Tony Goes Boom (The Black Crowes At The Fillmore Part 7!)
But, as it is every single time I visit the City By The Bay, I was assailed by gargantuan people whose method of attack is to stand directly in my way. It's only appropriate that the Major League club here is named The Giants. God knows enough of them have stood in front of me so that I witness concerts like a 25 cent peepshow. Except this peepshow costs upwards of forty bucks, a hotel stay, dinner, and beer at six-fifty a pop. This time, a couple of drunks--one about my height and one roughly a UPS truck's height-- came wobbling from the bar area and the short one plopped himself right in front of me. The Goliath took a step in front of us and looked back at Mary, then tapped his buddy's shoulder and pointed at Mary, shaking his head as if to say that he shouldn't stand there. His little buddy nodded and they both scooted back towards the entryway to the bar. As the 7-foot-whatever dude glanced back at us, Mary tapped him on the shoulder and said thanks while I gave him a nice "thumbs up". But it couldn't last.
I noticed that patrons were facing a bottleneck when they left the bar area to squeeze onto the main floor. The two guys were standing directly in the path of the de facto traffic lane. I figured that they'd have to move eventually and assumed that they'd simply make their way out into the sea of humanity somewhere. Alas, after getting bumped a few dozen times and having beer inadvertently spilled on their shoes, they both slid a few feet to their right which landed them--you guessed it--right in front of us. Over the music, I heard a couple of whiny groans behind me. I turned around to see two ladies with deflated looks on their faces. They'd done the same as Mary and I by getting to the Fillmore early and securing a nice spot. Mary could actually see the stage from her perch and ordinarily I'd suffer my fate as predetermined by the Rock Gods for a visit to Frisco and just grin and bear the limited view. But this guy was huge. Eclipse huge. And I really didn't want to stare directly at the generic surfer t-shirt graphics between his shoulder blades all night. I had an idea that might solve everything.
I stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder. He swung around and looked down at me. I leaned upwards towards his ear, standing on my toes, and motioned back towards the two ladies. I told him that he was blocking our view. In a belligerent tone, he asked me what I wanted him to do about it. I stiffened a bit, trying not to get fired up, and told him that I appreciated that he was so considerate before when stepping in front of Mary. I proposed that he and I switch places (a difference of about 3 feet from the stage) because where I was standing was up against the wall and he would be able to see over my head easily while the wall guaranteed that he would not block anyone's view. A win-win for everyone.
"I don't think so", he smirked. He swung around and turned his back on me.
His drunken dismissal of my logic infuriated me and everything fired at once inside my head. This only happens once in a while and when it does, it scares everyone because I act so out of character-- kind of like Bill Bixby on Friday nights in the late '70s. I put my hand on his shoulder and surprised myself by jerking him back to look me in the face. I gritted my teeth and pointed my finger in his face, explaining that I couldn't understand how he could have been so cool a few minutes earlier and become such an asshole now. I asked how it makes no sense to him to step a few feet back to make everyone happy with virtually no effect on his enjoyment of the show. His little buddy looked at me as if I were a talking dog. The giant blinked slowly and his huge head rocked a little on his tree stump neck.
"Fuck off", he slurred and stepped towards me. I put my shoulders back and started forward when I was yanked back by the collar, hard. It was Mary. I turned around to see a frantic look on her face. She told me to back off and try to enjoy the show. We were having a good time, she told me. I looked back at the giant who had turned around, probably satisfied in his thinking that he'd intimidated another member of the Lollipop Guild.
The two ladies behind me patted me on the shoulders and thanked me for trying to reason with the behemoth. "What an asshole", they said, but I wondered what would have happened if Mary hadn't grabbed me. At the very least, it would have been a nasty scene at a very cool show and I would have been just as much of an asshole as this ape. Things like this have only happened a few times and, in fact, once before at the Fillmore. I guess that scent of spilled beer, sweat, and patchouli residue gets my Irish up for some reason. As much as I like the music of the genre, I'm such an anti-hippie. Must be all the Dial I use on a regular basis.
The giant and his even more wobbly friend stayed around for a while, but I was able to see enough to enjoy the show and so were the gals behind me. Soon, the band took a break for intermission and the lights came up. I prepared myself for some choice indecipherable threats from Shrek, but he only glanced my way and scuffed his heels towards the bar. Mary and I made some small talk with the ladies and generally people-watched until the band came on again.
This time, our view stayed unobstructed and I guessed that the two mooks had made their way farther up front so that they could ruin the view of many more people and in turn invite more spilled drinks and verbal thrashings. The Black Crowes drove on and on into the night, sounding better and better. I would gander at the cameras from time to time and noticed that most of the shots seemed to come from stationary, as opposed to hand held, cameras. Much like those at a football game. I wondered if any of these cameramen had shot manly men crashing into each other on a gridiron and, if so, how they felt about filming spindly, twirling, and slightly effeminate Chris Robinson. Especially with the knowledge that (at least back then) he was boinking Kate Hudson. Hard to keep it steady, I imagined.
The show was phenomenal and showcased the Crowes' hits such as Hard To Handle and Remedy, but also delivered renditions of album tracks I would not have bet on. Willie Dixon's Mellow Down Easy, while played by the Crowes for some years by now, still surprised me a little. It was fun to hear its thumping beat and the band really let it rip. I was completely caught off guard when they chose The Band's The Night They Drove Ol' Dixie Down for a closer. It seemed to be a little anti-climatic, but then again, there had been a few climaxes already. You gotta let 'em down easy sometimes, I suppose.
When the house lights came up, Mary and I decided to hang around for a moment to let the initial crush of people mash their way down the stairs. I was anxious to get out soon though, as I wasn't sure what to expect across the street at the Boom Boom Room. So we made our way past those waiting at the merchandise booth and coat check (more venues need to add a coat check counter) and joined the cattle drive. Mary and I both looked forward to getting a souvenir poster of the event as that's the norm for sold out shows at the Fillmore. But by the time we reached the bottom of the stairs, the posters were gone. Why they don't produce a fixed number for an event they know is sold out, I'll never know. So in the end, we had no Instant Live recording and no poster. Shit.
We poured out onto Geary Street with the rest of the crowd. Jean and Keno weren't picking up their phones, so Mary and I shrugged to each other and headed over to the Boom Boom Room, out of which we could hear some riff-heavy blasts coming out of the open door. As we approached, it got louder and I got excited. A bonus show! Ten bucks apiece and we were in the door. The difference of the volume from the sidewalk to just inside the club was remarkable. I leaned into Mary and squeezed her a little to thank her for coming here tonight and laughed into her ear, pointing to the band. "Fairies Wear Boots", I said. The trio was into the opening riffs of the Black Sabbath romp. "What!?", she replied, most likely thinking I'd offered up a Dungeons and Dragons inspired non-sequitur. "It's a Sabbath tune", I told her. "Ohhhhh, of course", she said with more than a pinch of sarcasm. We strode to the bar and got a couple of drinks. Over the absolute wail coming from the stage in the long, narrow club, the bartender could hardly hear our order but was able to garner that I'd like a Coors Light. He shook his head and thumbed over his shoulder to the beers available. No Coors Light. What was up with this town? I got a Bud Light and Mary got a Anchor Steam. We made our way up front to the surprisingly sparse dance floor in front of the stage.
I had expected more of a crowd what with flyers posted around the neighborhood, website info, and print ads boasting this event as being a post-Black Crowes party. Usually, that's enough to get folks to stumble on in or, in my case, actually plan ahead and fret over it. As we stepped closer towards the stage, I was actually shocked at the volume of this band. I've been to hundreds of shows and my ears have withstood the bombastic attacks from the arena acts of the '80s to club acts playing to crowds of 40 with a PA built for 400. Still, we ventured forth, drawn into the heavy, heavy riffs and clamorous drums.
I had done a little Internet homework on Rose Hill Drive, but was still a little shaken at their youthful appearance. The sounds emanating from the stage were telling my brain that the musicians should have been close to or at least my age. My eyes betrayed those thoughts, because these kids were half my age. I was trying to imagine how they possibly swam upstream against the whitewater current of Modern Punk, rap-rock, rap and hip hop, emo, or whatever else the fickle music industry is feeding this generation. They fought the current indeed and landed themselves on Rock Island. I could only surmise that they'd spent long boring summers, trapped in their parent's basements without the freedom of a driver's license, listening to boxes of forgotten Mahogany Rush and Robin Trower cassettes long since abandoned by their cool, stoner uncle Bobby. How else could they have come to this musical conclusion?
The music was guitar driven, to be sure, but the drums and bass were equally present in the excellent sound mix. But as I said, it was loud. Free-throw-to-win-the-game loud. Train-whistle-in-a-tunnel loud. Motorhead-in-your-kitchen loud. Louder than I've heard music played since I stuck my head into a PA during AC/DC's Back In Black at a junior high dance---and lived to hear again days later. We spied our new friend from the Fillmore line across the room. Mary went over and tapped her shoulder to say hi. The lady smiled, but didn't seem to recognize Mary, a woman that she'd spent a half-hour talking to just two hours ago. Nancy Reagan was right on those public service announcements; that's why they call it dope. And now I know.
My wife by my side, I stood in defiance of this aural assault. I was getting punched in the chest by the bass drum kick hard enough to worry about skipping a heartbeat. I think I was visibly bent backwards just slightly to absorb the blows. I looked at my wife and she was wincing a bit and I was reminded of the scene in Indiana Jones where Harrison Ford and Karen Allen are tied up and forced to watch the opening of the Ark. Just like in the movie, I was sure my face was melting for witnessing this event. While So while Mary and I were both enjoying the tunes immensely, she leaned over and showed me that she'd taken her ear plugs out of her pocket. I turned my gaze back to the stage and gauged the volume again. I nodded and reluctantly took out my plugs too.
The new earplugs we'd purchased a while back were much better at filtering high levels of volume instead of muffling it like the old foam jobs we'd smashed into our ear canals for years. While the model I wore had little pegs to handle them by that made me look like I had Martian antennae, I was glad to suffer any strange looks for the ability to hear the next morning.
More people starting coming in, no doubt drawn by the incredible music flooding out the door and into the streets. The dance floor was getting a little crowded and a couple of college-aged girls were really rocking out, swinging their long hair and spilling their beer. Mary got whipped with the locks a couple of times and did not take to it kindly. I tried to settle her down, but realized that she was having a Bill Bixby moment just like I did earlier. Then one of the girls stumbled and bumped into Mary from the blindside. She didn't even acknowledge it and Mary suddenly had just had enough. She turned and walked towards the back of the club. I followed to make sure she was okay and she sat down at a cabaret styled table. I sat down, but she motioned for me to stay up front where I was having a good time. She was just at her limit for putting up with people, she told me. While I was there, though, I got us another drink--another brew for me and a double whiskey for my love. That ought to loosen her up, I thought.
I delivered the hefty Jamesons, kissed my wife, and ventured back into the onslaught. It was loud enough were Mary was sitting and even with my earplugs firmly in place, walking towards the stage was like leaning into gail force winds while getting shot in the solar plexus by batting cage pitching machines. The sound was clear and clean, not distorted or topped out at all. I was loving it.
One song later, Mary came over and said she wanted to leave. Before I could plead with her to stay, she was telling me to stay and that she would walk the short blocks to the hotel. I paused; now what was this, I thought. A trick? A test? Usually, anything remotely sounding like "I'm going, but you can stay" could end up messy if I was stupid enough to agree to it. But when I started towards the door, she looked me in the eye and told me that she meant it. I looked at my watch. It was about 12:20am and I figured the band would play until 1:00 or so. I wasn't worried about her walking back alone because we were in what I consider to be the safest neighborhood in the entire city. So I walked her to the door and kissed her goodnight.
"Are you sure you don't want me to come back with you?", I asked.
She gave me a reassuring smile and told me to stay. I was thrilled with her attitude and really grateful to witness the rest of the band's set. She started out the door, but then looked back at me. "Just do me a favor and don't drink anymore. You've had quite a bit today", she noted.
"Yeah, you're right. No problem", I replied.
She walked out the door and I made my way back towards the stage. When I was passing the bar, the bartender caught my eye. I looked back over my shoulder towards the door, leaning way over as if I were trying to look around the corner of the doorway. With the coast clear, I put up my index finger to get that last Bud Light. The Perfect Crime. Until Mary reads this, that is.
I went back up front and was nodding along to the raucous nouveau classic rock sounds of Rose Hill Drive and watching the crowd smile and cheer for every unknown but suddenly loved song when my leg suffered a little earthquake. I grabbed my thigh and it stopped. Momentarily, I was relieved, but a little concerned about this. Just then it happened again! "What the fuck?", I said aloud, although it was impossible for anyone to have heard it over the crushing mortar blasts coming from the stage. When the third earthquake came, I grabbed my thigh again and felt something rumbling in my cupped hand. It was my phone. Set on vibrate. I rolled my eyes at my own stupidity.
I immediately thought it must be Mary and reached into my pocket. I instinctively looked at the caller ID feature and mouthed what I saw; JANET. "It's Janet", I said excitedly to no one that could conceivably hear me and I flipped open the phone. I raised it to my ear and thhhwwakk!!! I'd forgotten that I had my earplugs in, the ones with the stems sticking out. After ramming the one on the right deep into my ear canal, I recoiled like I'd taken a left roundhouse from Clubber Lang, even stumbling a bit. I turned from the stage, hunched over, and started towards the back of the club all the while yelling into the phone, "hold on Janet, I can't hear you, hold on babe". Rose Hill Drive's throbbing attack sent out a repeated strike that seemed to send off audio shrapnel that had me literally ducking and weaving my way towards the exit so as I could make myself heard. I felt like I was in a Die Hard movie, minus the bare feet and broken glass.
When I reached the door, I held up the phone to the imposing bouncer and said, "Hey man, can I take this outside and come back in?". He nodded and I started across the threshold.
He smacked me square across the chest with his meaty forearm which made me emit a sound which I can most closely spell as "awook". I looked at him incredulously.
He smiled with a curled lip, "You can go out with that, Mate", he said with a thick British accent, pointing at my cellphone, "but not with that". He then pointed at the bottle of Bud Light in my left hand.
"Oh shit, I didn't even realize....", I stammered to the bouncer. "Janet? Janet, hold on. I'm right here", I was yelling into the phone as I turned back into the club. I looked around for a place to set my beer and saw what looked like a nice empty black table right at the exit. "How's this?", I asked the bouncer.
"Fine, I suppose", he said grinning.
With his approval, I released the grip of my beer to set it on what I thought was a convenient table by the exit but in fact dropped it into a what was the dark abyss of a trash can. I heard the heartbreaking crash of a half-full bottle against the remains of other dead soldiers, those having been truly emptied in the heat of the battle. The bouncer laughed heartily and I sneered a bit as I slid by him on my way out the door.
The sound of the show drifted off in the distance as I walked down the street a few steps to revive Janet's call. "Are you there, buddy?", I asked.
"What are you doing", Janet said more than asked. She sounded a bit sleepy and I was now even more confused to get the call at this hour.
I told her I was at the Crowes after party. "Where's Mary?", she asked with concern. I explained why I was alone in a nightclub in San Francisco as I strolled along Fillmore Street, up to the corner bodega and back towards the Boom Boom Room. I lost track of the conversation for just a moment when I tilted my head to listen to the crushing wave of volume coupled with whoops and hollers emanating from the door of the club. When I asked her what she was doing up at this hour, I was regaled with tales of her white trash neighbors coming over to drink beer and generally keep everyone up past their bedtime. Scott was asleep, I was told, but she was wide awake and remembered that Mary and I would most likely be up at this hour. So she thought she'd call to check in with us.
We chatted for a few more minutes. I smiled and nodded at passersby and gazed up into the misty night in Japantown as I found myself swept up in the fact that I'd had a most complete day. From coffee to baseball, from a brief nap to true rock and roll, from a beer to near fisticuffs, from the Fillmore to the Boom Boom Room. Now on Fillmore, happily talking to my concert buddy with a pinch of bittersweet joy, I slowly walked back to the club to see the end of the Rose Hill Drive set. As I was ready to tell Janet that I had to go, I heard the familiar wheeze of the last breath from the amps and cymbals, then a "thank you, good night" over the PA and when I saw the trickle of humanity's worst present themselves into the cool early morning hours, I realized that I'd missed the last few minutes of the show.
"You still there, Ton'?", Janet asked as I stood a few feet from the door looking at the British doorman. He smiled as he put his index finger to the side of his nose and flipped it towards me with a wink. I shrugged at him and the gave him a friendly wave. Somehow, while I would have normally been bugged out missing the last minutes of a great show, at this moment I was relaxed and happy to get back to my sister-in-law. "Yeah, bud, I'm here", I told Janet. I went on to tell her about the shows and included the requisite "you would have dug it" tagline. I went on to tell her that I really wanted to someday show her the Fillmore. Janet and I are kindred spirits of sorts and I can't wait to see her face when she walks into that venue. We made a "pinky swear" over the phone that night to see a concert there sometime if only to share the "Fillmore Experience".
"I wish you were here", I said as a goodnight.
"I wish you were here, but I'm really glad you're there", she replied.
We said goodnight and I clapped my phone shut in front of the bodega. I sighed and spun around to take in the night air and thanked God for my place in this world. I stood there, bathed in the flickering light of the bodega's neon sign, smiling like an idiot, and when I caught myself aware I didn't care. Alone on a corner in a bustling city at 1:30am, after a whirlwind day, I laughed at myself and bounded back to the Miyako Hotel.
I swiped the keycard and tried to enter the room as quietly as possible. I kicked off my shoes and emptied my pockets on the endtable as I stared at my wife with wide open night eyes. Mary stirred as I quickly brushed my teeth and tumbled into bed. "How're you doing?", she asked.
I rolled over and looked her in the eyes. "Are you kidding me?", I asked. "I couldn't be better".
posted by Tony at 9:20 PM
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