Run DMC "King Of Rock"

We were screwed.  Totally screwed.

They were going to pack us up, put us on a plane and send us home.

There was simply no way out of this.

I was 16 years old, and my friend Tip, and two guys we had just met, had trashed a hotel room.

This was 1985, and we were in Washington, DC at Close-Up.

I'm sure loads of you remember, and even went to Close-Up.  For those who didn't . . . Close-Up is a program for High School students.  You are sent to the Nation's Capitol for a week, and from morning until night you absorb the complex wonder of the City and our Government.

In a week's time, I would roam the halls of the Capitol Building, climb the steps to the Lincoln Memorial, wind my way through miles of the Smithsonian museums, experience the solemnity of The Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier, and even take in a night at the theatre (featuing Marlo Thomas!).

But at the moment, it seemed like none of this would happen.

One of the most genius parts of Close-Up is that they paired you up with kids from different parts of the country.  So within our group, there were city kids and country kids, wealthy kids and poor kids, East Coast kids and West Coast kids.

And you even shared a hotel room.

Tip and I were paired up with two guys from Southern California, which was pretty neat.

Naturally, conversation drifted quickly to music, and they introduced us to Run-DMC.

Rap music at that time was far on the periphery.  There were some kids in Newburyport who were into break-dancing, and I think we were all aware of "Rapper's Delight," but for the most part, Rap was not something anyone we knew listened to or cared about.

But I'd never really heard Rap, until I heard Run-DMC.  And I felt like I got it.

The big guitars and voices that cut right through made sense to me.

Of all the things I took home from Close-Up, surprisingly, the door to a whole new musical world remains the thing that has had the most profound effect on my life.  I would go on to buy Run-DMC's earlier efforts, and pick up their breakthrough record "Raising Hell" as soon as it came out, eventually riding the whole cultural wave that record brought on.

But again, I couldn't see that far ahead.  I could only see the splinters on the floor.

Sure, we talked about music.  But really, you put 4 teenage boys in a hotel room with no immediate adult supervision?  What are we going to do?

Play tackle basketball, of course.

We got a few pairs of our gym socks, and rolled them into a ball.  And we put trash barrels at the opposite ends of the room.  The socks didn't bounce, so there was no dribbling---you carried it like a football.  And full contact was the name of the game.  While you tried to put the socks in the barrel, I was trying to tackle you to the floor.

Well, to make a long story short, someone tackled someone else hard onto one of the beds, and the wooden bedframe basically shattered.  Wood cracked and crashed.  The mattress was now on the floor, over a pile of splinters.

The Close-Up folks did not mess around.  We had already been subject to multiple speeches about how there would be NO tolerance for misbehavior.  Break curfew?  We'll put you on a plane and send you home.  Wander from the group?  We'll put you on a plane and send you home.  Try to sneak a beer?  We'll put you on a plane and send you home.

They didn't specifically mention not trashing the hotel room, but we were pretty sure that they would put us on a plane and send us home.

I calmed down.  And concocted a plan.

Bed check would be coming up in an hour.  Someone from Close-Up would come to our door, take roll call with a clipboard.  We had to make the bed incident, look like an accident.

First, we cleaned the scene of the crime.  Barrels righted.  Clothes picked up.  Suitcases zipped.  Non-broken bed made.

Then we carefully, carefully, put the bed-frame back together.

The wood was cracked into pieces, but if we lightly rested the mattress on top, it would remain balanced there.

And that was the plan.  We rehearsed it several times.  And we waited for a knock on the door.

Knock-knock.

"Bedcheck!"  A couple of security guard guys stood at the door with a clipboard.

"PJ?"

"Here."

"Tom?"

Tip responded to his real name.

"Matt?"  And that was Matt's cue.

He was the biggest of the four of us, we were counting on him to really sell it.

Matt said, "Here!" and hopped on the bed, in the casual, jaunty way a young man might hop up on a bed.

Of course, the bed frame immediately crashed to the floor.

We all gasped!  Oh my goodness, Security Guard guys!  Did you see that!  He sat down on the bed in a perfectly normal way, and it crashed into pieces.  What poor construction this bed was made of.  My my.  What a curious accident.

Actually, I don't know exactly what we said.  But we did our best to sell the "accident."

The Security Guard guys seemed nonplussed.  But a little while later, a Manager-type came in to inspect the scene.  And again, we tried to sell it.  "The Security guys will tell you.  They saw it with their own eyes!  The bed just broke when Matt casually sat on it."

I don't know if he bought it.  Or if it was just 11 at night and he didn't feel like expelling four teenager to Dulles.  But he said okay, shrugged and left.   And that was the end of that.

I learned some pretty amazing things at Close-Up.

But who would have suspected that in the home of Democracy, I'd develop an appreciation for Kings.

Hear the song on Youtube.

Patti Rothberg "Inside"

Call this the prequel, to Wednesday's and Thursday's posts . . .

My friends would jokingly call it "The Day Patti Rothberg Saved Your Life."

But the lasting effects of that day were less dramatic, if no less important.

I had been dispatched to Washington DC, because I had started a Rock The Vote chapter via our radio station in Abingdon.  We aired PSAs and ran voter registration drives, getting young people involved and engaged in the political process.

Rock The Vote was holding an event on the National Mall in DC, and they had invited "local" chapters to attended.

We were only considered local to Washington, if you had never seen a map.  In fact, it was a 6 hour drive from Abingdon to the Capitol.  But I was up for the drive.  (Besides, on the way home I could swing by Chapel Hill)

Patti Rothberg was the musical act.  She'd just put out her major label debut, we were spinning it, and I was looking forward to meeting her.

I had packed a Sharpie and CDs by the bands I'd be seeing on my trip, because I wanted to get a personal connection.

Up to that point, I'd never been an autograph seeker.  But this thought had occurred to me early in my DJ career:

I could play music by artists who sang about their most personal thoughts and feelings, but ultimately, there was no actual connection to the artist.  The songs were a one way signal that only traveled outward.  And literally, the physical CDs that contained the songs, were never touched or seen by the artist who created them.  They were completely divorced from their origin.

To get the artist to sign the CD kind of pulled the connection full circle.  They were singing the songs, they had held that disc in their hands.

Thinking about it today, I wonder if I would have that same impulse now.

Here in 2012, there seems to be greater access to artists, through social media and the proliferation of podcasts and youtube and music magazines and such.

But for me in the mid-90s, musicians that I loved were hardly more real than my favorite fictional characters.

There was a small stage set-up on the National Mall, really only a few feet off the ground, near the Air And Space Museum, and Patti Rothberg was scheduled to play, the Rock The Vote folks would make a few short speeches (and introduced us radio folk), and Jesse Jackson Jr. would give a keynote address.

So I got to hang out "backstage" (which wasn't really separated from anywhere else, as we were plopped down in the middle of the mall, with no fences around or anything), with my little cassette tape recorder, waiting for Rothberg to come off stage so I could interview her.

There were a number of technical/power problems on stage.  At one point during the show, while Patti was speaking about the importance of Rock The Vote, her microphone went out, and in fact the whole stage lost power along the way.

I tried to stay out of the way as the tech folks scrambled to get things powered up and rolling again.

Patti finished up her set and retired to an area of folding chairs, where we could talk.  It wasn't my first interview, but it was still early enough in my career that the whole process was almost surreal.  The voice on the record was talking back!

I hung around while someone from Washington DC's alternative station WHFS asked a lot of the same question I did, but also got her talking about touring with Paul Westerberg, who was my absolute favorite songwriter.  I was happy to eavesdrop on those stories.

Next on the event's agenda, was a speech from one of the Rock The Vote honchos, with radio folks like me standing in the wings to be recognized as volunteers and supporters.

I was leaning on the metal rigging, listening to the speech, when I felt a tap on the back of my leg.

It was Patti.  She was down on the ground looking up at me.

"Hey PJ.  I don't know if I'd stand there.  They . . ." (she looked back toward the tech guys, still messing about with cables and wires), "don't really seem to have all the power stuff worked out.  I wouldn't want to see anyone electrocuted."

I thanked her, and hopped down the little metal staircase to "safety."

Was electrocution likely?  Probably not.

Did Patti Rothberg remember my name for more than another hour of her life?  Probably not.

But for a small stretch of time, the one way feed from artist to listener looped back, and she was real to me and I was real to her and it felt like some kind of breakthrough in my relationship with all those artists that I was playing, day in and day out


Hear the song on Youtube.

Scud Mountain Boys "Penthouse In The Woods"

I don’t think any of us imagine a modern road trip as a solitary event.  But it was.  This was the 1990s.  No cell phone.  No one to talk to.  No satellite radio.  Just me and a cassette deck.

And I was happy.

I had a pretty uncomplicated life.  Young and single with a job in radio.  And I was on my 2nd day of a road trip.

Yes, I know I’m my father’s son (the man does a lot of crazy driving), when I tell you that it didn’t really seem out of the way to go from Washington, DC back home to Abingdon, Virginia, via Chapel Hill.

But I had spent the day on the National Mall (more on that, later this week), and now I was heading toward the famed Cat's Cradle.

Two of my favorite indie bands of the moment were playing a show in Chapel Hill, and yeah, it wasn't exactly on the way home, but when you're young and single, what's an extra 5 or 6 hours of driving, if you get to see two great bands?

That night I'd see the Scud Mountain Boys and Jale, but I had rolled into town early.

My first stop was to find a good local record store, and yeah, I killed an hour or so there.

What to do next, with several hours to go before showtime . . . ?

Walking down the street, I happened upon a little movie house.

"When does the next show start?"

"In about 10 minutes."

"Lone Star" was the feature, written and directed by John Sayles, who was (and still is) one of my favorite movie makers.

Cut to 10 hours later, after a great movie, a cheap roast beef sub, and a wonderful (if sparsely attended) indie show.

It was well after midnight, at I was a good five hours away from home, but hell, I figured I'd just drive instead of shelling out some money I didn't have for a motel.

I know that's not much of a story, but I'm telling it for this reason---I remember it as one of the best days of my life.

In fact, just that 3 minute period, when I found myself wandering down a street and in front of a movie theater and I was in the position to say, Yes, I think I'll just go see a movie . . . that remains one of the best moments of my single life.

Is that a little sad? 

The objective voice in my head says it sounds a little sad to say that the best day of your life was about enjoying a drive, movie, meal and concert, by yourself.

But I can't really deny the feeling inside, when I think about how nice it felt to be so free that day . . .



Hear the song on Youtube.



See the movie trailer on Youtube.