Memo from Turner

If you’ll allow the present day to intrude on these recollections, I’m in Hollywood right now, looking forward to the TCM festival, most particularly Saturday’s tribute to Georgia’s parents.  Which reminds me of this date in 1988, when we were unwise enough, for the second year in a row no less, to book a show against the Academy Awards.  Admittedly it’s debatable how many people would show up to hear us in Normal, Illinois on any Monday night, but ours is an exclusive affair indeed.  1992 finds us at the Clearview in Dallas, which among its charms featured a disco next to the band room clearly audible should you dial down the volume on stage at any point.  Receiving multiple requests for our quiet songs (and having already suffered through “For Shame of Doing Wrong” during our set), we grab an acoustic guitar, a snare drum and a floor tom, and invite the audience into the parking lot for a six-song encore.  Of course, it being Deep Ellum, it’s even louder outside, but it’s the thought that counts–especially to the bar manager, who threatens not to pay us because of the post-set drinking he claims we cost him.  One last story: 1991, YLT and Eleventh Dream Day are in the last of three shows in Missouri supporting Redd Kross.  The first night in Lawrence we opened.   When the audience is slow to arrive, the club invites us to go on late.  An hour or so later, Redd Kross’s tour manager gets there, freaks out, and insists that Eleventh Dream Day shorten their set so Redd Kross can start on time.  Next night in St. Louis, Eleventh Dream Day go on first, right on schedule, in front of another sparse, slow-arriving audience.  Now we’re the opener again, after which I’m watching Eleventh Dream Day from the wings with a member of their crew.  During “Awake I Lie,” I spot Redd Kross’s tour manager standing right in front of Rick Rizzo, looking miserable.  I’m incensed–it’s obviously their last song, somebody should tell the TM to fuck off.  Crew guy goes off to do just that.  I see him tap the TM on the shoulder, and the TM turns to him–and I realize it’s not the TM at all, but some guy in the audience (in the front row, you’ll recall) with similar hair.  Frantically, I try to wave him off, but he doesn’t see me until after he’s told an Eleventh Dream Day fan to fuck off.  Oops.