Tim and I are delighted to have Cathy back for another guest post. She really knows how to capture the essence of a moment, a place, a neighborhood. Welcome back, Cathy. We want to hear more from you. We hope to have some posts from the music obsessed husband you mention.
Tom Perrotta joins Bill Janovitz on stage at Toad in Cambridge, MA on July 3, 2008
Toad is the approximate length and width of a pinball machine, if you can imagine yourself standing in one. On particularly crowded nights, like the Thursday nights of the weekly Bill Janovitz residency this summer, if I found myself waiting outside during the first few songs, I would look through the windows at the lit-up backstage, hear the muffled commencement of rock, and wait until it was my turn to be launched into play.
Once inside, in some respects, it often felt like I was crashing a private party. After nearly twenty years I’ve grown accustomed to being one of the hundreds of nameless faces that has stood in the largest of Boston’s rock clubs, shoulder-to-shoulder with others like me, who were unknowingly building a history and defining their lives on shows seen and records bought. Music is the foundation on which my husband and I have built our relationship, with Buffalo Tom being a load-bearing beam. One of our first shows as a couple was Buffalo Tom and My Bloody Valentine at Axis, in 1992, and how great is that? Not as great as claiming seniority over my husband for seeing Buffalo Tom at the Channel, with Come and American Standard, in 1991, before they were even on his radar. A big deal when one has an obsessive music fan for a husband.
All of this personal history is just one layer of the strata of people who dig Bill and I can’t help but realize this as I squeeze by inspired musicians, authors aspiring to be musicians, and Bill’s brothers, a seemingly endless supply of brothers (unabashedly his biggest fans), who are all awaiting the moments when they will be invited to sing covers from The Kinks and The Replacements; The Beatles and The Stones.
I am handed a Smuttynose Summer and begin my creep towards the cords and amplifiers. Not a sip from my glass is lost, which is remarkable because it requires the collective intuition of the masses, pressed together on these sweltering nights. Hands are placed gently on backs or shoulders, in attempts to part the sea just enough to slip by without rocking the boat. We are all in this together.
Each week, the same lone chair sits empty beside the keyboard until I claim is as my own; it puts me in a place where I won’t miss a beat, yet not feel as if I’m standing toe-to-toe with Bill, looking to start something. The only person I can’t escape is the random drunk guy, looking for a female accomplice to turn the remaining square foot of floor space between the stage and room into a dance floor.
For a long time Toad remains crowded and jittery and there are about 10 songs I’m hoping not to hear. Not yet. Empty pint glasses are spied, collected and transported back to the bar by the armful, clinking along the way. Bits of conversation rise above the din, accompanied by pointing fingers, to help those in-the-know explain to novices things like who originally sang “That’s All It Took” (Gram Parsons), or who the Janovitz brothers are, and where they fall in the hierarchy of the Boston rock scene. Cameras are pointing and clicking. Tiny microphones are placed by the bar to capture and share the evening at some future date. Patrons bob and weave their way to the bathrooms behind the stage, timing their moves to carefully slip by the bass player, who is standing by the door, moving his head to the rhythm of the songs like a turtle ducking in and out of it’s shell.
Eventually Cinderellas yield to strike of midnight and husbands on-the-clock depart, all reluctantly. The atmosphere starts to feel well-worn and broken-in. This is the time where anything can happen. I’ve witnessed songs pulled from the ether, decided upon between swipes of sweat and gulps of beer. A hastily slapped together interpretation of “Kiss,” sung by John Powhida, of The Rudds, is performed with just enough musical accompaniment for him to channel his inner Prince and challenge the stamina of the swoon prone. Gutsy Corin Ashley, of The Pills, bares his soul for an exhaustive cover of Sam and Dave’s “When Something is Wrong with My Baby.” Sean Staples inspires a driven version of Buffalo Tom’s “Summer” that leaves me a bit breathless and thinking it was the best version I had ever heard.
Throughout the night there are plenty of false starts with guffaws ensuing. Rousing renditions of “American Girl” leave even those who aren’t Tom Petty fans (okay, me) singing along. Those who can sing harmonies do, whether invited to or not, and Bill is always the accommodating host – sharing microphones and giving away solos to everyone in the band with a nod of the head. In a 1822 essay, “The Fight,” William Hazlitt writes, “Give a man a topic in his head, a throb of pleasure in his heart, and he will be glad to share it with the first person he meets.” Bill seems to love these songs, love the people he shares the stage with, love sharing his love of music with anyone who will listen.
It’s late. The beginning of the third and last set of the night. It’s very likely after 1am now, Friday morning, and reality is about six hours away. I refuse another beer because there is no way I can stay until the end. Again.
“Michael, I can’t stay for another set.”
The look I get back doesn’t need words: You know you’re staying. It’s one more song, one more sip of my husband’s beer and, happily, the song I was dying to hear without even realizing it. Hush. Hush. Somebody’s calling name. I’m not going anywhere. Pleasantly tispy and sleepy, I’m wishing The Staple Singers’ song was a lullaby tucking me into bed. If I lived here, I’d be home now.
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