2.16.2004
Donewaiting Anniversary Mini-Tour (Tourlet) Prologue
Out there, in web-land, there’s a site called donewaiting.com. Anyone who knows me knows that I have the tendency to poo-poo the achievements of those who rally around a cause, who propose some kind of revolution, who have what I like to call “an agenda”. On the other hand, I’d like to think that despite my pomposity and negative attitude (we’re desperately trying to correct that, but in these days of cashola rock, it’s damn hard), I do pull for the little guy who tries with all his or her might to roll their boulder up the hill and back again. Hence, I have a soft spot in my heart for donewaiting.com, a site whose credo is “music criticism and surveillance”. Maybe I like the use of the term “surveillance”, which has the sinister and cynical overtones that my blackened little heart dearly loves.
I met Robert Duffy, founder and bossman of DW while acting as “roadie” for Brian Straw at a show in Columbus a year ago. It was at a place called the Factory, which is now closed down due to, I suppose, bungled management, and the fact that it was a fatuous discotheque and not a proper rock club. Brian had been asked to open for a band called The Sun, who at the time were preparing to ride the crest of the “rock is back” movement. Some label—Warner Brothers, perhaps—had sunk a load of money into these guys in the attempts to make them an overnight sensation. I don’t know if that worked. I recall the Sun coming into Cleveland, playing for peanuts on the company tab in order to get exposure. I know that in Cleveland they weren’t received all that well (which is to say, people weren’t falling down all over them), but that they were working out the kinks in their set and turning into a good band. On one of their Cleveland dates Straw handled opening duties. The Sun fell in love with him, and had asked him to open for them at their CD release party in Columbus. Me, being the natural buttinski that I am, asked to tag along.
[For more chain-smoking tales of rock adventure on the icy roads of the midwest, click here.]
I met Robert Duffy, founder and bossman of DW while acting as “roadie” for Brian Straw at a show in Columbus a year ago. It was at a place called the Factory, which is now closed down due to, I suppose, bungled management, and the fact that it was a fatuous discotheque and not a proper rock club. Brian had been asked to open for a band called The Sun, who at the time were preparing to ride the crest of the “rock is back” movement. Some label—Warner Brothers, perhaps—had sunk a load of money into these guys in the attempts to make them an overnight sensation. I don’t know if that worked. I recall the Sun coming into Cleveland, playing for peanuts on the company tab in order to get exposure. I know that in Cleveland they weren’t received all that well (which is to say, people weren’t falling down all over them), but that they were working out the kinks in their set and turning into a good band. On one of their Cleveland dates Straw handled opening duties. The Sun fell in love with him, and had asked him to open for them at their CD release party in Columbus. Me, being the natural buttinski that I am, asked to tag along.
[For more chain-smoking tales of rock adventure on the icy roads of the midwest, click here.]
Thursday February 5
I'd like to state right now that The New Lou Reeds playing Edison's Pub was a bit of an accident.
I don't really remember 100% of the details, but I believe we'd gotten on a bill with our friends Sounder at said bar on Thanksgiving. I believe the sentiment was that after the usual family holiday eatfest, people would head out to bars looking for booze and the company of their peers (and some people had the next day off, which makes both goals even easier to achieve), which would make a bar gig on such a holiday a pretty fun time. The boys were stoked to play a place different than the usual rock clubs--Edison's is a tiny workingman's pub with a bit of affluence in the trim, and it's small. Really small. Putting 30 people in the bar area is definitely pushing it. 30 people anywhere else in town isn't that great; such a number in the Beachland Tavern even seems small and distant, especially when people aren't inclined to come up to the stage to get cozy with ya. Furthermore, we were promised money uncommon to those who play the usual rock club circuit. We simply had to do the gig--even as an experiment.
Well, to make a long story short, that Thanksgiving we rocked it out and won the love and admiration of both usual show-goers/hipsters as well as locals who frequent Edison's to the exclusion of all other beer joints. We were asked to return, and so we did--last week. At first there was a lot of fretting as to what date we'd play; once that was determined, we had to figure out a set. Since we're not a covers band, that meant digging up Stephe's back catalog and quickly learning as many of his tunes as possible. Cram time is a bitch, but it can be fun. We took a good two evenings’ worth of practices and attempted to memorize as much as possible. The pressure was on, which was odd, if you think about the fact that this was just a damn bar gig. I guess that’s pretty nice, though, that in our own ragged, tenuous way we’re trying to be sticklers for detail.
If anything, our over-practicing and flurries of worry (“do we remember this song?”) wasn’t needed. After all, at worst, a bar band is sonic wallpaper; at best, you’re playing to a bunch of drunks who love your music but won’t remember a damn thing the next day. And that’s pretty much what happened at Edison’s. We held back and laid low, but it didn’t feel conscious; it felt self-conscious. Stephe looked like he’d been put on the spot in class and didn’t know the answer. Jeff just wasn’t in the zone. I wasn’t feeling inspired, and I had to remind myself that weren’t supposed to feel inspired. Folks were just here to drink beer and have some backing tracks.
After an interminable two hours (that’s what I was told) of playing pretty much everything we had, we called it a night and got beverages to give us slight relief from the ungainliness of our performance, and the sheer fatigue of stumbling through the band’s large repertoire. What we didn’t realize is that the crowd was nice and tight from drinkin’. This same crowd then began asking us to play more. They were warmed up. And so were we. Stephe’s girlfriend, Aria, came up to me and said, “You guys are playing five more songs. Like, now.” She said it so sweetly, I had no choice but to submit to a short set. The difference being that instead of the lethargy that permeated the bar, there was the sweet buzz of real performance going on. Maybe it was our friends from the Davenport Records camp that wanted more rock and more shots. Maybe it was just the lateness of the hour. But people were shouting, and I guess that at that time we were standing on the verge of a real show.
So we got back up there, tuned up, turned up, and cut loose. I keep saying this: I felt like I was in the Replacements. We were sloppy as hell, but oh so much damn fun. Stephe kept playing Thin Lizzy’s “Jailbreak” half-assed and belligerent between songs with new dumb lyrics over and over. People were dancing. And though it was bordering on 2 am, we realized we could have played everything all over again all night. The house party vibe had come to Edison’s unexpectedly and rescued us from the mere act of jobbing our music for bar money. And the New Lou Reeds, the Band That Really Couldn’t, did it again.
I don't really remember 100% of the details, but I believe we'd gotten on a bill with our friends Sounder at said bar on Thanksgiving. I believe the sentiment was that after the usual family holiday eatfest, people would head out to bars looking for booze and the company of their peers (and some people had the next day off, which makes both goals even easier to achieve), which would make a bar gig on such a holiday a pretty fun time. The boys were stoked to play a place different than the usual rock clubs--Edison's is a tiny workingman's pub with a bit of affluence in the trim, and it's small. Really small. Putting 30 people in the bar area is definitely pushing it. 30 people anywhere else in town isn't that great; such a number in the Beachland Tavern even seems small and distant, especially when people aren't inclined to come up to the stage to get cozy with ya. Furthermore, we were promised money uncommon to those who play the usual rock club circuit. We simply had to do the gig--even as an experiment.
Well, to make a long story short, that Thanksgiving we rocked it out and won the love and admiration of both usual show-goers/hipsters as well as locals who frequent Edison's to the exclusion of all other beer joints. We were asked to return, and so we did--last week. At first there was a lot of fretting as to what date we'd play; once that was determined, we had to figure out a set. Since we're not a covers band, that meant digging up Stephe's back catalog and quickly learning as many of his tunes as possible. Cram time is a bitch, but it can be fun. We took a good two evenings’ worth of practices and attempted to memorize as much as possible. The pressure was on, which was odd, if you think about the fact that this was just a damn bar gig. I guess that’s pretty nice, though, that in our own ragged, tenuous way we’re trying to be sticklers for detail.
If anything, our over-practicing and flurries of worry (“do we remember this song?”) wasn’t needed. After all, at worst, a bar band is sonic wallpaper; at best, you’re playing to a bunch of drunks who love your music but won’t remember a damn thing the next day. And that’s pretty much what happened at Edison’s. We held back and laid low, but it didn’t feel conscious; it felt self-conscious. Stephe looked like he’d been put on the spot in class and didn’t know the answer. Jeff just wasn’t in the zone. I wasn’t feeling inspired, and I had to remind myself that weren’t supposed to feel inspired. Folks were just here to drink beer and have some backing tracks.
After an interminable two hours (that’s what I was told) of playing pretty much everything we had, we called it a night and got beverages to give us slight relief from the ungainliness of our performance, and the sheer fatigue of stumbling through the band’s large repertoire. What we didn’t realize is that the crowd was nice and tight from drinkin’. This same crowd then began asking us to play more. They were warmed up. And so were we. Stephe’s girlfriend, Aria, came up to me and said, “You guys are playing five more songs. Like, now.” She said it so sweetly, I had no choice but to submit to a short set. The difference being that instead of the lethargy that permeated the bar, there was the sweet buzz of real performance going on. Maybe it was our friends from the Davenport Records camp that wanted more rock and more shots. Maybe it was just the lateness of the hour. But people were shouting, and I guess that at that time we were standing on the verge of a real show.
So we got back up there, tuned up, turned up, and cut loose. I keep saying this: I felt like I was in the Replacements. We were sloppy as hell, but oh so much damn fun. Stephe kept playing Thin Lizzy’s “Jailbreak” half-assed and belligerent between songs with new dumb lyrics over and over. People were dancing. And though it was bordering on 2 am, we realized we could have played everything all over again all night. The house party vibe had come to Edison’s unexpectedly and rescued us from the mere act of jobbing our music for bar money. And the New Lou Reeds, the Band That Really Couldn’t, did it again.
