Extras
Lyrics A – G * Lyrics H – N * Lyrics O – Z
Slaid’s favorite cover here. OK, this one’s pretty cool, too. Rust Belt Fields (unreleased) video here.
Stories: 1996-2004
Clam Bake * * * The Perfect Gig * * * My Senior Prom * * * Review of Live Show by Chris Cooper * * * Time for a Haircut * * * My Day Job * * * Advice to a Young Musician * * * Is That Your Real Name
The Perfect Flight 2002
You’re not going to believe this story. But it’s true. I was there. I kind of wish it hadn’t happened when it did. I’d appreciate it even more if it had happened more recently.
In the late 1990′s, I was headed up to Nashville for a gig at the Bluebird and some time with my old buddy, Rod Picott. Karen dropped me off at the Austin airport that afternoon and I stood in line to check in. After Karen drove off, it occurred to me that I’d left my guitar at home. Oh, well. I’ll use Rod’s. It’s always stressful trying to get a guitar on board anyway. At the ticket counter I was informed that my flight would be seriously delayed. The plane had hit a large bird on its approach to Austin, and the nose cone was damaged. They were flying a new plane in. It would be a few hours. I could rebook on a flight through Dallas, but it would get to Nashville at about the same time as the delayed direct flight. American would buy me dinner if I wanted to wait for the original flight. Free dinner! Woo-hoo! I was a seriously struggling musician at the time and I’d gladly wait a few hours to get a free meal. So I called Karen, had her bring my guitar to the airport, bought a Time magazine and went to get my free dinner. The gig wasn’t till the next day, so I was perfectly happy.
A couple of relaxed hours later, I headed up to the gate, where they told me it would be a spacious flight: only 4 people had elected to stay with this flight – everyone else had rerouted through Dallas. But the plane and crew were here and had to be in DC the next morning, so the show must go on. When it was time to board, the other 3 people were nowhere to be found. It appeared that I would be the sole passenger on this MD-80 to Nashville! The ground crew as well as the flight crew were all a twitter about it. They’d never seen a flight take off with just one passenger. So I headed on down the skyway to meet my crew. Captain Bob Gibson greeted me warmly, saw my guitar and asked if I might treat the crew to a concert in the air. I said, sure! My three flight attendants all wanted to meet me, the passenger, and they sat me down in first class (my first and only time) and got me a beer. They hung out with me in the front of the plane and talked about how they’d never seen such a thing. The prettiest one said, “I just want to take my clothes off and run up and down the aisle!” I gulped on my Coors lite. I felt like a rock star: first class with my guitar, chatting with the captain and three stewardeses, all interested in me and my guitar. It was nice to see them let their guard down and just be themselves. “We don’t need to do this, do we?” asked Juanita as she held up the demonstration seat belt. They were happy to be pretty much off-duty.
After we off-loaded some fuel (the plane was out of balance because of the light load) we took off into an orange evening sky. After a few minutes, Captain Gibson got on the intercom. “Well, Slaid, it’s great to have you on board. We’re headed to our cruising altittude of 33,000 feet. I’m going to turn off the seatbelt sign . . .” He came back into the cabin after a while and I got out my guitar for a few songs. It was kinda akward. I wished I knew some flying songs but I couldn’t think of any. I did a song about my Dad because he’d just had heart surgery. Captain Gibson told me he ran a little B&B in Maryland and I could come by any time and play in his bar. He gave me his card. Two years later I took him up on the offer and Karen and I had a nice visit.
I suppose I should have asked to see the cockpit – this was way before 9/11 – but I didn’t want to be pushy. Hell, I still felt a little guilty just being in first class. Coming into Nashville the captain came back on the intercom: “We’ll be touching down in 20 minutes. I hope you’ve enjoyed your flight, Slaid.” The flight attendants packed me a grocery bag full of champagne, orange juice, little liquor bottles, pretzels and peanuts. I signed them all up on my mailing list and passed out a couple of CDs. What fun it was to meet Rod at the airport with a bag of goodies and a helluva story.
Every time I fly American I look for Captain Bob Gibson, and my favorite three flight attendants.
* * * * *
Is that your real name? 1996
I’ve heard that question, oh, several hundred times I guess. The first time, the phrase was not in question form: “That’s not your real name; that’s your nickname. Richard is your real name.” This came from Mrs. McLean on the first day of first grade, and it pissed me off. It was my first encounter with fill-in-the-form bureaucracy. (How many times have you been asked for your middle name on a government or company form?) I had been writing S-l-a-i-d on all my drawings and finger paintings for about a year now, and I’d never been called Richard a day in my life. I didn’t know how to spell Richard, and I didn’t want to know. I knew what a nickname was, and I knew that Slaid was my real name.
Ever since then, perhaps because of that incident, I always feel pretentious when people ask me that question. If I say yes, I feel I’m being slightly deceptive. If I say it’s my middle name, people ask me what my first name is (ruder people ask again what my real name is). When I say Richard they think, “Ah he’s so pretentious, taking that weird middle name just to be different.” I’ve always been tempted at this point to respond that my first name is “Englebert” or “Cornelius.” If I say my real name is Richard Slaid Cleaves, I sound rather pompous. (This reminds me of an E.B. White essay about how when you answer the phone and the caller asks for you, you can’t avoid saying something awkward.) I still use all of these responses because none is any worse or better that the rest. Lately I’ve discovered a tricky non answer that usually satisfies: It’s an old family name.
Before I was born, young Craig and Jenny decided on a boy’s name and a girl’s name for me. But in the throes of childbirth, my mother decided I should be named after her father, who had died when she was nineteen. His name was Richard Slaid Tincher. (His mother was born Tommye Slaid and died when Richard was a baby.) My father was pacing the waiting room at this time (this was before fathers were allowed in the birth room), and thus had no say in the matter. His response when the excitement died down was reportedly, “I’m not having a son named Dick.” So, you see, this blessing and curse of a name is the result of my stubborn parents working out a fair compromise. My parents told me this story only a few years ago. I have quite a few cousins with Slaid as a middle name, and in the emerging generation we have a Tommye Slaid and a first-name Slaid. I don’t think ‘Slaid’ will ever be a hip name like Ian or Travis, but maybe in the future people will recognize it a little easier instead of saying, “What? Slate? Slave?” (My wife’s grandmother called me ‘snake’ for two years.)
My junior high school years were stressful enough without this odd name, so, in the summer of ’77 I became Richard. I was enrolled in a summer class at a different school. I thought this would be a good time to make the transition. My buddy Rod Picott was in the class, but everyone else was a stranger. I could start fresh. On the first day of class I realized how cool the name Slaid is when it turned out there were three Richard’s in the class of 12 kids. I became one of two “Rick’s” (again, no one wants to be Dick these days). It was so confusing. I only answered people half the time when they called out, “Rick!” Rod would nudge me occasionally or whisper, “Slaid,” to get my attention, always being careful not to blow my cover. But Mom blew my cover wide open by the end of the summer, despite her effort to get used to calling me by my new real name. Of course I learned that my real name is Slaid. That’s what people call me.
The opposite happened when I went to work for Sears a few summers later. The corporate personnel evaluation forms left no space on the application for my real name. I remember a test where one question was, “What do you like better, people or books?” I wanted to answer, “I like books about humans better than people who try to categorize and dehumanize,” but this was no essay question. I blackened the ‘books’ oval and they put me in the warehouse. I remember sitting down across the desk of a manager with my forms:
“Okay, Richard. Can I call you Dick?”
“Well, I’ve always gone by my middle name, which is Slaid.”
“Okay, Dick. You like to work hard?” He never looked up from my paperwork. I needed a job, and I didn’t want to make waves on my first day. So I was Rich Cleaves, warehouse clerk, for about 8 months. I’ve learned to be more insistent now. Only the IRS knows me as Richard S. Cleaves. And I’m not about to go up against that bureaucracy.
So, I live with this odd name and all its adulterations and misspellings. When I won the spelling bee in 4th grade the paper got me as “Salid Cleavers.” I showed up for a gig and the name on the marquee was “Clyde Slade.” I just went along with it. Opening up for Jimmie Dale Gilmore last month, I was introduced by the promoter as “Claid Sleaves.” (That’s what an old girlfriend’s mother always called me.) Standing in that infuriating Service Merchandise line, I heard the clerk call out, “Slah-eed Clee-ahh-viss” (expecting someone of Arab descent, I guess). A lot of people call me “Cleve” or “Clive” until they get the hang of “Slaid.”
Lots of people say, “Great name for a singer.” But I know better. Other than providing this little conversation piece it’s been a hassle and I don’t recommend it. But I know better than to change it – after all, it’s my real name.
* * * * *
Advice to a Young Musician 2003
1. Don’t believe the people who say you are good. Listen to the people who tell you where you are failing. You have to learn to be extremely hard on yourself in order to continually improve, or else you’ll just end up playing in your room. Everyone wants to be a musician, but only the ones who are self-critical, work the hardest, and stay with it the longest will succeed.
2. Songs are more important than anything else. There are thousands of great songs out there in the world. Why would people want to buy your songs if they aren’t as good as what’s already out there? You need to strive to write songs that say something interesting, something moving, something memorable, in a way that no one else has said it before. In order to get good songs you have to be hard on yourself. One of my favorite songwriters, Mary Gauthier, says she puts about 40 hours into every song she writes.
3. For a long time, you will have to do everything yourself. Make your own records, bring them to record stores, book your own gigs, play for free, do your own promotions (create a web site, make posters, buy adds, bug radio stations, create mailing lists). Nobody will help you until they see something going on already. Only then will they want a piece of the action. You have to get the ball rolling yourself and convince them there’s some action.
4. It’s very hard to get things going on your own. Find a group of musicians who are at your level, doing similar music, facing similar challenges. Work together, help each other get better, write together, share gigs. You might have to move out of the security of your hometown to find a group that you can be a part of. I’ve found “comrades in arms” by moving to a big music town, going to a lot of shows, performing at open mics, even playing on street corners.
5. Big record companies are more trouble than they are worth a lot of times (they might even be extinct in a few years). Small, local independent record labels are doing better than the majors lately, and you are much more likely to get their attention. Big record labels almost never sign someone unless they’ve made indie records and already have a significant audience (thousands of fans). But you won’t need them anyway, because the future of music is in digital downloading.
6. Despite all that I’ve said, you must find your own way. Every successful musician has “re-invented the wheel” to get to where he or she is. The business part of the music business is always changing. And when it changes, smart, alert, creative people will see an opening where they can gain a foothold.
7. In sum, work on your craft, let people know what you are doing, be patient.
8. Oh, yeah. Most important: find a girlfriend (or boyfriend) who has a good job and is willing to support you for several years.
Good luck,
Slaid Cleaves
* * * * *
My Day Job 1996
Conversation last week where my wife Karen works:
Karen’s co-worker, Jim: “How’s Slaid?”
Karen: “He’s in jail.”
“For what?”
“Drugs.”
Jim: (Shocked) “What drug?”
Karen: “Anti-fungal.” Karen has a good poker face, and Jim is now rather confused.
No, I’m not in the callaboose. This is my “day job.” Every real musician has a day job, right? Have you heard those Austin musician jokes? What do you call an Austin musician without a girlfriend? Homeless. How do you improve the aerodynamics of an Austin musician’s car? Take the Pizza Delivery sign off the roof. And there’s another one I can’t remember where the punch line is, “his other day job.”
I’ve worked lots of menial jobs since I was 16. Janitor, warehouse rat, rope-tow operator, film developer, groundskeeper, meter reader, yes, pizza delivery guy, and, lately, day laborer. I made a living for a while doing music, and then I moved to Austin. It became apparent rather quickly that I needed a day job again. Day labor’s not much fun. I need a day job where I can make phone calls to book gigs and set up radio interviews. I need to take a few months off here and there to do tours. I need time to read, charge the old creative batteries. I found the perfect day job at Pharmaco.
I take drugs for a living. I’m a human guinea pig. A lab rat. A medical research volunteer. Pharmaco International pays me to stay in their facility for about $100 a day. Some studies only last a couple of days. Some are comprised of several weekend stays. Right now I’m in the middle of a long term study. 22 days. We are in the facility for the entire time, except for a few 20 minute walks around the building for fresh air. No visitors. No outside food. Hospital type meals are provided, along with newspapers, movies, pay phones and a clip board that tells us where to be and when for certain “procedures.”
Procedures always include dosing and blood draws. And, depending on the study, everything from electrocardiograms, vital signs, heparin lock insertions, sonograms, x-rays and physicals, to urine collections, fecal collections (the dreaded “bucket study”), blood sugar tests, lung capacity tests, and biopsies. These are some of the things I’ve experienced over the last few years at Pharmaco. I tend to avoid the studies that involve brain wave monitoring, laryngeal scopes, radiation or induced vomiting.
I fear I’m sounding over dramatic. Pharmaco is really very boring. The vast majority of our time here is spent just passing time, watching the clock, waiting till we can be with our loved ones again and sleep in our own bed and breath fresh air and eat real food. You get to know the other people in you study. Sometimes there are female subjects; the guys act goofy and flirt. The pros tell war stories: The time when one guy went berserk and they stopped the dosing and sent everyone home. The legendary three-month study (for $10,000). You always hear about the guy who died (because he was doing two studies at once). I heard last night that the guys in the black shirt study were all having nightmares.
I’ve never been in jail (although my college English professor recommended it, for life experience), but I’ve talked to fellow research subjects who have. And they confirm that there are a lot of similarities. We are sternly warned to be on time for our procedures and meals. We all have a number and a colored shirt corresponding to the particular study we’re in. I’m “navy blue 358″ this time. Of course I don’t save up cigarettes for currency or dig at my dorm room wall with my spoon or worry when I drop my soap in the shower. But, looking out the window at those people on the outside, in “the world,” or watching as my wife brings a new book to the office downstairs, there’s a real feeling of disconnection. Karen said she cried all the way home after blowing kisses to me through the glass and mouthing “I miss you’s” to me from the parking lot. She had brought the dogs to see me, too. Moxie, the black lab, the bird dog, was able to figure out what Karen was pointing up at, and when our eyes met, he wouldn’t take his off mine. Huddie, on the other hand, will only look at your finger if you point at something. (And I always thought she was the smart one.)
I’ve met a wide range of people in here. In fact, studies are one of the few places I actually meet new people these days. (I’ve met all the musicians in town by now.) There are a lot of college kids of course, but they’re mostly upperclassmen and grad students. There are always some musicians or artists who need a little cash. Robert Rodriguez, the hot young film director (El Mariachi, Desperado), did a study to pay for his first film (and actually wrote it in here). Some regular working folks come in for weekend studies for a little extra cash. Then there are the professionals. This is their only source of income. They travel, do studies in other cities, even other countries. Some people just can’t handle a regular day job.
We’re all healthy in here, physically at least. We do Phase One drug research. The big pharmaceutical companies have to jump through a lot of government hoops to get their drugs on the market, and my day job comes right after they’re finished with the rats and monkeys. There, I’m being over dramatic again. Fact is, lots of studies are for drugs already on the market, but coming out in a new form (the ‘caplet’ gave us a lot of work here). The FDA just needs to know exactly how quickly the drug is absorbed into the bloodstream in healthy subjects. I’ve seen Tylenol studies in here. I’ve done a morphine study (24 hour time release pill). I’ve seen alcohol interaction studies (I was a back-up in a heart med + Everclear combination dose. Nobody threw up, so I went home.) The only scary studies are when they tell you that the drug has not been tested in humans before. I’ve done a few of those.
Let’s see how many drug studies I can remember: I’ve done drugs for bedwetting, menopause, diabetes, irregular heartbeat, cholesterol, dermatitis, asthma. The most interesting study was for a fluorocarbon gas that is injected into the bloodstream which makes your blood fluoresce on a sonogram so that a doctor can see if the heart is getting enough oxygen. I got to watch my glowing heart beat on live video. Cool.
The drug I’m on now is a powerful new anti fungal for treating people with depressed immune systems (AIDS patients, chemotherapy patients). I get a one hour IV dose every morning before breakfast. The bad thing about this study is that the drug irritates the vein where it is injected, and I need a new heparin lock inserted every couple of days. A paramedic punctures a vein with a needle then slides a catheter into the vein. A valve at the end of the catheter keeps you from bleeding all over the place (I bled all over my jeans yesterday when the valve slipped off unexpectedly). It’s not my favorite procedure. When the study is done I will have had 9 or 10 hep-locks, and my arms will be sore and bruised. Kinetics days aren’t much fun either. Every study has at least one Kinetics day. That’s the day they chart the drug going into and out of your bloodstream. The chart is made up of the drug level in your blood at various times throughout the day. This can mean as many as 20 blood draws in one day. But the phlebotomists are pretty good here, and I know my good veins now – the ones with the scars on them.
I used to feel like a loser every time I started a new Pharmaco study. Because I was so desperately broke and unsuccessful as a musician (one critic called me “feckless”). The scary thing is, now I just accept it. I don’t say to myself anymore, “This is the last one I’m going to do. I’m going to start getting good gigs and selling CDs this year.” Now, I’m planning on doing another study in January to pay off the debts that this one won’t cover. Karen got mad at me last week because I didn’t seem to miss her enough. Of course I miss her, but the scary thing is, I haven’t had much trouble settling into this undemanding lifestyle.
Day 21. I’ll be out tomorrow. Got my last dose this morning, had my hep-lock pulled. I looked down at my arms in the shower at they reminded me of that picture of Hank in the Birmingham jail just before he died. He has his shirt off and he’s skin and bone like a dead baby bird you see on the sidewalk. If the picture was in color, he’d probably be blue like a bird too. My arms have lost what little bulk they had after a fall of hanging drywall and filling dumpsters. I’m pale from not being outdoors for three weeks, except for the bruises, like broken egg yolk up and down my forearms. Patches of stubble mingle with the track marks on my best veins. Tomorrow I’ll drive around town and spend the first installment of my compensation paying debts. I should have enough left over for groceries. I’ll have to start cooking and cleaning for myself again. And Pharmaco will stop being my life and become just another conversation piece on the coffee table of my life. Need a day job? Call (512) 462-0492 and ask for the Hotline.
* * * * *
Time for a Haircut 2002
That phrase struck fear in my heart for many years. I’ve only had two professional haircuts in my life, and both were disappointments. My mom took me to get my first haircut when I was 3 or 4, I guess. And she hated it, for some reason. So she cut my hair for the next 14 years. And I hated it each time. I’d put it off as long as I could. I preferred having long hair, even though I was almost always mistaken for a girl. I identified with the hippies, for some reason, and wanted to look like one of the Beatles, not Homer Price, which is what you looked like when you got home from Reo’s Barbershop. I was so vain, still am I guess, that I would avoid the haircut till I was forced into the chair, the sheet tied around my neck, my little brothers gathered around watching. My mom would coo about how handsome I was. When the orderal was over, I’d look in the mirror and be horrified, every time. I don’t know why. I think it was just the trauma of my image changing, however subtly, that threatened my fledging sense of self. I would cry and complain that my mom took off too much. I’d wear a knit hat for a few days. Then I’d feel bad for my mom – she did her best, with love, and all I did was complain, ungrateful. I felt guilty and vain. I hated going to school the next day, where the brattiest kid would tease: “Slaid got a haircut! Slaid got a haircut!” Grade school was bad enough, but high school. Ouch. In those early teen years, with self esteem issues and all, haircut time was very stressful. I felt like a mammas boy but didn’t have the courage to go downtown and get a barber cut at Reo’s. Mom’s haircuts were hit and miss. With four kids, you’d think she’d get good at it, but I remember several “oops” (one drew blood). I remember after one particularly bad one in high school, my friend asked, “Who cut your hair?” “My Mom.” “What, was she mad at you?”
By the end of high school, I’d had enough. It was 1982 and I went down to the hip, new wave hair place in Portsmouth. I asked the gal to give me a Stray Cats kind of thing – your basic 50s rockabilly do. Well, I think she got the Stray Cats mixed up with Flock of Seagulls. It was awful. It was like walking around with a sign saying, “I’m a limp wristed new wave fan, come and beat me up.” I tried to hide my disappointment as I looked at the mirror in the shop. It’s just not in my character to complain to a stranger. But I think even the stylist herself was a bit surprised at the way it came out. She seemed a little embarrassed. Damn, that was awful. A couple of weeks later, waiting in line to see a concert with my old friend Josh, he ran into a friend who’d just cut his own hair. What a radical idea. It looked so cool. It was a sign, also. But this haircut said, “To hell with you all. I’m not trying to look like you losers. I can’t afford a haircut, so when it gets long I’ll just hack some off.”
Well, that was all I needed. I began to cut my own hair, and I haven’t let anyone else touch it since. That was 22 years ago. Sure, the first few times were a little scary. Trying to use scissors in a mirror is tricky. And getting the back is tricky, too. I learned some valuable lessons (which is hard when you only do something once every couple of months). Lessons like: You can take plenty off the back, but go easy on the front or you’ll quickly end up with a mullet. Be conservative, just take off a little at a time. You can always take more off later. Don’t cut your hair the night before a big date or gig; you will definitely screw it up. For a while, due to a few pretty bad cuts, I limited myself to 25 snips. When I was away at college, I used the scissors on my swiss army knife. Not the ideal haircutting intrument. I’ve used paper scissors and cheap Walmart hair scissors, and I can testify that a pair of really good haircutting scissors is much preferable. It drives my wife Karen crazy that I won’t let her touch my hair. But I won’ t back down. Cuttting my own hair, I accept responsibility. If I mess it up, I have only myself to blame. I’m not going to feel ill will toward anyone else, or feel bad that I’m being ungrateful. And think of all the money I’ve saved!
* * * * *
Review of Live Show by Chris Cooper 2004
On 15 Apr 2004 at 21:58, Chris Cooper wrote:
> If you wade through the first third of this (or skip over it), it
> becomes a review of Slaid’s Portland show last Sunday night. This was
> published in the Wiscasset Newspaper, Wiscasset, Maine, on 15 April.
> It’s this week’s iteration of my column, Fixtures And Forces And
> Friends.
>
> If you can use it for anything, you have my permission to do as you like
> with it, although I’d appreciate attribution.
>
> Chris Cooper
>
>
> ———————————————————————-
> ———-
>
>
> Fixtures And Forces And Friends
>
> Christopher Cooper
>
> 15 April, 2004
>
>
>
> ‘Cause All I Ever Have: Redemption Songs
>
> I believe I may have achieved physiological perfection. I exist in a
> state of metabolic grace. This body in which I move through the days and
> nights of my middle years, and within which sits the soul that tries
> fortnightly to round up enough stray impulses and tender nuances to
> communicate to you my understanding of our shared struggle, may well be
> the body that all the desperate, sweating, stair-stepping,
> program-joining, carbohydrate-counting, bad cholesterol-compromised
> victims of the Internal Combustion Age wish they could have.
>
> I can take no credit for this. It just happened; it may not be
> replicatable. I am the result of a life-long series of errors, poor
> choices, hasty decisions, wrong turns, retrogressions, misperceptions
> and defaults that have led, not to an MBA, a BMW, and an IRA, common
> indicators of a successful life, but to a BMI of 18.7, at the very low
> edge of the normal range, and a lifetime of lethargy and bad food from
> the 25 (overweight) or 30 or more (obese) where two-thirds of Americans
> gasp and grunt.
>
> Now, mechanically, I am a wreck. You carry enough seventy pound
> bundles of shingles up enough ladders, move sufficient sawlogs to the
> mill using only a pulp hook and a pickup truck, rearrange the rocks and
> boulders of a forty acre glacial farm, and the cartilage in your back
> gets pounded into ragged wafers of abused gristle that serve only as a
> grinding bed where nerves that dare exit the spinal column en route to
> some necessary purpose of communication or directive impulse may be
> torqued and chafed like the tortured drawstring in a fat man’s
> sweatpants. So I crumble, but I do not clog.
>
> And I have not accumulated wealth, so the abuse continues. I may
> outlive my neighbors whose calories have not been restricted nor their
> daily lot stretched over the decades like so many repetitions of a
> dig-the-tundra-eat-the-rat day in the life of Ivan Denisovitch, but it
> will hurt to do so.
>
> I met my friend Myles Jordan at the post office last week. Myles may be
> the world’s finest cellist. At least until Yo Yo Ma rolls up at the P.O.
> and hauls his ax out of the boot to prove otherwise right there in the
> fresh, free air of some clean, green State-o-Maine day, I am privileged
> to think so. I gave him a copy of some Warren Zevon songs interpreted by
> a nameless amateur string quartet which he may find amusing or even
> laughable (I think “Werewolves Of London” and “Excitable Boy” survive
> the transition from counterculture to high culture well enough). Myles
> said the young people don’t appreciate classical music today. I said,
> Hell, boy, they don’t even appreciate Hank Williams!
>
> Which reminded me it had been some months since I’d heard any live
> music, although last year did allow me Springsteen (twice), John Prine
> and Neil Young, and I anticipate John Hiatt next month. Still, urgent
> desires should be satisfied lest their denial stress one’s endocrine
> system. I found Slaid Cleaves at a little storefront gallery in Portland
> Sunday night, and I called up my semi-estranged wife and invited her to
> stay up past her bedtime on a work night and recapture some of the life
> force that ebbs too easily as we all slog through our similar
> repetitions of life and life only.
>
> Slaid is a Maine boy. He was a regular performer in the Portland bars
> and nightclubs a decade ago, before he moved to Austin Texas to immerse
> himself in a more intense music environment than Maine could offer. His
> parents live in Round Pond. We saw him two years ago when he opened for
> The Flatlanders in Rockport, in a plush venue built with corporate
> money; I needed a closer, grubbier (if harder on the audience’s asses)
> experience in a small venue where beer could be bought.
>
> We stopped at Bullmoose Music to buy our tickets. Ten dollars.
> Bullmoose adds a reasonable and deserved one dollar service fee,
> unlike the fourteen dollars or more combined service fee, venue
> charge, processing allowance, printing charge, corporate gouge and
> pound of flesh entitlement exacted by the hated Ticketmaster most
> bigger bands ally with. The young man who sold me the tickets asked if
> I’d heard Slaid’s new album, Wishbones; I said I had, and I rated it a
> “Must Have”. He said, “I’m so proud of him. He’s from Maine, and he’s so
> good, and he’s worked hard. It’s great to see him getting recognition.”
> Myles and I stand corrected. Some of the kids are all right, it appears.
> Ignore the body hardware and pink hair-most of these young Clerks at
> Bullmoose are paying attention to something besides Rap and Heavy Metal.
>
> The venue was suitably murky. It was sold out, holding maybe a hundred
> and twenty persons. We arrived early and had our pick of seats. Mrs.
> Cooper objected to my choice, but I pointed out that the back row was a
> scant twelve feet from the front, and little decibel reduction could be
> expected by obstructing one’s vision behind some guy with a hat or big
> ears. And Bob Dylan said, “You’ve got to get up near the teacher if you
> can, if you want to learn anything.”
>
> For our double sawbuck we got two opening acts. The first was a five
> piece band of twenty-somethings called An Evening With. They sounded
> good, but the earnest lyrics were lost in a murky melange which is all
> too often characteristic of live music, even when you pay a lot more.
> Experience may sharpen his songwriting and some technical advice might
> make the message more intelligible. Mostly, these seemed like five
> decent kids whose families should be proud of them. They were followed
> by a member of another local outfit, The Coming Grass, whose delivery
> and stage presence were more polished, but who was still fighting to be
> understood over only his own guitar-poor mixing can undo the best
> effort.
>
> Finally, Slaid Cleaves, with a band he put together in Austin: a
> drummer, a guitarist, and a bass player who alternated between
> electric and upright bass. Now, my wife became visibly excited when she
> saw that battered wooden instrument. Turning to the couple sitting
> beside us she said, “Watch that bass player-he climbs on the thing and
> plays it.” Usually I am the family member most likely to disturb or
> offend decent citizens, and it was a delight to see Mrs. Cooper ranting
> and foaming in exuberant excess to the discomfiture of strangers.
>
> The electric guitar player looked like my plumbing and heating man,
> Jimmy Peacock. I don’t mean to suggest he’s likely to deliver himself of
> the sort of raucous, avian cackle and outlandish opinions that emanate
> from Mr. Peacock, but he did look remarkably like him. The drummer
> looked a cross between a younger version of my friend, our long-time
> road commissioner, and all-around local hero Austin Trask, and Van
> Morrison. Again, I’m sure he had a more pleasant demeanor than either of
> those gentlemen.
>
> The show was everything you might hope for. I put my feet up on the
> speakers at stage front, and felt every note of the, at last, impeccably
> mixed sound that let the very finely crafted lyrics rise above the
> solid, clean sound of the band. We got most of the new album, parts of
> the last one. We heard a lyric from the Woody Guthrie archives that
> Slaid turned into a fully realized song. He sang about old friends and
> dead friends, and told us how Texas legend Ray Wylie Hubbard helped him
> craft his title song from parts of three failed previous songs. We
> learned about the Lincoln County refrigeration man, Willy, whose
> colorful opinions form the meat of “Horses And Divorces.”
>
> As anticipated, as feverishly desired by my bride, Ivan the bassman did
> hop atop his instrument and bow the bugger with abandon and, as far as I
> could tell, no reduction in quality of sound, to delighted applause from
> the audience. Myles, take note. You can sit on the stage and deliver the
> finest, crystalline, perfect frequencies, or you can shake off your
> constricting footwear, and ride that ship of sitka spruce and stretched
> strings into a glorious, wild future. And serve more beer at your gigs.
>
> So Texas doesn’t generate only spoiled, smug rich kids who ruin
> baseball franchises, banks, oil companies and countries. Well, maybe
> Houston does. But Slaid Cleaves brought a grand band of Austin buddies
> back to Maine in his ’86 Dodge van the other night, and if I had been
> any closer to the performance, they’d have had to give me an instrument
> to play. After the show, I bought my usual tour t-shirt, and gave Mr.
> Cleaves a few lines of local color to add to his notebook; we’ve got
> guys in Alna at least as quote worthy as his friend Willy.
>
> Eat sparingly, work more with a shovel than a computer. Stay out of the
> stock market, away from houses of worship and political parties. When
> you have accumulated a hundred dollars, treat the old lady to dinner and
> drinks, and stay up late where the band knows how to rock, the
> songwriter is keeping Woody alive, and the man running the board knows
> how to set the voices above the storm. You, too, might be like me.
> Remember, Dr. Atkins denied himself the bread, and he’s dead. Don’t
> count carbs; count your blessings when you find your bony backside
> aching against a cheap plastic seat in a small venue late on Easter
> Sunday night. From such experience we make our personal resurrection.
>
>
Chris Cooper
ckc2@prexar.com
* * * * *
My Senior Prom 2002
It’s hard for me to even image the devotion I felt for rock & roll as a youngster. It was a cause to live and die for. I remember driving my rustbucket, slant 6 Duster 15 miles of winding back roads through 8 inches of snow to make band practice in the basement of Mark Deeley’s parents’ house in Rochester, New Hampshire. I was 17. The drummer didn’t show up that night (intelligently, in hindsight), and I took that to mean he was not committed to this band. It was a cover band, practicing in a basement, gearing up to getting work in the local hotel lounges and Asian restaurants and bowling alleys. I would do anything for that band. One of our first gigs was a wedding, some relative of Mark’s. In the hall I was approached by an important looking man. He had an air of confidence about him. I had my leather pants on. He intoduced himself as the owner of one of the big clubs in town, Club Victoire. They had bands every weekend. He would hire us if I would do him a favor, help him out of a jam. No, it’s nothing illegal. He told me about his problem. His daughter was in charge of the senior prom, which was two weeks away. Her boyfriend had just dumped her (“and if I ever get my hands on him . . .”) And if I would escort this young lady to her prom (tux and dinner – taken care of) he would give my band a gig at his club. I didn’t hesitate.
The band was impressed by my courage, (“What if she’s a dog?”) and told me I didn’t have to do it; we’d get a real gig eventually. But I was committed. Obsessed, maybe, as young people can be before the world tears at their convictions and ideals and rips them to shreds.
I didn’t even go to my own prom. I didn’t fit in in high school, until I got together with some friends and formed a band. That was the limit of my social life. I’d had a serious girlfriend for a while, but due to a terrible stroke of luck, she happened to live 2000 miles away in west Texas, and she had dumped me that spring. I don’t think I’d ever been to a school dance, in fact. Maybe one. I was pretty scared of girls in general. And I hated the thought of dancing. I just wanted to be in the band, behind the scenes, watching people have fun. But I was willing to do this for the band.
As the date approached, I was fitted for my tux. It was silvery gray, with a huge 70′s lapel. I was a fraid to get a haircut before the big date, and this was just before I discovered the miracle of Vaseline, so I had this big puffy do and I looked like the guy who played Shazam on TV. I bought the corsage and drove up to Rochester to the guy’s house, a trailer, actually. I wonder what they thought when they saw my ’72 Duster pull up in a cloud of blue smoke, bondoed and spray painted, riding on junkyard tires. He met me at the door and sliped me $100 (Is that gonna cover it? You need more?), and then she appeared. She looked disappointed. Maybe I did, too. But we made the best of it. I let her mom pin the corsage onto her gown. And we set off for dinner with a gang of her friends in Portsmouth. Thankfully, I knew one of her friends – we were in a band together briefly. So I had someone to talk to when she was off with her friends. I tried to be cool, but it was awkward in that get up, not knowing anybody. She asked me at one point if her father had paid me to take her out. I was young and not experienced in lying to women but I knew I had to be delicate. I couldn’t flat out lie, though, so I said something like, “He paid for the Tux is all. I’m here because I want to be.” Ok I lied.
The prom was held on a small, local cruise ship. I hung close to my date but let her go off and be with her friends, too. When the band started, she grabbed my hand, and I gamely, willing against my very nature, followed her onto the dance foor where we were the only couple for a while. I’m so glad there weren’t video recorders back then. The party rolled on and people relaxed, I hung out with a guy from the band and talked shop. I don’t remember much else. I suppose there was some Stairway to Heaven climax. But there was no party afterward. I took her home, shook hands goodnight. My part of the deal was DONE.
* * * * *
The Perfect Gig 1998
We were tired. Charles “King” Arthur and I had just done a quick sound check for an afternoon show at the Greenwich Odeum in East Greenwich, Rhode Island. The rooms we had requested didn’t come through, so we just sat in the car on Main Street, staring through the windshield. It was our default location.
This would be our tenth show in the past eleven days. We had left Austin, Texas in my ’74 Dodge Dart Sport, driving straight over to Florida, then up the coast to Vermont before heading south that morning for RI. We had seen our share of bland, sterile chain motels in the last two weeks, and the thought of driving around to find one more was not agreeing with me. We were so used to hurrying along on this tour that we didn’t know what to with this moment of inaction, so we just sat in the car and stared ahead.
“So, where are we going to crash tonight?” Charles was always asking questions like that. We could drive up to Portsmouth after the show, only two more hours, to stay with friends. I even had a friend in Providence I could call up, but it was kind of late notice. Besides, I just didn’t want to drive another mile that day. I was sick of being in that old car. I was really sick of making decisions (I still can’t afford a road manager).
And then I saw it. About a block away there hung a huge, boxy, old iron sign over the sidewalk. “HOTEL” was spelled out vertically. Not “Motel.” The building was dull red brick, not white cement. Black iron fire escapes perched onto the sides. The sign was black and rusty and the neon was long gone. “I’m gonna go up and see if that really is still a hotel,” I said to Charles, who thought I was nuts.
I walked up the chilly sidewalk on this gray spring day in this small town of about 5000. Past a diner, some restaurants, a ladies clothes store. When I was just about under the mammoth sign, a doorway opened up to my left, and I stepped in. This was no hotel. It was a bar. But I knew right away that this was a special bar. It had the look of a bar you might see in an old black and white boxing movie from the 40s. But it had this post apocalyptic feel about it. Paint was peeling, the light fixtures were ancient, tiles were missing from the floor. It smelled like old wood, like an antique store. It had the accouterments of any modern blue-collar bar: the cardboard Budweiser posters, loud with color and pretty girls, the video poker game. But, though it was run down, the dinginess could not totally hide its elegant past. There were tiny mirrors in art deco patterns on the ceiling, which was painted aqua. Some of the doors were padded with faded dry leather. The bar itself was a solid piece of mahogany which curved around in a semi-circle. I sat on a naugahyde barstool and my elbows rested naturally, perfectly into the counter of this beautiful piece of wood. Even though I was a stranger, eyed by the half-dozen regulars smoking there, I felt totally comfortable at that bar.
The gal bending over into the coolers of Bud and Miller was young and pretty, but tough looking. A girl from a factory town. She approached me with a friendly smile, which dropped when I asked her about the hotel. She looked at me suspiciously, and I couldn’t quite tell if the hotel was open or not. I had to ask again, “So, can I get a room?” Maybe she thought I was kidding, but eventually she realized I was serious, and said rooms were $30. That’s damn cheap for New England.
I went back to the car, got in, closed the door. “It’s perfect. We can get drunk at the bar, maybe play a couple of tunes for the locals, then stumble up to our room at the end of the night. European style.” Charles still thought I was crazy, but the tour, his first, had left him too weak to argue. He had trusted me all the way from Texas in this 24-year-old car with 260,000 miles on it. And he could see my enthusiasm now. “This is going to be an adventure, I guarantee. It might suck, or it might be the best night of the tour, but I guarantee we will remember this night.” He laughed nervously as I started the car to drive that last 200 yards to our home for the evening.
The gal behind the bar was even more suspicious when I walked in with Charles and said we wanted to register. Maybe she had seen the jack-booted RI State Trooper pull us over (not a rare occurrence in a ’74 Dodge with out of state plates) in front of the hotel and thought we were outlaws. I think she actually said, “You sure you want to stay here?”, as she hefted up the old registration book from below the bar. The book seemed oddly normal considering her unorthodox sales technique. We got our key and directions and headed through a high-ceilinged, bare wood hallway around the corner to a grand staircase. Holes in the walls showed studs and insulation. Dim, bare bulbs lit the way. Our footsteps clunked and echoed down the 2nd floor hallway as we came upon our door, directly across from the men’s room.
The lock took some convincing before the door opened, and the first thing I saw was that big old sign hanging like a dead man outside our window. Perfect. If the neon had been intact it would have been blinking red light into the room all night, just like in the movies. The first thing Charles noted was that there was just one bed. There was no carpeting, no TV, no phone, no bathroom, no sink even. Just a metal bed, bedside table with ashtray and lamp, dresser, and a hissing radiator. The shade on the huge window was yellowed and cracked, and there was a shower curtain nailed to the chipping ceiling, to divert a drip away from the bed, I suppose.
We set down our bags, laughing proudly at our adventurous spirit, then went down to the bar for an afternoon beer. I don’t remember how it started, but we found ourselves talking to a couple of locals right away. We told them we were playing at the Odeum down the street, and a guy named Paul started telling us that he played bass in some bands a few years ago. But his wife made him quit. Now she was gone. Some story like that. He said he liked to listen to the radio and play along for a couple hours every day, just for fun. I remember catching myself thinking, “What a loser. Got to get away from this guy. Imagine playing just for fun . . . Wait a minute . . .” He was your typical talkative bar room drunk, full of stories that were at least slightly true, but he wasn’t obnoxious, and I started to warm up to him. We asked him about the Hotel, and a few of the patrons gathered around to tell us, with pride, that this was the Grand Dame of the Northeast back in the 30s and 40s. Frank Sinatra stayed here. Babe Ruth got laid here. That’s not much of a distinction, someone said, ’cause the Babe got laid just about everywhere, but he did hang out at this bar. The pretty bar girl told us how the owners were trying to revive the place. Sure enough, there were signs of construction here and there, but it looked like the modest attempts had been abandoned a few years back. And I pitied her for actually believing the place could be saved. It was obviously not able to make money in this area anymore, and if someone tried to fix it up, they’d have to modernize, and that would take all the charm away.
Before leaving for our show I asked the bar gal what was the name the locals liked to call themselves here, in Rhode Island. She said “quahoggers,” a nod to the rugged folks who dig clams, year-round, out of the mud and sand of the New England shore. I used that little bit of local color in our short set at the Odeum, along with a big thank you to RI’s finest for the nice welcome to town. And I told the audience that we were staying at the Greenwich Hotel, and that we might break out the guitars and do some picking in the bar after dinner. There were chuckles, and, did I just imagine it, gasps.
The set went well and the other bands were great and Charles and I stood in the lobby after the show and signed CDs and chatted with folks. A couple of folks wanted to know if I was serious about the Greenwich. One couple invited us to a different bar, where they were sure we could play a couple of tunes. After the show, we drove a couple miles down to this bar, but it just wasn’t right. It was a new building, shaped like a McDonald’s. There were acoustical tiles on the ceiling. It was set up to look like an Irish pub. It was trying too hard to be something it was not. That’s what I loved about the Greenwich. No pretentions; it just was what it was.
We went back to the Greenwich for a beer with a couple of folks from the show. I worked up the courage to ask the lady at the bar, an older lady this time, if it would be okay if Charles and I could play a few tunes, since we were staying here, and had to bring all our stuff in anyway. She was very suspicious. I grew up in New England, but I’ve been living in Texas for 7 years now. I guess I forgot how cautious Yankees can be. Especially about music. In New England, music is left to the musicians. Regular people don’t sing or play instruments, or even allow music in their homes. I remember being shut down by the cops every single time my high school garage band tried to play an outside show. People would complain. That never happens in Austin. In Texas, it seems almost everyone can strum a few tunes, and every back porch is liable to be graced with some picking once in a while. This bartender had me call up the owner of the place, whom I had to convince that we wouldn’t be loud, we didn’t have a whole lot of equipment to load in, we weren’t going to play heavy metal, we didn’t want any money, we’d be gone in the morning, etc. She finally said, “Well, okay.”
Though we tried to be discreet, Paul was onto us from the start, and was asking if he could play bass with us before we even got permission from the bar. “I can run home and get my rig I’ll be back in 10 minutes I live right up the street . . .” We went with the flow. That’s what it was all about that night. We shrugged and said, “Sure.” Paul was back before we set up our stuff by the window. We got beers and I looked around to see if we were ready. “We’re the Quahoggers,” I announced, and we started playing. I did feel a little that we were intruding on the regulars, and I worried they would be annoyed at our presence. But everyone turned around and greeted us with smiles. They liked the name. Plus, because Paul, the “Norm” of this bar, was in the band, we were ok.
Well, I’ll tell you, that night we played for the fun of it for the first time in ages. I’ve been playing as a job for nearly ten years now, and it’s a sad fact that many nights I’m not there solely for the music. Either I’m trying to win people over so they’ll buy a CD, wondering if I suck or not, or wondering if there’s anyone important in the audience. Or if it’s a bar gig, sometimes I’m just going through the motions, working, watching the clock, relieved when it’s over. But on this night in Rhode Island there were no expectations, no agendas, no goals. I played for the pure joy of playing. We played my own songs, we played my favorite Hank songs and Johnny Cash. Charles did Chuck Berry and Elvis songs. We did requests, we did songs we didn’t know. Paul was not a good bass player, but he was good enough. Having Paul in the band brought a sense of danger that kept us on our toes. It brought a newness to our tired old set. Because there were no expectations, there was no fear of failure, so we played with great risk and it was exciting. Plus, Paul kept the locals involved. We stayed connected to the crowd partly through him. He was the hero of the night, and I smiled to myself as I thought of all the people who would have to listen to him tell the story of this night for God knows how long. We knew this was a special night. It was enfolding just exactly as I had envisioned it. People danced, bought us drinks, filled our tip jar, kept calling for more. It was the perfect gig.
All through the night I kept thinking, “I wish I could remember every bit of this night, but I know it will fade like all the smoky, hectic nights always do.” I’ve tried hard to recall details in the ensuing months, but I know most have faded forever. One bit I do remember, and I will forever, was for a moment, in the middle of a Chuck Berry song that Charles was singing, I found myself playing with abandon. I’d never felt that before while playing. I don’t think I’ve ever used that word to describe myself before. But it’s the perfect word for that feeling. I was wrapped up in the music. I had relinquished control (or attempt at control, I should say). I sensed being a part of something bigger than myself. I think the really successful musicians probably feel this way every night. I know Bruce used to talk about playing each show like it was his last. I played that night in East Greenwich, Rhode Island like it was the last night on earth.
Towards the end of the night, a gal came in out of the cold and joined us with a washboard. Her percussion propelled the end of our set with an extra jolt of energy that we couldn’t have come up with on our own. We had finally loosened these Yankees up.
We played til closing time, past closing time. Encores, etc. Finally it was time to quit. We were like a big family in that bar. The bartender was our kindly aunt. Paul was our long-lost brother. We had a last beer and packed up our gear. I felt so self-satisfied, knowing that I could just saunter upstairs and crash, just as I had planned. No loading the car, no driving.
We were telling Paul about how there was only one bed, and how we thought we’d just throw the mattress on the floor and one of us could sleep on the box spring. I had a sleeping bag in the car, and frankly, I had no intention of slipping under that worn and frayed bed spread, stained and poked with cigarette burns, so I volunteered for the box spring. But Paul, who was that sort of lonely, unpopular guy who will go out of his way to do anything for anyone who pays attention to him, insisted on going home and getting his self-inflating Marlboro air mattress, which he got in the mail for sending in so many thousand cigarette box tops. We said, no, no. He was drunk, he shouldn’t have been driving. “It’s ok. I know where the cops hang out. I’ve got a shortcut over to my place, I’ve done it a million times.” I knew he was not making that up. But we said no thanks.
We navigated the twists of the back hallway, past a dozing, ancient night watchman, clomped up the steps to our room, and started settling in, laughing about how fun the night had been, how perfect. The box spring wasn’t bad at all. We got into bed and after a few minutes there was a knock at the door. Who the hell? “It’s Paul! I got that air mattress for ya.” He comes in, reeking drunk and a butt in his mouth. “You bettah move y’ cah. I heard the cops sayin’ they’re gonna tow it.” I’d forgotten that in most New England towns, you can’t park on the street at night. Another anal Yankee trait you never see in Texas. In Texas you can legally shoot someone who is trying to move your car. That Paul: not only does he evade a phalanx of drunk-seeking cops to do a favor for us, but he somehow knows the same cops are about to tow me. I ran down to move my car to the parking lot, and when I got back, there was a sense of defeat in the room. The big wrinkled red and white vinyl Marlboro package on the floor was useless. Apparently, the self-inflator wasn’t working.
This is how Charles described what I missed when I was moving my car: ‘I was already laying down on the mattress on the floor pretty comfortably when Paul showed up. We were telling him, “Don’t worry about it Paul – we’ll sleep fine,” but he was dying to break out the Marlboro mattress and kept saying, “You’re gonna love this,” as he was preparing to inflate it. “No, really Paul, it’s Ok.” “Oh no, you’re gonna love this.” After saying it about 3 more times then you hear, “Shit, the fuckin’ thing doesn’t work.” Anyway, it’s funny to me as I think about it. But the thing that gets me is when we said good-bye. I said something like, “See you later Paul,” and he said, “Shit, I’ll never see you guys again.” Profound comment. I know that he realized that we had all just shared a magic night and that shit like this doesn’t happen very often, if ever. It made me realize it too, and I felt like crying.’
Next morning, we began to stir around nine or ten, but then something jolted us into full waking. There was a noise in the hall. The big clomp of a boot, followed by a dragging sound. It repeated slowly and was getting louder – coming towards us. Clump. Thhhhh. Clump. Thhhhh. Was it Quasimodo? Was is Igor form “Young Frankenstein?” We waited in suspense as it approached our door. We opened our eyes wide. Then it began to fade and recede down the hall, and we burst out in stifled laughter. It was the one sign during our entire stay at the hotel that anyone else was staying there. Perfect.
Slaid Cleaves’ Maine Clam Bake 2001
First, have your uncles sneak into the town dump and haul out a used 250 gallon heating oil tank. Then have your neighbor cut it in half with his arc welder. Buy them all a case of Genesee Cream Ale.
Order a crate of lobsters from a local lobsterman. If you invite him to the clam bake he will probably give you “boat price.” Call up some cousins and friends to help with the clam digging and wood carrying. Borrow Dad’s pickup to haul a couple of loads of scrap wood from the neighbor who has the saw mill.
Borrow your uncle’s skiff and take a crew out to Loud’s Island to dig some clams. Keep a low profile because if the “clam cop” catches you digging without a license its a $300 fine. Don’t forget to bring some ratty old clamming shoes and some corn meal. On the way back from the island, soak the clams in saltwater with a cup of corn meal. This helps them digest out the gritty sand quickly. Optional: naked water skiing on the way home from the island.
Back on shore, have some kids start pulling seaweed off the rocks while a good sized fire is started right there on the shore. Someone needs to wrap up the potatos in tin foil. Soak the corn in a mesh bag off the side of the dock. Put the lobsters in onion bags (10 or 12 to a bag). Put the clams in smaller mesh bags.
Tap the keg.
When the fire has produced a good bed of coals, shovel some into an old Webber grill and throw the taters into the coals. You can cook burgers and dogs here for the land lubbers. Get all your side dishes and plates and napkins and butter cups ready.
All right. The coals are hot, everything is in place. Time to start cooking. Have a couple of friends slide the cooker (remember the 250 gallon oil drum – don’t forget to wash it out real good) over the coals. Stoke up the fire. Pour in a couple gallons of fresh water and heap in a bed of seaweed. Lay down some bags of lobsters, then the clams. Corn (still in its mesh bag) on top. Cover with another bed of seaweed. Soak some newspaper in water, and use a few sheets to cover the whole deal. Designate a time keeper. It’ll take 30-35 minutes.
While the water boils and the seaweed crackles, keep feeding the fire so its nice and even under the big pot. Don’t want any half-cooked lobsters. Put a couple of pounds of butter in a pan and set it beside the fire to melt.
Now gather up a crew to help you serve. They may be drinking and socializing by now and hard to motivate. Bang the oil tank with your rake to get their attention. It’s been 30 minutes or so.
Peel back the wet paper and throw it in the fire. Use a pitchfork or rake to haul out the top layer of seaweed. Then pick the mesh bags out one by one. Be sure the clams have opened up and are firm. Be sure the lobsters are done by flicking the curled up tail open. It should spring back to position strongly. Have the crew open up the bags and lay out the food on a buffet table (don’t forget the taters) while you clean out the rest of the smoking seaweed. Then get some help shoving the tank off the fire.
It’s time to eat now, sitting on chairs or crouched down on the rocks as the sun fades behind the pines. Its amazing how fast this food will disappear.
Throw the paper plates and shells into the fire. If there are any leftovers we can make a good chowder tomorrow. Stoke up the fire. Clean up your hands and break out the fiddles and guitars. Beer and whiskey (and sometimes moonshine) are flowing freely by now. Kids play maracas and everyone pitches in. Rowdy songs follow earnest folk singing. The old timers do their same old numbers. Stories are told, romances kindle. Some skinny dipping usually ensues. I remember once seeing a cousin jump off the roof of the lobster boat, naked, and swim around with a champagne bottle in one hand. It was his wedding. The crowd thins out as the stars turn in the heavens. At dawn stumble into a tent or a bunk somewhere – in a minivan, in a lobster boat, or just roll out a sleeping bag in the bed of your pickup truck. Be sure there is plenty of Moxie and BC for hangovers.
