“Good enough for punk rock. You changing your bass strings?” Steve asked.
“Fuck no. You changing your guitar strings?”
“I'll change them at the show. We got the merch?”
“Nico's car.”
Bungie snuck over to Steve and I carrying a six-pack of twenty ounce Coke bottles.
He slapped a hand on Steve's shoulder, “We doing this?”
* * *
Behind Steve’s house, Bungie and Steve were pouring half of each Coke bottle onto the grass, then filling them back up with Captain Morgan. It was a little past seven already, and we needed to get going. I walked around back.
“You guys almost done? We gotta beat traffic.”
Steve waved me off. “Hold your horses, bro. Albany is twenty minutes away.”
“Thirty on Friday. Come on, Steve. Let’s get going.”
Steve threw the refilled rum and cokes into his backpack. He and Wolf got in my car, Nico and Ryder got in Nico’s car, and Bungie hopped in his van. Then we all sped off.
Nine
Energy
When we were younger, we always managed to overcomplicate the trek to a show. Most of us had very little driving experience then too. I'd only managed to get my license about a year prior. Steve borrowed his dad’s GPS for longer trips, but locally we would just print out MapQuest directions or, more often than not, follow someone who knew how to get there. It was particularly lazy, considering the three simple options we had to get to downtown. Hop on the New York State Thruway, Central Ave in Colonie, or Western Ave in Guilderland and drive straight for twenty miles. Somehow we always messed it up if we weren’t in tight convoy formation, especially on the way home.
Steve was riding shotgun in my car. Wolf was in the back seat. We were planning on taking the Thruway but our pre-show ritual dictated that after dicking around at Steve’s for a half hour, we needed to stop at the closest Cumberland Farms for water, energy drinks, snacks, and gas. The whole crew parked and headed inside the gas station except Wolf.
“You staying in the car, bro?” I asked him.
“Yep. I’m trying to roll this blunt.”
“Fuckin’ nice! You need anything?”
“Ah, can you grab me a Mountain Dew Code Red?”
“Mountain Dew Code Red. You got it.”
Nico was eyeing me from inside Cumby’s with a smirk. I was already laughing. One of those moments where you just knew it was going to be a great night... I think we could all feel it.
“Where’s Wolf?” Nico asked.
“Breaking up nuggets in my back seat.”
“You see that girl behind the counter?” Nico pointed with his eyes.
I looked over.
“Nose ring?”
“No, the fifty-year-old with the beard. I said ‘girl,’ right?”
“Yeah,” I laughed. “What about her?”
“Ryder says she went to Schenectady High School. Said she’s a fucking hoover.”
“A what?”
“A hoover. Like the vacuum?” He made a snorting noise.
“Ohh. Okay.”
“She looks like a little pig, dude. I wonder if she squirts.”
“Oh my fucking god. You do what you gotta do with that. Steve looks like he’s having trouble picking out snacks.”
Steve was two aisles over. I could only see his head above the aisles, but I could tell he was in distress.
“You good?” I asked. “You look like you’ve got your hands full.”
He was hauling a two-pack of Slim Jims, a blue Gatorade, a gallon Poland Spring water jug, a Monster Energy Drink, and a coconut water; and he was trying to choose between pizzeria-flavored Combos or pepperoni-pizza-flavored Combos.
“Aw, bro...I can’t decide.”
“You need some help holding something?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“This is a lot of liquid, my guy.”
“I gotta stay hydrated, man.”
“I understand that, but this is four liters of liquid. You're gonna get, like, brain swelling if you drink all of this.”
“Maybe I’ll get some swelling in my diiiick tonight,” Steve said kind of loud.
Across the store, Nico's ears perked up. He looked back at me from the register and smiled, then looked away.
I nudged Steve and whispered, “Inappropriate.”
“Sorry,” Steve whispered back. “Maybe I’ll get some swellation in my cocktoris muscle later on tonight.”
We giggled under our breath for almost thirty seconds.
“Which one?” Steve said.
“Well, they are both really fantastic,” I responded.
“I know!”
“There are too many pros to this. I think it boils down to the cons on this one. Mainly the fact that the salt granules used on the Pizzeria Combos are much larger and therefore more likely to cut the shit out of your tongue, which you may want to use tonight.”
“Damn, that is true.”
“I find the Pepperoni cracker to be less damaging, and I prefer the softness of the cracker versus the Pizzeria pretzel’s crunch — however, the regular Pizzeria, filling I would say, has a more robust flavor.”
My phone rang, and Steve almost dropped the Combos.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” His eyes scanned both bags of snacks. “We're gonna be late.”
“Hello?” I answered.
“Dude! What the fuck are you guys still doing in there?” It was Wolf.
“We’re trying to figure out which Combos to get.”
“It’s fucking seven thirty, bro!” Wolf laughed.
“Shit. Alright, we’re leaving. We’re leaving.”
I hung up.
“Alright, man. You get Pizza; I'll get Pepperoni. We’ll share,” I said.
“Sweet. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Steve commented.
Steve headed up to the register while I grabbed Wolf’s Code Red, a Fiji Water, a Rockstar energy drink, and my bag of Combos.
The girl with the nose ring was ringing Steve up. He was zoned out to The White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” playing on the radio and was just standing there, spaced out, drumming along on the countertop with his knuckles as the girl waited for Steve to hand her money.
“Sir?”
Steve continued knuckle drumming.
I nudged Steve with my elbow. “Steven.”
He snapped out of it. “Oh, my bad.”
“Sorry about that,” I said. “He’s Special Needs.”
“Oh,” the girl responded, “it’s fine.”
We cashed out and laughed wildly the whole way back to the car. Wolf soon joined in.
“Mountain Dew Code Red.” I handed Wolf his drink.
“Yes!” he shouted. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
Wolf lit his blunt as we formed our convoy back up and hit the highway.
“Son of a fucking bitch!” Wolf yelled. “God-fucking-cocksucking-dammit!”
“Did it go out the window, or is it still in my car?” I responded.
“I think it went out the fucking window, dude.” Wolf looked around my car for the blunt that was in his hand a second ago. “I don't see any smoke.”
“Oh, man,” Steve moaned. “This is terrible.”
“Fucking went to ash it at the toll and as you were taking off the wind just took it out of my fucking hand. Fuck.”
“Sucks, man. Nico has shit on him, though. We’ll be fine,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. There was still, like, half a blunt left, though. Shit.”
“Rest in peace,” I offered.
We had lost the blunt to the elements. After a brief moment of silence, Steve put some music on.
“What’s it gonna be tonight, boys?” he asked. “Dropkick Murphys? The Briggs? Rancid? Agnostic Front? The Briefs? Operation Ivy? Misfits?”
“Wolf can pick,” I said. “He’s in mourning.”
“Oh, man, I’m in an Op Ivy mood. Let’s do it,” said Wolf.
&nb
sp; “Operation Ivy. Punx.”
Steve put the CD in and turned it up fucking loud.
* * *
Operation Ivy was a four-piece punk/ska band formed in the late ‘80s that had Tim Armstrong and Matt Freeman on guitar and bass before Rancid started. The singer, Jesse Michaels, was so intense on every song. Their only album is called Energy, and that’s exactly what it is. Still to this day, that record is one of the best if not the single best punk rock recording ever made. It’s right up there with Rancid’s Life Won’t Wait for me.
All the bands from our high school and local punk scene held Operation Ivy in the highest regard. I’ll admit, I’ve never been big on The Ramones or The Sex Pistols. I love The Clash, but even they were too before my time for me to feel an honest connection. Operation Ivy, however, are truly legendary to me. Chris and I would skateboard to Energy for hours daily.
I would pay $10,000 to be back in that station wagon with Steve and Wolf blasting this CD, singing along on our way to play a show at Mario’s in Albany again. I am grateful to at least be able to still put that album on, though, and look back on those perfect nights.
The gritty, distorted palm-muted chug of Tim’s guitar came in on the first track heavy, Jesse Michaels’ vocals ringing truth in our ears:
I know, things are getting tougher,
when you can’t get the top off
the bottom of the barrel.
The wide open road to my future now…
We all came in.
“It’s looking fuckin’ narrow!”
“All I know is that I don’t know! All I know is that I don’t know nothin’!”
We belted out song after song the rest of the way to Mario’s.
Ten
Mario’s
Mario’s was a dive bar and our home venue. After the local VFWs and rentable basements either boarded up or buckled down on underage shows, we’d graduated to downtown Albany where out of all the places to play, Mario’s felt the most comfortable to us. It was located over on New Scotland Ave.
Doug Zimmerman was booking it for his band No Comply back when we were in high school. The dark, beat-up two-story venue had a small stage downstairs and a relatively large stage upstairs. It pulled awesome crowds. Two shows were always happening at the same time; so when you inevitably went outside for air or to smoke a cigarette, there were so many people to hang out with.
Before I ever played there, I saw so many great bands on those two stages. The Casualties with The Forgotten was one of my favorites. I was supposed to see A Global Threat and Clit45 there once when I was sixteen. As soon as Chris’s mom dropped us off, we asked the nearest bum to buy us Budweiser 40s from the Stewart’s across the street. Chris, Steve, Wolf, Bungie, and I sat on the curb right outside Mario’s and drank while waiting to get in. It wasn’t until we walked to the back of the venue and smoked weed out of a ballpoint pen that my world started spinning.
I made it back to the Stewart’s and sat next to the door outside, trying to hold it together while everyone else grabbed snacks. Bungie handed me a Snickers on the way out. I remember chewing the first bite of that Snickers. Then lying down in an attempt to control the spins. Then vomiting. Stewart’s staff threatened to call an ambulance, so Chris helped me across the street and stashed me in a lawn chair on the patio of the pizza place that shared a wall with Mario’s.
Chris stayed with me that whole night. Steve, Wolf, and Bungie kept coming back out from the show to check on me. Steve even bought me a Clit45 shirt I wore into the ground over the next couple years.
That was the magic of Mario’s. There were really no rules other than no fighting. One time, we saw some wasted dude holding his dick in his hand, pissing in the road while walking and talking to his friend. Bungie lost his virginity there. The place was flooded with punks and really cool alternative people. Nico brought some rich girl from Guilderland to a show there once, and she was too coked out and afraid of everyone to leave the car.
We always showed up late. Sometimes the first band was already playing and we wouldn’t know if we were on next. We played so often that we stopped keeping track of when we were on and just knew more or less to show up. Doug, the true hero of our small punk scene, never showed that he was pissed at us for being as wild or late as we usually were. He always let us get away with acting like idiots and always booked us again.
We drove past the entrance. Its beautifully tattered red awning stood above the doorway with “Mario’s” spelled out in white cursive. The sidewalk was littered with attendees all standing in groups, hanging out. Regulars and the outsiders they would bring. I could tell by sizing up the crowd this was going to be a good show. We parked around the corner at the end of the block.
It was impossible to grab all our gear at once. There was too much of it, and we learned the hard way that you always want to check in with the promoter first. You never knew if there was a holdup. Maybe a matinee show was still wrapping up. Maybe there were special instructions tonight to prevent a fire hazard. Maybe we were the only band to show up—or the show was cancelled and we didn’t know.
All of this had happened before; but with Doug, we never had much to worry about. Mostly, we just wanted to walk in and make an entrance. We liked to feel everyone's eyes on us as we made our way up the slight hill, past the deli and laundromat, to the entrance. The talking got quieter, the heads turned, and usually someone would shout,
“Trouble Bored!”
And it felt fucking good.
We weren’t The Beatles by any stretch, but we hoarded every sliver of celebrity our small town allowed.
Steve and I always wore sunglasses during load-in and at the start of our set. It created a mystique — while also conveniently hiding how intimidated we could be. We were usually drunk or high, too, so it helped us play that off a bit.
A guitar in one hand, sunglasses as blinders, we each walked that familiar walk. Nico kept pace a few steps ahead of us like a bodyguard and held the door as we shuffled in. The inside of Mario’s was dark. Show flyers new and old lined the walls. The bar stools were covered in band stickers. I spotted Doug setting some of his band’s CDs and stickers on the makeshift merch table, which was just a beat-up pool table pushed to the right side of the narrow room.
“Hey!” he said. “Glad you guys could make it.”
I took my sunglasses off and shook his hand.
“Well, you know, we figured why not, right?” I joked.
Doug laughed. He was old-school, a heavyset six-foot-tall Italian with slick black hair and a black leather jacket. We respected the hell out of him. We all huddled up to catch what he had to say.
“You guys are on third tonight, so you got some time to kill. JDF is on second. These new guys just sound checked but I’m gonna push their start time back to let some more people roll in,” Doug said.
“James Dean’s Funeral is always fun. Who are the new guys?” I asked.
“Kind of crusty hardcore, I guess. I dunno. Their MySpace demo sounded okay.”
“What’s the name?”
“Shit Corpse.”
We all laughed.
“Decent crowd out front. Sounds like it’ll be a good one,” I added.
I threw my sunglasses back on as we headed outside to grab the rest of our gear.
Nico and Ryder set up our merch while the rest of us congregated on the corner of the block, in and around my car. We all threw Nico money for more weed to make up for the blunt Wolf sacrificed to the wind. Wolf rolled a joint in the back seat.
“Pop your trunk?” Steve wanted to change his Gretsch strings.
I opened the hatch, providing a bench for Steve to change his strings. He popped open his case, revealing a beautiful orange hollowbody with a single cutaway and gold hardware. It was the kind of guitar you'd see on a jazz musician or rockabilly guy. Too pretty for punk rock — it would inevitably get destroyed somehow — but fuck it.
Steve fished four Rum&Cokes from his backpack, then handed the
m out like Communion wafers.
“Yeah buddy,” Bungie said as he reached for a bottle.
Wolf crawled out of my car and lit the joint. He leaned against the wagon with his feet on the curb, same as me, then passed me the joint. I hit it and passed it to Bungie, who hit it and passed it to Steve. We kept the rotation going while Steve began to change his strings.
“What time are we on, Gray?” Wolf asked.
“I don't know. We're third...so whenever the second band stops playing. That's how it usually goes, right?” I exhaled.
“Fair enough.”
“Ugh. I hate waiting so long,” said Bungie
Bungie was jumping on the curb, balancing for a couple seconds, then jumping a one-eighty off it. Classic Bungie, could never stand still. It had nothing to do with the cocaine he was doing on the side, I’m sure.
“Trouble Bored! What’s up!” Some guy with a tri-hawk waved to us as he and his friends walked by, heading towards the show.
Bungie snapped around with a smile. “Hey hey!”
“Man, these people can't wait to have our dingoes floppin' in their faces,” Steve joked. “You using your wireless system tonight, Gray?”
“It's an eight-foot-wide stage, man, of course I'm using my wireless tonight.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Steve. “I feel like I can't get my full rock in when I'm tethered to the laws of man.”
“Same.”
We noticed members of Shit Corpse walking past us, carrying their gear, which signaled to us they had just finished their set. The second band would be setting up inside. They smiled at us as they walked by.
“Nice set.” Wolf waved.
“Good set, guys,” Bungie added.
“Thanks, guys!” a member of Shit Corpse responded.
Once they walked out of earshot, I turned to Wolf. “Do you think it's obvious that we didn’t watch a second of them playing beyond the five minutes it took us to load our gear?”
Trouble Bored Page 6
