Dirty Water

I dreamed, not music but, music clubs. I was on a tour, hitting every single joint I used to frequent. 

There was:

Avalon – a disco but on Sunday night’s it was a gay disco – WAY more fun and WAY fewer assholes of either gender.

Bill’s Bar – NO clue who I saw here. The place, while featuring grungy sorts of bands, was on Lansdowne – more of an upscale Daddy’s-paying-my-grad-school-tuition scene.

Great Scott’s – a Boston College-y type place – i.e., very white, very mainstream, very ZZZZZZZZ but, just down the block from my crib so convenient for a pint on the way home from work.

Harper's Ferry – spent a fabulous New Year’s Eve here. Cindy and I showed up late, just before the witching hour, and found the Tower of Power-ish band killing it!

Swifts  – or just Jonathan Swifts if ya wanna be all formal about it. On one frozen and snowy winter night, Jaco Pastorius and Jorma Koukenan took me to heaven with their duetting. OK, actually one of those dudes didn’t show (couldn’t make it through the storm) and a roadie sat in. The guy had serious motherfucking chops!

Manray – yes, very hip, very artsy, very pretentious.

Storyville – After Human Sexual Response broke up, four of the members (including the amazingly awesome Rich Gilbert and singer Larry Bangor) formed Wild Kingdom (whose name, due to copyright shit was changed to The Zulus). I got to see them in this wonderful, big, round red vinyl boothed basement club. Them and The Flys. Two different nights.

The Rat – in this nasty-ass, toilets-always-overflowing-onto-the-dance-floor, dungeon-y basement hole, I saw, amongst others, John fucking Cale. The man whose screams were more melodious and expressive than Maria Callas could ever even hope for.

The Channel – I wish I could remember the names of the bands I saw here. All I can bring to mind now are mosh pits, rabid pogo-ing and crowd surfing. Intimidating but way fun.

TT the Bears – ALWAYS on!

and, of course, The Middle East, a home away from home, sort of. Amongst a bazzilion other bands seen here, The Exes, a Dutch pink band, with Tom Cora on cello. Man ‘o’ man, so much good shit pouring into my brain!

And there was this place by North Station whose name I never remember – it was a total dive. Looked like some 1970’s era Italian-American basement lounge – all cramped, ripped, cheesy red vinyl booths, red and black flocked wallpaper and wrought iron fencing separating the stage and bar areas from the dining area/dance floor. Was it the Penalty Box?

Can’t remember but, I was here on a weekday night to see a new band with a wild line up.

Mark Sandman, ex of Treat Her Right, was playing a single-string (eventually two string) bass guitar with a slide. Dana Colley was on sax and Jerome Deupree on drums. They weren’t rock, they weren’t jazz or blues – they were all three. Sandman didn’t sing, he croon-growled. They dubbed their music “low rock.” Trés sexy!

Sandman was famous. When he took a seat RIGHT NEXT TO ME at the bar, I froze solid. I couldn't offer so much as a Hey man, how's it hangin.' I am SO damn lame!

In any case, the band’s name? Morphine.

Morphine's slow, smoldering albums often sounded like soundtracks written for pulp-fiction novels, and its concerts reflected Mr. Sandman's devilish, dry humor. (source)

So yeah, that’s where the sandman (NOT Mark) took me last night. Cool, no?

Dirty Water – The Standells