Update--More New Stuff Below

As always, the author thanks you for checking in from time to time to scan over his rambling drabble.

The roadtrip finale is just below this post if you've been waiting for me to wrap that one up. The last installment is a bit long, but I didn't want to drag it out to a part 5. There will be more Hitting The Road With Keno stories in the future including fables of Ozzfest, the grimy music scene in Hollywood, and the unlikely viewing of CSN&Y from a luxury suite.

If you're reading this on the day it is posted (Sunday, February 25th, 2007), tonight might be the source of yet another chapter in the ...Keno series. He and I are heading over to the Save Mart Center in Fresno to see The Who. This one's been on my radar for years and while I'm sad that they're down to two original members and I've assuredly missed the apex of the band's powerful presence, I anxiously await what will unfold before me this evening.

Thanks again and scroll down to finish up the four parter, Hitting The Road With Keno.

---Tony

Hitting The Road With Keno (Part Four)

When we last left our heroes, the young man at the door to the Fillmore said something that stunned them.

"Hey", he said, "were you guys at the Warfield?"

----------

He'd given us a pretty good once over as we stood on the sidewalk just outside the historic venue and I was wondering what the hell he was looking at. When he asked about the Warfield, Keno and I looked at each other like this guy was hosting a 3 card monty game and we were the marks.

"Uh, yeah, we were. Why?", I stammered. "And how'd you know?"

Keno added, "Yeah, how'd you do that?"

The young man smiled and pointed at our left hands. "Your hand stamps. It's kind of our sister venue. You know what? Go on in", he said as he nodded up the stairs into the ballroom.

"Are you serious?", I asked excitedly.

He laughed a little and said, "Yeah, c'mon up. You made it this far. It's cool". I offered to somehow pay for tickets that didn't exist and he waved me and Keno off. His female assistant asked him how she was to account for our presence. Should she scan the "comp" ticket left at the door or just let us in. They were both grinning at the "pay it forward" thing they were attempting. Scanning the ticket twice would throw things all out of whack with bookkeeping, he said. Keno and I paused as they tried to figure this out and when the young man noticed, he said, "Go on guys, this won't matter. Have a good time".

We shook his hand and thanked them both profusely. We lept up the stairs and I began babbling about how that never should have happened and that it was like it was a rock and roll miracle. We entered the lobby and I immediately wanted to show Keno the historic concert posters adorning the walls of the Fillmore, but we quickly took a peak out onto the main floor to see Robin Trower mugging his way through a soulful solo. Keno was smiling like a child. Back in the lobby, we marveled at photos and posters commemorating the acts that have played there. We grabbed a couple of beers and headed upstairs to an area in which you can't see the stage but can hear the music from afar. In this area, you can order surprisingly passable food, more drinks, and lounge around with the ability to carry on a conversation at a normal level. But what I like about it more than anything else is the fact that the oldest and most historically significant concert posters are displayed up there.

Posters announcing Bay Area concerts with designs ranging from the simple monochromatic rectangles with block writing that were found on telephone poles in abundance in the late '50s and early sixties to the brightly colored cartoonish posters announcing many alternative acts of the '90s. Of course, in between those eras were the psychedelic posters of the late '60s which were the dominant residents of the upstairs area. After gawking at artwork we'd only seen in magazines and rock and roll history books, we decided it was time to actually head out onto the main floor to catch the end of the show.

Keno hadn't realized the history behind the Fillmore and when he saw names like Hendrix, Zeppelin, Joplin, the Dead, and many many others, he remarked how blown away he was to be in that building. Obviously, I'd failed to explain to him before we arrived just how much I love the place. I've stood on Civil War battlefields, gazed at the Constitution, looked over Gotham from atop the Twin Towers, climbed the stairs within the Statue of Liberty, and travelled deep into the Ozarks to walk the land on which my elders worked themselves to death. And when I step onto the boards of the Fillmore's ballroom dance floor, I feel no less of a sense of history than I do anywhere else in the nation.

We stepped into the crowd and the volume from the stage washed over us, but much more gently now than before with Rollins Band at the Warfield. While the show was a sellout, there was plenty of "personal space" on the main floor. We decided to make our way up front, but only as long as we didn't infringe on anyone's little stake. We didn't want to be "those people" that see a foot of real estate and plunk themselves right in front of you just as things are heating up when you've been there all night. As we strode deeper and deeper into the stage-lit jungle, I was amazed that Keno--who was leading this expedition--was able to keep going without breaking stride. We did jag to stage right a little, then a little more, but we were still making tracks. Before a few seconds had passed, we found ourselves right up against the stage, just to the right and in front of the monitors.

We looked behind us to make sure we weren't obstructing anyone's view. Not only did we not get any dirty looks, we got smiles and nods from all those around us. Amazing, I thought. Keno shrugged and laughed as he pointed to way back in the rear from whence our journey began lo those 20 seconds ago.

We watched as Robin Trower led his band into a couple more tunes. The great Davey Pattison was on vocals this night. Aside from the dearly departed original bassist and singer James Dewar, Pattison is my favorite Trower vocalist and he was in fine form this night. When he asked, I told Keno that these guys were all in their fifties and maybe pushing 60. He was shocked, but duly impressed. "They look like guys that might get together and play in their garage", he said, noting the lack of flashy stage clothing or physical histrionics. I nodded and said, "That's what rock and roll used to be. Just guys playing music without worrying about their hair or makeup or wrinkles".

A couple of women our age were rocking out beside me and one was well under 5 feet tall. I felt sorry for her because a pretty tall guy was in front of her, but she was grooving all the same. The big guy turned around and offered to move, but she declined. What a champ. I bent towards her and told her that she could stand in front of me because I had a clean view of the stage and she wouldn't block it. She said thanks and told me that I could put my beer on her head if I needed to put it down to applaud. Priceless.

The set ended a little sooner than I'd estimated. All in all, we'd been able to catch about 35 minutes of Trower's show, but it was free so we couldn't possibly complain. We joined the cattle drive out of the narrow stairwell and I stretched my neck to see if our friend was still manning the door when I spied another employee licking her thumb like she was turning pages of a newspaper. I moved my head to see through the crowd and was thrilled to see that she was passing out.........wait for it........Fillmore concert posters!

A tradition of the Fillmore is to hand out replicas of the concert poster commissioned for the night's performance, given that the artist has sold enough tickets to warrant a poster and therefore deem it an "event" worthy of such a commemoration. I guess Robin Trower was just such a night and I gave Keno the rundown as we shuffled down the steps, accepted our cardboard prize, and exited into the shockingly mild San Francisco night. Since we had taxied over from the Warfield, we were free for the evening and I suggested that we head over to The Boom Boom Room, catty-cornered from the Fillmore, to see a blues guy who called himself Chicken Man. Who could resist a name like that? And after the rock and roll karma we'd had so far, it had to be good.

We rolled up our posters and started to cross the street. On the way, we saw a beautiful woman with a cool looking dog. We casually asked what kind of dog it was and she replied with a breed I can't recall at this time, but it was a great looking dog. Keno patted the dog's head and I looked to see if there was a crowd over at The Boom Boom Room.

"Did you guys see the show?", the woman asked.

I assumed that she was from the neighborhood and was used to people roaming around at this hour. "Yeah, we saw the last part of it", I replied.

She smiled and said, "Wasn't it great?"

Keno and I both looked at each other, then at the dog, then at the woman. "You were there too?", asked Keno.

"Uh-huh. God, Trower's so killer on guitar", she said. "Have you seen him before?"

I hesitated for a second and glanced at the dog again. "Uh, yeah, a bunch of times back in Fresno. So, wait a minute....."

Keno was on my heels. "......if you were at the show...."

".......what did you do with the dog?", I finished.

She smiled and swung her body around a little. "I live just right over there and I went over and got him. I like to watch people come out of the place to see their reaction."

"Thank God", I blurted, "I thought you'd left him in the car or tied up somewhere all this time".

She went on to explain that she goes to shows at the Fillmore all the time and named a few of the recent ones. Poor Keno had no knowledge of some of the bands when I told her that I'd seen the listings for those shows or that I'd seen some of the bands way back when. As she spoke to Keno, I noticed that she was a little older than I'd first suspected. She had long, naturally greying hair pulled back from her face and a nice petite figure. I wondered how a woman like this could have been at the show alone and now stood on Geary Street without a companion other than her dog.

As much as I was enjoying talking to this woman, I was getting antsy to get into the Boom Boom Room to complete the rock and roll trifecta. When she asked what we were up to next, I motioned towards the tiny venue and explained how we'd been to two shows already. She really enjoyed the tale of our travels so far and said that we'd have a good time at the Boom Boom Room. We spoke for a few more minutes and I mentioned to Keno that we should head on over. We shook hands with the woman and introduced ourselves as we said goodbye.

Now, I'm normally pretty good with names. She said her name and I repeated it back to her, telling her that it was nice talking to her and I said my name; a nice little trick to help you remember names is to repeat what you hear back to the person. Keno is not good with names. Of anyone or anything. In fact, he tends to make up names for things and people. It takes some getting used to and when you spend enough time around him, you scare yourself because you begin to understand him perfectly. I've become fairly fluent in Kenoese.

Another problem with understanding Kenoese is that it becomes ingrained in your psyche and you begin to use Kenoisms in your everyday speech. The phrase, "ever since" becomes "every since". You don't go "all the way" down the street, you go "all the ways". It's so bad for me now that when I use proper English, it sounds funny. But aside from personal usage of Kenoese, there's also the overwhelming usage from Keno himself that can actually alter your memory so that what he names something becomes the proper name for that thing. Or, in this case, a person.

As we rambled across the street, it occurred to both of us at the same time that we should have invited this woman to the blues show. She could have taken the dog home and joined us for more good conversation and some good tunes. I turned around and she'd left. It was too late and I shrugged. We paid our way in and headed to the bar. Chicken-Man was in between sets, so we were able to get a drink and take a look around. The place was about half full, which is easy to accomplish at the small, narrow club.

"Man, that Angelica sure was a cool person", said Keno, rolling up his poster and securing it with the rubber band given to him by the bartender.

I looked at him as I fixed mine. "Who?"

"Angelica", he said. "You know, the woman we were just talking to".

I laughed and told him her name wasn't even close to Angelica and I asked where he pulled that name from. He didn't know as he is unable to explain the nuances of Kenoese and its power to change reality, however recent. I corrected him on her name numerous times in the next few months when we'd reminence about the trip. By relentlessly referring to her as Angelica and due to the influence of Kenoese, I cannot now remember her proper name and she is forever remembered as Angelica to both of us. I remember her name as not being exotic, but not commonplace either. But it is wiped from my memory and has been supplanted with Angelica permanently. Such is the power of Kenoese.

Standing inside The Boom Boom Room, we surveyed the clientele. We noticed a few people from the Fillmore crowd, including the lady that offered her head as a table, her attractive friend, and more than a few oafish drunken middle aged guys. Chicken Man was taking the stage for what I assumed was his second set of the night. He reminded me a bit of Bo Diddley and played what looked like a guitar made out of a hubcap and a shoe box. He had an all white, all female band, which I found strange for no good reason. They played fairly standard blues with a shuffle beat and Chicken Man sang with a soulful, gruffy voice. And like most live blues acts, it had people bobbing their heads to the infectous beat.

We found a couple of seats along the wall and watched the show. A few moments later, two African American ladies sat down near us and we exchanged pleasantries. I'd had enough liquid courage to venture onto the dance floor so I asked the one I thought was the more attractive of the two if she'd like to dance. She smiled and said sure. I smirked at Keno as I stood. I'd left him sitting there with a woman that looked like Aunt Esther from Sanford and Son.

We danced a little and made some small talk. She complemented me on my dancing and I asked her the prescription on her glasses had suddenly run out. She laughed. We kept dancing for a few minutes and as the song kept on and on, I glanced at the stage. Chicken Man was in a long, extended solo with his band hammering out a hypnotic beat. I was sure we had passed the seven minute mark and both of us were getting a little tired. We agreed to bail out and sit back down.

Keno was half grinning at me and half glaring. I'd left him in an awkward position by going out to dance. He had three options; ask her to dance, at least make stilted conversation with her, or just sit there silently. He had taken the third option and I laughed out loud. He was cussing me out in his head, but smiling all the same. A few songs later, I did it to him again as I escorted my partner out onto the floor. Once again, a bouncy little number degenerated into a redundant dirge and we nodded to each other that it was okay to quit this dance as well. I think we'd made it ten minutes that time. At least I got my cardio in for the day.

The show ended not too much later and we spilled out onto the street to look for a cab. Just as before, we landed one almost instantly and were whisked back across town to our hotel near the Warfield. On the way, I was telling Keno about the best microwave burritos in the world that Mary and I had found in a little bodega near The Hotel Metropolis. It was after a Gov't Mule show and we were starving. The area closes up like Beruit after midnight, but the bodega was open, mostly catering to late night liquor runs from the homeless using the handfuls of change they've garnered. We'd gone in with the initial thought that some crackers or danish would hold us over until morning, but when we spied the giant burritos in the case, the decision was made. It has been a tradition for us ever since.

The cab pulled up along the curb outside the Hotel Metropolis. We paid the driver and stepped out, being immediately converged upon by a panhandler. Keno had his rolled up poster in his hand and whacked the guy's outsretched hand, then quickly giving him a shot to the forehead, all the while telling him "no!" like you would a dog that had jumped up on you. The hollow "thunk" sound that the poster made on the poor guy's skull made me gasp, but we never broke stride towards the bodega. "You just hit that guy on the head", I said.

Keno barely looked over his shoulder at me. "Yeah?"

"You can't do that. I can't believe you did that", I scolded him. The homeless guy just stood frozen. He also couldn't believe that Keno just popped him.

We walked up to the bodega to see the guys that run the place looking back at us through the security gate. They had just closed and we made the same "awww" sound just like outside the Fillmore earlier. There was a 7-11 just over on Market and it was there that we found our early morning feast.

By now, we were buzzing pretty heavy and anything sounded good to eat. Keno chose some sort of burrito and I picked out a carnitas wrap. We blasted them in the microwave, paid, and scampered back to the hotel. In the room, we watched some late news while scarfing down the delicious burritos. A bag of chips and some good old San Francisco tap finished off the meal.

My next memory is waking up later that morning to the sounds of the city coming to life down on Market Street, muffled through our balcony door. I stirred and looked around the room. Taking a personal inventory, I discoverd that, with the absence of my shoes, I was still fully clothed and had slept on top of the covers of the still made-up bed. I could only assume that I'd finished my food and decided, much like a dog, that where I sat looked like a good place to sleep.

Keno and I rehashed the evening's events and pieced together the whirlwind night. Our rememberance took us all the way up to the burritos and Keno wanted to know what it was he ate because it was so damn good. I couldn't remember, so we looked for the wrapper. Mine was on the floor near the trash can so it looked like I'd at least made an effort to throw it away. We looked everywhere for his until we came to agree that he must have mistaken his burrito for rice candy and ate the wrapper.

We collected ourselves and decided to hit the road. But first, we needed to eat and concluded that the corner sports bar and grill would do us some good. The burgers were good and it was close enough to walk to so we wouldn't have to pay to park. Stretching our legs felt good and the brisk late Saturday morning air felt good in our lungs. We walked into the restaurant and our waitress from the previous night smiled when she saw us. She came over and took our order.

I told her that I'd have the same thing from last night and she remembered my order. Keno decided to back off of the double cheeseburger and just do a single. He looked up at the waitress sheepishly and said, "I don't think I could eat another one of those this morning. That was a pretty big burger".

She hardly looked up from her order pad and replied, "Uh, yeah, that was a pound of beef you had there".

She spun to turn in our orders and Keno just sat there stunned. "Jesus", he muttered. "A pound of meat?" He said it over and over until I told him to knock it off.

A few minutes later, she returned with our burgers and they were as good as I remembered. A few bites in, Keno put his down with disgust. "What's the matter?", I asked.

"This thing's big enough as it is", he said. "How did I eat the one last night? Did I just flat our make a pig of myself?"

He seemed genuinely concerned, looking at me, then at his current burger with disbelief. I reassured him that while I was entertained watching him attack last night's mountain of beef, no one else even noticed. Except for our waitress, that is, who came back to check on us.

"A little more managable there?", she laughed.

Epilouge

A couple of days later, I'd read online that at the end of the tour with X, Rollins Band would return home to Los Angeles for a stand alone show at the Key Club in Hollywood. I desperately wanted to go and see a full set from the band and I had a feeling that it would most likely be the last opportunity to do so. I let Keno know about it and he was on board as well. I'll write about that adventure later on this site. While it may not have been as whirlwind as the San Francisco trip, it did include some Walk of Fame moments, a few more beers, and some hobnobbing at the infamous Rainbow. Check back for more installments of Hitting The Road With Keno.

Hitting The Road With Keno (Part Three)

The crowd had now come in closer to see with their own eyes what was the cause of all the aural carnage that is the Rollins Band. I could not stop smiling. Every note was so familiar to me from all the plays the albums got while I worked out in the garage. Back when I got my Mp3 player, I loaded it up and hit the pavement, running farther than ever before with Rollins screaming in my ears like a Drill Sergeant. When I joined a local gym, I quickly became almost physically sickened by the techno/dance/club songs that they played on their satellite radio. What made me sad was that there were so many cool choices and they picked a station that plays music with a backbeat that sounds like you're driving down the highway doing ninety with a flat and someone's playing a kazoo through a bullhorn. With Rollins Band tunes being volleyed across my brain through my headphones, I was sure that I was getting more inspiration that anyone else in there. The only problem was when a Rollins Band song would end and in the black hole between songs, I'd hear a smidgen of something like "I'm A Barbie Girl" or some other shit over the gym's speakers. Then, Rollins would slap me back into the workout as if I'd walked into a screen door.

As I'm wont to do, I stole glances around the Warfield to gauge the crowd's reaction, being careful not to miss too much at once of what was going down on stage. Not knowing what to expect, I was pleased to see the crowd really into it. I took another glance to my left to see the soccer mom grinning as stupidly as I was. She noticed that my head was turned in her direction, smiled, and screamed "yeaaahhh!!" at me loud enough for the people directly below our rail look up at us. I smiled wide at her and nodded. I wished that I'd talked to her before the show. I was fascinated that someone as normal as she seemed, not to mention female and even a little cute, was here and so into Rollins that she knew the lyrics better than I did. But then again, I probably looked like a Rotarian accountant that got lost on his way to the indoor driving range, so I felt like I'd found sort of a kindred spirit. I imagined that she felt the same way.

Rollins Band moved into the track Burned Beyond Recognition and the crowd shifted gears right along with the band. I was beside myself as I rotated my gaze from Rollins to Melvin Gibbs on bass, to Sim Cain on drums, to Chris Haskett on guitar, and helplessly back to Rollins. I say helplessly because, like a house on fire, he draws your gaze and you can almost feel the radiant heat of the onstage combustion. Keno was now fully engaged, smiling, nodding, and generally whooping it up. "This guy's a maniac!", he yelled into my ear. "It's like he's electrified or something!"

Two songs in and Henry Rollins was literally dripping with sweat, streams pouring off of his jawline and elbows. He was dressed in his usual stage garb of just a pair of black shorts and, at age 45, looked as muscular and imposing as ever under the stage lights. As he tore through the set, the stances he took and held seemed almost like those of a martial artist or even some sort of ancient warrior. It struck me once that he looked like a rock and roll Atlas, his shoulders bearing the crushing weight of a world filled with the musically ignorant and uninformed; those that buy Jimi Hendrix t-shirts at Target, but don't own Are You Experienced?, those that only consider the new releases in the Best Buy or Target Sunday ads, those that stop listening to anything released after the year they graduated high school, and those guys with the Faux-hawks.

The soccer mom and I sang (should read: yelled, shouted, or howled) along with abandon. A Rollins Band show almost seems like an aerobics class for degenerate rockers, so even though we were respectful of our personal space, she and I bumped from time to time in our enthusiastic bobbing and weaving. I didn't think much of it, especially since her husband was standing directly behind her, but then we had a Lady and the Tramp moment.

As I stated before, Keno and I were standing right at a waist high rail and I leaned my hip against it with a beer in my right hand and my left resting on the rail. The soccer mom brushed me again with her whipping hair and then slightly bumped me with her hip. I glanced at her briefly and she smiled. I gave her a closed-mouth smile with raised eyebrows in return, so as to convey a "what was that?" message. I leaned over to Keno and told him that there might be a problem. He grinned and said, "Uh, yeah, she's into you pal". I squinted at him in disbelief. "And her man is not having a good time with this", he continued with a nod towards the husband. Keno was right. When I pretended to look over my shoulder for a waitress, I saw the husband with a face that could easily have been a model for the monuments on Easter Island.

A few moments later, as the Warfield crowd was driven into a frenzy by Rollins Band's Starve, Soccer Mom and I bumped shoulders and then I felt her hand fall on my mine on the rail. I didn't move right away. Like I said about the hot desk clerk at the hotel in Part One, I'm bad at this sort of thing. I tried to keep my head bobbing and knee bending routine in check, but I was consumed with the thought of Stonefaced Husband clubbing me over the head with a pint glass. I subtly (at least I think I was subtle) started to move my hand away when I felt her squeeze it slightly.

Like the seconds during a car crash, a hundred thoughts went through my mind. The top five are listed here:

5. Does this chick need glasses? Can she not see (or now surely feel?) my wedding ring?
4. Hmm, is she hot?
3. Her husband's about my size; I think I can take him should he attack.
2. Where's that waitress?
1. Goddamit, she's fucking up my Rollins show!

I couldn't look as I pulled my hand from under her light grasp to scratch the imaginary itch on my left temple. It took me a few seconds to refocus on the show, but I was perplexed; she wasn't drunk or high that I could tell so I could not fathom what she was doing. I guess I was flattered a little, but mostly confused. I wasn't sure if Keno had seen her little gesture, but he was smiling at me when I looked over my right shoulder to flag down that damn waitress. Another round will help me shake the cobwebs from my head, I thought.

The set was flying by at a high rate of speed and as much as I was enjoying it, I was almost getting sad that it was going to end soon. Rollins Band was only allotted an hour to play and I had to fight like a junkie to not look at my watch. It reminds me of the times that I put a book down with a chapter or two to go because I didn't want it to end. Becoming self-aware, thinking about books and the crazy suburban wife next to me flirting like she was at a sock hop had me completely distracted for a moment before the crashing halt of You Didn't Need shook me awake. The opening notes of the band's hit Liar got the crowd cheering. What would have been an expected late set tune for the casual observer--like the average Aerosmith fan expecting Walk This Way as an encore--had me surprised. Rollins hadn't played Liar in years, in what I assumed as his reluctance to use it as a crutch or perhaps even as a defiant stand against the music industry that would have him (or any artist) wring every ounce of play out of a song's potential.

As for myself, I was thrilled to hear the song live for the first time. I leaned over to Stonefaced Husband, so as to make peace in case he'd witnessed the "hand incident".

"He hasn't played this in a looong time", I said with a big smile.

He recoiled a bit, but smiled. "Uhh...yeeaahhh. Cool."

I then realized that he didn't know who the fuck Rollins was, moreover he didn't care. He looked like he wanted either for X to start up soon or more likely just go home and watch SportsCenter. Before I could spin back to the rail, the soccer mom grabbed my forearm.

"Fuck, I know! It's been forever! Yeaaahh!!", she screamed as she spun back towards the stage, bouncing on her toes.

I "yeaaahhed" her back and took my position at the rail without looking back at the husband. Rollins took us all through the paces of his hit and the obscure Also Ran before letting go his grip on our collective throats. When the lights came up, I looked at Keno and he looked like a teenager that just got his cherry popped, his face a mix of disbelief and satisfaction. I shook my head, laughed, and asked him if he was ready to roll.

"Goddamn man, you tried to tell me what Rollins was all about, but......fuck", Keno blurted. I loved it. I knew he'd enjoy the music enough, but the look on his face told me that he enjoyed the spectacle as well.

We made our way past the milling crowd as they wandered towards the restrooms, merch table, or the bar. If we didn't have to hit the road to get across town, I might have been interested to chat with the soccer mom with the house lights on and without 120 decibels of rock and roll blasting away, if anything to just to get a read on her. I was curious to find out how long she'd been a fan, where they were from, and maybe silently try to guess her age. But, it was probably for the best that we jammed and just let her and her actions remain a mystery. We hit the passageway from the main floor to the lobby and because we were near the entrance and the crowd was moving further into the venue, we made our escape quickly. As we strode towards the doors, a bouncer said loudly, "No ins and outs, guys!"

"No problem. We saw what we came to see", I replied without looking back. We were a dozen steps up Market Street when Keno hailed a cab. We hopped in and told the man to make haste to the Fillmore. Robin Trower was waiting.

My theory about the time and money needed to traverse the city was correct. In just minutes, the cabbie had us across the street from the famed ballroom and at seven bucks, the ride had cost us a buck less than the cheapest parking lot I saw in the neighborhood. I handed him a ten and we scooted across the street to the Fillmore's doorway. There was no one hanging around so it was clear that the show had started a while ago. A man and woman were working the door as we walked up.

I'd seen online that the tickets would cost us $35, but we rationalized that even a partial show would be worth the experience of hitting two venues in one night, so we weren't deterred at all that the show was underway without us. I said hi to the man at the door, a young guy about thirty.

"Are there still tickets left?", I asked.

He smile-frowned and said, "No, sorry guys. It sold out just earlier tonight".

We froze in our tracks and both exhaled an "awww" like little boys being told that it was bedtime. The young door man said sorry again, but then looked like he was examining something about us. He then looked up at our faces and spoke.

"Hey", he said. "Were you guys at the Warfield tonight?"

Next: The conclusion to Hitting The Road With Keno-Part 4

Welcome A New Voice

During a little break from the Hitting The Road With Keno series, I want to introduce my readers to an old friend of mine, Jason Kentros. I've known Jason since he was a teenager, but we hadn't seen each other in quite some time. His mother and Mary were very good friends years ago before geography separated them. Jason and I always loved to talk music and even back then, he had quite a varied and mature palate.

On Super Bowl Sunday, our doorbell rang and Mary answered. Jason stood there, but it took Mary a few beats to recognize him. It turned out that he was on his way to a Super Bowl party and because we used to throw a big bash every year, he stopped by to say hi. In any event, we were lounging around before heading to my sister-in-law's house, so we had a good chance to catch up.

It wasn't long before we started up on the music talk again and I wrote down this site's address so that he could check out my stories when he returned to his house in northern California.

It wasn't long before the blogging bug bit him as well and he's off and running. He has a very readable style and so far I've really enjoyed his approach. Look for concert stories (hopefully not Hazy ones--that's my gig!) and other insights there. He even gives me credit as an inspiration for him to start up his blog. Maybe the lineage isn't exactly Guthrie>Dylan, but I'm flattered all the same.

The link is over on the right sidebar along with friends Lefty and Paul. I think Jason's in good company over there. Check out Jason's blog today!

www.jksharkbyte.blogspot.com

Hitting The Road With Keno (Part Two)

Now at dusk, the San Francisco sidewalk has emptied of shoppers and office dwellers, displaced by nocturnal beings just awakening. Kids that take 25 minutes to make their hair look like bedhead walk around adorned with $145 jeans shredded in the factory to give the privileged buyer the appearance of a junkie. Makes me wonder if some third world country villager is paid 3 cents a day to wear the pants for a couple of years to give them the fringed hem and faded thighs. African-Americans in huge parkas and baggy pants strut like tiny Michelin Men and tourists in shorts and t-shirts from warmer climes now huddle for warmth as the sun disappears over Union Square.

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Keno and I now hustled up 4th to Market Street and spun on our heels to turn left. We were now energized, our bellies full of beef and mouths full of Tootsie Pop. As we made our way past the next shift of street performers and the now more alert zombie army of homeless, I became more and more anxious. It hit me that I was just a couple of hours away from seeing Rollins Band in the incarnation that I most enjoyed on record. I looked around, wanting to remember that moment, and took a deep breath. The Korean camera store and the stench of urine are now embedded in my memory as an attachment to Rollins Band music; I'd forgotten that I was on Market Street.

We came upon the entrance to the Warfield Theater and found.......no one. The doors were open and for the first time ever, I did not have to wait in a line. I'd seen bands in this building ranging from Spin Doctors to Joe Satriani, from Gov't Mule to Tin Machine, and no matter what time I'd shown up, I'd always waited in line in the bitter cold fending off panhandlers and wishing I'd been smart enough to bring a tallboy or stogie to pass the time. Most of the time, I had the wife to wrap my arms around, so it wasn't all bad.

This time though, Keno and I walked right up to the bored ticket takers and strolled into a barren lobby. He looked at me and cocked his head as to comment, "hmm, big time concert you brought me to". I shrugged. I didn't care how many people showed up. We were going to have a great time, of that I was sure. I wanted to show him around the place so he could see the concert posters of the past and soak up some history. As I pointed out some of the memorable bands memorialized by their posters in the lobby, I watched carefully to gauge Keno's interest. I was thrilled to see his face light up when he saw the amazing artwork that was used to announce even more amazing lineups of bands on any given night. I smiled to myself for I had conspired to make this night a mini-tour of Bay Area music history.

The woefully underrated and sometimes overlooked guitarist Robin Trower was playing over at the Fillmore on the same night. While having a ton of exposure on FM radio with "Bridge Of Sighs", I would consider Trower more of an album and tour success. I'd seen him perform in Fresno a number of times at various sized venues. Once, I was told that Trower would be signing autographs after the show. When it ended, my buddy Chet and I gathered along with a few dozen other concert goers behind the Warnor Theater. Stagehands and security personnel scuttled about but we had no idea where Robin was. Finally, someone with a pass hung around his neck and carrying a radio had us all line up in the alley. Then, one by one, we were allowed to approach Trower, who sat in the back seat of a big black Cadillac. It was like a scene in a straight-to-video mob film.

The way I had this night worked out was that if Rollins finished up at a reasonable time, we'd catch a cab and head over to The Fillmore to catch whatever was left of Trower's show. At just 7 miles wide and 7 miles long, the city of San Francisco can be traversed quickly by any good cabbie and cost just a few bucks. I mentioned this to Keno as we got a beer and headed onto the main floor of the Warfield. In typical Keno fashion, he shrugged and said that it sounded good to him and that I was in charge.

Once out on the main floor, I went into recon mode and pointed out some good spots on the rail of one of the tiered sections. The rail provides the best vantage point in the place as far as I'm concerned. As I've mentioned here before, S.F. tends to draw mammoth humans that always stand directly in front of me at standing room only venues, so standing at the rail effectively removes that possibility and the next tier is a step down, giving an unobstructed view over the heads of even the tallest patrons. Keno agreed, but we both saw no need to stay there and babysit the spot. It would more interesting to hang out in the lobby and watch the crowd come in.

We took a seat along the wall nearest the entrance and watched people get patted down and chug their contraband liquor that was to be otherwise thrown away. I was struck by the age range of the entering fans. At 39, I figured to be somewhere near the upper reaches of the age chart graph, given the fact that X and Rollins (whether with Black Flag or his own band) have been going strong since the early '80s. In fact, I skewed smack dab in the middle and saw kids as young as 14 and former punks old enough to have sired me and/or the slightly older Keno wander in with wide eyes and broad smiles. I especially liked watching the kids come in and slow their walk to a scuffed footed pace with mouths agape as they looked up at the posters and then looked at each other with joy. I still do that, but like sex, it's never the same as the first time.

The Riverboat Gamblers started up and we listened for a few minutes from the lobby and it was confirmed that they interested us not even enough to watch from the doorway. We kept our seat in the lobby and continued to watch the parade of pseudo punks so contrived in their look that I realized they were, in spite of what I consider to be the lost punk ethos that they're shooting for, not that different from the dorks that wore spandex pants and shirts with unnecessary zippers while attending 80's metal shows. I especially love what I used to call the fake Mohawk; young men simply gelling their hair into a spiky middle while the rest of their mane hangs naturally. I almost admire someone with a true Mohawk because it's a commitment to the look. These other guys can twist and twirl their 'do into something passable at work or school if they have to. Then I find out the snarky, fashion industry name for it; The Faux-hawk. Oooh, snap!

When the opening band's set came to a merciful end, Keno and I waited for the young ones to exit the main floor and chose our moment to do the "Market Street bob and weave" to get back to the rail. Our spot was open and we set up shop. "Look at these people", said Keno. "They're all leaving the best spots without leaving someone to protect their claim".

"Amateurs", I hissed with a grin.

I told him to spread out a bit while I fetched a couple of drinks to last us through the set, but then a waitress came up to take our order. With all of the kids in attendance, she'd not had a ton of work that night, and I could only imagine that she sighed all the way through the opening set thinking about her tip total. We ordered up with Keno moving to cocktails to curtail the full feeling left from dinner. Me? More beer for the hollow leg. Keno scratched his head and wondered aloud where I put it all.

We went over our escape plan one more time; as soon as the lights came up after Rollins' set, we'd make for the door. No bathroom break, no looking around, no nothing. Exit signs and making tracks. Then we'd hail a cab and see if we could get into the Fillmore. I did not secure tickets for Trower's show because the timeline wasn't comfortable enough for me. If we couldn't get in, we'd simply head over to the Boom Boom Room cater-cornered from the Fillmore to see an old blues guy named Chicken Man. Short of going overboard and synchronizing our watches, we agreed on the details of the plan and toasted to the music ahead.

I took a few moments to look around and wondered how many, if any, of the patrons now moving towards us and down towards the stage were Rollins Band fans. As much as I love the music, I would still consider myself a latecomer because I became a fan a third of the way into his solo career and I'm only now warming up to the Black Flag material. I imagined some of the fans were there from the punk days and wondered what Henry was up to nowadays, without knowing the material. Others might be there for X, but were somewhat aware of Rollins Band stuff. I figured that many looked at Rollins as some sort of One Hit Wonder with Liar from the 120 Minutes MTV exposure. I knew why I was there and while I felt a little alone at the time, it wouldn't be long before I rubbed elbows with a kindred soul.

I was getting excited. I'd read enough of Rollins' tour journals to know that he was backstage now, pacing and breathing heavily like a fighter entering the ring. Keno smiled wide in anticipation, but I almost laughed knowing that he had no idea of the aural onslaught he was about to encounter. Our rail was filling up a little with a really "normal" looking couple to my left and a few youngsters to Keno's right. Then, the waitress tapped my shoulder. My internal Show-O-Meter gauge still read "Memory Function: Intact/Vision: Single", so I held up the reverse peace sign to tell her that we'd like another round. We watched as the floor filled up gradually with the bizarre mix that we'd watched enter the venue and we did a little pointing and laughing. Our waitress came back remarkably quickly and we tipped her well, partly out of pity and partly out of the fact that we'd been drinking and she was marginally attractive.

The lights went down (how many times have I used that phrase on this site?) and the band walked onto the stage. My skin tingled as I watched my favorite Rollins Band lineup take the stage and tune up for a second before Henry Rollins himself came out and took his position between two large monitors pointed not back at him from the stage rim, but surrounding him like a sonic bunker. He wrapped the mic cord around his hand more than a few times and squatted like a fencer as drummer Sim Cain counted off into "On My Way To The Cage".

I looked back at Keno only for a second to see his face contort into that of someone that has just witnessed a violent auto accident. I laughed out loud. The woman to my left screamed and then growled the opening lines to a song I thought nobody but me knew. I glanced over my left shoulder to see what I thought was a Soccer Mom rocking out with abandon. After months of anticipation, I was now within throwing distance from the band that had been my companion in the weight room for years. I bobbed my head with the beat and thought to check in with Keno.

I backhanded his shoulder. "Well, was I right?"

Keno didn't even look at me. His gaze was fixed on Henry Rollins and I couldn't blame him. I took my curled index finger and tapped his jaw.

"Holy shit", he mumbled.

Next: Part 3-- The San Francisco night welcomes two explorers.

Hitting The Road With Keno (Part One)

I entered the summer of 2006 with meager concert expectations. Aside from what looked to be an annual trek to Ozzfest because the date fell on a fortuitous day of the week, and a few local shows scattered about in local watering holes that hardly garner mention, the season was dry. But then, Henry Rollins decided to get his Weight/Come In And Burn era band back together for a little jaunt around the country with L.A. punk pioneers X. I'm a huge Rollins fan. His music is very personal to me; I find it inspirational and use it in copious amounts at the gym. But it wasn't always that way.

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Back in the mid-nineties, I befriended a guy from a rival company. At the time, we each worked for huge soft drink companies. While we worked side by side on the soda aisle, we'd strike up conversations on all sorts of topics, music being a prominent one. We'd also bump into each other at microbreweries, bars, and live music events. I really liked the guy, but we never could find the time to just hang out. Finally, one day he invited me over to his house after work. I had the typical "things to do", but realized that sometimes you just have to chuck it all and have a lazy afternoon.

Charlie lived in an old house with wooden floors and a big step down living room. He handed me a Newcastle and went to his respectable CD collection to put some music on. Of course, he wanted to give us something to talk about so he put on some of his faves, which turned out to be an eclectic mix to say the least. First, he put on an Elvis Costello CD and I listened to his sermon on all things Costello. A few songs later, Charlie seemed to fidget and bolted upright. "Oh, I want you to hear this one", he said as he bounded over to the stereo. His stereo was impressive and reminded me of the old "hi-fi" rigs that audiophiles would piece together. Charlie's was a mad mismatch of shiny high tech and ragged garage sale. The components were strewn about shelves and tables as if he was in the middle of moving in. But, damn, did it sound good.

For some reason, what he wanted me to hear was a Jimmy Buffet song. Like most Americans, I really only knew Margaritaville and was always amazed that Buffet could still fill major venues year after year with his fervent following of "Parrotheads". So we listen to this song and Charlie tells me the story of the lyrics as it plays. Something about a drug running plane ride that goes awry. It wasn't awful, but it really sounded to me like filler on an album that you could find pretty cheap second handed. But I was completely engaged by Charlie's enthusiasm. It's the same reason I can read anything written about any band, even if I either can't stand the group or have never heard a note of their music.

After a couple more beers and a listen to side one of the Japanese pressing of Led Zeppelin III, I told Charlie that I would really like to hear some crunch from his massive Sony tower speakers. He grinned; it would be an hour or so before his wife came home when normal life would dominate the remainder of the day. He spun out of his recliner and in the same motion, spun his revolving CD rack. "Ha", he exclaimed, pulling a title from the still twirling storage device. I could only see that the cover to the CD was black with a black and white photo. He loaded the tray and pushed play on the CD player and giggled a bit as the first raucous notes shook both his floorboards and my musical foundation.

I'd never heard anything like the Rollins Band before. Raw, powerful, and like a caged animal unleashed upon unsuspecting prey, the pure force of the tunes slugged me as waves crash the helpless shore. While I'd been exposed to the song Liar via MTV, before this day I'd no idea of what Rollins was about. I was really surprised at how technically deft and musical the songs were. I can only compare it to understanding the almost invisible grace of boxing; seemingly brutal on the outset, but when watched with a careful and educated eye, it can be compared to ballet or diamond cutting.

Over the incredible din reverberating off of the vaulted ceiling and the wooden floor of Charlie's living room, he leaned over and absolutely screamed, "THIS IS THE ROLLINS BAND. LIVE IN AUSTRIA!!"

"YEAH?", I yelled back.

"YEAH!", Charlie bellowed. "FUCKING BRILLIANT, HUH?" He nodded along to the tune and smiled at the wall.

"YEAH, FUCKING BRILLIANT! I GOTTA GET SOME OF THIS STUFF!, I yelled, not knowing that it was my first step into a years long obsession with Rollins' music. I left his place that day and went to a favorite little used software and CD shop and found Weight (featuring Liar) and The End Of Silence from '92. In the months following, I'd managed to pick up the disc Charlie played for me as well as a few others. I played them in the garage as I worked out and on the headphones on long runs. I was lucky enough to catch the Rollins Band in 2001, which I wrote about here back in April of '04 (titled Alone Again, Naturally).

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When I heard about Rollins going back out with his old bandmates in the summer of '06, I was very excited and started making plans to see them up in San Francisco. I didn't care much about seeing X and cared even less about the opening band, Riverboat Gamblers, but the tickets were more than reasonable and I rationalized that it might be the last time I get the chance to see this band.

I initially asked my concert buddy Janet if she were interested. I'd recently burned some Rollins stuff for her son and I knew that she'd heard a bit of it. But she was really watching the finances and politely declined. I was a little sad because I just knew she'd love it, but I had to respect her very responsible choice. Of course, I also considered asking my brother-in-law Keno, but didn't think that Rollins was his scene. When I mentioned it in passing, he was a little put off that I didn't think he'd like it. What I'd forgotten was that Keno can roll with just about anything. I told him that I'd get the tickets and a hotel room.

The show was a Friday night and we'd have to take off after he got off work. We jammed up to the city and made pretty good time. I'd chosen the Hotel Metropolis, a funky place around the corner from the Warfield, because of the walking distance proximity to the theater. I'd stayed there many times, stumbling back to the room after Gov't Mule marathon shows. We checked in and made our way up to the 10th floor room. We had a nice little balcony that looked over Market Street. I stepped out to the sounds of traffic and yelling, but I was still able to hear the familiar sound of a beer can being opened behind me in the room.

I spun to see Keno standing at the threshold of the sliding glass door, grinning and taking a swig from a 24oz can of 211. He had a can for me in his outstretched hand. I hate 211; it's a gross malt liquor that Keno loves. To me, it has a sickly sweet taste and a vile aftertaste. But he and I have an unofficial tradition of slamming one before shows, so I popped mine open and chugged a bit, making faces like a baby eating mashed up lemons. As I gasped for oxygen, I wondered how this man, Keno, a lover of fine wines and quality cigars, could possibly enjoy a malt liquor like 211. Even the dregs on Market street drinking 211 were choking it down just as I was ten stories above them, the difference being that they were suffering the taste out of the day's meager panhandling and I was being punished due to some stupid pact.

We both finished our gun metal grey cans. Keno hit the head and for a reason I can only blame on Satan himself, I cracked opened another 211. Keno came out of the bathroom and smiled with his eyebrows cocked high.

"Well, now", he rasped. "What do I see here?"

Now, I should state here that all the way up to San Francisco I had been saying that I would not get trashed before the Rollins set. It meant too much to me, I'd said. I didn't care about the opening band or the headliner, but I had to be focused for the Rollins Band. I wanted to savor and remember every note, every moment. So when I committed to the second 211, Keno looked at me like Al Pacino in The Devil's Advocate. He may have even flicked his tongue. But I was in the moment and we had a few hours before the show, so I threw caution to the wind. Keno opened another horrible 211 and we leaned on the rail of our balcony watching the ants on Market Street bustle.

I'd turned on the T.V. and stepped in to check some baseball scores on ESPN. My can was empty. Keno crossed the threshold and shook his empty can and called me a pussy. I tossed my empty can at him and told him "you are what you eat", missing by a few feet. He was surprised that I'd finished at his pace. We looked at each other for a beat and agreed that we could split another 211 because somehow, perhaps by magic or demonic will, we had glasses in the room that we could use. While he used the bathroom, I split the can (which by now looked like a miniature tower at Three Mile Island) into those round bowl-like glasses that should normally only serve as after-brushing rinse providers. We tossed down the remainders of the infernal third 211 while watching ESPN and occasionally checking in on the Market Street tribes.

We now needed to shower and change for the night's activities. I went to shower first while Keno stayed out on the balcony. I came back into the room and started to dress and I heard Keno start the shower. I finished dressing and stood for a few moments on the balcony watching a woman scream at a pigeon, only to turn her rage towards a mailbox seconds later. I smiled and returned inside. Keno was finishing getting dressed, so I figured that I'd better get in the shower so we could get some dinner.

Wait a minute, I thought. I looked down and saw that I was already dressed. For a split second, I wondered if I'd simply changed and not showered. I could not recall the shower I'd taken 15 minutes ago. The 211 had induced some form of short term amnesia. When Keno looked up from putting on his shoes, he saw the puzzled look on my face and asked what was wrong. I told him that while I was positive that I'd showered and that there was proof to that effect, I could not remember it. He laughed, but then looked startled.

"What?", I asked.

His face changed from startled to horrified to complete confusion. "I don't remember mine, either", he sputtered.

We both stared at each other for a minute and then looked at the empty cans of 211. We looked back at each other. "What the fuck is in that stuff?", I asked.

Neither of us were drunk. A nice little buzz was making it's way into my head, but by no means was I out of control. But I had blacked out on my feet. To find out that we both had the same experience made me look at the clock to make sure that we hadn't slipped through some kind of time warping worm hole in the space time continuum. What seemed like an accurate amount of time for two men to shower and dress had passed, so now the possibility of a dimensional shift began to truly frighten me.

We both laughed at each other and shook our heads. We felt fine and made our way to the lobby. I remarked that I'd zoned out before while reading and had to reread the page and sometimes could drive for blocks without remembering specific red lights or landmarks, but had never completely showered and changed without being able to at least recall turning on the water. Exiting the elevator, we stepped up to the desk and asked a gorgeous clerk if she knew where we could get a good casual meal at perhaps a sports bar. She gave us a little tourist's street map and drew a line to a place a couple of blocks away.

She asked what we were up to and we told her about the show. She said it sounded cool and we playfully told her that she should join us. She giggled and said that she had to work all night, but that it sounded fun and maybe next time. I looked back as we walked out the door and she waved. I wondered if she was serious. I'm bad at reading those things.

We bounded out onto Market Street and it was alive with workers leaving their offices, tourists, the homeless hordes, and an abundance of street performers set up every hundred feet or so. We ducked and dodged our way up the street, pausing every once in a while to watch a juggler or magician. My favorite act was a trio dressed up in '60s regalia doing Hendrix covers pretty damn well. I'm always amazed to see full bands with electric equipment performing right there on the street. I meant to look to see if they'd brought a generator or had somehow patched into the city's power grid. I'd read that in New York City, some performers find a way to get power by tapping into a light pole or signal light.

Keno and I turned the corner on 4th Street and found the bar and grill. We were doing good on time and could relax and eat with time to spare before the concert. We were pretty hungry and agreed that we needed to eat in order to continue drinking or else suffer another possible Twilight Zone episode. I ordered a burger and fries with a beer. Keno asked our waitress if he could get a double cheeseburger. When she nodded, he asked her if it was pretty big because he was starving. She just smiled.

When she returned a few minutes later, I tore into my burger aggressively. Keno's was so big that he had to bite it top to bottom in the same place in order to make his way across the bun. It was much too tall to take a bite unless he could unhinge his jaw like a python. I laughed at him, but he kept at it like a beaver trying to topple a tree.

We finished up the good grub and paid our way. Our meals came with Tootsie Pops and we both did the Kojak thing on the way out the door. Market Street was twice as crazy now and the bay breeze was giving itself a stronger presence. We turned the corner towards the Warfield. Our whirlwind San Francisco rock and roll adventure was about to begin.