counting backwards

Art Brut, “Emily Kane”

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The dumbest songs are usually the best.

Interviewing Exene Cervenka from X in just over half an hour and and extremely excited. The best part is that preparing for the interview, I’ve been rocking out to X albums/video clips.

(via The Days of Lore)

A long while ago, my sister and I were at CBGB for a Ramone’s cover night. We went because our friends’ band was scheduled to perform. The place was packed to the door, and we couldn’t push our way in in time to see them. We stayed anyway, because people were playing Ramones songs at CBGB, and it’s hard to go wrong with Ramones songs being played anywhere.

Toward the end of the night, we were nestled in the thick crowd close to the stage, and we got shoved hard from behind. We turned around in an ornery mood—my sister more ornery than I was, because she’s not someone you’d want to fuck with. After a moment of confusion we saw that the shovers were Joey Ramone and a man leading him to the stage. We instantly turned to each other and squealed in excitement—good bye orneriness.

Joey got to the stage and thanked everyone for coming out, and selected his favorite band of the night. I think they played one more song. But like I said, it was a long time ago. A few months later, Joey died, but playing music like this pretty much grants you immortality.

Quite some years ago, I interviewed La Plebe for an alt-monthly in San Francisco called Mesh (which is unfortunately departed).

Months later, I the band played Chico, Calif., where I lived for seven years. I ended up at the show by accident. I think friends of mine who were in a metal band were playing the same mismatched bill. I remembered the name, though, and I convinced my friends to stay for La Plebe. It was well worth it. I talked to the band after the show, and they said they remembered my interview, which whether they were telling the truth or not, was really nice of them to say. The reaction to the band was good enough that they told me they’d love to come back to Chico again.

Years went by, and when I was on my last leg in California, La Plebe returned to play a pizza place that had been hosting punk and metal shows. The floor was covered in saw dust, and $5 would get you a ridiculously huge slice of pie, ear plugs and a Pabst. La Plebe killed it—so much so that I busted out my best approximation of skanking.

Afterward, the band ended up at my housemate’s apartment for the after party. They were really cool guys, and all of us drank on the porch till near-dawn.

The next day, I was sore from dancing and hungover, so I walked to my favorite taqueria for a life-saving breakfast burrito (egg and home-made chorizo). I was surprised to see the entire band there, already seated at a cluster of tables. They invited me over and we ate breakfast together. I asked them what they thought of the place, and they said it was good, down home Mexican cooking like their grandmothers used to make.

We ate, and they hopped back in their van. My hangover was a distant memory.