Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Jeff Calder's Vest

Every now and then, I get to thinking on whatever happened to all of my favorite rock tee shirts of yesteryear. My true love was a Swimming Pool Q's one that I wore until my (lack of) bra showed through.

And that was way before lingerie became outerware - a nifty trend I don't mind stealing from the younger set on occasion. Another was an Album 88 number, which I'm convinced was stolen - by whom I have no idea, or I'd go back and get the darn thing even 20 years later.

And then there was the Black Flag Tour In My Head one, which to this day never ceases to crack me up. Kinda like a Python line that floats through your brain during a mindnumbing corporate meet-a-thon.

"We've got to redirect the paradigm to reflect our inculturation within the upcoming fiscal cycle."
"Crucifixion?" "No, I'm to be set free."

I kinda miss the little buggers. So I got to thinking about an old timey band from 'round here, The Swimming Pool Q's, and Lordy if they aren't still going at it like the whippersnappers they used to be. The Pool Q's even played, yet again, one of my favorite venues on the planet recently, The Windjammer on Isle of Palms, S.C.

That place is an entire short story in itself. It was a slow night at the Windjammer unless a pack of Navy enlisted guys commenced to beatin' the crap out of a bunch of bat-eared Citadel cadets, or "Knobs" as they were relentlessly taunted. Fortunately, such a show of drunken stupor was an inevitability at the Windjammer, before they closed the Charleston Naval Base at least. I'll never forget some smarty-alekky djs cracking on Navy wives just after Hurricane Hugo. Saying stuff like, "They're going to riot (Navy wives) 'cause their shipment of Twinkies can't get through."

Lordy how I diverge! Back to the concept at hand... I used to sigh and avert my eyes when I'd see one of Jeff Calder's fine, brocade vests turn up at a show. Why was I so shy then? Now that I've got some semblance of nerve about me, I went and morphed into a soccer mom, where it all gets yelled out on the field.

Oh, but there was that fleeting, danceable moment not so long ago when 2004 shifted to '05 with the sound of Pylon at the 40 Watt blaring me right up against where I always wanted to be.

The chronic late bloomer can be a bitterly romantic wench...

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