A league of their own

HO-HUM , spring is almost here, the grass is ris, I wonder when this year's Coachwhips recording is. Another year, another lash of the 'Whip. Days between stations – thuddingly dull rock station one and thuggishly monotonous slow-jams station two – are spent listening to the Giants' exhibition game, versus the Chicago Cubs.

So addled was I, daydreaming about some imagined Leisure Town in the Sunbelt and sansabelt trousers (What am I talking about?! I've never before yearned to golf or sunbathe in my life – though this rainy winter might make me a hot-weather fiend yet), shuffling through recent CDs, when I noticed the title of the Coachwhips' latest hecka-rockin' Narnack CD, Bangers vs. Fuckers. Why was that so familiar? Then it hit me like a rock-hard SAM bat. That was the phrase bandied about all last summer among certain music writers, musicians, scenesters, and ordinary civilians. Round that time, Bay Guardian contributor Mike McGuirk launched his own amateur North Atlantic-Mission Baseball League and Association – shelling out for gear, doing the stats, sweating the organizational stuff, paying the fees, everything – and then enlisted folks who never hit a screwball in their life (just downed screwdrivers at Doc's Clock) in a series of games that would change them forever. Cue music (Touched by an Angel crossed with Total Shutdown?). Cut to scenes of foul balls, foul mouths, and oh-so-foul compound fractures in assorted city ballparks. Qualifications? Skill? We don't need no stinking skills! Just the willingness to bang yourself up real good – alongside the Coachwhips' John Dwyer, Freedom From label dude Matthew St. Germain, E-Zee Tiger, Bunnyphonic, and members of Caesura and Double Dutchess – as a part of the Treat Street Fingerbangers or the Folsom Street Fingerfuckers. Bangers vs. Fuckers – that phrase was pounded into the brain as they played each other again and again till they were almost played out. And hence, the CD title: a tribute from Dwyer to the real Coach. That was the summer when sports, fresh air, and healthy competition overshadowed music, late nights, and hard living. Maybe it still does.

Funny then when I later heard a slightly murky, mysterious story about the original cover idea – a photo of the Bangers and Fuckers teams – that didn't come to pass because of technical difficulties and camera malfunctions, says photog and Coachwhips' Alaska tour honcho Virgil Porter over a steaming, sludgy, hot Dead Meadow set last week. Never mind! Because I love the album cover that was used instead. Oh yeah, the music is faboo. It's my favorite Coachwhips recording thus far, rock-unsteady yet surefooted, the vrooming guitar catching on the bracingly bang-up rhythm section. At times that rhythm section amounts to the entire band – sliding, together, toward some uncertain, utterly noise-drenched future. This much I know.

What I'm less certain of is this subconscious Vulcan mind meld going on betwixt me and whoever came up with the Bangers vs. Fuckers art. The cover photo of a cute little black lamb (read: black sheep) "kissing" a noble, blue-eyed white canine (read: wolf) is some sort of weird fun-house mirror image of the one – yeah, you heard right, one – issue of the 1994 zine I published long before I hoodwinked others into doing the hard work of publishing for me. The cover was a dark, grainy photo of two tattered toy kittens "kissing" as a tiny Godzilla robot toy looked on. It was called I Scare Myself, and, no, it wasn't a Dan Hicks Appreciation Society xerox-and-staple dealie. My pals and I just happened to use that phase spontaneously on a regular basis. What can I say? We were scary.

The similarity between the two photos – occurring maybe a decade apart – is scary too. Why do these things happen in twos? Why isn't two the number of the beast? We're 2-for-2 in 2004, and you don't need to be a numerologist to look at that equation and feel the fur stand up on the back of your neck. All we can do is take comfort in the differences, push ourselves away from the Ouija board, and turn toward the light (a.k.a. the ninth inning). Friends making zines, playing on baseball teams, the wacky doodles that bedeck the Coachwhips CD – doesn't it all add up to, dare we say, community? After all, I've grown, you've grown, we've all put on weight, gained knowledge and experience and gut, and lost the innocence and eyesight and gray matter. Maybe we've even evolved a little along the way. So quit bickering, jettison the envy, and embrace Bangers vs. Fuckers' symbolism of interracial, interspecies makeout sessions. We know we're all for that.

Not too late Casting my mind back a few months, I remembered to check in with Terrance Alan, San Francisco Late Night Coalition organizer and president of the city's Entertainment Commission, about the resolution to develop legislation that could extend last call for alcohol in bars, restaurants, and nightclubs. Assembly Bill 5433 was introduced Feb. 19 in the state assembly.... It's not too late to change last call, and I hope it's not too late to find the gear belonging to the raging Swedes in the Demons. The Gearhead Records band had the misfortune of having their equipment, merch, and personal stuff stolen from their van, which was parked in front of the label's office. Contact Gearhead to help recover the goods; Club D-tention, which happens Thursdays at Cherry Bar and Lounge, did what it could with a give-what-you-can benefit March 4.

Magic man Magic just happens – Captain Beefheart's Magic Band guitarist Moris Tepper materializes at the Hemlock Tavern for a last-minute show March 16 promising surprise special guests.... Hemlock's latest surprise happened on Valentine's Day when Blue Plate owner Cory O. proposed to Dynasty and Neung Phak vocalist Diana Hayes right smack in the middle of her Cool Nites set, club booker Tony Bedard reports. He e-mails they've been an item for five years and never spent candy-and-a-dinner day together because it's the busiest night of the year in the restaurant biz. The intrepid fella got done up in a pink tux, brought his entire family, went onstage to introduce the "Never Ending Story" encore, and then, according to Bedard, "he dropped to one knee, busted out the rock, and popped the question. Then champagne bottles started popping and everything got even more insane than they had been all night." Your Blue Plate dish, m'am. You gotta love love.

Pass the tip jar round the left-hand side.