A few more random observations and details from the Catherine Denise mini-tour.
If ever you play at JJs is San Jose and a lopsided toothless mulletted idiot walks in claiming to be the "house percussionist," do the following in this order:
•Be afraid. Be very afraid.
•Tell him to fuck off. Do not be polite.
•Tell Johnny, owner and soundman, to turn off the perc mic Idiot Boy insisted on setting up.
•Throw full beer bottles at him as hard as you can from the stage, and incite the audience to do the same. This man must be stopped.
Comment directed at me after the JJs show in the parking lot from a friendly young black guy who looked about 12 but somehow managed to see the show: "Damn, nigga! You got some motherfuckin' skills on that bass!" Comment directed at Rusty, a few seconds later, same place, same dude: "Damn, nigga! You got some motherfuckin' skills on that keyboard!" Kids today...
And then off to Reno.
The best sandwich to be found anywhere on the planet is somewhere near Truckee, in a little anonymous town at a deli whose name escapes me. It's just off the 80 so you can't miss it. The thing was as big as my head and took me half a day to finish. Go for the habanero jack.
Reno is, well, what it is. The desperation in the air, at least in the casino level at the Hilton, can be directly measured using sheer human tonnage as a yarsdstick. Or perhaps the displacement in the pool, like the way they calculate the weight of oil tankers and such. The obesity factor was just staggering. Worse than Philadephia, which to me was always the fried malomar center of the universe until now. No sooner did I think to myself "That's got to be the fattest ass I've ever seen in my life" than a bigger one hove into view coming out of Chevy's. Christ on a bike. Why not, America? Why not just buy tubs of sour cream at Costco and a straw and be done with it? Why even go through the diet Pepsi motions? You look awful, getting worse daily, and the whole world laughs while we stuff as much deep-fried garbage as possible down our collective pie hole. How I didn't witness a hundred heart attacks and/or strokes is beyond me. Mrs. PRG while examining the menu at the Italian eatery in the lobby: "I'm in the mood for Eggplant Parmesean." PRG in reply, "Baby, there ain't an eggplant within a hundred miles in any direction."
The show was fun, but almost an afterthought. I had already been rendered deaf by the unrelenting din from the slots. Note to self; use Super Slinkys next time you restring your bass the night before the gig rather than Regulars, you big doofus. My fingers still hurt. The other band we played with was a bunch of poncy cloth-eared assholes. PRG and I at the exact same time remarked that the drummer was the type we'd always make fun of. Black wife beater, black drum sticks with white nylon tips, gigantic kit, and, worst of all, black "drummer's" gloves. Complete tool. And oh boy could he not play.
I've said it before and I'll say it again; casinos are sad places. Casinos with carnivorous escalators are especially sad. Some poor woman fell down the up-escalator, knocked herself out at the bottom, and was then unceremoniously dragged back up again lying on her back. At the top it took at least three people to prevent her clothes, and possibly her head, from being devoured by Otis the Evil Escalator.
On the upside, one woman had a decidedly unsad afternoon just as we were leaving. She won a million dollars at a penny slot machine, and some flunky was busy writing out a 3'x6' check to her. Security everywhere. Poor woman looked shellshocked. One million dollars. Penny machine. And all the while there I was losing at video poker, one quarter at a time. Feh; only $75 vaporized into the ether, less than I had budgeted. No gambler, me. Good thing too.
A fun little adventure all in all, and one I'd repeat in a second. Comped room and food is a nice perk. I'm pretty sure they deep fried the entire salad bar, and the room smelled like Eau de Philly Hambeast Toejam. But once in a while it's fun to play professional touring musician. Plus, I showed them; The Reno Hilton will now have to find a way to replace two bars of soap, one lou roll (GREAT pseudonym), and a bottle of shampoo.
By the way, if anyone is going to Reno, I still have a big pile of meal tickets for the Hilton. If you enjoy greasy lettuce and see-through coffee, come and get 'em.
Ah, the perils of hurling yourself down Memory Lane.
I'm currently on a mini-tour with a woman named Catherine Denise, smoking blues guitarist from Texas, straight out of the Stevie Ray Vaughn school. In fact, Double Trouble, SRV's band, backed her up on her new album. Big shoes to fill.
First stop on said mini-tour was a funky little blues club in Watsonville. A little like Bob's Country Bunker without the chicken wire, but the same trough-like cattle-at-feeding-time seating arrangements. Everyone in there weighed at least 200 pounds. Big sign in the window saying "Now serving Margaritas ON TAP!!" For the love of all that's right in the universe...
On the way to W-ville I ambled slowly through Santa Cruz, the old stomping grounds. I stopped by my old house which was in the reluctant throes of being remodeled, poor thing. When I lived there oh so many years ago, it was barely fit for human habitation. Now it has new carpet, new paint, completely remodeled kitchen, and will probably sell for $750K. The lofts, bar, work bench and wood-burning stove all were gone. It should have been burned to the ground and the ashes dumped out to sea a decade ago.
My next stop was Laguna House, an even more vile den of iniquity. We used to nail chunks of salt pork to the stoop for no real reason. Fun I guess. Fly-watching maybe. Bill M. used to leap out of the window and chase student drivers down the street, brandishing the Tool of Anger and flailing it about furiously, just to watch them panic. The only woman I've ever known with a beard lived there. Ah, the good old days. I started getting a little misty. I started to have little conversations with the Eric Friedmann that used to live in this little psychic death-trap by the sea. I didn't recognize him at all, and neither one of us had the slightest idea what the hell the other one was talking about.
Did the show in W-ville, and on the way back drove through downtown Santa Cruz/Pacific Garden Mall, marveling at how much had changed in 14 years. I popped into the Catalyst and caught a peek at Dick Dale finishing up his set. The place was full of what appeared to be preschoolers posing as UCSC froshlings. Here's the poolroom where Will used to kick my ass routinely, there's the tiny backstage where we used to huddle before gigs, there's the same goddamn surly-ass door dude who nearly broke my legs when I was behaving like a complete turd. More mistiness.
And then, of course, it happened. Walking back to my car, I heard that familiar if long-left-behind cry of dumb very white 18-year-old smelly jingly hippy chicks tripping their boobs off behind me, no doubt from Orange County, about to start their first year at UCSC, "In the name of Jah Rastafari whose name we speak with love, we've come so far to be here!! Jah Rastafari! Weeeeee!"
"Spare change?" They got into a Beemer SUV and drove away.
The mist dried up mighty fast. Most of the important people from here I still am in touch with, and I don't miss the rest. I'll visit Santa Cruz in another 14 years. My honest hope is that it doesn't drown in a patchouli-stank hairball before I come back.
The Catherine Denise Band, featuring CD on guitar, P. Rusty Gunn on keys, Luke Piro on drums, and yours anonymously on bass, will be at JJs in San Jose this Wednesday August 24, and the Reno Hilton Friday August 26. To paraphrase Duck Dunn, it's a band powerful enough to turn goat piss into gasoline.
With that lovely thought, I bid you bon nuit.
"Well I woke up this morning and got myself a beer..."
"I like a beer buzz early in the morning..."
"Well the other night I lay sleeping
And I woke from a terrible dream
So I called my Buddy Weiser
And his partner Jimmy Beam
And we drank alone"
"I quit not drinking when I was a kid."
'Twas fun while it lasted.
All this non-drinking is funny. I've been on the wagon for three weeks now, one more week to go, just to prove to myself I can. It hasn't been bad at all. A lot easier than I thought. There was also a mildly alarming health consideration which reared its super-homely head recently, and I certainly won't bore you with that. An observation or two:
•The first thing I noticed after putting down the bottle was the triumphant roaring back of my sense of smell, and it's funny how much I didn't miss it. Frankly, alot of the world just stinks. When I walked in to Fly after going BT (bushy-tail) the stench just about knocked me flat. Has this damn bar always been this unspeakably whiffy? Do drunk people always smell that bad? On the other hand, I suppose it's not a bad thing to be aware of the kitty box's stage of fermentation, something you can't always tell just by looking at it. So, nose, welcome back.
•Really loud drunk people still really suck. I've always known this, but they're that much worse without the luxury of self-pickling.
•All of a sudden the liquor section of the supermarket, formerly more inviting than a candy store, now looks like a Superfund site.
•There always seems to be some extra cash in my wallet.
•I've lost about 8 pounds, my eyeballs are white again instead of glassy pink, my tummy is happy, and my head doesn't hurt.
•Our president is still a fucking idiot. This I observe on a daily basis, and I like saying it. Only 3 1/2 more years. I digress.
So, I reckon moderation is the key from here on out. I can't imagine living a life where I can't share a bottle of wine with Wendo at dinner, or have a couple Tecates at a Bedrockers rehearsal with Robby. What kind of life would that be?
I just can't wash down the wine with two pints of Crow-and-soda or seven martinis anymore. Drat.
Aside, unfortunately these ramblings won't be open to comments anymore due to the recent Spam Storms. Just shoot me a happy email if you're moved (over?) to write.