Ah, the perils of hurling yourself down Memory Lane.
I'm currently on a mini-tour with a woman named Catherine Denise, smoking blues guitarist from Texas, straight out of the Stevie Ray Vaughn school. In fact, Double Trouble, SRV's band, backed her up on her new album. Big shoes to fill.
First stop on said mini-tour was a funky little blues club in Watsonville. A little like Bob's Country Bunker without the chicken wire, but the same trough-like cattle-at-feeding-time seating arrangements. Everyone in there weighed at least 200 pounds. Big sign in the window saying "Now serving Margaritas ON TAP!!" For the love of all that's right in the universe...
On the way to W-ville I ambled slowly through Santa Cruz, the old stomping grounds. I stopped by my old house which was in the reluctant throes of being remodeled, poor thing. When I lived there oh so many years ago, it was barely fit for human habitation. Now it has new carpet, new paint, completely remodeled kitchen, and will probably sell for $750K. The lofts, bar, work bench and wood-burning stove all were gone. It should have been burned to the ground and the ashes dumped out to sea a decade ago.
My next stop was Laguna House, an even more vile den of iniquity. We used to nail chunks of salt pork to the stoop for no real reason. Fun I guess. Fly-watching maybe. Bill M. used to leap out of the window and chase student drivers down the street, brandishing the Tool of Anger and flailing it about furiously, just to watch them panic. The only woman I've ever known with a beard lived there. Ah, the good old days. I started getting a little misty. I started to have little conversations with the Eric Friedmann that used to live in this little psychic death-trap by the sea. I didn't recognize him at all, and neither one of us had the slightest idea what the hell the other one was talking about.
Did the show in W-ville, and on the way back drove through downtown Santa Cruz/Pacific Garden Mall, marveling at how much had changed in 14 years. I popped into the Catalyst and caught a peek at Dick Dale finishing up his set. The place was full of what appeared to be preschoolers posing as UCSC froshlings. Here's the poolroom where Will used to kick my ass routinely, there's the tiny backstage where we used to huddle before gigs, there's the same goddamn surly-ass door dude who nearly broke my legs when I was behaving like a complete turd. More mistiness.
And then, of course, it happened. Walking back to my car, I heard that familiar if long-left-behind cry of dumb very white 18-year-old smelly jingly hippy chicks tripping their boobs off behind me, no doubt from Orange County, about to start their first year at UCSC, "In the name of Jah Rastafari whose name we speak with love, we've come so far to be here!! Jah Rastafari! Weeeeee!"
"Spare change?" They got into a Beemer SUV and drove away.
The mist dried up mighty fast. Most of the important people from here I still am in touch with, and I don't miss the rest. I'll visit Santa Cruz in another 14 years. My honest hope is that it doesn't drown in a patchouli-stank hairball before I come back.
The Catherine Denise Band, featuring CD on guitar, P. Rusty Gunn on keys, Luke Piro on drums, and yours anonymously on bass, will be at JJs in San Jose this Wednesday August 24, and the Reno Hilton Friday August 26. To paraphrase Duck Dunn, it's a band powerful enough to turn goat piss into gasoline.
With that lovely thought, I bid you bon nuit.
Posted by eric at August 20, 2005 10:42 PM