Author: Ira

Kate and Nick write from Ithaca (we’re guessing New York, not Greece): My (now) husband and I fell in love with one another in April of 2001 while we listening to And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out.  When we were married in Geneseo, NY on September 4th, 2005 our first dance was to “Our Way To Fall.”  On September 4th, 2006, I put on my wedding dress and we danced to it for our anniversary.   Whenever we hear it, we stop and dance with one another, and often dance to it on our anniversary.   We made a mix cd for our guests with “Our Way to Fall” on it, and since then two of our friends used that song at their weddings.  The first set of friends played it as the song that got the dancing started in our honor, the second set of friends used the song in their mix cd of all the wedding songs of their married friends as a party favor.   We love your music!  Thank you for how your music has enhanced our lives.  

Four years later, another wedding, another first dance to “Our Way to Fall.”  And another bridegroom named Nick!  From Oakland (presumably California and not New Jersey) comes this email from him and Anna: My wife and I selected your song–“Our Way to Fall”–for our first dance at our wedding on September 4th, 2009. Absolutely fantastic song.

Also on this date, we played with Half Japanese in Nürnberg.  During our encore, Jad sang “Around and Around” and four of his classics with us.  It would really tie things up nicely if “Our Way to Fall” were part of the set, but the show took place in 1995, five years before we wrote the song.

 

 

 

On this date in 2005, we find ourselves as part of the welcoming committee for Columbia University students.  With Katrina on our mind, we open with “It Ain’t My Fault” and encore with “Ooh Poo Pah Doo.”  The following year we’re at Indian Summer in Glasgow, where the destruction is more theatrical.  During the Gang of 4’s set, Andy Gill switches guitars for “Anthrax” and smashes it–we bring home a few of the pieces.   (Reminds me of 1980, when I saw Go4 play with the Buzzcocks at Irving Plaza.  At some point during the Buzzcocks set, John Maher loses a stick, which sails into the audience, right into my hands–I held on to that one for . . . hmm, I wonder if I still have it.)  Later during “He’d Send in the Army,”  Jon King takes a baseball bat to a microwave oven, but we don’t want to be greedy in our souvenir-gathering, so leave that behind.

 

Eleven years ago today, we participated in a benefit at Southpaw in Brooklyn to help Alejandro Escovedo with his medical expenses.  Our acoustic set was heavy on the event-specific covers, especially if Alejandro is a fan of Gary Lewis & the Playboys and Moby Grape.  A reasonable assumption, I’m sure you’ll agree, but just in case we also performed Ernest Tubbs’s “Thanks a Lot,” remembered fondly from Rank & File’s repertoire, and the True Believers’ “The Rain Won’t Help You When It’s Over.”  Some of the details of the night are fuzzy, so I’ll have to guess that we ran out of time before getting to the Nuns’ “Decadent Jew.”

 

On our 1990 tour with the Sundays, we traveled the USA in a cargo van belonging to Bar/None, and rented to their bands for next to nothing.  We numbered five–Georgia, me, upright bassist Wilbo Wright, lead guitarist Kevin Salem and his then-girlfriend Mary Lorson–and had enough room in the back to fit a mattress.  The downside (there’s always a downside) was the van had no insulation whatsoever, just the driver’s side and passenger’s side windows, and an air conditioner that was little more than a rumor.  I have a vivid memory of arriving in Chicago a day in advance of our July 5 show, at a birthday party for Rick Rizzo, having been reduced to puddles by the summer heat.  Fourteen years ago today, we played in San Diego.  Facing five or six hours in the van before the next day’s show in Phoenix, we opted to avoid the 100-plus degree sun and drive overnight.  We actually had the heat on as we traversed the desert, but that didn’t last long.  We got to Phoenix somewhere around 6 a.m., too early to check in to a hotel without avoiding being charged for the night previous (and therefore not in our budget), so went to breakfast where Kevin entertained his punchy tourmates by making the waitress explain every single item on the menu, after which–still needing to kill some time–we drove around in circles in a parking lot.  Eventually we made it to bed, and when we woke up some time in the afternoon, Georgia and I went to see The Freshman at a dollar movie theater in an otherwise-abandoned shopping center, shades of Over the Edge–which remains one of the best movie-going experiences of my life.

 

We’ve played just one time on this day, so let’s see, what say we recollect our 1995 show at Strom in Munich, which I  recall like it was . . . like it never happened.  Looking at the set list doesn’t help; I’ve got nothing.  Two years ago, Georgia and I went to see the restoration of Shirley Clarke‘s Ornette: Made in America at the IFC Center in New York.  Quoting Dwight Twilley: That I remember.  Great movie!

 

In 1992, we were offered two shows in Portugal, a country we’d heretofore never visited.  I could talk for hours (and in fact have) about this trip, but today will simply focus on the drive from Porto to Lisbon.  The promoter hired a bus to transport all the bands–there were at least four others, but I feel like I have to be forgetting one or seven–save the Legendary Pink Dots, who traveled separately so they could arrive early and soundcheck first.  At some point, one passenger had a brief conversation with the driver, who then pulled over so every man except me and James could leave the bus to pee on the side of the road.  Apparently Portuguese, just one of many languages I don’t speak, has no words to express, “You know, we’re stopping in less than five minutes for lunch.”  Stomachs full and back on the road, we drove straight past a sign which seemed to suggest that travelers to Lisbon might want to turn left.  Ever naive, I assumed the driver knew a shortcut or that buses were not allowed on that highway, or perhaps he just wanted to see how long it would be before the road we were on would narrow and cease to be paved.  Turned out, not long at all.  Confounding gender stereotypes, our male driver did not hesitate to ask directions . . . of a couple standing in their front yard with their ox.  Though it did not appear that automotives played a large role in their lives, they were nonetheless able to direct us back toward Lisbon.  We eventually arrived at the venue.  The plan was we would have our soundcheck, while the rest of the entourage went to dinner.  But things were running way off schedule and Legendary Pink Dots were nowhere near finished.  We decided to grab what looked like our best chance to eat–in the long version of this story, I explain the complete fiasco of the Porto evening which made us fear that no amount of waiting would result in a soundcheck.  So everyone gets back on the bus to head to the restaurant.  Our driver has wedged himself into a parking lot in such a way that it takes him 15 minutes of maneuvering before he can negotiate an exit.  Then we drive for less than a minute, at which point we have arrived.  We walked back to the venue.  Opening song: “I Heard You Looking.”