Turns out I could've bowled several games at the Hall of Fame ($2/game after the first one), because the Avett Brothers had run into some car troubles (a blown tire) on their way to their in-store performance at Vintage Vinyl, which was supposed to start at 5:30. But I just spent some more time in the store scouring through record bins, eventually finding a copy of Shel Silverstein's "Freakin' at the Freakers Ball," which I wound up buying during my final visit to the store on Saturday. That was a good score.
The Avetts finally pulled in a little after 6, with their dad but without their manager, tour manager, and roadie, who were off trying to deal with the van situation. Because they were running so late, they decided to forego any attempts at amplification. They coped pretty well.
I wanted to get to at least a little bit of the pre-show Twangfest gathering at the Schlafly Tap Room, so I high-tailed it down Delmar in the direction of the train station. I made it about halfway before I spotted a black guy wearing an Elvis t-shirt out of the corner of my eye. He seemed to be accosting motorists, and I hoped he'd be sticking to that strategy. But then I think I made a half-second of eye contact and it was game on.
"Hey! Excuse me!"
"Yeah?"
"Look, my name's Curly and I don't wanna bother you. I'm just gonna be honest with you."
"OK."
"There's this woman back there in the park. And she said she'll gimme sex if I give her 15 dollars."
"OK."
"Now, man, I haven't had sex in a long time. A looooong time. And I really, really need it. So, you think you could gimme that 15 bucks."
"Um, well, I can't give you 15..."
"Just anything you can, man. Y'know, maybe 7 or 8 bucks or something. Maybe she'll make a deal or..."
"OK. I can give you something." (I know begin the feverish process of trying to extract a $5 bill from my pocket without breaking out my wallet.)
"Whatever you can, man. Look, I'm not giving you some 'Oh, I'm hungry and I need to eat' or 'I need to get a drink.' I'm being straight up with you. Man-to-man. You gotta appreciate that..."
"I do, I do. Here's a 5, man." (Despite my best efforts to show no other bills, he spots the $5's companion.)
"Can you gimme the 10?"
"No. Sorry. Just the 5."
(Dejectedly) "OK. Thanks."
I don't know a lot about (a) sex and (b) paying for sex in a park, but I figure if a woman in a park is going to have sex with you for $15, she can probably be talked down to $5. So I hope the $5 helped Curly out. Never let it be said that I don't feel for my fellow man.
I arrived at the Schlafly Tap Room around 7, only about a half-hour before the pre-show party ended. So I didn't have much time to socialize (to be honest, my time with Curly filled my socialization quota for the day anyway). I picked up my Twangfest pass and various bonus gifts that I got with my status as a Friend of Twangfest. The first band on the evening's bill, Walter Clevenger and the Dairy Kings, were running through a quick soundcheck when I arrived. I noticed that the guitar player looked sorta familiar. My mind started running through what I knew about Walter Clevenger and the Dairy Kings (very little), and then I took a break from thinking to eat one of the free Twinkies. And maybe it was the consumption of a childhood snack food that got my brain where it needed to go, but all of the sudden, I realized why the guitarist looked familiar. Then I remembered that the guy who I think is that guitarist right there on stage is friendly with Walter Clevenger and the Dairy Kings and that, yeah, maybe they have played together before. And, yeah, I really do think that's him. Yeah, it makes sense.
That's Robbie Rist. Or, as you may know him, Cousin Oliver from "The Brady Bunch."
I realized then that coming to Twangfest was a real good idea.
It is my pleasure to report that, TV fame asidem Robbie Rist is a damn fine and really energetic guitar player (turns out he was filling in for the regular guitarist). Honest. It was the first time I'd heard Walter Clevenger and the Dairy Kings and I liked them a lot, even if Walter Clevenger told me after the show that they "sounded like horseshit" ("We usually sound like cowshit" was the next sentence out of his mouth). Their encore cover of "Radio Radio" was particularly kickass.
And, of course, I eventually snagged a photo with Robbie Rist at night's end. I didn't think it appropriate to bring up the Cousin Oliver thing (I wasn't sure if anybody else but me made the connection), so I let it be. But he seemed like a good guy (he responded to my request for a photo by asking for one of his own with his camera). And I recommend that you purchase the tribute to Nick Lowe, "Lowe Profile," that he's on and that Walter Clevenger put together (and plays on as well). It was my first Twangfest CD purchase, and it's a good 'un.
The Avett Brothers followed Walter Clevenger and the Dairy Kings onto the stage. I sensed that there would be a quick surge to the front of the stage, so I had positioned myself up close toward the end of the Dairy Kings' set. I plopped myself right behind Beatle Bob, a local St. Louis fixture who also makes his way to various music festivals around the country (I had previoulsy seen him at the CMJ Bloodshot Records BBQ in Brooklyn a few years ago). Beatle Bob, named such due to his moptop haircut, shakes and shimmies in front of the stage (and blocks your picture taking...he's on the left in the above photo of Walter Clevenger and Robbie Rist), with his big move being putting his hands out in front of him and opening and closing his fists. That's accented by the occasional 360-degree spin for variety's sake. It's entertaining...for about, say, ten minutes.
So, I was glad to see him move away from the front of the stage after the Dairy Kings wrapped up. A couple of young Avett fans and I moved up closer to the stage, and I prepared to finally grab some good Avett photos. And then, right as they started, Bob came back and filled in the six inches of space we had left in front of the stage. So much for good photos. I had to basically time my shots between his shimmying, which resulted in a lot of closeups, some not so bad.
But I eventually accepted my fate. The Avett fan next to me was not as forgiving, particularly when another guy moved up in front to talk to Bob. This guy was also weird, but in a less endearing way. He kept fanning off the band with a postcard (often while they were singing), carrying on conversations with them between songs, and occasionally giving them the finger, which I heard him explain to Bob (the bass player) was actually meant to be a good thing. Of course, if you don't know that and don't overhear the conversation, it just looks like a guy is flipping off the band. There was some brief friction between this guy and the young Avett fan to my left, ending in that most exciting of testosterone-heavy occurrences, the staredown, at set's end. Cooler heads prevailed. Barely.
Anyway, the Avetts put on a good, heavy on the screaming and stomping show, which was just what I needed. Unfortunately, the stomping almost resulted in Seth being swallowed up by the stage, as it was a sectional stage and it started to come apart after a few songs and some heavy stomping. Dane, their tour manager had to occasionally go behind the stage and push things back into place, adding another job for the hardest working tour manager in showbiz.
Since a lot of people had left after the Avetts, the crowd was a little thin for the Yayhoos. But Beatle Bob was still around, sucking the creme off the wrapper of his complementary snack cake up front, so I took a spot to his left for photo purposes. As I was standing there, a guy started to talking to me about the Yayhoos and how they were something special. I assured him that I knew that and had seen them a bunch of times. I eventually told him that this was my first Twangfest and about my visit to the Bowling Hall of Fame. He asked if I'd be going to Twangpin, the festival's afternoon of bowling on Friday. I mentioned that it would probably be tough since I was staying downtown, so he offered to pick me up and drive me over. Cool, I thought.
So then the Yayhoos show started, and, as it did, he looked over and said, "Prepare to be blown away." Again, I was prepared. Because I've seen them a bunch. So the warning was unnecessary. Eventually, the guy went up to the bar and I lost track of him as the Yayhoos were trading off lead vocals, singing songs of Bocephus and getting right with Jesus, and generally showing why they are easily one of the most entertaining bands around. If you make it through a Yayhoos show without smiling and having a good time, you're doing something wrong. And if you don't have their new CD "Put the Hammer Down," you oughta get it. Now.
Right about the time they did their cover of "Love Train," I noticed that the guy had made his way back up to the stage, just as a conga line was forming behind me. So I looked to my left and the guy waved at me. That wave where you only move your fingers and not the rest of your hand. It is the type of wave that allows me to use a word I learned from the great author James Ellroy: hinky. Now, maybe he was just drunk (well, no maybe), and that's how he waves when the alcohol takes him over. But something just didn't sit right. And it was then that I knew I would not be going to Twangpin. Alas.
The night ended with the photo with Robbie Rist and, because of the giddiness that brought, me sharing with the Yayhoos' Keith Christopher the story of him opening the bathroom-stall door at the Mercury Lounge while I was on the toilet. Luckily, he seemed to find the story entertaining and ended our conversation by saying, "Nice to meet you standing up."
And then I walked about twenty blocks back to my hotel at 1 in the morning because I didn't want to call a cab. I don't claim to be smart. But God and I have an understanding and he enables me to do things like that. I think it amuses Him.
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