June 21, 1996
The Wormhole in West Palm Beach, FL
It all started when Greg left a message on my voice mail to the effect that he just read about my show at The Wormhole the following weekend and wasn't sure if he could make it. My first thought was, "I'm playing at The Wormhole this weekend?"
The staff at West Palm Beach's downtown hangout was usually good about keeping the shelves full of incense, the racks full of underground magazines, the racks full of classy second hand clothing, and about organizing their live shows. Usually, not always.
So, after I called The Wormhole to confirm Greg's discovery I went into panic mode. One week to rehearse, advertise, wrangle up the multimedia equipment necessary for a true Mailbox experience.
Once I realized that I had insufficient time to accomplish any of these tasks I went to Plan B.
"Plan B" was simple: come up with a "Plan C" and do so quickly.
The "Plan C" I arrived at was to call all the musicians I knew and get them to join me onstage. We'd get together once or twice that week to rehearse some Mailbox tunes. So, once I realized that this wasn't going to happen I told everyone to just show up. Attendance became my new goal. Realistic goals, Irving, realistic.
Goal achieved: Greg showed up with some friends. Mickey came with the bassist he'd been working with. Dave and his swanky blue monkey shirt clocked in. All I brought was my acoustic guitar, snare drum, and crash cymbal. I merged my percussion with the house's bass drum and floor tom. I did not bring a setlist but I did have the foresight to bring my DAT recorder.
With all the instruments set up, we sound checked with "Pleasant Valley Sunday" with Mickey keeping a liberal sense of time on drums. I shouldn't be too critical since I was behind a microphone with no clue about the lyrics. I gave in and let Dave do the singing while I did the last minute adjustments to the mic stand.
Everyone had shown up - the couches were full. I got behind the drum kit to check the drum mic's and Animal started up a funky riff. We joined in and the jam was underway. About a minute into this song that would be called, "Where's The Porridge?" the houselights came down and the stage lights came up. Apparently, the show had begun. I am so glad that Guy Davis, the sound guy, started recording.
I didn't expect I'd be spending the next hour and a half behind the drum kit making up songs and doing a cover of A Flock of Seagulls' "I Ran." But there it all was on DAT tape. No point denying it now. I'm kidding. I really enjoyed the show. I felt a special unbridled kind of magic that can only be felt when playing a live show with 5 people who never played together before ... or since.
I came back on stage after a short intermission for a brief acoustic set for Mailbox die-hards who waited around in hopes of hearing at least one Mailbox song. They got five or six. I would've included more of the songs on the CD but the fan at the club was blowing right into the microphone for most of the set and the recordings were unusable.
GREG'S STORY
My favorite moment was during our ill-fated attempt at playing "Blister in the Sun". I've known that riff since college, but I never bothered to learn the rest of the song. When we went to the chorus, I had no idea what chord was supposed to happen, so I think I played a low F or something, and Mickey turned around and started shouting the chord changes between lyrics. I have NEVER fucked up that bad on stage before. When we started playing the song, it never occurred to me that we'd actually play it long enough to get to the chorus. But, the cool thing for me was, I really didn't care. Previously, I played in a really technical band with a lot of notes going on, and I got real neurotic about playing them all in the correct order, not realizing till much later that no one, not even our friends who came to the shows, would ever have known the correct order for the notes. Fucking up would have been impossible to their ears. To fuck up a slacker anthem like "blister", I mean, come on. I had to not care. I would have shit my pants if I cared. We nailed "Tomorrow Never Knows" though, and I don't remember ever hearing the Beatles version of that tune until we played it. I listened to the original weeks after the gig, and I think we did it better. But, I feel like I owe Gordon Gano and the Violent Femmes a French Maid for fucking up their song so completely. If we'd been much drunker, I may have tried an a capella version of "Country Death Song".
Another cool thing about that show was my future wife Donna talked these two friends of her's into bypassing Sting's concert the same night to come see us. They seemed to like it, but I know, deep down, at least the guy was saying, "I passed up Sting for this crap?". Donna and I were just getting into the serious relationship thing, and that night helped solidify our couplehood: For her because she appreciated my performance, and for me because she actually sat through the whole mess.
And Ryan's pants. And God, the Wormhole itself. What a neato little nook that was, huh? I didn't hang out there much, but the place gotta be cool when one of the owners gives you his Fender Strat to jam with, and you totally toss your rock and roll nuts, and in your fury of playing, the red pick you're using digs little bloody ditches in the beige paint job, and when you're done, you realize what you've done to this guy's guitar, and you see your next paycheck go flying out the window, and you hand him back the guitar, apologizing profusely, and he says, "nah, that's cool. Gives it character". That's a cool place to be.
Culture breeds out of necessity, and the Wormhole was a necessary place in West Palm, until they turned downtown into such an uber-yuppie strip. Anyway, I had a blast, and I hope anyone who listens to this will be able to transport themselves to the state of mind we had those nights: jaded innocence, barenaked hope, and beers.
The Wormhole in West Palm Beach, FL
It all started when Greg left a message on my voice mail to the effect that he just read about my show at The Wormhole the following weekend and wasn't sure if he could make it. My first thought was, "I'm playing at The Wormhole this weekend?"
The staff at West Palm Beach's downtown hangout was usually good about keeping the shelves full of incense, the racks full of underground magazines, the racks full of classy second hand clothing, and about organizing their live shows. Usually, not always.
So, after I called The Wormhole to confirm Greg's discovery I went into panic mode. One week to rehearse, advertise, wrangle up the multimedia equipment necessary for a true Mailbox experience.
Once I realized that I had insufficient time to accomplish any of these tasks I went to Plan B.
"Plan B" was simple: come up with a "Plan C" and do so quickly.
The "Plan C" I arrived at was to call all the musicians I knew and get them to join me onstage. We'd get together once or twice that week to rehearse some Mailbox tunes. So, once I realized that this wasn't going to happen I told everyone to just show up. Attendance became my new goal. Realistic goals, Irving, realistic.
Goal achieved: Greg showed up with some friends. Mickey came with the bassist he'd been working with. Dave and his swanky blue monkey shirt clocked in. All I brought was my acoustic guitar, snare drum, and crash cymbal. I merged my percussion with the house's bass drum and floor tom. I did not bring a setlist but I did have the foresight to bring my DAT recorder.
With all the instruments set up, we sound checked with "Pleasant Valley Sunday" with Mickey keeping a liberal sense of time on drums. I shouldn't be too critical since I was behind a microphone with no clue about the lyrics. I gave in and let Dave do the singing while I did the last minute adjustments to the mic stand.
Everyone had shown up - the couches were full. I got behind the drum kit to check the drum mic's and Animal started up a funky riff. We joined in and the jam was underway. About a minute into this song that would be called, "Where's The Porridge?" the houselights came down and the stage lights came up. Apparently, the show had begun. I am so glad that Guy Davis, the sound guy, started recording.
I didn't expect I'd be spending the next hour and a half behind the drum kit making up songs and doing a cover of A Flock of Seagulls' "I Ran." But there it all was on DAT tape. No point denying it now. I'm kidding. I really enjoyed the show. I felt a special unbridled kind of magic that can only be felt when playing a live show with 5 people who never played together before ... or since.
I came back on stage after a short intermission for a brief acoustic set for Mailbox die-hards who waited around in hopes of hearing at least one Mailbox song. They got five or six. I would've included more of the songs on the CD but the fan at the club was blowing right into the microphone for most of the set and the recordings were unusable.
GREG'S STORY
My favorite moment was during our ill-fated attempt at playing "Blister in the Sun". I've known that riff since college, but I never bothered to learn the rest of the song. When we went to the chorus, I had no idea what chord was supposed to happen, so I think I played a low F or something, and Mickey turned around and started shouting the chord changes between lyrics. I have NEVER fucked up that bad on stage before. When we started playing the song, it never occurred to me that we'd actually play it long enough to get to the chorus. But, the cool thing for me was, I really didn't care. Previously, I played in a really technical band with a lot of notes going on, and I got real neurotic about playing them all in the correct order, not realizing till much later that no one, not even our friends who came to the shows, would ever have known the correct order for the notes. Fucking up would have been impossible to their ears. To fuck up a slacker anthem like "blister", I mean, come on. I had to not care. I would have shit my pants if I cared. We nailed "Tomorrow Never Knows" though, and I don't remember ever hearing the Beatles version of that tune until we played it. I listened to the original weeks after the gig, and I think we did it better. But, I feel like I owe Gordon Gano and the Violent Femmes a French Maid for fucking up their song so completely. If we'd been much drunker, I may have tried an a capella version of "Country Death Song".
Another cool thing about that show was my future wife Donna talked these two friends of her's into bypassing Sting's concert the same night to come see us. They seemed to like it, but I know, deep down, at least the guy was saying, "I passed up Sting for this crap?". Donna and I were just getting into the serious relationship thing, and that night helped solidify our couplehood: For her because she appreciated my performance, and for me because she actually sat through the whole mess.
And Ryan's pants. And God, the Wormhole itself. What a neato little nook that was, huh? I didn't hang out there much, but the place gotta be cool when one of the owners gives you his Fender Strat to jam with, and you totally toss your rock and roll nuts, and in your fury of playing, the red pick you're using digs little bloody ditches in the beige paint job, and when you're done, you realize what you've done to this guy's guitar, and you see your next paycheck go flying out the window, and you hand him back the guitar, apologizing profusely, and he says, "nah, that's cool. Gives it character". That's a cool place to be.
Culture breeds out of necessity, and the Wormhole was a necessary place in West Palm, until they turned downtown into such an uber-yuppie strip. Anyway, I had a blast, and I hope anyone who listens to this will be able to transport themselves to the state of mind we had those nights: jaded innocence, barenaked hope, and beers.
