I had just arrived home from having dinner out, and there's a message on my machine from Julie, the publicist for FLICKERSTICK. We have a friendly (if long-distance) relationship, and she's a very sweet person. She had gone to New York to see the STICKERFLICK show at Irving Plaza, which of course had been cancelled due to recent horrific events. Stranded on the East Coast with a wedding in Dallas to attend, Julie headed for Philly and called me in search of a hotel room. I offered up my couch, but she had other people to see and tend to -- specifically, SOULCRACKER! That's right, since Bands on the Run (From Good Taste [tm Sars]) have become a "family" of sorts, she's pals with them as well. They had just played a show in Allentown, PA, and were hanging in Philly for the night. Would I like to come and hang out with them? Would I? Is a bear Catholic? Does the pope...you know I had to go.
After I referred Julie to Philly's rather trashy but cheap and not totally uncharming Parker Spruce Hotel, she called me from her cab. She was going to meet up with SUCKCRUSTY at Mako's, a semi-divey bar on South Street within walking distance of my place. Could I come meet them? Meet and hang with the band without having to hear them play? Sounds ideal.
Mako's was practically empty, save for Ramsey, AP, Bob, their sound guy (whose name I forget -- sorry!), this guy Reed that works on the team, and Julie. I hung at the bar with Julie and Ramsey and nursed a Guinness. Bob and AP were glued to the TV screens watching -- not newscasts, but Son of the Beach. Yeah, well, what did you expect. That Inside The Actor's Studio would be on at a bar? Or The MacNeil Lehrer Report? Mako's is anything but erudite. In fact, I think that's their slogan. Julie and I chit-chatted as we killed time waiting for Sutton and THE CRACK'S manager, Johnny, to show up. Beastie, by the way, was absent from the group and, according to Ramsey, "never goes out" with the band anymore. Halfway into my second pint, they showed, and I asked Ramsey (totally adorable, by the way, in his triple-studded mall punk belt and his green eyes and stripy hair) to do his chugging trick. He obliged, and the half-pint went down his throat in about two seconds. Can he do it with milkshakes, too? The world may never know. I mean, he didn't answer me. If you can pour things down your throat like that, wouldn't you want to experiment with other liquids besides beer? Like, oh, say, soup. You could eat lunch in five seconds flat. Not lumpy soups, like black bean, but a tomato would go down well. Or even a noodle soup. I'm just thinking of the possibilities. Ramsey has a talent, and I'm wondering if he's fully explored where it may take him. Besides a direct ticket to Drunkenville, I mean.
So Julie, Johnny the manager (who is from Havertown, a Philly suburb), and I wanted to take the "party" to Tattooed Mom's, a great bar on 6th and South Streets. We walked the three blocks, and I realized our entourage was larger than I had thought -- there's some guys from one of the bands SOULSUCKER had played with the night. We were passing all the South Street "landmarks" (ooh, a Gap! And a Condom Nation!) and we went by Johnny Rockets, a fifties-styled diner. Sutton, no drinks in him yet, suggested we hang there. I said sotto voce, "One milkshake, two straws?" He looked at me funny. I swear I wasn't coming on to him. I SWEAR. Ramsey and Julie kept saying how they were charmed by Philadelphia and liked it a lot, which was very sweet of them. Since Philly is in the shadow of New York City, just two and a half hours away, we tend to have an inferiority complex. I love Philly, it's my home, and it's really nice to hear other people say good things about it. Oh my god, I'm being charmed by SOULCRACKER. Am I fired? ["Yes." -- Sars]
En route to T-Mom's, the band guys quickly scoured a City Paper and saw that some band they dug was playing Abeline's, a Southwestern-"styled" "restaurant" that first became known for having many kinds of exotic meats available. You know -- ostrich, lizard, platypus. Bands play there too, exotic or not. I had never set foot inside the place. We march past Abeline's, get to Tattooed Mom's, commandeer a table, place our drink orders, and then Apey gets restless and wants to go hear the bands. Plus, I think the band guys that played with SOULESS may have been underage and not made it past the T-Mom's bouncers. So we went back to Abeline's. Sigh.
One three-dollar cover later, which Ramsey kindly paid for Julie and me, I was holding a five-dollar pint of Guinness and watching a very weak ersatz Creed-type band thing. There are so many bad bands in the world. So, instead of describing the atmosphere or the music or the people in the bar, I'll take you through each member of -- LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, SSSSOULCRACKER!
Bob: a.k.a. "Sars's future husband," the drummer. Bob was wearing some kind of left-coast, Shannon Moon-ish rope necklace, a gray t-shirt, and shorts. He keeps his greenish-blueish eyes REALLY WIDE OPEN all the time. Even though we were introduced early on in the evening, twice he said to me, "Who are you? Have we met?" I guess he can't keep all the ladies straight, since he is a big fat rock star now. He's not really fat, though. He's pretty cute. If you like the frustrated corporate type.
AP: The bass player who said he can "get laid anytime [he wants] back in San Diego." His hair is striped now, a la Ramsey, and has some kind of mushroom pouf going on in the back. Lots of attitude; he kept apart from the group and disappeared when we got to Abeline's. I did not, thank God, get to hear his nasal, grating voice.
Sutton: Ah, Slutton. The hair? Still rooster-y. The body? Compact, but not too teeny. He's about five seven or five eight. Eyes -- large, hazel. He looks just like he did on television, but this night he kept his shirt on and was more drunk. A lot more.
Ramsey: Totally adorable. Wearing jeans, a triple-studded p-rock belt (the punkest of all belts, worn low on the hips), and a blue t-shirt. Stripy hair, sleepy eyes, about six two, a sense of humor...yowza. Not bad. Not bad at all. Too bad he's taken.
Beastie: Not present. Whew.
After the fauxCreed band finished up, a pretty good Black Crowes-ish band called Silvertide started up. The singer and guitarist had great stage presence, and even though they're still in high school, have a song about weed! They won me over totally. Instantly I made the singer guy my new Underage Boyfriend (sorry, Tobey Maguire!) and started thinking of what color to paint the nursery. Ramsey told me to go for it, but since I wasn't holding and I think their mom and dad were there, I restrained myself. Johnny the manager called them "a slam dunk" and if anyone from VH-1 is reading this, they are a very tight five-piece. Sign them up for season two! They aren't clown-core, but they're good.
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So, we're hanging out, trying to get drunk as possible, and some Rumpleminze promoter-babes come in. Free shots, thank the Lord. We achieved drunkenness. Ramsey won me over some more by saying he's into the Supersuckers, who totally rock. Silvertide took a break, and there was some chitchat about SOLEILMOONFRYE playing a few songs. I began to get nervous. None of the band seemed into it, and Apey actually left the club. When I asked what was up, no one would tell me the deal. Sitting to Johnny the manager and Bob, I overheard them saying how disappointed they were in AP, and talking about the possibility of cutting him loose after their tour wraps in October. But, you know, it's the original line-up that everyone wants to see. Silvertide took the stage again, and at the urging of Sutton, said that "VH-1's SOULCRACKER would not be playing because their bass player is a pussy." Then everyone in the club was encouraged to yell, "AP is a pussy!" Everyone did. Ramsey said to me that they usually don't drink before they play, but hey. It would have been a perfect moment to play the national anthem, of which they have a good version worked out. But noooo. AP is a pussy.
Then I parked it at the bar between Sutton and the sound guy, where we talked about the terrorist disaster and shared our theories. I finally asked the sound guy and Sutton what they would do if their country needed them to make a contribution. Sutton said, "I wouldn't fight. I wouldn't fight." I said, "Okay, that's what you wouldn't do. What would you do?" Silence. The gears inside his head ground slowly to a halt. I offered, "You could entertain the hypothetical troops," and he said, "Yeah. I'd entertain." Then he dropped his head onto my shoulder, rolled his face sideways, and started nibbling on my arm. He nibbled me like an ear of corn. If there had been butter and salt nearby, I might have feared for my life. I excused myself to get my purse and sweater, and when I returned Sutton tried to slip his arm around me. Now, I'm no member of MBTV's Pimp-Slappin' Posse. I wasn't even tempted to give Sutton a hard time. When guys are that drunk and have that much rooster hair, and they totally lost a stupid rock-and-roll game show even though they tried their hardest, you just can't hate them. Well, if it were Beastie, I might have asked him what the fuck he was thinking. But then again, I wouldn't be talking to Beastie. Besides, it was so last call.
Because we were in Philly, and because Johnny the manager knows what is up, he suggested we go get cheesesteaks in South Philly. We piled into two cabs and made it there in moments. Bob said he was going to let Sutton order a steak, then steal it and eat it. "He won't even know what happened." Classic Bob. Sutton peed behind an SUV, then stumbled up to Geno's and got himself a cheesesteak. Ramsey and Julie and I abstained. Bob hovered by Sutton, waiting for him to stop chewing or lose interest, and it just didn't happen. As Sutton weaved towards the fixings bar, looking elfin in his long army shorts (short army pants? I never can tell) and scuffed combat boots, I said, "Poor Sutton." Bob was incredulous. "Poor Sutton? Poor Sutton!?" The sound guy made a hilarious play for a blonde in a car, who continued to eat her cheese fries disdainfully and shot him down. Ouch! But hey, all in a night's work for a band on the road.
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And so I left them, drunk, chowing down, and, in the case of the sound guy, getting shot down. I walked home along 9th Street, where Rocky ran and vegetables are hawked by vendors. Philly, SOULCRACKER will be back. Will you be ready? I mean, "care"?
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