Seattle.
Coffee and Rain.
"FrasierLand"...
We cut out of Eugene by about 10am so that we could make our load-in at the
Ballard Fire House, Beau driving like a fiend, not stopping for anything but
gas... so I put the lid on my water bottle and drank sparingly.
I've gotten into the habit of carrying a water bottle around with me and
sipping from it constantly... I guess this is in place of smoking cigarettes
or something and for all you smart-asses out there, "Yes I know what Freud
would have said about this" but whatever the cause, I'm drinking about twice
to three times the amount of fluids I used to per day (yes, even from when I
was a heavy drinker)... so, uh... figure it out...
I gotta... um... "stop" more lately...
Sorry... more than you needed to know there, I guess... but isn't that sort
of what you read this for? To see the sickly pale underbelly of the DSO? To
explore the proverbial holes in our collective tighty-whities of thought? To
know the terror of the van after a Mexican resturant? Well, ISN'T IT???
No, you're right... it isn't.
Where was I?
When we got to Seattle we were right on time. We turned onto the street we
saw it immediately... a big old fire house, alright. Big open doors which
used to contain horses and fire engines now sported stools and small round
tables... on the left wall of the place was the bar and on the right wall was
the stage...
... with someone else's gear all over it.
As we got closer, we could make out the sign out in front.
"Aug. 14 - The Romantics" under which was spelled out "14 Dark Star At The
Eagles"...
"We're playing with the Romantics? Are you kidding?"
"I thought they got killed in some kind of hair salon explosion..."
"I heard they stopped touring because their matching leather jackets don't
fit..."
"Hang on", said Scott "I'll investigate."
Scott walked up to the bar and talked to the guy behind it for a minute, then
came back.
"We're up the street... The Romantics are playing here tonight."
"Again, I gotta ask... Are you kidding me?"
"We're at some place up the street here called 'Eagles'... I don't know,
dude... let's check it out."
I already had a bad feeling about this.
We drove up the block but no clubs came into view... just around the corner
Rob poked his finger at a building and said "F-O-E... 'Friend Of Eagles'...
man, we're playing in a friggin' V.F.W. hall!"
"Nah, dude... w-"
"Shit."
He was right.
We met the promoter out front, a nice guy named Carl Pennington... he was
slightly nervous, it seemed to me...
"Hey Carl..." introductions all around... "So this is it?"
"Yes, it's as good as we could obtain considering the amount of notice we
had..."
Turns out this guy at the Ballard Fire House is slightly notorious for this
sort of shady booking practice. It also seems he'd been trying to book The
Romantics for "an awful long time" (my guess is since they last had a hit?)
and they had finally granted his wish by stomping on our booking... OK,
fine... I'm sure these guys want to stay out on the road and playing... can't
grudge The Romantics for that, I guess...
(pricks.)
Did you hear something?
Anyway, as an alternative we were going to play upstairs at the Fire House...
I guess there's a dance studio up there so we were going to "share" the
venue... no problem THERE, until my PA starts messing with THEIR PA and vice
versa... this was obviously well-thought-out by the rocket scientists
involved...
We were saved from this "Battle Of The Bands" by the guy who owned the dance
studio... turns out he had a fight with his lover and was in hiding, refusing
to open the door for this lover-guy or anyone else, let alone some smelly
hippie band... puuu-leeze!
After this whole soap opera had been laid out for us in gory detail by an
overly-repentant Carl the promoter, there was only one question burning in
everyone's mind:
"So lemme get this straight: The band that did "Talking In Your Sleep" and
"What I Like About You" still has a draw up here in Seattle?"
"That would appear to be the case."
No wonder Kurt Cobaine killed himself.
Carl assured us that he would take care of the last-minute change in location
by having a long-time Deadhead and local character "The Commander" stand
out-front of the Fire House directing folks over here for the show... it
wasn't even a block away so we figured what the heck and went upstairs to
check out the hall...
You know the way your grandparent's house smelled? OK, same cloying smell
here... like the windows had been sealed shut since 1958 and sunlight was
banished, never to return...
On the walls around the floor of the smallish room were pictures of chapter
presidents and ladies dating back to the fifties, these weird portraits
staring down at us through wingtip glasses, bow ties, and Pomaide, and the
stage was in no way big enough for the band...
It was another Cafe Tomo, but at least Tomo was nice, airy, clean, and didn't
smell like Grant's Tomb... plus this was really only about a third of the
size of Tomo.
Before I could wipe it away, Scott read the dispair in my face...
"Whaddaya say, Cam?" he asked.
"No f*ckin' way."
"That's what I figured too. What do we do?"
"Look man... I'm game to try..." I said, but Scott knew it would be asking
too much of the band and fans to try and do this show... it wouldn't be
pleasant for us OR the audience any way we looked at it...
So we did what we absolutely did NOT want to do and canceled the gig. We all
lost... Seattle didn't get a show, we didn't get to play, and we had driven
six hours out of our way to do it...
And still in the face of this, Scott gave the local crew T-shirts for coming
out and sticking with it, and we met The Commander while we waited for the
rest of the band to show up...
"This should be good." I said to no one...
The Commander is a slightly crazy (meant in only the most complimentary
sense, and I think he knows that) older guy who customizes autos for a
living... he pulled up in a tricked out ride I couldn't really identify, but
it had the stylin' barrio paint job and t-tops... I noticed the number "440"
next to where the model plate usually sits on the front right panel...
hmmm... some sorta engine description... ain't that, Cooter?
He gets out of the car, and that's when I notice the tie-dye socks... he
comes boppin' up to the circle all happy and jammin', only to deflate like a
Macey's balloon when he hears we're not playing... and I quote:
"Aw Shit."
Turns out he'd been listening to the tapes we send out to get booked and had
been looking forward to this for a long time... judging by the email we
received over the next several days he wasn't the only one.
So the Commander takes Scott to the liquor store (we are, after all, headed
to Salt Lake City... home of 3.2 beer and a society that's notorious for
being tight... collars.) and I went along for the ride... after all, I
figured this would be good grist for the mill...
"So Commander... says '440' on the side..." I jabbed.
He gave us the ol' "Raised Eyebrow" and laid a half-tire's worth of rubber.
I thought I was going to piss in my pants.
"LOCAL CHARACTER AND TWO MUSICIANS KILLED IN MACHO HI-JINKS... FILM AT
ELEVEN."
But he wasn't finished there... when Scott was done buying beer, he had
extolled the virtues of a barley wine on The Commander, who promptly OPENED
ONE (big bottles, these things), throws the car in gear, takes a BIG swig...
and leaves the REST of the rear tires in the parking lot...
Old habits made me look over my shoulder for cops until we got out of the
car...
We made it back to the Touring Vessel in one piece though, and thanked The
Commander for everything... then we angled the ship for Salt Lake!
COMING SOON: All Roads Lead To The Temple... But The Exit Will Be Closed.
Have A Nice Day!