Loco

(June 08, 2002)

(Addendeum, June 11: Ex-Noise editor Joe Coughlin just put up a post on the Noise message board about this entry. He says "notice how she talks about what everyone ELSE looks like." Well...um, yeah, that's what the entry is ABOUT. The whole thing is me having an existential moment, feeling like I'm getting a glimpse into my own rock "scene" thirty years in the future. I'm imagining 2032, when I'M in my sixties (and my younger buddies like K and Baldino are in their fifties) at a Pills reunion or something. I think it's cool. But to satisfy the master...here you go, Joe, if you think it's relevant to the story: That night I was wearing my black dress with watercolor-looking green flowers on it, and lime green sandals. My hair, which has been in a spiky-in-back and long-in-front sort of wedge for awhile, is growing out. The color has been, for some time, Feria Bordeaux, a dark rusty red. Pink lips matched pink toenails. Howzat?)

June 8, 2002

Maybe it's because it's 3:48 am and I'm tired, or it could be because I'm...I don't know, stupid? But I was startled by my toes. Just now. My own toes made me go "Gasp!" See, I came home from the show, kicked off my lime green strappy sandals, sank onto the couch and stretched out. They were pink, my toenails. I rarely paint my nails, but today I did, and I'd just forgotten, that's all. It startled me. Shut up, it's not funny.

So. Okay. Tonight I went to the Middle East Downstairs. (Tangent: I should point out that I was in that room for the second night in a row, as Wolf played there last night, with some questionable bands. Tangent to tangent: I could review the Shaun Wolf Wortis band's performance for you now dear reader, but that ridiculoulsy titillating groove daddy is on the verge of being the most-mentioned performer in Jungle Sweet Jungle and, consequently, I'm plumb out of adjectives.)

So. Okay. Tonight. Middle East Downstairs. The Ninja opened with a set of endearingly sloppy garage grunge, followed by the mannered jangly pop of The Jaded Salingers. The night, however, was centered around the reunion of Wille "Loco" Alexander's old project, called "the Boom Boom band." Now, as a Boston rock devotee of four or five years, I know who Willie is in terms of his importance in the history of Boston punk. I've met the man a time or two. I even have some of his old records, and a newer one that includes "WKD." That's "Who Killed Deanna," sometimes referred to as "Som Som Somerville." The song is an ode to the murdered Somerville girl Deanna Cremin. Fucking awesome song that I probably would never have heard if Wolf's old band, Slide, hadn't done a killer cover of it.

Aw FUCK. Shaun Wolf Wortis ladies and gentlemen, officially the most-mentioned performer in Jungle Sweet Jungle, thank you, goodnight! (...um....you guys don't think I have one of those helpful little voices in my head, do you. Well I do. This is what it's saying: "Okay Lexi, you've gone over into the scary place. It's late, the sun is coming up and you're giddy. This will be one of those entries you'll cringe about later, so how about you stop wri--")

SO ANYWAY. At the club tonight T Max, who is my mom's age exactly and a fixture in Boston rock for twenty years being the publisher of The Noise and all, told me that this Boom Boom Band were around before The Noise-- so even HE wasn't really around for them. Dudes, the Boom Boom Band was an early 1970s thing, meaning they helped form the foundation of Boston punk. These guys were rockin' out when me and my peers were still pretty new to the wonders of underwear compared to diapers. That's intense, right?

Here's the thing: talk about feeling out of place. For me, that's every day. Tonight, as the room filled, I felt like I'd wandered into a Class of '75 reunion. It was wild. I saw so many dad-like guys in blazers over T-shirts, and really tight, really black jeans. I saw large bellies being sucked in earnestly. I saw black leather pointy-toed cowboy boots. I saw snakeskin wing-tips. I saw one guy in a white blazer with the sleeves pushed up, and underneath was a black crew neck T-shirt. A white necktie topped off the ensemble. I saw a very fat woman in an Indian print muu-muu and a long braid. I saw a man with a Chinese-print jacket over shorts. I saw many bandannas around heads. I saw astonishingly ballsy comb-overs. I saw long, scraggly ponytails with matching beards and moustaches. A LOT of spiky blowdried poofs like Rod Stewart but...like...bigger...giving the impression that it once looked like this:

So. Yeah, I felt like an interloper skulking around these fans and friends and former bandmates, and everybody was so happy to be there, drinking and yelling and catching up. You could tell who was still part of "the scene" and who'd kind of been off doing other things. Some of these guys I see around the clubs regularly, like Kenne Highland and that crowd. Of course Peter Wolf came out for this. And a lot of old school rock guys like Mr. Curt. I even saw David Minehan. (For non-Boston peeps, he's like this legendary producer around here. You know that battle-of-the-bands every May, the Rumble? His band won it. In freakin' 1979.) The coolest thing was moving about the room looking for any familiar faces, I started paying attention to the snippets of conversation. Exuberance. Nostalgia. Recognition. Familiarity.

"Oh for Chrissake, how the hell ARE you!"

"When will they start?"

"...eleven now, they wouldn't make us wait a half hour...."

"Have you seen..." "What ever happened to..."

"Are you still married to...."

That's when it dawned on me. These scruffy, grizzled, grinning, happy people? These guys are the scenesters of yesteryear.

Hey Jim? Baldino? Lees? Scurvyann? These guys are US in thirty years.

Sobering thought.

Anyway, the show was good. I guess I'll review it for The Noise. But right now I need to go to sl...