Rachel took me to a couple of worthwhile bars down here. One was called Surfer's, which sort of resembled a VFW hall for skate punks. Bonus points for cheap beer and somehow being able to smoke inside. There was a young trio of hardcore punkers playing that night. I affectionately referred to them as Husker Don't. With amps turned to 13, they banged out short numbers they may have well written earlier in the day. Don't get me wrong, I wore a big smile. The dense wall of sound coursed through the room, while a throng of about a dozen milled about in front of the band. I smoked a cigarette at the edge of the bar with Rach and the other non-kids who were too drunk to move or too apathetic to give a fuck. We talked to the bartender/owner in-between the bursts of ear shattering noise. He made sure we didn't go thirsty. All was good.
The other place is called the North End. It's connected by a doorway to a BBQ joint that I have yet to try. The bartender there is fantastic. And he's pretty much everything you would want in a bartender. On the ball, witty, great taste in music (a rarity in these parts), and the tab at the end of the night is maybe half what you thought it would be. The joint itself is on the smaller side of pubs, but there's a tiny stage in one corner where they have live music throughout the week. The first night we were there, the only entertainment came by way of dart league. They drank a little, threw their darts, laughed and hollered, and then got the hell out of the place immediately upon finishing their games. That left just Rach and myself, and a couple other whiskey-faced cretins, to shoot the shit with Tom while he made sure our glasses were never empty for more than a few seconds at a time. Good vibes, good times.
I made it back to the North End the following weekend and checked out some live music. They were serving up some Appalachian foot stompin' by way of The Bloody Jug Band. Good ol' boys and one gal from the big city of Orlando. There was banjo, a washtub bass, mandolin, a washboard that hung around the lead singer's head, and of course, a jug - presumably bloodied. While having a smoke on the back patio, I met a young man who was excited about the show that night and informed me that his band was playing there in less than a week. I asked him the name of his band, and he almost sheepishly replied, "Destroy North America." I smiled and promised I would return for that show. He also said they were playing with a band who he was really excited to be on the bill with called, Dirty Spliff. I said, "All the better, but you had me at Destroy North America."
The Bloody Jugband
Rachel ended up still being out of town that night, so I decided to take the bus/trolley 5 miles down the road to the North End. It's always strange taking the bus in a small town where almost everybody drives. It's usually a mix of crazies, addicts, crazy addicts, DUI casualties, kids, and the poor. But it was almost 10p when I got on, and there were only a few other riders. An old guy with a back pack, a fanny pack, and a duffel bag, a drunken beach bum wannabe, and a strange smelling fat lady who sat behind me and poorly hummed to the shitty dance music that was being pumped through the sound system. A couple more people wearing corporate polo shirts (hotels?) got on along the way. But by the time the bus was nearing the North End, I was the last rider. And being as such, the bus driver dropped me right in front of the bar, despite the fact there's wasn't a bus stop there. First rate service, all for a buck and a quarter. Suck it, CTA!
As I walked in, the door guy took my $5 and said the show had just gotten underway. I ordered a beer from Tom and made my way toward the edge of the small slam dance circle that had generated in front of the band. The guy I had met a few nights earlier (His name might have been Greg, but their band page just lists him as Dudeman.), now donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses and a George Bush t-shirt, all the while howling and thrashing around like an deranged epileptic, mid-grand mal. And that energy filtered into the crowd. Midway into the next song, Fuck Religion, one of the more impassioned patrons started to seriously amp up his bumping and shoving in the circle. I noticed his eyes, which seemed to impart a look so contemptuous and mean, a rabid pitbull would've backed away. I scanned the tables, looking for a plastic bag with personal effects, figuring he had just been released. Coming up empty, I wondered if he was merely in the midst of a tense aldermanic run at the Shady Palm trailer park and needed to vent. At that point, I decided to take a couple of steps back toward the bar. Not because I was afraid, or felt too old to be in up close with all the kids. While both of those things were true, the fact was I needed another beer - 5 minutes into the evening. Yeah, it was going to be one of those nights…
Destroy North America
DNA played for another half hour or so. The music itself was a bit sloppy. But what the hell, it was punk rock. And it all tightened up when they did their slower ska infused material. One of the most interesting facets of their evening was due to the fact that we were in Florida and not everybody in the bar was there for a night of hardcore. So it became necessary to sort of explain between songs that they weren't against Americans, they were after all Americans themselves, and loved Americans, they just didn't agree with American policy, etc. It was kinda charming and yet wholly unnecessary. And while not everybody agreed with their message or completely dug the music, I don't think anybody was capable of denying the power and conviction they infused into the entirety of their show. And whatever, they didn't give a fuck anyway. They'll give you a cd for free or tell you where to download their songs. And I don't think they took a dime from the door proceeds. They didn't give a mad fuck about the money. They just came to rock. And that they did…
The next band on the bill was, Dirty Spliff. Musically, these guys were the shit. The rhythm section was tight as hell. A big beast of a man played the bass so deftly, you could almost see dense fractals spilling out of his cabinet. His hyperactively picked, melodic bass notes combined with the spot-on power chords of the guitar player to create a wave of sound that sought to physically enter one's body like a sonic speedball. Raw, hard, and fast, yet inviting and warm around the edges. I found myself murmuring, "Whoa," and wearing a sugary grin. Their front man was of a different breed. The mic mostly stayed on its stand while he stood back, clad in dark sunglasses, waiting patiently with his hands folded until it was time to step up and commence wailing. And while I was never quite sure what he meant when he got down to it, there was no doubt that he fucking well meant it. If ribbons were handed out that night, Dirty Spliff would surely have walked with the blue.
Dirty Spliff
I'm not sure who the final band of the night was. But there wasn't much to say about them, anyway. I recall noting their technical proficiency, but beyond that, nothing. It was as if the bar was already raised so high, they kinda said "fuck it" and just plowed through their set. I dunno. Maybe I just didn't get it, or maybe I was just too 7 or 8 pints into the evening. In any case, I decided to spend a good chunk of their set outside shooting the shit with members of the previous 2 bands. The bass player and singer from Dirty Spliff were none too pleased with things. They were super salty about the lack of a bigger crowd and the financial implications therein. They were vowing to never play Cocoa Beach again. And that decision was partly based on the perceived hate thrown their way simply because they were from St. Cloud. I kinda figured that it had more to do with a lack of marketing and the fact that it was a Wednesday night. But whatever, they deserved to have an ego about things. They were pretty badass. It's just that they could have learned a thing or two from the ethos of DNA's frontman. It's not about the money, dig? But then again, they weren't the ones who were penniless and bumming smokes off me like Dudeman from DNA. Bottom line - the people who were there dug the shit out of it, and I had a fresh pack of smokes…
One more week in Florida. Time to do whatever it is I want to do before I go. Rachel has a few days off in a row at the beginning of next week, so game on…
Peace out, my monkeys.
Husker Don't - Betcha can't make it thru with the sound turned up...
