The Litter Box

I DISTINCTLY REMEMBER exactly when the wave of indifference came crashing over me. –The plane was cruising at something like 30,000 feet in a northwest direction somewhere between Phoenix and San Francisco, we had just received our complimentary sodas, and I was listening to the new Riverboat Gamblers disc, Something to Crow About (Gearhead).

I felt this crushing swell of apathy that was distinctly cold and markedly physical in its come-on. It felt something like getting a face full of seltzer Three Stooges-style and taking a sharp shot to the nut sack.

At first I just figured the jolt was a combination of lack of sleep, the unique stress that comes from flying out of Boston's Logan Airport (unquestionably the only serious contender for the Single Worst-Run Business Establishment in the History of the Civilized Western World), and the fact that I had enjoyed a mere two bags of mini pretzels for breakfast/lunch during my daylong partnership with American West Airlines. But after a quick face wash in the lavatory, I returned to my seat, slipped on my headphones for another stab at Denton, Texas's new punk rock saviors, and discovered that I couldn't give a shit about music anymore.

By the time I collected my baggage at SFO, I'd given the Gamblers disc to a cool-looking kid who was visiting the Bay Area for a week. Later on the shuttle bus I left the disc player next to a little girl. Then I threw up behind my car, paid the ridiculous long-term parking bill, and returned to my apartment to get wildly drunk with a bartender friend. Music was dead. Fuck you, music.

To say this revelation was some thunderbolt of the life-altering variety would be inaccurate. Granted, the first surge of nothingness that swept down on the old brainpan was as intense and pure and real as any flu symptom I've ever had, but the fact of the matter is the seeds for the notion had been planted nearly two weeks beforehand. That is, when the news that three-quarters of the Exploding Hearts had perished in a van wreck came down from Portland, Ore. That was the Sunday afternoon when listening to music, always the great healer in times of trouble, became an unsettling chore that required more faking-it than the efforts of Schwarzenegger camp aids to add some political substance to his latest silly vanity project.

As a result, the new Dirtbombs' advance, rumored to be better than their last glorious slab of an album, still lay in cellophane wrap. I couldn't get past the fact that the Hearts' Guitar Romantic was also a magnificent little gem and that it would end up being their one and only contribution to the world. When a pal slipped me the rerelease of Simply Saucer's up-till-now-impossible-to-find Cyborgs Revisited, all I could think about was how old everyone in that band must be now, and how old I was getting, and how young the Exploding Hearts were when everything went completely wrong. When the SLA, longtime darlings of the Litter Box, announced they'd finally been signed to a label in Australia, I greeted it with the enthusiasm one generally reserves for proctologist appointments and visiting aunts. Seeing bands play live became a joyless effort, showing up at Thee Parkside to work an event became an ugly reminder of their last gig, and writing about rock 'n' roll seemed next to impossible, given that the last thing I was wont to do was to reflect on how sour everything seemed to sound these days. By the time the Exploding Hearts benefit show rolled around Aug. 18, things had gotten so out of hand from a psychic standpoint that yours truly was ready to be tied down, shot up, and delivered to the nearest padded rumpus room for an extended period of round-the-clock consults with a team of specialists.

So imagine my astonishment when something like 300 people showed up on a weeknight to help raise money for the families of the deceased. Not only that, the families of the deceased showed up and made a point of being seen. There was a lot of laughter and a fair share of tears, and every single band ripped it up as hard as they ever have before, turning the evening into one giant catharsis. Up to that point, it had never occurred to me that so many others might have been feeling what I was feeling, albeit in a far less psychotic way. After witnessing the benefit show, it's obvious that a lot of Bay Area people lost a little piece of their heart up on that horrible stretch of I-5 last month, but it's OK, because we all got something back with one communal gesture. We can move forward with the knowledge that we've got each other and that there are an awful lot of wonderful people that make up this music scene. And that is the Exploding Hearts' gift back to us.

Tonight I'm writing an e-mail to the Sermon explaining why, after months of trying to help them find a replacement bass player, they're actually better without one. Then I have an Australian garage band compilation to sink my teeth into. From what little I've heard of it, it's gonna be a humdinger.

P.S. Oh yeah, I almost forgot: Long live rock 'n' roll!