I’ve
discovered that the later you stay up, the smarter you get. There’s a lot of
wisdom to be found in a state of sleep deprivation. Those who complain that there
aren’t enough hours in the day are clearly wasting their lives away in bed.
The Purrs don’t need no stinkin’
sleep. Their CD release show at the Bug Jar was asses and elbows, and rocked.
The new drummer kicks ass, and proceeded to kick mine when I said she was
“pretty good for a girl.”
John Hammond played it thick and low
down at Milestones on November 9. I missed the majority of the show, as it
started rather early. I’m guessing that was so everyone could go home and get to bed. Same thing with Robert
Bradley’s Blackwater Surprise that same night. C’mon, people — the further
music starts from when the sun goes down, the better. Maybe you honkys need a
little boost; I’m not suggesting crank here, just a little visit with Java Joe.
Got a large tattoo of a Mexican
maiden looking over her shoulder on my shoulder by the world-famous Topper
Benton at Philadelphia Eddie’s in Philly. I gleefully scarfed down a
cheesesteak while I bled. Hung out after at the Blue Comet, where the owner has
been known to do cymbal crashes with his penis and urinate on stage when he
likes the band. He also likes to slap fresh tattoos. A red-headed girl with
webbed feet gave me a bath afterwards.
The Asylum Street Spankers wowed the
capacity crowd at Milestones on November 18 without the aid of electricity or
the restraints of convention. Beat poetry with a Dixie-jug-band-boogie beat.
Nothing was sacred. Stayed up with Spanker singer/madman Wammo and bassist
Shane until 5:30 a.m. It all started at Monty’s Korner, where the boys and
man-about-town Jay Kast drank Irish whiskey that was so top shelf, Will (the
owner) needed a ladder to get it down. Then came “snaps” — a voodoo/psychic
mind reading the Spankers passed along to Jay and me. This is a game that will
surely astound and amaze our friends. Rubes beware: We now know what you are
thinking.
Went back to the Days Inn motel,
where every room looks like it’s been a crime scene at one point or another. We
gave bloated rock the finger by letting the air out of the tires on a giant
tour bus blocking the parking lot. Crashed out on the floor, but not before
making fun of Jackie Chan and eating every snack in the vending machine.
I’m off to Memphis. Everyone’s gonna
get Elvis stuff for Christmas this year.
Frank
De Blase
This article appears in Nov 27 – Dec 3, 2002.
