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| One
time Scotty P. pooped in the parking lot across from Tommy's
on Coventry. That was pretty funny. (anon) |
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| The
first time I saw Prisonshake, they opened for Death of Samantha
at the Phantasy. They kicked butt- and speaking of which; Doug
was wearing a pair of sweat pants that were ripped all down
the back and he kept sticking his ass in the crowd's collective
face. One of my favorite shows of all time. (anon) |
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Damn,
I hadn't thought of the ripped sweatpants night in years.
When I did though, I realized it was one of my fondest rock
memories in
Cleveland. Before I start, be aware that this story involves
Jane Scott,
so you may wanna stay tuned.
My apologies to "Anon" and his/her memory, but we
played that
ubiquitous palace of mirth known as the Phantasy that night
opening for
Mojo Nixon and Skid Roper. Mojo was riding his "Elvis is
Everywhere"
wave. At this point he was at the peak of his popularity, and
had run out
of ideas two years earlier - always an artist's economic apex.
(if it's
not evident to the populace that the trough is dry, invoking
Elvis always
seals it).
We had to fill time and ended up playing nearly an
hour-and-a-half. It was likely that shortly thereafter we settled
into
our standard 30 minute set routine. After a while Mojo's crowd
was
getting tired of us. (I couldn't blame them, I was getting tired
of us).
But performers should always feed off the audience, hence their
irritation over the longish set fueled us to play even longer.
As luck
would have it, we had worked up a version of Bob Seger's "Ramblin'
Gamblin' Man" for the show and unveiled it gleefully to
the annoyed
crowd. What a gay old time we were having. And there were of
course the
sweatpants.
When we were traveling around in that era, I would wear an old
pair of gray sweatpants to sleep in. The more we toured, the
bigger the
rip became. (go ahead, I gave you that one). Scott would always
say "you
oughta wear those for the show tonight," him being the
drummer seated
behind me the whole time; never really wanted to figure that
one out.
Anyway, this night in Lakewood I did. Our sarcastic catch phrase
at the
time was "total rock," and before the show the ideas
flowed. I'll never
forget Robert kneeling behind me backstage with a magic marker
and
scrawling the word "TOTAL" on one cheek, and "ROCK"
on the other. Talk
about a team player, a man ceaselessly devoted to rock at the
time.
So we were playing our songs, I pranced about as usual, and
remembering that "total rock" was written on my soft
white ass, I had to
spread the cotton flaps once in a while so someone could read
it at at
least a 6th-grade level. Blah, blah, blah the show goes on.
And on. And
on. Then I notice a woman near the stage, yelling between songs
and I
give her my full attention. She's got a beef, I discern. Tiring
of
hearing my own voice, I invite her onstage to air her displeasure,
as it
were. The rather plump woman greedily takes the offered mike
and gives us
a two sentence Christgau-like reaming (ya never feel it, it's
too small)
and caps it with something like, "I could've stayed home
and looked at my
husband's ass." Griffin then delivers his best line ever
on stage, "I'd
rather look at his ass than yours." The crowd erupts like
a Gleason
audience, and for once, they're on our side. The woman steps
down, and we
carry on. (I'd like to think we broke into the Seger song here,
but that
woulda been too perfect).
Eventually we quit. We're backstage at the Phantasy and I look
over and see her. It's her. Jane Scott. Backstage at one of
our gigs.
I'd been reading Jane Scott since I was 8. Of course we all
hated her and
couldn't understand why this old lady was the rock critic when
we were in
high school. But as the years went by and rock seemed even dumber
to us,
I could appreciate her gig. I shan't claim to know her deal,
but there's
something to love about a rock critic who refers to international
recording artiste David Thomas as a "Heights High grad."
I look forward
to someone putting out a "Carburetor Dung"-type collection
of Jane's
columns.
Now I had played a million shows at this point and had NEVER
gotten a word in print from her pen. I do recall talking to
her at the
DKs show at the Variety for a minute, telling her how irrelevant
the
whole shebang was at that point. The better moment that night
was
glancing over and seeing Carl Miller, one arm maneuvering a
Pabst Blue
Ribbon, the other around Jane Scott, jaw flapping.
So Jane's back with us, skinny little reporter notebook in hand,
pen scribbling, asking where we went to high school, the works.
Then she
asks about the pants, and more specifically what seems to be
written
beneath. And here unfolds my proudest moment in Cleveland rock:
I turn,
bend and spread so that Jane Scott can crouch, blink, squint,
and
faithfully transcribe the phrase "total rock" written
on my ass. And that
was the sum of our two-sentence mention in her P-D review.
(I don't mean to toot my own horn, but as far as "cle
punk" goes . . .
beat THAT motherfucker!)
(Enkler) |
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To
complement the poop story, one time Scotty P lived up to his
surname (P) and wee'd on his only remaining leather coat,
the other having been left in Madison, Wisconsin. Apparently
he mistook it for a toilet. It was the dead of winter. I felt
sorry for him.
Interestingly,
Arne Fine of The Clocks once regaled me of a story about someone
coming into his bedroom during a party (Arne had given up
being jolly and had gone to bed) and mistaking his bed for
a toilet. Or perhaps the miscreant thought it was a leather
coat. Sadly, no-one will ever know.
(Burgess)
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I
saw Prisonshake live a couple of times, but I was a scattered
and foolish girl who often didn't pay very good attention
at shows. Later, I was living in Chicago and was absolutely
hating it, totally homesick for Cleveland. My best friend
at the time (who had also lived in Cleveland once upon a time)
worked in the distribution warehouse for Touch and Go Records,
so he was always pilfering something or other and bringing
it home to listen to. One night Ben called me over and said,
"You have to listen to this album, it's totally Cleveland."
He had stumbled across Prisonshake's I'M REALLY FUCKED NOW.
The album really did sound uniquely Cleveland, especially
during that early '90's era when everything else had a trendier
sound (i.e. the "Am-Rep sound", the "Seattle
sound", and so on) Prisonshake rocked in that I'm-so-utterly-exhausted-by-life
kind of way that is unique to our fair city. They masterfully
tapped into the negative energy thread that binds us (Clevelanders)
together.
-Karen
Downie
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