Archive for the Victor Krummenacher Category

#31 Brides of Neptune-Cracker. Did the ferry sink? Is this the underworld? Or is it just another gig in Victoria BC.

Posted in Camper Van Beethoven, Cracker, Sparklehorse, Victor Krummenacher with tags on August 17, 2010 by davidclowery

 

01 Brides of Neptune
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In summer of 2009, Cracker was doing a Northwest run with our sister band McCabe and Mrs Miller (Victor krummenacher). It was 4th of July Weekend. A terrible time to play anywhere in the US except right before a fireworks display. So as we weren’t booked at any fireworks displays our agent sent us up in to Canada for the Weekend.
It had been at least 13 years since I’d been to Victoria with Cracker or Camper Van Beethoven. So we didn’t really know what to expect. Victoria (which is confusingly on Vancouver Island and Vancouver City is not) can be an insular place. It’s a college town/government town. It’s only reachable by ferry and aside from  provincial government types and college students, the only visitors it gets are those peculiar weird tourists that visit the islands of washington.

The Northern part of the island is also very wild still. Parts of it can be very Northern Exposure. Our promoter was from somewhere up north on the island. It may or may not be a giant hydroponic pot growing operation.  Which is especially weird cause there is seems to be some kind of police training centre on the island as well.

But when you are downtown in Victoria,  it’s a fairly cosmopolitan place. which by nortwestern or Cascadia standards that means there are some Fluevogs mixed in with the Birkenstocks.  The couple times we played there when i was in Camper Van Beethoven it reminded us favorably of 1980′s Santa Cruz.

But back to our story. The ride on the ferry from the mainland was spectacular.  We all sat out on the deck took pictures of each other , it was hot by BC standards,  75,  and i realized i probably should be wearing sunscreen.  How do people get to live in this part of the world?  They must have done something very good in a past life: Pushed a pram of quadruplets out of the path of an oncoming bus.  damn.  Victor Krummenacher and I reminisced about doing this same trip with The Catheads in 1986 or 1987.  Mark Zanadreas and I were so hungover we quickly became seasick and ended up vomiting over the railings in tandem.  Much to the horror of our Canadian hosts.  We were young so i’m sure by 7:00pm we felt completely normal.

But back to our story. When we arrived at the venue  in Victoria July 4th 2009 we were a little surprised. It wasn’t really in the quaint victorian downtown but on the outskirts of town.  It was a pretty weird place. Just a gigantic cinderblock box.  It was a combination venue,  hotel, and liquor store on the ground floor. Around back in the basement it also had a strip club and a chinese restaurant.  We were pretty early so we all checked into our rooms.  About and hour after we got to the hotel,  the local promoter called jason our tour manager.

“I just drove down the Island, hey do you mind if i come to your room and take a shower”

And then it started to get weird.  There was also some sort of event center in the hotel and it appeared to be preparation for a wedding.  And not just any wedding.

I’ve always marveled at how multi-cultural is Canada.  Toronto Ottowa and Montreal are of course famous for this.  But the west also has it’s own pan-commonwealth queens dominion polyculture.  I can not think of any proper way to say this that is politically correct.  It appeared that preparations were underway for an Indian-dot/Indian-feather wedding.  Or at least the two largest pluralities at the wedding appeared to come from these two subsets of Canadians.  It was like a Fellini movie, paper mache elephants, people painted blue , heavily embroidered vests and many variations on the bear claw pendent.  Cowboy boots and Saris.

hmm interesting.

 

 

And when we went into the club it appeared to have a model of the Parthenon for a stage except there were multiple television sets in the walls between the columns.  The overall effect was that of a Russian mobster nightclub in Azerbaijan.  That night as we began to play to the handful of people who had shown up, I noticed at the door that one of the doorman had some kind of bulldog or pitbull mix on a leash.

It was then that the devastating reality sunk in. We were in the underworld.  While crossing the Strait of Georgia clearly the ferry had sunk and we had all drowned. For some bizarre reason in my minds eye i briefly saw us being accidentally torpedoed by the USS Jimmy Carter (SSN-23). ( I’d recently seen a clip of it being launched or something.) And now like the crew in the song Brides of Neptune we had drowned but did not realize that we were dead.

The dog at the door? Well that was Cerberus.  Greek underworld. Remember the greek Parthenon behind us?  Also it seemed that the greek underworld shared space with the Indian-dot afterlife, as i was sure that at some point i’d seen Shiva walking around the hotel.  It wasn’t a wedding after all!

And now for eternity we would be playing this nightclub every night. Well nearly every night. When Shiva needed more room for a special holiday or  if there was a sudden influx of visitors due to a  disaster up  on the Indian subcontinent: Move over greek underworld!  And Hades would summon the ferry.  And that ferry would take us to the usual Russian-Azerbaijani nightclub only this time in Elysium, the Asphodel Meadows or  Tartarus.

 

And the reason the ferry had sunk was all my fault.  I had not remembered to play the song Brides of Neptune in Vancouver and Vancouver is a port city.   This was a superstition that I had  developed. Or maybe it was more like an OCD tic: Touch the doorknob twice with my left hand before opening it with my right or there will be a axe murderer in my hotel room when I open the door.  That’s more of a tic right?

My superstition went something like this. If we don’t play Brides of Neptune in a port city, then one of the ships that leaves the next day will sink, or a sailor will drown.  I developed this superstition as Johnny,  and I stood in front of the Seafarers Memorial in Homer Alaska sometime in 2001 or 2002.  I felt so stupid.  Some showbiz know-it-all writing about sailors lost at sea. There were over 100 names on the bricks and the population of Homer AK at that point was about 5,000.  What did i know about the sea? and the lost seafarers.

Nothing except that i seem to mention the sea and sailors a lot in my songs.  And the english side of my family were mostly sailors.  And my grandfather was torpedoed either 2 or 3 times in WWII.  I suppose that is the reason i mention sailors and the sea so often:

I want everything

Saint Cajetan

Take me down to the infirmary

Dr. Bernice

Minotaur

Be my love

there must be more right?

I also have the sneaking suspicion that i was a sailor in a past life and drowned at sea.

Alas the sea is also some kind of allegory for me.  A great and immense sadness. The place where all things are eventually lost.  We crawled from the sea in the distant past.  But it waits for us in the quick and near future.  And now I’ve mixed Hades with Poseidon. When you die you become a Bride of Neptune.  Neptune is just the Roman name for Poseidon.

But i can’t help thinking of the sea as the immense sadness when i hear this song.  For this is one of the songs that i worked up with Mark Linkous.  This is a song that he plucked from a pile of small unfinished ideas i kept on cassette tapes.  each titled something like “work tape oct 1997″.  These were snippets of song about 30 seconds to 3 minutes long. I’d record them onto an old cassette recorder I always kept handy.  We were listening in the basement of my studio when we came across this one.  ” I like that one, let’s make that a song”.  So we did.  The only words i had were “brides of neptune cross the waters bring us your sons and bring us your daughter”.  We created the music first and then eventually the story came to me.  And you can totally tell that this is Mark Linkous playing the bubbling gurgling keys and guitars.  It’s his signature sound.

 

I think of the sea as this immense sadness in this song because  March 8th 2010 Mark shot himself in the heart.  He had an immense sea of sadness in his soul.

I don’t have that. That darkness. I understand it mind you.  But it isn’t me. We are all lost at sea, but it’s not a tragedy.  It’s a black comedy. A giant clown cemetery with The Catheads just too damn hungover to dance on our clown graves.  While i don’t exactly dance around the seafarers memorial in the video,  I talk to the lost and dead seafarers.  I send them on a inscrutable voyage with monkeys and pot head mermaids.  I send the dead out with a mysterious cargo that they can never get near because it’s “guarded by monkeys”  (see post  #3 guarded by monkeys).  But they aren’t really sad.  They are lost but not sad.  Understand the distinction?

In the US and many other navies there is an ancient traditon known as The Line Crossing Ceremony. It is a complex ritual in which the sailors (regardless of rank) who have crossed the equator before (shellbacks),  ritually abuse and mistreat the sailors who have not crossed the equator before (pollywogs).  The simple chorus of Brides of Neptune came to me after my ex-brother in law who was a young US navy officer related to me his ordeal during his first crossing of the Equator.  It is too complex to explain here. But your best hope is that you become a Bride of Neptune.

Finally we come to the Horse and Cow.  I am not far from the Horse and Cow Bremerton WA as i write this.  The Horse and Cow is a bar frequented by Submariners. Neptune is often portrayed followed by a Horse and Cow.  In superstition sailors would sometimes tattoo a horse and cow on each ankle.  So they wouldn’t be sunk at sea.  In WWII this was especially common.  The fear was very high that they would be sunk by a submarine.  Somehow the submariners adopted the Horse and Cow as their symbol.  Both of the related  artists i have mentioned in this post,  Sparklehorse and the Catheads  worked Submarine into their album titles.  Both albums I produced.

Also I distinctly remember Mark Linkous telling me that the spanish flotillas would throw there horses and livestock overboard if they thought they were in danger of sinking.  And consequently spanish sailors believed the sea to be haunted by ghost horses. (see reference in the song Be My Love)  I’ve googled this but to no avail.

However I am superstitious. A clear indication I must have been a sailor in a past life.  I am going out now to get a horse and cow tattooed on each ankle.

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[INTRO:]
[C] [G] [C] [G]

[C] She says this is my movie, [G] [Gmaj7] [Em] [Em7]
[C] so you’ll do what i tell you. [G] [Gmaj7] [Em] [Em7]
[C] There’s a mixup in Bali - [G] [Gmaj7] [Em] [Em7]
[C] you get chased by a monkey. [G] [Gmaj7] [Em]

CHORUS
[D] Brides of Nep-[Em]-tune cross the wa-[C]-ter,
bring us your [G] sons and bring us your daughters.
I won’t forsake [Em] thee deep in the blue [C] sea;
I’ll take you home. [G]

[C] I tried dating a mermaid; [G]
[C] she buys pot from the first mate. [G] [Gmaj7] [Em] [Em7]
[C] That mysterious cargo [G] [Gmaj7] [Em] [Em7]
[C] is still guarded by monkeys. [G] [Gmaj7] [Em]

Then
REPEAT CHORUS x2

[INSTRUMENTAL SECTION: (Chords as intro)]

REPEAT CHORUS x2

Brides of nep-[Em]-tune [Cm]
Brides of Nep-[G]-tune [Gmaj7]
[REPEAT CHORD SEQUENCE THROUGH ENDING]
Brides of Neptune
Guarded by monkeys

#22 I Ride My Bike-Cracker. The Inland Empire: A Love Story.

Posted in Camper Van Beethoven, Cracker, Johnny HIckman, Victor Krummenacher with tags , , , , , , on August 6, 2010 by davidclowery

 

I Ride My bike- Cracker

 

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Blatant Plug:   Don’t forget to buy your Cracker/Camper Van Beethoven Campout Tickets. Only those that by advance tickets get the cool laminate.  Sept 10th and 11th Pioneertown California in the fabulous Joshua Tree region of the Inland Empire.  Cracker, Camper Van Beethoven, Gram Rabbit, The Bellrays,  Miss Derringer, J Roddy Walston and the Business, McCabe and Mrs Miller, Ashley Raines, The Dangers, Jonathan Segel, Johnny Hickman,  The Dangers  and more.

Buy tickets here.

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In early 1992 shortly before  we released the first Cracker record we went back to the Inland Empire to rehearse.  Five of the key members of Camper Van Beethoven and Cracker were from the Inland Empire. John Hickman, Victor Krummenacher, Chris Molla, Davey Faragher and myself. In a way it’s the spiritual home of both bands. It was where we first learned to play  where we started our first bands and it was where most of our families still lived.

The Inland Empire? Sounds exotic. Not really.  I briefly described it in an earlier post. But let me go into a little more detail.

First the Inland Empire of California  consists of the far eastern exurbs of Los Angeles, much of the Mojave Desert, the San Bernardino Mountains and the Coachella Valley.  But what you really need to know is that the Inland Empire is to Los Angeles what New Jersey is to Manhattan.  And it is held in the same contempt.  The Inland Empire is not  “The Valley” as in valley girls.  The Valley is relatively affluent and sophisticated compared to the Inland Empire.  From here on out we refer to this area as the locals do, it’s “The IE.”

 

The IE starts as you enter the San Bernardino valley. After the long hill on I-10 past Covina. The San Bernardino valley finished a poor third when the giant postwar migration to California began.  The suburbs of the San Fernaando valley and the San Gabriel valley were preferred choices of eastern immigrants. They were also more expensive.  The San Bernardino Valley was dry semi-desert and hot as hades in the summertime.  Bucolic ranches, vineyards and citrus groves yes, but alongside industrial decay, steel mills, chemical plants, and the general detritus that surrounds all military installations.  There were at least 7 military bases there when I was growing up in the early 70’s.  So we got the poorer immigrants,  the less affluent,  a lot of southerners,  and folks fleeing the driest coldest parts of the great plains.

You continue east on I-10 and around Colton you begin to hit the barrios, and you feel that you are now in The Borderland.  That area that is neither the US nor Mexico. It covers a large areas of the southwest. Mostly along the border but it is not contiguous.  So here even 100 miles north of the border there are pockets of The Borderland. (Borderlands is a real term used in Geopolitical theory i didn’t make it up)

 


Continue further  east on I-10 and just as you go up into the San Jacinto pass you realize you have definitely left Los Angeles and are in The West. You might as well be in West Texas.  The buttes, the steeply cut dry creekbeds, the chaparral, the brushy hillsides with horses and cows scattered in the distance. Same if you head north towards Las Vegas through the Cajon Pass.

 

 

This was a wonderfully weird place to grow up. It was a place in constant transition.  But more importantly balkanized.  One moment you were driving through an abandoned industrial site the next minute you would be in a beautiful orange grove.  Fragrant and like an Eden with running water in the stone lined irrigation ditches. The ditches themselves ancient. Dug hundreds of years ago by the Spanish missionaries and the Indians.

You would exit the gates of Norton Airforce base and immediatel pass the row of strip clubs and bawdy drinking establishments,  then old postwar cinderblock houses long in decay, now barrio and part of The Borderland, then suddenly more farmland ranchland and orchards.  Here and there gleaming pockets of McMansions.  They seemed to pop up overnight like mushrooms. The new residents seemed to always be peering warily over their fences at those of us who lived in the older decaying serttlements amongst the dying vines and orange trees.

 

Every once in a while a dying orchard would be bulldozed.  Every day as young teens we stood and watched. Eventually the area was flattened into the neat outlines of streets and houses.   The day the surveyors came and planted their flags was the moment for which we were waiting. For that evening after dark we would creep out of our neighborhoods and pull up the surveyors stakes.  We didn’t know why. Something told us those were OUR groves and the surveying stakes only brought those that peered warily over their fences at us.

Our older brothers were more devious and cunning.  They would carefully move the surveying stakes a foot or so.  Wrecking the squares and rectangles. Leaving behind subtle trapezoids.

We lived in places like Okieville,  Mentone,  Greenspot, Crafton and East Highlands.  The newcomers lived in developments like Rio Vista or Hacienda Heights.  They came from Los Angeles and Orange County.  We came from dull and poor towns in the Midwest and South.

There were constant booms and busts.  I remember at least four times my parents modest lower middle class neighborhood suddenly emptying out. The cul de sacs dotted with overgrown lawns and bank repossession signs.  In the late 70’s a new development up the road failed and entire cul de sacs were empty.  But it was nothing new. It’d been going on for centuries.

The Cahuilla and Serrano came and failed. The Spanish missionaries the Mexican ranchers came and failed. Then came the Mormons who settled this area, prospered  for a time and then suddenly abandoned this godforsaken place. Railroads came and failed.  The steel mills came and failed.  the defense companies came and then failed.  Even the military bases. But each wave left a few people behind. Generally the weakest and the misfits. And this created a strange patchwork, a balkanized country.

No one is from the IE.  Your family came here usually to escape something.  To erase the past and start anew.  To quote Joan Didion:

“Here is the last stop for all those who come from somewhere else. For all those who drifted away from the cold and the past and the old ways”

(Curiously that quote I just found is in a book of her essays titled “Slouching towards Bethlehem” also a quote from The Second Coming)

The weather here is brutal.  It’s not uncommon to have temperatures in the summer of 110 or 115 degrees.  In the fall and winter brutal and strangely warm Santa Ana winds whip down through the passes at 70 miles an hour.  It is a startling experience the first time it blasts you in the face.  From may through september the mountains lock in the smog and dust from Los Angeles.  The sky and the land are often grey and a horizon can’t often be distinguished. And then there are the terrifying wildfires.  They would often blacken the sky so it was like night in the middle of the day.  A snowstorm of ash would cover the cars and sidewalks.

Pretty gim right?  Not really it was a fun and diverse place to grow up.  We rode bikes on the empty roads and abandoned places. Skateboarded in abandoned pools and reservoirs.  We shot bb guns in the citrus groves or chased the wild peacocks through the chaparral. I kissed a Mexican girl under a backyard trellis’ of bougainvilleas climbing roses, another I met secretly at night along the eucalyptus windbreaks that demarcated the ancient settlements. Yes even the plants were immigrants, and balkanized.

And it seemed that a curiously high percentage of us played music. Sometimes at night from my bedroom I could hear two or three competing bands.  There was the Tex-Mex/Norteña (or Conjunto) band a block to the north.  A latin rock ensemble to the west and 2 doors down a Steely Dan knockoff.

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In an earlier post I mentinoned the blog Rock Prosopography 101.  One of the writers of that blog has a theory that there is an inverse relationship between the vitality of a music scene and property values. In other words cheaper towns and suburban areas produce more bands and musicians (as long as they don’t become outright ghetto).

In my experience this is very true.  For when we were young teenagers and we wanted to start playing electric guitars and drum sets, we would just set up in the garage, or the family room of some sprawling rancher and play.  If our family didn’t tolerate us, there was always some old barn, empty storefront or farmhouse that some kind adult would let us use.  As we got older and more serious we often rented little spaces.  They became our little clubhouses.  One was the unused office at the front of an industrial park $50 a month in 1980.  Another was the old waiting room at an unused train station.  I think we payed $75 dollars a month for that one 1982.  And then there was always the older brother or stoner friends that had the little farm cottages in one of the semi rural areas like Devore or San Timeteo Canyon. you could stage a full on PA and blast away like you were Led Zeppelin. Johnnys band actually rented and practiced in an old bar deep in the barrio in Riverside.  They also put on their own underground shows their and a lot of the time the drummer lived there.

When I went away to college in Santa Cruz I realized what a great advantage this had been for me.  I had many cool friends. I wanted to play music with some of them cause they had such advanced tastes.  But they were always much less experienced than I.  These folks had grown up in places like San Francisco, New York City or Boston.  They just hadn’t had their hands on the equipment very often.  So when the CVB guys came to Santa Cruz we were more experienced than our peers and this seemed to give us an advantage.  (Jonathan segel grew up in Davis in the central valley and had the same advantage we did).  I also get the sense that the IE produced a fair number of hollywood studio “cats”.  I mean just check the discography of two guys that went to my high school  John Jorgensen and Davey Faragher.

So looping all the way back to the beginning of the story.  Davey Faragher, Johnny Hickman,  Josef Peters and I decided that we would meet up before some Cracker tour and rehearse for a couple days in Redlands CA in the IE.  And this is the way we did it in the IE: We didn’t rent a rehearsal space. There weren’t any.  We just called around until Johnnys brothers found some friends who had a little house out in the old sheep pastures.  They were just your usual Southern California Heschers*.  Rockers of no real denomination.  Pot-heads, harmless ne’re do wells.  We could rehearse in their converted garage/ party room as long as their friends got to come over and party and listen.  Mind you these rehearsals were in the middle of the day.  We spent a day refreshing the songs from the album.  The second day we got into this trippy jam.  I mean it had a couple really good guitar riffs and chord progressions the kind that made a traditional punk song.  But then we kept trying to get it to explode into this freak out middle sections.  Punk rock riffage into a 1969 bad acid biker jam.  It wasn’t the window pane acid jam. It was the shitty stuff that came later. the stuff cut with speed.  Angrier. Post-Altamont.     And at some point we nailed it.  We walked outside into the bright December or January sunlight,   the grass was impossibly green. ( In the IE our grass is green in the winter).  A couple of the Hescher dudes followed us out “Dude that shit was trippy”.  Yeah it was.  It was the song I Ride My Bike.

And that’s the Inland Empire. And that’s the story of I Ride My Bike. Almost.  I forgot the most important part of the story.

 

In the IE we also rode motorcycles. Small on off road bikes.  Yamaha and Honda 250 four strokes. They were ubiquitous and everywhere.  It was part of the fabric of everyday life. There was nothing like riding one of these bikes through the narrow orchard roads late at night. Especially in the summer when the only cool air in the entire IE  was trapped in those groves.  It was liberating. Especially half buzzed.  That is what this song is about.  A simple incantation to take me back to this time.  “I ride my bike, I drive my car  take me back to you”  The rest of the song isn’t really intended to describe that place and time.  But  to just evokes the general feeling.  A feeling and an energy I associate with that place.

*Heschers are sort of surburban white trash but also rockers. Despite what urban dictionaries say I believe it was a slang word originated by a small group of punkers in the IE.  And i may be able to prove it.   It believe it to be a mispronunciation of our word “Hessian”but this is for another post.

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[INTRO & BREAK:]

[Em]-[F#m]-[G]-[D]
[Em]-[F#m]-[G]-[D]
[Em]-[F#m]-[G]-[D]
[Em]-[F#m]-[G]-[D][REPEAT BREAK]

VERSE 1:
[Em] And I [F#m] ride my [G] bike [D]
[Em] And I [F#m] drive my [G] car [D]
[Em] I drive it [F#m] all a-[G]-round just to [D] take me back to [Em] you [F#m]-[G]-[D]

VERSE2:
[Em] And I [F#m] comb my [G] hair [D]
[Em] And I [F#m] wear a [G] dress [D]
[Em] I wear it [F#m] all a-[G]-round just to [D] take me back to [Em] you

CHORUS:
I ride my [A] bike, [G] take me [D] back to [Em] you
I drive my [A] car, [G] take me [D] back to [Em] you
[Bm] I ride my [F#m] bike, [C] I drive my [G] car, [D] take me to [Em] you
[Bm] I ride my [F#m] bike, [C] I drive my [G] car, [D] take me to [Em] you

REPEAT BREAK

REPEAT VERSES 1 & 2

REPEAT CHORUS
[Bm] I ride my [F#m] bike, [C] I drive my [G] car, [D] take me to [Em] you

[MIDDLE SECTION:]
[Em(Em+6 and Em7 embellishments) throughout]
This is a story about a dog, a dog
When I ride my bike
And my hair is blowing straight back
I think of you wearing that brown mohair sweater
Soft mounds of breasts underneath
Or better yet one of those spindly aluminum lawn chairs
I’m putting sun tan lotion on your long legs
A-wearing a broad rim straw hat
Pair of Mickey mouse sunglasses
Looking just like lolita
Looking just like lolita
White sheets hanging on the line
White sheets blowing in the wind
A satellite dish pointed straight up at the heavens

[G]-[A]-[C]
[Em] A satellite dish pointing stright up at the [G] heavens, Isis![A] (Isis) [C] (Isis)

[Em] Isis! [G] Isis! [A] (Isis) [C] (Isis)
[Em] (Isis) [G] Isis! [A] Isis! [C] Isis!

[Em] Isis! [G] Isis! [A] Isis![C] Isis!
[Em] Oh yeah! (Isis) [G] arrrrrrrrrr
[G#]-[A]-[A#]-[B]-[C]-[C#]-[G]-[C#]-[Eb]-[E]-[Eb]-[C]-[Eb]-[E]-[(random sliding bar chords above 12th fret)][(FADES INTO:)]
[E]

[Bm] I ride my [F#m] bike, [C] I drive my [G] car, [D] take me back to [Em] you X4

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