March 19 - Nocturnal, Memphis, TN

What was once Memphis' storied punk dive The Antenna Club is now Nocturnal. After load-in with the trailer on the sidewalk, we hit Tops BBQ by the hospital for some pork 'n' beans 'n' slaw 'n' chips.  Nocturnal sight-seeing followed as we drove past the obligatory Beale Street and Sun Studios. With a decade-old memory Mike navigated us to The Arcade Restaurant, an old Elvis haunt, and The Lorraine Motel, an old James Earl Ray haunt.

Too soon?
Still? Okay.
The night at Nocturnal began with The Family Ghost, who played pointy guitars and glockenspiel under subdued Built to Spill beats. The singer reminded me of the guy who does Brian Wilson's falsettos for him these days.

The Bitter Tears played a good set to a polite but decidedly indifferent crowd.
Move, Memphis! Move! Something's a-happening!
Okay don't.

It reminded me of photographs from 60's rock 'n' roll shows where a Kinks or a Who or an Animals would be jumping around at full volume, and the audience would clap passively from their seats.  Mike said it was like playing to a painting of an audience.

Nevertheless we had fun. I was very pretty in my pink sleeveless nightie with blue eye shadow, rouge, long platinum locks, tooth rot, and a classy 10-pound chain with the letter T duct-taped to a padlock.

Immediately after our set the sound man blared Slayer.  This time from Reign In Blood.  I wonder if it has something to do with how pretty we looked that night. 

It was the first show for Textile, an exploratory band in a jagged guitar and time signature jungle, the band that the docile kids came to see. Still no movement.  Even with the mic'ed glockenspiel.
Okay, Memphis. You win. We'll pose for the portrait.

Afterward the owner of the club, Doug, a hospitable southern man in flannel, told us about its history and led us to a back room. Its cement walls were covered in an executioner mural painted by pro wrestler Jerry Lawler. Mike signed the wall.

"Date it," demanded Doug politely.

Robert from The Family Ghost and his lady put us up in a Jay Reatard Wet Dream apartment crammed with analog keyboards and antiquated recording gear. We recorded a soon-to-be-out-of-print 7" and vanished in a puff of kitty litter.  

Not really.  

I got up early and ripped a Pinebender CD from Robert's great record collection.

Ugh.  I just realized we left without giving Robert one of our records.  What a bunch of douchebags.  Us.

The Arcade Restaurant provided a fried peanut butter & banana sandwich for breakfast.  We thought about assassinating someone near the Lorraine Motel but decided against it.

Still too soon?

Okay, Memphis.