John scared his niece’s pet rat with percussive Spanish guitar chords. It peed all over the armchair. Alan tuned a Hannah Montana guitar to an odd open tuning. With Greg, the fellas goofed around on guitars, a Casio keyboard and toy maracas. I had a cat’s day. Sleeping, eating, napping and reading.
On the way to Athens we picked up the latest issue of Just Busted, the weekly newspaper that prints the latest local mugshots. We laughed at the faces and haircuts and offenses until it inevitably got sad. And then back to funny again.
Drew Vandenberg gave us a tour of David Barbe’s studio Chase Park Transduction. They share the same consoles as Greg’s home studio. Drew interrupted a saw overdub to show us around. Universal recording studio trait: Log books featuring sketches of the console and penises.
Who knew Athens was a college town? Since Fred Schneider was elected mayor, I’ve always considered it a music town. We got barbeque from a happy man with a big smile whose likeness adorned the sign. John held up the cover of Just Busted. Just in case.
We ducked into the Manhattan Cafe so Alan could order the world’s sourest coffee and promptly toss it into the garbage. At Flicker, a film buff bar, I trounced the high score on Ms. Pac-Man. Take that, Gene Shalit. After John’s sister graciously bought us a round of drinks, we all went our separate ways and had our own private adventures.
Mine involved walking around only to realize I had to very much go to the bathroom. With no cash, I ended up back at Flicker and opened a tab, just so I could use their famous Redd Foxx bathroom. Then I had to pound a few more beers to achieve the credit card minimum.
I arrived tardily to Little Kings Shuffle Club with a loose buzz. While I had been on a toilet contemplating Redd Foxx, the guys had already loaded in my heavy gear.
“You big dummy!”
A big guy in a Trader Joe’s kinda shirt bought us shots for no reason. If he hadn’t bought us shots I would still remember his name. Then again, if he hadn’t bought us shots I wouldn’t have ever known his name.
Anyway yeah so the night just started happening ya know. What else was it gonna do? Land Mine took the stage, fronted by a redhead resembling Bernadette Peters and a porcelain doll. She wore a foxy mod print number around her curves. I like the south.
What, then it was time for us. We were fast tonight. With tempo. The song was still about 40 minutes. Greg christened the new, beat up Fat Albert horn he picked up on his Athens adventure. Alan played low haunted notes on his guitar and cupped a mute on his trumpet. Along with John they played around the whole room, with John occasionally venturing out into the street. All the while folks danced and responced (sic) when called. An auxiliary drum sat on the lip of the stage, and a few folks played it.
When the dust settled, a lone, orphaned flip flop laid on the floor.