6 hours from Minneapolis to Milwaukee--a hidden Midwestern gem.
Took me a half hour to find I-94 in my own hometown--after 17 years of living here, still don't know where on ramps are.
In Black River Falls, stopped at my favorite coffee house: Molly's Rude Awakenings. Marilyn Monroe pictures. Another movie star whose name escapes me. 50's soda jerk counter booths. Cinema chairs against the wall. Studied, old-hippie feel. Great patios. Poetry readings.
A guy ran a cool micropress out of Black River Falls for a while. Is it still going? Is he still there? Gotta find him if he is.
Back on the road.
Milwaukee--Woodland Pattern Book Center. My favorite bookstore by far. Huge, open room with first editions and poetry chapbooks galore. Picked up latest Nathaniel Mackey and a Maggie O'Sullivan--where else can you find her stuff?
Hook up with my buddy, a blues critic, and quickly hit a downhome Mexican spot for tacos on paper plates and margaritas mixed the way they should be: with powdered sugar.
Out to a suburban hell spot to hear a blues band: Steve Nitros. Couldn't talk to Nitros until break, but I heard it: this was one of the few cats to be extending Fenton Robinson, an obscure West Side Chicago guitarist who fell through the cracks because he was too jazzy for the bluesers and too bluesy for the jazz ers. Intricate, nuanced, laid back, and definitely grooving.
You could dance to this stuff but the crowd in their Packer sweatshirts and hats just wanted to listen.
At the break Nitros came over to talk to my buddy and he confirmed that Robinson was a major influence. How exactly I would define the way Nitros works with the openings provided by Robinson would entail some study and comparison--wish I could do it now.
Amy Ashby on bass and some cool vocals and a wild tatoo dedicated to Delta blues, Andy B. on drums, Larry Byrne on electric piano. Excellent band--Byrne worked with none other than Luther Allison.
Saturday was St. Patrick's Day in beer town USA. Hit a bar with some people we knew about 2 o'clock. Sat outside in the sun. Conversation about whether or not men should pay for dates: I held that chivalry was always, ultimately, a cover for developing entitlement. Won't pretend to get other people's ideas exactly right.
Got a little heated, but fun.
Another talk about which blues artists seemed to break through the constraints of style and wear their heart on their sleeves, at least sometimes: I held out for Howlin' Wolf and Otis Rush. Then we agreed that Jessie Mae Hemphill blows our minds, rest her soul.
A middle-aged guy wearing a green kilt, a green shirt with "Shamrock Gangsta" emblazoned on the back, and a big green clock poured out of the bar. "Hey, man" he said to me. The clock was set to the exact time a couple months earlier when he and his unit (what's the verb?) got home from three years in Iraq and Afghanistan. I told him I was very happy to have him back.
He swaggered and told me while he was gone his dad died, a house burned down, family members got diseases and I could tell it was all true. "Party up," I said, and he shook my hand and as he staggered back inside someone gave him crap about his costume. Little did they know.
I was rattled for a few minutes.
Hit a few bars in the trendy part of town that played music too loud and bored me, and then, well, heaven itself: The Dr. Chow rock band at a road house way the hell out by the airport.
Can you imagine the combination of all-out rock and roll histrionics with over-the-top theatricality? I've never seen such a thing.
The crowd--all middle-aged: hipsters, burn-outs and bikers--went nuts. They all seemed to know or be familiar with the band, as were the people I was with. They played a souped up version of a 20's Irish tune:
Cigaroes and whiskey
and wild wild women
I can't remember what came next but the lyrics described nothing good, and the music itself was catharsis itself. I sang along.
Dr. Chow leapt onto the bar, crawled its length, rose to his knees and howled like he was the Wolf himself.
The next set--all 60's garage-rock covers and my feet couldn't help myself: I asked my buddy if I could dance with his girlfriend 'cause he wasn't and we ran to the front and acted completely stupid. Her arms never came below shoulder level and I beat the hell out of the floor with my cowboy boots and the owner of the roadhouse--looked to be in his 60's--was getting down right with us. Along with a drag queen in a skin-tight dress—don't they of all us males, excuse the expression, have the most balls?
My buddy's girlfriend knew Mr. Chow and she kept flipping him the bird for the hell of it and he yelled the only proper response right back into the microphone which I won't repeat here.
It was hot and I was sweating and it was off to chow down at the Mexican restaurant again late at night. We heaved and hawed about our troubles and I touched my eye when it had hot sauce on it. The Mexican bartender was nice, gave me a glass of water and told me what to do--my friends made fun of me as I stuck my eyeball into the H2O.
Jerks. (Joke)
The night ended at a laid back punk rock club and I'm up this morning in a coffeehouse having finished some writing & editing work now writing this and it's off to Green Bay in a few to visit my parents.
I love WISCONSIN.
No comments:
Post a Comment