Last Friday was an interesting day in the lives of brick mower, and the members of Brooklyn's garage-fucks, Savantes. It was K. Gogan's birthday. We had a show at The Charleston. NJ, and NY got blasted with our third or fourth major snowstorm of the year. We weren't quitten though. The show was to go on.
We drove into Brooklyn in around 7:30 with our friend Kelli, guitar-slinger for Savantes in the back. Getting off the BQE, our car slammed into a pot-hole the size of a Hakeem Olajuwon in a fetal position (p.s., he's an old basketball player. DUNK). Needless to say, we made it to The Charleson, but had a flat front tire.
We loaded in our gear, sneakers water-logged, spirits cracking slowly in the cold. The neighborhood down-and-outs, somehow only seeming to focus on our fresh faces, began requesting money and "free tunes." Every time I carry a drum the common citizen feels it's their duty to yell at me or request something ridiculous. Yeah, how the fuck can I play "Freebird" in the middle of a sidewalk with just a floor-tom? If I could do that, I'd probably been in Vegas instead of shivering in the middle of Williamsburg.
We opened the show, then Savantes played. Had fun. Lost my voice, while developing a nice fever. Between 2 and 7 people shuffled in and out for our sets. After the show, I followed our fill-in drummer, and full-time Savante, Dave to a gas station where I put the spare donut on the car, all while watching a poor street cat eat piles of snow, and getting advice about being the Air Force and being a musician from a crazy Middle Eastern man.
We ventured on home, only to get to the Holland Tunnel. Suddenly, a horrid shredding noise erupted from the front of the car. The spare had gone flat, in the fucking tunnel. We made it into Jersey City, parked at a Hess station. I called trusty Triple A, who informed me that due to Jersey City regulations, I was considered at a "safe spot" and could not receive a tow. If I pulled my car into the street (or "unsafe" spot), they'd simply tow me back into the station. WTF to the max!
After waiting an hour and a half, we finally got picked up by a local tow truck. This over-worked, slyly racist truck driver took us back to Keansburg for a mere $400, while the ladies sat on each others laps. Wow, careful there fellas. Our driver told us stories of how a sex-toy truck flipped over on the parkway and he had to pick up dildos with the cops. He also regaled us with horrid tales of chicken trucks overturning, horse carriers breaking apart, and infants flying through the air and onto the Turnpike. Did we laugh or cry? A bit of both I believe. More so out of exhaustion.
Well, we finally got Kelli back to her home in New Brunswick where she bought us all falafel. And where were you in all of this? Huh?