someday we're all getting paid, continued

Chicago to Dekalb, Part TWO.

2004-04-12T18:25:00.000-04:00

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.

donewaiting.com chicago--conclusion

2004-02-22T17:34:00.000-05:00

It’s show time, and the room’s getting more and more populated by the minute. I meet up with my ex-Clevelander friend Holly, who’s seen us almost every time we’ve made the Chicago trek. There are another pair of CLE natives I’d love to see, but I do know that work and school schedules make luxuries like seeing rock shows an impossibility. Holly and I go across the street to Filter for coffee; meanwhile, due to the early start time of 8 pm, Denovo’s already kicked the night off with music you can hear howling across the street through the big windows of the Subterreanean.

I return in time for perhaps half of Cisco Pike’s set (I recognize the drummer as a former member of Chicago band the Cells, whose acquaintance I made very, very long ago in my punk rock Conservatives days), purchase my one and only beer of the night: a Pabst, who lack of flavor insures me that I won’t be drinking much more for the rest of the night. I also prevent guitarist Tim’s car from being towed: a fellow from the Denovo camp hurriedly tells me that, “there’s a car with Ohio plates behind the club that Chicago Transit says they’re going to tow!” I sprint, find Tim, and we three head out to save his car from being a victim of metropolitan humbuggery.

Before long, we’re kicking off our set into the most excellent kind of high gear that one can expect. We’re cranked onstage and so are the monitors; the old wood of the Sub and the sizable crowd helps to hold in the sound, too. I can’t feel a single unsteady moment. Mark and Frank stomp forward solidly, Tim is lashing out with some furious lead work, and John’s being his sugar-powered scarecrow self. Me, I just can’t enough of purely rocking out with my socks on fire. In spite of the sweat in my near-sighted eyes, I see faces bobbing and smiling. We’re connecting with every riff and chorus; the crowd’s giving us plenty of love after every tune. After the last one, they’re still hollerin’. It’s a good, clean, deep feeling.

I now recall that Tiara played a brave set after us, which I heard resonating throughout the entirety of the club whilst looking for a place to rest my weary ears and limbs. Since the green room in the club is directly over the stage, I wander around instead with Holly, saying “hello” to old acquaintances (people who’ve come to CV shows before like our friend Mark, and music people like Howard G., and more) until the show’s good and over. The bands are in high spirits, overall. We feel we’ve played a hot set, and I can tell that the Tiara and Denovo guys are just thrilled to be out of town playing a show with a good crowd in front of them. We pack up the rental van; the CV boys stay with the aforementioned Mark while I go to Holly (and her swell husband Vince’s) apartment in Pilsen, accompanied by our new friends Andrea and Elliot, who are not only staples of the Chicago rock scene, but previously unknown neighbors to Holly, living the next street over! Holly and I stay up ‘til 4 am, drinking Jameson on the rocks, reminiscing about old Cleveland days gone by, and ending with me konked out on the couch, waited on by her two lovable cats.

Donewaiting.com Anniverary Prologue, cont'd.

2004-02-16T13:23:00.000-05:00

I recall that the Factory had booked the CD release party not in its enormous, jet-hangar main room (which was populated by kids lookin’ for techno bump n’ grind), but in a lounge area populated by grumpy waitresses who really couldn’t have cared less for live music, and even much less for the sonic antics of a tousle-haired boy named Brian Straw. However, a few kind folks showed up early and dug his music. One of them was a chubby but jovial fellow by the name of Robert Duffy, who introduced himself to Straw and myself and gave us donewaiting.com pins. As he explained the gist of his relatively young site, he was official yet friendly, so that I didn’t need to introduce myself facetiously as “Brian Straw’s One Man Management Team”.

Time has marched on since then, and donewaiting.com has grown into something resembling a music zine sans ads, run by and for music-lovers. Duffy’s got correspondents from all over the US, books shows, and in general busts his ass off for the pure love of music. During our initial meeting, he mentioned he’d seen Cobra Verde during our opening set for the Breeders a while back. He seemed to genuinely be intrigued by the band, which is better than saying he straight-up liked the band. That would have been somewhat silly, as he had no reason to really know who the hell were are. It’s nice to be reminded that more often than not, people in the world beyond Cleveland don’t care about our “midwestern rock pedigree”; they just want to jump up and get down. Because of the Straw and CV connections, Duffy and I became internet pals, and when he started booking shows in Columbus, he repeatedly mentioned having Cobra Verde come out and play one of his site’s sponsored gigs.

In what seems like a million emails and at least a year later, Cobra Verde was going to play two of his non-Ohio Donewaiting.com anniversary shows: Chicago and Indianapolis. Chicago’s usually good to us. It’s a big city with that midwestern feel that responds so naturally to our grimy melodicism; Indy was a question mark. From talking to John, CV’s main man, I’d gotten the impression that even his old band, Death of Samantha, had never even played there.

With that in mind, we loaded up the van (while our new guitarist, the incredible and even-tempered Tim Parnin, drove separately), and headed out in search of rock n’ roll glory.

wednesday, feb. 4, continued

2004-02-10T20:43:00.000-05:00

Now, a little note about Spy Bar, the venue at which Vernacular was throwing this 2nd Anniversary. It's located in Downtown Cleveland in what we locals call "the warehouse district", which is essentially filled with warehouses that have been converted into the hippest of the hip clubs but where a certain amount of classiness has been conferred by the serving of such drinks as martinis; go down a five-minute walk to the "Flats", and it's more of a rowdy sports n' beer crowd. This Spy Bar appeals to "urban bohemians" as well as a hip-hop scene, so it was a bit odd that all of this avant-type-noise should be happening here. But Rafeeq, trumpeter for Vernacular, used to work at Spy and still has connections due to his regular DJing gig and the poetry readings he does there still on occasion (as if you hadn't guessed by that sentence, the reknowned r.a. washington is a published poet, whose unfinished site will be linked to this once it's completed).

However, Spy isn't really known as a live music venue. It's a dance club, a very nice danceclub, mind you--we're talking about the loveliest wood and fixtures everywhere--but I got the slight feeling, strolling in the loading door with my ridiculously heavy bass junk, that we weren't going to be wanted. The Vernacular boys rolled in with their sizeable armaments: Rafeeq's timbales, sax, trumpet, Lawrence's daunting full-scale bass rig, Chris' drums, and then, a little bit later, Brian Straw and his array of gadgetry. Our bartenderess for the night was a silicone-chested scantily-clad young lady dolled up for disco action, and clearly not giving a rat's ass about some scruffy boho types about to ruin her idea of a good eve. We could feel her plastic frosty shoulder from across the room.

The fact that we ran through a ridiculous soundcheck that was a blues wankoff with me on bass, Chris on drums, and Brian Straw on scorchin' lead guitar (make no mistake, girls. This man could run a lot of Stevie Ray Vaughnies out on a hot rail) couldn't have possibly endeared us to the Spy staff. It was only barely acceptable by Vernacular pals Alexis, Molly, Lisa, Jason (Schafer, of course), Lisa, Jeff-O, Michael Pultz, Jermaine (who DJ'd most righteously, hitting me upside the head with some great Miles, Funkadelic, and Tony Williams platters). The reason this all sounds so terribly Romper Room with the naming of names is that literally, these are all the folks that showed up. Maybe there were one or two more folks whose names elude me, but believe me on this one, it was a spare turnout.

This isn't the kind of stuff that fries me, but please remember that Lawrence emailed people like crazy at least two weeks before the show; notice of it had been posted on various websites, flyers had been made, hell, it'd even gotten mentioned in the Free Times' calendar section. No sir, I'm not one to get sore about a dead night, though in retrospect (a good week later, at least), I feel a little bit disappointed. Then again, Spy isn't the kind of joint I'd go to see a live band. Parking stinks downtown and drinks are pricey. At this stage in the game, Vernacular isn't pulling quite enough clout to have moved past the crowd of indie/avant geeks it regularly attracts. I could debate this point back and forth with myself for another paragraph right now. However, let's get to what counts, shall we?

Vernacular was killer. They've gotten confident enough to change up the tunes I know from their unfinished work, The Little Bird. I can't remember the order of the songs, or of the sets for that matter, but I do recall a rockin' version of the tune that bonafide jazz drummer Greg Bandy wrote called "Firewater", and a blistering, highly improvisational version of Little Bird's opening cut, "The Blood", that roasted the hip-hop party sounds emanating from the basement (there was a party going on down there) that rendered any and all sounds at the time irrelevant. Lawrence was testifying, Rafeeq was beating up on his timbales like a man in a fight, and Chris was going for broke on every hit. "I've gotta do what? Play now?" I thought. "Now?"

After one more break, Straw and I set up, tuned up, and let rip on the two songs we've learned. I will say this once again: it was like being on the ground during a bomb run in Iraq. Straw's guitar howled while Lawrence and I strummed our basses until my tendons hurt. Chris and 'Feeq were on fire. At one point, during an improvisational section of "Memphis", Chris and I made eye contact and set our guns to "slay". Then, we went right into "Needles", which traded fury for finesse. I think that went well--if anything, it was the only damn song where I could hear at all. Each of us found our little corner of sound and left it at that. I remember Lisa and some fellow whose name I believe was Giorgio taking photos. After that, we drifted into some Big Black Africa songs (that's Vernacular's rock alterego that sounds something like Funkadelic being channeled by godheadSilo), and really, what else is there to write about?

I had fun playing with good friends, making an intense din, and floating into casual conversation with the gang after all was said and done. I heard that the bartender told Jermaine "this music makes me want to puke". I told Lawrence, "I liked playing here tonight. It was like crashing someone's uptight party." A-men.

Tuesday, Feb 3 (continued)

2004-02-10T01:34:00.000-05:00

It appeals to the slightly more moneyed demographic that doesn’t care a whit about rock music, and given the fact that I’d be playing music all week long, I couldn’t possibly wear myself out this early with a preemptive overdose of sound. And I’ll be frank here: the uh, visuals, are usually much better than at the usual rock performances. Perhaps it’s a regional thing, but live music doesn’t always bring out the most eye-catching women in Cleveland. Could it be that women with style, taste, and money wouldn’t waste their time with grubby monkeys and their big amplified beats. DJs and the nightclub subculture implies a finery that people like Jason and I would have to work doubly hard to achieve. That culture clash bit us on the ass, as is usually the case; the house music was thumpin’ too loud and too monotonously and the bar seats were mostly taken by the would-be bourgeosie, which meant the possibility of mellow chit-chat was not going to happen.

Eventually I made my way upstairs, put on my game face (not too hard with the mandatory shot of tequila that I require before going onstage with CV), and helped pile our gear on stage for a quick setup and linecheck. Well, it would have been quick had there been more room (the Grog stage is spacious, but like I said, UO had shloads of gear) and had Frank’s guitar head not crapped out. Somehow both of those problems got remedied, and away we went, off to rockville, banging out our tunes at a solid and leisurely pace. We did away with the longer breaks we tend to throw in between songs while making sure that we didn’t overdo it on the tempos. Now, I don’t know if this was a conscious decision on anyone’s part, but it worked nicely. CV songs aren’t punk rock firebrands—they’re songs from a time when feel and groove were more important than speed. All in all, I think it went well. I could tell a few little heads were bobbing up in front, which is remarkable since I don’t wear my glasses anymore up on stage. At the end, we got a few “nice show, man” type comments. Yay team! I say.

After our set, Schafer and I retreated once again to the B-Side, whereupon he gave me a coach-like speech concerning Cobra Verde, as well as how disappointed he was in the crowd’s response to us (“You guys are like, the best band in Cleveland, and these people are just kinda like, standing there….”). I explained that I didn’t think of it that way, in the sense that I’m seldom worried about the crowd vibe unless it’s downright hostile. An energetic audience simply feeds us back what we put out, and an indifferent one…well, let’s just say I either want to play harder or just annoy ‘em. At very least I’d like to give them something to remember. I’m so used to being in bands where no one gave a rat’s ass until much after the fact—we’re talking years, now, when people stand up and say, “man, you guys really broke up?”—that I don’t care too much. Sure, we like to have fun and have people enjoy the set, but otherwise…pfft.

Once the night was good and truly over, and John and Mark and Tim had already left, it was pretty much Frank and myself who were facing the daunting challenge of hauling gear. Except that when we got to our piles of guitars and amps near the roughly termed “load-in” area of the Grog, everything was gone. Let me amend that: my cabinets had vanished, as well as Frank’s guitars and effects pedal box. Frank got real worried really fast, while my head went through the options. Had they been stolen? Did John and Mark take them back? Did they get moved to another part of the club?

I saw Mike from UO and quizzed him, “Did you see our stuff?” As he contentedly munched on a boxed-up take-out dinner, he said through a full mouth, “Ah, man. Ask those knuckleheads out there on the bus. Frank, Jason and I found said knuckleheads—UO’s roadie and merch guy, working in the cold to lock up the trailer attached to the big-ass bus engulfing Euclid Hts. Blvd, right in front of the club. After explaining our plight, these two fellows reluctantly let us scour the trailer. Reluctantly, because if our junk was truly buried deep in the trailer, no small amount of rearranging the vehicle would reveal our lost goods. In fact, it looked like we’d have to unload all of the contents, which is in no way an appetizing option in the near-freezing cold of a Cleveland February. Fortunately, the roadies used their flashlights and we used our limbs to extract both of my bass cabinets and Frank’s gear, too. There was a good bout of moaning and grunting supplemented by bruises and scraped knees (it was a cavernous trailer we were plundering), but after a while, our property was recovered. We said our thanks, our good-byes, and headed home.

The whole way back, Schafer kept exclaiming, “I can’t believe those guys! They took your stuff! I mean, they were just going to leave with it—just like that! That’s f***ed up. That’s so f***ed up!” He kept saying that until we stopped at a gas station notorious for its thugs, hoodrats, and greasy hamburgers, whereupon any complaints were silenced by a late-night chowdown.