4.12.2004
Chicago to Dekalb, Part TWO.
I'm gonna spare you the rigamarole and make this one short and a little bit not-so-sweet.
Otto's, in the sleepy collegiate town of Dekalb, is a big lovely club, full of woody charm and people who do their job well and enthusiastically, all the way from managers to soundguy. I might add that their system was top-notch. Local H sounded great during soundcheck--nice and loud without being harsh. There was no doubt that we were going to at very least sound good. Since I was thwarted the previous night in my rock n' roll efforts due to the fact that I couldn't hear a good goddamn worth of bass (blame it on my constant inability to properly EQ my amp), I was looking forward to playing the well-attended and roomy stage.
By the time we'd chowed down (guitarist Tim Parnin and I went to a swell little coffee house down the street by the name of The House), the club swelled to maximum capacity with kids, I assume, from all the other bordering neighborhoods and from Northern Illinois University, which I believe is located in Dekalb.
We hit the stage running, pretty much, and wouldn't you know it, a few bad apples start once again with the heckling and throwing of little plastic beercups (harmless, but you know) and repeated chanting of "LOCAL H! LOCAL H!" It certainly wasn't dangerous. It was, however, annoying.
Given my twisted sensibilities, however, it took all my will not to start a feedback fest on the bass. Instead, Tim and I just laughed it off. My old man once told me, "Si te calentas, que ganas? All we could do was plow through our set and chuckle at the spectacle, making faces, ducking pieces of chewing gum (I think that's what it was). At some point, I thought of Rollins' GET IN THE VAN or books like OUR BAND COULD BE YOUR LIFE and realized that we were getting off all too easy here.
Later, as we loaded out, Mark commented, "Well, the dudes weren't into it, but I did see a couple of girls dancing and getting into it."
Frank retorted, "Mission accomplished."
And with that in mind, we packed the van and made our long overnight trip back to Cleveland, laughing the laugh of smart-ass survivors.
Otto's, in the sleepy collegiate town of Dekalb, is a big lovely club, full of woody charm and people who do their job well and enthusiastically, all the way from managers to soundguy. I might add that their system was top-notch. Local H sounded great during soundcheck--nice and loud without being harsh. There was no doubt that we were going to at very least sound good. Since I was thwarted the previous night in my rock n' roll efforts due to the fact that I couldn't hear a good goddamn worth of bass (blame it on my constant inability to properly EQ my amp), I was looking forward to playing the well-attended and roomy stage.
By the time we'd chowed down (guitarist Tim Parnin and I went to a swell little coffee house down the street by the name of The House), the club swelled to maximum capacity with kids, I assume, from all the other bordering neighborhoods and from Northern Illinois University, which I believe is located in Dekalb.
We hit the stage running, pretty much, and wouldn't you know it, a few bad apples start once again with the heckling and throwing of little plastic beercups (harmless, but you know) and repeated chanting of "LOCAL H! LOCAL H!" It certainly wasn't dangerous. It was, however, annoying.
Given my twisted sensibilities, however, it took all my will not to start a feedback fest on the bass. Instead, Tim and I just laughed it off. My old man once told me, "Si te calentas, que ganas? All we could do was plow through our set and chuckle at the spectacle, making faces, ducking pieces of chewing gum (I think that's what it was). At some point, I thought of Rollins' GET IN THE VAN or books like OUR BAND COULD BE YOUR LIFE and realized that we were getting off all too easy here.
Later, as we loaded out, Mark commented, "Well, the dudes weren't into it, but I did see a couple of girls dancing and getting into it."
Frank retorted, "Mission accomplished."
And with that in mind, we packed the van and made our long overnight trip back to Cleveland, laughing the laugh of smart-ass survivors.
