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Jerry Garcia wails a sloppy, desperate plea to spend the night together as I pull into a spot kitty-corner to the Yankee. His recording of the Stones chestnut has always seemed so right on – not too polished, artfully relaxed and that wicked wicked gypsy fiddle sawing away. It’s a backseat grope, the come-on of a revved-up teen buried in the body of a bearded minstrel. And hearing a highway star like Garcia sing it cannot help but remind us of all the stages on which he uttered this invitation, a muddle of rock and hormones and heat. That anyone has been seduced successfully by this song makes me laugh. But maybe there’s no logic to desire, no rhyme or reason to what floats our boat. Our passions take us and we find ourselves wet and smiling.
The gear is still being set right when I enter. Mike Goodin fiddles with his keyboards and before I’m quite aware of it he’s slipped into a piano bar take on Pink Floyd. He’s a crooner skating across the thin ice oblivious to the clinking glasses and sports chatter all around him.
Momma loves her baby
And daddy loves you too.
And the sea may look warm to you babe
And the sky may look blue
But ooooh Baby
Ooooh baby blue
Oooooh babe.
As they amble through barking amps and twisted cables a cozy vibe descends. The lemony bite of my hefeweizen hits my tongue and I feel all kinds of all right. The Grasshoppers are exactly the band you want to settle in with when you need to know your weekend has arrived. They have a let’s-put-on-show vibe that’s only missing the Little Rascals themselves (and really who needs them – they ate Petey during the Depression and Robert Blake grew up to be, well, Robert Blake). Their soundman, the truly gifted Phil Coulson, finally gives them a wave of his hand and says in a beautifully relaxed tone, “Play.”
“The Matador” busts free of his wooden gate ready to dance with the toros. The Arabic accents hint he’s come a long way and this will be no quick display. Blood hits the sand but crystal clean guitar washes it away. After the bull is slain they hop one of many locomotives they’ll ride tonight. Casey Jones might not be in the house but his blow-by-blow spirit stuffs the hopper with soul coal.
There’s a thickness to their sound that wasn’t present last time I gathered with these dudes. Some sonic cornstarch makes it all richer, meatier, deeper. Every member tosses in tiny touches that elevate the merely good to the fantabulous. A left turn in a song happens on a graceful arc, a seagull lifted on salt winds into a sunny Sunday afternoon.
As they shift into high gear towards “The House of the Rising Sun” they are on a mystery train pumped up by a line or three. Crazy finger flurries assault the keys while the drummer pounds away like an over cranked wind-up monkey working the body while my head goes floaty. Fiddle scratches my back and I grin like a bear rubbing a redwood. The violin shifts imperceptibly between homegrown hambone happiness and kinetic flights of cinemascope color. They play together sooooo well. The low-end is a solid wall, a foundation that let’s everyone build and build. When a solo does crop up it only adds to the feeling that they know where they are going as a unit, a whole embracing each part with an unexpected wet kiss.
More Floyd arrives in an appropriately wistful “Time” ticking away the hours of our own dull days. I’m diggin’ on Mike’s nasal highs and toasty, tearfully earnest delivery. For a second I flash back to the first time I heard Brent Mydland belt out a tune at the Greek under starry skies. It stopped me cold, a voice you don’t hear singing much and yet it felt so right. It became one of my favorite things about the Grateful Dead and as if by some subliminal alchemy the Grasshoppers wrap up the first set with a very Garcia interpretation of the indefatigable Rodgers & Hammerstein standard. I don’t know if Jerry ever took a shot at this one but their version would make him smile.
After a brief pause for everyone to put a bit more steam in their engine they roar back, losing nothing for the break. During the opening free-for-all, Lance Case lets out a run of notes on his guitar that spelunkers the band into deeper territory, down down down, until they make the cave crystals shine with a “Foolish Heart” that double dips his solos for chocolate goodness. They come up for air during an instrumental that recalls The Ventures puffing at Venice Beach with Ray Charles, working away at old Ray’s glaucoma like champs.
Back in California they chant, “I love San Francisco but I can’t afford the rent.” Knowing titters fill the club. From the renter blues they step out into the Morning Dew, toes damp in the low grass. The hour is getting late and it’s clear we won’t watch the skyline brighten together as the bartender gathers glasses and wipes down the residue of the evening. He yells to the band, “One more.” Mike hollers back, “A long one or a short one?”
A long one is okay. Without hesitation the twinkling notes familiar to any Traffic fan curl out into the room. A Low Spark has been struck and the high heeled boys dance a merry jig.
The percentage you're paying is too high priced
While you're living beyond all your means
And the man in the suit has just bought a new car
From the profit he's made on your dreams
This is one of those street mantras I find myself mouthing without always being aware that I’ve started singing. It’s a rejection of greed and gold and grabbing at everything. Mike nails the Stevie Winwood falsetto and the band woogies the boogie on the choruses just as they should.
Listening I feel the urge to grab these guys and whisper into their ear, “Keep faith. Play your mighty hearts out like you did tonight and one day the people will gather.” It is a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll. But the Grasshoppers shan’t make the journey alone. Not if I have anything to say about it.
Hotel, motel
Make you wanna cry
Lady do the hard sell
Know the reason why
Gettin' old
Gettin' grey
Gettin' ripped off
Under-paid
Gettin' sold
Second hand
That's how it goes
Playin' in a band
Dennis Cook
JamBase | Bay Area
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