someday we're all getting paid

I am coming off of several days in a row of drinking consistently, as opposed to heavily. All that means is that I'm slightly groggy without the nausea. Having attained a new skill level of boozing is always nice. That means the pocketbook stays healthy and the liver does, too. It would appear that for the last two or three nights in the row I've been able to maintain a steady buzz without falling off those precarious alcohol train tracks into a drunken wreck.

I had a relatively late night of honky-tonkin' at the Beachland BR549 show for its 4th Anniversary. Robbie Fulks was on the bill, too; but the surprise of the night came in the form of a reinvigorated Hayshaker Jones, who were clean and as solid as any damn one coming out of Nashville that we've seen up in these parts.

I, in turn, was reinvigorated by the masterful yet raw guitar playing of a strange and skinny man named Chris Whitley, who I saw perform several days ago. The opener was Teitur, a Norwegian who performs sad but excellent songs in the vein of Paul Simon; however, Whitley's skills were downright dangerous. It was a solo set, which leaves me jonesing to see this guy backed by a rhythm section.

I may have mentioned this in passing, but last weekend was Little Steven's Underground Garage, which Cobra Verde played. Capping off a spectacular half-week of working my own personal ass off (as runner/assistant for the event) and performing on the noontime show for NPR affiliate WCPN (an acoustic rendition of "Montenegro" was played) was perhaps one of the best shows we've done in a while--I think CV went nuclear on Saturday night, kicking off the event in front of a sold-out crowd. I understand the gig was filmed and audio-taped--I can't wait to see and hear the results. One of my personal faves, the Reigning Sound, was asked up for the self-described "celebrity event" and had at it with a raw yet tuneful set that both wowed and repelled the classic-rock music crowd. There were psychedelic lights, old-school 70s rock DJs, beads, lava lamps, and go-go girls....I'll tell you about this one later. I think it'd make one hell of a David Sedaris short story.

Speaking of all things Cobra Verde, we've got April Tour Dates just in!

4/3 pittsburgh, pa
4/9 chicago, il
4/10 dekalb, il
4/14 south bend, in
4/15 detroit, mi
4/16 cleveland, oh
4/17 reading, pa
4/18 local h @ skate and surf this would be fill for CV
4/19 boston, ma
4/20 tba
4/21 off
4/22 philly,pa
4/23 NY, NY
4/24 washington, DC.

Almost all of these will be with Local H; the 3rd gig is hopefully with the Cynics.

To top it all off, I won "Best Bass Player" at the Free Times Music Awards on Thursday. Not too bad, considering that I was in the backroom gabbing and getting my drink on while the award was accepted on my behalf. Fortunately, my parents were also late, which meant I could hand them my award with relative ease. They were glad, and I was too.

I'd like to officially apologize for the slowness of my updates. My life is more or less topsy-turvy right now. In a good way, sorta.

I'm leaving for A Foreign Country which will not be named until I actually know when/where I'm going.

And I've been distracted over the last week with THIS project:

http://www.littlesteven.com/news.html

I mean, for real. Bis spater.

I get up in the morning, cat-free. Normally Holly's cats love to sniff, dance and perch atop me when I'm at her apartment, but she's been up for several hours and has probably been shooing them away for the sake of my allergies.

As the morning progresses, I am only somewhat caffeinated. After a bout of fussing with lost phone numbers and pondering our lunch options, we trudge through the snow a street or two down to where our new friends Andrea (the Drapes) and Elliot (the Nerves) live. Upon meeting them, we sit a spell, and make plans to meet the rest of the Cobra Verdians for brunch somewhere in Chicago at a veggie Mexican place called Mamacita's. There's much chit chat and what have you; the boys bring our pal Mark (at whose place they stayed) while John and Elliot catch up. Apparently they've both known each other a little bit since John's Death of Samantha days; Elliot's from Columbus and he used to see DoS there, if I'm not mistaken.

We slowly but surely make our way to actually leaving Chicago. I'm looking forward to returning. I really do like this town. So much to see and do, with new friends made every time. Then again, I'm probably just biased: I always seem to run into some wayward Ohioan who makes the town seem homey and friendly; and my bands have always had a good time playing there. Must be the climate and the grime talkin', more so than in other places.

We undertake the short drive to Indy, snoozing a bit here and there while the radio plays back a Cavs game from Cleveland radio. It's uneventful, except for one thing. At one point--I believe it was I-76 heading into Indianapolis--traffic just stops cold. Our guitarist Tim, who's been ahead of us by several hundred feet, calls John on his cell phone. Disaster just struck. All I can gather from the initial conversation is that Tim's blown out a tire; upon further info from John, we learn that a car speeding from the other side of the highway went flying over the median and collided violently with a tractor-trailer directly in front of Tim's car. Tim successfully maneuvered out of the way but ended up getting one of his tires blown out by the debris. We sit, wait for the road crew to do their cleanup work, and check in with Tim occasionally while listening to the game.

Countless hours seem to pass, and at last we arrive at Birdy's Bar and Grill, which from the outside looks like it's part of a strip mall. Tim's there, and though he'd had enough presence of mind to change a tire, he still seems pretty shaken up. "Man, it was like that movie 2 Fast 2 Furious. Whoever was in that car probably just died right there and then when it hit the truck, it was going that fast. And I was just sayin' to Mike [Mike Gregg, one of Tim's good friends who kept him--and Cobra Verde--company on the trip], 'Man, you gotta take care of me. I've got a wife and a brand new baby!' And then boom."

Birdy's is a cavernous space that's a cross between a contemporary high school gym and a sports bar. They've got a fairly extensive show calendar though, which shows both mainstream acts (Bonepony, who I believe is some kind of pop-country outfit) and music catering to less quotidian tastes (Richard Thompson). We load in, and after that I check in with the donewaiting.com contingent: Duffy, and the Tiara camp are in full effect. Some of us hide in the pool room and talk a good game of smack in between bands. Denovo's onstage, and I catch a bit of their set--very Dischord-influenced with a hint of Sunny Day Real Estate, perhaps. I hear them do a cover, and I can't place the tune until Eric from Tiara tells me it's a Peter Gabriel tune. Since Denovo's version doesn't have any studio gloss, the real menace of the song comes through (I can't remember the name of the song to save my life, but I know it has the lyrics, "this time you've gone too far").

Tiara gets up to play the second slot, filling the huge space with their loud n' lovely music. I check them out, then head back for more talkin' to Denovo, the conversation centering around "lousy jobs we've had". Fun stuff. Then it's Cobra Verde's turn. We go up there, rock like mad in front of the small but enthusiastic crowd, and then we're done. Just like that. Tiara goes up for their set, and about 40 minutes later, Loretta, who are the darlings of the Indy scene, from what I’m able to tell. They have several pretty midwestern girls wearing their snug t-shirts and a camera crew on hand from a local TV station. They are Radioheadish with a hint of Coldplay, every song a big emotional anthem billowing in the wind, and the crowd gives ‘em much love.

By the time Loretta is done, we’ve pretty much packed up our gear and are ready to toss it—and our weary selves in the van. I only mention the waning moments of this weekend in fast succession because that’s how it felt—a little window of magic that rapidly closed as soon as it was opened. Such is the case with rock and roll weekends. One, two, nights, and then suddenly it’s over. We say our goodbyes to all the bands as well as Mr. Robert Duffy, and speed out into the night.

I sleep in one of the vacant benches on the van and am awakened by the brilliant light of 6 am. We get to John’s house two hours later. I step out, and welcome to Cleveland! it’s unthinkably cold.

[Editor's Note: I promised I’d finish the rest of the Cobra Verde Chicago-Indy adventure. However, life’s unsteady carriage ride across the plains spilled my lantern, and I experienced a delay trying to put myself back together. Fortunately, today’s a day of rest—the Lord’s Day, as they say—so I’m going to lord over this bit of writing here and get it up on the web for the 10 or so people who might take a shine to this jive.

I might as well add that on this day, Feb 23, the Day After Little Steven(we’ll get to that in a week or two, okay?), I am once again amazed at my cookin’ prowess. Greater powers are at work here: the genius locii of 2109 west 11th has made itself manifest in my skillet.]

Both CV and myself in a solo non-musical capacity have been to Chicago numerous times, so it’s no real bother to even tell you about the trip there. It’s five hours with the hour change-over (or is that change-behind). Using those ubquitous yet unreliable tools of the travelin’ trade, Mapquest/Yahoo maps printouts, CV made its way to the action-packed centre of Chicago’s Happening District. I don’t know exactly what that neighborhood is called, y’see. Clubs like the Double Door are there; Quimby’s Books and vegetarian eatery Earwax is right down the street; on the corner you’ve got cool coffee shop Filter and the not-so-legendary Flash Taco. Hence, the Happening District.

The club we were to play is called the Subterranean. It lies mere feet—if my addled memory serves me well--around the corner from the Double Door. My research tells me that the Subterranean was once, in the days of Prohibition and such, a house of ill-repute. I’m hoping that the ghosts of rough, bestial copulations undertaken in delirious passion will inspire us to new heights of rock n’ roll. But upon glancing at the two flights of stairs going from the sidewalk to the performance area, all I want right then and there is a goddamn elevator.

We begin the arduous task of hauling the heavy boxes that make our rock n’ roll job possible. In this endeavor we are helped by Chicago promoter Tankboy (the guy who’s making this donewaiting gig possible), and various members of the bands Tiara and Denovo, who, as we are to find out later, are swell guys in some fine bands from our southern neighbor, Columbus. I only mention this particular act of kindness not because it’s unheard of, but becoming rarer and rarer by the day in the world of rock music which I inhabit. I can nod my head somewhat reluctantly as I agree with critics that “rock is back”, but at this point it’s one big hungry showbiz fish devouring another little one. It used to be we were all in this together. I’m not a big advocate of ‘scenes’, or the even more dusty axiom of ‘unity in the scene’, but I miss the bonhomie (a new word I learned from NPR. Thanks, guys!) of playing music that’s so remote from most people’s internal jukebox that we were forced to stick together. I think of rock music as a shared culture—as when I hear old-time punk rockers talk about the good old days of touring, drinking, fighting, smoking, or what have you, and in turn feeling part of the same historical contiuum and/or tradition. I’m not going to knock popularity. That week CV got a full-page article and a full-color photo in one of the Chicago papers, and of course, in Cleveland we’re known as a real commodity. But we still load our own gear, sell our own merch, and do the driving ourselves. Rock as we know it isn’t about that these days, is it? That makes me long for the days of pennilessness and DIY ethics. To most people, listeners and bands alike, that doesn’t matter much. But it matters to me, and I think to the rest of the guys in the band, to actually be able to share the experience with a hello or a helpful hand. End of sermon.

We set up on the big, wooden stage after oohing and aahing over the old woody feel of the place. I say hello to Robert Duffy, who’s been going along on the donewaiting tour in a managerial capacity. He assures me that it’s going to be a big night, and from examining the relative vastness and the three floors that comprise the Subterranean complex, I hope he’s right.

Downstairs, we’re treated to an in-house dinner and ridiculously loud-ass hip-hop, which is musically at the heart of this place; the live music shows are a relatively new addition. A fellow whose name it pains me to forget interviews us for a book or publication or something attempts to record our words over the deafening music. I do believe that the interview had to do with the history of Ohio Rock, because one of the questions is, “how does it feel to be part of the history that spawned bands like Pere Ubu, the Dead Boys, and Devo?”

I’m not sure what John’s answer is, but I tell the interviewer this: when I started playing music in this town, none of us cared. And very few of us knew. It may have been a generational thing. It may have been sheer negligence. Speaking for myself and my immediate peers over the years, we felt as if we were starting with a fresh slate. I suppose that’s in the spirit of those old bands he mentioned, which is “nothing’s happening here, so let’s make something happen for a little while”. But I never felt beholden to the past. We were, and continue to be, culturally and intellectually isolated, and because of that, we are willfully independent naysayers who trod a highly unpredictable—some might even say invisible—path.

And that, my friends, is both the strength and downfall of all that is Cleveland.

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