Month: February 2014

In 1991, we worked up a version of “The Reason Why” by the Wombats.  We played it a few times in the first half of the year, including February 16 in Tallahassee, and then put it in mothballs, pulling it out twice in Cleveland, once when singer Victor Halm was in attendance, and once more when he joined us on stage.  And then out of the blue, one other time, in Brisbane 2010 . . . also on February 16.  I know!  What are the odds, right?   Same date, 2001, we’re still in South America.   Every venue is providing us with amps and drums, but that still leaves a mountain of guitars, etc. to check onto each of our many flights, always preceded by a lengthy negotiation by our promoter Marcos.   Today we land in Santiago, Chile, but some of our equipment is either still in São Paulo or maybe somewhere else entirely.  We borrow stuff from the other band on the bill, Enmascarados de Monterrey, while Marcos attempts to ensure that at the very least our missing gear arrives by the time we have to depart for Montevideo (it does).  It’s the best show of the tour, one of favorite shows ever–at some point someone runs on stage, grabs me, and won’t let go, ripping my shirt.  Hard to believe, but this had never happened before and hasn’t happened since.

 

 

February 15 is a day of unexpected encores: opening for the Feelies at the old 9:30, we somehow end up playing one; last year at the new 9:30, Bruce Bennett joins us for “Who Are the Mystery Girls,” an impromptu tribute to the just-departed Shadow Morton.  But our favorite memory of the day occurred in 1991,  on our last tour before James joins the band.  Wilbo Wright is playing bass, and Dave Doernberg is helping out.  We’ve played Atlanta the night before, next stop Einstein A Go-Go in Jacksonville Beach, roughly five hours away.   Our very well-thumbed Real Barbecue book informs us that a mere one-hour detour and we’re breakfasting at Hook’s in Milledgeville, GA.  It’s our first (and to date only) experience at a pull-your-own barbecue place.  We enter the front door, and each of us given a styrofoam container and directions out the back to the pit.  Taking some tongs from the wall, we pull as much meat as we want from the pig on the fire.  Back in the main room, as it were, it’s weighed and garnished with white bread and sauce.   Georgia is first to the cash register.  She orders a drink, and is asked, “Anything else?”  “What else do you have?” she replies.  “Nothing.”

 

 

At shows over the years we’ve acknowledged not only Hanukkah, but Easter, Passover, Halloween, Christmas . . . we even performed “Turning Japanese” in Hannover, Germany in honor of Mao’s centennial.  But I can find no commemoration of Valentine’s Day in the archives.  Not at 1988’s triple bill with the Lazy Cowgirls and Giant Sand in Los Angeles, not in São Paulo in 2001, not on WNYC’s Soundcheck last year.  Nothing.

 

Having learned most of what I know from Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies, there’s no place we could have been more excited to find ourselves on February 13, 2010 than Tasmania . . . with the possible exception of Pismo Beach.  (Why do you think we ended up in Hoboken in the first place?)  The concert took place at a winery, and if in some respects it suffered for not being the most rock ‘n’ roll of environments, at other times the environment was fantastically un-rock ‘n’ roll–ever since, we’ve tried without success to once more have a private chalet double as our dressing room.  “Let’s Save Tony Orlando’s House” as an encore?  Must’ve been a request.  The next day a local took us into the bush; OK, it was more of a petting zoo, but you can bet we heeded the warning: Box With Kangaroos at Your Own Risk.

 

Two different opening slots for the Feelies on February 12–Bard, 1987 and Raleigh, 1989 (only song played at both: Serpentine).  But it’s 1994 we remember best.  We were on tour with Teenage Fanclub.  They were on a tour bus; we were in a van, which meant we spent long hours dodging black ice to try to keep up.  We had already encountered white-out conditions en route to Denver, wondering (and happy not to find out) what it took to get a highway closed.  On the 11th we performed in Chicago.  Exhausted from touring, well rehearsed from touring, in a city where we had lots of friends, and facing a relatively short four-hour drive to our next date in Detroit, we made the decision to relax a bit, get a late start and forgo soundcheck.   Should we have checked the weather forecast first?  Undoubtedly.  The trip to Michigan took place in a moderately harrowing ice storm.  Every time we pulled off the road to de-ice the windshield wipers, the likelihood of us arriving in Detroit in time to perform decreased.  As I remember, we got there about a half hour after our set was supposed to start, as the stage crew was about to give up on us and put Teenage Fanclub’s stuff in place.  Instead, everyone rushed out to our van, got us up and running faster than we thought possible, and we just barely got to do our set (only song played on February 12 as both Teenage Fanclub’s and the Feelies’ opener: Drug Test).

 

I had such a great Beatle Weekend that I’m just not ready to let go. When last we checked in on our 1988 expedition westward, we were causing a ruckus in Albuquerque. Next stop: Phoenix. We arrived the night before our show, and were grateful when our local promoter offered to put us up. Here’s a tip for you young touring bands out there–do your best to determine, and I can’t stress this next part enough, before your arrival to what extent your destination will evoke Grey Gardens. The unmistakable odor of cat piss was unmistakable. Georgia slept in the van. Woke up, got out of bed, lined up some busy-work promo and made our escape, over-explaining to our hosts that we were trying to reach the local college radio station to set up an interview. We found a sympathetic ear: “Good luck! Those request lines are always busy.” With nothing but time to kill, we played 18 holes of mini-golf at Castles ‘n’ Coasters, drawn inexorably to the Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds-quoting Hippy House. At the show, did I dream that someone got on stage and started ranting into Stephan’s microphone during “For the Turnstiles,” and that the house sound man, finally hearing something he enjoyed, didn’t kill the channel? Apparently so–my notes tell me we didn’t play “For the Turnstiles” that night.