In My Own Weird Way
I’ve spent my entire
career
wondering why
I wasn’t more famous
and tonight
I know:
back in the day
when I used only
a word processor
no one
thought about
what I was doing
with
my other hand.
now–of course–
they know.
and they’re right:
on good nights
I am
doing just that
in my own
weird
way.
I’m uncertain whether it is just a matter of growing older, but the fact remains that it is rare these days that an album captures a mood or season in such a way that it transcends being mere media. I remember one morning while vacationing in California this past summer, after a long night of chasing ghosts through hotel hallways and too much whiskey, I awoke with the melancholy horn coda from Modest Mouse’s “Spitting Venom” playing on repeat as if it was emanating from somewhere deep inside what remained of my soul. That’s the moment their album, We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank, became the soundtrack of my summer, if not the entire year.
It is also why I felt compelled to drive myself to Indianapolis to see them live this past Monday at the Murat Egyptian Room. Knowing no one else similarly compelled that had either the time or money, I’d go it alone. Most of the drive up was spent deciding whether I would stop at an ATM for more cash. I had a decent bankroll, forty plus, but I knew I had taken a similar jaunt only recently, to Columbus to see some version of the Smashing Pumpkins.
That night I was alone as well, my girl Kate having fallen ill that morning. Still, I was well-prepared with plenty of cash, and feeling a bit awkward amidst the sea of youth while simultaneously being overjoyed by the fact that they sold Jameson, I proceeded to get so ridiculously blotto that the next afternoon, while looking up the set list on line, I only remembered the first four songs. I vowed not to make the same mistake.
Once at the venue, I hit the bar and found my niche. As the opening bands played and the venue began to fill up, I fretted over losing my place but figured just because I was alone shouldn’t necessitate me being taxed. I ping-ponged between the bar and my spot while Man Man played their spirited set. On one such journey, I spied a guy lumbering through the crowd on crutches, which served to remind me of the first time I had seen Modest Mouse years ago. It was an especially dark period for me; I had recently broken my right ankle in an unbelievably humbling manner that, theoretically anyway, precluded enjoying anything, a sold out rock show perhaps chief among them. I empathized with the guy instantly, thought to buy him a drink even, but put down the urge because of my limited purse strings.
As the lights went down for the main act, I thought to myself that I had played this one just right. I had a slight buzz and a bit more cash. I was thinking this just when the guy next to me taps me on the shoulder and passes me a fifth of Captain Morgan’s. It was on now, the Universe once again providing in its solidly entertaining way. This particular bearer of gifts introduced himself as Baker and, as we passed the bottle back and forth, I got his story: a single parent with two kids, he didn’t get out much and had even less money. Thus, the bottle, which he swore to drink the last dregs of, not unlike the night. All this said while nonchalantly puffing on a cigarette.
The show started in a somewhat crummy fashion, the sound murky and distorted, effectively sapping the joy out of the first three songs, “Dashboard” among them. But by the next song the alchemy was righted and the evening settled in an enjoyable if not overwhelming groove. The crowd was that rarity: a good crowd. One got the sense that the strange miasma that has seemingly blanketed most rock crowds–rendering them inert and stationary–had yet to reach this Mid-West city.
I celebrated my good fortune by running to the bar for what would probably be my last time. Upon returning, I was introduced to Baker’s wingman, Scott, an affable ex-Marine who had only recently returned from a deep K-hole.
The band itself was polished and inspired. “Fire It Up” and “Bury Me With It” literally burned, while it was nice to watch Johnny Marr, rock’s answer to Sugar Ray Leonard, defy time. “Float On” did its thing for the crowd, but as the set ended, I couldn’t help but have a few laments. For starters, they hadn’t played one song from The Lonesome Crowded West, their high-water mark as far as I was concerned, nor had “Spitting Venom” made it through. What’s more, there was also my somewhat pathetic need for just one more drink. The Captain long dead, I kept rummaging through all my pockets searching for an errant five spot that I was convinced had to be in one of them, but wasn’t.
As the lights came down for the encore and the band opened with “Broke,” Scott returned to the fold after a lengthy absence. I’d be at a loss to explain my gratitude once I realized he did so with beers in hand, one of which he extended in my direction. It was my night, I tell you, a fact that was further proved by the band’s next song, “Doin’ The Cockroach,” a choice cut from the aforementioned album that had been M.I.A.
I didn’t think the night could get any better, but it would. The acoustic strumming that announced “Spitting Venom” reminding me why I was there in the first place, played to perhaps usher me into a new season. The crowd met the song exuberantly, which strangely filled me with a sense of vindication, and as it reached its frantic apex, I could no longer believe my eyes when faced with the beautiful sight up in front of me near the stage–one lone crutch being defiantly pumped into the air in time with the band!
I looked to my new friends. Baker, his eyes were closed solemnly as if receiving a transmission of great import while Scott’s large frame moved spasmodically side-to-side, however improbably, in true hippie fashion. And, as the horns came in, I was moved to utter to myself this: We’ve been healed.
Yes indeed, we’ve been healed. If only for this one brief moment, we’ve been healed.
It could only be viewed as an inauspicious beginning. But, first, some back story: A good friend of mine had bought me the desk lamp back in 2003. It was needed, and appreciated, but all the same it seemed your standard desk lamp.
It wouldn’t be until a couple of years later, after returning home after a long vacation and having forgotten to turn it off, that I realized it was in fact something quite special, a talisman of sorts. I had never changed the bulb. And that bulb was almost always burning, sometimes–when I myself was capable or forced to do so–for days on end.
After awhile, somehow my success as a writer became linked with the continued health of the bulb. Surely I would burn out along with it. Soon, it was a race between knocking out some books and a novel before we both deteriorated and were scrapheap bound.
As luck would have it, as I prepared to write this my first ever blog, I sat down at the desk and reached over to turn on the light and there was nothing, no spark. Shit, I muttered, then checked to see if somehow the lamp had become unplugged. No luck.
I looked closely at the bulb, strangely enough, for the first time. It was generic from all appearances: no brand name, only the faded specs which read 120V 60W. Rats, I couldn’t even seek out a suitable replacement.
Of course the sharp irony wasn’t lost on me, this endeavor was intrinsically cursed from the start it seemed. Gone already were my good feelings and most of my bright ideas.
I sulked to the corner store, bought the most generic bulb I could find. Came home and, stooping to replace Old Nelly the Workhorse, I turned her the wrong way and lo! there was light! There was life! Sure, it was of the flickering sort, but there was still something left.
So, I tightened her as much as possible and, the room flickering like a cheap disco, I wrote this. Now if I can only finish that novel in time before the two of us hear Ahab singing….