February 26 2003

The Litter Box

THERE WAS A time when I would take the train into Boston on a regular basis in an effort to score records. These trips were almost always full-scale adventures, as my horrible sense of direction was topped only by my refusal to admit I was hopelessly lost. But after suffering would come triumph. I would find the store and jubilantly clutch a copy of the Nervous Eaters' "Talk to Loretta" in my hands, though soon I would once again feel the familiar apprehension building: I had no clue how to find my way back to the train. And so it would go.

One day, while milling around what might have been the Harvard Square T station in an attempt to return west to the old homestead, I came across a minor miracle calling itself Mr. Airplane Man. Two young ladies were set up outside on the sidewalk. The guitarist was playing a shitty knockoff (maybe a Kay or a Silvertone hollow body) through a battery-powered amp, while the drummer was knocking the snot out of a plastic bucket. Most folks tossed in change or maybe even some paper money as they passed by. But a handful of folks stopped and stared as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing – I know, because I was struck dumb on the spot. The guitarist was reeling off blistering slide riffs, and the gal behind the bucket kept a steady beat that intensified the mood. The vibe was so pure and primal that it was almost overwhelming. Looking back on the scene five years later, I still don't have words to describe it. I like to think it was something like what happened when folks saw Robert Johnson or the Stooges for the first time. They knew they were just lucky to be there to bear witness.

Mr. Airplane Man ended up becoming quite the buzz. Mark Sandman thought enough of the group to ask them to open for Morphine, and he engineered some tracks on their first self-released album. They even managed to twist the ear of one of Boston's biggest rock writers, who signed on as their manager. He, too, had seen them play on the T platform and was convinced the spirit of Howlin' Wolf was being channeled through two skinny white girls. He got them a bunch of good gigs, made sure they got great press, and tried his best to put them on the map. I couldn't kick about it, because during the summer of 1999, they were without a doubt the best band on the East Coast and maybe even in the world.

A funny thing happened right about then. The girls with the direct line to the Delta decided things were going too fast. They shit-canned their manager (the guy who knew the blues better than anyone else), came off the road, and went back to their roots. The gigs still came, but the buzz went away. Meanwhile the ladies started hanging around with a fantastic garage band called the Lyres – a great move for almost any band on the planet, but not for them, because somehow, somewhere along the line, they lost their rough edges. The airplane women got wiser, but they also got tame, and nothing – Mr. Airplane Man, music on the T platform, or me – would ever be the same. They released an album, Red Lite, on Sympathy for the Record Industry in 2002, and then another, Moanin', late last year. Both are just fine in the scheme of things, but instead of being hailed as saviors, Mr. Airplane Man have to settle for reviews with references to the White Stripes and the Black Keys. Once upon a time this would have been an insult.

The girls play their first San Francisco date this Friday at the Hemlock Tavern, and I will be there – they are still that good. Nevertheless, if there's anything more frustrating than having a band disappoint you, it's being able to pinpoint the moment when things went wrong.

Mr. Airplane Man play Fri/28, 10 p.m., Hemlock Tavern, 1131 Polk, S.F. $7. (415) 923-0923.