As a teenager I didn't have heaps in common with the frumpy vocal powerhouse but I still found refuge in music. My flavor was punk rock. I would go to Gilman Street in Berkeley or the the now defunct Cattle Club in Sacramento. I met Jello Biafra. I saw Dick Lucas (Citizen Fish) electrify the crowd and oddly enough noticed nary a scuffle. When they happened it usually involved a recalcitrant Nazi type.
In Berkeley especially when you fell in the pit you got picked up. It typified a sense of community.
It was in that spirit that I went to visit James La Vigna, a front man for a pretty solid San Jose punk band called Betty's Love Child. I was there to interview him for a zine that couldn't have had more of a circulation than 40. He has generous enough to let me stay for a few days.
One night James invited the owner of Pirate Cat records over for some beers. I wasn't much of a drinker but it didn't matter I was richly rewarded by the conversation. The record store owner talked about his impending business failure. James and the other guy talked about legendary San Jose bands. Ones, I had mostly never heard of. The beers dwindled but the conversation continued. The record store owner talked about some of his military experiences.
Suddenly James truncated the conversation and headed indoors. He went to his turntable and put on a record. He asked either of us if we recognized it. I tried. It sounded Irishy, but it was more than that. The words I could make out seemed to be divided between the sacred and profane. Finally the Pirate Cat guy nailed down the name: The Pogues.
I stayed up until four listening to all of "If I Should Fall From Grace with God." I could picture myself on a coffin ship and as a broken immigrant while simultaneously being a success.
No comments:
Post a Comment