Category: bands

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Chelsie’s

Chelsie’s was a semi-legendary rock club once located at 980 N. High Street. I only had the pleasure of checking out this establishment once, which would have been in the fall of ’97. You kind of feel guilty sometimes about not patronizing certain establishments more – or even never getting around to checking them out at all – but the reality is that our time and our money are both precious resources and it’s just impossible to cram in everything we would like.

Anyway, if my notes are correct, this would have been a Friday, September 19, 1997. Whatever the case, the band on tap that night would be Watershed, whom I had seen one other night back in ’95. But I don’t know what band we’re going to see, because my tour guide, so to speak, Clif, can’t remember the name of the group. All he knows is that his coworker at B Street, Colin, is playing here tonight. And I don’t know enough about Watershed at the time to put 2 and 2 together.

We park on this residential street a block east of High and walk to the club. The air is warm for the season and almost spookily still, perfect for a stroll as we make our way to that main thoroughfare. Neither of us know the precise location of the bar, however, Chelsie’s, and didn’t think to do a drive by before parking, thus we’re not sure in which direction to walk from here. We ask this elderly black gentleman hanging out at this particular corner if he’s ever heard of the place, and he hands us both his business card. It turns out he’s a preacher at this ministry a few blocks south of here, one which serves free food for anyone who will sit through a sermon. Considering the outrageousness of our current lifestyle, there’s no telling what kind of dire straits I might find myself in this week or the next, so I thank him, tuck his card inside my wallet. But no, he hasn’t heard of this place, either.

With a shrug, we decide to head south, and sure enough hit paydirt soon enough. We have found the club, and its requisite surly doorman, both standing tall amidst a number of trendy looking art galleries which have shuttered for the evening, along with a handful of other bars peppering this region.

“Eight dollars?” I gasp, “these guys better be pretty fucking good.”

“No shit,” Clif agrees.

Then I spot the name on the bill, and this elicits a knowing chuckle: Watershed. Clif asks me what’s so funny, and I explain that I had seen these guys a couple of years ago, but went home after 3 songs. This would have been at the Blitzfest or whatever it was called, a free show held at Polaris in the summer of ’95. They were the headliners and it had been a long day, so my impression of that experience probably doesn’t reflect on them. My girlfriend at the time, Heather, never showed up – we were going through a rough patch which pretty much ended up being the final patch – so I said screw it and drove down alone. I remember the Nixons played earlier, hot on the coattails of their only hit, and also a ton of local bands who weren’t very good, and that Suzi Waud, at the time the most popular DJ in town, came onstage to say a few things, and that this was maybe the highlight of the day. By the time Watershed appeared, as the last act of the night, I’d heard enough a few tunes into their set and decided to pack it in. I didn’t realize at the time that they were signed to a major label. Clearly they were a bigger deal than the Nixons, but it was hard to have perspective on them in some respect because they were local.

The long, battle scarred bar sits perpendicular to the door and runs nearly the length of this cramped establishment, filled to the brim with bodies. Nonetheless we manage to secure a couple of bottled beers, as I scan my eyes around the room and try to appraise this place. The atmosphere here reminds me of Ruby Tuesday, albeit on a much bigger scale. Even so, I’m not entirely thrilled by what Chelsie’s has to offer, and the hefty admission ranks among the least of my concerns. Despite a back door swinging wide open this decrepit joint has the worst ventilation of all time, as we’re dripping sweat in buckets. A massive elevated stage lines the rear wall, which the bands assuredly love, and does indeed make them appear lordly, yet most clubs hosting groups of this caliber would never risk doing so in such limited space. The phrase fire hazard was specifically created for settings such as this, with scores of people wedged elbow to elbow, the friction between us incendiary enough to shoot sparks on its own.

Call this a scaled down model of campus as a whole. Alluring and terrible at the same time, full of dogeared charm. When I look back on this era years down the road I know that this is how I’ll see it, dark and cramped and loud, perspiration extruding from every pore, off to meet a group of individuals we may never intersect at all. Nights like disjointed limbs, impossible to stitch together again in any functional matter, where so much changes on an hourly basis you forget why you left the house to begin with. Courses changing direction as quickly as the Midwestern wind, alliances plotted, names learned and then forgotten, romances that bloom and wither in the space of one tumultuous evening. And everywhere, everywhere, there are no strangers left, because from one end of this city to another we’re all friends already and our futures are plotted but we’re not tuned in enough to grasp this, the import of these adventures escapes our meager minds.

Almost as a matter of magnetic propulsion, we’re pushed out onto the back patio, where we run into a handful of Clif’s friends. This auburn haired, extremely talkative and somewhat amusing Joe character I remember meeting before is yukking it up with some folks, and also milling around is this wholesome set of twins who look as though they’ve teleported here from a 1950s sitcom. A drop dead gorgeous blonde named Laura whose hate filled scowl is fiery enough to blister paint on the surface of nearby buildings, and her slick, smiling boyfriend with immaculately groomed jet black hair. Some guy named Johnny, some chick named Amy, too, but these are just faceless names, blank slates whose personas never extend beyond this moment of introductory hellos.

Meeting folks through Clif is a curious affair because he clearly knows a lot of people, although I do question how well. The plain looking twins, with their short, sandy colored hair seem genuinely pleased by his arrival, but elsewhere he registers few blips on the radar. So I’m left wondering if these individuals are always this nonchalant, or whether he’s around so much it’s no big deal, or else they’re simply shocked that he appeared down here. Introducing me it goes without saying rates even lower and the prevalent reaction is disinterest, as if wondering why Clif is even bothering at all.

When the headliners we’ve coalesced to support are ready to go on, as one nearly unified mass we reenter the building, needle our way through the dense foliage of bodies near the stage. And the instant this power trio dives into their first number, it becomes apparent that either my tastes have changed or they’ve gotten a whole lot better. Probably a combination of both, in fact. Two summers earlier when I saw them, Watershed were signed to Epic Records, a major label for whom they’d cut a couple releases, and they were playing for a crowd of ten thousand. So while tonight’s paid attendance might pale in comparison, Chelsie’s is packed to the rafters, nonetheless, and they’re making up the difference in sheer quality of performance, they’ve come a long way.

Colin sings most of the songs, and there’s something of a dapper British gentleman about his appearance – maybe a little Hugh Grant-ish, or Gavin Rossdale-esque, although really, I’ll tell you what he reminds me of, he reminds of Robert Smith from the Cure, if only he were 50 pounds lighter at a similar age and smiled as much as this guy does. More importantly, these quick little three minutes gems ring with hooks, the kind of catchy choruses less talented musicians sell their souls for. The guitar shimmers and the bass bounces and the drums snap out the beat with sharp, compressed ferocity, and there’s nary a wayward note played anywhere. What I envisioned as a favor to a friend has instead torn my ears apart, and when their set comes thundering to a halt forty five minutes later I feel as though they’ve not yet played a single song. And while I know a lot of musicians who dislike this term, dismissing it as not applicable to their own sound, the description power pop certainly fits Watershed, this generic umbrella nonetheless a weapon they’ve wielded like no other band I have seen live.

After the set, we ooze like gelatinous blobs onto the back patio again, the cool blast of fresh autumn air a form of life support that resuscitates our torpid shells. Colin buys Clif a beer for showing up, a kind reversal of the usual fandom role, and a positive vibe hangs in the breeze, as the band is clearly pleased with their performance, with the turnout and the money they’ve pulled in off the door. In addition to the frontman himself we meet their bassist, a gruff cat with shaved head also named Joe, and their drummer, Herb, and once our drinks are extinguished we all climb into separate vehicles, in pursuit of a party up on campus.

II.

One of my good friends was in Silo The Huskie and says they were supposed to play that memorable night in May of ’97 following the U2 show at the Horseshoe. But that the gig was scrapped when the owner showed up considerably late and torn off the frame drunk. He unlocked the doors long enough basically so that they could cart their gear back out of the place. I’ve also heard rumors about some benefit show where the employees actually used the proceeds for some big coke party instead of donating it to the stated cause – but these are rumors, mind you, only rumors. Let us dip, however, into what we can discover about the booking schedule at Chelsie’s. These aren’t confirmed dates that were played, but they were at least on the docket. I still have boxes upon boxes of old Alive! and The Other Paper weeklies that I will surely trawl through at some point for additional gigs. But this is the roll call so far, of other shows I’ve discovered beside this one:

1/18/95 – Edgar Winter

5/22/95 – Letters To Cleo

5/11/96 – Jorma Kaukonen

9/18/96 – Switchblade Symphony

12/6/96 – Goldfinger

4/16/97 – Lycia

4/25/97 – Bloodhound Gang

6/4/97 – Reel Big Fish

6/6/97 – Switchblade Symphony

7/17/97 – Lycia

8/13/97 – Iced Earth

10/10/97 – Merl Saunders

12/12/97 – Deicide

9/30/98 – The Outfield (local band The Shantee open)

10/19/99 – Melvin Seals

A healthy mix of local and national acts frequented the stage here, and these are only the most memorable names I could unearth. Ideally I would like to post the entire lifetime calendar for all of these places, down to the set lists. As far as what befell Chelsie’s, I’m not exactly sure, but seem to remember something in the papers about mismanagement – and the handful of first hand stories I’ve heard tend to corroborate this theory.

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A Riot At Polaris

When a full fledged riot breaks out at an Ozzy Osbourne concert, you tend to think this might be national or at least regional news. And yeah, I’m sure it made the eleven o’clock TV report, probably appeared in the papers the next morning. But nobody I ask the following day heard anything about this, be it my folks down in North Carolina or coworkers here in C-Bus. I guess we’ve gotten this jaded to spectacle that nothing short of a bomb threat would break into the public consciousness. Then again, some reports allege this is exactly what happened.

The date is June 17, 1997 and the eagerly anticipated Ozzfest is rolling into town. Though only third to last, right before the man this tour is named after, and then a newly reformed original lineup of Black Sabbath, Marilyn Manson has actually been more of an item in the days leading up to the event, with Christian picketers protesting his arrival for weeks. They’re still holding signs and shouting slogans about the self-proclaimed Antichrist Superstar as we’re pulling into that long lane leading back into Polaris Amphitheater.

A handful of us leave from our house in two separate cars, and throughout the day we will randomly acquire a much larger mob out on the lawn, a bunch of people we collectively know. Among these figures would be former classmate Jon Weirick, whom I haven’t seen in some four years, as he joined the navy immediately after graduating. Anyway he is either dating or trying to date or something one of the girls working the window down at one of the concession stands, which seems a trivial point at the time but will come into play later, as the show careens out of control.

The vehicle I’m in arrived a couple of hours after the first, and as such I miss opening act Powerman 5000 on the main stage. I’m assuming this was no great loss. Beyond the concourse’s most distant fringe, a second stage showcases a number of smaller acts all through the day. Alan and I witness a bad Alice in Chains ripoff band called Drain S.T.H., all the way from Holland, but are unable to talk anyone else in our posse into checking them out. They’re a four piece chick band and sound okay at best, though in appearance at least each member is a knockout, especially the drummer. At some point, Alan, Damon, and Paul also check out a group called Coal Chamber over there, and I’m surprised when they return and even a notoriously picky Paul is raving.

“They had this one cool riff, didn’t you think so?,” Damon says, turning to look at Paul, who nods his head in approval.

“Yeah, they were alright. That one riff was cool.” I can’t believe my ears – this is Paul Radick saying these words about a band that has been around no more than a couple of years, “the chick they had was incredible,” he adds.  Ah, so that was it…

Meanwhile, on the main stage, Fear Factory is okay, while Type O Negative doesn’t fare so well. I think they’re better suited to smaller venues, though their lead singer, Pete Steele, has among the deepest voices in history, we’re talking Barry White deep. He keeps swigging straight from this bottle of vodka or rum or something throughout their set, I can’t tell, and we get a kick out of their Cinnamon Girl cover, Damon especially – being a big Neil Young fan but not a Type O one, it’s surely the only song of theirs that he recognizes. But overall, I think Type O suffers from the all important issue of perception, at least among those of us who’ve escaped their teenage years. They seemed pretty badass to me, too, when they first came out, really heavy and dark. To view them live, though, you instantly become aware that this is all one big joke to the dudes on the stage. At least to my twenty-something self, I mean, a few moments watching them play makes this fairly obvious – and adding another layer to the comedy would be those in the audience who are still in their teens, mostly of the goth persuasion, nodding somberly and shooting one another meaningful glances to the music. Trust me, if you’ve ever found yourself wondering about this group’s angle or ideology or whatever, they are plainly clowning.

Not so much Pantera. I’ve never been a huge fan of theirs, though many of my friends are. They’ve always just sort of been on in the background here and there, and I considered them decent, nothing more. But this show literally blows me away with its intensity. They and Type O Negative experience a complete reversal and then some today, in my personal ledger, and this is I guess one major reason why you should take in as many concerts as possible. I emerge from this now a huge Pantera fan, although there is one additional factor feeding into this assessment, which we will discuss here shortly. As far their set it concerned, though, by far they receive the greatest crowd response of any band to take the stage this day – kids moshing, one big sea of bobbing heads and moving bodies. It’s an amazing performance through and through. My only complaint, though there are a whole slew of other guilty parties, is that Vinnie Paul Abbott, Pantera’s drummer, has his bass drum sounding like someone flicking a piece of paper with an index finger. Lots of heavy bands do this, and I’ve never quite understood why this is the sound they’re all shooting for, because it’s actually incredibly thin.

As intense as Pantera is, gaining a new fan in me and undoubtedly countless others (hell, even Paul has to admit they weren’t that bad), Marilyn Manson winds up being equally terrible. Talk about today’s great disappointment. I smuggled in a pocket tape recorder, using it first to dub a couple Type O songs, only to decide they hadn’t sounded too hot and rewinding the tape. When Manson came on, I hit RECORD again, figuring I’d capture their show. After getting the first two songs off without a hitch, I start to wonder, though, if I might not run out of tape trying to get them, Ozzy, and then Black Sabbath all three committed to tape. As it will turn out, however, this is not going to be a problem, not by any stretch.

Halfway into the third number, Mr. Manson himself wigs out for some reason and intentionally knocks a monitor off the stage. Their lead guitar player looks over, sees what happened, and walks away, out of sight. The band tries in vain to continue for a few bars, but then stops, and one by one leave as well.

Looking back on what came next, I think Brian “Marilyn Manson” Wagner and the boys already knew what was bound to go down. This is Manson’s pissy little stunt because he’s well aware he will soon be upstaged otherwise – not in a musical sense, which he is apparently quite willing to live with, but in the controversy department. He considers himself the king of controversy, and it bugs him that Ozzy has a stunt up his own sleeve which is going to trump a bunch of silly picketers.

Damon’s loving this, as is Paul. Shannon, who is Damon’s girlfriend, and a big Manson fan, has been saying all day that they’re going to prove more popular with this crowd than Osbourne or Black Sabbath. Given a level playing field she may have been right or at least had a decent argument, but we’ll never know. Whatever the case, I do think their best angle would have been to get out there and play one killer set instead of contriving some goofy quote unquote temper tantrum, which is immediately forgotten about, and fails to upstage Pantera much less Ozzy.

Nearly everyone in the crowd starts shouting, not for Marilyn Manson to return, but for Ozzy to appear. “Ozzy!  Ozzy!  Ozzy!,” the chanting rages on. This must have hit a nerve somewhere, as the band comes back on and dives into Sweet Dreams, one of their two hit songs and a cover, at that. But partially into this tune, someone throws a plastic bottle on stage, it hits Manson in the elbow, he takes out the drum set with his mic stand and that is it, end of show.

Though there are at least a good twenty of us hanging out together on the lawn, Jon Weirick for the most part has been wandering around with one of his buddies all day. He swings by again at around 8 o’clock, and warns us, saying,  “dude, Ozzy’s not playing.”  I think he’s joking, as does everyone else.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He’d just been down to visit his girl in concessions, and they were closing up shop. Though numerous conflicting reports will later emerge, ranging from a simple cold to, yes, the bomb threat rumor – which is total b.s., for the record, which you can establish just by using a little common sense – the explanation Jon gives us is both perfectly believable and seems to best fit the facts.

“Ozzy’s too fucked up to play,” he says, adding,  “I’m getting out of here before the riot breaks out.”

So he and his buddy hightail it out of this amphitheater altogether, as many in our group shoot them condescending smirks. Sure, whatever, guys. But then we start to wonder, as the evening drags on, why it’s taking Osborne so long to emerge – and remember, he’s supposed to have another full set with Sabbath after his own. Boos begin to circulate throughout the crowd. At one point I’m shaking my head with what I’m sure is a rueful, can you fucking believe this? expression, as it begins to sink in that Jon may have had some legit insider information, and I happen to make eye contact with Shevan, whose face has morphed into the same disbelieving expression as mine.

Ooh, but wait – what is this? Yes, there are some musicians taking the stage now! Sweet! It’s some kind of hodgepodge amalgamation, featuring various cats from Type O, Machine Head, and Fear Factory, as well as a major coup in Phil Anselmo, the singer from Pantera, commanding center stage with the microphone. Granted, we are still running seriously behind the theoretical schedule, but this is bound to be better than sitting around staring off into space.

“Ozzy’s running a little bit behind,” Phil explains, “so you do you mind if we play a few of his songs to pass the time?”

The crowd erupts with approval. Clearly, Weirick didn’t know what he was talking about, as the Ozzman will probably come waltzing out midsong or something any moment now. They rip into one song, and then a second, as Pete Steele even drifts out to lends his pipes. “Dimebag” Darrell Abbott, Pantera’s shredmeister on the guitar, graces us with an encore appearance as well. Then, what do you know, having apparently “calmed down” from that vewwy stwessful incident, the imperceptible one which nonetheless made him so “angry,” here’s Marilyn Manson reemerging as well.

“I’ll bet those guys from Type O Negative and Pantera told Manson to get up and sing or they were gonna kick his ass,” Damon jokes.

But this is actually not a good omen at all. They’re breaking into Crazy Train, and this is the point that I realize Jon had definitely been on the money with his assessment. The first two tunes this ad hoc council performed were obscure ones, but there’s no way they’re attacking what is arguably Ozzy’s biggest solo hit if he intends to play this song shortly himself. Not only that, but, well, it’s right about this time that Paul points out to us that all security personnel have completely vanished. They were lining the front of the stage and elsewhere, and now they are gone.

I’m not sure if the security figures were whisked off premises completely or moved to more strategic posts. True, they were technically hired for protecting the bands and the property, though what will soon transpire is likely out of their league. After Crazy Train is finished, all the musicians leave the stage, too, except for Phil Anselmo. And while Pantera’s set had been a revelation itself, what he does increases my respect for the guy even more, adding another dimension to it. His phrasing is debatable as it kind of sounds like he might be attempting to snow us with the whole bomb threat angle himself, but still, I admire the effort. Some nerdy looking manager type idiot in a suit comes running out across the stage, and attempts to take the microphone from Phil, but he has something he wants to say.

“I’m gonna be straight with you all,” Phil tells us, “Ozzy said there’s no way he’s coming in here tonight.”

Suit Boy finally wrestles the mic from Anselmo, as they are in all seriousness physically battling for it, but not before Phil sneaks in one final utterance. “I’m going some place where it’s safe,” he concludes, and walks away himself.

And just like that, it’s over. Boos everywhere. A crowd of people start tearing down sections of the fence behind us, and then the mob mentality seizes this gesture wholecloth, as tons of people join the fray. The next thing you know, giant chunks of fence are on the ground, then piled up and set ablaze.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Paul insists, though the rest of us are glued to a show nearly as interesting as the one Ozzy would have put on. “Come on, let’s go!”

Somewhat reluctantly, we march towards the doors. Part of me knows he’s right, we need to reach some semblance of safety ourselves, but part of me also wants to stay and watch. Most of us begin to drift toward the exit, though our party does splinter. As we are walking, a short, attractive brunette pulls up to my immediate left, topless, keeping pace with us as a disbelieving grin covers her face, at least. Quite a sight, though it’s far from the only set of bare breasts we have seen during the course of the day, and as incredible as this sounds we’ve got a lot more compelling scenes to take in right now anyway.

Our pace slows, owing to the masses in front of us, and there’s nothing to do but absorb this carnage. Paul’s mighty pissed, as he sat through an entire day of music he mostly despises to miss the two headliners anyway, but from a journalistic standpoint if nothing else, I find this fascinating and am almost happier it turned out as such – presuming we can make it out in one piece, that is.

A Saturn that some radio station had put on display is completely overturned near the gate, concession stand windows are busted out, the glass littering our path, and fires are erupting everywhere. Things are escalating well beyond a few snicker inducing pranks. And amidst all this chaos, we have somehow lost Aaron, Shannon’s younger brother. She’s starting to freak out, saying we should go back inside and try to find him.

“No, let’s wait by the car,” I suggest, “he’ll find his way there, if he hasn’t already.”

So now a mini-standoff emerges, between those of us who’ve even managed to hang together thus far. Shannon’s persistent about going back in, but Paul’s leading the impatience camp, pretty much adopting the fuck this, every man for himself point of view. Finally, Shannon does manage to side with us, and we make it back to the car, where Aaron is already waiting. It’s a considerable relief to us all, everybody except him, maybe, as the look on his face basically says, “what the hell took you guys so long?”

Not that we’re getting out of here anytime soon. I flip on my radio as the six of us who’ve made it this far stand around or else stretch out on the hood. Cops have begun throwing tear gas into the place, so it seems we escaped the melee just at the right time. Additionally, a number of choppers circle the sky above, and the word we’re getting from the radio is that someone had called in a bomb threat, which is why Ozzy had refused to even come near the place.

At first this sounds reasonable enough, in light of the wording Phil had adopted, plus in regard to all the picketers, a bunch of holy rollers who’d been protesting the show for weeks due to the presence of Marilyn Manson on the bill. So maybe one of those Christian kooks had done it. But when you examine the reactions of everyone involved behind the scenes at Polaris, and the musicians themselves, this explanation doesn’t hold any water. What, in the official rock star handbook, everyone has somewhere agreed that the most famous dudes get to exit first, while lesser acts goof around onstage playing cover tunes? And if 20,000 concertgoers go up flames themselves, too, oh well, this is all part of the show? Roger Waters might be correct in considering us sheep for attending these things, but still, that’s extending the metaphor a bit too far.

So, no, I’m not buying the bomb threat angle. It may have happened, but this isn’t why Ozzy failed to appear. Tony Iommi himself will later explain that Osbourne had “lost his voice,” and while I believe this probably is true, my gut feeling is this is only part of the story. I’m going with Weirick’s version of events, as this seems too great a coincidence to ignore. Yeah, he lost his voice, alright…it’s a little known virus called Drugs And Alcohol which seems to hit rock stars especially hard at times.

Finally, traffic lets up to the point that we’re able to start moving. Osbourne and Black Sabbath will announce and perform a makeup show some two weeks later, for which we all enjoy free tickets. Ozzy still sounds like hell, so that summer cold must have been a doozy. Amusingly enough, you can spot all the brand new sections of wood in the fences, though, can for years distinguish them from those which survived the riot.

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Superstar Rookie

superhero poster from Superstar Rookie's debut performance, Cafe Bourbon Street

The first ever Superstar Rookie show arrives the same night as a torrential downpour, easily the worst rain seen all summer. Even so, I walk up to Café Bourbon Street from our house, hopping over puddles because Alan’s at work and I’m not sure who else would give me a lift right this minute.

I spotted a couple different flyers of theirs on High Street earlier that same day. The one above, featuring some sweet looking though possibly copyright protected superheroes, is more in keeping with their sound and band name. But this Screech number shown below isn’t without its charms – particularly as I must have picked it up off the sidewalk or something, as shoe prints are visible on my original copy:

poster from Superstar Rookie debut performance, Cafe Bourbon Street
poster from first ever Superstar Rookie show

When I arrive, Dan hands me a pair of official band stickers. They’re black and white, with the band name in lowercase block letters, and an image of two kids pointing up at the sky. Bandman’s got on a 3-piece suit and below that, a Superstar Rookie tee shirt, a little bit of additional advertising. These are available for purchase for the low, low price of $10, and you have to hand it to Bandman and company, they really did their homework promoting every angle of this puppy. Beyond all that, though, Dan’s mania knows no bounds, and this is great to see, someone with this much genuine enthusiasm for playing music.

I’ve always told him he should put together an act called Dan Bandman’s One Man Band, but based upon that instrumental demo he played for us a few weeks ago, these Superstar Rookies will rise above the novelty status of my tongue in cheek suggestion. Since the night we met for drinks at Café Bourbon Street they’ve formally agreed upon Brandon Tuber as their singer, have crafted lyrics and vocal melodies for their songs. Brandon never sang in any capacity before this but Dan always felt Tuber was the right person for the job, and eventually convinced him to accept it.

So they also manage to convince the old man who owns this place to host his first ever rock show. Though initially unsure it would pan out financially, as he paces around tonight behind the bar, I swear I can spot dollar signs floating around in the pupils of his eyes. The bar is wall to wall people, all of them having paid three bucks apiece for admission, most dropping untold wads of cash for drinks.

He’s jacked the house lights up to a more sensible level for the show, subduing the creepy, murky green and orange glow his tavern usually bathes in. The piano’s gone, too, making room for more tables, never to return. Though no live music has ever saturated these walls before it’s clear there will be plenty of it in the near future, as many nights a week as the old man thinks he can turn a buck. It must seem like a grand epiphany to him, this occasion, the registers overflowing with cash.

Customarily almost a middle aged dive bar, the clientele has reconfigured itself as a hip, happening hot spot. A sea of eighteen to twenty five year olds flying from one table to the next, everyone knows everyone here, we’re all friends from back home coming to root our local boys on. Though alive with activity, I somehow manage to pin down one booth unoccupied in the center of the room and slide my body into it. A perfect vantage point to track the who’s who of everyone in attendance, as I kick back and take a look around the room.

Ben Kick, now a hardcore heroin addict, nods off at a table in the corner. Despite his troubles he’s doing better than many of us are in some respects, for somehow the seedier fringe of any society attracts a certain element of gorgeous females. This explains how he’s landed Tiffany Miller as his girlfriend, a megawatt babe these days, tattooed and streetwise sexy. She sits beside her man, kicking him underneath the table whenever he drifts asleep, though each time his eyes snap open for only a moment before he nods off again.

Dan’s roommate Norman and his brother Jose Flores are here, pleasant Filipino kids I worked with at a fast food restaurant in Mansfield about five years ago. Ron Fry and Jeremy Wendling, two more casual acquaintances from my high school days, are among the paid attendance as well. Steve Simmers is accounted for, too, another chum from back home. He is also covered in tattoos, and sports a wild mane of shaggy black hair, but despite his appearance and occasional zany comments, he’s the most genuine and harmless character you could ever hope to meet.

Superstar-Rookie-business-card
Superstar Rookie business card

Dan’s making his rounds, glad-handling his constituency, and in so doing slides into my booth. This is the point at which he slides me the stickers, in fact. I mention having spotted a couple of their flyers earlier today while goofing around on High Street.

“Yeah, we made up four different kinds,” he says, nodding his head.

“Hey, I dig the three piece,” I tell him, when he stands to move on to the next party, kiss some babies or something. He flashes me the patented Dan Bandman smile, all squinty eyes and white teeth, laughs and tells me thanks.

My eyes drift repeatedly to Seresa, behind the bar tonight and assuredly netting a small fortune in tips. Looking just as lovely as the first time I met her, attired in tight, sparkling clothing that accentuates her impressive frame. She floats through the room with a deftness bordering on astounding, cataloging each drink order and delivering it without flaw, never mind the oceans of bodies she’s squeezing through.

“Why aren’t you drinking?” she asks in passing my table.

“Running low on funds,” I tell her with a grin.

Minutes later, she wordlessly sets a beer down in front of me and walks away without breaking stride.

“Thanks!” I call out behind her.

“No problem,” she turns around and smiles.

Secret Of Flight are the opening act, another – you guessed – group of former cronies from the Mansfield region. Some of them I think still live up there and have driven down just for the show. Dave Kemp, on bass, I know recently made the move to Columbus, but I’m not sure about Chris Hostetler and Jamie Ferguson, the vocalist and guitarist respectively, whereas I don’t even know the drummer at all.

Running into all these familiar faces is cool and everything, but it feels like a frantic dash in some respects, strained attempts to make meaningful contact with everyone in the space of a couple hours, all the while taking in a rock show. Really it just highlights for me that I’m not the only tight lipped character, for most of these guys don’t have much to say, either. Despite having gone to high school with Ferguson and Kemp and meeting Hostetler through some of the other dudes, like many of our friends they’re mellow, laid back fellows who guard their words and as such it’s difficult even for a marginal friend such as I to describe them in any more detail. They’re like Fry and Wendling, or for that matter Kick before the lurid details of his drug problems, meaning they’ve always just been around but I don’t know anything about any of them.

Secret of Flight begins their set, and the words pleasant surprise fail to serve them justice. Kemp’s bass lines are incredible, fluid and unique and melodic as hell, made all the more amazing in considering that he’s almost too wasted to walk. Meanwhile Ferguson’s got this fantastic guitar sound, flowing smooth as water and bright as a hundred watt light bulb. Hostetler doesn’t have the most dynamic range in the universe maybe but does make the most of it, wavering between the familiar speak-to-shout-to-speak dynamic made famous by a number of other independent bands. Still, it fits the music well, and though neither he nor the drummer are particularly jaw-dropping tonight, they provide a steady backdrop for the instrumental heroics of Kemp and Ferguson.

Earlier this summer, Dan played had played their demo for us at a house party, at a time when the band was still an instrumental trio. I liked it, but at the time ruffled some feathers by suggesting it was kind of power poppy, a little heavier but in the vein of early Cheap Trick.

“Cheap Trick,” Bandman had scoffed, shooting me a dark glance as he ejected the cassette.

I suppose at least one band member is bound to be offended, or at least find it ridiculous, whatever comparisons you make or genre you suggest. It’s best to say you dig it and move on. A week or so after that, a bunch of us are sitting at this very bar when Dan tells me they’ve settled on the tentative moniker Superstar Rookie. I think it’s great and suits their sound like a well-oiled kick drum, but on that day, at least, he was having second thoughts, worried that it might not fit their aesthetic.

As Superstar Rookie launch into their opening song, I recognize that Dan had been correct in scoffing at my power pop label for their music. They’re a little too loud and a tad bit loose for that designation. And as such, he might have been correct in suffering second thoughts and considering the band’s name a mismatch for their sound – but I don’t know, I still kind of like it anyway. Besides, it isn’t as if their direction is even etched in stone as of yet.

“The whole half time breakdown thing we learned from Copper,” Dan will tell me later, and cites, when I ask, the chorus of A-Ha’s Take On Me as an example, the way the music briefly slows down to half speed before revving up again. “That’s a trick he taught us.”

And aside from this conscious signpost, they lace in covers from multiple eras alongside their still relatively new originals. Beyond Dan and his three piece suit on guitar, my good friend Travis Tyo functions as bassist, with this burly redheaded guy Dave Copper manning the drums and the new recruit Brandon singing, by every indication a ball of nerves, terrified. The stage is adequate in size but not much beyond that, yet to their credit both Dan and Brandon make the most of it, canvassing both ends, jumping around, infused with as much animation as this limited arena will around.

In sound they are sloppy and unprofessional as hell, yet somehow make it work, winning you over in much the same manner as the neighborhood mutt. Call it the old Bandman charm – he and Travis have been at this together stretching clear back to our scholastic days, both in Mansfield and Columbus, and their seamless unison combined with Dan’s obvious enthusiasm make for a compelling combination. Travis smiles and rides his bass lines but even he can’t take his eyes off the guitarist, by all rights it’s the main attraction here.

Copper’s a powerhouse phenom with more chops than any other drummer I’ve seen around town, yet appears bored behind the kit, his face expressionless and detached from everything else happening on stage. As for Tuber’s vocals, he’s somewhat shaky and not nearly loud enough, and also displays this amusing trait of turning red in the cheeks when he sings, face and vocal inflection both reminiscent of a teenage kid arguing with his mom. But the lyrics and in fact the band’s song structures in general suggest something unheard of before, a new composite sound, a resolute avoidance of cliches.

Alan shows up halfway through their set, munching on a submarine sandwich he’s purchased at an undisclosed gas station. The more fast paced our lives become the worse the quality of our food gets, it seems, and this vile creation I’m watching him inhale represents the latest link in his diet’s de-evolutionary chain. After putting in a two to ten shift at the airport he’s stopped home only long enough to change, and now we stand in the back of the bar because he’s still too wound up to sit down.

Excuse me, Steve Simmer says, stumbling up to Alan and me as if we’re complete strangers, my eyesight’s not very good. Is that Dan “Three Fingers” Bandman playing guitar?

This question is so bizarre on so many levels that it’s best to not even attempt thinking about it. We mumble a response in the affirmative and he thanks us while shuffling away, though not before Alan hands Steve the remains of the noxious sub. We share a laugh over the whole peculiar encounter, my roommate and I do, from his acceptance of the sandwich to his efforts across the bar of pawning the sub off onto Ben Kick and Ron Fry. Ron in fact punches Steve in the arm at last as if telling him to piss off, at which point Simmers finally gives up the ghost and tosses the offending sandwich aside.

“Three Fingers Bandman?” Alan finally gets around to wondering aloud, “what the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have no idea,” I admit.

The only possible explanation I can divine is something to do with the three piece suit Dan was wearing at the beginning of the show. But the suit’s long since history, as Dan strips down to just the dress slacks and a white Superstar Rookie tee shirt. Now he’s sliding across the stage on his back as he reels off a guitar solo, grinning at this obvious homage to a cheesy rock era gone by.

He laughs at my comparisons to Cheap Trick but there’s definitely an element of the overblown 70s here, and the glorious 1980s, too, but just a touch. Handclaps and singalong choruses colliding against a crunchy guitar tone familiar from eras past. An indie rock pedigree buffered against Copper’s dexterous drum patterns with a dash of Replacements-esque sloppiness thrown in the mix, manifesting itself in the way they’ll start a song over if anyone hits a bum note. One selection features Brandon reading a favorite book passage through this megaphone, thus flipping over the last stone they might have left unturned in their quest for the perfect show.

After a short break, the band returns for an encore. Whereas their main set features strictly original material, here they veer into the familiar land of time tested covers, beginning with Just What I Needed by the Cars. For this one Brandon enlists the audience, coaxing them into shouting out each chorus by holding his microphone above the crowd, a move met with thunderous, roaring approval. But now that we’ve heard the thunder here comes the lightning, knocking out the bar’s power supply just as the band kicks into Just Like Heaven by the Cure.

We fidget in snickering silence for a few moments, waiting for the juice to return and end this evening proper. When it does some five minutes later the Superstars eschew wrapping up their Cure tribute and instead opt for a much more modern one, closing out the night with a Built To Spill song I fail to recognize. Then the show’s over and they’re putting away their equipment and as we congratulate the four members on a job well done, Ron Fry and some of the other fringe characters are hamming it up on the microphone, eager for a portion of the spotlight. Amusing as this is Alan and I wave to everyone else and disappear down the road, off to a keg party across town.

Superstar Rookie have lurched out of the gates with an impressive debut, though they’ve understandably still got some kinks to iron out. Truth be told, while I wouldn’t have admitted this to anyone, the secret in the opening band’s name might be that I unexpectedly liked them a little better. Secret Of Flight launched into the stratosphere tonight, but then again this was Bandman and the guys’ first time out, and much better things are forthcoming from them.

By the time their second gig arrives about a month later, held at the Northberg Tavern on High Street, they’ve augmented the lineup with a lead guitarist, Tony Bair. Thus begins a schizophrenic patch of sorts, in which they’re attempting to decide whether this fifth member belongs or not – although in my mind, the answer is a resounding yes.

Superstar-Rookie-sticker
Superstar Rookie sticker

II.

Superstar Rookie will release their debut album, The Problem With Words, in 2000. By this point Tony Bair is already out of the band, and they are back to the fourpiece which kicked things off during this first show. It’s a solid, high energy release, and the music mostly explodes out of your speakers. If I have one complaint, it’s that vocalist Brandon Tuber sounds different on here than he did during their live shows. He doesn’t sound bad, just exactly that: different. On this disc his vocals come across as clipped, whereas during their gigs his voice was somewhat more expansive. I’m not sure if this was a conscious decision, or accidental, or something that just happened at the control board while recording. One exception is Pulling Oliver’s Wings, which might be the best song on the album and is a good example of what I’m talking about. Here he really gets to belt it out, giving you a good indication of what their shows were like:

The album truly hits its stride from this point forward, actually, as songs #5 through 10 are probably the high point. Some guitar solos might have been nice, sure, but you don’t really miss Bair’s absence a ton, as great as he is. I think there’s enough variety here to make up for that extra piece – particularly on Pete’s Dragon, where Bandman submits a nice little shredding interlude, as well as a cool acoustic breakdown. And you even get to hear Dan sing lead on Expost Facto, an added bonus. I’ve always liked bands that shake things up with more than one vocalist, so this is a terrific change of pace.

Though initially released on local label Diaphragm Records, a product of Workbook Studios, this album is sadly now out of print. And to date they’ve not yet made it available for streaming, either. Here’s to hoping The Problem With Words will see a proper reissue one day. And who knows, maybe a reunion will be in the cards, too. For now you can jam on this classic cut here, and if you like what you hear, pick up a used copy of the album online.

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Comfest 1997

Comfest-1997-CD-cover

On a recent visit to the newest Used Kids Records location, I picked up a live CD documenting the 1997 edition of Comfest. While disappointed that their local section has shrunk considerably, I understand that they’re not running a charity and must do what they can to stay afloat. Nonetheless, I am thrilled to pick up this gem, as ’97 also marked the year I first moved to C-bus. And it’s always kind of haunted me that I had plenty of opportunities for attending Comfest that year, but didn’t.

Though living only an hour or so away for most of my life, and theoretically able to drive down since at least the age of sixteen, the ’97 event is the first clearly blown opportunity. In fact, I remember one guy walking around at work that weekend asking if anyone planned on attending, because he needed a ride – and I had no idea what he was talking about! In later years I would catch a number of these bands playing out around town, but listening to this disc now is kind of like glimpsing a spirit on the periphery…perhaps whichever one these people are dancing to on the trippy album cover!

When a little more inspired, I’ll attempt filling in the gaps with some research, because I too am curious how this year’s event fared. Until then, examining documents such as this will have to fill in the gaps. Here’s a rundown on the highly enjoyable 1997 souvenir:

  1. Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments – Down To High Street

A terrifically infectious track and one I should probably embed as the theme song for my High Street post. Perfect opening selection for this CD.

2. Watershed – Half Of Me

I would witness these gents playing a couple times and even meet them at a house party. They were somewhat considered by many people I knew – nothing personal, guys, because I happen to disagree with popular sentiment – a bit cheesy and unimaginative. If listening to this track, however, the impartial observer will note that they serve up perfectly fine Midwestern rock tunes, kind of like if the Smithereens and the Jayhawks both moved to Ohio and a couple of members of both created their own supergroup in 1995. Or something like that. You get the drift. And they are still going strong.

3. Johnson Brothers – Chocolate

Energetic party jam from this legendary outfit, replete with horn section. The first conversation I ever had with my good friend Miles, o trivia buffs, centered around this band. He had seen these guys recently and was explaining to me the difference between them and 1970s band Brothers Johnson, of Strawberry Letter 23 fame. You will usually see these guys referred to as The Fabulous Johnson Brothers, but I’m going with the name used on the CD package.

4. Ekoostik Hookah – Lady Vanilla

A near constant presence around the scene for eons now. At this juncture, they still have original member John Mullins in the fray, too. This starts out like a rollicking almost bluegrassy or at least Allman Bros type number, but soon devolves into Dead-lite. It’s decent but nothing I’d go out of my way to hear. I just noticed what the curators did here thematically, though, following up Chocolate with Lady Vanilla. Clever!

5. Hoo Doo Soul Band – Love and Happiness

These cats were a fixture of Oldfield’s every Sunday night for years upon years. If you ever wondered what kind of band might theoretically cram 386 paying customers into a room the size of your grandma’s assisted living kitchen, and keep them in palm of hand all night, well, here’s your answer. They would deliver a clinic on that topic every time out. This is a cover of the Al Green classic.

6. Tater – Want And Need

Somewhat of a garden variety angsty mid-90s rocker. But pretty good, for what it is, and I would include the performance as well as the mix. The drums sound great, for example, and it must be said that whoever recorded the audio for this disc did an awesome job all around.

7. Scrawl – The Garden Path

I was never a huge Scrawl fan. As far as I’m concerned, Marcy Mays’ greatest contribution to this fine city is the Surly Girl Saloon. It’s great that they eventually punched through to a major label deal and all, but, well, whatever. Having said that, this has to be the best song of theirs I’ve heard. The bass guitar has a terrifically menacing edge to it, and that tension laden drum pattern has you on the edge of your seat.

8. Rymocerous – Asleep On The Can

Wow, I know nothing about these guys and can’t find much online, either, but this sure is a fun track. 3 of the next 4 band names, this one included, tell you an awful lot about unfortunate 1990s trends, however.

9. Moxie – Impressions

Nifty jazz tinklings which I didn’t expect based solely upon the name of the group. The piano and sax players in particular are really smoking on this selection. Only later will I catch them live and learn that this all-female ensemble totally rocks on every inch of the stage. This is their take on the Coltrane classic and is a somewhat chill but no less impressive performance.

10. Ishkabibble – Tinker

Okay, it’s a little disconcerting to see that even fairly memorable acts like this haven’t bothered getting their music onboard for online streaming yet. But at least we have Youtube! This was a live favorite of theirs, a stomping, energetic cut.

11. Triggahappy – Get A Job

These guys too. I suppose things disintegrate and it’s tough getting everyone on the same page, but…they were kind of popular back in the day, yet Googling this track yields nothing. It’s kind of sad, really. This is some more of that ’90s ska revival business, yet a little more deftly executed than most.

12. Willie Phoenix and the Voodooz – No Woman No Cry

Willie is of course a Columbus institution at this point. The only time I remember actually seeing him play live was at Andyman’s Treehouse also but he’s one of the few guys who was semi-famous around town to where people would throw his CDs on just chilling at their houses or whatever. Here he presents a Bob Marley cover and of course does a fine job executing it. He also plays at Comfest just about every year, it seems.

13. Th’ Flyin’ Saucers – She’s Evil

These guys were a big deal too. They do at least have a Facebook page. But the website mentioned on said Facebook page is out of commission, so it would seem this isn’t a going concern for anyone involved. This here is what I would call a somewhat demented take on rockabilly.

14. Action Family – James Alley Blues

Entertaining enough scuzz rock, all things considered. Their band name is surely the best of those collected here, though – so take your victories where you can.

15. Salthorse – What D’ya Say

Though seeing these guys live painted a somewhat incongruous picture, in that the frontman’s antics were so annoying we almost couldn’t watch them, this isn’t a bad track. Of course, even here, I find that the music stomps, but I’m not so crazy about the vocals. Although I did eventually borrow one of their CDs from the library years ago, and burned that, as they did somewhat grow on me after a while.

In summary, as noted by the number of working links I was able to track down, most of these bands are now toast, or were possibly just local cover operations. It’s interesting to note that out of the 15 tracks, it’s definitely front-loaded in the first half of the disc with more groups who have taken themselves seriously all these years – that’s true now, but it must have been obvious even at the time. All I can say to these outfits who are no longer around, is that you should pretty please find a way to get your music online in some capacity, because this stuff still matters.

Comfest 97 back cover
Comfest 97 back cover