Rock Me Joe: An Awkward Pixies Moment

The Pixies truly are one of the GREATEST examples of how to tastefully reunite as a band while trying not to sell out. They play the hits. They make new music. They tour frequently.

In my book, they “cashed in” with the upmost integrity. I never get tired of seeing them live. There is no better feeling at a live show than a setlist where you are gonna know almost every song on a deep, intimate level.

To coincided with the 30th anniversary of their legendary EP and LP Come on Pilgrim and Surfer Rosa, The Pixies released, Come on Pilgrim… It’s Surfer Rosa.

It’s a “Three LP edition with new artwork reimagined by original designer Vaughan Oliver and the bonus disc, Live From The Fallout Shelter - one of the earliest recordings of the band, a radio concert that first aired in late 1986 on WJUL-FM in Lowell, MA.”

The next step in the usual tired, cliche reunited band cycle is to tour on one of their iconic albums on its anniversary, and play the whole thing in it’s entirety. The Pixies are no strangers to this ritual, but unlike other bands, they do it with class and consideration.

When they play Come on Pilgrim and Surfer Rosa in their entirety, they replicate the dialogue on Surfer and make sure to play a stellar mini set of B-Sides that no fan in one thousand years would ever think they would get the chance to hear live like: Build High, Dance the Manta Ray, Rock a My Soul, and the Purple Tape version of Down to the Well.

That is what I call considerate!

My moment as an awkward Pixies cringe lord.

11/20/18

Rich and I walk up the sidewalk to Brooklyn Steel when I see him. Off to the side, is a bald gentleman in a cabbie hat smoking a cigarette in the cold. He faces the brick wall of the venue. He clearly doesn’t want to be noticed.

645 Likes, 14 Comments - Joey Santiago (@joeyalbertosantiago) on Instagram: "Lollapalooza Paris."

I grab Rich’s arm and SQUEEZE as to prevent any verbal expression that would draw attention to who I know it is… One of my ALL TIME guitar heroes . <GASP>

Joey Alberto Santiago. A man whose music I have worshiped for the last 14 years, since that first time I played Doolittle in the tape deck of my ‘94 Toyota Camry, stands before me. He is a magician that can make his guitar speak in a shrieking, tortured, wailing, emotional musical language that compliments the obtuse, subversive, abstract lyrical poetry, and the raw, focused, primal screaming of Black Francis.

Rich understands the squeeze and takes a hard turn with me. In the 7 times I’ve seen the band since 2005, I have never been fortunate enough to see a Pixie outside of the green room/tour bus/back stage in the wild.

Executive decisions have to be made in a matter of precious seconds. It is my ONE CHANCE to talk to a hero of mine. I would regret it forever if I didn’t try. I go for it.

He turns and sees this DERP(me) standing before him. I assess the situation.

The weather report is not good.

(My appraisal of) his face says, “Dude- I’m so just trying to smoke a quick cigarette right now without anyone noticing me so that I can go back inside where it is warm. I gotta play in 30 minutes. Please don’t bother me.”

I really don’t blame him at all. Like any good smoker who can’t smoke inside, it is never too cold to go out and have a cigarette.

A valuable lesson that I’ve learned when meeting people of note: It is important to realize that your special one moment in time with them is just one of a million of their seconds. Who knows how they are feeling in that day, hour, minute, etc? Don’t take it personally.

At this point, I kinda wish I could abort the mission, but it is too late to retreat.

My legs carry me towards him as my brain sends signals to my mouth piece to speak. My mouth opens and nothing comes out. I have NOTHING to say. I ask my closest companion, my Brain to send me stuff to say. As die hard fan, there is million things to say, and Brain doesn’t send me any of them. Maybe that is a good thing?

He waits for me to talk. Brain scrambles to put a sentence together. He sends me the wrong sentence, “Thank you so much for a great show.” Stupid Brain!

My tongue, the unsung hero, catches it before it can leave my mouth. Cunning Tongue!

Instead, I say, “Looking forward to a great show tonight.” Or some variation of that… Joey nods. I think he says, “Thanks.” I can’t really tell because I know I have already fucked this up.

I walk away. Joey smokes on, not being noticed.

I die, as I try to deconstruct this exchange that probably lasted all of 30 seconds?

During the show, in between moments of musical ecstasy, I think about what I could of (or should of) said. As I write this, I think I should have walked up right behind him while he was making out with the brick wall and whispered, “Rock me Joe,” and just continue on nonchalantly. I don’t really know. It would have made for a much better story than this one. What would you have said?

I still feel like a derp thinking about this. I will remember it forever.

Sorry I bothered you Joey, thank you so much for a great show.

A playlist featuring Pixies

Requiem of a Fiend: The Misfits Reunion at Riot Fest in Chicago

Photo By Nile Cappello

(Originally published by That’s Not Current on 9/20/16)

September 18th, 2016. Douglas Park, Chicago.

It is the third and final day.

Everything up until this point is nothing more than an appetizer, a bonus for the reason I am even at Riot Fest in the first place. It is hot, and everyone is wearing black. Not me though, I’d rather be comfortable.

I have never seen so many Misfits shirts and tattoos in my life.

Sitting in the grass by the guest press entrance, I suffer through my first exposure to the Deftones. Sorry to say it is not my cup of tea, but their large draw at the Riot stage would probably disagree. How many of them are here to see The Misfits? Probably all.

The sun sets as I hydrate and eat. Energy is needed, and I try to rest my feet because I know what is coming. My voice is raw and hoarse already, I may be getting sick, so I speak sparingly. It worries me that I may not be able to sing along.

A vow is made: No matter how great the temptation is, I will not take any pictures or videos with my phone. The show must only be seen through my eyeballs. I will let everyone else take pictures and video for me.

A text comes through from my man on the inside.  I migrate towards the center LCD jumbotron screen between the two stages in hopes of getting backstage but I cannot make contact… with my contact. The Deftones crowd is too dense, there is no longer any wiggle room to negotiate. Reluctantly, I retreat.

I meet up with Charlie, Bob, and Sandra, they are posted up by the guest press entrance. We hold a make shift symposium and study the geography of our surroundings and debate where the best place will be to start the show together and where the best place will be to finish it.

Charlie, Bob and I first met at the Congress theater (RIP) at the end of a Danzig show in 2008. At the Danzig Legacy in 2011, we all managed to get backstage and took turns taking pictures with Glenn Danzig, Doyle, Steve Zing, and London May. It was amazing.

And now, here we are in 2016 finally seeing the thing we dreamt of most of our lives. Something we endlessly debated, and probably thought could never materialize. I am glad I am with them. We are together in the moment, this is how it should be. We now all know, that NOTHING in life is impossible if Glenn and Jerry can reunite.

It is mutually agreed that we push forward diagonally stage left (Doyle’s side). Rob Zombie plays next door. All the other bands on other stages finish. Their crowds funnel behind, sending us further forward. To call it a sea of people would be an insult. It was an ocean. We chat with our surrounding “community”. A guy named Karl/Carl waves a flag with Karl/Carl on it. Some drunk asshole thinks he’s Moses and starts violently surging through the ocean of people. He is rough. Everyone near him points and calls him an Asshole. Another drunk asshole trails behind, spilling his beer. To our left a void opens up. Two behemoths clash. It is probably a territory dispute. It dissipates, and we are all once again left waiting.

I ask Bob the time until the show. It’s negative 5 minutes. There is a hard curfew, it can now only be a 67 minute set!!

The intro begins. It is the kind of music/ambience you hear on a haunted Halloween CD. A deep, monstrous voice speaks, “I am going to eat you.” The air becomes kinetic over the Ocean, before the erupting thrall to come.

Sounds.

Doyle’s guitar. Jerry’s Bass.

The curtain drops. Lombardo’s drums.

Glenn is a ferocious wolverine.

Suddenly, death comes rippin’.

There is a surge.

Everyone fades away, as we are churned by the Ocean’s current. I try to weather this force of nature. The crowd tightens. Shoulder to shoulder. The flank that was just watching Rob Zombie must be pushing from the left. It loosens, and I am sucked forward into the first of many circle pits. I jump around and have a good time, but don’t stay. A rolling stone gathers no moss. Except for negotiating the occasional tall fellow, the closer I get, the better my view. I am a moth drawn to the light.

There are tech issues but the band sounds great. Jerry is right. They are at the pinnacle. Old timers may have seen them back in the day, but never like this. We are at the right place, at the right time to see Glenn, Jerry, and Doyle. Monsters are among us. They play their songs, and it inspires unity among us in the Ocean, and we sing. We don’t know each other. Under any other circumstances, we might not like each other… But tonight, we turn to each other and sing the lyrics like we have a thousand times before – On our iPods, YouTube, CDs, tapes, and vinyl. We put our arms around each other. We are strangers embracing, in disbelief that we are seeing what we are seeing.

Some of the audience don’t know the words. But it’s ok, they know Woah, Go, and No – and that is all they need to join our fellowship.

And then there are ones who frown. They don’t sing. They don’t Woah. They have no clue. They just know this is an historic event, and they are curious to see what all the fuss is about. They’re on their phones. Or watching the show through them, probably thinking about all YouTube hits they are going to get from their cellphone video, that they will probably forget to upload anyway.

They are here in place of the fiends who could make it out. The fiends who deserve to be here to see history taking place.

Now, I am closer.

We are 138 is about to begin. A girl takes an iPad!?! out of her bag. She starts recording. It blocks her face from the stage RIGHT in front of her. She is happy to watch through the screen. I am not, it blocks my view. I talk to the back of her head,

“Hey, I’d lower that if I were you, it’s 138, I am about to lose my mind.”

She doesn’t even turn around, instead turns slightly to the side and scoffs.

A loud crescendo of chords.

Silence, and then like a baseball chant… 84,000 people all sing that WE ARE 138. The song RIPS wide open.

I jump in front of iPad idiot and do exactly what I said I would: Lose my mind! From behind I feel punches and slaps on my back. I jump up high like Air Jordan (at least in my mind) and soldier on forward into another circle pit.

A guy who has no business crowd surfing, crowd surfs despite gravity’s insistence otherwise. He is concerned for his well being. I am concerned for mine, and I try to have nothing to do with it but somehow find myself holding him up with both hands (I do have help) but still, it makes me feel like Superman. He is passed on. Something drops - delicate aviator sunglasses, I try to return them to the surfer by placing them on his face. As he floats away he lets me know they are not his.

Paradoxically, I somehow never seem to completely run out of energy. My onboard reserves may have depleted, but I am now tapped into the music.

Nothing can stop me.

I am closer still. For a brief moment, my vow is almost broken, I almost take a picture.

Layers of various condensed liquids cling to my person. More liquid falls on my head, gross. I smell it. Thank God(s) it is not beer, just water. It is actually refreshing like the cool breeze that occasionally graces us with its presence.

Miraculously, I have found the ability to sing without any voice. Anything less than singing would have been unacceptable. Dehydration headaches (from trying to sing as loud as possible) have begun. Certain sound levels make it momentarily unbearable. I press on, hoping to squeeze every last drop of excitement from the show.

We are close the the end.

We ALL sing Astrozombies. I close my eyes in the middle of the chorus, having ascended to musical Nirvana as I Whoa with one of my all-time favorite bands. Because, when the Misfits play, Glenn doesn’t sing at you. He sings with you. And we sing with him.

Then we sing Skulls. It’s awesome.

The end of the show has come.

Last Caress is everything you could hope for. Danzig and Doyle play a game of chicken to see who is going to false start? the song. The band’s whole mood is jubilant and playful, except with the tech stuff.

The set ends and the band walks off for a (hybrid) moment. When they return, Jerry takes a moment to thank the fans with some poignant words. Glenn shares a tidbit about the origins of the Bullet EP cover – how he sent Jerry to “borrow” a picture of JFK from the library. Glenn reminiscences about how they were ahead of their time. They smile and fist bump. The camaraderie is amazing to watch as the crowd picks up on it with some applause.

If you don’t know the name of the next song they played… Then why the fuck are you reading this?

I am now 25(ish) feet from the stage, and it is here that I will remain.

They play Night of the Living Dead. Glenn tells the Ocean that they’ve ran out of time.

He asks us all, “What do we think of that?”

And then, “You know that we don’t give two fucks. We’ll play more songs.”

And we all cheer. They launch into She.

Unlike Denver, we bear the fortune of hearing Attitude and the Ocean churns one last time. Jerry throws his bass guitar high in the air and it breaks. Lombardo throws drum sticks. Jerry first tosses the bass headstock with cyclops skull into the crowd. He then thinks it over only for a moment before tossing the WHOLE bass in after.

The show is over. The Ocean calms and recedes, leaving the savage remains of carnage from the brutality witnessed. I traverse the front railing to meet my inside man. People shine lights down to reveal PILES of shoes, clothing, and other various personal effects. The piles of shoes and socks is astounding. People search for their keys, wallets, and cellphones.

I joke about finding a piece of Jerry’s “Devastated” bass guitar. A friend would later tell me that he witnessed six people holding onto the bass headstock with the cyclops skull. No words uttered. Just six angry dogs with an equal claim on a bone.

I make it to the barricade and manage to get backstage via my inside man. I touch Glenn’s giant fucking pumpkins. They are light and seem to be made of fiberglass. He is right, they are pretty fucking cool.

I shake Doyle’s hand, thanking him, my friend Sal introduces me to Jerry. I thank him as well for an incredible show. Jerry is warm, friendly, and gregarious. I am amazed that he gives me some of his time despite having just finishing the show. He takes a picture and signs my Dave Lombardo setlist. I will be framing it.

 The night is complete. I am glad I saw the show from the trenches.  Anything else would have been less, as the trenches were the only way to take in.

And so, I leave Douglas Park with an experience that few in the past have had, but for some reason – optimistically, I think more will have in the future.

Charlie and I find each other and I tell him about my backstage adventure. We get Mexican Tortas from a food truck by the California Pink line stop.

It is a night I will never forget.

And now, I want everyone’s skull…