Grey Anne: Winding Down in SF (San Francisco, CA)-- Local Cut

Grey Anne: Winding Down in SF (San Francisco, CA)

July 7th, 2009 [7:40PM] Posted by: Grey Anne | 0 COMMENTS

Day 7—SF

Gator & Pigeon

I choose my friends in ones and twos—I don’t amass them very fast. But there are four people I need to visit in San Francisco. There’s Sylvan the magazine writer, Ed the Sims programmer, his wife Corrine, and Lindy, my former bandmate.

Our two days in San Francisco will be a logistical meetup feat.

Stephanie also has a buddy she needs to see, and we’re all staying, once again, with our Men’s Health homie, Zain. He repeatedly reminds us that we’re leaving too soon—there’s a pool party on the weekend.

Kimo’s is going to be our last show together, with our three acts plus two local bands. I looked the place up on the internet; it’s red-lit and swank-looking. All along the road here, people have seemed to know the name.

“Ooh, where ya playin’ in San Francisco?”

“Kimo’s.”

“Okay, yeah. I think I’ve heard of that,” they say.

My hopes are high.

We’ve whiled away our afternoon shopping and exploring. I went to Amoeba Records and read a bunch of the staff reviews that they stick on the discs. They think Scarlett Johansson is being given short shrift, while Zoe Deschanel is being over-hyped. They think Morrissey is as awesome as ever. I’m sure they’re right: Morrissey, in his perpetual glorious sorrow, is beyond external reproof.

Stephanie and I went to a Mexican candle store with a life-sized John the Baptist statue. There were rosaries on its neck and offerings at its feet, including dried foodstuffs, and a half-smoked Cuban cigar. So in exchange for your prayers of redemption, you offer John the Baptist…not the WHOLE cigar…but…a toke?

Stephanie spoke some of her perfect Mexican Spanish to the lady who ran the shop. I don’t think she had real questions, she just relishes the element of surprise.

When I shopped on my own, I found a pair of:

~white
~vintage
~alligator
~zip-up short-boots!!

Holy John The Baptist. But they were too big. I will spend the remainder of the trip hounding Kaz to try them.

I met Ed and Corrine for Indian food. Corrine was poppingly pregnant; the food was okay, and to our amusement, the restaurant was invaded by a wayward pigeon. Pigeon flapping. Staff flapping. A showdown.

But back at the venue, nothing was happening. We arrived, and loaded in, and started setting up, but that made three of us. No action from the other bands, and no word. Stephanie, intermittently on the scene. There were two sound guys, and they seemed happy to help, so I just busied myself with the gear side of our affairs.

The Sound of One Band Clapping…

I’ve been wearing the pants lately—literally. You know how I said I was packing dresses, and how I love to overdress for shows? Well, apparently not anymore. Sometimes it’s easier to win over strangers, in pants. I don’t know why. Masculinity = credibility? I hate to think this, but I’m suspicious. Anyway, I’m wearing great houndstooth trousers today, so now everybody will have to trust my judgment. After we’re all set up and we’ve tested everything, the soundguys are like, “Where’s everybody else?”

Wedunno.

We kill time by subbing out some mics.

Now we wait, and nothing happens, and no one’s there, except Zain and some chick who keeps purposely pushing her shirt off one shoulder. One of the sound guys is limping around with a hurt leg. (Aw, pup. I truly feel your pain.I limped around for more than a year, with a pernicious ankle-sprain.)

We get the word from the door guy: the local bands aren’t coming.

Really? No one, from either band? San Francisco, where’s the love? I would’ve offered a whole cigar at the altar of San Francisco if I’d thought that would help.

Under the circumstances, before a fully-staffed but empty room, Kaz decides we should do short sets. This is basically like an audition, or a practice….But it’s also our last show together, in the big destination town. I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little down. But I get to drum with Tennessee, which is a happy distraction.

Oh no! My drum seems to have gotten damp in its travels; I have to dry it. I brush my hand over it, and the mic picks up a whooshing noise. Sounds like an extremely quiet cymbal, which actually seems like it should go with this song. I swish along with the song, alternating long and short. By the second song, the surface of the drum is dry, and I can do the booms and clacks. The only song that stumps me is her wolf one. I think I’m trying to vary the pattern more than I need to. Classic drummer mistake! Sorry, Tennie. Good thing there’s nobody here….

Despite having done such a thorough check, my set is beset by a pervasive buzzing noise. The sound guys and I try to troubleshoot, but it won’t go away. I play through it. Good thing nobody’s here….

It’s a shame nobody’s here, because Kaz is playing as though there’s a crowd. I know I’ve done a lot of quoting, but it’s our last show together, so this is the last time:

He plays noise, and you pretend that you get it.
He’s nothing like other boys who told you to forget it.

Boys need noise, squeeze the knob and yell, “Yes!”
Like I did with my toys, scream through speakers swell…we all need noise.

It’s hard to break new territory with sexual innuendo, but I think this does the trick.

N.M.E.T.

Now I’m having pineapple and vodka, and hearing some story about a woman who threw a party when she had reached 100 sexual conquests. She invited them all. Whaddaya say to that? Wow.

This reminds me of an idea I’ve had before: an Enemy Tea Party, in which you invite all your enemies to tea—maybe yearly—and serve them the nicest petit-fours on the best china, in an attempt to re-humanize them. I’ve never acted on my idea. I think this kind of bravado is reserved for heads of state. But…maybe a premise for a short story?

There’s a long evening after this. It peters into a trip to Jack In The Box.

Day 8—San Francisco

Haighters

Today is my last show on this tour. We didn’t book it with Kaz and Tennie, ’cause they were supposed to do a different one. But theirs fell through, so here we all are still. I’m not complaining. I wasn’t ready to end on last night’s note.

We meet Lindy Wood, former drummer from my old band Per Se, for breakfast at a greasy spoon. The coffee mugs are mismatched, and someone gets a “boobs” one. Lindy was a really great bandmate; I’ve missed her. And she’s also an adorable creature. It’s fun just to watch her talk. She moved down here to be with her big friendly boyfriend Zakk. Together they look like a lemur and a labrador. and they live in a periwinkle blue townhouse.

Lindy, Stephanie, and I go poking around Haight—on which the clothes they sell are insane. You know how in Portland you can get some hippie gear? Like, you could go to Gold Door, and get a big 2” stone pendant on a silver chain? Well, on Haight street, the chain would be MADE of those stones, and there’d be a floor-length flared silken rainbow dragon-dress to match it. In Portland, you can dress like a hippie. On Haight, you can dress like a hallucination. But all I bought was a blonde shortsleeved summer sweater. I have enough genie gear already.

We meet Sylvan Goldberg (aka Hunter Champion, of a prior Cut Of The Day fame) at a bar with a moose head mounted on the wall. I’m drinking black coffee ‘cause I like it, but I’m pretty sure the bartender thinks I’m Sober with a caps S. He’s comping my coffee and saying things that are vaguely congratulatory. Now I feel I can’t disappoint him. I can only have coffee while we’re here.

Sylvan, last seen leaving for New York, is here for a month doing a kind of bartender’s internship. Weirdly, I suspect that this will probably get him further career-wise than either of our English degrees, or all of our combined years of learning to rock. This is the cruelty of commerce and industry: no one wants to pay you, just to be you.

I’ve been talking about busking in San Francisco. It seems like the place, if any, right? We’ve talk about it, and Zain and Lindy have suggested locations, but operations are not forthcoming. Nobody’s saying, “Okay, let’s go,” or “Here are the keys if you wanna get your guitar.” And I am the only coffeemonster, in a booth of beerbunnies. So, I think it’s not happening. This may be the missed opportunity of a lifetime, but so might every sweepstakes.
Tonight’s show is at Mojo’s Bicycle Café, which is a combined bike repair and coffee shop. Not a bad idea, actually. You could have coffee while they tune up your ride. (Incidentally, wanna know the worst hybrid business idea I’ve ever seen? I drove the can-car past it once: “Tan-tiques.” A combo tanning salon and antique store. I know you probably don’t believe that such a place existed, but I promise. What in the world do those two things have in common, besides oil? Anyway…)

We eat a fancy dinner with Zakk and Lindy. Razor clams and complex cocktails. San Francisco has a sort of halcyon forever feeling. It’s hard when you’re there, to believe that you’re leaving; I can’t explain exactly why. So, even though this is the end, it doesn’t seem so.

Last Gasps

At the show, the mysterious buzz reemerges, and the noise is insurmountable. My San Francisco friends will have to believe me that this isn’t the best I can do. They’re straining to hear me over the rest of the crowd when I start quoting Emily Dickinson. “I’m nobody, who are you, are you nobody too? Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell, they’d banish us, you know.” When there’s a loud room, I think it’s fun to see who’s listening. You can communicate “secret” messages, right over the mic. Anyway, this is it. Not best, not worst, but last.
We are back to the greasy spoon again the next morning. Again, they’re playing R&B. Again, Kaz and Tennie split a breakfast, and AGAIN, somebody’s coffee mug has boobs. Why twice everything? I don’t know. San Francisco, if you’re making a point, I’m missing it. Anyway, it’s time for Stephanie and I to head home. We bid goodbye to Zain. To Lindy. And finally, to Kaz and Tennie. They’re off to rent a hotel for a spell. Hugs and pleasantries.

“Let’s keep in touch.”

“Okay.”

“Have fun in Japan. We wanna see wedding pictures. I’ll write about you guys in my tour diary; I’ll build your legend.”

“Tell them how we split breakfast every morning.”

“I’ll tell them that, and many other things.”

Grey Anne tour photos!

And a li’l video