rubes

Stop poking me please, Mr. Graham

Remember the other day when I was talking about the Gathering of the Tribes Festival from whence the Hoodoo Gurus turned tail and ran, and about my run-in with Bill Graham and how that was another story? I'd like to tell you that story. If you're sitting comfortably...

In the summer of 1991 my lifelong friend Schneider the Younger (aka Eric S), brother of my erstwhile right-hand Lucky Rube Schneider the Elder, and I somehow found ourselves at The Gathering of the Tribes Festival, a well-meaning yet horribly executed Lolapalooza-type affair. A Bill Graham Presents production, this was not their best foot forward. They just didn't care, and it showed.

The only bands I recall: Fishbone, Babes In Toyland, X, Primus.

Our seats:

Not too bad, close enough to the stage, and within perfect earshot of all the disgruntled musicians. The sound was absolutely atrocious. I've yet to hear worse. This was 1991, after all, and if ever there was a sonic embodiment of a sound guy's runaway cocaine addiction at 120 decibels, this was it. Can't hear the kick drum? Turn up the guitar. Problem solved.

Fishbone was a riot as always. They sounded like shit, but one forgives sonic malfeasance when the bone player is tossing his horn into the audience and instruments of other species are flying around the stage sans players. On the whole I'd rather be mooned by Angus Young than be long-range teabagged by Angelo Moore. But it's just rock and roll after all. I grieve for this band sometimes. They should be so good, and every time I see them they're substantially worse than the time before. Sad.

X looked, sounded, and played like shit, and they were very unhappy about the whole thing. John Doe nearly decapitated the poor suffering monitor engineer for reasons unknown, not that anything the guy could do would have helped much.

Here's where the story actually begins, and thank you for your patience. When Babes In Toyland hit the stage, that's when Eric S. and I decided to get up and stretch our legs a bit, and maybe get a beer and a dog. We were hungry, and BIT just chewed completely. Yep, we wanted hot dogs. And maybe nachos. And definitely beers. Funny how I remember how hungry we were, but I don't remember all the weed we were obviously smoking. Shoreline nachos? Eeeeyoooo.

Now, see above and check out where our seats were. We wanted out. So, a long slog through other patrons to either side toward the isles, or a quick hop over the low barrrier behind us, through a vacant luxury box, and to hot dog and nacho nirvana via the huge walkway. We chose the latter.

Stay tuned. After this message from our sponsors at Bill's Idol Hut, a true lesson in why the path of least resistance is not always a good thing. We'll be right back.

Welcome back.

Eric S. made it. He hopped the wall and sauntered off ahead of me, assuming I would be as successful. My trailing leg was just clearing the wall when the most frightening sound I've ever heard, far worse than the band on stage, approximated the word 'Hey' in my ear.

"Where the fuck do you think you are? What kind of animal are you? This isn't the fucking zoo, goddamnit," bellowed a very angry Bill Graham at me, all the while poking me in the sternum with a forefinger that may as well have been a dagger. You do remember what the man looked like, right? On this day, like Alien with a horse-choking hangover, tearing the place apart in search of a case of Alka-Seltzer.

"Um, blaph oh god porgle mnurph b'dangle, your queasiness, and please don't gut me in front of all these people," I think I replied. As quickly as he had appeared he disappeared, stomping off to devitalize and enfeeble some other poor sod who had fucked up that day. Maybe it was the monitor guy, poor bastard. I hope it was John Doe.

I have never felt so small, before or since. My sturnum was bruised for a week. I reckon I was 23 or so at the time, and it goes down as one of the most frightening experiences of my life. The man's temper was legendary, and in a sick way I feel something akin to honor and pride at having it blow typhoon-like straight into my face. Of course, less than three months later he was dead, perishing in a helicopter crash in Vallejo after a Huey Lewis show.

Maybe next time I'll tell another 'Bill' story, that of meeting King George II's predecessor.

Earwax

Rambling while trolling the Craigslist job board, procrastinating.

Music critics. Gotta love 'em.

Now, admittedly this is a very old exerpt from the Orange County Register, written before I auditioned for Big Drill Car in '92 (I played like ass, didn't get the gig, resulting in a hugely hronting roadtrip nonetheless), but one really has to laugh:

"One of Orange County’s best bands is Big Drill Car, whose feisty yet melodic garage rock, reminiscent of the Hoodoo Gurus, is far more memorable than much of its college radio competition."

I have no idea who wrote that, but it begs a very short examination. BDC and The Hoodoo Gurus are two of my very favorite bands. And I'm sitting here scratching my head, trying to figure out what they might have in common.

'Feisty' is probably *the* desert island word to describe BDC. OC surf/skate fast-rock band from the late 80s/early 90s. I first saw them in the Porter dining hall at UCSC, opening for Primus. It was a pivotal moment for me to be sure, and definitely a breath of fresh patchouli-free air at Porter. Bob Thompson, whose role in the band I regrettably was destined not to have, was a revelation in musicianship and showmanship, a diminutive whirling dervish with a Tele bass. Frank "Noooooooowwwww" Daly was the perfect front dude. In a different universe he might have been Don Dokken but for a more grounded vocal sensibility and the Vans, and without the mousse. Mark Arnold's guitar tone was the perfect combination of gravel and champagne, a grit I've been trying to find my whole life. And Danny Marcroft, drums? I kicked his ass repeatedly on the pool table at the Berkeley Square before one particularly memorable BDC/All show. We didn't become friends. Looking back, I may have gloated a bit.

The Hoodoo Gurus. I suppose on one very abstract level I can see The Common Thread with BDC. There's certainly some punk influence there. But essentially aren't they really more or less a turbo-charged Australian country band? The two bands have zero in common sonically, lyrically, visually, or presentationally. The one time I tried to go see them at the hopelessly lame Gathering of the Tribes Festival they cancelled. I ended up getting assaulted and verbally eviscerated by Bill Graham that day, but that's another story.

Procrastination is a horrible disease.