Dinosaur Jr.

I was sitting at work the other day, listening to Dinosaur Jr.’s Green Mind cd, and the student intern stopped by and picked up the case to check it out. He tells me Dinosaur Jr. is playing at a new local venue, just up the road from the state university. I inform him that he must be mistaken, no way, no how is Dinosaur Jr. playing in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the Midwest, a good decade after lead singer/guitarist/songwriter J. Mascis finally disbanded the group.
Never mind the fact that they had a reunion album/tour a year or so ago, no way were they going to be playing in my town. I guess they sold out the two shows they did down the road in Ann Arbor, at the legendary Blind Pig, but I thought the reunion was just a short-lived excursion. Another missed opportunity to catch one of my favorite hardcore/post-punk bands live in person.
Oh well, I never liked Ann Arbor all that much anyways.
I’ve been re-buying all my favorite cds from the mid-eighties to the mid-nineties lately—Husker Du, the Replacements, Sonic Youth, the Descendents, and Dinosaur Jr. among them. I just happened to be on a really big Dino kick of late—J.’s guitar playing and lyrics mirroring my mood on the eve of my fortieth birthday, I guess.
But then Tony, the student intern, comes back with a local rag that highlights musical and other happenings, and right there in black and white—Dinosaur Jr., playing TONIGHT. There was J. Mascis, long hair almost completely white, drummer Murph completely hair-free and bassist Lou Barlow (who went on to form Sebodoah and Folk Implosion), staring back at me.
I saw a few shows back in the day—Butthole Surfers, M.D.C., the Circle Jerks, etc.—saw some big name bands as well—Pink Floyd, Rush, Metallica, but never saw any of the bands that I was really passionate about. And all of a sudden, here was one of the biggies, just dropped into my lap unexpectedly.
And the worst part was that it was a week before payday, me totally penniless.
After some groveling, shouting and jumping around, my co-workers were nice enough to float some fundage. They probably were just trying to shut me up, but all the same, I was going to the show.
Now you have to understand that I never go anywhere by myself—not even the corner store or the gas station, not really sure why, but no one was interested in this band nor hanging out with me. Can’t say I blame them about the latter, but doesn’t anyone I know understand who these guys are?
In my mind, the whole alternative scene was built upon the blood and sweat of bands like Husker Du, Black Flag, the Replacements, the Pixies, Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr. Constant touring, limited airplay (other than on college radio stations), almost zero acknowledgement in the mainstream rock press, and limited commercial success were their reward—but bands like Nirvana, Green Day and what passes for punk these days, wouldn’t have happened if the Dinos and their contemporaries hadn’t paved the way for them.
I wanted to pay homage and give props to one of my heroes while I still could. Dinosaur Jr. could break up again tomorrow for all I know—and we all aren’t getting any younger. Maybe that’s what this whole thing is about with me, more than anything else. On the cusp of forty, all I think about are all the things I haven’t done and wish I had. I haven’t been published, haven’t even written that novel I had been planning, haven’t visited Thailand, haven’t pursued my master’s degree, and haven’t taken that cross-country trip . . . blah, blah, blah.
My list of things I wish I had done seems to get longer and longer everyday—but I can cross out seeing Dinosaur Jr. and can also cross out meeting J. Mascis. I met him and got to shake his hand, thanked him for all the great music and memories that he’s created for myself and others. Then I stood back and watched him play his Fender JazzMaster, in person, from less than ten feet away. I was alone, but surrounded by other admiring fans, bopping and grooving to familiar riffs rising above the sonic onslaught of the Marshall stack.
In the final analysis, what is there to say? I had a great time seeing a great band. It brought back good memories, but it also reminded me of how something so simple can bring me so much joy. J., Murph and Lou are all getting older—but so am I and everyone else, that’s kind of the way this whole life thing works.
Great music captures a moment or a feeling, and somehow one person conveys those feelings to someone else. Or someone can hear something and attach their own feelings and memories to a riff or a song. Either way, my ability to open myself to that experience had stagnated and seeing Dinosaur Jr awoke that feeling again. It feels good to be alive, albeit in an ever-changing (and ever-older) form.
I used to envy people like J. Mascis, but he’s probably got his own list of stuff he wishes he did, just from a different perspective. People like me live our lives inside our heads, maybe a little too much sometimes. If there is anything to envy, it’s the ability to put something out there to be judged and critiqued, without fear of how it affects your bottom line. Having the opportunity to do something you love and make a decent living from it seems like it would be a wonderful thing, but I’m sure it comes with its own baggage as well.
As a live band, Dinosaur Jr. hasn’t lost anything—J.’s guitar playing is phenomenal, Murph’s thudding drums shake you to the core and Lou’s bass playing—maybe the best I’ve ever seen. J. Mascis is a different person on stage, glasses off and hair tucked behind one ear, guitar at the ready and microphone in front of him. A couple of hundred people crowded in front of the stage, trying to get a glimpse of the band in action, many with cell phones and cameras in hand. The crowd was mostly in their twenties, but there were plenty of grey and bald heads bopping along to wave after wave of fuzzed out chordage.
J.’s vocals hide hesitatingly behind the wall of guitar noise and if you don’t know the words, you probably won’t understand a thing he’s saying, but then you probably wouldn’t be standing in the middle of a crowd of strangers listening to every nuanced chord progression, string bend, or arpeggio like it held the answers to life’s most vexing questions. As the band took the stage, Public Image Limited’s “Public Image” and Joy Division’s “Warsaw” set the tone and the timbre of the evening, dark figures adjusting the high hats and strapping on their guitars.
An hour and a half later, they whipped through an encore, playing “Freak Scene”, “I Feel the Pain of Everyone” and The Cure’s “Just like Heaven”. Confusion, angst, hope and love, all coiled around massive columns of sound and spinning away into the cold dark night. Note after note of songs old and new or freshly renewed by the time the crowd started spilling toward the exits, the band drenched in sweat, as they stood surveying the remains of their sonic carnage.
My ears were ringing as I walked to my car, and they would continue to do so for the next couple of days. The denseness of the sound followed me around wherever I went, normal everyday noises muffled. I really need to start wearing ear plugs to concerts (plenty in the crowd had them). If and when the opportunity arises again, hopefully I’ll be open to the experience. I’ll have to check out the internet to see if the Descendents or Sonic Youth are going to be playing somewhere in the state some time soon.

anticipation

Atop the rollercoaster just before the plunge,
On the lip of the quarterpipe just before you drop,
Waiting in the wings before you take the stage,
Walking down the hallway late again for class,
Toeing up to the starting line before the race,
All the same, the feeling still remains,
What am I waiting for, what churns my guts,
Butterflies feel like pterodactyls inside,
What’s the worse thing that could happen,
What is this fear, pumping through my veins,
Anticipation builds and feeds on itself,
Time and again, destroyed by false turmoil,
Nothing really there except what I’ve manufactured,
Round and round I go in ever-widening circles,
It’s all on the inside, nothing on the outside,
What’s left to save, what’s left that even matters,
Questions continue unabated, no easy answers,
Momentum builds, sweat pores from my armpits,
Fingers tingle and flesh becomes speckled,
Mind formations cloud my vision,
Breaths go shallow, and a trickle escapes,
Let it go, take that first step,
Cease the unknowing and find out,
Fail and correct, or hit the sweet spot,
Either/or, but at least it’s something concrete,
Fear of the what-ifs strangle and kill,
Just do, just go, just try, and just be,
Ego disappears, only the action remains,
Nothing left to ponder, nothing left to wonder,
No one to entertain pointless thoughts,
He’s streaking down the tracks,
Slamming board into the transition,
Strutting onto the stage,
Striding into the room,
Digging spikes into the asphalt.

bop gun

(apologies to Parliament, George Clinton and Ice Cube)

Ready or not here I come, getting down just for the phunk of it
cold frozen morning, so sick of winter
longboard dreams, longboard wheels
longing for warm dry days, wishing for some big Sector 9's,
new day rising, spring just around the corner,
big phat wheels, sticking to the concrete,
gliding over the hubbas, catapault through the corners,
ready or not, knee deep, don't want no drama,
can imagine the sun on my skin, sweet on my bald head,
no place to go, nothing to do,
but just to find myself, find where i'm going,
getting down just for the phunk of it, getting down,
glide and push, trying to find the flow,
i'm gonna have some fun, handcuffs on yo mama,
swerving to miss some groms, swerving to miss some dude,
here's my chance to dance my way out of my constrictions,
ask the buffalo girl to go around the outside, one nation under a groove,
one nation on the board, one nation under the sun,
One nation and we're on the move, Get it on my good foot, good gawd
frantic sweat spills outta my skull, frantic chills shoot down my spine
a whole afternoon to undo the destruction of one winter
pressure's building, pressure's gonna blow
If you hear any noise, it's just me and the boys, Playin with our toys
skating with my kids, the very definition of bliss
Do not attempt to adjust your radio, There ain't nothin' wrong
hit the board, hit the crete, hit the bong,
dropping in, dropping out, falling out, falling down
Flashlight, red light, we don't like cops on the bike
no wrong no right, in this game of skate
do what feels good, ride till it feels tight
Hittin them dips, cd skips but I'm straight
As I bounce, rock, skate, now I'll toast to that
hit them hips, hit the half wall
throw in a boneless, watch me on the lip
watch me panic, watch me stall
So wide you can't get around it, So low you can't get under it, So high you can't get over it
gonna hit you with this bop gun, gonna hit me with this bop gun,
riding up and down, scraping skin as I go along,
Much more ba-e-ya-e-younce, Ice Cube comin' with the half ounce
sun up to sun down, don't let my fall down don't let me fall down,
Not Just Knee Deep, jeep fulla smog
take a deep breath, inhale exhale all there is
ride the long board, the new school and the old
Tear the roof of this mutha like we did last night, son
And hit you with the bop gun
ride on a piece of driftwood for all I care, slap some trucks on
grab onto your momma, let it all out let it go
One nation under a groove, Gettin down just for the funk of it
One nation and we're on the move, Nothin can stop us now

mid-winter blues

My skateboards sit stacked on top of one another in the basement, thirsting for my attention, as I remain mired in the mid-winter doldrums. I finally found time to clean up from the last thaw, which now seems like a distant memory. A winter’s worth of ice and snow had melted within days and found its way between foundation cracks and bum rushed my over-worked sump pump to flood my basement floor.
Fresh snow now tumbles out of the sky, obscuring the concrete and the horizon.
Springtime holds bittersweet promise; I’ll be heading back on the board, for whatever it is worth. Another year older, more unfulfilled dreams to add to my arsenal, pocket full of regrets as I waste my days dreaming of tomorrow.
What potential lies with those seven-ply’s of maple? How much more can this body, these joints take? Just on the cusp of forty, but sometimes I feel so old. The board lies to me as I have done to so many others, including myself. She tells me I can harness the concrete, tells me that the bonds of gravity can be broken and tells me that I can recapture my lost youth.
What have I really lost, though? Being a has-been is not nearly as tragic as being a never-been. I have only given the absolute minimum required of her, just as I have with all my other loves. I feel like a fraud. A wannabe and a poser. Tallying another interesting story for no one to hear.
Lies to tell myself as the lights begin to dim. To make myself feel like I had lived a genuine life, even for just a moment. Just so I can pretend that I lived this life to the fullest and experienced the heights and depths of this finite existence.
I expect quick and easy gratification, easy categorization, and instant Nirvana without any true effort. But the truth is that the board does not lie and concrete hurts. One miscue, one lazy arrogant moment and bones are broken. Unmindful or preoccupied with useless nothings, I go tumbling down the bank. Slamming into the transition, wondering where it all went wrong.
I will make no more promises for now. I will ride that board when the spring finally comes along, some sweet long April morning in between the rains. I have nothing to prove to anyone else, just need to prove something to myself. Something remains unfinished between the board and me, some long forgotten oath after a sweat-drenched session or a bone-jarring slam.
Layers of skin left at the park, scars cut into my arms and knees, but I remain indebted. Some buried part of me screams for release and completion, anger and anguish beneath this sullen shell of a man. So much remains undone and unaccomplished.
Let me fly and float, cruise along the smoothness and teach me to cherish each pump and each breath. Open me to the sacred eternal now, open my smiling eyes and toothy grin, and unclench my face to the warm sun. One go round in this bag of skin, and still I wait, still I stand on the sidelines, watching and waiting, for who knows what.
There is only one moment, this moment, right now and here, and all our yesterdays and tomorrows collapsing into this razor’s edge of eternity. The living is bittersweet no matter what our individual stories are, so what choice is there but to be witnesses to this moment.
Brush the cobwebs from my trucks, spin the wheels and check the hardware,
endless summer in a single day. Brush the cobwebs from my mind; drag these old bones out onto the concrete park and let go, let go, free at last. Its time to skate boys, time to put all else aside, leaving the thinking to someone else, or another time or place.

sala

Parking lot semi-full as we pull in off the dirt road,
Red and gold rooftop glistens in the noonday sun,
Eagles and snakes atop the converted barn,
Now the main temple, represents heaven and earth,
Festival day at the Dhammasala, marking the monsoon season,
Half a world away, Buddhism amidst the cornfields.
Hustle and bustle over at the red pole barn,
As Thai cooks set up shop, temple boys run back and forth,
American boys born and bred, now immersed in Eastern orthodoxy,
Smiles on everyone’s face, Asian or otherwise,
The Dhamma does not discriminate, doesn’t care about race,
I walk past the monk’s residence to enjoy the view.
A gazebo off in the distance, trails disappear into trees,
A forest monastery in the heart of Michigan,
Fawn suckles from mom over in the high grass,
Meditation huts sit hidden back in the woods,
Up on high ground away from the stream,
Surrounded by silence and the shadows from the pines.
The stillness seeps into the subconscious,
Quieting thoughts and fears momentarily . . .

sump pump

Cold water rushing spinning spitting
I hear it dripping in dark corners
Covering up the tiles and the piles
Clothes and blankets water logged
Impeding the flow to the sump pump
Which gurgles and gasps and spits
Drain clogged by unknown unseen sludge
Cold clean water seeps through the pipes
Hear it drip and splash and flush
Through concrete walls falling on tiles
Somewhere in the dark wet earth
Before it pours into the pit
Before it seeps into the basement
Covering old toys and books
Extension cords and shoes
The cycle of wet and dry
Begins to rot the fibers
Blown into the air by the fan
Sick again sick again
World spins away in a deluge
Drenched and soaking choking
Powerless before nature’s might
Huddled in blankets through the cold dark night
Let me sleep let me sleep
Wake me when it is all fixed
Wake me when it is all done
Water-borne damage just too much
Where to even start where to begin
Just feel like giving up
Fighting to stay afloat
One more day one more chance
Somehow something might just turn out