The Providence Phoenix Music

Weekending
Another Friday night on the town
BY BOB GULLA

It's a pain in the ass to park in town. It always is. Makes you wish you lived in China or Indonesia where everybody rides bikes. Or rickshaws. Yeah, rickshaws would be cool. Then you'd have to hire a driver, which I'd do. But it'd be hard to feel good about that. I did it in Indonesia one night when I was there and felt guilty for the entire time. Not 'cause I was heavy and the guy was sweating through an already white hot night. Just 'cause it felt too much like slavery. Plus, he worked for a quarter or so an hour. I lose that much through the hole in my pocket every day.

So I pulled into a $5 lot. No big deal. My name's on the lists tonight, so even after paying for parking I'd still come out ahead. Pulled into the lot, and the attendant's crashed out in his cubby, on the verge of a good snore, black-and white-TV illuminating one side of his face. Cars are coming in and out of his bailiwick at will. In fact, there's a virtual traffic jam at the entrance. Perhaps many of these cars are familiar with the attendant and his errant sleep habits, or maybe he takes a nap every night at 9:20. Either way, I creep stealthily into the lot along with a caravan of others and figure I'll buy an extra pint and tip the puller good with the proceeds. Guilt can be a bitch. But I won't let it affect me tonight. It's Friday.

The Met's three-quarters full -- a residual crowd from the just-finished Midnight Creeps, a faithful following for the current act, the Worried, and a slightly older contingent staked out to see the night's dino-headliners, the Dictators. The Worried pound away at some solid garage punk chords, fueled with shout-'em-loud choruses and Dennis Kelly's iconic fluency at the breaks. A glorious cover of Blue Öyster Cult's "Dominance and Submission" capped the evening and even pricked the ears of aging Dictators fans. I hadn't heard the song since retiring my copy of 1974's Secret Treaties way back in '79. Punk had slamdanced its way into my life when I wasn't looking, so my rock LPs fell hard. A sampling of those would include Grand Funk's We're an American Band (where they were photographed naked for the foldout by a woman, as I noticed as a wee post-pube), Boston's sterile debut, Kiss' Destroyer, some Parliament, Outlandos D'Amour, Lene Lovich, and a banged-up copy of Lynyrd Skynyrd's Street Survivors. Can't ya smell that smell? So the BOC cover ruled and I left, delirious versions of "Los Angeles" and "TV Party" swirling in my head as I made my way down the street to the Safari.

There was a bulky guy singing over some standard proto-Sabbath metal chords. His heart was in it -- you could tell by the carotid bulge in his neck. But I found myself inexplicably drawn to one of the three TVs overhead, which was airing the Men's Figure Skating Long Program. I could not have conjured a more ironic juxtaposition. Wincing at the thought of the singer doing a triple Lutz in a tight outfit, I turned and headed back toward the car.

Sauntering down the sidewalk, a few fast-walking groups of girls skittered by. They were huddled together in short sleeves looking kinda foolish, considering the bluster and freezing temps. Was it that crucial for their skin to show? It must be the girls' version of when guys refuse to use umbrellas. Why don't guys use umbrellas? It could be raining in sheets and a guy's guy will refuse an umbrella. Forget galoshes. Should there be cooler umbrellas available for macho guys? Maybe. Perhaps a line of umbrellas designed with racing decals, or WWF stars. It reminded me of the last good idea I heard, the one about some golf equipment company creating a line of hip golf clubs and paraphernalia made in all sorts of colors and edgy styles. They marketed it to the rock 'n' roll crowd. Genius? Gimmick? Would you pick up golf if you saw Darius Rucker swinging a purple seven iron?

Back at the parking lot, the mannish underachiever with the sleep disorder had risen phoenix-like and gotten back to the heavy lifting that is parking lot attending. He had a large orange pylon over his shoulder, choosing a place for it carefully, like Bobby Fischer protecting his queen. I nodded on my way out, checking in my rearview whether he and his pylon were coming after me.

Parking was still a bitch over at the Green Room. The suicidal traffic pattern and cliques of drunken "soldiers" along the way don't make it much easier at that slanted corner. From a distance, I see a lot across the street advertising $5, but as I get closer it reads $15, with a "1" penciled in between the "$" and the "5." This attendant is definitely skimming. I could park cheaper in Times Square where there's a lot more sights to be seen.

But perhaps not quite as many nice-smelling men. Walking down the sidewalk toward the bar I catch a whiff of a few perfumed guys, one of whose deodorant must have been applied with a mop. His beef had popped open his suit coat and his shirt was unbuttoned too far, of course. Behind him, a strutting gaggle of younger guys, late 20s, laughed and clapped on their way somewhere incredibly exciting. Two of them had tighter shirts on than Cathy Rigby, and the whole lot of them smelled like the cosmetics section at Filene's, not sure which aisle, though probably not the men's section. I wondered when the last time was that I actually cared about how I smelled. It must have been some prom or other, when Dad let me borrow his cologne for the first time. I don't think I ever recovered, from the smell or the prom. When I close my eyes I can still smell that smell. Rest in peace, Dad.

Anyway, got to the Green Room in time for Runner and the Thermodynamics. The highlight of the neo-jam happened before they started when the young guitarist said, "We're gonna be playing a couple of weeks in Providence again. I know you haven't heard us yet, but if you like us tonight come on out and have a good time again." Now that's planning. He's gonna go far that kid. The band won't, but he might.

Back down the street, the warmly decorated room over at CAV beckoned with its soft light and huge cappuccino-ready mugs. The Sonic Explorers Jazz Ensemble was tucked into the corner, reveling in the appreciation of a small crowd. The room has cultivated its jazz presence nicely, holding up the sinking genre with style and elegance. That the Ensemble on this night included top-caliber players serenading less than a dozen people at prime time on a Saturday is both a testament to their dedication to the art form and an indictment of jazz fans around the city who can't bother to show up.

Which brings me to the end of this story. Sorry for the rambling. I've been meaning to do this -- ramble, that is -- for some time. Doctor's orders.

WANDERING EYE. Do you like heavy horn rock? This Saturday over at the Blackstone, Clutch Grabwell, a not-quite-local outfit voted best band two years running in the late Worcester Phoenix, attempts to win over Rhode Island audiences. Five dollars gets you in and some downright possessed horn-driven rock, baby. Check out their web site, www.grabwell.com.

On Friday there's a listener appreciation party over the Green Room, presented by 'HJY and Rattlehead Records, featuring Big Jon Tierney and the Truth, Mr. Lincoln, and the Complaints. Likely a great night. On Sunday, sad rockers Delphine hit the Met with Tigersaw and Westbound Train.

E-mail me with music news at big.daddy1@cox.net.

Issue Date: March 1 - 7, 2002