Clothes Can Make The Man

I've always found it hard to get rid of old clothes.  The ones that are too faded and too worn to wear respectably.  This is an old habit born out of necessity for having something to wear to certain shows.  Never wear nice jeans or a new shirt or clean white sneakers to one of those shows, and you won't have that morning after comment wondering what the hell happened the night before.

When you first started going to punk or hardcore shows back in the 80's you quickly learned that your "look" could bring grief.  Sure, no one said a word about that Dead Kennedys t-shirt once you got to where you were going, but to wear it in the other places you had to stop at before and after the show or record store could be a hassle that you either learned to accept or avoid.

I've had people give me real grief in fast food places, the convenience store, or just getting gas.  I might have simply been going to a show, but when you stop off to get a pack of smokes on your way and the guy behind the counter starts yelling at you, refuses to sell you the smokes, and then comes out from behind the counter to physically remove you from the premises; it's a good time to address the issue at hand.  It was the one issue that some folks didn't want to hear what you have to say. "Dead Kennedys"?  The name said it all to them.

So you learned.  Wear it uncovered and spoil for a fight, or wear a long sleeved shirt over it until you get to the venue.  No reason to wear a perfectly good shirt to these places.  For the most part you'd just take it off and tie the sleeves around your waist.  No reason to even wash it or worry about how wrinkled it got.  It was going to get tied off at the waist in the end.

Same with jeans.  New jeans worn at a punk club meant new jeans ruined with grubby knees and a filthy backside.  It's not like you were break dancing on the floor.  Sometimes you'd take a shot from the guys down in front of the stage and down to the floor you'd go.  That was the last place you wanted to be, because you'd get kicked and stomped.  Partly by accident, partly on purpose.  But it did happen from time to time and there was also spilled drinks and an occasional bit of blood smeared on them.

Shoes and boots got the same treatment.  All night long you were on this sticky, glue like floor, picking up the gunk on your soles.  This was a stickiness that you could never get off.  Everyone around you would be stomping along, picking up that same grime, stepping on the heels and instep and toes of your shoes. 

Steel toe boots or Red Wing work shoes were great because you didn't get those tender little bones in your feet smashed under the weight of some big ox who was hopping around like a maniac.  I swear, sometimes I wondered if cats dug stepping on feet so much, that maybe they got some kind of criminal thrill out of doing it.

I'd go to these shows looking like crap.  I had black flight deck boots that I'd tuck the pants leg of my jeans into.  Two pair of socks too because with all the sweating it was a good chance you'd rub up a blister on the heel.  Grubby old jeans that may or may not have the knees worn out, or a torn open back pocket.  Any old shirt would do.  Over time I stopped wearing band t-shirts and just wore a plain white v-neck tee or an old sweatshirt.  Usually the neck would have a hole in it.

Anyone who saw me getting a burger before the show, or getting a tank of gas, or a pack of smokes with a bottle of beer would have thought I was just some dirt poor loser.  Probably bought those crap clothes at Goodwill.  That was good.  It gave me anomynity among the masses. 

No alarming slogans or band names.  The only thing to rile their attention may have been a wrist full of crazy bracelets, or my jumble of hair, or a bandana wrapped around the top of a boot to keep it together because I broke a bootlace earlier and hadn't gotten around to replacing it.

I just can't get rid of old shirts and pants.  I always feel like I may need them again some day.

Please Darken My Door

All that Arkansas twang, looking like a cleaned up sharecropper straight from the WPA photo archives.  He's got an old snare next to his knee that could have come out of some St. Louis speakeasy.  He leans when drumming, like the groove is going to make his legs get up and stroll across the stage and dance.  Ghost notes.

He never looked like he was from our time, never did look the part, never once did he seem ready for a TV close-up.  He looks more comfortable smiling behind chicken wire and a simple drum kit, with some mad local husband banging away at the cage trying to get his hands on him.  The barroom crowd laughing and big bouncers drag the rabid spouse away.  "I didn't know she was married, friend.  Let's play us somethin' good, boys!"

Levon Helm is one of the last connections to the days of traveling minstrel shows and those unruly, untamed hillbilly singers who were looking for their slice of the sweet pie.  It was better than farming, easier than working down in the oil patch.  Just play good music for your living and the living will be good.

He's still with us.  He's still passing along the songs and the personal link to what so many of us once were.  Faded Liberty overalls, a pouch of tobacco in the breast pocket, a straw hat you only wear to town or church.  He would see it and remember what it was all about.  To hear him talk we're his cousin, brother, sister, friend.

He'd go with you to hear the preacher on Sunday morning, and drive you to the bootlegger in his Plymouth once the sermon's over.  Just a nip to get the red out of your eyes.  These Sunday morning services are hard on a man when he needs to sleep one off but boy, wasn't that preacher yelling up a good storm this morning!  Let's sing one from the hymnal.  One for us poor lost souls.

Ballroom Blitz

I used to go to shows at The Spectrum in Philadelphia and the security people manning the doors would frisk us as we filtered in.  Not an up against the wall frisk like cops do, but it was the same effect.  "Open your coat.  Let me see some socks." 

You'd reach down and pull up your pants legs and they'd look down at your socks to see if you were stashing something in them.  Wear boots and they got a pat down too, just to make sure something wasn't hidden inside. They would pat down your coat pockets; looking for recorders, pint bottles of cheap booze, and batteries.  Oh yes, the batteries.

Big, fat D cell batteries that maniacs would chuck from the high rafters if the band were slogging it without heart.  Ask Steven Tyler about flying batteries in Philly and I am sure the conversation will be over immediately.  Maybe a scuffle will break out between you and his handlers because you are being a jerk?

They'd eye up the contents of your pack of smokes, looking for the tell-tale signs of rolled up joints.  They'd look you in the eye as well, to see if you were carrying the inertia of crazy or approaching the fall out stage of intoxication.  "Enjoy the show, move along." they'd bark and into the concourse you'd head.  It was a routine that always reminded you that things can get out of hand in a flash at these shows. 

I've seen riot cops and cops on horseback, swinging long clubs and yelling.  One trick they had was to use the horse to pin a kid next to something unmovable and flail away on their head with the stick.  Maybe the kid could break free and make a run for it, sometimes not.  The cops would bust skulls and kids would run like roaches when the lights get turned on.

I saw, or at least I believe I remember seeing, some guy set fire to his coat by accident, and the flames licked up his arm before he began waving like a duck taking to the air.  Someone leaped on him and together they snuffed the flames.  The guy on fire shook the hand of his savior and back to the fist pump rocking he went.  I think we mouthed the word "Awesome!" to each other and kept on going ourselves.  Then again, I've never been able to remember any other details of that night, maybe it was all a false memory?

I've seen Steven Stills and Lee Ving, never together though.  I certainly didn't expect Stills to punch someone in the jaw and it didn't happen, but I did see Ving do it and I can still hear the smacking sound, like a wild wrestling match that doesn't get televised.  I sat quietly and heard Stills play, I tried to avoid broken bones when Ving was screaming at us.  Context is so important.

If I could be 18 one more time and go back to Philly with my young shock hair, an all teeth and gums grin, I'd do it and take one more tour of the dangerous nights.  One more night where I could look at the stage with faraway eyes and fists in the air, staring back into the eyes of some rock star, and if I'm really lucky he'll shoot a finger at me on that one lyric, the one line that sends you off on fated missions. 

One more chance to shout, "Yeah, man!" and not even for a second tell myself the truth.  That dude does the finger point gag a dozen times a night, in every town.  But for tonight, he did it once to me.  Bring on the cops!  I'm ready for the other side of that door.

Lyrical

I could never speak in lyrics.  I knew people, clever people, who could spew lyrics while a tape was rolling and twist their own perverted words to match the moment at hand, but I couldn't.  For me it was like learning to speak Finnish or Polish; I was stuck speaking rubbish.

The great lines in music, the ones that make an eyebrow arch or a throat clench, are always written by a person who's eyes can conceal their word factory like heavy Victorian drapes blocking the sun.  You'll never know the inspiration by simply looking into their eyes.  Their eyes are a gateway to mazes and alleys that you should take caution if you wish to explore.  The pathways are guarded by word traps.

Words can been framed in ways to make the innocent guilty, the descriptive vague, and compassion becomes oppression.  Too many cheer it and believe anything without wondering what any of it means.  Except in lyrics.  In a song, a cigar is always a cigar.  But songs aren't the language of everyday speaking.

I still cannot rattle off the words like water rushing from a spigot.  They come slowly and in bunches.  I'm mostly at a loss for them but once they begin sliding out I cannot stop them and I simply go along for the ride while I have the chance.  Now, I'm feeling less dominated by words and the tide is turning. 

The curious aspect is the words are not fighting back, they aren't trying to regain their upper hand over me.  It is as though they are becoming obedient and seemingly they are asking, How may we serve you?