Jesus... What the fuck was I thinking... Going fishing after the gig Saturday night? Christ... So we played with the
Extra Action Marching Band on Saturday night... after a drunken invitation by Mr. Van Rippen on the corner of Folsom and 20th the night before. Yes... we decided that in the interests of the band, and with an eye towards playing the super bowl half time show in four years... it would be in our collective best interests to do this gig. I will tell you this... I do not function well after, say, 2:00am... Really anything after 11:00 at this point in the journey is pushing me to my limits... in any event, we decided to stick it out... dragged all our stuff into the warehouse at 2:30 and went on around 3:30. I was sleeping while we played so I can't vouch for the success of the show... I did, however, dream of broken glass, half clad women writhing on the floor with M. Boom Boom... and a covey of besodden, drunks howling and dancing and genuflecting with spasmodic undulations of the hip-pelvis structure... so it couldn't have been that bad...
That is to say, that in the end the Extra Action gig was a good dream -- if not a lucid one -- and not a night mare... For more facinating details on this show (what I remember of it) and the all night eel quest that went on afterwards go to
The Captain's Log...
goodbye...
Well, we did it! We played yet another show at Leeds (Anna's Linens) and didn't get busted. In fact, the cops at one point pulled up in the bus stop, rolled down the window, looked around, smiled and kept on driving. Seemed to me like the turn out was even better than last time which is cool because it was fucking - eh cold out there, (a-choo). So thank you all for making it happen... due to the fact that we have lots of indoor gigs coming up we won't be back on the streets till the end of August... by the way... if you want the inside scoop, the dirt, the trash talk, the gossip, the behind the scenes deconstruction of the Live at Anna's Linens show click on the Captain's Log link. Thanks again. Anyway, I had so much fucking fun I almost don't even mind the beer that someone (she's sleeping on my Goddamned couch right now) poured all over me.
Peace--out, motherfuckers.
And so it came to pass…
That on Wednesday July 5th approximately 12 hours before our departure for the foggy confines of that Northern outpost of civilization known as Portland, The Bitch, our Bitch, Mother of all Bitches, up and died, leaving us grim prospects for making the trip to Portland. Not that Mahatma Boom Boom couldn’t have fixed her but really, the question at this point is… how much work, money and time are we willing to put into a vehicle that does little else but treat us disrespectfully, take our money from us, grumble, whine and squeal constantly, deny us simple access to the ideals of the open road (like all bitches she wants us to stay home and devote ourselves to her and only her) occupy our time with all her petty little ailments, jealousies et al………………..
To make a long story longer………………..
We decided not to go to Portland. We decided to stay home… to sit back on our laurels and reminisce about our prior achievements… to bemoan our lack of fortune (and fortunes) to give up, if you will… to allow ourselves to be bitch slapped by that notorious vehicle, our good for nothing the Bitch.
And then… there came a call… The Captain’s log picks up shortly after this call… for details of the subsequent trip to Portland, begin reading below…
9pm -- Thursday evening, July 5th. Waiting despondently for a sign from heaven. The men in dire need of good news. Mahatma Boom Boom staring vacantly at the last can of pemmican. Livers are next I fear.
10pm -- Praise to God. A glimmer of hope. Michael Dickel has offered to pay for a rental van out of the few meager proceeds he is due to receive for his efforts putting together the square dance/ Rube Fest that we were scheduled to play on satureday.
7am – despite the torturous lay out of the roads around the airport… Cap’n Legit and Mahatma Boom Boom set sail to pick up the rental mini van in its dock at SFO… pick up successful
9am – after a stirring sermon by the late Rev. Wupass and and a hearty breakfast of steamed eggs and croissants, the Rube Waddell music making machine sets sail for Portland.
3 pm – nothing but northerly winds, full sails ahead, the mini van is a valorous brig like no other. Rube Waddell sighing in collective ecstacy to the combined wonders of air conditioning, high speeds, and decent gas milage. Great god how The Bitch has misused us over the years!!!
6:00pm – Rube Waddell, breaking all previous land records, arrives en masse in Portand after a cool, relaxing, 9 hour drive from San Francisco… oh joy.
6-10pm – Despite unbridled optimism the three Rubes are unable to find a decent place to set up on the streets and play. Prompting a great wave of appreciation for the city of our birth… San Francisco. (Let’s face it… there are towns where you can play in the streets and towns where you can’t)
11pm – The Rubes, in the company of our van rentin’, fiddle playin’, washboard masterin’, Veracuz Son lovin’, railroad ridin’ hero: Michael Dickel, head out to see
a band. I do not remember the name of this band other than that seemed to me to consist primarily of a certain type of ignorant savage common in our southern, urban wastes several years ago but whose population was devastated by the ravages of small pox, whiskey and hipsterism… one thing of note about this band. They had more photographers per capita than any other band, including a strange woman who stood on stage the entire night, constantly upstaging the poor performers and pretending to be on an assignment for Life magazine. Maybe she was part of the act… I think this is a good thing to have: a covey of photographers. Makes the band seem very important.
Then another interesting thing happened. Towards the end of their 18 minute set the next door neighbor, a guy wearing a Vietnam veteran’s hat (this being July 4th weekend I assume he was trying to win us over) walked into the club, passed through the audience, approached the front of the stage and demanded that the band stop playing because he was “trying to sleep.” They stopped. This was unquestionably the most confounding end to a gig that anyone of us had ever seen. After several minutes one of the band members proclaimed “maybe we should keep playing.” At that, they proceeded to rock out kind of, finishing their song and the gig in a more satisfactory manner.
12pm – sound asleep at Michael’s spacious living quarters.
10am -- July 6th -- Goddamn if we did not stumble upon our man from Bisbee Arizona Mr. Carl Hanni! There he was, lording over a breakfast of scrambled eggs and O.J. at the local café! Good to see a friendly face in this strange land of heathens, and fog creatures…
12noon – 5pm Rube Waddell explores then inner reaches of the Columbia River basin, including a fascinating encounter with some previously undiscovered tribes of half naked savages. These simple rednecks evidently subsist on a diet of carp and Budweiser. Also encountered a friendly group of chubby Slavonic fishermen. Whose red faces and empty buckets spoke of some unspeakable squack (see Paczkowki’s epic tome:
My Life in Squack, or Thirty Years of Nothing)
5pm – dinner at Choo Choo Sushi… Good to see our man Mike Lupro
6pm – we load-in to the Red and Black Café.
7pm -- the square dance begins… Government Issue Orchestra rockin the house (er… street) with the sweet and melodic strains of their Appalachian tunes. Square dance is in full swing -- looks like several hundred Portlanders out there frolicking in the streets… the women of Portland, as a whole, appear to be of a rather comely, pulchritudinous variety… Bill Martin calling out the steps par excellence…Brad, Kate and co arrive having suffered untold privation, loss and suffering just to get to the gig…(okay, okay just a very long drive) Kate and Cap’n Legit engage in poignant banter on the subject of William Faulkner. Later Brad and Cap’n Legit reminisce on the subject of the Seneca Wars (1992-1997).
10:00pm Ensemble Sub Rasa rockin the house (Red And Black Café) with some hard core bass fiddle, and dulcimer…
11:00pm Rube Waddell begins. People are losing control of their cognitive faculties, underage women (girls) hurling themselves at our feet. Human sacrifice, orgy, blood lust, rank Epicureanism… these are the terms that come to mind. Half way through our set however, the owner of the Red And Black Café informs us that our gig is over. Maybe he didn’t like us. Maybe his wife was one of the splayed and eviscerated virgins lying at our feet. Maybe he resented the trinkets and beads we brought with us from our civilization to the south, maybe it was the way we smelled (strong manly odors prevailed on stage), or maybe it was the way everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. (With reckless abandon and blood lust) Who knows. We figure Portland had some strict fascist ordinance about the sale of alcohol after a certain time and of course Rube Waddell is sensitive to this… nevertheless… it seemed to us to be in poor form for the owner of the place grab the beer from Mahatma Boom Boom’s hand mere seconds after we stepped off the stage, (this tactic did not work so well with the Hon. Rev Wupass, who, when confronted in this manner, stated with an uncharacteristic phonetic
clarity that he intended to finish "my fucking beer," and then proceeded to stand in front of said proprietor sipping his brew in his own good time).
In the end it all worked out well. Michael Dickel paid for our van, the after party was full of “aftergods,” the women came in tandem and the songs were all pirate ditties and sea shanties.
2:00am – till 11am -- Rube Waddell, the band sleeps.
12noon – everybody meets for goodbye breakfast at Michael “Stuff” Lupro's and Beth’s house. Beth styles us with potatoes, eggs and sausage… sets us on the road with faces cheery and bellies full…
Michael Dickel’s homie Tim, a native of Oakland, accompanies us on the homeward voyage.
5pm – the trip home is soured by a complete lack of southerly breezes… three hours in the doldrums pushes our arrival time back to 1am…
5:15pm – Near mutiny in the mini van. Captain Legit accuses the Rubes of back seat driverism. Morale at an all time nadir.
9:15pm – Morale now stable despite hours of endless traffic. Our current position reminiscent of a recent trip to Reno Nevada in which the chewy Mark Growden was consumed.
10:15pm – once again…lots are drawn… The Rev. Wupass gets the short stick. It is with great sadness, burp excuse me, that I write of the passing of the Hon. Rev. Wupass. He was a good man. A fine man. A tasty man. I devoured his hams while Mahatma Boom Boom savored his ribs and fingers.
3am -- All Rubes in bed, drifting off to sleep… Yet another medium sized American city laid to waste… all’s well in Rubeville…
Come see us at Leeds saturday nite...
