"What the hell happened to you?!" the kid behind the counter at Subway had apparently asked, with just a little bit of trepidation.
Looking at my roommate, it's not hard to understand why the kid would have thought a crazy, perhaps dangerous man had just been in the sandwich shop.
It had been a loooonng day, and it started early.
This was when I was living in Southwest Virginia, in the a big farmhouse called 7 Maples. Living out the post-college dream of being on the radio, drinking beer, staying up late, being with friends, watching a lot of sports and listening to a lot of music.
My roommate was both a huge Bob Mould fan, and (because he was an alumnus) a Virginia Tech football fan. And on a hot, hot fall Saturday, there was both a game, and a Sugar show to go to.
So we were up early, with his Dad. I didn't have tickets to the game, but I took the road trip two hours up I-81, to sit in a bar within earshot of the stadium to watch the game on TV, while they went to the game.
I knew it was going to be a long, long journey into the night so I sipped my beer slowly, as the frat kids around me got sloppier and sloppier.
The sight of my roommate after the game, made me laugh.
"You sat on the sunny side of the stadium, huh?"
Lane Stadium could be a cold, unforgiving place in November and December. But on this day, half the crowd was on a concrete cookie sheet baking in the sun.
And my roommate was quick to turn lobster red in those conditions.
We split with his Dad, who returned to Abingdon, and we traveled on to Chapel Hill for Sugar, who were touring behind "File Under Easy Listening."
The Cat's Cradle that night was like a convection oven---mostly airless, but except of gusts of hotter heat that swirled around the raucous activity of the crowd.
Sugar was just a singular kind of band. They had this focused, precise, tight type of anger---a really amazing mix of ferocity and control. And the audience acted accordingly, moving and swaying and sweating en mass, both exhausted and still frenzied.
With our ears still ringing, we started our long drive home.
We were both broke, having spent what we had on gas and beer, but we scraped together a couple of bucks as we pulled into a local Subway. My roommate offered to go in himself, while I kept the car running.
I wish I could have seen the look on the kid's face when this large, tired-looking, wrung-out red man, fully drenched in sweat, walked into Subway and said, "Can I have two Gatorades and a small bag of pretzels?"
But my roommate came out laughing, having been previously unaware at just how horrible and weird he must look to the rest of the normal world, a world that hadn't spent the day watching football, drinking beer, driving a few hundred miles, jumping around at a rock show and steeling himself for another few hundred miles of highway home.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Showing posts with label bob mould. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bob mould. Show all posts
Monday, June 25, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Bob Mould "See A Little Light"
Oddly enough, when I hear "See A Little Light" it takes me back to being in the dark. Literally.
Ah, to be young and single. There are so many aspects to the story that follows, that are so far removed from the life I have now . . .
Let's see, where to start.
I'm on a lawn chair, on the deck of a house that is not mine. It is after midnight. I am with a girl I like. It is completely dark.
Honestly, this scenario was not a one time thing. I often brought a girl to this very location.
I'm in my late 20s, living in southwest Virginia.
I live in a 100 year old rented farm house, known as 7 Maples, with two of my friends. The house is huge, the rent is cheap. We are all single and generally unencumbered (we own little and owe little). Beer and cigarettes and coffee and friends and dates come and go, frequently and at all hours.
I'm a DJ, working the evenings, which means I don't get home until after midnight, every night. So much of my social interaction occurs when most of the town has gone to sleep.
The farmhouse is on the road. A country road, but right on it. Walking out of the wood stove room/back door to the driveway in the back is a slight incline, which then become a steeper, brush covered incline. Cutting a path through the brush is a dirt road, winding its way up the hill. At the top of the hill, just before the treeline, is the studio.
The farmhouse is owned by a husband/wife artist team. They have just built this beautiful studio, for their expanding production. They bought the land to build the studio; 7 Maples came in the bargain, so they rent in cheaply. On the lower level, is her kiln and her rows of tiny, handmade jewelry. On the top level, are his looms for his giant, rich, wall hangings. And on their deck are a few lawn chairs.
It is not unusual for me to bring a girl up here. The landlords don't mind. Encourage it, in fact. Just pick up your empty beer cans. Otherwise, enjoy the view.
When I hear "See A Little Light," even today, this is where I am. On a warm summer might with a warm summer beer, hoping to impress a girl, and generally unencumbered by anything more taxing than that.
It seems kind of idyllic, and I could probably paper over the reality with nostalgia. But the truth is that what felt like freedom on a good day, felt like being set adrift, aimlessly, on another day. There could be drama and mood-swings and angst. Some of that generated internally, and some of that manifested in the people around me.
7 Maples, due to its fluid and welcoming nature, attracted its fair share of friends and hangers-on, drunks and lost boys/girls. People searching, or flailing, or failing. People who's only reaction to things that didn't make sense, was to curse the darkness and shout out into the night.
"Ahh, shit. I'd better go see what that is."
I reluctantly got up from my lawn chair, which had been pulled close to her lawn chair.
Remember in "Say Anything" when you first hear "In Your Eyes" and you just think it's the movie soundtrack, until they show Lloyd in the yard with his boom box?
At first I didn't notice the melody in the air for anything other than a soundtrack to whatever I'm sure I was going on about in an effort to impress this girl. But then I realized that Bob Mould was booming from my house, which was a good 300 yards away.
We ambled our way in the dark, down the hill and as we got closer to the house, I could see a little light, literally, from the wood stove room where the stereo lived and most of the beer was consumed. The stereo speakers were now in the window, and the stereo was cranked up to 11.
I walked inside, smoothly and succinctly, heading straight for the stereo to turn it down.
"It's a little loud," I said, with a cocked eyebrow.
There was no point in making a salient argument, or getting too angry. He was drunk.
He was a friend of one of the roommates. The kind of guest that doesn't leave, even after his friend has gone to bed (if the are still drinks to be had).
I'm not sure what he was trying to accomplish by putting the speakers in the window and blasting Bob Mould across the hillside. And I'm fairly certain that he couldn't tell you either.
It was just the kind of thing you did when you were in your 20s, a little lost, a little drunk, a little in the dark, searching for some kind of answers.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Ah, to be young and single. There are so many aspects to the story that follows, that are so far removed from the life I have now . . .
Let's see, where to start.
I'm on a lawn chair, on the deck of a house that is not mine. It is after midnight. I am with a girl I like. It is completely dark.
Honestly, this scenario was not a one time thing. I often brought a girl to this very location.
I'm in my late 20s, living in southwest Virginia.
I live in a 100 year old rented farm house, known as 7 Maples, with two of my friends. The house is huge, the rent is cheap. We are all single and generally unencumbered (we own little and owe little). Beer and cigarettes and coffee and friends and dates come and go, frequently and at all hours.
I'm a DJ, working the evenings, which means I don't get home until after midnight, every night. So much of my social interaction occurs when most of the town has gone to sleep.
The farmhouse is on the road. A country road, but right on it. Walking out of the wood stove room/back door to the driveway in the back is a slight incline, which then become a steeper, brush covered incline. Cutting a path through the brush is a dirt road, winding its way up the hill. At the top of the hill, just before the treeline, is the studio.
The farmhouse is owned by a husband/wife artist team. They have just built this beautiful studio, for their expanding production. They bought the land to build the studio; 7 Maples came in the bargain, so they rent in cheaply. On the lower level, is her kiln and her rows of tiny, handmade jewelry. On the top level, are his looms for his giant, rich, wall hangings. And on their deck are a few lawn chairs.
It is not unusual for me to bring a girl up here. The landlords don't mind. Encourage it, in fact. Just pick up your empty beer cans. Otherwise, enjoy the view.
When I hear "See A Little Light," even today, this is where I am. On a warm summer might with a warm summer beer, hoping to impress a girl, and generally unencumbered by anything more taxing than that.
It seems kind of idyllic, and I could probably paper over the reality with nostalgia. But the truth is that what felt like freedom on a good day, felt like being set adrift, aimlessly, on another day. There could be drama and mood-swings and angst. Some of that generated internally, and some of that manifested in the people around me.
7 Maples, due to its fluid and welcoming nature, attracted its fair share of friends and hangers-on, drunks and lost boys/girls. People searching, or flailing, or failing. People who's only reaction to things that didn't make sense, was to curse the darkness and shout out into the night.
"Ahh, shit. I'd better go see what that is."
I reluctantly got up from my lawn chair, which had been pulled close to her lawn chair.
Remember in "Say Anything" when you first hear "In Your Eyes" and you just think it's the movie soundtrack, until they show Lloyd in the yard with his boom box?
At first I didn't notice the melody in the air for anything other than a soundtrack to whatever I'm sure I was going on about in an effort to impress this girl. But then I realized that Bob Mould was booming from my house, which was a good 300 yards away.
We ambled our way in the dark, down the hill and as we got closer to the house, I could see a little light, literally, from the wood stove room where the stereo lived and most of the beer was consumed. The stereo speakers were now in the window, and the stereo was cranked up to 11.
I walked inside, smoothly and succinctly, heading straight for the stereo to turn it down.
"It's a little loud," I said, with a cocked eyebrow.
There was no point in making a salient argument, or getting too angry. He was drunk.
He was a friend of one of the roommates. The kind of guest that doesn't leave, even after his friend has gone to bed (if the are still drinks to be had).
I'm not sure what he was trying to accomplish by putting the speakers in the window and blasting Bob Mould across the hillside. And I'm fairly certain that he couldn't tell you either.
It was just the kind of thing you did when you were in your 20s, a little lost, a little drunk, a little in the dark, searching for some kind of answers.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Magnapop “Open The Door”
Hitting Random on the iTunes list . . .
In my pre-mvyradio days, I hosted a Modern Rock specialty show on a great little independent radio station in Virginia.
I’d end each December with a big Friday night show, counting down the top Alternative songs of the year. And in that countdown, I had a few sub-categories and awards, including handing out what I called “The Magnapop Award.”
Music History is rife with stories of great bands that made great records, that no one heard, due to Record Label injustices. Some of my favorite artists are famous because of records that didn’t get released, or got released but didn’t get supported by the label. Big Star, Bettye Lavette, Delbert McClinton and Wilco all have stories to tell.
But I started the award after hearing about Magnapop.
They had enjoyed breakthrough success in the Modern Rock world in the mid-nineties, with the release of “Hot Boxing.” They had recording/producing support from Michael Stipe, and Bob Mould. They were opening for The Lemonheads and R.E.M.
The acclaim for their next record, “Rubbing Doesn’t Help,” was hugely positive, when they had the rug pulled out. Shortly after the release of the record, their label, Priority Records went out of business. With no label behind the record, it didn’t get distributed to stores properly (in the pre-MP3 age, if it wasn’t in your local record store, you couldn’t buy it), and it didn’t get proper support at radio.
But the real kick in the ass was this: due to the kind of contract only a Record Label could write, the band was contractually prevented from using the name Magnapop for 7 years.
Yes, the Label couldn’t provide for them, but wouldn’t let them provide for themselves.
Magnapop is still out there, making dynamic music, but it’s hard not to feel like the wind was taken out of their sails (and sales) at a crucial moment.
So every year, I would give “The Magnapop Award” to a band that had been screwed by their label, and deserved better. Go back and check out “Rubbing Doesn’t Help”
See the video, here
In my pre-mvyradio days, I hosted a Modern Rock specialty show on a great little independent radio station in Virginia.
I’d end each December with a big Friday night show, counting down the top Alternative songs of the year. And in that countdown, I had a few sub-categories and awards, including handing out what I called “The Magnapop Award.”
Music History is rife with stories of great bands that made great records, that no one heard, due to Record Label injustices. Some of my favorite artists are famous because of records that didn’t get released, or got released but didn’t get supported by the label. Big Star, Bettye Lavette, Delbert McClinton and Wilco all have stories to tell.
But I started the award after hearing about Magnapop.
They had enjoyed breakthrough success in the Modern Rock world in the mid-nineties, with the release of “Hot Boxing.” They had recording/producing support from Michael Stipe, and Bob Mould. They were opening for The Lemonheads and R.E.M.
The acclaim for their next record, “Rubbing Doesn’t Help,” was hugely positive, when they had the rug pulled out. Shortly after the release of the record, their label, Priority Records went out of business. With no label behind the record, it didn’t get distributed to stores properly (in the pre-MP3 age, if it wasn’t in your local record store, you couldn’t buy it), and it didn’t get proper support at radio.
But the real kick in the ass was this: due to the kind of contract only a Record Label could write, the band was contractually prevented from using the name Magnapop for 7 years.
Yes, the Label couldn’t provide for them, but wouldn’t let them provide for themselves.
Magnapop is still out there, making dynamic music, but it’s hard not to feel like the wind was taken out of their sails (and sales) at a crucial moment.
So every year, I would give “The Magnapop Award” to a band that had been screwed by their label, and deserved better. Go back and check out “Rubbing Doesn’t Help”
See the video, here
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