"Oftentimes I'm reminded of the sweet young days..."

Graham Lineham has written a lovely little fanpiece about Dayton's Guided by Voices.

I fell in love with GbV early in their career after seeing them live at Canal Street Tavern just after the release of their first album, "Forever Since Breakfast." I probably wouldn't have even gone to the show had it not been for my friend and fellow DJ Don Thrasher, who insisted I go because he knew I'd love them.

And I did. I bought the album from Bob after the show, kicking off a seriously wallet-depleting habit that continues to this day. Thanks a lot, Don. ;)

And I continue to love them, and love everything that Bob Pollard touches, because he's brilliant.

"Gonna shake my pie, gonna bake my soul..."

The man never disappoints. Never.

He opened with “Chinese Bones,” morphed into "Balloon Man," and cherry-picked a wonderful selection of tunes from his vast catalog, including “I Often Dream of Trains” (!), “Queen Elvis,” “Ole! Tarantula,” “English Girl,” and even the Soft Boys classics “Only the Stones Remain” and “The Queen of Eyes.” He deftly threw in a Dylan cover, hit us with some Hendrix, and busted out “Dear Prudence,” much to the chagrin of CR, who associates the song more with the hated Siouxsie than the beloved Beatles.

Robyn still looks amazing. Graying, wizened, and in need of a travel iron, but amazing nonetheless. CR and I have a running joke regarding Robyn’s sense of style, or lack thereof. He’s got a real penchant for bold patterns and colors, and over the years I’ve learned that the only other folks who tend to wear these sorts of shirts are record store owners. I’m not exactly sure why this is, nor am I all too sure it’s still as true today as it was in the past, but a quick look inside CR’s closet proves that he too was once a record store owner. Paul, mate. Stop laughing, lest you think I don't know about your old Lymington shop. It's evident in the clothes you wear. I’m not saying the shirts are bad, I’m just saying that they are a bit much in the pattern department.

My guess is that Robyn buys them because, in the event that some rabid fan managed to get backstage to his dressing room, they would not be tempted to steal one. Even rabid fans have some taste.

Opener Sean Nelson (Harvey Danger, The Long Winters) was self-deprecatingly funny and charming, and was the perfect counter-melody to several of Robyn’s songs. Their voices blended so well that it was hard to believe they have not always sung together. Such sublime magic nearly moved me to tears.

Of course he couldn't play everything we wanted to hear - that'd take DAYS - but he did a nice job of mixing the old with the new. Personally I would have loved to hear "Furry Green Atom Bowl," "Winchester" and "My Favourite Buildings," but I wasn't disappointed in his song selection. I’ve seen Robyn enough to know what to expect – amusing stories and snippets of alternate universes inhabited by land-crabs, can openers, tomatoes, and crustaceans of all sorts, coupled with acoustic numbers and some rocking electric craziness. But even this Hitchcock veteran got a few surprises last night: he requested the hall be non-smoking, which was awesome and unexpected because the show wasn't listed as such on the Southgate House web site; he played “Cynthia Mask,” which I wrongly assumed he’d never play again after the break-up with his Blue Ash muse; and he made himself accessible after the show for autographs and chit-chat with his legions of fans.

Very cool, and utterly brilliant. But then, that’s how Robyn Hitchcock rolls.

"Sleeping with your devil mask is all I want to do..."

I don't attend a lot of concerts/shows anymore. Mainly it is because they run late and at my age I can use all the beauty sleep I can get, but also because I just can't be arsed. I kinda burnt myself out over the past mumblemumble years.

That said, this month is a veritable bonanza and even this jaded old fart is all atwitter.

There's They Might Be Giants on Nov. 6. I haven't totally decided yet if I will go or not, but I probably should because it will be fun.

There's my main man Robyn Hitchcock on Nov. 8. Regardless of the dozens of times I've seen him live (solo, & The Egyptians, The Soft Boys) I will go. He may have become a greying, cantankerous bastard in recent years but all it takes is a spin of his sublime 1984 classic album "I Often Dream of Trains" and all is forgiven.

The Scotland Yard Gospel Choir (who are neither Scottish, gospel nor a choir) is playing a free show at Southgate House on Sunday, Nov. 11. Free is hard to pass up...

Then comes the grand-daddy of them all: Lisa Lampanelli at the Taft. Lisa fucking Lampanelli! I couldn't believe my good fortune to find out about this show the morning tickets were going on sale. Got EXCELLENT seats - close enough to be harassed by the Queen of Mean. Utterly fab!

Then the very next day finds Bob Pollard (formerly of Dayton's own Guided by Voices) at Southgate House and me with a ticket.

But never mind. I'll sleep sometime in December.

Standard Gargoyle Decisions, decisions...

Bob Pollard is playing Southgate House on Dec. 1.

It's one of only two shows he's doing this year to promote his two superb new albums, Standard Gargoyle Decisions and Coast to Coast Carpet of Love.

Tickets are an affordable $10.

I've not seen him in a very long time, so it's probably a good time to walk across the burning bridge before it's too late.

"U're just 2 much 2 take - I can't stop I ain't got no brakes..."

I have never been a fan of Prince, or the Artist Formerly Known As Prince, or Symbol, or whatever he's calling himself these days, but I have to admit that the man puts on a helluva show.

Hubby and I have been on vacation in Europe for the past month, and some friends of ours scored four tickets to see the little purple one on the last of his 21-night stand at London's O2 Arena. Of the four of us, I was the only Prince virgin - hubby, Rockin' and Lou have all seen him a number of times, including Earl's Court, Hammersmith and a couple of times in Paris. I was also the only one who was dubious about going, because he's simply never really appealed to me. I mean, there are a few of his songs that I really like (Delirious, When You Were Mine) but I guess I just got so burned out on the whole Purple Rain phenomena that I kind of wrote him off.

My bad!

He's a superb showman and certainly gave us all our money's worth. On top of that, I was staggered by the number of songs that I knew - me, who doesn't own a single Prince album (unless you count the 12" of Erotic City) - recognized nearly every song he performed that night. And boy did he play a lot of them: nearly 3 hours worth of funkin' us up! Time just flew by too - always the mark of a good performer when you are enjoying yourself so much that you don't realize that three hours have passed.

The arena itself was very clean and nice - perhaps because it is so new (it's the former Millennium Dome) and perhaps it's because the British are more conscientious about trash and litter (no food was allowed inside the arena), but the whole experience was top notch. There was a good variety of food and beverage vendors on hand - everything from the standard burger and chips/fries to pasta and baked spuddies. They also had a good beverage selection (Becks, Boddingtons, alco-pops, wine and spirits) and prices weren't nearly as ghastly as they are at U.S. venues.

Upon entering the O2 everyone was given a free copy of his Musicology CD and a purple glow stick. Most of the crowd milled around the vending areas, eating, drinking and shooting the shit until the announcement came that the show would begin soon. I thought that was pretty cool, having never been to a show where they informed you ahead of time how long you had to finish your food and drink. They made an announcement at 30 minutes, and again at 15, giving us all ample time to find our seats. When the lights went down the sight of 23,000 glow sticks was really magical to see. And everyone went absolutely bonkers the moment His Purpleness hit the stage.

Here's the set list. Feel free to be jealous!

I Feel For You
Controversy/Housequake
Somewhere Here on Earth
Cream
U Got the Look
Musicology
Chelsea Rogers
Sexy Dancer/Le Freak
A Love Bizarre
Pass the Peas

Solo piano set
Diamonds & Pearls
The Beautiful Ones
Little Red Corvette
I Would Die 4 U
Under the Cherry Moon
Sometimes it Snows in April

Purple Rain
Take Me With You
Guitar
Kiss
Let’s Go Crazy

Encore
1999
Nothing Compares 2 U

Solo synth medley
Sign O The Times
When Doves Cry
Darling Nikki
I Wanna Be Your Lover
Erotic City
Alphabet St.
DMSR
Delirious
Gett Off (Housestyle)
The Ballad of Dorothy Parker
Irresistible Bitch
The Most Beautiful Girl in the World
Raspberry Beret

Second encore
When U Were Mine
Girls & Boys

"C'mon and take me to the place where it's alright..."

I've said it before and I'll say it again, Lab Partners should be HUGE.

I'm not just saying it because I'm friends with them, I'm saying it as a fan and as a music lover. They really are the best kept secret in town. The band is so tight and the songs are stellar. They continually knock me out each and every time I have seen them - and I've been seeing them for close to ten years now!

Arrived at SGH last night and the first person I ran into was TC, holding court at the bar. We hugged for eternities and sat ourselves down for a good chinwag catch-up since we last saw each other a few months ago. Spied Dennis as well (he produced Daystar) and had a natter. He told me he was filling in on guitar and was rather nervous, but he had no reason to be - he was excellent! His lovely wife (and my old WWSU chum) Kattie showed up and there were more hugs for eternities. When we get together there are always so many laughs.

It's times like this that make me really miss the great scene we had in Dayton.

TC introduced me to a mate of his named Eric who was pretty cool and as we talked we realized how many of the same people we knew. But then Dayton's like that - small city with a tight scene. It's always been inclusive rather than exclusive. It's like this: if he is a friend of a friend, then he is my friend too. And so I was pleased to gain a new friend in Eric last night.

And it was good to see so many other friends there last night too - several WOXY folks turned up for the show and there were more hugs and laughter.

High point of the night for me was that Lab Partners closed the show with Magnify! Fucking ACE!

I felt a little sorry for Spectrum though - by the time they came on several folks (who'd come only to see Lab Partners) had bailed and they played to a crowd of around 20. The ballroom seemed a bit cavernous and it had to be disheartening for them to weave their textured grooves to so few. Still, those who were there seemed to enjoy themselves - I know I did - and ultimately that's what matters most.

What I want to know though - how does Pete Kember stay so ageless? That bastard doesn't look any older than he did as a nipper in Spacemen3.

"Is this more than some old summer fling?"

The Old 97's blew me away last night.

Best live show I've seen at the Southgate House. You can tell the guys love what they do, and their enthusiasm is infectious. I could not control my happy feet.

Before the show I chatted with a couple who had driven up from Louisville and as they too were big fans we had a riot of a time bouncing around the crowded ballroom when the band took the stage. Brad informed me that he had proposed to Emily one evening as they were listening to the song "The Question," so when the band hit the opening bars they went a little bit bonkers kissing each other, while friends and strangers alike all bought them drinks.

The band cherry-picked a good mix of songs from all their albums, from 1994's Hitchhike to Rhome through Drag It Up and enjoyed interacting with the audience when fans called out for certain songs. They also promised a new album in April 2008 and everyone went nuts. My only disappointment of the night was that they did not play my favorite Old 97's song: "Melt Show."

But they rolled through nearly everything else from Too Far To Care, including a smokin' version of "Four Leaf Clover," which rounded out their first encore, and "Timebomb," which brought the house down and closed the high-octane, sold-out show.

Uber-hottie and lead singer Rhett Miller also performed acoustic versions of "Help Me, Susanne" and "I'm With Her" from his 2006 solo effort "The Believer" during the first encore before being joined by the rest of the guys for some more energetic stompers. Those boys have that Texas shuffle down pat and the audience ate it up.

Although they hover consistently in my top 5 favorite bands, until last night I'd never had the opportunity to see them live. I caught Rhett Miller's solo tour last autumn at the Tall Stacks Festival and that simply whetted my appetite for the whole enchilada. And they were well worth the wait.

"Magnify my soul for all to see..."

I hooked up with some old friends last weekend for a laughter-filled evening of booze and music. Barb & Dave have been living abroad for the past few years and only recently moved back to the states, so it was good to catch up with them and compare notes and giggle uncontrollably all night.

We kicked off the evening with Pogo at Hofbrauhaus, then wandered over to the Southgate House to check out the Black Angels/Vietnam/Lab Partners show.

We ran into TC and talked and hugged for eternities. I told him about seeing a dude in the queue wearing a t-shirt for The Record Store. Just as I finished telling him, the cat cruises by and we both called out to him. He turned, grinning, and started over, only to realize he didn’t know who we were, so he turned on his heel and stalked off. We burst out laughing. The poor schmuck had no idea he was in the presence of greatness.

As enjoyable as Lab Partners were (even if they omitted "Magnify" from their set), by the time Vietnam was into their third song it was getting unbearably hot in the ballroom, so we made our way upstairs and hung out in Junie’s Lounge, watching a sweet rockabilly band shake the house. Why there were tables in the lounge is mystifying. Everyone wanted to dance! That thumping stand-up bass and twangy guitar forced feet to move, whether or not the body was willing. It was a completely different crowd up there—dressed as if 1955 never ended—and it was so refreshing that we couldn’t stop laughing and smiling and shaking that thang.

Back down the stairs to the ballroom, we were greeted by a blast furnace when we opened the doors and stepped into the inky darkness. The Black Angels took the stage a few minutes afterward, amazingly cool in the sweltering heat. Their mesmerizing drone captivated and enthralled, and for awhile we all forgot about the heat.

"And I'll raze your faith until the vein is done and dry..."

I ventured out into the cold last night to let the exquisite Richard Buckner warm my soul at Southgate House. CR wasn’t interested in seeing him and doesn’t really know his music, so I went by myself. It was a weird experience to sit on my own the entire night with only a bottle of beer for company, but it didn’t make the show any less magical. I once was lost but now am found.

This is the third time I’ve seen him perform live, and each time has been a unique, rewarding experience. The first time I saw him he was still signed to MCA and was touring for Since. I cajoled Gazbot into going to Canal Street Tavern with me—even though he knew nothing about Buckner at the time-- and he was not disappointed. Neither was I, especially when he wandered by before the show and I went up and chatted with him. Now I’ll be the first to admit that he looks a bit intimidating and scary. He has a somewhat haunted look about him much of the time, and photographs only serve to enhance that somber, ominous appearance, but as we chatted his face broke out into a wide, glorious grin that completely brightened his entire being. Richard Buckner may not smile too often, but when he does, it will light up the darkest night; melt the coldest heart.

He had a lot to smile about back then. His album was getting decent airplay; his shows were well attended; he was garnering heaps of critical acclaim and was happily married to wife Penny, who accompanied him on drums.

When I saw him a year or two later, Penny had disappeared--the marriage over--and Buckner was achingly alone and spookily menacing on the Canal Street stage. He opened a suitcase full of noise and proceeded to turn all his beautiful ballads into screeching walls of feedback, and remade his up-tempo, jangly songs into funeral dirges. It felt as though he was exorcizing ghosts, and perhaps he was. I admit that my head hurt upon leaving the club, partly because I wasn’t ready for the noise, and partly because I couldn’t fathom the change.

Last night was the first time I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him with a full band, as opening act Six Parts Seven sat in with him during the first half of the show. Theirs is a languid, shimmery sound, replete with a rippling organ, plucky banjo, bright trumpet (and on one song, a tuba!!), and a bassist who strums the instrument as one would a guitar, which resonated the club with a deep, rich mellowness. While they were on stage I noticed Buckner—a bit heavier, hairier, and grayer,--setting up his musical wares over in the opposite corner of the club. He’s grown a big, bushy beard since the last time I saw him, a cross between Grizzly Adams and an uneasy Jesus. I went over and thanked him for continuing to put out such lovely, sublime work, and the grin he unfurled my way dazzled to such a degree that I was sure the Rapture was at hand. The clarion call of the trumpet on stage only heightened the surreal, holy incident, and I scuttled away, cowering like a devil from the shadow of grace.

Buckner is a true lonesome troubadour. He doesn’t interact with the audience at all once he is on stage. He seems to go into a trancelike state: nothing else exists outside of a resonating voice and a couple of guitars. His eyes burn with a forlorn intensity; sadness and rage an onion skin from the surface. His songs meld seamlessly, a trick he first employed on 2000’s The Hill, with an effects pedal echoing as he tunes and retunes his way around the fret board. Then his whisky-soaked, ragged voice rings out with such heartbreaking clarity that the audience is transfixed, unable to take their eyes from the stage, afraid to move, afraid to applaud, afraid to breathe, lest it break the spell. It is transcendent.

Let the evangelicals have Jesus. I’ve already willingly accepted Richard Buckner as my one true lord and savior. Amen.

"Shop as usual. And avoid panic buying."

Last night I finally got to see my media splice'n'dice heros: Negativland.

Negativland are difficult to categorize. They have been putting out records for over 25 years, but they can't be classified as a "band." They have a long-running radio show (now online and downloadable) called Over The Edge, but they're not DJs.

They are, I suppose, multi-media geeks. Studio producers extraordinaire. The kings of cultural cut'n'paste.

Picture if you will a stage. On the stage are three radio production mainstays:
stage right=turntables'n'mixing board
front center=special effects board and microphone
stage left=three cart machines and dozens of carts. (A cart is is an endless loop cartridge that looks like an 8-track tape and is/was heavily used in radio to air advertising, promos and station jingles.)
Behind them loomed a large "On Air" light.

These are the weapons of Negativland.

Our three media manipulators came on stage looking very much like the info techies they are, wearing slacks, dress shirts and ties, with photo IDs bearing the Universal Media Netweb logo clipped to their breast pockets. We had been handed blindfolds upon entering the show to enhance the aural experience of "radio listening," but few bothered to use them, myself included. I was too interested in seeing them recreate their radio show live, and besides, I could always close my eyes if needed.

The show, a scathing look at Christianity in America, was called "It's All In Your Head." I thought they were brilliant. Having worked in a production studio in college, I know just how difficult it is to get things right on a first take. Negativland did it flawlessly, and seamlessly, for two hours. They plundered everything from Baptist children's songs to the 700 Club to right-wing conservative Christian radio call-in shows, all manipulated to reversal of context, with delightfully wicked results.

Our boys certainly know how to push buttons, figuratively and literally.

"All this talk of getting old is getting me down..."

Today’s bus ride into work transported me back in time 21 years.

The guy who embarked at Sixth and Monmouth wore camouflage slam-dance pants laden with straps and zippers, black 10-eye steel-toe Doc Martins, a 5” Mohawk and a black leather jacket covered in steel rivets and a huge Dead Kennedys logo hand painted on the back.

Everyone on the bus stared-some openly, some stealing sidelong glances. Everyone stared but me. I was too busy waiting in line at The Jockey Club, one block to the west. I was standing once again on the grimy tiled floor; trying to steer clear of the mosh pit; attempting to stay cool despite the humid press of sweaty flesh surrounding me; chugging Foster’s Lager in oilcans. I was consumed with watching Jello Biafra pose and preen on stage, his green rubber surgeon gloves slick with sweat.

Snapping back to 2006 as the bus pulled up to my stop, I told the guy I’d seen the Dead Kennedys in Newport back in 1985. “Wow,” he mused, “I wasn’t even born yet!”

"It's time to face what you most fear, Right Guard will not help you here..."

So Friday evening I rang Rodney to thank him for the huge parcel of FunMail, and as usually happens when the two of us get to gabbing, the evening ran well into the night--over four hours of non-stop laughter! We reminisced about our time together in college, and caught each other up on what we'd heard our peers had been up to since we all graduated.

And we reminisced about all the shows we saw together: Dementia Precox, The Highwaymen, Guided by Voices, True Believers, The Rainmakers, Skinny Puppy at Bogarts when the band was arrested and a cop hit Rodney with a billy club as we tried to exit the building...

But the one that stands out in our minds as the best, craziest show we ever saw together was the first one we went to together: The Dead Kennedys at The Jockey Club.

Rodney didn't know a lot about the band, other than what he heard being blasted in my car whenever we were buzzing around Dayton, but he was game for anything that might prove a spectacle. The pair of us coerced fellow art student Tom into riding along with us to the show. Tom was new to the area, having spent the past several years living in California, and we reckoned that if the concert got out of hand he'd be able to "protect us," since he was a veteran of the Cali metal scene and had attended countless Venom, Motorhead, Metallica and Slayer shows unscathed.

It's always good to bounce remembrances around with an old friend, because time lessens the vividity of memory after twenty years. Together however, we talked about the show as if it had only happened last week:

The glass-strewn parking lot near the club
the frightening array of humanity surging into the derelict building
the Nazi punks in the corner, trying unsuccessfully to burn an American flag
Tom fretting that he was going to get a shitkicking for wearing a Motorhead t-shirt
Rodney lamenting the fact that he wasn't the biggest freak there ("I've lost my Glow!" he kept telling us)
Jello emerging from stage left wearing a bright orange three-piece suit and rubber surgeon gloves
Jello stripping down to next to nothing within five minutes--and he had shaved his chest hair into stripes, which we all thought was really cool
the astonishment that the rest of the band looked really normal (I thought Klaus Flouride was HOT!)
Fosters lager in oilcans being lobbed all over the place
part of the ceiling crumbling onto a very stoned chick slumped against a wall
me in my black Chucks and thrift store army green, the right side of my head shaved into a checkerboard of hot pink and orange
the grimy tiled floor
the standoff between some white supremist skinheads and the crowd because of black drummer DH Peligro
a very violent moshpit that even Tom wasn't keen on venturing into, after seeing several battered and bloodied punks staggering out with broken noses, their clothing in shreds
the rumble of the bassline kicking off "Holiday In Cambodia"
the sea of bodies swirling as East Bay Ray's guitar screeched out wicked surf-punk...

By the time we exited the building that hot May night, we looked as though we'd been swimming with our clothes on.

My god, how could we ever forget?

Concerts 1984

ARTIST VENUE
Gomez/ The Libertines The Jockey Club
Van Halen Cincinnati Gardens
The Romantics Timberwolf Amphitheatre
Dez Dickerson&The Modernaires/Billy Idol Hara Arena, Dayton
Honeymoon Suite The U-Turn, Middletown
Saccarine Trust/Black Flag The Jockey Club
Yes Riverbend Amphitheatre
The Replacements The Jockey Club
Yes Riverfront Coliseum

I’d heard The Libertines on Robin Plan’s “Planet X” late night show on 97X, and she mentioned they were playing some place called The Jockey Club. It was the middle of my senior year and I felt isolated and alienated. The crazy things Dakni and I had worn to school (glitter-splattered trash bags, multi-colored hair, face paint) and the crazy things we discussed (mostly punk and new wave music) labeled us as “weirdos.” She graduated in 1983, moved to Florida that autumn and I had no one. I was relegated to eating lunch by myself, or occasionally with some other misfits. The only thing any of us had in common was that we were all friend-less. Our lunch table was known as the “freak zone.”

So on a cold weekend in February, I drove down by myself and caught local bands Gomez and The Libertines at The Jockey Club in Newport, Ky. The place was an absolute dive, the neighborhood blighted, the crowd rough, and I was scared shitless. By the end of the show, however, I was over the moon to discover likeminded souls out there that dug the same music as me. Even though I was by myself I felt less “alone” than I did at school. Suddenly I “belonged” and it was a great feeling.

I caught the Dez Dickerson/Billy Idol show a few months later with another blind date—this time a true punk rocker named Marc who wore thick eyeliner and had a safety pin through his cheek! He was a distant relative of someone I knew, who thought we would hit off well because we were both “weird.” Marc was sweet and I learned within twenty minutes that he was gay. I ended up hooking up at the show with a suburban punk from Enon named Scott, and Marc ended up hooking up with some leather biker mate of Scott’s.

I told Scott about The Jockey Club, and we drove down together in July to catch the Saccarine Trust/Black Flag show. We didn’t know what to think about that show because Henry Rollins looked like a metal head with his long hair and bell-bottoms, but he and the band were a whirlwind of seething energy! Mostly I remember drinking Foster’s Lager in oil cans, trying to stand clear of the mosh pit churning out of control on the tiled floor. I was eighteen, which back then was the legal age for beer, so I was the one going to the “bar” to buy the booze, since Scott was still seventeen for another month. We were surprised and relieved that no one seemed to care that Scott was an underage drinker. And the “bar” wasn’t really even a bar at all! There were no barstools, no taps, no liquor. It looked more like an abandoned luncheonette with two chill cabinets against the grimy wall and a scary skinhead taking orders. Although you couldn’t really order anything, because the only thing they served was Foster’s in the oilcan. No glass was allowed because it could be broken and used as a weapon—but holy fuck those Foster’s cans were the perfect projectile missiles. They weighed a ton and were cheap as chips.

In October Scott and I went to back to the Club and caught The Replacements. Bobby Stinson wore a dress, Westerberg was drunk, and they rocked our asses off. I loved them. They were raw and so alive—the real deal—and they looked just like us: torn jeans, Chuck Taylor’s, t-shirts. It was a bittersweet show, however, because Scott’s military parents had pressured him into the service. I was shattered when he told me, and a few days after the ‘Mats show he was shipped out to Biloxi, Miss., his spiked hair shorn.

We wrote a few letters to each other—him mostly bitching about getting into more and more trouble—but I had started university and wasn’t about to sit home alone on the weekends and pine for him.

There were other shows I saw in 1984:

Van Halen: two freshman girls in my typing class paid me to drive them there, and bought my ticket. I ran into an old girlfriend, LA, at the show and we vowed to stay in touch.

The Romantics: They played Kings Island’s Grad Nite and I caught a couple of songs. They sucked.

Honeymoon Suite: The friend I’d reconnected with called me up for an evening of fun. Our plans to get drunk at the drive-in were thwarted by the sight of a huge tour bus pulling into the bar across the street from the Star*Glo. Curiosity got the best of us and we pulled up beside the bus to find out who the band was. We didn’t know them but chatted with them, and ended up cruising around Middletown with the guitarist and drummer in the bitchin’ Camaro. They bought us dinner, helped drink our 24-case of cheap Busch beer, and put us on the guest list. How could we refuse?

Yes: A month after the Honeymoon Suite gig, LA and I had plans to see the re-formed Yes, who were riding high on their 90125 album. Two days before the show, LA’s favorite cousin Kevin was killed in an auto accident in rural Kentucky. After much soul searching, she decided that she couldn’t handle seeing Kevin in a coffin, and she came to stay with me for a week while the rest of her family made the trip down south. Yes put on a great show, with lasers galore, but neither of us could properly enjoy the show with Kevin’s untimely death hanging over us. I still have the concert shirt I bought that night. It’s raspberry red, sleeveless, glows in the dark (which I didn’t know when I bought it) and because I love all things luminous, I have thus far refused to hawk it on eBay.

Ratt/Billy Squier: I had seen LA staggering around at the Nazareth/Billy Squier show the previous year, and she convinced me that we needed to go see him again. So we did. I can’t remember a single thing about the show. I might have been very drunk. I’m pretty sure I was.

Yes (again): Can't remember who accompanied me to this show and I don't remember much about it, but I have the concert stub so I must have gone. I also must have BEEN GONE at the show.

Concerts 1983

ARTIST VENUE DATE
Molly Hatchet Cincinnati Gardens 1983
Triumph Cincinnati Gardens 1983
Kansas Hara Arena, Dayton 1983
Jethro Tull Hara Arena, Dayton 1983
Phil Collins Cincinnati Gardens 1983
Joe Walsh Riverfront Coliseum, Cincinnati 1983
Stevie Nicks Riverfront Coliseum, Cincinnati 1983
The Raisins Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
INXS Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
Men at Work Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
Loverboy Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
Chicago Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
Girls School Hara Arena, Dayton 1983
Twisted Sister Hara Arena, Dayton 1983
Quiet Riot Hara Arena, Dayton 1983

Briefly.I saw Molly Hatchet/Triumph together at the Gardens in the early spring with the guy I was dating. Abiding memory? Being on the floor in the 2nd row when Triumph’s flashpots erupted with such fury that we were blasted back several feet, landing on the poor fools in the 5th and 6th rows. I am fairly certain I lost at least 20% of my hearing that night. Bastards.

Kansas/Jethro Tull: The boyfriend insisted I attend this show with him. Didn’t want to be there, didn’t enjoy it, thought it was crap. Plus some asshole spilled an entire bucket of beer down my back. Over 20 years later, whenever I hear “Dust in the Wind” on that Subaru commercial, I cringe.

Phil Collins: The boyfriend again. Didn’t want to be there, didn’t enjoy it, thought it was crap. Plus Phil Collins came out in a suit & tie. I felt old.

Joe Walsh/Stevie Nicks: At last! A concert I wanted to see—and I made the boyfriend attend the show as penance for the trifecta of tripe he’d forced on me. Stevie was gorgeous, witchy, throaty, had nine costume changes and I’m fairly sure was drunk off her tits. She actually fell down on the stage twice. I didn’t care. I loved her with Fleetwood Mac, and I loved her solo stuff. This was The Wild Heart Tour, and she did everything from the album, plus everything from Bella Donna, plus several of her Mac songs like “Dreams” and “Gold Dust Woman.” I took a few pages from her dress manual, and to this day still have a penchant for capes, long skirts and silver jewelry.

The Raisins/INXS/Men at Work: By the summer I’d ditched the boyfriend and his bad taste in music and reconnected with Dakni for a bit of fun at the INXS show. We took the bitchin’ Camaro to Kings Island Amusement Park for the day, her thirteen year old sister tagging along because she was “in love with” Colin Hay.

Yes, you read that correctly, and no, she hasn’t lived that one down to this day.

Dakni and I loved The Raisins and INXS. We owned all their albums (one in the case of The Raisins, and 3 at the time for INXS—this was the Shaboo Shoobah Tour) and knew all their songs, which we sang along to with gleeful, tuneless abandon. After INXS left the stage but before Men at Work came on, we ditched Livia and lit out into the parking lot to try to scope out the INXS tour bus. By the time we found it the band had already boarded and the bus was pulling out. We jumped in the bitchin’ Camaro and followed the bus all the way to Lexington, some two hours away. Which is when we realized that Livia was still at the park! We quickly turned around and rushed back, arriving sometime after midnight to find poor Livia sitting forlornly on the curb in front of the park entrance.

Chicago: The ex-boyfriend wanted a second chance, and said he had a surprise for me. Whoop-dee-doo, the “surprise” was taking me to see Chicago. I should have wheedled out of him what the surprise was before agreeing to go on a date with him. My bad.

Girls School/Twisted Sister/Quiet Riot: I accompanied some dude named Whick. That’s right—his name was Whick, and it was a blind date. He looked way too clean cut to be a metal head. There is a very convoluted story about how I came to accompany Whick to the show, and how I ended up losing a friendship with Melissa because of it, but it’s not worth repeating. The show was decent, the crowd entertaining, and Whick the consummate gentleman. We never went out again.

Concerts 1982

ARTIST VENUE YEAR
Greg Kihn Band ATP Tennis Ampitheatre 1982
Rick Springfield ATP Tennis Ampitheatre 1982
Nazareth Hara Arena, Dayton 1982
Billy Squier Hara Arena, Dayton 1982

In the summer of 1982 I got my driver’s license and a brand new bitchin’ Camaro--red with grey pin-striping—and christened it several weeks later by hauling some girlfriends to the Greg Kihn/Rick Springfield show. There was Dawn, who had procured the tickets, Alicia, Cyndi and myself, and although I can no longer remember what we wore (although day-glo micro-mini’s spring to mind) I remember that we thought we looked, like, totally bitchin’ to the max. Fer sure!

Springfield was riding high on the success of the “Working Class Dog” album, in particular the tunes “Jessie’s Girl” and “I’ve Done Everything For You.” The added bonus, according to Alicia, was that he starred in some daytime soap (was it General Hospital?) and was, like, OHMYGAWD dreamy, totally!

A couple of things stand out in my mind about the show: Opener Greg Kihn wore the coolest pair of Chuck Taylor’s and I was FREAKEN GAGGING for them; Rick Springfield wore a linen blazer with a t-shirt— long before Don Johnson copped the look for Miami Vice; the show took place in a tennis stadium with our seats right on the court; and it was a gorgeous evening for a show.

We all bought t-shirts (white with teal three-quarter-length sleeves) and mine sold for a small fortune on eBay a few years ago.

Fast-forward several months:

My girlfriend Dakni produced Nazareth/Billy Squier tickets for my birthday. We’d heard that Hara Arena was a cesspool with a parking lot akin to a smash-up derby, so the bitchin’ Camaro was left at home. Dakni “borrowed” a beat up baby blue pick-up truck from a relative or neighbor or someone and away we went. It had to be started with a screwdriver (or at least that was the story) and was banged up enough that it wouldn’t matter if a few more dents appeared during the course of the evening.

Nazareth was awful. Dakni and I had pushed our way right to the front of the stage, only to find that the lead singer was dogbutt fugly, and was wearing tight white satin slacks with no underwear. We could pretty much see it all, and we didn’t want to.

During the intermission, some BAGYOURFACE drunk guy kept telling Dakni she was wearing the wrong kind of shoes. When someone knocked into us and a bucket of beer spilled all over her pink satin ballerina slippers, we realized he was right.

When Squier hit the stage (wearing grey parachute pants and a ripped white t-shirt) the crowd went nuts. At the time I weighted 90 lbs soaking wet, and as such really got pummeled by the stampeding, heaving mass of humanity. Long before the days of barricades, a line of burly bouncers stood at the edge of the stage with the single purpose of beating the living hell out of anyone they took a dislike to. Dakni and I got separated in the melee, and a bouncer snatched me up, flipped me sideways and began using my body to push back the surging, sweaty swarm.

Finding it increasingly difficult to catch my breath between screams for help, I managed to twist my head around just enough to bite the fucker on the arm. It had to hurt, which was the intention, but instead of simply turning me loose, the bouncer heaved me into the air and I sailed about thirty feet before crashing hard onto the shoulders and heads of fans, who parted just enough for me to slip onto the slimy concrete floor.

Knocked around and stepped on, I felt myself suffocating and panicked that I’d be trampled like those poor fans at The Who show in Cincinnati a few years before.

And then an angel scooped me from the floor and held me aloft, gasping for air. When he set me back down I was shaking so much that my legs wouldn’t hold me, so he did. He asked my name and was amused when I told him. He and his mate dubbed me “Miss_K” for the evening, and evaded my repeated attempts to find out theirs. When told he looked familiar, he asked who he looked like. I said, “I dunno. A little like Mick Jagger. Taller.” His mate roared.

Some drunk chick, reeling like an intoxicated elephant, plowed into us and somehow I managed to momentarily lose a Nike. My hunky savior tracked it down, slipped it on my foot and said, “Hey Miss_K, I ain’t fit to tie your shoes” or something along those lines. His friend chimed in with “she’s sassy, she’s brassy” and then together they sang “but above all she’s classy.” I couldn’t help but giggle.

Finally I glanced up at the stage, and to my surprise Dakni was sitting on the edge of the stage with Billy Squier holding her hand, singing to her. “Holy crap! That’s my friend up there!” I yelled to the guy. “No man, that’s MY friend up there on the stage!” he hollered back. I just grinned and rolled my eyes at him, all the while pulling him toward the stage.

Dakni saw me in the throng and leapt from the stage into my arms, squealing with the type of delight only young teenage girls can. I turned to introduce her to my mysterious savior, but he was gone.

A year later I’d see him again, singing on MTV.

Concerts 1980-1981

ARTIST VENUE YEAR
Black Sabbath Riverfront Coliseum, Cincinnati 1980
Blue Oyster Cult Riverfront Coliseum, Cincinnati 1980
Air Supply Timberwolf Ampitheatre, Kings Mills 1981

So yeah, total ends of the spectrum in 1980-81.

I caught the Black & Blue tour in the autumn of 1980 with a guy named Wayne. We dated on and off during that school year, and this show was one of the better dates we had. One time we double dated with another couple and went to the Haunted Caves in Lewisburg--only Wayne got lost and we ended up getting to the caves nearly an hour after they had closed for the night.

Wayne was a weird stoner guy, and it didn’t help matters that he looked an awful lot like Powers Boothe in “The Guyana Tragedy: The Story of Jim Jones.” I always half expected Wayne to hand me a Kool-Aid filled paper cup, and was suspicious enough of him to buy my own sodas at the show, and keep them well away from his potentially spiking fingers.

The show itself is a blur to me now. It was Sabbath’s first outing after Ozzy packed it in for a solo career, which sadly meant I had to endure listening to that warbling hobgoblin Ronnie James Dio and watching him lug a giant cross around on the stage. I actually still like a few cuts from Heaven & Hell, but holy crap I can’t stand Dio, so the album (heh, actually it was an 8-track!!) has been long purged from my collection.

BÖC was much better, as I recall, and when they played “Godzilla” a huge paper-maché monster belched smoke into the crowd. The monster and the sheer wall of sound are my abiding memories of the show. For several days afterwards I heard everything as if listening whilst snorkeling underwater. My ears were clogged with guitar solos, crashing drums, and wee little trolls screeching about the world being filled with kings and queens, who blind your eyes and steal your dreams.

Air Supply was rather forgettable, aside from it being the first time I’d ever seen lasers used at a show. The laser lights were green, and the shapes were rather shaky, but we got the gist of what they were trying to show: the shape of Australia, palm trees, kangaroos, koalas. The band sounded good and I already knew some of the songs because Angie had given me one of their albums for Christmas. It was she who convinced me to go to the show. We spent the day at Kings Island and the evening at the show. The entire concert was cheesy—there were lots of couples holding hands, middle-aged women wearing their Sunday best, and a multitude of acne-riddled teens with bad haircuts clutching newly purchased Air Supply t-shirts to their collective bosoms as they wept and sang along to the sappy love songs.

I was horrified by how totally “un-cool” the whole event was—and worst of all, I too had a bad haircut.

Concerts 1980

ARTIST VENUE YEAR
Maynard Ferguson The Ohio Center, Columbus 1980

I was proud to be a member of the marching band my freshman year of high school. The 1980-1981 school year was magical, and the senior class could seeminly do no wrong. The football team qualified for the state play-offs for the first time ever; the basketball team went all the way to the state semi-finals; amd the marching band received so many accolades at the state marching band competition that we qualified for the national marching competition that spring in Florida.

It was after the marching band competition in November that a bunch of us stayed behind in the state capital to catch Maynard Ferguson at the Ohio Center. Ferguson had been catching a lot of flack for dumping most of his orchestra, and for being seduced by commercialism, but none of that mattered to us. Our group of about 20 students sat agape at the musical gymnastics Ferguson performed with his trumpet. He could hit a double-high C that sent shivers down my spine and made the hair on my neck stand straight up. I never wanted the show to end.

On the ride home, and for weeks afterwards, that show was all we could talk about. I admit to wearing my black Maynard Ferguson concert t-shirt hundreds of times, and after I outgrew it I still kept it neatly folded in the bottom drawer of my dresser.

It was finally sold on eBay a few years ago. Although I could no longer wear it, and although it fetched a good price at auction, I sometimes wish I still had that shirt.

Because whenever I caught a glimpse of it in the drawer, I was transported back to being a gawky, geeky, carefree teenager again, if only for a brief few moments.

"Get a second-hand guitar, chances are you'll go far if you get in with the right kind of fellows"

ARTIST VENUE YEAR
Crosstown Rhythm Various venues around s/w Ohio 1977-1979
Gary Lewis & The Playboys LeSourdsville Lake, Middletown 1978

I can't even remember how many times I saw CTR back then, but I do remember distinctively the first time I ever saw them.

I was 12 years old and shopping with my Mom at the Mall one Saturday afternoon. The Mall used to hold entertainment events in the middle of the mall on the weekends--one time I remember seeing a Kenny Rogers look-alike contest--and this particular Saturday they had an Elvis impersonator performing. CTR was the backing band for the Elvis impersonator.

Mom and I stood and watched the show, and sometime during the performance I fell in love with the angelic, blond bass player. I fell in love quite frequently back then, but the infatuation I had for this guy lasted for a few years. After the show I went up and chatted with him. His name was Jon, and his older brother Ric was the guitarist. I asked about other shows, and Jon wrote down a list of venues they'd be playing in the near future.

I was hooked.

I went to see them every chance I got, and became friendly with the band and their sound & lights guys. Thankfully, they split with the Elvis impersonator and branched out on their own. Although they were only ever a cover-band, they were a damned good cover band, and I still think of them whenever I hear "Brick House" and "Taking Care of Business."
Already a budding photographer, I began to shoot their shows, and somewhere in my box of photo albums is an entire book devoted to my three years of geekdom as a groupie for CTR. I saw Gary Lewis & The Playboys because CTR opened.

Sometime in high school I lost my infatuation with Jon, and the band (all of whom attended local high schools) went their separate ways upon graduation.

Ric joined various bands after graduation, including a stint as guitarist with a semi-famous band.

I ran into Jon several years ago--a friend's band was playing some divebar and Jon did a surprise, solo acoustic set before they went on. He was still angelic.

"Cigarettes & carrot juice, marijuana & lots of booze. I threw the flower of youth into that stew."

Friday evening Gazbot and I ventured over to The Madison Theatre in Covington to catch Camper Van Beethoven open for Modest Mouse. I got freebie tickets in exchange for carrying around a clipboard, getting fans to sign up for the CVB mailing list.

I wasn’t very successful, as it was a Mostly Mouse crowd, but I was glad to have been given the chance to help out the band, and was chuffed to get to see them again, up close and personal, after so many years hiatus.

They were fantastic—the years may have given them some laughlines and a few crowsfeet around the eyes, but hot damn the guys still play as well—if not better-- than they did 20 years ago. They had a really groovy interactive PowerPoint presentation projected onto a massive screen above them, and David and Jonathan wore multicolored miner’s headlamps.

Great set list too, a mixture of their excellent new material from New Roman Times, plus time honoured classics like “Take the Skinheads Bowling,” and a good dose of their classic covers a la “Wasted,” “White Riot," "Egyptian Reggae" and “Interstellar Overdrive.”

I couldn’t wipe the huge grin from my face all evening. We hung around until Modest Mouse took the stage, then turned in the clipboard and left. Grumblefly and I joked that a surefire way to define “old” is to leave a sold-out show before the headliner even comes on.

So we are old.

Big deal.

We got to see Camper again, and that’s all that really matters.

"It's bittersweet. Sweet then bitter, bitter then sweet..."

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Last night Gazbot and I went to see Cracker unplugged over at Bogarts. I'm part of the Camper Van Beethoven/Cracker street team, and so got into the show for free in exchange for wandering around the club collecting email addresses for the band. A street-team member, for those who don't know, is basically a fan who is willing to help promote the band. Street-teamers have taken the place of the label reps of the 70's and 80's. The label gets people who love the band to promote them, and the fans are happy to do it for free--or for free entry to the shows and the opportunity to meet the band.

The show was fabulous. They did many of my favorite Camper songs: "Sad Lover's Waltz", "All Her Favorite Fruit", "Sweethearts", as well as a good mix of Cracker hits ("Eurotrash Girl", "Low"), new stuff from CVB's new album, Cracker's most recent release (although sadly not "Ain't Gonna Suck Itself") and Johnny Hickman's soon-to-be-released solo project.

Met a lot of good, longtime, diehard fans as I circled the club with my clipboard. Ran into an old college chum who, oddly enough, was with me the very first time I ever saw Camper Van Beethoven at The Club back in 1985/86. We swapped email addresses and promised to keep in touch.

It was a great night, but was ruined when I got home and got ready for bed.

My watch was missing.

This is not just any watch either. It is an heirloom watch given to me by my mother. My Dad bought it for her fifty years ago, and she gave it to me.

And now I've lost it. I can't even begin to describe how gutted I am. Upset doesn't even begin to describe it.

No idea how it happened either. It was on my wrist when I left the house yesterday evening, and it was missing when I got home. I checked the car, my clothing, retraced my footsteps all over the house, back garden, and garage.

Nothing.

I've rang The Club but they were already closed last night and aren't open yet today. But I have very little hope that it was turned in. If indeed it somehow fell off when I was there. I know I never removed it from my wrist, and it has a stretchy linked band, so there was no clasp to come undone.

I'm so disappointed in myself not to have noticed it missing before I got home. I was wearing my long sleeved WOXY.com hoodie, so it wasn't visible and I could SWEAR it was on my wrist all night.

Obviously, however, it wasn't.