The Assault (Alone Again, Naturally--Part 2)

By choosing Taco Bell as my dinner, I had inadvertently made up some serious time. Now, with an hour or so to kill before doors opened, I walked around the blocks surrounding the Fillmore. On one streetlight pole, I found a poster for a Gov't Mule show that was about a month away. Down it came and found it's way into my cargo shorts' side pocket. It's funny to think, but I actually looked around and waited for a time when no one was walking by to take it down. A guy could be pissing on the sidewalk and nobody would glance at him sideways and here I'm afraid someone's going to see me taking a poster and say, "Hey, what do you think you're doing? Put that back!" I'm an idiot sometimes.

I walked past a small but classy looking place that had some great jazz pouring out of the open door. Large windows revealed a five-piece combo playing to a well dressed crowd, mostly African-American. The band was crammed onto a small stage, which was butted up against the windows facing the street. I stood there and watched through one of these windows, soaking up the atmosphere and enjoying the music. From my vantage point behind the drummer's seat, I could watch the interaction of band. It was pretty cool until I noticed that some of the folks were watching me bob my head and grin like a simpleton through the window. Some were smiling at me and others had a look of impatience as if to say, "When is this moron going to leave?". That question was answered when the drummer looked down at something on the floor to his left, caught me out of the corner of his eye and did a raised eyebrows, ever so slight double-take. If the window weren't there, we were close enough to shake hands. I think he rather would have bipped me on the nose with a drumstick and told me to shoo. It was a good time to continue on towards the Fillmore.

I approached the Fillmore and got in line. I wanted to get in early to check out all of the amazing concert posters that adorn the walls upstairs in the bar and especially in the restaurant. The restaurant is where most of the older posters from the psychedelic era are displayed. The ceilings are really high and the framed posters climb the wall all the way up. Some are hard to make out, but it's fun to watch everyone craning their necks to view them. Posters are still made for current shows, but not every one. When I asked a bartender (imagine that, me at the bar) if there was one made for the Rollins show, he told me no and they usually only commission posters for shows that sell out in advance to make the cost worthwhile. If there is a poster for the show you attend, you get one for free on your way out the door. So far, I have a Gov't Mule poster and one from a recent Lucinda Williams show.

Once inside, you climb a short staircase that takes a turn to the left, where you're greeted by someone with, "Welcome to the Fillmore". I said thanks and asked him if there was another opening band besides Mother Superior. He never met my eyes and said quietly, "I dunno I dunno" and dismissed me by booming over my head to the folks behind me, "Welcome to the Fillmore". Man, this guy has one job and he takes it seriously. He's gonna be able to negotiate a fine wage as a Wal-Mart greeter someday.

I got a beer and checked out the merchandise. Got a Rollins shirt that has the Search and Destroy tattoo design on the back. Picked up the two Mother Superior CDs I didn't have and ventured on to the poster viewing. After a while I made my way down onto the main floor. The opening band, Supafuzz, who was supasucky, was just starting up. I endured their clamor by having a couple more beers.

After their set, I talked a little to the guy next to me. He had on a shirt that I had to ask him about. It had a logo and text that read: The Gaza Strippers. I thought that was pretty funny. Turns out they're some punk band. No wonder I've never heard of 'em. He asked if I'd heard of Mother Superior and I told him about them also being the Rollins Band et al. He seemed a little amazed and I was hoping I wasn't coming off like some music nerd. I know, it's a lost cause.

Mother Superior came on and wowwed everybody. They sounded great and got a real strong response from the crowd. I had a great spot about 20 people deep from the security rail, slightly stage right in front of the guitar player. Personal space was not at a premium yet, so it was pretty comfortable.

I've never caught anything thrown from the stage before. Not a drumstick, not a sweaty towel (thank God), not even a guitar pick. Once, I was able to deflect a Rick Nielson pick at a Cheap Trick show and snatch it off of the ground before the hordes swooped in, but I don't count that because I think he averages just under 250,000 picks thrown per show. How he gets a note in, I don't know. The guy's like some sort of pick tree in Autumn.

Right at the end of Mother Superior's set, I raised my cup of beer to take a drink. I never took my eyes off of the stage and I noticed that the guitarist, Jim Wilson, took his hand back frisbee-style and flung his pick into the crowd. I remember thinking, "Man, he got some distance on that one", when I noticed a slight arc in the flight of the pick. It was coming right for me at a high rate of speed. Hands flashed over heads, swiping at the treasured plastic triangle, missing it as it completed it's long, curving dive. I was frozen in awe of Mr. Wilson's feat, with my cup of beer about an inch from my lips, when that pick hit me right in the mouth.

I emitted something that sounded like "ook" from my throat and before I knew it, fifteen guys were swarming at my feet. No one seemed to notice that I'd been hit, but they knew that pick was in the area. I stood there in shock, the cup still an inch from my face. I looked in the cup to see if it had landed in there, but it did not. What I was amazed at was the fact that Jim Wilson's pick had negotiated a treacherous path and made one final manuever to split the narrowing gap between my smackers and the frosty beverage. Kind of like Luke and the Deathstar.

The lights came up and I timidly looked around to see if anyone was laughing at me. In my mind I could hear it, "Man, that pick hit that dude right it the face and he didn't even move!". But no one seemed to care. I suppose, had I snapped my head back, they could have put two and two together. So the possum act did the trick.

I got another beer for Rollins' set and took a place about 30 people back this time. (Let's see you hit me now, Wilson). Actually, it was in deference to the burgeoning pit that was already taking shape while some live Humble Pie played over the P.A. These Cro-Magnons would mosh to a polka if it were loud enough.

The lights went down and Mother Superior (now, of course, in the form of the Rollins Band) walked onstage and began to play "Disconnect". This tune has a somewhat long intro and I figured it was to build up and make for a dramatic entrance by our hero, Henry Rollins. During this intro, I looked around and saw the very confused faces of the audience. Why were these guys back onstage? I could read their minds. To my right, Gaza Strippers Guy was listening to a large, obviously very drunk man who looked remarkably like Chris Farley. Then, Gaza Strippers Guy pointed to me and Farley lumbered in my direction. He looks down at me at says, "Dat guy says you know these guys. Where's Rollins Band at?"

"Those guys are the Rollins Band", I tell him, pointing to the stage.

"No, dat's Mother Supeeeerieeer", he says.

"Actually, they're both", I said.

He spins around to look at the band onstage, then whirls back to me and asks, "What, da Rollins Band get sick or sumtin' and dese guys are fillin' in?"

Now I had to explain this carefully or I feared he may grind the gears in his head and set off the smoke detectors in the Fillmore. But I didn't want to be condescending in case he could detect that through his foggy state. So I said, "No. This is Mother Superior and they are also the Rollins Band. Rollins liked 'em so much he made them his new lineup."

"So they're the Rollins Band right now?", he asks, a little flicker of light showing behind his eyes.

I replied, "Yeah, this is a Rollins tune they're playing right now. So, yeah they're playing as the Rollins Band right now".

Then the dull gaze returned to his face and he asked, "Okay. But just for tonight right? The the Rollins Band comes back on tour?"

Henry hit the stage and the crowd went wild. Farley was still looking at me waiting for an answer, so I just said, "Uh-huh", never looking away from the stage. He said something that I couldn't hear, seemed to notice that his leader was onstage and charged forward with a "whoooooo", raising his beer and breaking the circle of the pit like a daisy chain. He took two tours around the inside rim of the pit, then tripped on something and went down hard. His beer cup hit the floor with such force that it spit up a fountain about two feet higher than the heads of those surrounding the pit. Apparently, those people thought that now the moshers were throwing cups of beer around and they retaliated by throwing their full cups of brew into the pit. It was like a water park ride in Hell. I stayed at my 30-man-deep position and turned my attention back to stage.

Rollins played a nice long set that never seemed to falter in pace or energy. He's 40 years old and rocks harder than anyone I've ever seen. I was exhausted just from watching him. Maybe he sucks energy from you as you watch like a rock and roll tapeworm. I know that as I walked back to the Kabuki garage, I felt as if I had a good workout. I passed the jazz club (on the other side of the street) and I half felt like knocking on the window to the drummer, but that would have been juvenile. Instead, I waved to all the faces and did a little dance--you know, the "driving the bus" move--from across the street. I'm an idiot sometimes.