The Crucifucks, Steve Shelley, the Dead Kennedys and Me: Bev Davies Does It Again

...Or bev davies, as she may prefer. We had worked out that I would give her name in lowercase in photo captions but capitalize it in paragraphs, since otherwise it didn't stand out from the rest of the writing. Bev wants you to see her name, doesn't she? She seemed to concur when we talked about it. But now AI searches seem to say she likes lowercase all the time (she found this out herself, having asked Google who she is). Who are you going to believe?

The Crucifucks, New York Theatre, Oct. 21, 1984, by bev davies, not to be reused without permission

Anyhow, B(b)ev has again proven a truly invaluable resource and has dug up some photographs of relevance to a couple of shows happening this summer. You'll have to wait to see Greg Norton (!) playing LanaLou's with the Slip~ons and Scott Reynolds (!!!) on September 20th (you better buy your tickets for that soon). Meantime, Steve Shelley (former drummer for Sonic Youth) is coming to town, with Bill Orcutt and Ethan Miller. I am working on something with him (you'll see that soon, too).  

It turns out Steve Shelley and I have something in common, sort of. See, I was two years into being a punk rocker in 1984. I had only found out about the genre in 1982. Punk rock was not otherwise visible to me in elementary school, on television, on the radio, and then a friend played me Never Mind the Bollocks when I was 14. 

It was life-changing. By the time the Dead Kennedys played the New York Theatre (now just known as the York Theatre, but still open, on Commercial), back in October of 1984, I had all their records and even a bootleg (A Skateboard Party, whereupon you hear Jello sternly admonish the crowd, "These are the only shoes I have. Leave them alone"). 

But I also still had a fairly conservative upbringing with Catholic parents. I remember seeing the posters and flinching in horror from a band name the second night: the Crucifucks. How terrible! How offensive! How scary! I resolved to go only on the first night. Which I did. It was my first ever "real" Vancouver punk show (I was living in Maple Ridge at the time, and didn't drive, so it was a big deal to even get there and get home). Joey Shithead was a roadie, helping out onstage, but didn't perform (the crowd briefly chanted "Shit-head, Shit-head" until he looked out at them, irritated). I could have gone the second night, to see the Crucifucks, too (and Death Sentence, playing September 5th at LanaLou's with the Scammers!). I elected not to.

I didn't realize that I would become a Crucifucks fan. Enough of a fan that I would bug Steve Shelley about it at the merch table at the Biltmore, when he played here with Lee Ranaldo a few years back. "I want to interview you about your time in the Crucifucks!"

In case you didn't know, the Crucifucks' first album features Steve Shelley on drums, pre-Sonic Youth.  Compare the drums on "Go Bankrupt and Die" with "Stereo Sanctity." Sound like the same guy? It is. 

Shelley clearly wasn't as enthusiastic about the topic as I was. All he would say that night was that the Doc Dart in the Vice article, the guy who now refused to say his own former band's name and referred to them as the Christmas Folks, was completely different from the guy he'd known. I bugged him twice about it, in between pestering the band to sign stuff, but that seemed like all he was prepared to give me. So I told him I would write him, and that maybe we could talk Crucifucks if it served his interests, sometime. 

That was in 2013. I wrote him like I said I would. I never heard back. Then this happened (bandcamp here; Rickshaw gig info here): the time finally arrived where I could interview Steve about this very early band he was in, and it would actually (maybe) benefit him! 

But only if he wanted to. I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable, you know? Sometimes things happen in bands that kinda sour people's desire to talk about them, where you're left wondering, hmm, how bad did it get? Who amongst us has not tried to get Jim Imagawa to talk about his time in the Subhumans? (Neither Scott Beadle nor myself had much luck; we don't know why, but he really truly doesn't want to talk about it and at some point you just have to stop bugging the guy). 

...And sometimes when you find out, it's not fun, it's not entertaining, it's not "a good story," but something you wish you could go back to not knowing. People are only human, and sometimes humans can fuck up in spectacular, ugly, heartbreaking ways. I have made discreet inquiries about one local band we all know, who were destined to fall apart spectacularly, and whose name I will not now mention, to spare the innocent and guilty alike: finally hearing the sordid details of the end of that band a) saddened me, b) filled me with resolve never to repeat the story; and c) stopped me asking questions about it for all time. Some of you may not know the band I mean, but those of you who do are probably, like, "Yeah, Al, let's not go there." And those of you who don't, I assure you: it will just make you sad. You are better off. 

I do not know how much any of that applies to Steve Shelley's time in the Crucifucks, because there was only so far into it that Shelley would get, but I would be unsurprised to learn that the Crucifucks were one such band. Doc Corbin Dart, the leader, was quite the unique character. You hear him on that first Crucifucks album prank calling the police to complain about his own band, so he could record their answers and put them between tracks; this is bordering on something a character in a Philip K. Dick novel would do, and yes, I'm thinking of A Scanner Darkly. Dart has had well-documented mental health struggles (with borderline personality disorder, apparently). He has a solo album, out of print, named for a counselor or therapist that he was seeing and apparently obsessed enough with to write songs about (an interesting review with links, here). Make sure you listen to "Out My Window." It's actually brilliant popcraft, a truly great song. 

But great songs can come from difficult people. I mentioned the Crucifucks in a conversation with another esteemed American punk recently, one who feels, like I do, that the Crucifucks were an amazing band (he'd actually seen them). But he also remarked, when I suggested that I thought from my conversation with Shelley that Doc might have been difficult to work with, that that was "because Doc was fucking insane!"

He said it with love, of course. Jello Biafra, too, when I spoke to him about Dart some years ago, was laughing in fondness and awe that Dart had changed his name to 26 and released an album called The Messiah, with images on the cover of one of his raccoon friends. I seem to recall reading, maybe in that Vice thing, that, along with "mystical practices," Dart had developed relationships with and given names to his backyard raccoons. 

I can dig that, actually -- I get real happy when I see neighbourhood rats, lately, and stop to say  hello to them, but the fact remains: when Jello Biafra regards you as an eccentric,  it means something.

In fact, The Messiah is a terrific album. Try "Animals," for instance. Doc -- excuse me, 26 -- is an animal rights advocate and rhymes "peace and love and pacifism" with "shallow sentimentalism," urging us to "get right with the animals." There's a lot of incredible musicianship and songwriting in Doc Dart's body of work, pre-and-post- Christmas Folks, and I wish him nothing but the best; I would interview him if I could. I think about him from time to time and wonder if he'll ever come back to making music. I've heard stories about him selling baseball cards and driving an SUV and if they're true I feel happy for him, I guess (as long as he's happy, y'know? I hope he isn't miserable).

But that's all the preamble you need. Who is this Doc Dart, who are these Crucifucks, and how much is Steve Shelley, when pressed, willing to share with me? (We did talk Crucifucks a bit!). You will see the answers to these questions and much more (including some great Neil Young stories, and lots about Sonic Youth, but no Moe Tucker: I forgot to ask) in maybe two weeks' time, before the Shelley-Orcutt-Miller show. 

In the meantime -- before I disappear from the blogosphere for awhile -- here are two photographs by Bev that I want to show you. These will suffice until my Steve Shelley interview finds its way online (if I am killed in a tragic blimp accident before September 9th, someone please transcribe the Zoom recording with Steve Shelley and get it to Mike, okay?). Because the Straight usually only has one article image, I wanted to show you these separately from that piece. If you've come here from the Straight website, hello. Welcome to my blog. 

Here's a Crucifucks photo from the same show with Steve Shelley plainly visible behind the drum kit:

And here is a photo Bev took the night before, of the Bill of Rights onstage. 

The Bill of Rights, October 20, 1984, by bev davies, not to be reused without permission

And the thing Steve Shelley and I have in common is that October 21st was his first real punk gig in Vancouver, while October 20th, the night before, was mine. He'd never played here before; I'd never gone to a show there before -- only stadium rock shows, never a real underground punk gig. 

And Bev took my photo, too. If you look in the audience, two people from the left of Rick, I think it is, and one row back, you will see this guy: 

That is 16 year old me, complete with hair (Steve still has his). It is also the first time Bev Davies took my photo -- though it was the second time she and I were at the same concert, since she and I both saw the Clash in May of that  year (I am not counting the Clash as a "real punk show," I guess, since it was at the Coliseum; it was an arena rock show, not a gig). Hey, maybe Steve was in the audience that night, too?

More to come! (And if you missed it, I put some of my photos of Bev on my PigsX7 review, here. And you can buy tickets for Orcutt-Shelley-Miller here. The bandcamp stuff is actually really cool. I'll have more to come with Ethan Miller, as well; and I wrote about Bill Orcutt here).  

Next stop Steve Shelley (as soon as I finish this other thing I'm working on). 

Thrift Store Vinyl Gifts, Weird Records and the Jonny Bones AND the Riverdans at the Punk Rock Flea Market

Three of my hobbies are thrifting, low-level record collecting, and interviewing musicians. Sometimes, when it comes to gift-giving, they overlap. 

To start with thrifting: I do a fair bit of it (as well as garage sale hopping and "delete-bin / library booksale/ Neptoon Free Doorway Boxes" scrounging). I find some fun vinyl that way. Like, how does that go, "I'd pay a quarter for that?" Sometimes I'll go up to two bucks, if the record is interesting enough, like this LP-length presentation by the Society for Indecency to Naked Animals. Take a minute to ponder the organization's name; what does the phrasing suggest to you, especially if considered irrespectively of the cover art? 

Maybe it's the ESL teacher in me, but I zoom in on that preposition. It's not "of," which would be congruent with the painting, which suggests that the animal's fundamental indecency is what needs to be addressed. Instead, the "to" actually suggests, at least to me, some variant on, uh, bestiality... such that when you factor in the horse -- I mean, standing there at a Value Village, I was going, what the fuck, is this some sort of horsefucking thing? What the fuck IS this? 

Now as my wife can tell you, that topic of horsefucking has some significance to my career as a journalist; my first article for the Straight was this, about the Enumclaw horsefucking episode and the film subsequently made about it, Zoo. A variant on this story, drawing on outtakes, appeared in CineAction, as well -- which also was a big deal for me, in terms of encouraging me along on this never-lucrative path. In fact, I have been cautioned about mentioning the topic of Enumclaw to Erika's family members too soon in my introductory conversations with them. Having learned the hard way that I will do such things, Erika has been seen to take control as soon as she hears me mention that piece of geography, shushes me and tells the story about me, adding a meta-level explanation, which, don't tell her, makes it even more amusing to me; we're still talking about horsefucking -- because there needs be some context given, right? Except now it's coming with a few parenthetical remarks about me, too, while I'm right there, grinning affably: "Okay, we can tell the story this way, if you'd prefer!"  

Everyone has a childish side somewhere, right? 

Coming back to SINA, that "to" not "of" is probably a deliberate bungling, one of the layers of humour behind the project, a "wouldn't-it-be-even-dumber-if" moment, perhaps as bait for people to ask about it on talk shows. Y'see, Buck Henry was involved in some manifestations of SINA; they were a satirical media-infiltrating operation of some minor notoriety in the 1970s, in some ways not unlike the media-infiltrating activities of the Cryptic Corporation, presenting their art on a meta-level, as well. Just sub animals with pants in for people with eyeballs on their heads, you know? 

Before you begin to fear that we are spiraling down a rabbithole of TMI weirdness, do note, this is not actually a digression. Y'see, Buck Henry represented SINA on television under a pseudonym, pretending to sincerely advocate for putting clothing on animals. And Buck Henry looks strikingly like Homer Flynn (of said Cryptic Corporation) in some regards. In fact, I think it's possible the first time I saw Homer Flynn on TV, I wondered if it was Buck Henry in a role. I have no doubt this is something Homer has heard before.

And of course, while I never met Buck Henry, I have talked in person twice with Homer Flynn and may do so again someday. There was even "paparazzi video" of me shot and posted online, talking with him, pitching this article. So if I am thus fortunate once more, I'm going to offer Homer this record. I have tucked it away safely until such a time comes. If he doesn't want it, maybe I'll check with Negativland, if I ever see them (I suspect Charles Mudede, the other person I've interviewed of relevance here, probably would not want this record). 

This is how the thrift-and-gift usually works, I guess: first you buy the record ("someone will want this") and then you figure out who it's for.  

Though sometimes you know at the outset. Another example of a thrift store oddity set aside for the next time I see a musician: I have one of the "Inside Track" albums awaiting Dar Williams, next time she comes to town, because we actually talked Alison Steele the last time she was here; Steele comes up in her splendid poptune, "FM Radio." The album itself is a curious thing: it's one-minute long introductions to songs, given by Alison Steele, that could be played over military radio, intercut with the songs themselves. There were whole radio shows of Steele put onto vinyl -- also a Rap Line series. Maybe there are other deejays that did this? It's a  practice I know very little about; you don't see these every day. 

Which brings us to the point: Riverdans are playing today at LanaLou's as part of another Punk Rock Flea Market. And one of the people whose records I pick up regularly when thrifting is Oscar Brand. I have gifted Oscar Brand records to Jeff Andrew, Rowan Lipkovits, Jello Biafra, I think Eugene Chadbourne, and likely also the Minimalist Jug Band. At any given moment, odds are I have one or two in my collection, awaiting the right person, thrifted for a dollar or less. There is NO DEMAND for these -- they are semi-ubiquitous and never expensive, despite them being uniformly wonderful... and politically sometimes beyond the pale, but nevermind that...

So the last time I saw Dan Scum, who I interviewed here, I gave him a couple of these (I think volumes 3 and 5). I have since found another, so I texted him: do you want another? He does.

But in fact I have something even cooler and more curious. Y'see, Dan has been known to sing "Dirty Old Town," which you might know as a Pogues song, but is actually by Ewan MacColl (father of Kirsty, who is on "Fairytale of New York"). MacColl also sang "Poor Paddy Works on the Railway." I thought I might actually have a dupe album to give to Dan on this front, as well, so I dug around my Ewan MacColls today, and learned something startling. I do have the album duped: once as a 10" and once as an LP (on red vinyl, oddly enough, which one doesn't expect on older records). And the odd thing here is, the records, whether on 10" or 12", are the same. It's either a very long 10" or a very short 12", or possibly a bit of both. I had thought the LP would combine the sequel 10" as well -- which I also have -- but it turns out that it does not.

I also learned in doing this that I do not have Ewan MacColl on vinyl singing "Dirty Old Town" anywhere. I had thought I did ("Poor Paddy Works on the Railway" is on this, and its really almost as punky as the Pogues' version, once MacColl picks up speed). 

I do have something for Jonny Bones, too, rest assured, but it's not a thrift store record. He does tell me he'll be there (and there are some other cool surprise guests in town, too). It's kind of ironic that the last time I was at a benefit show for him, it was interrupted by a Powerclown gig!

I'm being told Riverdans will go on about 2:30. There's a whole lot of music happening all day, I suspect, not clear exactly what to expect. If you're looking for an interesting place to have lunch, shop for trinkets or custom soaps or used records or... whatever Jonny brings? It's going to be a spectacular afternoon. 

If you happen to have a Ewan MacColl record with "Dirty Old Town" on it for me, I wouldn't say no, but you could also give it to Dan. 

More here. 

"Spread Love in the Dark Times": Alabama Shakes in Seattle, plus Cyndi Lauper in Vancouver

Erika and I and the Space Needle, by Erika Lax

I am using two arena rock shows, this weekend and last, as the pretext for doing some writing about other matters. Most photos are by me, but the one above is by Erika. The Alabama Shakes ones might be her, too (my phone died, but I also borrowed hers for a couple shots, so I dunno). 

Erika and I travelled to Seattle last weekend to see Alabama Shakes. On hearing we were going, our friends had quite a range of reaction, from people urging us to reconsider to people reassuring us it would probably be fine. I did crack a few jokes myself ("I always kind of wanted to visit El Salvador") but didn't anticipate much complication; in fact, it turns out the only issue at the border was making it clear to the border guard that we were going to Seattle, not Alabama (I think he figured out that "Alabama Shakes" was the name of a band, eventually, but Erika had to repeat herself once to get it across). They didn't even look at our phones, and to this day, no one has searched any of my cavities (unless it was a medical exam).  

Hungry and nostalgic, and having sat at the border for over an hour, I suggested, once we crossed, that we pop into Bellis Fair Mall. I have some history with that mall. As a young guy travelling across the border with my parents, at a record store that is long gone, I bought my first Big Star record there, Sister Lovers, which was, as I recall, a blind buy based on it being 99 cents. One of my top blind buys ever; I don't think I even knew who Big Star was. I also bought Bad Religion's Suffer and Paul Leary's A History of Dogs there, I think on CD, which I would later sell, then re-acquire on vinyl when I was scheduled to talk to Paul Leary (which I did). That dates the trip, actually: it must have been 1991 or later, which is when that album came out, though I don't remember grunge having blown big at that point. I also bought uncensored VHS tapes of Day of the Dead and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre Part 2 at the Target (both films had gore cut from them when they came out in Canada); unlike the record store, the Target is still there.

There are always odd little things to get used to in the USA, like this signage on the glass walls of the Bellis Fair Mall library. But one of the weirder quirks involved our phones; this was the first trip south Erika and I have taken since using Google Maps became a thing, and we were mildly surprised when all the directions switched to miles ("Turn right in 3/4s of a mile"), which happens as soon as you cross over (then switches back when you cross back). Like most Canadians in our age groups, both Erika and I remember the changeover from imperial to metric, so that some things we grew up with, we are habituated to thinking of in pounds, inches, feet. I can't tell you how many kilograms I weigh or how many meters I am tall (I can't even do the fuckin' math, have no interest or need for it, and don't carry the formula in my head; 5' 11" and a half and 305 pounds are good enough for me). But we buy litres of milk, not gallons, and we think in kilometers. Telling us to turn right in 3/4s of a mile required some translation, since we don't intuitively use those units of measurement. Instead of such-and-such meters. you'd look at the Google Maps display and see 0.2 miles. What the fuck is that, even? It was kind of strange that our phones "went local" in this regard.

But Erika has history with Bellis Fair, too, so we were happy to pop in. We'd been on the road for awhile, so we beelined for the restrooms, then the food fair, with me briefly popping into the library to ask someone at a desk if there was a record store or bookstore in the mall. They were very polite and friendly about it, but there wasn't.  

If there is a better-named Korean restaurant than "Seoul Kitchen," I am unaware of it. But we didn't eat there. It was food fair Chinese, for me. I ate food fair Chinese at two different locations in two different malls, one a Panda Express and one a Kung Pao Kitchen, I think it was called, a big outlet mall on the way back. Both were excellent. Erika was a bit less impressed with her Chipotle-style salad bowl but it served the need. Once biology was out of the way, we began to explore the mall, and it was only then we realized: Jesus, it's dead in here. This is a Friday afternoon! It should be hoppin'!

Slowly it dawned on us: the reason Bellis Fair was dead was AN ABSENCE OF CANADIAN SHOPPERS. I suddenly felt kind of terrible. All the Americans we saw were very nice, very polite, but the ones at Bellis Fair also had a bit of a grim overcast to them, maybe because they were aware of a before-and-after effect ("This place used to be hopping before he got in again"). Without us, Bellis Fair was in a sorry state, and it seemed like people knew it. 

Taking pity on our American neighbours, we did our part, shopping for clothes and a few road supplies at Target. Prices were not good. Whether it's tariffs or just general economic decline, with the exchange, everything in the USA was either the same as we'd pay for it here or more expensive; with the one possible exception of a stop at Trader Joe's -- which has fun, custom packaging and discount prices on tasty snacks, most of which Erika can't eat now, due to her recent weight-loss surgery -- we saved no money on anything at all.  Still, I bought a pair of pants and three shirts at Target: one as a birthday gift for a friend of Erika's, one for myself (a silly AI-generated "Halloween cat" t-shirt), and a Frog and Toad one for David M.  I actually don't know Frog and Toad, but the shirts appealed to me. I got him the "Toad sat and did nothing" shirt, which somehow made me think of him (his cat was named Toad, and I believe, maybe on 1894, you can hear him talking to "Toadie" between tracks somewhere. Or was that on Snivel?). I would have bought one of the "We must stop eating" shirts for myself, except, go figure, all the XL, 2XL, and 3XL variants had SOLD OUT. Wonder why?

Saddened and sobered by the empty mall, we hastened south, checked into our hotel (Hotel 116, a cheapish room with a king-sized bed and a pool we did not use) in Bellevue, a bit out of town.  

If there is a Trump-supporting demographic among the Seattle population, we did not encounter it, but we saw plenty of anti-Trump messaging on signs and sidewalks. We saw protestors on streetcorners in front of Trump-associated businesses ("Love not hate makes America great" read one picket sign). It wasn't everywhere, but it was definitely a visible thing. 

Part of my agenda for the trip was to hang out with Vic Bondi, buy some records off him, get some other ones signed, and chat a bit.  Over lunch at the Bryant Corner Cafe, he explained that the protests had been going on all over the city; he's been in a few. Sadly, he didn't have a 7" of my favourite anti-Trump protest song, by his band Dead Ending, "Ivanka Wants Her Orange Back." It's from the first Trump presidency, but it's still topical:

So finally it has come to this
The empire ground to bits
You can choose between
bad and worse
Sterile and perverse
The pickpockets
Of the public purse
The famous groper
Of Miss Universe

And all the bald men
With Toupees
Finally have their say
Pushing all the
Feminists
out of the way

Don Rickles with the tiny hands
Little Marco finally met a man
In the closet
with a red, white and blue
Dress
So finally it has come to pass
Patriotism served up for laughs
Every principle in the sack
Who’s your Daddy?
Who’s up your ass?

And all the bald men
With Viagra
Finally get their long
Pushing all the
Transexuals
out of the John

Ivanka Wants Her Orange Back

And all the white men
With no balls
Finally have their man
Suck on the knob
Make American Great Again

Ivanka Wants Her Orange Back

I have, of course, more things to say about Vic, but they'll wait until we get a Redshift show in Vancouver; would someone please book one? This is one of the great men of American punk rock (for his band Articles of Faith, but he's done lots else) and he's only a short drive away. The new Redshift album (combining hardcore with surf) is amazing, and note that there's a video in response to the Luigi Mangione shooting of that United Healthcare CEO (including images of it in progress!).

But that's stepping out of sequence -- that was Saturday. Friday night, when we settled in, we went out to an Irish pub near the hotel for our next meal -- bangers and mash for me, Irish stew with soda bread for Erika. We were relieved to see that, compared to Bellis Fair, the place was hopping and normal and that everyone seemed happy. The mood of quiet desperation, of Americans guiltily waiting for the bad times to end, that had seemed to pervade at Bellis Fair was no longer visible, which lifted some of the weight *I* felt off my shoulders. A couple of people told us they were sorry for what was going on in the USA, but we were quick to reassure them. We knew they were suffering too, and the people who were apologizing were not the ones to blame. 

  

The next day, I waited for Erika to wake up while having breakfast in the Woods cafe adjacent to the hotel, reading Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park again and eating a ham-and-cheese twist. Next day it was a croissant. One of the two mornings, I looked up to see who the loud party talking was and discovered that there was a meeting room full of cops, in uniform, having a boisterous, cheerful morning discussion. 

"Do the cops have a private room here?" I asked the (trans, I think) counterperson. 

"No. we just have a meeting room, and they show up and use it. It makes everyone uncomfortable." 

I snapped a surreptitious photo as they left. 

My feeling of pervasive good will almost extended even to the fuzz -- I considered popping in my nose and saying hi. But I couldn't think of a good opener: "So, I'm curious, do you have to bust any protestors these days? How do you feel about that?" Or maybe: "Sure beats a donut shop, eh?" 

I said nothing. 

Once Erika was up, we got ready and headed into our 1pm date with Vic. While we were talking, he told us about Sonic Boom in Ballard, so I got Erika to drop me off there while she went clothes shopping. There was a Howlin' Rain and a Bill Orcutt album which I picked up, apropos of the coming Rickshaw show; I'll be putting a giant Steve Shelley story into the world soon. I grabbed Beck's Mellow Gold, too, which I had not realized had come out on vinyl (at $29.99, it might end up cheaper when it shows up here, if it does, but I didn't want to take any chances on missing it). 

The one item I coveted but did not buy: the Lewd's "Kill Yourself" 7". I remember buying that in the early 80s at Zulu Records for $4. Seeing the prices now made me wish I'd kept it! 

 

I was deliberately trying not to shop. I did make a Sunday morning trek to the Bellevue Barnes and Noble, again while Erika was sleeping, but bought nothing; it was pretty lame. On Saturday, too, when we passed a Golden Oldies, I did a doubletake and smiled ("I used to shop there as a kid!") but didn't ask Erika to turn around. Still -- later in the day, en route to the concert, I was pleasantly surprised by the sudden manifestation of the Sub Pop shop. 

Of course I went in: "Do you have any TAD merch?"

"I wish! Seriously underrated band." 

But they had Loser shirts. I'm not entirely sure that TAD started the whole Loser thing, with their 7" of, uh, "Loser," but it's an awesome song, probably my favourite single grunge song, released before Nevermind ruined everything. So the word "Loser" on a Sub Pop t-shirt is close enough to TAD for me (read my interview with Tad Doyle here). I had thought to wear my Royal Strays shirt to Alabama Shakes, but I ended up putting the Loser one on instead, to, uh, "blend in." 

We also did some thrifting. Erika bought a brand new blazer (THAT was cheap, but only because of it being at a thrift store!) I didn't pick up much, myself (a Silver Platters near our hotel had some blu-rays that I coveted, like Night of the Creeps and Paul Schrader's Hardcore, pus the new Minus 5 album on CD, but I think Erika got more clothing than I did records). 

We didn't buy anything at all at this gorgeous tea shop, but we still enjoyed exploring (more Erika's kinda place than mine).

I was taken with this vintage fire hydrant, and snapped another few photos as we walked around Ballard. 

But again, I've gone out of sequence, here, because we did Ballard before the Sub Pop shop, which is in downtown Seattle. Anyhow, we drove into town, parked for free at the Amazon garage, and explored a little there, too. Starbucks egg bites are better in Seattle than Vancouver, it turns out. The pot shops are very similar. And again, I had a striking impression of the racialization of homelessness in Seattle (which I snapped no photos of); there was very, very little evidence of the fentanyl epidemic that we're experiencing, no one folded over on the sidewalk or looking dead, slumped in a doorway. What there were, in the more depressed areas, were mostly black people with tents or other makeshift shelters. There is a larger demographic of blacks to whites in Seattle than in Vancouver, and there were plenty of affluent people of all backgrounds and skin tones on the streets, but the homeless people seemed to be at least 75% people of colour, which is something you simply DO NOT SEE here. 

And the pot shop I hit, at least, was in one of the more depressed areas. I had a mild headache, so I bought a gummy for $6, and gave $3 of the change to one of the black guys outside who was asking passerby to buy him a joint. 

Then to find our way to the stadium. The transit system signage is about as shit in Seattle as it is Vancouver, and we wasted $6 US on tickets for a train system we didn't need to use; "No, you want the monorail." Ah well! 

I remember riding that monorail with my Dad one time that he went down to the racetrack and took me with him. Long Acres. There's actually a story there, but it's kind of a sad one. I'd told him I was having suicidal thoughts, that I was pretty unhappy, and he suggested we take a trip to Seattle to get away. I was blown away: he never did things like that -- suggested father-son bonding exercises -- and I was as excited as I was surprised to see what he had in mind. Even on the monorail, I felt happy and excited to be spending the day with my Dad. Where would we go?

We went to the hotel, where he left me alone so he could go to LongAcres. Unless I wanted to come with him? 

I was pretty disappointed in him, having had my hopes raised, and told him I'd just stay in the room. 

But enough of that. We got to the right stop and oriented ourselves (no signage we could see; Stadium Station is much better that way, actually). My battery died as we arrived at Climate Pledge Arena, where Alabama Shakes were going to perform. It was huge -- seemed a few times the size of Rogers Arena, where we saw Cyndi Lauper last night, plus we were further away from the stage than we thought we'd be. But Alabama Shakes have a huge sound, which filled the room, and the sound was surprisingly excellent. We were clustered, alas, among idiots, people who chatted endlessly or made a dozen or more trips to the bathroom, so there were a few distractions, but there was a gay couple in the seats ahead of us whose total engagement and exuberant dancing were all the sweeter to observe, given the contrast with the other yahoos; we told them at the end that they were our favourite audience members: "these other people were annoying as hell, so thanks!" 

But the music was great. Alabama Shakes did quite a few new songs -- they obviously are seriously reunited, not just doing it for the money. They had a bigger band than I expected (not just the core trio). Brittany at one point also addressed the political circumstances we face at this juncture, saying something vague about how there's a lot of problems in the world now, but if we "spread love in the dark times" we can pull through. 

To me, the key conversation of the trip, besides the talk with Vic, took place at the Guest Services booth. I was a bit high, so a bit chatty. There were two dudes, one seeming senior, the other junior, and someone who I'd guess was a lesbian, from the semiotics of it, but, like, I didn't ask. The interaction went a bit like this:

ME: So look, I have a stupid question.

THEM: We can give you a stupid answer. 

ME: No, I want an intelligent answer to a stupid question. Is that possible? 
THEM: Hit us, we'll see what we can do.  

ME: We're down from Vancouver. I haven't been to a big arena rock show there in years, and I've never been to one in Seattle. But in Vancouver, for the encores, sometimes, when I was younger anyhow, they would let people sneak down onto the floor. 

THEM: Ah, sorry. No, we don't do that.

ME (adopting ironic wheedling whine): Not even for my wife?

PRESUMED LESBIAN: (chuckles)

JUNIOR LOOKING MALE GUY: She got a kick out of that. 

ME: ...Ah well, t was probably too much to hope for.

SUPERVISORY-LOOKING MALE GUY IN BACK (hence, SLMGIB): Are you from Vancouver, Washington, or Vancouver BC?

ME: Ah. Vancouver, BC. 

SLMGIB: Thanks for coming down. 

ME: Yeah, no, everyone's being really nice. Actually, I felt terrible at Bellis Fair Mall on the way down. We were walking around wondering where everyone was, and then we realized, it was us. We weren't there. It was dead. 

SLMGIB: Yeah, they're hurting. But really, thanks. Don't abandon us.

ME (misting up): We won't. We feel bad for you! We know you're hurting. You deserve better.

Or something like that. I mean, memory is elusive, but it's close, and "don't abandon us" is verbatim. 

As for Alabama Shakes, the setlist is online here. I took no notes, have nothing to say, but it was a no-bullshit rock show of the highest order. 

(that last one is definitely by Erika, too)

By comparison, Cyndi has a LOT of bullshit in her show, but it was, in her case, bullshit of the highest order, and very agreeable, though also very different from what Alabama Shakes had done. There's a certain LOOK that rock concerts take for people who grew up with Much Music or MTV or such, with costumes, video screens, and musicians running around and striking poses and mugging not for the audience in front of them, but for the cameras and the people watching on the screen. There was NONE of that with Alabama Shakes. But it was still plenty of fun (I don't mean "bullshit" pejoratively). Cyndi and her team made great use of the tech, even taking us backstage for a filmed costume-and-makeup change, projected on the main screen while we waited. And the audience brought bullshit (charming, adorable, but nonetheless) of their own: in particular, women, many in their 50s and 60s dressed up in clothing they must have had packed in a box since 1986, wore vibrantly ridiculous hairdos, and generally engaged in 80s-new-wave-cosplay, which, silly ducks that we are, Erika and I had *not* expected. We covertly pointed out this outlandish costume or that. Not everyone dressed up, but some of the ones who did, did it in such a way that you would know by looking that they were big Cyndi Lauper fans. 

I just wore my usual. Erika's new blazer was far more new-wave than anything I had in my closet. I don't actually HAVE clothing for a show like this. But I don't go to them often, so... 

We sat, by design, in basically the same section I was in when I went to see Black Sabbath, ten years ago, also at Rogers Arena ("the last time I was here, Ozzy was onstage") -- straight back from the stage, near the front. We still mostly watched Cyndi on the screens, but we could see her, tiny, onstage too; it was okay!

Speaking of Ozzy, Cyndi HAD been doing something onstage where she played a bit of "Crazy Train," and I kind of hoped she would do that again, but maybe she stopped when he passed? (Might be too emotional?). I thought of Ozzy regardless. Cyndi's voice is in way better shape, but that's not sayin' a lot, considering some of the strangled squeaks Ozzy issued that night (he even apologized to the crowd for "singing like an asshole," at one point. But he was a game cheerleader, and the songs he DID sing well were great). 

Sabbath also used screens that night, actually, but nothing compared to what Cyndi did. 

That last stage setup involved a Yayoi Kusama themed installation, for the closing tune (I'll let you guess what that was). Cyndi explained a bit about Kusama to the audience, and remarked that Kusama was 90; Cyndi herself, now is 72. 

She danced, for the most part, like she was still in her 20s, but you could sometimes see a certain stiffness (I noticed in her shoulders, Erika noticed it in her hips; we compared notes on the train home). But she danced a lot, adding to the time-machine quality of the night. 

And the spectacle was fun -- I mean, fuckit, I grew up with Much Music myself, and have seen concerts in those modes before (I was reminded of seeing the Thompson Twins opening for the Police, in particular: another music-televsion-informed stage presentation). 

And what was really wonderful was Cyndi's stage patter. She kinda did what Lucinda Williams did for that Car Wheels anniversary show a few years back, where she told the stories of the songs, and of her life. Frequently, these took a feminist bent: of how, for example, she recorded "I Drove All Night" because even in the early 1980s, there were no songs on the radio about women driving (this got a cheer). Actually, I'm not sure there are that many, now! 

It really added to the songs, learning her motivations (often feminist ones) for having written or performed them. She talked about how, when she was a young woman, you couldn't even get a credit card or bank account without your husband's name on it (or such; again; I wasn't taking notes). She told stories about being the child of immigrants. She managed to hold the crowd throughout, though there were a few people who occasionally insisted on shouting things at her, and twice she interrupted her storytelling to respond to it, the second time a bit crankier than the first: "I can't hear what the heck you're saying, I've got stuff in my ears! But I love you!" 

That brought cheers, but also a little less shouting (well-done, Cyndi!). 

Lauper's stories also took in her career trajectory -- about how things went bad for her in 1989, when her third album, A Night to Remember -- which features "I Drove All Night" -- tanked. Billy Hopeless tells me on FB that it's a seriously underrated record; I might check it out. They also took in her time as an art student, prior to her music career, coming north into Canada to draw trees, not realizing that it was blackfly season. She still drew lots of trees! And she showed appreciation for Canada by mentioning the Acadian/ Cajun connection by way of introducing "Iko Iko." 

I can't do justice to her stage patter but it was the high point of the night, for me: she has one of the most engaging stage presences, between songs, that I've encountered, is a natural storyteller, funny and honest and surprisingly frank. In some cases ("Sally's Pigeons"), I enjoyed the stories more than the songs -- she talked about her childhood as the (grand?)child of Italian immigrants, about her community, and how the women would hang the sheets to dry in the backyard, being sure to take them in by the time Sally, their neighbour with a coop, released his birds. She also gave nods to the gay contingent in her audience ("gays like glamour," she said, of one costume change, which happened onstage) and encouraged people to buy wigs, proceeds from which went to the "Girls Just Wanna Have Fundamental Rights" initiative. She even mentioned, in talking about those fundamental rights, one of the more contentious ones in the US, abortion.

We cheered and loved her. How can you not?

Sadly, I have to admit, my own awareness of Lauper as a performer ended in 1989 -- the last song I remember hearing from her was "I Drove All Night," in fact... then there was nothing on the radio, nothing on Much Music, and I kinda forgot about her (being into grunge and then avant-rock and free jazz from about 1989 to 2000). Hell, even when she was at her peak, I was mostly listening to hardcore punk. But I still appreciated the hell out of anyone singing a song about female masturbation on top-40 radio -- go, Cyndi! -- and was entertained by her costuming and persona, even if it wasn't entirely my thing. Seven songs of the fifteen she played, I had never heard before, including the Frankie Laine cover, "I'm Gonna Be Strong," which -- while old-fashioned and far from my wheelhouse -- had the vocal performance of the night: holy shit can Cyndi still sing. 

But we both enjoyed ourselves immensely, Erika and I. There were a couple of less impressive songs, too, but I almost don't want to mention them. For "Time After Time" but it sounded to me like she'd decided that, since everyone was going to sing along (which they did), she would stagger her own vocals a bit, move them up a notch, so to speak, so that she was in front of the crowd's echo a bit; it sounded odd to me! But people (including Erika) still choked up to be hearing it. Myself, I enjoyed "Money Changes Everything" more, and the Laine cover, and "I Drove All Night" and "She Bop," and of course the big show-closer. As for the rest, mostly I liked the stories between songs best.  

So they were two very different concerts, but both of them were very enjoyable, even if there was an undercurrent of sadness about things in the USA right now which informed both nights. I hope it gets better soon. Americans deserve better.  

Thanks to Alabama Shakes and to Cyndi Lauper for making this a week to remember.