FIFTY SHADES OF FUCKED UP

BY LANCE REESE

“We’re on the list,” we say at the Crystal Ballroom box office. The attendants silent as they fumble across their desk for a clipboard — then flip through pages. “What’s the name? Who are you here with?” We answer their questions, then they ‘in’ us — only a handful (three) of names I can see and we’re two of them.

There’s a stress walking up to a Will Call, not having a ticket. Just counting on the band giving access to the show, backstage — the inner workings behind the scenes. What happens if your names not there? Turn around and walk away? Protest? The Crystal’s all business and the Psychedelic Furs are pros. And my wife’s connected, so we’re checked in. They issue us lanyards. I’m not one to advertise, so instead of around the neck I hang my tag from the belt — can’t have that gaudy thing out in front all night for the world to see. So we’re shepparded and left at the metal detector. After being herded through the cattle I set off all the sirens — maybe my hat, my belt, the buckles on my Birkenstocks. Alarms are going off and I’m pulled aside by security, no big deal — I’m used to this. With long hair and a beard I got singled out and searched every time I tried to get on a plane in the 2000’s. Every time getting ready to board, I’d see them scanning down the line and sure enough, we’d lock eyes. Next thing you know I’m behind a five foot partition half stripping down as TSA manhandles the contents of my carry-on.

Fortunately concerts are not a matter of national security, so the red flashing light and the bong-bong-bong only has me off to the side with some burly guard and his detection wand. I raise my arms from my sides at his instruction and as I do, my untucked button-up pulls above my waist. A keen-eyed supervisor catches sight of the VIP tag on my belt and explodes across the room to me. “SORRY SIR! SO SORRY.” He motions off the guerilla, pushes my arms down to my sides, “So Sorry sir, right this way, sir.” and we’re off as royalty.

This is a far cry from my first “on the list” experience. No my friends, for that we travel back to 1997 to the RKCNDY (rock candy) in Seattle. I’m over visiting a radio DJ — that used to be a big deal, to be on the radio — now FM’s all a syndicated bullshit corporate play list, no soul. But in the 90’s there was local flavor over the airwaves and every once in a while a Jockey still had the stones to put a show together that they believed in. One that showcased music that wasn’t being pumped down the throat of the masses.

I was working at a record store and other than some exotic 7” their wasn’t much vinyl — compact disc was all the rage, except for the broke rap and metal kids and some local artists still schlepping their home brew on cassette.

But this DJ would come in and I would sneak her new store inventory to play, all the good shit, and she’d play it on the air after midnight.

I’m over in Seattle and she’s got a new place in Belltown overlooking the water (Belltown’s not cool yet, or it is but just hasn’t been overrun with money yet) but it’s walking distance from Pioneer Square and the Central, the OK Hotel, Crocodile and Sit and Spin, and now I’m in the heart of it.

“We’re going to the Screaming Trees at the rock candy (RKCNDY) tonight.” she says and I drive us down in my ’82 Merc and she’s got us on the list. This isn’t the backstage list it turns out — just pushes us through the door without a ticket. This, the second night of a double header, a last call for a culmination of a Seattle music scene of the late 80’s and early 90’s, the epitaph of Grunge.

We’re there late, not sure why — now a days I’m in line for days to get a place up front where I can lean on the edge of the stage dead center. Actually I prefer just to the left of center — never wind up to the right — always center or just to the left. But we’re late on this one — and up top in the horse show balcony looking down. The crowd’s thick and packed tight up against the low stage. TAD opens heavy, the singer’s big in sound and life, wrapped in a black and white cow skin shirt/coat – not sure which – and they give it their all till the end. After a break, the Screaming Trees are there. Turns out I’m not special, as Gary Lee Conner (Trees guitarist) will inform. Screaming Trees must be the most popular band in Seattle because “Half you fuckers are on the guest list.” And from all the fist fight Ellensburg parties that have produced this crowd he’s not wrong. This intimate crowd, where everyone has grown and lived with this band. As the set digs in, Mark Lanegan is up in front. Hair long and drenched in sweat. He’s frail but there. He extends his arms in front of the crowd — he’s their Jesus and they’re the disciples and his voice preaches and cuts the crowd apart. But this is the end of a Seattle era. He misses most of the encore set, and a year later the RKCNDY shuts it doors. It’s bulldozed and today there’s a fantastic parking lot. And now... Mark is gone too. Why is it that the death of the grunge oracles destroy us? The annual A-list celebrity deaths barely phases us — but rightly a Kurt, Chris or Mark makes New York Times’ front page. The pain they expressed, so real in life, we all relate to in their death

A lifetime later I’m in Portland with the Furs doing their thing, but James takes the cake as an opener, electing to abandon their 90’s alt-pop radio hit success and, instead, dive into a new message of acceptance. It’s rhythmic, tribal and then the singer’s crowd surfing 20 years past his prime, and it’s real and pure. So the Furs come out and play their hits and we hang out backstage after the wrap, till it’s late and they head for the bus.

The salt water soaking pools are closed at the hotel and other than the lyrics painted on the wall the rock stars have all gone to bed. So we’re on the street looking for food at the 24 hour diner down the street. We swagger through the late night/early morning crowd next door. The short, shorts latex and suspenders spilling out of the club and pushing through. We’re in the safety of a red vinyl booth at Ruby’s. Signed celebrity photos from every decade lining the walls. I’m riding a wave of blissful drugs and booze when a waitress is across the counter to the door — all five feet tall of her in the face of someone trying to come in “Get the FUCK OUT!” She’s yelling out of nowhere, then over to us apologizing, “sorry about that.” “All good” I say. I’ve got no fucking idea what’s going on, but perfect timing. My country fried steak and hash browns with gravy are there. All in the universe is complete.

RIP Mark

Mark Lanegan. Photo: Heavenly Recordings