When I packed a weekend bag to drive down to Athens two summers ago to see the Melvins, I had no idea who they were and really didn't care. All I knew was that I was nearing the point of insanity in Chapel Hill, a precipice that can only be reached when you spend every day in a hospital room, have little to no outside entertainment and a puppy eats your magazine article while you're interviewing the elderly director of Flipper outside on the patio. Enough was enough and since a music editor friend from Miami was driving up for the show, I figured they must be something special. Or least not horrible. Long story short, I didn't need much convincing.
Desperate to avoid the pitfalls that come with crashing on a friend's couch (more annoying canines), I booked a room at a shady motel on the hill. It was one of those $40 a night joints that is run by a creepy old man in coveralls, has scratchy starched sheets and a parking lot full of either migrant construction workers drinking Tecate or philandering drug dealers bumping T.I. in their candy-coated Cutlasses. Heaven.
At this point things start to get a little blurry as they're wont to do when weeks of deadening sobriety come to an abrupt and binging halt. I met up with the music editor, Arielle, and her co-conspirator for the weekend, Jessie, we probably had food somewhere very townie(the Grit, the Grill, Clocked, Five Star, fill in the blank), and started drinking. At some point we acquired one Paul Thomas, collector of all things obscure, former owner of X-Ray Cafe and MySpace friend of Arielle.
Actually, now that I think about it, we went to Paul's house to pick him up. His little white farmhouse off Prince is the quintessential Hoarders house. Amazingness was stacked to the ceiling. It's like a pre-museum of drugs, sex, rock and mysticism in there. Need a candid photograph of Mick Jagger emerging from a backstage bathroom with traces of blow still clinging to his nostril hairs? Paul's probably got it and he'll sell it to you if you're worthy. He's sort of a legend around Athens and, perhaps, beyond. They call him the straight Andy Warhol. But, I digress.
Eventually we made it to the 40 Watt. I remember it being just packed enough to give Paul anxiety and relegate him to the sidewalk out front, where he remained for the entire show. I downed quite a few PBR Tallboys beneath the venue's colorful and haphazardly strung Christmas lights so I can't really tell you who opened or what they sounded like. I don't even remember hearing the Melvins. I'm not a huge punk aficionado as it is. All I know is that one in ten little kids that pick up a guitar plays punk and they do it just like their aging punk idols so when you finally see said punk idols they sound like the million plus MySpace bands that they've spawned. Being an originator or just too popular only devalues your work. So there's that.
Inside the show we met up with a friend of the girls. I want to say his name was Juan Montoya but I think I'm getting confused with the Princess Bride. Whatever. This is my story and his name is going to be Juan Montoya. He had only five fingers on each hand, waist-length shiny black hair parted in the center and was somehow connected to the Melvins or the opening band. He played second drums or back-up or something. Blurry, remember?
The lights finally came up, Paul Thomas had faded into the night and everyone staggered out of the 40 Watt except Arielle, Jessie, Juan Montoya and I. I suppose the bartenders, sound guys and roadies still remained but they're not really part of my story. Tired of waiting, we finally left too...only to return a half hour later. By then even the sound guys had packed up. We had a few drinks at the bar with the younger Melvins (that would be everyone except the lead singer guy) and that's when I found the plastic pink kazoos. Legend has it (ok, it was just the story of a lone bartender) that these were left behind after a hipster walking parade earlier in the day/week/month. I like parades, neon plastic instruments and, naturally, the beyond awesome spelling of 'kazoo', so I kept one for myself and passed the other to the cute Melvin with shaggy hair. I can't imagine he still has it but if he does that's like a cosmic memory connection and I should probably call (stalk) him, right?
Anyhow, the younger Melvins agreed to join us for an after-party of sorts in the motel room. They had a bottle of wine and I'd probably stockpiled Sparks as I was known to do in those days. And so the procession down Athen's side streets began.* Of course, I wanted to play a marching song on the kazoos. Only problem was that I couldn't get that plastic piece of shit to make any noise. The cute Melvin was only marginally better and couldn't adequately explain to me how to get my kazoo to make that squeaking hum he'd mastered.
This is where I become spiteful drunk Tiffany and commence with playground flirting antics that verbally equate to kicking cute boys in the shin and sticking my tongue out as I run to hide behind the jungle gym. Damn, me! I began an everlasting tirade about how the cute Melvin was obviously not a real musician if he couldn't even play a kazoo. I probably said some other pretty rude things because they left and without their half-opened bottle of Cabernet. Of course, it could've not been me at all. It could've been the fact that Juan Montoya was being a playground drunk too. This evidenced by the fact that he was super loud, jumping on the bed and ripped the cliche poster-framed landscape from above the king-sized bed and proceeded to smash it over some body part of his. No more young Melvins but, at that point, I was all "Good riddance and thanks for the wine!" out the door after them.
The next morning I woke up with a liquor>beer>liquor>wine hangover in a crappy hotel bed with three other people and a whole lot of glass. Despite feeling like absolute shit and being fiercely afraid to read the previous night's Twitter stream, I bucked up and headed to Potter's House in search of a replacement picture for the hotel. When I'm hungover I'm even more indecisive and cheap than usual so, naturally, I couldn't settle on one of the many, many ugly $10 options. When I returned to the motel to face my possible eviction, I found that the picture had been magically replaced with an exact replica. So I got to stay another night and I didn't even have to contact Juan Montoya for restitution.
Eventually I caught up with Arielle and Jessie, who were on a Paul Thomas adventure. He took them to a few thrift stores, Bell's (an old-school grocery store that has things like 50-gal vats of baked beans, pig's feet and row upon row of eerily identical white labels) and eventually they ended up at Western Sizzler in the nearby town of Winder. To describe their meal as anything but epic would be a disservice. As over-used an adjective as that applies in this situation. I mean, they sat there and ate/talked for five. freaking. hours. Naturally, their convo resulted in a lot of inside jokes that I didn't really get when I met up with them later. Like, apparently Paul Thomas had taken both Kurt Cobain and Nikki Sixx there and something about a train. Don't ask me.
By dusk it was time for the glowing graves. At some point Paul had described these to me in some detail so I was super excited. Having someone like him around can be extremely helpful when in search of the Southern Gothic. If he'd been around when I got lost in that cornfield looking for the Iron Horse I probably would have a better story to tell. As it turns out, the glowing graves were relatively modern and much less mystical than you'd think. They're basically solar-powered memorials in the shape of crosses. Well, except for the Disco Angel. That one has an angelic figure hovering above a, you guessed it, disco ball. Ah, southern religion. So the best.
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