Alan forgot his jacket there, too. Mike forgot his inflatable bed. To fit in, John left his social security card, birth certificate and voter registration in the Mississippi River.
The caravan arrived in Missouri, at the doorstep of Alan’s parents. Alan’s mom prepared a spread of feta and smoked gouda. While we each took a much needed shower, St. Louis white chili cooked and fresh corn muffins baked. It was all very delicious.
For some reason load in was at 6pm. At 6:30 we showed up to 2320 Cherokee, a huge art space decorated with out of tune pianos and out of time technology in the Historic Cherokee Shopping District of St. Louis. We were early. The soundman wouldn’t arrive for another hour. So we used the time to rehearse some new songs that we had played only once before at Coach House Sounds.
Thanks to Carlin, the wonderfully quaffed and chopped man who put this show together, our friends The Columbines were on the bill. This is the fourth show I’ve played with them in the last six months. Before I joined, The Bitter Tears were my favorite Chicago band. Now the title must go to The Columbines. John scratches out reverberated Bo Didley breaks on a JC Penney guitar, Kayte goofs off in shades and instigates Danzig impression contests (she sings nice, too), and Julia smirks like a minxy Alice Cramden as she pounds out some tom-heavy cave beats. They closed with “Bullet” but not the one by The Misfits. Fuck yes, please.
Speaking of fuck yes, the taco stand down the street fed us all to complete satisfaction for a fraction of the price. I wolfed down two lengua tacos for $3.
Before our set, John Leonard carted us to the bar where we ordered more drinks, and then wheeled us around the space and to the stage. I was a bit in the bag for this show. But I felt it went well, despite breaking two sticks, missing the big entrance in “Grieving” for the second night in a row, and having a few drum fills truncated by my new, big mink coat. Alan’s parents were in attendance, and several people from their careers showed up, too. Alan brought up abortion. We debuted one of his new songs, “Things The Boys Love,” a happy sing-along about a group of American cowboys who decide to ambush some Indians, only to have the tables turned. It’s told from the perspective of a rabid halfwit who enjoys watching his buddies getting slaughtered.
John and Eliza from Chicago traveled down just to see the show. Hardcore!
Afterward the upstairs art gallery was opened for all to see. It was a gallery filled with art. I noticed two guys exit a door that I thought led to the roof, so I followed. The door did not lead to the roof, but as soon as I opened it a man began yelling and barking and yelling at me. I put my hands in the air and left the art gallery.
With the entire downstairs space to myself I ordered another beer. I had another one while loading out, too. I was feeling good. I was talking a lot. And laughing. I was being an idiot or a rabid halfwit. On the ride home it took me twenty minutes to roll a borrowed cigarette while revealing my internet porn site of choice. I stumbled to a guest room in Alan’s parents’ house, theoretically ending a night of buffoonery.
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