"Waking" Friday morning at a friend's place, well, in fact I never went to sleep.
Tired (very tired, dear) from another day of retail at the peak of the Holiday Season, and I simply felt like going home to sleep. But no, I have responsibilities to the partying public, a certain reputation to uphold, and it is almost New Year's Eve after all, and with New Year's Day on a Saturday I haven't a solitary excuse not to Party like it's 1999 (except for the fact that I already *HAVE* partied like it's 1999, both at the end of 1998 and 1999, so Prince's Millenialist fantasy is now rendered Pop music, fun, redundant, and not at all threatening, all at once.) But . . . I'm older now, turning grey, my liver doesn't work as well as it used to . . .
but I still have no excuse. Parties are everywhere, with Cabs and sober drivers for every fifty people, along with the rare chance at a romantic encounter . . .
and still, all I want to do by Friday, New Year's Eve, is take a spot on my couch and read a book, later to drift aimlessly to sleep around the time the Ball drops.
But this journal entry isn't about a Smith's song or even New Year's Eve at all, but about December 30th in particular, for it was then that I took in a show at the Whiskey Junction, where a friend's band, Soda Pop Jerk, were playing. I'd seen 'em only once before, at the Terminal Bar in '99 just prior to leaving for Boston. I remember very few particulars about that set, I was probably stoned at the time (blame THAT on my youthful enthuiasm and easy access - hey, it was college, and folks REALLY LIKED Ween back then : D), mainly I remember a loud, noisy, hot, and crowded affair, in other words a classic Terminal Bar gig, a joint in the spirit of the best gigs that the 24 Bar ever had to offer.
Aside from that Terminal set I'd always thought that Bagger '97 had been a great band from only a few years prior, having caught them on numerous occasions around town, and Soda Pop Jerk had been formed just following the demise of the Baggers.
So any way you slice it, it's been years since I've seen Tim's band play, and yet his brand of 'Sota Pop still sounded as fresh, energetic, and well-played as ever, and it was certainly well-practiced to my ears (after all, these boys have been playing their sets for around five years now!) They're a trio, now, playing solid pop-rock with marked, identifiable punk and post-punk influences, a perfect blend of major chord vocal harmonies and minor chord dissonance that places the band squarely in the emotional hardcore millieu that's more or less characterized the past twenty years of the so-called "underground" of post-punk and college rock. In one sense it was nothing to write home about, but in another it was a great deal better (and better-played) than much of the music I'd heard over the past fifteen years, and in that sense I'd like to think that these guys still have a chance at making a name for themselves outside of the local bar and college-rock scene. I guess I think I've heard a lot in my time, and to my jaded ears they sounded pretty darn good the other night. Still, on the other hand . . . I have way too much common sense (and an even better sense of who-I-am) these days to think that I'm any kind of a tastemaker or anyone who can do much of anything for anyone.
But after the set (and just before the next band had finished sound-check) I asked whether or not Soda Pop Jerk had a CD out. The answer that came back "What? Someone's asking for something to take home?" was only a bit unexpected. After all, at one time or another it has always been considered de riguer to carry along a handful of Things To Want and Buy to sell at the gigs you'd play, a little something to help put gas in the tank, beer in yer hand, or food on the table tomorrow.
But these guys had nothing.
"We've just never gotten around to it somehow. This is all just for fun anymore, ain't no way we're quitting our day jobs!"
Along with another old friend (Jon Greenlee) Tim's also spent some time in recent years playing in Space Camp, a sort-of side project for both of them, or just another distraction from the meat and potatoes of the DayJob, I guess.
After the set we played some slop pool, drank hella 50 cent High Lifes, and listened to the other bands on the bill droning away in the background, obscured as they were by college girls, neon signs, and a James Bond marathon on the boob-tube. We eventually made our way back to the East Bank for a Chapman Stick demo and a bit of Humboldt's Finest.
Finally, in the wee hours of New Year's Eve, I came face to face with my own Mortality. Mere moments after trying (once again) to operate a simple VCR remote-turned PC remote I watched as the rabbit in the corner of the room bacame again and again amorously attracted to a plastic gallon milk jug.
This unlikely Couple had a better sex-life than I did.
Checking the time (5 AM!) I bolted from the place, bunny-hop all-too fresh in mind, and began to make my way through the still-dark streets and byways of the U of M campus, freezing my underdressed skinny-white ass off and cursing the inevitable onset of winter.
I reached home chilled to the bone, stoned and weary, not-quite lookin forward to a hangover and a 12 hour day of retail.
But later that morning (and just for a moment) I watched as white puffs of snowflake drifted down through a highway overpass, momentarily illuminated by the glow of a harsh winter sun, and I felt as if the entire past twelve hours held more meaning than the entire last twelve years.
Epilogue:
January 2nd. I spot Whiskey Junction's weekly City Pages ad.
Soda Pop Jerk are nowhere on the bill.
(*and I will never pilfer a Morrissey title again.)
