I remember the African-American gentleman (bar-back?) lurking around the "dressing room" and always somewhere in the background doing who-knows-what. What was his name again?
I remember Mo behind the bar and her white-ish blonde bangs and warm, weathered smile.
I remember Sheamus, the big bearded guy at the door. Sometimes he seemed like a teddy bear, sometimes not.
I remember playing shows, then getting high (really high), laughing and watching other bands and drinking some more, all to come crashing down by the harsh sobering bright light of Cathy James' (booker/owner/mgr?) office upstairs while she explained why we only made $27.
"17 people, 10 guests, only 2 paid...". Her voice would start to sound like one long blurry word that meant nothing. My head was always in my dream. A place where reality didn't have much impact. If it did I would have quit then and there and not have gone on to see a couple fragments of that dream come true.
I remember getting home around 2:38am and feeling the room spin as I prayed I wouldn't get sick. My ears filled with constant high-pitched ringing.
My dad had opened a french restaurant in Allentown in my early 20's, the height of my Dobb's days, and I agreed, for some reason, to pick-up the baked goods from a baker in Center City and drive them to Allentown in time for the morning rush.
Comprehend this if you can:
I'm 20-something, I'd pass out by around 3am on Friday nights with cotton-mouth and that siren-like drone in my head from the amps and drums and have to wake up early (but almost always late of course), drive downtown from my parent's house in Plymouth Meeting (30 minutes from Philadelphia) pick up about 10 huge boxes of fresh-from-the-oven croissants, put them in his Subaru and drive them (over an hour past Plymouth Meeting) to Allentown.
On the way the following may or may not have happened at different times:
I'd pull over to "shut my eyes" for a "few minutes" only to wake up an hour or so later, mega-late to the restaurant. Hungry and hungover, I'd reach back while I drove to grab a croissant or 2. Or 3.
Or 5 and a half. I didn't know which kind i grabbed until I shoved it in my mouth, lovingly.
The car was filled with the undeniable intoxicating aroma of fresh cherry, apple and chocolate croissants.
Still warm.
My dad was furious with me. Furious. I was late and with only 75% of the merchandise.
I hear "J.C. Dobbs" and I smell it before I see it. It smelled like the 3rd chapter of a rock and roll biography. Mine. And I'm sure, many others.
Dobbs reminds me of whiskey. Too much whiskey, too many nights. It was fun (the drinking) but it ate up a lot of minutes and seconds I wouldn't mind back.
J.C. Dobbs didn't just close as I've just been told, it closed along time ago. It closed when Cathy left. It closed way before they added "legendary" to the name. Talk about "jumping the shark".
It closed when it still was J.C. Dobbs, the place everyone loved to hate and vice versa. But before it closed, it gave me and my many fellow bandmates over the years our "Cavern". It in fact was our "Cavern".
"And you know that can't be bad..."
Scot Sax
Post Script:
Top 5 memories:
1. Seeing and hearing a live band in a small club for the FIRST time when my dad brought me there as a 12 year- old. All jammed up together on that deep but small stage. My favorite kind.
2. Finally packing the place with Wanderlust, after years of playing to an empty to half-filled room.
(We got signed via that show to RCA Records)
3. Seeing Velvet Crush blast 9 million watts of rock and roll there one night, shortly before Wanderlust was formed.
4. Partying and hangin' with my bro and sister-in-law, my constants at all my gigs, in the dressing room.
5. Dennis Rambo, Joey Jones, Mark Getten, Jim Cavanaugh and Rob Bonfiglio
Monday, October 26, 2015
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Mime Kampf
I guess what I fear most is not so much death but having to pee right before. The thought of spending eternity not being able to get up and go to the bathroom is unthinkable.
Last week I met a mime who was who was really good with words.
Why don't you change careers? I asked him. He just made an overly sad, hopeless face back and shrugged.
I'd say I could read his mind but even in there, mime’s mime.
What made him so good with words was his use of them. Not using any makes him the best wordsmith I know. Plus, he's the only one I know that doesn't put his foot in his mouth. Unless of course that's what the gig calls for.
Like, do you pee as you die? Or just have to hold it in till you meet the God of your chosen faith and ask where the bathroom is?
I joined one of those ancestry sites last month and found out I have a great-great aunt that is holding a grudge with me. Turns out she told her cousin that if anyone on her side of the family marries into-well-I'm a little blurry on the rest but I seem to be the unborn child of her generation that she pre-resented.
Last week I met a mime who was who was really good with words.
Why don't you change careers? I asked him. He just made an overly sad, hopeless face back and shrugged.
I'd say I could read his mind but even in there, mime’s mime.
What made him so good with words was his use of them. Not using any makes him the best wordsmith I know. Plus, he's the only one I know that doesn't put his foot in his mouth. Unless of course that's what the gig calls for.
Like, do you pee as you die? Or just have to hold it in till you meet the God of your chosen faith and ask where the bathroom is?
I joined one of those ancestry sites last month and found out I have a great-great aunt that is holding a grudge with me. Turns out she told her cousin that if anyone on her side of the family marries into-well-I'm a little blurry on the rest but I seem to be the unborn child of her generation that she pre-resented.
Foodporn? Ok, let’s do this.
Start un-dressing and hopefully we’ll cumquat together.
I don't mind foodporn as long as it's two consenting adults doing the forking.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Some People Aren't Talking To Other People
You know it and I know it. You may be one of the people I'm not talking to. I may be one of the people someone isn't talking to that I don't know isn't talking to me. But for the most part all of us have someone we're not talking to.
That moment in time when we try and figure out if someone isn't talking to us is not an enjoyable one.
In some cases it is clear that not only is there a purposeful disconnect going on presently but for eternity as well. If the parties involved see no future cross-paths, by chance or by plan, they are saying in essence "I choose to never see you or speak to you forever and ever".
That is something that strikes me as about as intense as it gets. Maybe more.
And this is where the "box" comes into play. As in "thinking outside the box". But switching "thinking" with "living". To my eyes, some live in the box and some outside.
To "live in the box" is to live by methods and rules designed by people.
Note: we don't know these people.
To "live outside the box" is to break party lines and not abide by walls or guidelines at any given moment.
If you live outside the box you might say to yourself "I don't talk to that person but I think I'll call them". If you live inside the box it's "I don't talk to that person so i won't (or can't) call them".
There's certainly a lot more leg room living outside the box. Not a lot of wiggle room inside. But for some, the box provides lifelong sanity, even if it makes them miserable.
There are those people we don't talk to anymore that we simply realized it's for the better. Lives moved on, personalities changed, and there's just so much time in the day. That's neither in or outside the box. That's not a "I'm not talking to them" thing. Though sometimes we wonder.
If I was an insider of the box I'd end this with a clever summary like:
Inside or outside, we are all in this together.
But as an outsider I'll end with:
I'm hungry.
That moment in time when we try and figure out if someone isn't talking to us is not an enjoyable one.
In some cases it is clear that not only is there a purposeful disconnect going on presently but for eternity as well. If the parties involved see no future cross-paths, by chance or by plan, they are saying in essence "I choose to never see you or speak to you forever and ever".
That is something that strikes me as about as intense as it gets. Maybe more.
And this is where the "box" comes into play. As in "thinking outside the box". But switching "thinking" with "living". To my eyes, some live in the box and some outside.
To "live in the box" is to live by methods and rules designed by people.
Note: we don't know these people.
To "live outside the box" is to break party lines and not abide by walls or guidelines at any given moment.
If you live outside the box you might say to yourself "I don't talk to that person but I think I'll call them". If you live inside the box it's "I don't talk to that person so i won't (or can't) call them".
There's certainly a lot more leg room living outside the box. Not a lot of wiggle room inside. But for some, the box provides lifelong sanity, even if it makes them miserable.
There are those people we don't talk to anymore that we simply realized it's for the better. Lives moved on, personalities changed, and there's just so much time in the day. That's neither in or outside the box. That's not a "I'm not talking to them" thing. Though sometimes we wonder.
If I was an insider of the box I'd end this with a clever summary like:
Inside or outside, we are all in this together.
But as an outsider I'll end with:
I'm hungry.
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