Disclaimer: Memory is a funny thing, and an elusive one. Meaning; I might have some of this wrong, as 1. My memory is not always accurate, like anyone and 2. It is from my perspective only. Any friends who were there, feel free to correct me or add things I have missed. It helps! Also, no gossip on anyone here, it aint about that. Personal details are on a surface level, and friends, girlfriends and others are re-named to respect their privacy. People in bands generally put their names out there on albums and in interviews anyway, and are not in the habit of staying anonymous, and therefore are named here. That said, anyone who is in the blog that wishes me not to use their name has only to ask.
The Cruel Desert That Spawned Us Calls Us Home - SOC's 1987 Tour; a perilous journey, Part V: Green River Utah Blues
We were waiting for some money to get wired to us so Pat & Erik could hitchhike back to Price and pick up the truck, then we could head out of Green River and go to Salt Lake for our final show of the tour with Government Issue and our friends The Potato Heads. We were bored as hell; 'I'm making this entry out of sheer fucking boredom. We sat at the pool & Pat & T went to a store around the corner to purchase grub. It consisted of two pounds of Zesta saltines & 16 slices of salami. We decided we needed a change of pace you see [from the endless baloney sandwiches] We ate this meal on the lawn behind the pool where there was shade. Always the fucking flies and mosquitoes everywhere. After awhile two old bags came out and told us to leave. Damn! No more pool. We were just saying how the pool made the place bearable...'
We moved to the park where Ted and I were tortured before and laid on the picnic tables on the covered patios, where it was nice and cool in the shade. A school bus pulled up, it was customized, with a dove, a rainbow and a yin and yang symbol painted on the outside. We saw this and hoped maybe they were 'generous hippie types' possibly willing to 'slide us some food or something' but it was a couple with a baby. Another bus pulled up and out poured several young teenagers on some sort of outing. 'Now they're eating,' observes Young Wayne '...once again tortured. I hate this pit. It's giving me cynical vision. I keep wondering who in their right mind would want to live here and how the only way I'll come back to this town is if I'm doing 90 mph through it.'
Diet of the stranded Northwest punk rocker
As we sat watching the teen group get out endless cold cuts and bread and chips and eat, Pat went over to get some water at the fountain for his cup. We must have looked pretty pitiful, like alley mutts, watching them eat. On his way back to us, Pat stopped by the troop and asked them if they wanted to use the covered tables we were occupying. They said they were fine. Soon after this, a woman and a girl walked over toward us holding a couple foil mounds. "We have something for you guys," the woman said. It was cold cuts, some rye bread and about 10 containers of yogurt. The Gods had smiled upon us.
The group was touring around the country staying at camp sites and hotels. They were staying at a hotel that night and couldn't eat all of the food. This was good timing because we hardly had any money. It fed us almost all the way home. 'We are now watching Simon & Simon [we had a portable TV with us] awaiting the usual rain. One more night in hell. One more night looking at the rolled orange Pinto next to us.'
Simon & Simon + free coldcuts = HEAVEN
Before leaving Green River, we tried to beg some money from some people. Pat asked a man filling up his car with gas for money, or started to ask him, and before Pat even finished his sentence, in a hoarse voice, the old man croaked "I haven't got any money." 'How's he payin' for the fuckin' petrol, then?' asked Wayne in the journal. Ted also hit up everyone at Burger Time. Nobody gave him a dime. The town hated us. When Pat and Ted had gone to get the crackers earlier, they said there was a sign advertising that the crackers were on sale. The man at the register charged them full price. They mentioned the sign saying they were on sale, and the man tore down the sign and said "Not anymore they're not."
Our last night in Green River was spent at the abandoned 'Uranium Hotel' Erik had spotted earlier. He went in first, scoped it out, then poked his head out and told us to come in the door quickly. It was a creepy. The room looked exactly as the maid had left it, but with dust on everything. Though it was nice to sleep on a bed and without mosquitoes buzzing, it was a fitful sleep, as we heard cars pulling up and parking and leaving through the night, and were paranoid of the Sheriff finding us out. We were terrified of making noise, and so I held my piss in all night until I could hold it no more and pissed into the empty toilet. 'I'm beginning to appreciate Boise more & more every moment I am here. In fact being on the road makes you appreciate many things.' Pat and Erik left town get the truck while Scott and Ted and I killed time once again, but they were back pretty quickly with a Ryder truck and a tow bar. We hooked up our van and hit the road. 'Got the stereo hooked up, Beastie Boys blarin SHE'S CRAFTY!!!'
Meltdown in Salt Lake City. Wayne quits the band. Sort of.
After arriving in Salt Lake City, UT, we found Jonathan from The Potato Heads' house (or as we called them, 'The Potheads') and Jonathan and Brendan were sitting on the couch on their front porch. We told them our sad tale and then went on the roof and proceeded to knock off a case of beer between us. We ended up sleeping on the roof. 'It was a nice sleep. The sun woke me up about 9 or so and I called my mom. She's anxious to see me now that she knows I'm coming home...It's pretty depressing thinking about the shows we are going to miss, I try not to. Tomorrow night is our show with the G.Is [Government Issue] so at least we get to meet them and play with them...I hope it's a good gig. It's good to be in a comfortable place among friends with no flies or mosquitoes to drive us insane.'
What happened next is one of those times you tend to not want to remember. But here I am, writing a blog. I chose to go here. I will preface it by saying that Pat and Ted were both pretty in your face personalities. Ted is probably reading this, and I know he would not argue with me, and I know he has calmed down, is a father. These are young men I am talking about here, including, of course, myself. Pat, however, is no longer alive, and can’t really defend himself. Therefore, I had Scott, the brother who survived him, approve this entry (Ted, too). So the two ‘in your face’ personalities got in each other’s face in Salt Lake the next night at Jonathan’s place.
It started as some silly argument about how Ted liked Uniform Choice (a hardcore band) and Pat saying they ripped off Minor Threat (a more famous, influential hardcore band) and this led to Pat accusing Ted of talking shit about SOC. We had all just been through some rough times, as you have read, and we had all been drinking a lot of beer. These things were undoubtedly factors as well. At any rate, the conversation ended with Pat punching Ted in the nose, and to a broken-nosed, bleeding Ted taking his duffel bag and walking off into the night, calling his girl, and getting money wired to him so he could go home.
Uniform Choice VS State Of Confusion = a broken nose
I went out looking for him, walking alone and drunk into the dark Salt Lake City streets. After a few blocks, I noticed a really sketchy looking dude who was clearly following me in the shadows cast by the trees under the streetlights, like I was in some horror movie and he a monster in pursuit. I was so on edge and drunk that I walked right up to him, figuring it best to take him by surprise and use that to my advantage. So I walked up to him, got in his face and asked him, "You got a problem following people or something???" He looked instantly scared. "N-no. No." So I left him and he stayed where he was until I walked away. I asked around at 7-Elevens and places still open if they had seen a Mexican kid with a bloody face. None had.
I walked back to the house and crashed as the sun rose. I said I was quitting the band. Pat asked if I would play one more show, the one that night. I agreed to do that. I never ended up quitting. And Pat and Ted made up right after we got back from tour. But I would threaten to quit again, and eventually would, but not in this band. That is for later in the tale.
We had a lackluster rehearsal in The Potato Heads’ space. I wrote in my journal that we had a great set at the show that night and that Government Issue was good. We played at a place called ‘The Poultry Shack’ because that is literally what it was, an industrial sized barn at a chicken farm that put on shows in the mid '80s. It was actually a great place to play, plenty of room for over 200 people and they had a professional sound system. We played there again not too long after this show with the notorious Texas hardcore band D.R.I (Dirty Rotten Imbeciles) who had just started the whole ‘crossover movement’ (hardcore bands switching to dirgey metal).
Before leaving for this tour, I once again decided to go to college, this time (as opposed to when I was 19) driven more by my actual desire than my mother’s desire, though admittedly, it was also for her in that she was sick and needed something positive to look forward to. I had applied for grants and loans and put everything in place to start school in the fall of 1987 once I had returned from tour, at Boise State University. I was nervous about it but also excited to learn and change my life. I had chosen to be an art major. Not that I knew what the hell I was going to pursue in art. But there it was.
(People familiar with the Descendents and their first album will get this joke...If you are not one of those people, google 'Milo Goes To College')
We returned home, I recovered from the life of poverty and adventure I had just been in, licked my wounds from a brief affair I had in which my heart was broken and set my sights toward ‘higher education’. I was 21 years old. My life would change radically in less than two years, starting with the death of my mother, a new band and a move to the ‘big city’ with said band. But before I get into all of that, I want to take a little side road and devote next entry to the Crazy Horse Saloon, the bar where so many Boise bands got their start (and still do). The tale of Boise’s music scene cannot be told without it.
