Located on High Street in the heart of Ohio State University, the Newport Music Hall was originally a movie theater, built in 1922 and used in that capacity for nearly fifty years. In 1970 it was refashioned and renamed as the Agora Ballroom, one in a chain of about a dozen rock clubs throughout the country. Ted Nugent played the first ever show here in May of that year, and while it was renamed and expanded in 1984 to its current incarnation, it has remained in continuous use without pause from the moment the Motor City Madman christened it. Much later, while a student at OSU, Kim Deal of Pixies and Breeders fame used to clean the toilets here. To date, the unexpected champions Dick Dale and GWAR emerge as the most viewed shows for me, at this particular venue. Here’s a quick recap, with a bunch of other, possibly extraneous information thrown in. Or you can always click on these individual years below to jump ahead a little bit:
1998
2000
2001
2002
October 22, 1993…….Primus
Why I’m compelled to purchase four tickets in advance, I’m not sure. Suffice to say when you’re of a certain age and the bands are of a certain popularity, you know you’ll have no trouble finding takers. The band, Primus, is after all right in the wheelhouse of the magic realm where a number of years as this underground buzz band is finally intersecting with an album that’s selling well, a major label deal and a handful of hit songs.
In the dark days, all I ever heard was how weird and interesting Primus were. This stretched back to at least 1990, a good three years or more, where all the cool musician types I knew who were into obscure bands were talking about how weird and interesting they were, wearing their t-shirts to school. Shirts featuring strange album art but somehow all of a piece, tied together with that familiar block caps font spelling out their name. Unable to get my hands on any – a typical predicament – I long to hear this music.
The first tiny break occurs with the release of Bill And Ted’s Bogus Journey, and its accompanying soundtrack. It’s a big deal for them but also my first exposure to the group, a cassette my cousins are always bringing over as we find ourselves digging Tommy The Cat more than anything else on there. Tom Waits voicing the title character is a deft coup, of course, and it instantly becomes their most popular cut. “These guys are sickos,” my dad complains, listening along with us one night, though this is precisely the point.
Fast forward a few years to the present. Despite a top ten album and a pair of top ten singles, Primus is still relegated to playing this mid-sized music hall circuit. The Newport holds 1700, and I imagine this is about what they are selling everywhere – certainly everywhere in the Midwest. To attract a larger crowd, you need somehow to reach out to a wider demographic, and this isn’t exactly the kind of easy listening experience most adults like to digest, or preteens. The people who most buy records are precisely the crowd Primus attracts, but it takes more than that to sell out, say, a 30,000 seat amphitheater. Nonetheless, I know enough people in the former lot to purchase these four tickets with confidence.
Warning sounds abound that, good as they are, Primus might already be relegated in most people’s minds to novelty band status. Surely My Name Is Mud isn’t going to be the Safety Dance of its time, is it? I’m having trouble rounding up the eager throng I anticipated. I buy these four tickets anyway. But as the day of the show approaches, first Kenny can’t make it and Alan is mysteriously AWOL, and somehow we’re stuck with these two guys, Jake and Tim, from Heather’s high school. At times I feel she is easily impressed by superficial flourishes, and I’m not a huge fan of this Jake character. He is symbolic of this era in all the wrong ways, growing his hair fashionably long as he tries to learn guitar and dabble in pot mainly to present a certain image, as he spouts quasi bohemian quasi sensitive guy stuff over the telephone all day. I’m pretty sure he practices talking deeper than he really does as well. He snickers in referring to me as a “preppie,” although this is the first time we’ve met and I happen to be wearing blue jeans and a tee shirt with an insulated flannel atop it – a cliched grunge look itself, granted, but my observation still holds. Yet there’s the promise that he will soon have the money to pay me for this ticket, and also this much more subdued Tim character, and anyway it’s better than these tickets going to waste, so they are in the car with us on the ride down to Columbus.
We park in a convenience store lot just down the street and make our way up the sidewalk. Once inside, the interior reveals itself as some mixture of gothic ballroom and rock hall, dark and, as far as we can determine, not especially clean. But it has a great feel to it, and there seems to be not a bad spot to stand or sit in the house. Up the ramp past the ticket counter, a foyer with merchandising booths await, and these are flanked by a stairwell on each side, leading up to the second floor, the only true seating here. Directly ahead, a ground level standing area, and beyond it a pit area sunken a few steps in, directly in front of the stage. Since Heather has essentially commandeered my white Primus tee for months now, I buy a black Pork Soda one now, and then the four of us make our way upstairs. Speaking of that white shirt, though, my all-time favorite picture of her features it in a starring role:
School of Fish’s cameo here is an unfortunate one – and I only refrained from cropping them for historical reasons – but otherwise this is a classic. Vintage Heather, with one of the best smirks ever captured on film.
Anyway, as for the show. for an opening act we are treated to the Melvins. I use this term loosely. In Bill And Ted’s Bogus Journey, the titular characters give the Grim Reaper a “melvin,” which is a wedgie in the front, attacking the genitals. This sounds about right for summarizing the glacier-core outfit on evidence here, fronted by the outrageous Eraserhead meets Robert Smith hair of one Buzz Osbourne. I have some friends who rave about this group, but it’s safe to say that I’ve yet to connect with them in any form. To me their gimmick smacks an awful lot of 1960s band Vanilla Fudge, who were known for taking well known pop songs and slowing them down, sludging them up, drawing them ever outward.
So if these guys aren’t really notorious for their songwriting per se, the Melvins’ primary contribution to music history has been to apply this approach to punk music, like sticking a finger in the wheels of a moving cassette tape. The official byline on this is that they kind of helped invent grunge by doing so. If you ask me, however, their greatest gift to the world has to be the occasion whereby Kurt Cobain auditioned to play bass, and they said no thanks. Either that or, well, yes, Buzz Osborne’s hair.
Ol’ Buzzie here is credited with sending Dave Grohl over to Nirvana at some point following Kurt’s botched audition, though, so give him props for that. Otherwise however they’ve been milking the Nirvana connection ever since, up to and including releasing their latest album, and major label debut, Houdini, on the exact same day as In Utero. I have to admit I couldn’t have been bothered less to listen to Houdini before this show. The most familiar song to me is the Kiss cover they’ve thrown on there, Going Blind. But what little I’ve heard of them conforms neatly with exactly what they sound like here, in essence every note dragged out to its most slothful extreme, and on top of that the band has tacked a stage presence that would suggest this is all supposed to be some extremely clever joke. The running joke perpetuated by Jake and Tim is actually far more comical, and it’s not much of a gag at all.
“Melvin!” one of them will shout out at random intervals throughout the set, as the other one snickers uncontrollably.
Every tune seems to drag on forever. There’s one lurching number where Osborne and bass player Mark Deutrom play one chord/note, and let it hang, and then Dale Crover hits this bell, and repeat, and repeat, and I’m fairly certain this will never end. But then again, this is just my impression. In fact the soon to unravel events immediately following this concert stand out far greater in all four of our minds, blotting out a great deal of the music we hear.
Maybe as a reaction to this dreadful opening act, my attention is subconsciously funneled toward monotony. Once mercy is finally bestowed upon us and Primus replace these jokers on stage, I do remember them playing Bob, which is itself an exercise in tedious repetition. But the highlights are very strong, as pretty much any song I’d hoped to hear, they obliged us with. Jake and Tim are especially stoked by Mr. Krinkle, which does come off well here. During the more manic moments in their set, too, Les Claypool is stomping around in his own peculiar manner – then again, there is pretty much nothing typical about this dude whatsoever when it comes to his music – where he almost resembles a deranged flamingo or something, picking up one impossibly lanky leg and slamming it back down in time with the insanely complicated plucking of his bass, as he bobs his head and cavorts around the stage. Behind them a screen shows animated clips that loosely associate with the music – again, there’s an image I have of swinging light bulbs, but I’m fuzzy as to which selection this went with – and drummer Tim “Herb” Alexander and guitarist Larry LaLonde sound sharp. This is the first time I’ve seen them, but if I had to guess, I would say this is an average Primus show. Pretty much what you’d expect, and neither the worst nor the best stop on the itinerary.
It does seem to me, however, that we need a better method for reviewing rock concerts in these modern times. The most obvious grading systems are flawed. They rate on a scale of one to five starts, but they don’t tell you which stars are missing. And the same applies to a grade point average. I wrack my brain for an ingenious solution to this problem, but like everything, the most perfect answer is simple and right under my nose.
Bandanna: intelligence. Is there anything holding their brain in place. By this I mean intelligent songwriting – the band can be comprised of a bunch of dumdums for all I care in every other subject you care to name. Four out of the five original members of GN’R did not graduate high school, but the lyrics are nonetheless well written. And let it be said that all of these stars pertain to the concert itself. If upon earlier, or later, inspection, I determine by some miracle that Houdini is a well written album, that means nothing; what matters is whether I could gather that from watching this particular concert, on this night, with this band.
Boots: does this music stomp, i.e. how excellent was the performance
Jacket: how are they ornamenting, dressing up their hearts and souls, in other words originality.
Shades: charisma/cool
Trousers: is there a sincerity/integrity to the music, or shall we say, is there anything holding their balls in place. Do they still have their balls, whatever that means for the performer in question. In some cases this takes the form of, yes, this music sucks, but I do believe that the band is playing exactly what they want.
So therefore, your traditional critic would rate the show as such –
Melvins: 1 Star
Primus: 3 Stars
I’m not satisfied with this, I want a much more specific method. And thus the official verdict which stands:
Melvins: jacket
Primus: boots jacket trousers
We exit the hall fairly pumped about what we’ve seen. Yet as we make it around the corner to the convenience store lot, the ghastly sight of a row of cars which collectively look not a one like mine confronts us. So idiotic, and at the same time a fascinating example of mob mentality: the four of us had looked around and around when I’d parked, and seen nothing, but there is a metal sign nailed to the building directly in front of my car saying parking without permit was prohibited. As if in our excitement, we had collectively turned a blind eye.
I walk into the convenience store and use the payphone to call the number listed. Knowing nothing whatsoever about Columbus, I need the incredibly brusque individual on the other end to spell out for me how we were going to make it over to where my car is. Fortunately for us, it’s a simple route, and while a long, long hike by any stretch of the imagination, it’s not completely undoable.
What this means is about eight blocks south on High Street, then an indeterminable number of ones east – surely as great a distance again, if not more. It’s only about two miles all told, but on a brisk October night, when we’ve left our long sleeves in my car and were not expecting such athletic endeavors, the odyssey heightens exponentially in our minds. The area below campus, too, is somewhat suspect, and then once we turn on 5th Avenue, into an industrial district, our surroundings become sketchier still. After seeing basically not a soul since leaving High Street, encountering this towing yard and some actual humans is a relief beyond the promise of retrieving my car. A handful of well-known fast food establishments lie just beyond it, and the interstate we will take back home, everything is going to be alright.
Except that in my naivete I had just sort of expected that the tow truck operator guy would accept a draft from the checkbook I have locked in my glove box. So did everyone else in my party, we didn’t know any better. But as I’m standing at the counter with this shaggy, squat middle aged jackass, he shakes his head and refuses any notion of collecting his $63 in this manner. He does not care where we are from.
Outside on the sidewalk, we are frantically scratching our heads for solutions here. It’s a school night and we are forty five minutes (the three of them) to an hour plus (myself) away from home. Assuming we had any friends who were just hanging out with sixty some dollars in their pockets, which we don’t, the chances of one of them driving down is incredibly remote to say the least. Except when all seems lost, Jake suddenly has the incredible insight that – and I think it would have been immediately obvious to me, if I were in his shoes, but who am I to complain in a moment like this – his mom is a nurse at a hospital down here in Columbus, midnight shift, and she happens to be working tonight.
After consulting with mister jackass tow truck overlord guy, he reluctantly agrees to let Jake use the phone. In getting through to his mom, she does in fact have the cash on her, and can make it down during her lunch break. Amazing – we are saved. Cobbling together our spare cash, we hang out in a Church’s Chicken next door, which I’m pretty sure is the only occasion ever where I’ve ever eaten this ghetto mainstay, and rightly so, although tonight it tastes like heaven. And when Jake’s mom shows up, a pretty if somewhat beleaguered looking brunette, we are profuse in our thanks.
And I suppose I should be thankful to him, too. Except he kind of turns out to be a bit of a weasel. He of the consummately studied early 90s shtick, he who evidently can’t stop yukking it up over how uncool I am. Yet it’s hard to imagine anything less cool than my handing him $40 a week or so later – which, as he already owes me about $25 for his and Tim’s concert tickets, means I am paying one hundred percent of the towing bill, in addition to the gas to and fro – and his only passing $20 off to his mom, total, using the rest to buy weed. Is this rock and roll? No, this is horseshit.
December 5, 1993…….Smashing Pumpkins
A month and a half later, here I am back at the Newport for another show. Heather is a keeper, a returning member of the concert attending lineup. But we’ve switched out some of the defective parts, so to speak, from our previous ensemble, and this time make the drive down with my own friends Kenny and Chris.
The target of our infatuation at present is Smashing Pumpkins, a Chicago foursome who’ve blown up beyond belief just in the last few months. And though technically my comrades and I are linked by the vehicle we’ve arrived in and will leave with, this event resembles a high school reunion of sorts; while at the Primus show our paths crossed not a familiar soul, it’s not an exaggeration that this time around we must run into fifty people we know from either Lexington or Mansfield. Two other friends confess to driving down the night of the show, finding it sold out, and trying in vain to sneak in via other means. It’s just this kind of event, the perfect collision of timing and interest, a band on the rise yet still claiming the devotion of its early followers.
For once in my life, I must confess feeling a little bit ahead of the curve in discovering these guys. Before I’d ever heard anyone at school mention them, or learning of the band in any other manner, I happened to catch the video for Siva one night on 120 Minutes. It seemed at the time like the coolest thing my ears had ever absorbed. And so the next week, suspecting correctly they would air the video again, I taped the song by placing a portable cassette player next to the TV. Subsequently might admit to dubbing off a copy and, prompted by an even dorkier kid at school who was asking what my band sounded like, giving him this and telling him it was us.
Fast forward what seems to be an impossible two and a half years later, and now everybody knows who they are. Somehow the follow up, Siamese Dream, debuted in the top ten – and I was right there as well, snapping up the cassette the week it was released. The whole experience feels surreal, as they’ve launched a pair of hits via heavy rotation on MTV, all the weirder in that I remember wondering aloud to Heather one day back in the spring as to whatever became of this band. She’d never heard of them before I came along, and didn’t know. Of course they were mere months before exploding, but nobody could possibly foresee this, not even the egomaniacal Billy Corgan.
As this album takes off I get to feel like a crotchety old man ahead of my time, aggravated in the car when, to cite one sorely recalled example, Heather’s younger sister and a pair of her annoying friends are singing along with a track on the radio in the backseat. My distaste had nothing to do with hearing the song too much on the radio per se, but rather that I felt this music was mine and had been taken away from me. As the three of them croon along in maddening fashion and giggle between verses like sorority chicks, I grip the wheel and grit my teeth in disgust.
This is the only moment I can ever remember experiencing such a selfish urge to hoard knowledge of a band all to myself, and it was a fleeting one. Mostly, their success is exhilarating, as we fans are swept up in the ride, and to witness how far they take this and what other masterpieces they potentially crank out can prove a fascinating journey. To know that so many familiar souls are driving down here tonight as well has made this into a can’t-miss event. Also, though possibly a factoid for the TMI file, this evening happens to mark the one year anniversary of when Heather and I, ahem, first consummated our relationship, and this too adds to the secret smiles exchanged between us, our appreciation if no one else’s.
Kenny shows up at my house with Chris already riding shotgun, and we wind our way further south through the countryside to scoop up Heather. After we finally land in Columbus, displaying considerably more dexterity for the OSU parking scene than I had, Kenny somehow finds a curbside spot on W. 11th with no problem, parallel parking maybe two blocks at most away from the Newport. With time to kill the four of us hang out in this nearby head shop for a moment, as Kenny slings b.s. with the owner. Meanwhile Chris is telling me about a Nirvana show he recently witnessed in Dayton.
“He’s done acid, I can tell,” Kenny explains as we’re strolling up the sidewalk, speaking of the shop owner we’ve just deserted, “there’s this one thing you can see in people’s eyes if they’ve done acid, it’s easy if you know what to look for.”
All we know so far of the two opening acts is that they are named The Frogs, a personal favorite of the band’s, and Swervedriver, with whom seemingly no one among our extended circle is familiar. Immediately inside the Newport, after I buy this black tee shirt with a red devil surrounding by gold glitter on front, the legend Mission To Mars on back, as Kenny opts for the white one with an angel instead, the four of us drift upstairs and plop down in a sea of familiar comrades. Scott Anderson is here with a sizable crew, Dan Bandman nearby accompanied by more of the same.
Unlike the Melvins, the Frogs seem well aware that they are a novelty act. As such this actually makes them a sight better. The lead singer slash guitarist, Jimmy Flemion, stands about eight feet tall and is sporting these massive metallic bat wings, and his brother Dennis plays the drums in some kind of festive party suit only slightly less shiny. They’ve had a revolving door on bass, apparently, in the past few years, and I’m not quite sure who’s handling the duties tonight, though it clearly is not Eddie Roeser of Urge Overkill or Kelley Deal of the Breeders, among two of the bodies to fulfill that role of late. A definite theme emerges in their songwriting, which might be termed campfire songs about pretending to be gay, and the brothers do have surprisingly decent voices, the songs deceptively catchy. A low rent version of Ween, almost, heavy on the comedy. The only problem is we didn’t come here to see standup, we came here to rock.
Fortunately, the next act, Swervedriver, proves to be the best opening band I’ve seen in my short existence, a sentiment shared by most of the people with us. Chris notes that it’s insanely loud, which I suppose it is, and yet there’s this weird melodic flow at work here, as the music washes over the crowd somehow like waves. A dense mosh pit forms below us, in front of the stage, but as a significant portion of us upstairs remain bolted to our benches, nodding along with the shredding guitars’ hymnal sway, this represents a perfectly logical option as well: the average listener’s response could realistically veer in either direction. In fact, while Heather and I had not moved from these bleachers during the Primus show, she and I do venture down to the pit, alternating in various combinations with Chris and Kenny so as not to lose our seats. We make determined vows to find out more about this British four-piece, a sentiment echoed by many.
After a short delay, Smashing Pumpkins materialize before us, literally as apparitions – the set has been refashioned with shoulder high folding mirrors and blinking strobe lights, so that, from the moment a lanky, well dressed Chamberlin first lopes into view, his journey across the small stage appears both a robotic stutter and ghostlike float, followed in turn by Wretzky, Iha, and finally Corgan. After hitting their marks, slinging on gear, the four of them launch into Geek U.S.A., and an already frenzied crowd shifts upward into another gear.
For the most part, they stick to cuts from the two albums, probably figuring that the plethora of other assorted rarities would confound the majority here. This calls into question whether they are playing what they actually want to play, or giving their audience what it wants to hear; a cynic would argue for the latter, not just concerning the Pumpkins but a great deal of “mainstream” acts out there, although I believe in between the margins of both exists reality – there’s no shame in constructing a set list for maximum impact, plotting it out in advance as you would a movie script. You want to rock, your fans want and expect the same, and anyway, it’s impossible that a band this young and with no true overplayed anthem as yet can defensibly claim to be burned out on any of these songs. Even if, with a tone that could be interpreted as either detached amusement or smugness, Corgan does declare, “okay, here’s one of our two songs you’ve heard,” just prior to the chiming guitar intro of Today.
At the time, I interpret this as a wry sense of humor, a humble little shrug as he admits, well, yeah, we’ve only had a couple of hits thus far. But now I’m not so sure. In retrospect it’s more likely this is a thinly veiled dig at the audience, an attitude that the true hardcore fans aren’t here tonight, that they have tons of cooler songs which nobody here could possibly appreciate. And while I can recognize plenty of similarities between his surliness and my little teeth gritting episode, Corgan’s trendier-than-thou stance up there on the stage probably doesn’t bode well for the band.
But again, this is all in hindsight, as in the moment we are floored. “You can tell he’s really intelligent!” Heather says to me, with reverence bordering on awe, following one of Billy’s many speeches.
For he does provide a great deal of them. As in, either before or after pretty much every song. Still, if there’s been one hopefully lasting positive development by the ascension of these alternative stars, it’s that we’ll never again have to hear any hokey “howya doin Columbus!” stage banter again, even from someone as prone to talk as Corgan. Without buying into a whole pity-the-misunderstood-rock-star trip, I’m under the impression that he never really felt like people got where he was coming from his whole life, and so he started writing songs, thinking that they finally would – and now he’s confronting the unfortunate reality that this isn’t the case, either.
His most salient speech arrives about halfway through their set, midsong. A lit sparkler flies up from the faceless pit, landing just to the right of Corgan onstage, and the band immediately lurches to a halt. “If anyone knows the stupid motherfucker who just threw that, tell him if it happens again this show is over! I am not kidding!” he declares. And while I’ve heard stories of performances drawn short because he was hit in the head with a shoe or what have you, it’s hard to disagree with this particular line being drawn.
More importantly, of course, though it often gets swept aside in dissecting these bands, is the music itself. And in this regard they do not disappoint. That the four of them can accurately recreate the sounds heard on record is proof that James and D’Arcy are not mere puppets, that the stories about the endless layering of guitars and Corgan’s insistence upon playing everything stringed were either overblown or a case of unnecessary dictatorship on his part. This is also the perfect sized venue for them in some respects, because during the slower numbers, or least the more subdued segments of songs such as Hummer and Soma, the sound of the crowd singing along nearly matches the volume of the band (and again, as he is not deaf and this is not the first stop on the tour, Corgan’s Today comment is possibly not as snide as some have subsequently interpreted it), whereas the thunderous moments reach the rafters and threaten to bring this house down. Kenny is stoked by the inclusion of I Am One, his personal favorite, but I believe Cherub Rock or the set’s opener better represent this category. We both agree, however, to some relief that they do not tackle Daydream.
The Frogs: jacket trousers
Swervedriver: bandanna boots jacket trousers
Smashing Pumpkins: bandanna boots jacket trousers
April 7, 1998…….Dick Dale
The four of us are hanging out around the kitchen on Summit Street when the phone rings and Damon answers it. The TA for one of his classes, Eugene, a music fanatic I’ve met a couple of times, is on the phone with a curious proposal: he and his wife won seven free tickets to some Dick Dale show tonight, but they can’t go, and he was thinking we might want to. With his hand over the mouthpiece Damon polls Alan, Paul and me, and we shrug, figure what the hell.
“How many you got? Okay. We need four, I guess,” we hear him say, and hang up.
We ride down to one of the school buildings on OSU proper to get these tickets from Eugene, and, after killing considerable time in the name of blowing through a dreadful opening act or two, don’t even set off on foot until well after the stated 7pm start time.
As it turns out, we don’t miss the cruddy opening act after all. The Franklin County All Stars, these guys call themselves, and they are a local group. In fact Damon points out that we have seen the bass player before, with another band at Ruby’s, but I’m having trouble placing that. While this probably isn’t factoring into the equation tonight, watching these guys is a really good example of why I often prefer to just hang in the background – at smaller venues, that is, where this is more likely to apply – and stick to more of a fly-on-the-wall approach, rather than ever meet the band. The conundrum is that I have a hard time writing anything negative about people who’ve been cool to me. But then if you take all the edges off, it’s not honest anymore, and it’s pointless to boot, as you’re now writing a bunch of vague, soft, meandering pap, like that old guy always going on about his cats in the Short North Gazette.
I’m lucky that most of my friends who play music are actually very good at it. Pertaining to these guys here, well, I’m sure they are nice fellows and all. Maybe they sound really good in other combos, or maybe they’re just having an off night. But it’s not working right now. This squadron of somewhat older dudes is bludgeoning its way through generic classic rock – and actually, though this analogy just occurred to me, I guess this is the sonic equivalent of that old guy in the Short North Gazette. The cumulative effect of which, I have to tell you, in this dark, cool, still sparsely populated club, is I keep nodding off throughout this set. What makes this all the more amazing is that we are up front, sort of half sitting on and half leaning against this curved wall to the left of the stage. Feeling my body lurch forward and feet firmly rest on the ground continues to act as a snooze alarm, briefly reviving me.
After these characters exit the scene, as the venue continues filling with bodies, the four of us move up to where we are right against the stage. Nearly every other act would have barricades of some sort, but Dick Dale apparently does not. Thus we are at a perfect height and vantage point, able to rest our elbows atop this wooden stage, while we wait for him to appear.
None of us are really all that familiar with this surf rock legend, though he’s been around since the 1950s. It’s possible that the only song I’ve heard of his is that one from Pulp Fiction, and the other guys know about the same, or even less. So we’re not quite sure what to expect as he drifts into the view, long grey ponytail and the remainder of his band trailing behind – much younger kids on guitar and bass who round out this trio.
All three are dressed entirely in black. I’m not sure about the drummer, but Dick and his bass player both sport identical tee shirts featuring Dale’s distinctive skull logo, and even identical jewel studded guitar straps, the same sparkly gold finish on their instruments. Dick is stocky yet impressively muscular for a guy his age, and we will soon learn why. One possible clue that maybe this isn’t some quaint, tinny little surf rock ensemble would be his guitar, which features about the fattest string size any of us remember seeing. As for the cat behind the kit, he has a shaved head and, according to Alan, “looks like the drummer from 311.”
Dale plays left-handed, but with a right-handed guitar flipped upside down. This was a common practice back in the day before lefty instruments become prevalent, and is a testament to just how long this guy’s been around. But they erase any notion about this being a pastoral stroll down the nostalgia circuit the instant he begins shredding away on said guitar.
We thought we had signed on to watch some silly old timer plink through surf music all night. It never imagined to the four of us that this stuff might actually rock, which it does, to an often pulverizing degree. They play both loud and fast, and the bass player never takes his eyes off of Dick, as if even he is on the edge of his seat, unsure what might happen next. In fact, he appears to be giving the drummer cues at various junctures, to indicate what the boss man is doing.
As for Dale, it soon becomes apparent why, apart from looking cool on its own, he chooses an outfit of all black. He has a pick dispenser glued to the bottom front face of his guitar, because he goes through about a million per show – they don’t break, but are ground down into sawdust by his relentless riffage. Featuring his skull logo as well, these picks are white, and have him covered in this white pick shrapnel before too long.
“People ask me why I make funny faces up here,” he says, only half joking, as he catches his breath in between songs, “it’s because I’m in pain. The strings I use are so thick, they tear up my hands and shred my pick into pieces!”
As if any additional corroboration were needed, his hands are red and somewhat raw looking after just a couple of numbers. And still they keep right on cruising. Mostly, they stick to upbeat instrumentals, originals from Dale’s back catalog. But on occasion the trio shakes up this pattern, such as with wordless covers of Smoke On The Water or Ghost Riders In The Sky, and Dick even sings on House Of The Rising Sun. Vocals are not his strong suit by any stretch, and you wouldn’t want to listen to this all night, but he does an okay job. If nothing else, it makes for another effective change of pace, before they lurch back into this surf metal hurricane.
Between most songs, he does pause long enough to explain a little bit about the song, or at least an interesting anecdote. And when he says “I’m a grass roots kind of guy,” you can tell there’s a great deal of truth to this, that it isn’t your typical empty stage banter. For one, removing the barrier and allowing anyone who wants to actually touch the stage is an unexpected move, even at this level. Plus he also has this habit of making eye contact as he looks around the crowd, and winking at you, which for some reason reminds me of a grandpa sneaking you candy even though you’ve been told not to have any more. Or something like that.
So when he explains, “okay, we’re going to try something we’ve never done before. This is a first for us,” maybe this is standard rock show b.s., but it seems legit. He and the bass player break out acoustics, and strum these across three much more tranquil pieces. It’s another masterful dynamic break, as they then launch back into thunderous surf rock mode, a cinematic sweep of pacing.
This makes sense considering the final, expected track of the evening. We know we’ve arrived here when he launches into a spiel that begins, “I was approached once a few years ago by this video store clerk who introduced himself to me as Quentin Tarantino. He said he wanted to use one of my songs in this movie he was making, a song called Misirlou. Quentin told me that when he wrote movies, certain songs made him think up whole scenes, and he thought up a scene based on my song. I told him he could use it.”
Dick grins, as if expecting that most of the crowd knows how this extremely left field, career reviving stroke of luck turned out, but also that he still can’t get over his good fortune. Like most master showmen – old time country singers, and local cover song specialists come to mind – you sense that he’s gotten quite adept at maybe stretching the truth just a wee bit, or at least carefully rehearsing how he’s going to phrase things for maximum myth building. But we are certainly not going to begrudge him such by this point.
“I could relate, you see,” Dale continues, during his longest monologue of the night, “he was a grass roots kind of guy, too, trying to buck the system, just like me. No one wanted to put out the movie, so he released it himself, and it ended up making three hundred million dollars! That movie was Pulp Fiction.“
The crowd roars as this band now lurches into Misirlou, without question his most well-known cut. Even so, they shake up the arrangement quite a bit, and basically play this song in two parts. First the drummer and bass player launch into the groove, carrying this as a roadie brings out a trumpet and this chart with a bunch of notes on it. Though surely done for comedic effect alone, the roadie holds up the chart, and Dick pretends to read it while playing the trumpet solo note for note, exactly as it appears on record.
Once his stage hand takes these props away to a surge of applause, Dick grasps his guitar, shreds his way into that highly recognizable riff, and the band rides off into the sunset on the backs of this tune, played to its conclusion. After which only the latest, most unexpected twist develops, as the roadie reemerges to take away his guitar, and the other two musicians leave the stage: Dale plops down on the edge of the stage, says he’ll sign an autograph for everyone who wants it.
And orderly line fans out from the left of the stage, one we’re in prime position for, to be among the first. And not only does he sign ticket stubs, merchandise, or whatever else you want, the guy absolutely talks your ear off, if you ask him a question, or sometimes even if you don’t. While Alan and I breeze through, telling Dick he sounded awesome as he’s scribbling his name for us, Damon and Paul, guitarists both, are wondering about his sound on a technical level, and have more extended conversations with him.
“You seem real sincere,” Damon tells him. Dick comments on this, which somehow turns into another story we haven’t heard yet concerning Tarantino and the movie soundtrack.
Paul, meanwhile, asks him what strings he uses. Dale names the brand and says they are 16 gauge, and for the duration of our walk back to the house, Paul is raving about these, says he’s going to order some immediately. Once inside, it goes without saying, we immediately thrown on my cassette copy of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. It’s the only Dick Dale music we have on site, although you suspect that oversight won’t last much longer.
Franklin County All Stars: trousers
Dick Dale: bandanna boots shades trousers
Events Calendar, 2000:
January 19 – Blue Oyster Cult
January 21 and 22 – Insane Clown Posse
February 4 – Jazz Mandolin Project
February 5 – Dark Star Orchestra
February 9 – Fight Night
February 10 – Dance Night. I take it these are lean times for booking actual bands.
February 11 – Ben Harper, Corey Harris
February 12 – Lords of Acid, Praga Kahn, DJ Genoside 2
February 14 – Long Beach Dub All Stars
February 15 – Cowboy Junies, Josh Rouse, Over The Rhine
February 16 – Blue Floyd
February 17 – Dance Night again
February 18 – Chris Cornell
February 19 – 5 People, Monkeynut, Killbomb
February 23 – Dance Night
February 24 – Primus and P.O.D.
February 25 – Ekoostic Hookah
February 26 – Queensryche
February 27 – Powerman 5000, Static X, Dope, Chevelle
March 17 – Mix Master Mike
March 19 – Matthew Sweet
March 31 – Podunk
April 5 – Guster, Luna
April 21 – The Flaming Lips, Looper
May 2 – Orchestra Morphine
July 7 – Deftones
July 20 – Tragically Hip
July 22 – Widespread Panic
August 4 – Wu-Tang Clan
Events Calendar, 2001:
January 12 – Green Sky Grey CD release party. Rezzin, The Stepford Five, On Tap also play.
October 11 – Reel Big Fish, Goldfinger
October 12 – Howlin’ Maggie have a CD release show, for their new album Hyde. Shawn Smith (Brad, Pigeonhead) and The Jive Turkeys are listed as special guests. It’s an all ages show beginning at 7pm, tickets are $8.
October 13 – Moonlight Drive
October 14 – Dropkick Murphys, Sick of it All
October 26 – Jupiter Coyote and Sister Flow
October 27 – Wish You Were Here (Pink Floyd Tribute Band)
October 28 – Insane Clown Posse, Twiztid, Blaze, Dark Lotus
October 31 – My Life With Thrill Kill Kult (Halloween Party)
November 1 – Afroman, Soul Fu Villains
November 2 – Oval Opus
November 3 – Tribute to Stevie Ray Vaughan, featuring The Frank Harrison Group
November 4 – Good Charlotte, Mest, Movielife
November 7 – “Jackass” the TV show tour
November 10 – The Prodigals
November 11 – Megadeth, Iced Earth
November 12 – Butthole Surfers, Kid606
November 14 – D12, Kottonmouth Kings, Bionic Jive
November 16 – Red Wanting Blue CD release show
November 17 – Cold, Dope
November 18 – Relient K and special guests
November 20 – Slayer, Chimaira
November 21 – Fenix TX
November 25 – Psychedelic Furs/ Echo And The Bunnymen
December 6 – Ben Folds. In his Other Paper review, Harvilla doesn’t exactly rip on the guy, seems more confused as to why a bunch of college age kids like him so much
December 21 – Clutch, Biohazard, Candiria, Disarray
December 29 – Holiday Rock Fest featuring local bands Hookt, Pownd, Green Sky Grey, Tower
December 31 – Hoodoo Soul Band, Howlin’ Maggie
Events Calendar, 2002:
January 16 – Pennywise, Boysetsfire, Deviates
February 2 – Dark Star Orchestra
February 20 – Kings X
