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.
Thirteen years ago, we were on tour in Brazil. Departing Rio early in the morning, two flights and a longish drive later we arrived at the Aqualung in Maringa. As we were unpacking our equipment, a significant problem with the way the p.a. had been wired was detected. The local crew suggested that we soundcheck, and then they’d deal with it. We counterproposed that the wiring get fixed first, and then we’d soundcheck. One thing led to another and soundcheck ended at midnight. The opening band, set up on another stage, went on immediately; our set began, let’s say, around 1 a.m. It was fantastic. People had traveled from all over the country to attend the show, and were going nuts. One woman had some important message that needed to be delivered personally to us on stage while we were playing, which didn’t strike Pete Phillips, wearing the hats of both guitar tech and last line of resistance before reaching the stage, as a particularly good idea. He told her no, to which she replied, “You’re old.” Somehow even that didn’t sway him. It couldn’t have been any earlier than 3 a.m. on a hot summer night when we finished. I lay down in the dressing room, and despite the roar of the postshow disco, fell sound asleep. When awakened, I was shivering uncontrollably, sick as a dog. I didn’t eat solid food for a week.
I don’t want to think too hard about the fact that the best post-show compliment we ever received came from someone who probably was not in attendance. It was 26 years ago today. As you may recall, Georgia, me, Stephan and Phil Morrison are making our way west. Having survived a freak ice storm in Dallas, we find ourselves at the improbably perfectly named Fat Chance in Albuquerque. Faced with intra-group and band-on-soundman turmoil, for the first and last time, we switch gears midset and play uninterrupted feedback. It gets mixed reviews. On the one hand, Stephan discovers he has the ability to play bass while simultaneously warding off people trying to unplug us. On the other, after we’re done and I’m outside trying to breathe, a stranger interrupts the guy screaming at me to counter, “That was the best show I’ve ever seen,” (though we’re pretty sure he didn’t see it). “You are as good as the Eagles. You are better than Ace Frehley.” We would later fondly look back on this date by characterizing the live version of “The Evil That Men Do” on President Yo La Tengo as “Pablo’s Version,” named after the angry fellow outside the Fat Chance.
