Bemis/Gerber

Shelled out $50 plus the 30%+ Ticketbastard "convenience charge" (hell yeah, it's a convenient way for them to ream you. What do you mean?) for two tickets to see Slint in March. The progenitors of the genre my friend Rob refers to as "Stop n' Talk Rock" are back.

I saw the Slints numerous times back in the day, most memorably at Club Dreamerz in 1989, one of a handful of rock shows I've seen in my life where I could actually say I left the club permanently changed for life (Sonic Youth in Atlanta in 1988 would be another.) Now, I'm looking for one very small thing -- to touch base with my friend Britt Walford, who seems to have all but dropped off the face of the planet since the breakup of the mighty Evergreen.

I have a bunch of weird/wonderful memories of hanging out with Britt. Meeting him for the first time at a coffeehouse in Evanston (he would serve up mugs of coffee with this characteristic stricken, almost pleading expression on his face that seemed to say don't do this to me. I wonder how long he lasted there?) Then meeting him again in Louisville, telling me with amazement that my drumming was like "tall grass." Staying at his folks' house, bouncing from gay bar to redneck dive, sleeping with Rhoda (his dog, not his mom.) Getting mugged at Montrose Harbor Beach while tripping on mushrooms. Jamming in the dark in the back of my loft on Milwaukee Avenue. Watching him play a drum kit like it hurt. Watching him air drum to classic rock, purposefully off-time, like he was willing the music to come to him. He poisoned me with Kentucky homegrown and jugs of mineral water bottled from the base of a hill "with a cemetery at the top, and the water trickles down through the graves." Lying on the floor, actually tripping out to Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, blasting so loud you could hear the staccato snare hits ricocheting off the houses across the street through the open door at 3 am. Listening to Bo Diddley and gettting deeply, existentially scared. Then walking in on his roommate Bob N. from Pavement fucking his girlfriend in the next room. His everyday Faulknerian pronouncements, like "that girl is trouble."

There's the one-of-a-kind stories, too. No one was more dependent on and less suited to customer service jobs. He told me he once worked as a waiter at a fancy restaurant in L-ville. His cosmic joke was to be incredibly attentive all night, extremely helpful and friendly and knowledgeable, and then when the mustachio'd Colonel-dad of the family paid the bill at the end of the meal, thanking Britt profusely, he'd just mutter "whatever" and walk away, leaving them baffled. That's funny shit. He once went on a date with a girl and came back from the bathroom to tell her he had shit on his hand. I hope he was a little more suave when he was dating Chan Marshall.

Look forward to seeing you again, Britt.

posted at 11:05 AM