It took me a moment to figure it out, but then I realized and remarked to Mary that this woman had eyes that were very similar to Mary's sister Janet, my concert buddy. We again lamented the fact that Janet and Scott couldn't join us at this show because we did not consider asking them to join us, thinking they wouldn't enjoy it or want to spend the money (the origin of this reference can be found waaayyy back in Part 2 of this epic).

The doors opened soon and all of us in line began the penguin-like shuffle towards the entrance. It's funny to watch; humans seem to feel the need to keep moving forward and when we can't motor at the speed that we want, we tend to wobble a bit to at least keep the notion of moving ahead and not idling. Sometimes the "steps" are mere inches in distance, but the energy spent in the pendulum act probably equals a full stride. We downed the remainder of our drinks and watched as concert-goers tucked various contraband into their nether regions. Those who didn't want to risk the pat down at the door swallowed, smoked, or chugged their reality altering substances on the spot. I was glad that my drug of choice was alcohol because I knew my dealer was right inside.

Once inside, we did the "shortest distance between two points" dash to Mary's favorite perch; a waist-high rail that separates the main floor from the bar area. It is there that she can sit comfortably and just about see over the heads of average sized patrons. I can stand by her and see just fine in most cases and if need be, I just bob and weave between the head and shoulder view in front of me. When I look back on many of my concert experiences, I realize that a good percentage of them were seen between mullets and mohawks.

Mary climbed up on the rail and I walked over to the bar to get a couple of beers. When I returned, our new friend from the line was talking to Mary. I offered to get her a beer and she politely declined, but hung around to talk some more. After more small talk, we found out that we shared a similar taste in music--besides The Black Crowes. She actually blew me away when she was ranking guitarists and said that Warren Haynes was her favorite. (Haynes is the guitarist/vocalist of Gov't Mule, a band whose name when mentioned to the uninitiated almost always garners a resounding "who?") We talked some more to uncover that she had amazingly heard of and been through Fresno. She was a bicyclist that had done some of the rides in our area. Jean and Scott are avid riders and when we mentioned some of the organized rides they go on, our new friend told us that she'd been involved in a few of them. Mary and I could see us all getting along swimmingly sometime down the road. We'd have to exchange email addresses and phone numbers, we noted.

I strode off to look at the merchandise table. I liked a few of the shirts, including the exclusive Fillmore 5 night engagement shirt, but I was mature in my thinking that I'd probably not wear it that often. So many times, I buy a shirt impulsively thinking I'll wear it as often as I wore my Y&T shirt in high school, only to have it hang in my closet, begging me to take it out for a stroll. Sometimes, I actually put one on, look in the mirror, and wonder what the fuck I was thinking when I gave the addict behind the folding table more cash than I paid to get in to see the band whose logo adorns the garish shirt I cannot now bring myself to wear. I was proud of myself for having such foresight in not buying a shirt that night.

So, instead, I bought my wife a pair of "Shake Your Money Maker" panties. Easily the best concert purchase I've made since..........well, ever.

I returned to Mary's Perch (as we refer to it from now on) and produced the panties. She smiled and raised her eyebrows. Our new friend had gone to join her husband, a man ten years her junior who'd stationed himself in his youthful vigor up front in what at a metal concert would be considered the mosh pit. At a jamband concert, the most physical contact you can expect up front would be a wayward noodle-dancer's backhand or a stumbling drunk's charge at the end of the show in his effort to attain a setlist. We figured she'd be safe, but were sorry that we hadn't exchanged contact information.

The lights went down and the band came on. In the past, I'd only known them to crank up the volume so I had my earplugs at the ready. After a few bars of (Only) Halfway To Everywhere, we were both assured that our ears needed no impediment and I stowed away the tiny containers that held our foam Hammer, Anvil, and Stirrup protectors. The groove was on and we both nodded our heads in approval of the beat and the vibe. We toasted ourselves and the Fillmore. Then the Crowes. Then San Francisco. Then ourselves again with a deep kiss. By the time the band moved into No Speak No Slave I knew it was going to be a special night.

What I wasn't sure of, but hoping for, is that it would get louder, longer, and even more memorable.

The final chapter of this tale only furthers my stance that I live an enchanted life. It goes longer, definitely gets louder, and becomes more memorable than I would have imagined on that sleepy morning when I purchased the Fillmore tickets over coffee months before.

Are you with me still?

Sucker.

Finale and epilogue next and soon.............

The Hazy One....

Reality Doesn't Bite. It Sucks. (Normally)

2006-08-11T17:56:00.000-07:00

Are you watching Rockstar: Supernova? I am too. Read all about it over on the other blog. The link is over there on the right. You can't miss it.

Thanks.

Just so you know, the Black Crowes might be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame before I finish the story. The last installment is in the editing phase right now. Really.

Hazy Tony

Wait! Look!

2006-06-28T20:49:00.000-07:00

Hat in hand, shuffling feet, shoulders slumped, and pouty lips.

That's my stance at the moment. Here I am, just days away from Ozzfest XI and I never got to the story from last year's event. I was afraid of this and was taking steps to avoid getting to this point. But life got in the way again, and how. Some sketchy details pertaining to this can be found over on Oh, Like You Give A Sh*t.

As for Ozzfest; both last year's story and this year's yet to be known story will be told in one tale. Depending on what happens this year, I may tell one and then the other. Or, I may interweave the stories. I'll know better after Saturday. I have last year's outline in my head and I'm sure I'll keep those details in mind as I experience this year's show. Maybe there's a reason I held off on getting to the Ozzfest '05 story until now. I hoping it's not just because I'm a sloth when it comes to posting this crap.

In any event, there is another installment below of the Black Crowes story. Our heroes creep closer still to the actual concert with America's pastime, draft beer, and the devil's clock radio providing yet more obstacles along the way to the famed Fillmore Auditorium. It's taking on a Tolkien feel, no?

No, Tony. It's just taking a long, long time to tell.

Scroll down with faith. I'll get to the conclusion next week.............Tony

Horsehide Before Feathers (Black Crowes At The Fillmore Part 5)

2006-06-28T15:25:00.000-07:00

We crashed pretty hard that night after the Karaoke bar. So much for taking it easy thus far. Our alcohol consumption was already at least twice what my internal pacing gauge had mapped out for us for the weekend.

Late Saturday morning, Mary and I struggled out of bed and called over to Jean and Keno's room. They weren't faring much better, having just woken a few minutes earlier. We all agreed to shower and call each other again to rally towards the Giants game, which had a one o'clock first pitch.

Keno was ready first and volunteered to get us all some decent coffee. In-room coffee generally sucks and when I drink it against my intuition, I end up getting more coffee somewhere later to make up for the quality and then overdo it with the caffeine. That couldn't happen that day; we had a marathon ahead of us with the game and then the Black Crowes concert at the Fillmore. If I peaked too soon with the caffeine and then confused my system further with alcohol at the game, I'd be putting my body through some sort of biological moguls course.

I was just getting dressed when the knock at the door came from Keno. He and Jean were good to go, so I threw on my Spring Training '05 shirt and my new orange Giants cap and we were off. We walked to the park, which helped shake the cobwebs out of our heads. But none of us had eaten and that became a priority. We were to meet a friend of Jean's for a quick drink before the game. We chose a restaurant across the street from Pac Bell Park called Momo's because they always seemed to have a lively pre-game crowd and it was close enough to drink cheaply right up until first pitch.

Lunch hit the spot and we all immediately felt better. The first sip of beer that day at Momo's was a harsh reminder of the previous night's consumption, but half-way through that bottle, the little Tom and Jerry battles in my head ceased and I could have sworn I heard a gunshot signaling the beginning of the marathon.

Walking into the stadium, Mary and I told Jean and Keno our plans to leave early and catch a cab back to the room to squeeze in a nap if possible before the show. If the game were tight, we'd probably stick it out, but if it looked like it were in the bag for either team, we'd jam for sure. I targeted the seventh inning. As we picked up our first draft of the day, we offered to meet them at the after-show performance by a young band called Rose Hill Drive, which would be at the Boom Boom Room across the street from the Fillmore. They said they'd probably go to dinner and if they were up for it, we'd do the cell phone thing and meet up. Of course they'll meet us, I remember thinking. This is San Francisco--they'll be up.

Our seats were pretty damn good, about 25 rows up behind the first base side on-deck circle. In the sunshine to begin the game, I worried a little about having to continually grease up with Sunblock 1000, but the shade would creep up behind us as the sun passed over the upper deck. I have to admit, the sun felt good on a breezy summer day by the bay. As the Giants recorded the first three outs and the Astros took the field, my cellphone rang. I was surprised to get a call as I was sitting next to anyone that would need my attention that day. It was a friend of mine from one of my business accounts that knew I was at the game.

"Hey Mark. What's up?", I said. I tried to keep my voice at a normal level despite the noise of the crowd and pumped up between innings music. I didn't want to be one of "those people" yelling into their phones like it was a cheerleader's megaphone.

Mark replied, "Hey man, I just wanted to check to see if you're in a spot to be seen on T.V. I'm gonna kick back with a brew and watch the game today."

"Cool. As a matter of fact, I just might be in prime foul ball territory", I told him. "Throw a tape in the VCR for me, huh?"

"No problem. Say, tell me what you're wearing".

"Fag".

We both laughed. "No. Just so I know what to look for", he said.

"Yeah, yeah. Just look for the guy with a white t-shirt and a Giants cap", I told him.

Keno looked at me and guffawed, "Tony, look around. Everyone is wearing a t-shirt and a Giants cap". He was right.

I laughed a bit as I continued with Mark. "It shouldn't be too hard. There are only about 37,000 of us here today, so keep your eyes open".

The game was fun, if not uneventful. It's always nice to be out at the ballpark and that day was no exception. Cold draft beer went down smooth as it chased down hot dogs and freshly shelled peanuts. Mary and I watched our drinking pretty closely, but again we pulled away from the pacing gauge's recommendation. As the seventh inning approached, we said our good-byes and headed out. We caught a cab easily enough with the game going on and for a couple of bucks, we saved about 30 minutes of walking time that could now be deposited in the nap account.

I slid the keycard and opened the door to a made-up room. It was cool, dark, and inviting. We both collapsed on the bedspread. Just as the clouds started rolling over my mindscape, surely to make for a deep slumber, I rolled over and decided to set the alarm for a just an hour away so we didn't completely oversleep. We were just tired enough to take an advance on that night's sleep, and not getting to the Fillmore on time, let alone early, was not acceptable.

I rolled back onto my back and looked over at Mary. She was already breathing slowly and deeply. But my mind wouldn't shut off now. I became aware of my own heartbeat. I now was under pressure to gain rest before the show. It was a showdown between my will and the clock. I had to force myself to sleep. In these circumstances, some people count sheep. I use an exercise in which I try to remember a situation when I simply couldn't stay awake. The memory I pulled up was the time I fell asleep slumped against a slot machine in the Horseshoe in Las Vegas while a buddy played craps for hours. I woke up when that asshole put three quarters in and pulled the handle. The clunking of the reels made me bolt up like I had been electrocuted. While the memory played out in my head, I recalled the hopeless feeling of not being able to fend off unconsciousness. On the bed in the Miyako in San Francisco, I folded my hands across my chest and smiled.

In what I was sure was just one minute later, the alarm barked incessantly. I was in such a deep state of sleep that I was trying to answer the phone. "Hello? Hello! Godammit, what the fuck?", I croaked into the receiver. Mary hit me in the back and told me it was the alarm. I reached to turn it off and knocked most of my shit off of the nightstand, including my glasses. Now I couldn't see to figure out how to turn the thing off. I pawed at the infernal device blindly until I flicked the right switch. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I put my palms flat by my sides, hunching my shoulders. I breathed deep and pushed myself up and walked towards the curtains. I swung the heavy drapes open and Mary whined a little and turned her head away from the intruding rays of the late afternoon sun. The room was bathed in orange light. I turned on the television to catch the score of the Giants game on Sportscenter and grabbed a couple of Red Bulls out of the tiny fridge.

I sat back on the edge of the bed and passed a Red Bull back over my shoulder to Mary. I took inventory and didn't feel too bad. Tired, but with no sunburn and no mid-day hangover, I was pleased with the results. A shower and some food would do us both some good. We had also timed our day just right so far. We had plenty of time to eat and get to the show. Hell, we even had time to get a drink.

With that thought, the needle broke off of the gauge.

Next: Actual concert info in the next installment!

New Stuff!

2006-06-01T20:20:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, I thank you again for not giving up on me just yet. See below for another exhausting chapter to the Black Crowes story. The good news is that I banged this one out in one afternoon instead of piecemeal as usual. Hopefully, this will lead to more production here. There are so many more stories to tell and one is going to overlap the other if I don't get to it soon (Ozzfest 2005 and this summer's Ozzfest 2006). If I don't write about last year's show before hitting this year's, I think it might somehow mess up the space-time thingy.

Also, head on over to my other site by clicking on the barely visible link over on the right. (Too much?) There's a little bit of stuff over there too and I hope to start that one as a daily exercise soon.

Thanks and feel free to contact me with any questions or comments, even if you just want to yell at me like my friends do to finish the damn story!

---Hazy Tony

Singing With Mama-san (The Black Crowes At The Fillmore Part 4))

2006-06-01T20:10:00.000-07:00

Singing With Mama-San

We bobbed and weaved our way out of the "Irish Bar", gathering on the sidewalk outside the place that we were all taken to by a couple of drunken big city first-daters who probably only knew each other's forenames before writhing in clumsy, wrongfully affectionate, and most assuredly, stunted lovemaking. We decided that we were all really old and needed to find a place where we could party with grown-ups, so we headed back towards Japantown and the restaurants and (hopefully) bars back where we started the evening.

When we reached the street that Beni-hana is located, we looked back and laughed as we could still see the Irish Bar that we came from. It had seemed that we walked miles to get there. Only in San Francisco can you walk a few blocks and be in two such different places. We spoke to the doorman of our hotel and asked if there were any fun bars around and he said there we a few inside the mall. The mall is not what most Americans would call the place. It's more like a small enclosed shopping center. But it is a really cool place to walk around. In my narrow Westerner scope of things, I can only imagine that it must be what it's like to walk around a Japanese town because most of the people in the mall are Japanese or at least appear to be of Japanese decent. There are many tiny shops and restaurants (including Beni-hana) tucked into every corner of the building and the signs and menus are predominantly in Japanese with English subtitles. Being in there makes you feel like a stranger in your own land.

We all decided to go ahead and look around in the mall for a place to get a drink and see what's going on. The mall itself was desolate and our voices echoed a little under the low ceiling of the place. Keno noticed a man in a black suit standing at the entrance of a doorway off in a corner. He was Caucasian, which made him stick out like a sore thumb. We walked over and I mentioned to Jean and Keno that the wife and I had been in this mall numerous times and never had noticed that door. As we approached, Jean commented that it had no sign above or on the door.

"Hello folks", said the doorman with a big smile. "Can I help you?" There was music playing inside with someone doing a Jerry Lewis impression to the beat.

"What is this place?", I asked like some lost little boy.

"It's a karaoke bar. Would you like to come in and enjoy yourselves?"

We all laughed and looked at each other. How perfect. Karaoke in a real Japanese karaoke bar. This promised some hijinks for sure. He ushered us into a very dark bar area right inside the door and told us to have fun. We took four stools at the bar and looked over to see who was doing the Nutty Professor routine onstage. It turned out to be an Asian woman singing in Japanese with a very nasally effect. I looked behind her to see a monitor with Japanese characters highlighted as she read them off. I looked at Keno and smiled. I spun around in my bar stool and was surprised to see a large, older Japanese bartender right in front of me patiently waiting for my order. I put the kitty on the bar and ordered the wife a whiskey, Jean got something I don't remember, and then I asked the bartender what kind of beer he had.

"Beer", he said.

"Uh-huh, yeah. What kind?", I said, leaning closer.

"Beer".

"Okaaay, two Coors Lights?", I said holding up the peace sign. He waved his hand and shook his head no, but ducked into a back room. (Foreshadowing note: this wouldn't be the first time I was denied a Coors Light this weekend). He brought back two Bud Lights, most likely because we were American. If we were of the persuasion of most of his patrons, an Asahi or Sapporo might have appeared. I paid him and we all chatted quietly as we watched Japanese Idol live onstage. Glancing around the room, we remarked that we were seated at a bar that was away from the stage and really out of the way, but with a good view of the main room. That room was horseshoe-shaped with leather-seated booths on the perimeter of a nice wooden dance floor. The stage was raised about three feet of off the main floor and had good lighting. It was Keno who first noticed that we were being stared at.

Seated at almost every booth were one or two Japanese men dressed nattily in suits. Each man had one or more young, attractive Japanese women on his arm. As we looked from booth to booth, it seemed that all of the men were glaring at our little party at the bar. The stage was off to our right, so they weren't watching the performance with us in the background; they were staring right at us. We shrugged it off as being the minority in the place and didn't think much of it. But as Keno and I looked over there from time to time, he started to put something together in his head.

I ordered another round and Keno paid for this one. He had a smirk on his face and I could tell that he was on to something, but he hadn't pieced it together yet. I took a swig of my new beer and with enough liquid courage surging through my system, I told my wife that I was going to sing a song. She asked which one and I said that I'd need to see one of the binders that has a listing of songs available. I got up and walked over to the doorman who was still wearing that big smile. I asked him if anyone could sing a song.

"Yeah, but you'd better hurry and choose one because at one o'clock, Mama-san comes on and she closes it out for the evening", he replied.

I pulled back a little. "Mama-san?"

He grinned bigger than ever. "Yeah, she kind of, uh, runs things around here. The binders are right over there", he said pointing to a massive bookshelf filled with three ring binders. Most bars would have one or two; this place must have had forty or more. I chose one at random and took it over to the bar to use what little light there was over there. Just then, Mary and Jean got up and walked by Keno and I, hand in hand.

I leaned over to Keno, "What's going on?"

"They decided that if those Japanese guys were going to keep staring at us, they'd give them something to see", he answered. I just sighed and smiled, knowing how these women are. They made their way out to the dance floor where just a few couples were dancing awkwardly to the mid-tempo beat of yet another annihilation of what I assume was a pop standard in Japan. Mary and Jean proceeded to dirty dance with each other right smack in the middle of the horseshoe of booths. Every single man in the place had their gaze fixed on the two crazy American women. The ladies in the booths seemed to stiffen a bit and Keno and I laughed our asses off. The poor woman that was gargling through the song might have actually benefited from the distraction the girls provided at that moment, but she seemed a bit peeved.

The song ended and the wives returned to our little corner of the world at the bar. My wife asked if I was going to sing and I opened the book to find a song that I could muddle through. The dim lighting made it almost impossible to see the pages. I flipped through a few more and moved the book around trying to catch some light from the neon beer signs above us. I knew I'd had a few beers, but I couldn't make out a word on any page. My eyes just wouldn't adjust, so I carried the book back over to where the doorman stood because there was some light pouring in off of the mall. As I tipped the book and leaned closer to the page, I heard the doorman chortling when I noticed that the text was in Japanese! I looked up at him and laughed, closing the book and pretending to backhand him with it. He wiped a tear and said, "Sorry sir, I had to do it. You should have seen yourself trying to read that stuff".

"You got anything in English?", I asked.

"Yeah, hold on", he said. He bent over and pulled out a volume much thinner than the others. he held it up and actually blew dust off of it like in some Honeymooners episode. We both laughed as I took the binder back to the bar. I perused the pages to no avail. I still couldn't see the pages very well, but I could make out the vague forms of the English language enough to decipher what was what. Keno tapped the bar with his palm as he got up from the bar and went over to the doorman. We both had noticed that the women in the booths got up and moved from table to table now and again. I didn't think much of it until I turned to see what Keno was asking our friend at the door. I couldn't hear their conversation, but Keno was asking questions and the doorman was nodding reluctantly with his eyebrows raised. They chatted for a moment and when Keno came back to the bar, we all had to ask him what they were talking about.

Just then, there was a smattering of applause and we looked up to the stage to see an older Japanese woman dressed in what looked like traditional attire from the old country. She had on a flowery gown with a high neckline and long, form fitting sleeves. She had her hair up in a tight bun that shimmered in the stage lights. I glanced at the doorman and mouthed the words Mama-san, rolling my eyes towards the stage. He nodded and closed his eyes a little. She spoke something in Japanese, bowed and gestured to the booths. She then broke into a slow, high-pitched, chantlike tune that was actually quite beautiful. The four of us sat mesmerized for a moment until Mary asked Keno what he was asking the doorman.

"You won't believe what this place is", he said under his breath.

"What, what!", we all said simultaneously.

He arched his back to proclaim what he had himself figured out before confirming it. "A fucking brothel, dude!"

We all turned our heads slowly to the dance floor to watch as the women settled in to each booth. We determined that the men had made their choices. I assumed that Mama-san's serenade signaled sort of a "last chance for romance" for the evening and it was time to cut the deal. We watched as inconspicuously as we could at this point, but the stares became more and more uncomfortable. Even the bartender was standing near us with his arms folded. No wonder we were being stared at; the men in suits must have felt much more uncomfortable with us gringos watching them like zoo exhibits than we did wondering why everyone was looking at us. We drained the last of the drinks, threw a couple of bucks on the bar and headed out. I grabbed the kitty and tucked him under my arm.

The doorman chuckled as he bid us a good evening. We thanked him for the good time and wandered around the mall a bit as Keno explained further that the place itself was not a brothel, but a meeting place for these businessmen to arrange for "services". It was not clear if Mama-san was a madam or not, but it seemed so. What had we stumbled onto? Strangers in our own land, indeed.

We had our camera with us still and took some photos of each other in a few of those novelty scenes that's painted on wood and the characters have a hole where their head should be. You stick your face in the hole and instantly your a bodybuilder or a cowboy. Well, naturally, I chose the Godzilla scene where the giant lizard fights a huge robot monster. I grimaced and growled while trying not to laugh and I stuck Kitty in the robot position. We made for fierce foes; it was a battle for the ages. Tokyo was saved once again. I'll have to upload some of those shots at a later date.

We also put various body parts in those cutouts. Those pictures will not make it to this site, but you can do a Google search for GodzillaAssFace and try your luck.

Next: Horsehide Before Feathers

Tony's Not-So-Hazy Blog

2006-05-06T12:22:00.000-07:00

Hey Hazy folks, I've decided that my writing output, as voluminous as it is, cannot be contained in just one blog. So I started a new blog to run concurrently with this one. That's right, another entry into your Favorites folder.

Click on the link over to the right to visit the bouncing baby blog. Let me know what you think. Trust me, I'll post over there much more than I will here. This will still be the place to read concert stories and related fluff. Over there---->, I'll be doing more journal type blogging. To what success, I have no idea.

Anyway, check it out and get back to me. Oh, and don't forget to scroll down if you haven't been here in Hazyland for a while; there's a fairly recent entry into the Black Crowes epic.

Thanks,

The Hazy One

New Installment To The Black Crowes Story!!

2006-04-29T12:45:00.000-07:00

Scroll down, faithful readers, for another installment to the epic Black Crowes story. (When the band actually appears in this tale, I'm not sure yet.)

Speaking of the Crowes, the wife and I are heading south to Bakersfield tonight to see them perform at the Fox Theater. This show snuck up on me. My friend Chet (one of the stars of the Ozzfest '99 and Primus tales oh so long ago on this site) emailed me and mentioned that he was heading to a small town on the central coast called Pozo to see the Black Crowes this coming Sunday. We initially thought about joining them over there, but the prospect of getting up for work Monday after a day in the sun was a little much for the wife. Oh well. Then we heard about the Bakersfield show scheduled for the night before. We decided that we could easily do a down and back for the Crowes on a Saturday night. We were going to take our niece to see a couple of tribute bands in Fresno, but the three of us opted for the Crowes, natch. Looks like we'll be seeing our friends Lefty and wife, plus Steve (Posts Less Than Tony) Portela at the show as well.

On a side note, I kind of wish we were going over to the coast for Sunday's show. We would have gone over on Saturday and stayed the night, which as it turns out would have given us the chance to see King's X in San Luis Obispo. D'oh! I guess this is a "bird in the hand" type of thing. Or better, a five birds in Bakersfield type of thing.

Enjoy the new chapter and leave feedback or email to let me know how I'm doin'.

Tony

The Troublemaker Kitty: The Black Crowes At The Fillmore Part 3

2006-04-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

I must say here that scrolling down and rereading to the two previous installments or at least the previous one (not counting the March 21st plead for more patience) will be beneficial to anyone visiting this site and wanting any idea of what the hell is going on. I know it has helped me in writing the next chapter.

So, where were we?

As it turned out, Jean had access to some primo tickets to the Giants game to be played Saturday afternoon. In the weeks before the trip, we had all talked casually about seeing the game, but my wife and I were a bit wary of trying to do too much that weekend (including the Black Crowes concert at the Fillmore Saturday night. Remember, that's what this story is ultimately about--I think). A baseball game and it's inherent exposure to the Sun and beer drinking could be the rancid meat in a two-night party sandwich. After much discussion about taking the proper precautions (mucho sunscreen, no fistfights with Astros fans) and swearing to not alter the definition of moderation (single digit beer consumption) to suit our needs, we looked at each other and quoted the rally cry of the doomed; "Fuck it, let's do it!". We told Jean we would go for it and she secured the tickets.

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Back in the room late Friday afternoon, we slugged down the Sapporros with glee. It was good to be out of town with a whole evening at our disposal. This night was to be what I call a catch-all night, rambling around and popping in wherever we please to experience things without an agenda. We did have dinner reservations, if only to avoid wasting time waiting for a table and to help accelerate our launch into the foggy City night. The wives were freshening up a bit while Scott and I pretended not to notice the amount left in each other's bottles. We tend to compete at times over speed and quanity of beer consumption. It's childish and stupid, but does it ever make for some good times. I can usually out-drink most men in or out of my weight class, including Keno 90% of the time, but now he was pulling away early. I smiled and could not keep out of my mind the story of the tortoise and the hare.

We walked from the hotel to Benihana for tepin-yaki. We ordered another round of Sapporos (this time the gigantic bottles) from an attrative fortysomething Japanese waitress with a latent air of sensuality about her and waited in the lounge for our table. The beer was going down smoothly and quickly. As we were seated around the heated sheet of metal from whence our food would be prepared and served to us, one glance at the menu had us ordering more Godzilla beers and a round of saki. We decided to order a milky style saki, celebrating the memory of a wild night out for Janet's birthday earlier in the summer.

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On that night, we all started out on our best behavior at a Japanese restaraunt back in Fresno--- we being Jean and Keno, Janet and Scott, and the wife and I--sitting on tatami mats on the floor of a private dining room. The evening putrified into a morality meltdown. We ordered bottle after bottle of saki and toasted with our adorable Japanese waitress, Kiko, getting her properly shitfaced on the job. Nobody could drive, so we naturally called a limousine to pick us up. We ended up at a topless joint and drank stale draft beer from plastic pitchers. One couple dissapeared back into the limo and my wife and I dutifily went to find them. I blindly peered into the smoked windows, all the while asking stupidly, "What are you guys doing in there?". My wife noticed the driver's door was unlocked, hopped inside and proceded to climb through the partition into the passenger compartment. She got an eyeful of what those two were "doing in there" and fell out of the car laughing her ass off. Later on the way home in the limo, I received a lap dance going down the freeway from one sister-in-law while the other sis-in-law grabbed a handful of my goodies and my wife giggled uncontrollably watching the whole scene. I know what you're thinking and you're right; I got the life.

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So even as we downed the saki at Benihana in San Francisco, we laughed as we just knew we'd be on better behavior this evening than we were during the last saki episode. Funny what you can believe in before events are set in motion by alchohol.

The meal was enjoyable as expected. We watched and applauded as the chef made his onion volcano, flipped shrimp tails, and did all the rest of the Benihana tried and true stunts. After dinner, we posed for pictures with huge statues of jolly bears back in the lounge and I lamented the fact that I haven't yet secured a super lucky cat statue. You may have seen the super lucky cat at your favorite asian restaraunt as a advertising piece for Asahi beer or perhaps sitting in a window of an antique store. Sculpted as a cat sitting on it's hind quarters with one paw raised, it is a symbol of luck. I've always wanted one for some reason. As the waitress who served us previously before dinner walked by, I pointed to the Asahi beer cat and asked what a guy has to do to get one of those damn cats. She raised her eyebrows and said, "Oh, we just got a bunch of those in. We're going to start selling them".

My heart jumped. "How much?", I blurted. She scratched her chin and looked at the bartender. He said with a thick Japanese accent something I couldn't decipher. She turned back to me and said "Seven dollars".

"Oh, get me one!", I laughed. The others laughed too. The waitress returned from the kitchen entrance with box. "We haven't even seen these yet. I think we're not selling them for a while", she said. She took out the cat, still wrapped in it's shipping material. Tearing off the brown paper, she revealed a totally white super lucky cat with a egg sized hole in the back of it's head and a thumbnail sized hole just below it's neck.

"What's with the holes?", I asked. "Looks like he had a tracheotomy".

The waitress looked at me for a moment, no doubt the English to Japanese translater in her brain stuck on tracheotomy, but then took the cat over to the bar and pointed to the bottles behind against the mirror. "You drink out of it".

"Oh, it's a souvenier glass. Well, what do you get in it?", I asked. She forwarded my question to the bartender with a simple glance and this time his answer was so strongly accented that he may have actually replied in Japanese for all I know. Obviously, she didn't have the English to tell us exactly what the drink was, but she gave it a good shot. "It's uh, a fruit drink, very sweet, good, good".

"Does it have booze in it?", asked Keno.

She laughed and said yes. We all heartily agreed that we should order this drink. The bartender looked very pleased to make it, smiling and nodding to us as he mixed various ingredients and poured them into the hole in the back of the cat. By this time, a manager type that reminded me of Odd Job from Goldfinger had come out of the kitchen and was giving us a good once-over and seemed to make our server a little nervous. The bartender handed her the drink and she took my money. We all took sips out of a straw protruding from the tracheotomy hole. It was a heavy and sweet drink all right and plenty strong too. We thanked them all and waved as we made our way to the exit. The burly manager grunted something to the server and she scooted over to us, blocking our way to the door. "Oh, no no. You can't take the drink with you, only the cat", she stuttered.

"Oh yeah, the drink", I said. The four of us, embarrassed, giggled a bit. It made perfect sense that we should be able to take an alcholic beverage out the door of a restaraunt at the time. I continued, "No one will know its booze. Maybe they'll think it's a Slurpee cup or something". The manager barked something again, this time a little under his breath. She told us to wait for a moment and disappered into the kitchen. She came back with a white plastic bag from Walgreen's. She took the cat and wrapped him up like a baby in swaddling clothes and handed him back to me. She patted me on the shoulder and sent us out into the night. We smiled stupidly and alternately took sips from the straw sticking out from the plastic bag as we walked in no particular direction.

We ditched the bag a block away or so as we hunted for a bar or club. But we had drained the cat of it's life's blood and Jean and I wanted to replenish the supply. As Mary and Keno walked ahead, Jean and I ducked into a corner bodega. We ordered a handful of airline bottles of Jameson (Mary's fave) and promptly poured them into the back of the cat. We caught up with Keno and Mary and passed the cat. Mary took a sip and smiled, figuring out what we did. "That cat's a troublemaker", she cooed. Just then, a couple spilled out of a restaraunt arm in arm, laughing. Jean yelled to them, asking where a hot bar was in the neighborhood.

The guy looked up surprised, shaken from his own little world but not missing a beat. "He looked beyond us a few blocks and said, "C'mon, we're heading to one right now. It's right up the street". With that, he took Jean by the arm and took off. His date, a cute little thing that looked about 12, grabbed Keno and followed. Mary and I stood still for a moment and looked at each other blankly. "I guess it's you and me, babe", she said and we hooked arms and trodded off after them.

Just a block from Japantown, we squeezed into a packed Irish bar full of college aged people who must have just gotten done shooting spreads for the Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. Men wearing distressed jeans and polos or t-shirts with oh-so-clever sayings on them; girls with exposed midrifts and low rise pants. We stood out pretty badly, but no one seemed to notice us. Here we were, dressed nicely, 15 to 20 years older than the average patron, and me clutching a ceramic cat that smelled of Irish whiskey. But we were invisible. Except for Keno that is. This guy pulls in looks from women like you wouldn't believe. Tall, well built and pretty good looking, he still seems oblivious to the looks he gets. But I'm not. I feel like the little dog in the Looney Tunes cartoon who's kind of a sidekick to a bulldog. He bounces around the bulldog enthusiastically; "Hey Spike, what do ya want to do today, huh Spike?". Well, that's me; "Hey Keno, you see that one? She looked at you like a plate of roast beef". If I were single, I'd take him everywhere with me just for the possibility of catching some lady-shrapnel.

We didn't hang around there too long. Getting to the restroom reminded me of those high school biology films of actual bloodstreams, cells bumping into each other, squeezing around one another. I wonder if blood cells have the decency to say excuse me because these kids didn't. Tapping someone on the shoulder did no good. Halfway to the men's room, I felt like a hamster squeezing it's ribcage to escape through a crack in the Habitrail. I gave that up and simply started moving people with gentle force. A few frowns and "what the fuck"s later from the TAG Body Spray army, I made it to the bathroom and back intact and relieved. I laughed at some of the scowls these pretty boys gave me as they we placed a few feet from where they wanted to be by this author. Easy there Junior, I've got Irish blood in me and now I've added some whiskey. I'm Clark Kent looking for a phone booth, motherfucker. Besides, you don't want me to sic my cat on you.

Next Up: Singing With Mama-san

You Know You Haven't Posted In A While When....

2006-03-21T20:25:00.000-08:00

....the DVD of the show you're writing about comes out before you finish your story.

That's right everybody, today sees the release of the long awaited Black Crowes live DVD. It was shot way back in August of last year at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Well, I was there that night and was still writing about it late last year when I just stopped for some reason. There's even a draft of the next installment awaiting editing. It was written in December. Yeesh!

I'd like to say it was because I'm just too busy or even maybe that I'd lost interest in writing about these experiences, but that's not it. I can't put my finger on any single reason. I have been insanely busy as of the last few months with work. The demands have put a crimp on my free time somewhat and blogging these tales took a back seat to my other interests. But before you might think I am a slave to the job, please know that I have a full and rich life and probably too many hobbies or activities to concentrate on any one of them for the time I should. And I haven't lost interest at all in writing. In fact, I recently bought a laptop so as to practice my skills when away from the house. I'm also considering doing an additional blog, this one more in the traditional journal format. I don't know who might be interested in reading that, but I read blogs written by friends and find myself checking them often.

So, as I've done from time to time on this site, I ask any and all of you who check in with me for anecdotal yarns from the bar, club, theater, or even--sigh--the arena to please continue to do so when you think about it. I recently received an email from someone I've never heard from directly, but recognized the name from one of the listservs I subscribe to and he asked about the Black Crowes story and said he missed my "ramblings". Thank you Randy and I promise to start rambling soon.

Faithful Hazy readers, give me until after next week as I'll be on a much needed vacation. Some Spring Training ballgames in Phoenix with great friends and then a couple of nights to cut loose in Vegas. I'm even taking the wife to see Train at the Palms Resort. If there's a story in that one, I'll let you know. I think Train is harmless pop fun, but I may have to put myself into a alcohol induced walking coma to get though it.

Thanks as always for keeping up with my tales. Pretty easy when I'm posting like Boston puts out albums.

Tony

A Sister Lost, A Sister Gained: The Black Crowes At The Fillmore Part 2

2005-10-10T18:23:00.000-07:00

Before we purchased our tickets to the Black Crowes show, my wife and I briefly discussed if we should invite anyone else to join us. In the past, we were more than happy to pick up tickets for others and collect later. But we've gotten stuck with tickets more than once and other times we found ourselves feeling like we were trying to talk someone into seeing a show. One of the worst feelings for a music lover is to find out that you've dragged someone to a concert that they aren't enjoying. Worse yet is to find out after the fact.

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A few years ago, my wife and I planned on seeing Pearl Jam on their stop in Fresno. This was a pretty big event for our town and I mentioned it to my wife's sister Janet. Janet is my concert buddy for shows that my wife has no interest in, usually featuring bands with a harder edge. She had just started dating her future husband Scott and she figured that the show would be a good double date. So I picked up six tickets in total as my buddy Chet and his wife would join us as well. Chet and Jen would have to meet us at the show, so the rest of us went out to dinner before the show and got to know Scott a little. Now, I had assumed that since Scott and Janet had so readily agreed to join us at the show that they were both fans of the band. It turns out that Scott may have done what all men do in a new relationship; he said "Sure, that sounds cool".

After dinner, we piled into the car and headed to the Selland Arena. We had nosebleed seats and the sound in the cavernous building wasn't that great, but if you knew the material you could forgive the acoustic shortcomings. The show was plenty loud and full of energy. The crowd was into it and I was impressed with the band and the varied setlist. Afterwards, walking to the cars, the six of us agreed that it was a great show. Weeks later, I find out that Scott really wasn't into Pearl Jam and, in fact, didn't enjoy the show at all because he's tone deaf and could not discern anything what with the volume and harsh acoustics of the Selland Arena's cinderblock walls. As it turns out, he's into modern country music and not so much the rockin' stuff. Ahh, I thought, country music is to a tone deaf person as a wheelchair is to a paraplegic, so I could see where the caustic blast of Pearl Jam could be like sitting through Civil War-era dentistry.

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In the days after securing the tickets for the Black Crowes show, we would tell our ticket buying story in passing at backyard parties and other summertime activities. Weeks later, out by Scott and Janet's pool, the story came up and Janet commented that it was too bad that it was sold out as seeing the band in a small venue sounded really cool and they would have loved to join us. It turns out that the Black Crowes happen to be sort of a common ground for the two of them. They each even owned a few Crowes CDs before they met and now they were Community Property, strewn about their CD drawer amidst scratched up Metallica and Clay Walker discs. Scott overheard the story while floating in the pool and began a running joke about how we don't invite them anywhere anymore and how great it would have been to see the show. All joking aside, my wife and I really enjoy their company and this truly was a missed opportunity. Janet seemed especially bummed out. I felt bad too because I've always wanted to show her the Fillmore because I know she'd dig the place for it's vibe and historical significance to the music world. As it would turn out, I'd hear from her later unexpectedly.

Jean, another of my wife's sisters heard the story and asked if she and her husband Scott (whose last name is Keno, which I use to avoid confusion with Janet's husband Scott. Besides, it's a fuckin' cool sounding name--the lucky bastard!) could meet us up in San Francisco for the weekend, sans the show. We thought that sounded like a blast. I figured we could all get up there Friday night and have dinner, party a bit, and then have Saturday afternoon to goof off in the city. The wife and I would split off to the concert after dinner Saturday night and then possibly meet up with them after the show for a nightcap. It was agreed upon and I made an additional reservation at the beautiful (and conveniently within stumbling distance of the Fillmore) Radisson Miyako Hotel on their behalf.

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Time Marches On!

(The summer headlines spin at you like in a 1940's film noir sub-classic:)

Janet And Scott Get Married--Rev. Hazy Tony Officates

Red Sox Lose In Anaheim; Game Hard To See From 3rd Deck Behind Foul Pole

Fresno Man Falls Down At Ozzfest, Says He Will Write About Incident Online

A Beer Drinker's Guide To Camping On The Central Coast Of California

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On the Friday before the show, we drove up to San Francisco to meet Jean and Scott, who had the opportunity to leave earlier that day and check into their room. We made good time up through the Central Valley and seemed to have caught some sort of tailwind on Highway 101 into the city. One of the joys of my life, going back to when I was a child, is checking the dial (or scanning, in the modern terminology) for local radio stations when I travel. When I'm in a familiar city like S.F., I usually remember certain station's frequencies and when my wife and I got into San Jose, we picked up the signal for KFOG. I have fond memories of KFOG as being somewhat of a free-form station, where the DJ picked the music. Now, the station is featuring an Adult Album Alternative format, playing modern adult contemporary hits alongside classic rock standards while throwing in "deep cuts" from time to time and it seems that the jocks still have a little wiggle room to toss in an actual request or something they found lying around. With the depressing state of modern day corporate-run radio, dialing in KFOG is like pizza day was in elementary school after four days of "What's Under The Gravy".

On that Friday courtesy of KFOG, I first heard the advance single of the Rolling Stones' "Rough Justice" from the impending album, A Bigger Bang. We were jockeying for pole position along 101 just north of the airport, swooping and diving along the four-lane Death Race 2000 track like a WWI Flying Ace. Call me Snoopy, motherfuckers! This Toyota Sopwith Camel can outmaneuver the best you've got to offer. The dirty riff and Jagger's energized voice was like a slap in the face to a boxer at the beginning of the 12th round. We divebombed onto the surface streets of Baghdad By The Bay (term stolen from the late great Herb Caen) and pulled into the horseshoe shaped lot of the Miyako.

We checked in and called Jean and Keno from our room. Soon, they were on their way to our room from the streets of Japantown. A knock on the door signaled the beginning of the end; they came in like the month of March, what with the whole lion and lamb reference. Smiles all around as Keno, like a vaudeville magician with a rabbit and hat, pulled a six pack of bottled Sapporo from a brown paper bag. We all cracked one open and toasted to the night. And to the unknown events of the night.

Next: The Troublemaker Kitty: Black Crowes At The Fillmore Part 3

Clamorous Birds (Black Crowes At The Fillmore Part 1)

2005-09-13T12:40:00.000-07:00

"Hey, what do you think about seeing the Black Crowes up at the Fillmore in August?", I asked my wife as she passed the doorway of my study. She twisted her mouth a bit and slightly cocked her head to the left. I took this as a negative signal. It was a Wednesday in June and I'd just gotten an email notification from Bill Graham Presents announcing the show. Right away, my mind searched it's internal calendar and realized that we had nothing going on at the time of the show.

"Babe, August is filling up pretty fast", she said. "Remember, you've got Ozzfest, the Angels-Red Sox game, your camping trip, and who knows what else. Do you really think we can swing all that and another shot out of town?"

Without hesitation I said, "Well, sure". I wasn't about to tell her that even I thought that sounded like a loaded month. She asked what the date of the show was and I explained to her that the Black Crowes were playing a five night run at the Fillmore in San Francisco. The dates crossed over a weekend and I suggested we get tickets to the Saturday night performance and make a weekend out of it. She sighed and admitted that it sounded pretty special. The Fillmore is one of our favorite venues and we always stay at a great hotel just around the corner from the auditorium in the Japantown district. I routinely try to find a hotel within stumbling distance of any concert venue and it just happens that this one is actually a nice place and not some fleabag hotel.

The tickets would go on sale in a couple of days on Saturday morning. At the time, I had weekends off, so I could get online and order some right as they became available. It's pretty normal for me to get tickets early for any concert, but with the multiple night run in a rather small venue, I figured that demand would be very high and I'd better clear my Saturday morning so as not to miss out. Soon after the wife agreed to go, my mind had locked in on Black Crowes music and imagery. For the couple of days before tickets would go on sale, I obsessed over the band, playing CDs and reliving memories of the two previous times I'd seen them.

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The first time I caught the Crowes live was on a cold Sunday night in December of '98 at the Rainbow Ballroom in Fresno. It was a great show in a relatively small place, but it was easily the loudest fucking concert out of the hundreds I've seen. Unlike my younger days where the volume at a concert only became apparent the next morning when my ears would ring like a fax tone, the Black Crowes were actually making my ears hurt that night. The multiple brews numbed the pain a bit, but I was still kicking myself for leaving my earplugs in the drink holder in the truck. At work the next day, I set the modern-day record for saying the word "Huh?".

My wife was with me the second time I saw them. They were opening for Lenny Kravitz on some Bay Area radio station's anniversary concert up at the Shoreline amphitheater. Also on the bill was a surprisingly entertaining Everlast and the little known, but adored by me, Cree Summer. We had left our lawn seats to catch Cree Summer perform on the second stage. After her performance, we spoke to her for a moment and then got in the beer line. Then, the unmistakable sound of a huge crowd acknowledging an artist coming onstage was followed by the boom and crash of amplified music. It was muffled a bit by the walls separating idiots like us on the concourse and fans like I used to be--in their seats when the damn band you want to see comes on.

We got our drinks fairly quickly thanks to those who bailed out of line upon hearing the first notes of

the Crowes set. I gritted my teeth in frustration on our way back to the lawn section. We had missed three full songs. We settled in with the rest of the fans who looked at us with a "where were you?" expression. We shrugged it off and cursed the people who put together the impossible schedule if you wanted to catch all of the acts that day.

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Saturday came and as I put the creamer back in the fridge that morning, I spied the note I'd written to myself to buy Crowes tickets at 10am. It was about 8:30, so I had some time. I finished my coffee while reading the paper and generally puttered around the house. At about 9:50, I sat down at my computer--or The Mistress, as my wife puts it--and logged onto the Ticketmaster website. I went to the page where the Saturday night tickets would be sold and clicked the info link just to keep checking for the moment they'd open up. I wasn't so worried about getting tickets at all, I just wanted to get it done and move on with my day.

The little clock in the corner of my screen read 10:00AM and I clicked the link again. Not on sale yet. Hmmm, my clock must be a little fast. I tried again and the same message came up. I went to the info page to double check the date. It was correct. I tried again and a search for my tickets came up. A bar fills up left to right as Ticketmaster searches for your request. Normally, the wait time is about a minute or less. I waited a moment expecting to see the page where I enter a scrambled password and verify the number of tickets I want. Instead, the message I saw made my heart skip a beat.

THERE ARE NO TICKETS AVAILABLE FOR THIS EVENT.

"Aaaugh! You gotta be shitting me!", I yelled at my screen. My wife came running from the kitchen thinking I'd fallen and couldn't get up. "What's wrong?", she asked, almost annoyed that I was alive and well.

I was trying to get back to the previous page. "I think they're fucking sold out", I said quickly. I looked at the computer's clock again. 10:01. No way, I thought. One minute? Twelve-hundred tickets in one minute? I got to the request page, typed in the infernal scrambled code word and held my breath. Now my wife was leaning in over my shoulder. At last, the search page came up. Your wait time is less than one minute, the message read as the bar started to fill up. I exhaled. It would be all over soon.

"Let me know what the total charges are and I'll put it in the checkbook", my wife said as she walked out of the room. I watched the little bar intently. It wasn't moving. I bent closer to the screen. What now? You can't hit the back button from here or you'll lose your place in the cue. But then, the page blinked to refresh itself and I thought, Ah here we go. I prepared to click the buttons approving my sale on the upcoming page and I saw another bar. An empty bar.

Your wait time is less than two minutes.

"What?!"

Refresh.

Your wait time is less than four minutes.

"Hey. Hey, what the fuck?!"

Refresh.

Your wait time is less than twelve minutes.

"Nooo! You motherfuckers!"

My wife came in again. "Now what?"

"Look", I said, pointing to the screen.

"What the hell?", she asked. "What's taking so long?"

I sighed, "I don't know, but this is getting scary". I leaned back in my chair, helpless to do anything but wait for the page to refresh again, hopeful that this time it would be to the verification page. I sat looking at the bar sit idle. It was hypnotizing me. I was frozen in time, a slave to this machine and it's teasing dance. I must have blinked because I almost didn't realize that the page had changed to the verification stage. I recoiled like a snake was striking at me and almost knocked over my water bottle. I calmly went to verify my Ticketmaster account info when I noticed another message:

Due to the high volume of ticket requests, you have one minute to make your choice. I sputtered some kind of curse and quickly hit the buttons to approve the sale. Normally you have about 3-5 minutes to accept or decline the sale of tickets at this stage. One minute goes by pretty quickly when you're filling in personal info like address, credit card numbers and the like. As the confirmation page came up, I clicked print and congratulated myself for setting up an existing account long ago.

I rocked back in my chair and let out a long breath. I looked back at my wife and she raised her eyebrows. "You ever seen that before?", she asked.

"No, never", I replied. "Even when I've declined seats searching for others, the wait time is always a minute or less. That was crazy."

A little later in the day, I logged back onto the Ticketmaster site and every ticket for all five shows were gone. I then surfed over to a Black Crowes forum to see if there was any online discussion about these shows. There was plenty, most of it consisting of the lament of not getting tickets. One message from someone that seemed trustworthy read that Ticketmaster told him that the Saturday night show had sold out in eleven minutes. That's over 100 tickets per minute. I looked over at my printer to see the receipt for my two tickets. I felt like I had a Golden Ticket from a Wonka Bar.

Next: Part Two

George Lucas Has Nothing On Me

2005-09-02T20:10:00.000-07:00

Please note that the Velvet Revolver story is done and can be read below. The Neverending Story ends with a whimper and only took me untold weeks (months?) to finish. Now I can get to the other stories in my head.

A book recommendation for all you behind the scenes types in the rock and roll world. I'm almost done with So You Wanna Be A Rock & Roll Star by Jacob Slichter. The author was (is?) the drummer for Semisonic, known mostly for the song Closing Time. This book is fascinating and gives an eye opening look into the music business, especially the machinations of pop hit radio. It's written in a very conversational style and has been a quick read for me, someone who struggles to find time for recreational reading.

On the horizon:
Ozzfest 2005
Black Crowes at the Fillmore

Keep comin' back, damn ya!

Supergroup Blues (Part 3--yes, it's done)

2005-08-30T19:40:00.000-07:00

Velvet Revolver: Now Three-Fifths Shirtless!

So, where was I?

I jammed up to use the restroom one more time before the band came on and on the way back, I thought I'd look for my buddy Mark who I'd tried to call earlier down in the catacombs. We'd compared notes as to our seats earlier in the week, so I knew where to look for him. As I was coming down the stairs in his section, he happened to be coming up the same stairway. "Hey you miserable fuck, watch where you're going", I said. He looked up with a shocked look on his face until he recognized me. "Where is everybody?", he asked waving his arms around the empty arena. He was buzzing from all the drinking in the parking lot.

"I have no fucking idea", I replied. "It's like something out of the Twilight Zone".

He was still looking around at the vacant seats and then looked at me suddenly. "Hey, you wanna beer?"

I pointed to my now quarter-full cup. "Too late man, you missed last call", I told him.

"Damn", he said. "Aw, it's probably for the best. As it is, tomorrow's gonna suck".

I shook his hand and headed the rest of the way down the steps to the floor. I stepped up next to Chris and Justin and the lights went down.

Velvet Revolver came out blasting away as expected with raucous energy and the crowd, as paltry as it was, roared with approval. I noticed the sound was really balanced on the high end and it was piercing. I glanced over my shoulder to see, as I expected, the sound guys frantically twiddling knobs and sliding faders up and down. They'll fix this in no time, I thought, and I patiently waited while settling in with the band.

All sound problems aside, I was impressed with Velvet Revolver's sheer power. Matt Sorum (shirted) played his kit like an old pro with not a ton of flash, but the mics were set just right and every kick of the bass drum was felt against my chest. I like that feeling; it takes me back to the arena shows of my high school days. But in the end, his playing wasn't that exciting to watch, so I fixed my sights on the other players at various intervals.

In addition to the very high profile playing of Slash, the band features a second guitarist by the name of Dave Kushner (shirted). I only know his name after reading an online profile and apparently he has an indie rock pedigree that is respected by rock snobs everywhere. He didn't impress me other than being an adequate rhythm player. To me, he looked like a beefier Edge from U2 and rocked out by bending backward and forward at the waist and bobbing his head wildly. But he never moved his feet. I suspected that Duff McKagan nailed Kushner's feet to the stage right before the first note.

I say that because McKagan (shirtless) apparently thought we all paid to see him play bass front and center all night. At center stage, there was a small riser that was used--rightfully so--by vocalist Scott Weiland from time to time. Like a little kid, McKagan would run over to and jump up on the podium whenever Weiland vacated the spot. Of course, he would pose for the crowd and they would cheer like rock and roll cattle do when prompted by such a move. He did this over and over again and I felt like screaming at him to get down just as I do with my new puppy when she tries to climb the barbeque. Bad Duff! This is not The Duff McKagan Experience. You are the bass player! Get down from there!

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Guns and Roses hit it big when I was a little sick of hard rock and I got into fusion and progressive music. I was really into heavy metal in high school (from 81-85), witnessing the end of the '70s masters like Sabbath and Zep and riding the tide of the New Wave Of British Heavy Metal. In the summer of 1986, a friend of a friend who played bass in a few bands around town and I were sitting in my car outside the old Tower Records and he wanted to play me something. He handed me the cassette case to Poison's Look What The Cat Dragged In. He popped in the tape and said over the hiss before the Dolby kicked in, "The type of stuff these guys do is what I'm really into now". I recall thinking that I had always liked this guy's taste before as it usually matched mine closely, but as the tape quieted slightly and then the first song started, I looked down at the picture on the cover. "These guys are fags", I cried. Thus began my hatred for Hair Bands and what they did to my precious metal.

So, when GNR burst on the scene a few years later, I was in my jazz fusion snobbery mode and dismissed them as just another hair band. Although, I must admit that after about 6 listenings of Welcome To The Jungle, I bought the Appetite For Destruction cassette and cranked it up like everyone else. It still stands today as one of the best hard rock albums of all time and certainly one of the greatest debut albums of any genre. I still didn't see anything outstanding about Slash's playing other than a distinct tone and great riffs. I didn't see him as a guitar hero like Jimmy Page or Angus Young. I liked the album, but never considered myself of big fan of Guns 'N' Roses. But a fraction of a generation behind me did. Slash was/is their Hendrix.

***********************

So now I watched Slash (shirtless) as he hid beneath his trademark mane of bushy black hair, boldly leading Kushner through the strong tunes from the Contraband album. I remarked to Chris that the sound still wasn't so good and he nodded with a frown. But the energy was certainly there and Slash's sound and signature tone were clear enough to recognize. His solos were sharp and clean, bristling with a smooth touch that I was surprised to detect. This guy is good, I thought. The crowd loved every note, of course, and it was then that I realized that even back in the late '80s and early '90s, I had become old before my time when I dismissed Slash and GNR so easily.

Turning my attention to Scott Weiland (shirtless, for the trifecta) supplied me with my entertainment dollar's worth for the night. Writhing like a serpent onstage, he commanded attention and got it. He looked very thin but muscular; all right angles and sharp edges. I'd seen him in his early days when he looked like a bloated young man not quite comfortable with the fact that his teenage metabolism was long gone. Now, after God only knows how many rehab stints, Weiland's image is that of Heroin Chic meets Gold's Gym.

Weiland used all the tricks in the book during the show. He used a bullhorn, strode around the stage to address both sides of the arena, and employed my favorite move, putting one foot on a monitor and leaning out over the audience. I think the performer sees themselves as very cool, and I guess it is a classic rock and roll pose, but they kind of look like Captain Morgan on the rum bottle.

More than once, I leaned over to yell into Chris' ear to comment. "I love this guy", I screamed. "He's such a fucking rock star"! Indeed, Scott Weiland embodies the rock star in all of us as we air guitar in the living room or sing into a wooden spoon in the kitchen. I was a little jealous that he gets to do all those moves and not be embarrassed if anyone catches him in the act. If anyone wants to question his rock star status, just remember that he escaped a rehab clinic by hopping a fence in his pajamas. I just know in my heart that he's thrown a television out of a hotel window just to keep the flame alive. God bless Scott Weiland.

Sadly though, the sound never improved and the massive crowd I imagined never materialized. I kept looking at the soundboard operators just to see them standing with their arms crossed, apparently happy with the sound coming out over the heads in front of them. Then I'd look up at the seats of the arena and do a 360 degree slow turn. More empty seats than bodies. I still can't figure out what went wrong with ticket sales for this show. Apathy in Fresno is now an epidemic and it is obvious that we aren't taking the right drugs for the ailment.

The band plowed through their album tunes, throwing in GNR and STP songs here and there. I expected as much, but there were a couple of surprises with Mr. Brownstone and It's So Easy popping up from the GNR catalog instead of maybe some more obvious choices. I was pleasantly surprised that Velvet Revolver didn't completely shoot for the lowest common denominator. I also appreciated the fact that there were no signs from the band that they were playing a half-full house. They seemed to play all out to me. I used to think that looking out at empty seats would take the steam out of you as a performer, but I thought twice about that after seeing some bands play stellar shows to literally a handful of people. I suppose now that if a performer were to see just a few fans out there, they might think to themselves that while it's not a huge crowd, the people that are there really want to be there. They are probably true fans and they made the effort to be there that night and deserve no less that the packed houses in the major markets. But then again, maybe these musicians are just all fucked up on Jack Daniels and horse tranquilizers. Seeing past the first two rows might be asking too much.

After the show, Chris drove me back to the restaurant so I could pick up my truck. I said goodbye and started towards the freeway for the short drive home. I was pretty tired and my ears were already ringing (another throwback to my high school days). I listened to some sports talk radio turned way low and put the truck on auto-pilot. When I pulled into my garage and put the key in the door, I looked back at the truck realizing that I'd be starting it up again to go to work in about four hours.

I tried to be quiet as I entered the bedroom but my wife is a light sleeper. She asked how I was doing.

I sighed and whispered, "Tomorrow's gonna suck".

Popping Smoke Over The Treeline

2005-08-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

"Son, if you can't talk, click the handset twice".

That's a line from a scene in the movie Platoon in which an officer is trying to communicate with an injured soldier who is about to be overrun by the enemy. While I'm certainly not ailing in any way, the line keeps popping up in my head when it comes to thinking about getting back to this site and writing again. Many of you have contacted me to make sure I'm okay and I certainly appreciate the concern. So here I am clicking the handset for y'all.

Let me just say that this has been a busy summer and August in particular kicked my ass. But in a good way. This month I saw The Black Crowes at the Fillmore on the 6th, Ozzfest on the 13th, some baseball on the 20th, and tonight I head down to Santa Monica to catch Dread Zeppelin for what is the 21st or 22nd time. I also squeezed in a solo camping trip and some weeknight partying which has me reeling a bit. With the lack of sleep and the abundance of alcohol this month, I feel like I'm at Hunter S. Thompson fantasy camp. Looking back so far, I can't figure out how I've kept going. I think the secret is to not stop. September is going to known around here as Detoxember.

So, here come the lies again; The Velvet Revolver story will be finished before I move on, I promise. But the Black Crowes show has some great peripheral tales and the shit I saw at Ozzfest has to be seen to be believed. I'll put up some digital photos from that one, but I'll have to selectively edit them.

Keep on coming back because some day there will be stories to read again. In the meantime, I'm off to Santa Monica for some Zeppelin-inna-reggae-style sung by Tortelvis himselvis. We'll see if that one produces any hazy memories for future consumption.

Thanks as always for checking in.

Click click.

Still Alive and Posting (Barely) 6/22/05

2005-06-22T20:40:00.000-07:00

Hello faithful and patient readers. Sorry for the ridiculous delay between Parts One and Two of the Velvet Revolver story. Part Three should be a quick one because it's about the performance itself, so I will get that one off soon.

One reason for the lapse in posts is that I've gotten myself involved in a project launched over on Chris's blog site--y'know, the liberal guy over there on the sidebar to the right. In the spirit of the old mix tapes that we all made back in the day, he has proposed a mix CD exchange called the Mixed Bag. Although I was intrigued as I read all about round one a while back, I did not participate. But I couldn't resist this time and built what I think is a pretty damn good disc. A group of 26 of us signed up to make a mix CD and send it to everyone on the list. In return, I'll be getting everyone's else's CDs as well. Compiling a CD for a bunch of people I don't know at all was a little daunting, but exciting as well.

(By the way, hello and welcome to all the Mixed Baggers out there if you're checking me out for the first time by virtue of my disc or the link on Chris Brown's site. I don't post often, but check the archives for more concert tales.)

Anyway, the picking of songs, burning, packaging, and mailing 25 CDs took up a bunch of my free time, but I enjoyed every minute of it. The other's CDs are coming in the mail at a pretty good pace and I've heard some of the weirdest shit ever recorded. But the strange thing is, I'm enjoying stuff I'd never even consider buying. I went into the project with that spirit and designed most of my disc with that in mind for others. (Well, not the weird part, just the turning people onto new things part.)

In a few days, I hope to post my own CDs track list for anyone that is interested. I'll also post up a review or two of some of these Mixed Bag CDs I'm getting.

Thanks for stopping by.......................T.