Acid Heads, Rock & Roll and the East Coast

I am writing this from the corner of Battery Street and College in downtown Burlington, VT. It is almost 4 am and my plane is due to leave in three hours. I convinced the shuttle driver at a hotel that I am not staying at to let me jump on the early morning airport run, so I am waiting it out. I am tired, buzzed off and ready to crisscross the country again. The next few hours look like Vermont, Illinois, Denver, Arizona and finally back to the pseudo-reality that is California. Run, run across the country, racing back to work, debt, bills and life. In the last 24 hours I aged a year, blurred my vision and rocked my ass off with aging acidheads in the front row of a Melvins concert. Here is how it all went down.

Gigi Ruf and I were sitting in the hotel contemplating life when Bell Boy Joe starts running his mouth about how the Melvins are in town. Gigi freaks, tripping over his broken English. “Where are they playing…Can we get tickets?” The hunt is on and one call to Big Red and the deal is done. Big Red is a flaming Asian/American, ready to cut you up and down with one look. She has most of the town on lock so when we needed a tix fix she was the girl for the job.

After the negotiation it was back to the hotel room to kill some time before the show and when we get back, there is some idiot show in the box. A cheesy Indiana Jones rip off with that muscle bound beauty of a man-hunk Matthew McConaughey. The sorry excuse for a plot in this movie, revolves around his discovery of a Civil War battleship in the desert his heroic defence of his new found fortress against the desert people. The only thing worse than the plot of this Hollywood litter box of cinema was the mustache that Mr. McConaughey was sporting through the entire film. The thing looked like it was a reject prop off of a 1979’s porn flick. Even back then the damn thing was ugly as hell.

The clock hit fast-forward and before we knew it we were late. Gigi got directions and we were off to meet Big Red on the corner of Church and Main. She showed up even later than us, but the calls were made, a cabbie was flagged and we piled into the springless backseat of Waldo’s Cab service.

Our driver was a crazy old man, late 70’s probably, and an import to the great U-S-A from Puerto Rico. We inquired why he would move from such a paradise to Burlington, VT. “I came here on vacation in 1958,” he said. “The second day I was here it snow, I liked it, so I just never left.”

He considered himself “old School” with an emphasis on OLD, but he rallied the rusty wagon straight to the door of Higher Ground, where Big Red had tickets waiting for us, and the Melvins were getting ready to take to the stage.

The Higher Ground was an oasis for rockers floundering in today’s generation of flaccid rock and pre-fab pre-pop. Here there was a stench of good music, the kind that had been beaten into the hardwood floors of the club from many a punk rockers laced up cop-kicker boots. The kind of music from the old days that would melt your mind to the dance floor, take you to alternate realities of musical intonation. Music that had a soul, but the soul was stuck in hell. That type of shit.

The Higher Ground was heavy East Coast. The floor was covered in broken bottles and a middle finger could be seen for most of the show. As the first few chords rang out from the guitar, the place erupted. The hard charging “fuck you and the rest of the world” attitude was enough to blow your mind. I had never seen such a scene. It was like opening up a time warp to the late 1970’s and early 80’s. One where Timothy Leary mingled with Pablo Escobar who took life advice from a Johnny Cash anti-hero ballad. It was dark, it was fast and it was fucking refreshing.

Two drum sets kept the equilibrium of the stage balanced as the tandem drummers pounded out rhythm after hard-charging rhythm. Bashing and crashing the cymbals in unison, the sound was so powerful I thought the acid heads in the front row were about to freak and pop all over the stage, glazing the Melvins in a rock induced vomitorium tribute to their music.

This was my first East Coast show and immediately I could feel the difference. The crowd was working class, ready to spend the paycheck, forget life and rock for just a few hours of the insane-sanity that only music can provide. It was one of those shows that would make the next month doable, survivable as the seasons change; the skies grey and winter rumbles in like a waking giant.

Gigi was in full banger mode, with riff after riff hitting us hard as we stood Buffaloing beers from the background. Chords were hovering over our table and Gigi was onto them. He picked up the movement and followed it straight to the front row. Hands, fists in the air, let it ride, flow over your ears and burst your eardrums to their cadencing tandrums.

It was a sonic night to remember. The Melvins for one random night was the perfect capper to the weekend, which was a whirlwind one to say the least. So, as I steal the warmth of a hotel I am no longer a guest of, wait for a ride that isn’t meant for me and get ready to point it against the winds back to the Southern California, I settle myself with the booze, the beers, and the breakdowns. Maybe settle isn’t the right word, but more center. I feel like I have centered myself for the upcoming travel months. I am ready to hit the road, board in tow and shred the next few months of my life away.