That said.......as we listened to the Kelley Stoltz CD, The Past Was Faster, the morning after it was all over, it was obvious that here was a real talent. The annoying thing was, that here I was sitting chatting idly with the guy all weekend, saying "Yeah, I really wanna hear your record, I understand it's really great, blah blah......"--and by the time I DID hear it, and wanted to rush back to him and splutter, bug-eyed, about his wonderful songs, he had already Big-Birded his way back to San Francisco. But Jerod and Joanne, the Telegraphco Twins, were very happy to hear me say how great it was. They had just heard my Moby Grape tribute--in the car, on the way to Eddie Shaw's New York Pied a Monque, and were convinced that a Musical Mind Meld between Kelley and myself would be a serendipitous thing. Would I be interested. DUH. Try and STOP me.

So, that's November. E-mailed him back and forth a few times in December. Sent him the infamous Xmas Tapes, which he loved. Spoke to him (and the visiting Jerod) on New Year's Eve (post-millenium our time, pre-millenium their time) and made plans to collaborate at some point. Then, in January, he tells me that he's put together a band (his first-ever band) to do one gig, in SF, at a place called The Bottom Of The Hill. I told him to tape it and send me a copy.

He seemed a little bemused and befuddled at the concept of playing out in front of people. I wasn't surprised. The songs on his album are very insulated. They sound like nobody ever opened the drapes, much less the windows. Y'know? Guess you'd have to hear 'em, and WHY DON'T YOU GO DO THAT? I wasn't sure how he'd translate in front of an audience.

Playing with him were: Monte Vallier on bass--the guy who produced the album. Monte doesn't use that word. He says he "helped him put it together." Monte's main musical enterprise is as the bassist for "Swell." I had never heard of them--I do not know HOW this happened, they have FIVE ALBUMS OUT--but I made a mental note to TRY and hear them.

Also in the "band" was a drummer who was apparently named "Rocky." ([sic]--stick with me on this one for a minute, if you will.) I had an instant bad reaction, with no earthly jusification of course, to the fact that any drummer would be named "Rocky." Stick with me, I repeat.

Meanwhile, Jerod has arranged for Kelley to come to NYC in March, to play a gig or two, probably opening for somebody. Monte will be coming too, but probably no one else. He mentions the Knitting Factory as a possible venue, and says that both he and Kelley would like me to participate. On guitar? Keyboards? Drums? Triangle??? Like I said before, try and STOP me.

Well, the tape comes in the mail. Interesting. He sounds very comfortable and engaging on stage, to my relief. And the band is great. There's a second guitar player whom I really can't hear too well, which is fine--I'd rather come up with something on my own. But what??

As soon as I sat down with the tape and a guitar, a lot of possibilities reared their little heads. But I really wasn't sure what they'd want. And I may end up on drums anyway. So, guitarwise, I elected to just throw it all at the wall and see what would hang there.

I suggest that our humble little basement studio would be the best place to rehearse, and that one good day's work would probably do it. This, I figured, would give me time to completely change whatever it is I'm playing if they don't like it. Kelley and Jerod, having both heard a lot of my tapes, have concluded that this very room (in which they were constructed) will be the right place to play.

At this point zero hour is only a few days away. Kelley E-mails and says, to my relief, that his drummer will be making the trip also. Now I can play an instrument that I KNOW.

Finally, last-minute, I am struck with a sudden question: what if I'm learning the songs in the wrong keys?? They seem obvious enough, except for the first one, Permafrost, which seems to be in the key of A flat--a very bizarre choice for guitar. So I E-mail Kelley. Now the coolest thing happens: he plays the song in an alternate tuning and he's not entirely sure what key it's in! So he gives me the most helpful answer he can summon, and then forwards my question to Monte, who gives a more traditional answer. I thought, dear reader, that their responses to this question (as well as another related question) would give you a good idea just exactly how much fun these guys actually are:

Subj: ?????
Date: 3/23/00 11:35:28 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: [me]
To: [kelley]
1) .....is "Permafrost" REALLY in A-flat?
2) Onstage, are we Shoegazers or Hopping Monkeys or something inbetween those? 'Cause, see, I don't HAVE a Stage Persona and I have to cut one out of whole cloth.

---

Subj: Re: ?????
Date: 3/23/00 3:36:43 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: [kelley]
To: [me]
1) Permafrost, I capo on the 6th fret with the E's dropped to D's.
2) Onstage We're more like frenetic oscillating robot cauliflowers.

---

Subj: Kelley's song
Date: 3/23/00 6:11:07 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: [monte]
To: [me]
Hello Mike,
1) You were wondering about Permafrost being in Ab? Sort of. We play it as such. Don't trust the record too much for figuring out exact keys. So much varispeeding going on.
2) I think we are brave monkey gazers.
Will see you in a few days,
Monte (bass geek)

So......Jerod will be driving out here with the boys and whomever else, on Sunday, and therefore I need to provide directions to the house which are suitable for a City Boy. (And to think City Boys laugh at US.) So I drive the route, measure mileages, and such. I E-mail all this to Jerod on Thursday.

So, as it turns out, this week prior to the festivities turns out to be the Week From Hell. I have taken slightly, annoyingly ill on Monday--a Monday on which my entire staff calls in sick. I am now trapped at work for twelve hours, sick, and with no warning. And--hello--the same thing happens Tuesday. Oof. I'm sick and getting sicker, and I'm supposed to be cleaning the house (and particularly the currently uninhabitable-by-humans-with-any-discernment studio area.) So I elect, improbably, to push my scheduled inventory up a week--since I'm trapped here anyway--and I'll finish it Thursday. Wednesday is another hellacious all-day meeting in Long Island, and did I forget to mention we're short one car right now? I inform one employee that he WILL be there at the store Wednesday, even if hooked up to a rolling IV drip. Thursday--all day alone again, still sick, and I complete the inventory. Huzzah. Friday, we drive, after work, all the way down to Fort Monmouth, to see Jefferson Balin Kantner Casady Starship--which is a story for another time (in which I MEET MARTY AND PAUL......EEEEEEK!!!!) but suffice to say in THIS regard that it KILLS FRIDAY. Saturday, whirlwind cleaning exercise. Attic full o'crap now. Jerod calls, in a panic, and says that the guy they were going to borrow drums from has pooped out on them, and can they use MINE? Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. Jerod assures me that I will not have to carry them myself.

Sunday, of course, things do not begin smoothly. The drummer ("Rocky") has to be picked up at some godforsaken locale near the Verazzano Bridge. Jerod calls and asks for directions from said bridge INSTEAD of the easy way I was trying to send him. I do what I can to discourage this. But, sure enough, they call back ten minutes later and demand directions from the Verazzano--this having something to do with a crush of traffic. This will set them back at least an hour and most likely get them lost. I tell 'em I'll call them back shortly.

I look at the map, figure it out, and then call back. By this time, they've picked up the drummer. He has, apparently, some experience with this part of New Jersey. So they put HIM on the phone and I give him, after many fits and starts, the new directions. About a page-full. Then we wait.

Luckily, they are almost all the way here before they get hopelessly lost. But they're in a place from which I can guide them here. And at last they arrive.

No guests except Jerod. It's Kelley, Monte, and the drummer--and my Nomenclatural or Appellative misgivings evaporate upon finding out that his name is, actually, "Ragi." Much better!

We sit around awhile, and they nose around the records awhile--they seem somewhat impressed by the collection--and then we saunter into the studio and suit up. Kelley whacks his way into Permafrost and, against all odds, IT'S AS THOUGH WE'VE ALL BEEN PLAYING TOGETHER SINCE WE WERE KIDS. ????? You HEAR about epiphanies like this on Behind The Music and such, but you never expect it to happen to YOU. At the end of the song, Jerod and Wendy (neither of whom is easily impressed) are spluttering. Me and Kelley and Monte are just grinning at each other. Ragi, on the other hand, takes it all in stride. Like he expected it. Good thing his name is not "Rocky."

Mid-song, in a wide-open Guitar Hole, I have inserted a somewhat incongruous loping guitar solo that would have been right at home on Notorious Byrd Brothers. If it is in fact possible to play guitar with your fingers crossed, that's what I was doing. But they loved it.

Then, Kelley just nudges his way into Captain, and this one's even better. And so on. And so on. We work through the entire set, not even stopping, and then take a break.

Jerod is beside himself. He has hopped onto the keyboards quite effectively, about halfway through, but he's not even thinking about that. He looks like he's just wandered into the Cavern Club and discovered the Beatles.

We're all sitting around, during the break, and I ply the boys with some of my homebrew. This impresses them too. They're all so much fun. EVERYTHING impresses them. I feel like the explorer in the pith helmet with the Zippo Lighter.

A small brainf**k occurs at this point......I'm well aware that these guys are all younger than I am, but there's never been any kind of Sociologic Impasse or Culture Chasm--the reason we all met, after all, is because of the music we all have in common. But now there's a revelation--I have a late-sixties compilation tape wafting throughout the house, and suddenly here's Through With You by the Lemon Pipers.

If you have never had the sublime pleasure of allowing this song to seep through your head, you must immediately partake. These are, of course, the guys who did Green Tambourine, a song which I LOVE, okay? And I make no apology. But even if bubbly pop is not your thing, you have got to hear Through With You. See, the band hated Green Tambourine as much as YOU probably do. The song was forced on them as part of their record deal. They were actually a psychedelic blues/folk-rock/drone band. And Through With You was their meisterwerk. Eight minutes long, powerful as hell, and centered around a truly acid-drenched 12-string guitar freakery courtesy of Bill Bartlett (who later went on to head up "Ram Jam", bam-a-lam.)

So the song's in mid-aforementioned-freakery, and suddenly Jerod stops talking and says "Who IS this??????" I was waiting for somebody to do that. 'Cause it ALWAYS happens when you sneak this song on somebody. I offhandedly replied "Lemon Pipers", and waited for the obvious reaction. But it didn't come. Instead, he said "Who were THEY?"

Kelley knew. "Green Tambourine!" But Jerod didn't recognize THAT right away either. "How OLD are you???" I asked, indelicately. His reply was a little bit shocking. If I had, as a high school senior, been a little less discreet (and a LOT more "lucky"), Jerod could be my SON.

Next ensued a discussion pertaining to what kinds of music are best to listen to at what times of year--a subject dear to my heart. Kelley has spied my rack of cassettes which are labelled "Spring 1976" and such. He wants to know what I was listening to when he was born--"...in the Fall of '71."

FALL OF '71???? Were they still MAKING people that recently?????

Well, this is not a PROBLEM, of course. It's just WEIRD is all. Y'know? But I show Kelley the list for Fall '71 and he seems happy. Ragi volunteers that HE, at least, is fairly close to my age. Same age as my sister, in fact. Monte is not giving it up voluntarily and I don't ask. 'Cause I'm starting to feel a tad Methusalistic.

We go back into the studio and RIP through the set again. Everyone is happier than clams, especially me, and I HATE clams. We hang around a little bit longer, and then go up the road to the Iron Horse for dinner. Both Wendy and I, thinking independently of each other, have chosen this place, and the City Boys are quite happy with it. Another good call.

We elect to get in the car and blaze the trail for them up to the Palisades Parkway, 'cause they will NEVER find it in the dark, not having come in that way. So they pile into their car (with a small portion of my drum kit--they don't need the rest--as well as my treasured li'l' Gibson Falcon amplifier, which Kelley will be using) and we pile into ours, and we're off.

It strikes me that we've played each song only twice, the first gig is TOMORROW NIGHT, and nobody--including me--is the least bit concerned. Amazing.

Here's Monday, and a full day at work (of course), during which I receive E-mail from Jon Weiss, promising he'll be there--and immediately thereafter, I get a phone call from Kelley. He's garreted away in the Telegraph Company's cavernous new office space, with no company other than Jerod's cell phone, and he timidly informs me that, uh, they're gonna need the rest of the drum kit.

Well, of course they are. How exactly could that NOT happen?

I laugh and tell him to have Jerod call me. See, I have to truck this big ol' Marshall amp (it's a real old one, and it sings like a glass birdie, but dearie me does it have a pile of avoirdupois) and my guitar--and now a big ol' bass drum and a pair of toms, and--and a bunch o' other stuff too? When Jerod finally calls, apologizing profusely, I tell him it's no problem, just BE STANDING ON THE SIDEWALK when I pull up!

Wendy calls Neill Furio (don't worry, you WILL hear of him if you haven't) and leaves a message. He plays a lot at this place we're gonna be at, and we theorize that he will love Kelley's music....and besides, we've known each other since 1978 and he's never seen me play.

So, at the precise appointed time, we pull up at the corner of Stanton and Allen streets, outside the venue--"The Living Room." I have of course heard of this place but have never been here. It is, as it turns out, directly across the street from Alex's place--how about that? This keeps happening to me in New York lately--every new place I go to in this humongoid city is located directly across the street from--or in the SAME BUILDING as--someplace else that I know. Weird.

There's Monte, and Ragi, and Kelley, and Joanne. I don't see Jerod. Ragi points him out, across the street. He sees us and gallops over. I decide to give him a hard time, and bellow "That's the WRONG SIDEWALK."

Now begins a curious Keystone Kops routine. The equipage has to go inside, of course. But the venue is so small that you literally cannot bring your gear in the building until the previous act vacates the stage. Good lord. What do they do when it rains??? So we all unload the car, and I park--serendipitously--across the street, by Alex's building, and we sit, outside the Living Room, with a pile of guitars, amplifiers, and drums. This is too too weird. But we're all having fun.

Here comes Alex with her new Formerly Stray Dog, "Zappa Zorn." Zappa and I confab briefly and then he gets territorial and decides to have himself a game of Scare The Human. He slowly closes his teeth on my hand and gives me what's supposed to be a Meaningful Gaze. But the little cutie is such a mush (AND a bad actor) that I just laugh him off. He accepts this and wags his tail. Meanwhile the assembled throng is rotating trips inside the club to listen to the woman who is heating the stage up for us--Jennifer Jackson. We've seen her before, at a show Neill did recently. And when Wendy comes back outside she relays the news that Neill IS here. He made it. He had decided he could not skip a show that TWO of his friends were playing at.

Well, the Previous Act finally finishes up and now we can bring our stuff in. Of course, the Recent Gentrification Of The Neighborhood only assuages my nervousness SLIGHTLY at the concept of all my gear splayed out on the sidewalk. No one else seems to be too worried, and they all know these Mean Streets better than I do, of course--but, then again, it's not THEIR Irreplaceable Gibson, IS it? So I elect to act as Hall Monitor while the rest of them hump the stuff inside a piece at a time. The transfer occurs without incident.

God, this is a tiny place. But it seems very friendly and open. The stage is, however, so miniscule that Ragi is forced to set up in the stage-right rear corner, behind me--so close to my back that several times, during the set, I will be the victim of--(sorry)--"Cymbalism." Kelley, of course, is in the middle. There's no room for Monte to stand next to Kelley--!!!--so he's sort of to his left and sort of behind him. It's a rather weird setup and a big jumble of bodies. We barely have time to tune up and away we go.

Permafrost is first--and, as I expect, the audience is stunned. Those who have not heard the record are transfixed but stone-faced. Those who HAVE heard the record, (and it's easy to tell who they are), keep ping-ponging their eyes around the stage, from Kelley to Monte to me--because it sounds so different from what they expected. They don't ping-pong to Ragi, though--because he's invisible! Funny thing--he has a lot of old friends in the area and quite a few of them are here, including HIS MOTHER--who has never seen him play and is apparently not even too sure what "drums" are--and SHE CAN'T SEE HIM! Rock and roll.

Kelley is so at home on this stage, I can't believe he hasn't been doing it twelve days a week for the last decade. And I notice something else too--this doesn't feel like three hired guns backing up a killer songwriter. Feels like a BAND. So I don't feel timid about punching in my little Byrd Brothers invention, mid-song. I catch Neill's eye. He's staring, open-mouthed--first at me, then at the Marshall, then back at me, then at the Marshall......ha! After so many years thrashing and crunching in bar bands, my little tube-laden girlie is finally getting a chance to show what she's MADE OF. Feels good!

As small a place as this is, the audience seems huge. The room is packed. And they are quite vociferous. The rest of this set will be a breeze.

The second song, Captain, is a serious gear-shift. Louder, crunchier, but skewed. On the recorded version, you imagine Syd Barrett setting his toes on fire methodically, one by one, as he sings. But the way we're playing it tonight, you fancy that Syd has a flame-thrower pointed squarely at Roger Waters' ass. And why not.

Me and Monte are finding some places to drop in some background vocals. We're still rehearsing, in a way, but everything works. Magic. Kelley appears to lose his mind about halfway through and plays some scrabbling guitar honk that throws the audience completely for a loop. I do my best to keep up.

Lonely Star State is, on the record, very stark. Just the acoustic guitar and a few background noises. But I hear a big, repeating hole that REALLY NEEDS a long, brushed, reverse-arpeggiated suspended-2nd type thing. A Rain Parade chord, if that helps. I play it as quietly as I can but it most definitely WANTS TO BE THERE. Kelley looks over as the brrrannnggg fades out, surprised and happy. Like he wishes he'd thought of it himself. YES! That's what I wanted!

Now, the unexpected event--well, at least for people who know the record--Tim Buckley's Strange Feelin'. I normally wouldn't cotton to anyone touching this song. But these guys can deliver. At the San Francisco gig, the other guitar player had laid his guitar down for this one and played a xylophone--rather neatly, too--in place of David Friedman's vibes on the record. But I have a feeling I can supply the same kind of mood thing, better, but on the guitar--using the neck pickup and a lot of bass (think Child Is Father To The Man, or better yet Deja Vu.) It works. It works big. I'm getting away with virtually everything I do. And Kelley is brilliant, as are his other two cohorts.

Kelley introduces the band, managing to note that you don't pump your own gas in New Jersey.....and when he gets to Ragi, I tell Drummer Man to peek out from behind the kit "so your mom can see you." Mom is delighted. Looking around the room, I finally notice Jon Weiss--all the way in the back, up against the rear window.

Sculptures Floating is the centerpiece of the set. A rambling thing in three distinct movements, separated by two deliberately jarring snatches of pink noise. I play some quiet high octaves behind Kelley's insistent six-note leitmotif. (Oh, look it up.) Against all odds, it works like a charm. And then, BANG and we're into Cardinal Body.

Cardinal Body, on the record, is a trippy, trancey, looping little thing. Kelley doesn't wish to play it that way tonight. It's evident from the first two bars that the song will be transformed into an Amtrak Ride To Hell. I find a crunchy little Keith Richards thing to bat around over the top of it during the verses, and just flail away during the breaks. At least twice I accidentally step backwards right into the metaphorical buzzsaw that Ragi is conjuring up with my cymbals. Ow!

Vapor Trail closes us off. This, too, we bang out with much more clang than it had on the record. In each chorus, Kelley and Monte do these cute little "La la"s, and I decide to add a third part on the repeat. This goes over well. So, the second time, I lean over to Kelley's mic (yeah, about three inches) and do the "La La"s Paul-And-George Style, with my head on his shoulder. Someone in the audience squeals with delight. I didn't see who. But I was right. It's a BAND thing up here. Cool.

Thunderous applause and we're out.

LITERALLY out. Out to the cars with the various equipages. And then back inside. There's another band after us. Friends of Neill's, of course. Who isn't?

But I notice that both Jon and Alex have vanished before we came offstage. Oh oh. Was it not as good as I thought it was? Naaah. No way. Wendy and Neill are beside themselves. I'm dragging the Marshall down the aisle past Neill and he's staring at it like it was the Second Coming. Yeah!

I figure the stuff is safe in the car right across the street. So we sit inside, first with Kelley, (who thanks me profusely and repeatedly, as the sky suddenly and inexplicably opens up and rains like a bastard) and then with Neill--'cause Kelley is beside himself and eventually has to go back to Brooklyn and try to re-collect his brain cells. His father and uncle, whom he hardly ever sees, had turned up at the show! How about this?

We volunteer a ride home for Neill, though this will of course involve staying till the next band finishes up. I have to move my car--they have Alternate Side rules here. So with some trepidation I trundle around the block, to Norfolk Street, and cover things up as best as I can. Though, given the fact that it's pouring buckets, I probably don't have much to worry about break-in-wise.

The next band--the headlining band--is good but they play FOREVER. The audience is nuts about 'em, though, and won't let them stop. Between that and the requisite schmooze afterwards--mainly by Neill--it's quite a while before we escape into the oxygen. Everyone else that we know has already left. The rain has slowed to a livable level.

Neill is waxing poetic about Kelley's music, and why not? It's also evident that he noticed and mentally recorded every single lick I played, and is cataloguing his appreciation thereof, one by one, and in order. He really has quite an array of brain cells at his disposal, and it's rather pleasant to hear him using them for THIS. As you'll imagine.

Well, we get home without incident. A really great night, and I can't wait to do it again. I'm actually bugged that we have a day away from it Tuesday.

Tuesday at work, I get several phone calls from Kelley and from Jerod. They're both beside themselves. Me too. I playfully E-mail Jon and Alex--"Why'd you leave early?? Was it THAT bad??" and both of them write back, spluttering. "BAD??? BAD?? ARE YOU NUTS????" Or words to that effect.

Wednesday night, we're playing at the Knitting Factory--in the sub-sub-basement (but they don't call it that, of course) as a package with Stew And The Negro Problem. It's not the whole band, just Stew himself and Heidi The Bass Player--who turns out to be Heidi Rodewald, who was in Wednesday Week, one of my favorite underappreciated bands of the late 80s. Two sisters, a guy on guitar, and Heidi. If you need a parallel, they were kind of Bangles-ish without the Susannah. Deep, dark, rich Girly Voices. Heavenly. Great songs, too. Jerod is excited about introducing me to Heidi, since I did one of their songs on my Xmas tapes. I'm looking forward to this myself.

Wendy and I will be taking separate cars--shades of Cavestomp--so I can be there early for a soundcheck. 8:00. I have never been to the Knitting Factory, so I give myself some extra time, and I get there right on time. 7:57. In the car with me: two guitars, the little Gibson amplifier Kelley will be using, and His Royal Marshall Humungousness. I get a truly unbelievable parking space--mainly, I imagine, because the No Parking Till 7PM veil has just lifted--right in front of the door. Not bad. I go inside to scope.

The room we'll be playing in is, in fact, three flights straight down. Ugh. Well, Jerod and his merry men will be here to help me hump the gear in.

And perhaps you can also make milkshakes out of cobalt.

Not only is there no one here that I know, but there's some Jazz Guy, that was doing a 7 to 7:45 PM set, and it sounds like he's just now gaining momentum. The helpful fellow who is guarding the door to the basement cavern shows me where I can put the stuff I bring in. He is palpably annoyed that the Jazz Guy is still spewing jazz.

Well, I don't want to leave all that stuff in the car. And I hate sitting around doing nothing. So, one by one, I bring each item in and shepherd it carefully down the cast-iron stairs. Then I go back out and sit on the car.

About ten minutes of sitting on the car, and up pulls a taxi loaded with Stoltzites, including Joanne. Jerod is driving separately, and has taken a different route. He arrives in a couple of minutes. So we all go in. And we wait. And we wait. The Jazz Guy is a seemingly bottomless Wellspring Of Jazz. So Kelley and I are sprawled on this little couch at the bottom of the stairs. Here we are to remain for another half hour, drowning in a sea of Excess Jazz. Ragi goes out and gets food. Kelley and I are idly discussing what we should play for sound check. I suggest we f**k with Ragi and Monte's heads by lurching into Echo and the Bunnymen's Rescue, knowing instinctively that it'll be one of Kelley's favorite songs. I'm right. Except I don't really know how it goes. Never mind, says Kelley, HE knows it.

Jerod sits down and asks about my recording equipment. Do I have this, do I have that. All the stuff he mentions is this newfangledy digital whoozifus and I must have displayed some annoyance. "No!", I finally bark. "I'm completely, totally analog. For Christ's sake! Look at my HAIR!" This wasn't actually SUPPOSED to be a joke. But sometimes I forget that not everyone speaks my language. I guess it WAS pretty funny.

And finally the Jazz Valve creaks shut. Thank heaven. Weighing on our minds: we will be sound-checking in front of people--or will we?? Nope--because the Guy At The Door, who palpably Loves His Job, (and hates Jazz Guys Who Won't Get Offstage When They're Supposed To) promises to keep the room clear till we're ready. And, bless him, he does exactly that. He also clears the room of Jazz Audience Laggards right quick, as well. He does this, for us, in a room WHICH HAS A BAR IN IT. Think about it! Now, this is a level of Club-Employee Coolness which one dares not expect, EVER. I do not know the Door Guy's name but I bless him severely. Thank you, Door Guy!

We set up as quickly as possible, and I lurch into the opening riff to Rescue, trusting heaven that I will hit it the first time. And I do. Kelley's right in there, so is Ragi, and Monte is right behind. Amazing. Kelley vocalizes his way through one verse. The few Official Types in the audience area (about a dozen of 'em) are stunned. "Hey!! They don't KNOW this song--do they?"

HA! That was fun. And Kelley does a grand Ian McCulloch.

Ragi breaks the spell. "Can we play one of the songs we're actually going to play?"

Yeah, yeah. But he got a kick out of it too. It was all over his face.

So, we play half of Permafrost and, I think, a shred or two of Captain. Yes. Then we wander offstage. Alex is here, and so is Jon Weiss.

This place, small as it is, actually has a Green Room. Wow! It IS a glorified closet, mind you, but at least it's a smoke-and-noise oasis. We have only a few minutes till we're on. And suddenly the audience is in, en masse. The place is virtually packed. How about that? And, finally, here's Wendy.

A friend and/or associate of Jerod's--to whom I was introduced on Monday but whose name I (of course) cannot remember--clambers up onstage to introduce Kelley. He is notable in that he has precisely the same voice as Larry "Ratso" Sloman. It was a pretty cool intro, too. I notice that Kelley's up there already, so the three of us follow suit. Kelley says a couple of quick words, and away we go.

This audience loves us even more than the Living Room audience did, if that's possible. And it sounds real good. During the quiet passages there is utter silence in the crowd. Amazing. In my entire long-but-not-very-wide guitar-slinging career, I have never experienced THAT. Kelley can really hold a crowd.

I'm noticing that, during my little Rain Parade Reverse Arpeggios in Lonely Star State, I'm drawing ping-pong heads again. They keep looking back and forth from Kelley to me to Kelley. So I try to fade more into the back. But I'm having way too much fun.

Things go rather swimmingly until Cardinal Body--Kelley is whacking his guitar half to death, so I follow suit--and of course I break a string. Right at the end--so at least it didn't ruin the song. Luckily, tonight I've brought The Other Guitar--Wendy's. I strap it on, tune it up, and we start the final song, Vapour Trail. Problem is, the guitar hasn't been played in so long that it absolutely refuses to stay in tune. One by one, each string slips out and I attempt to fix it in mid-strum, with varying degrees of success. Here's the cool part: Monte is keeping tabs of which string is off-base at which time, and is bending his strings to try and approximate my own off-keyness to make it less jarring. Well, anyway. Half the audience doesn't notice, and the other half doesn't care--because the song itself is that good. We finish up to a serious rash of adulation. Kelley points at me! I'm flabbergasted, and I just point back at him. The audience loves this, or at least they respond in the proper Pavlovian manner. Wow.

As we're trying to hump everything off the stage to make room for Stew, (and not getting very far--there are a LOT of people in here) Stew asks me--unexpectedly--if he can use my little Gibson amp. The one Kelley was using. Sure--but for God's sake, what was he gonna do if I said no????

I'm trying real hard to get everything out of the way fast. Suddenly here's a woman with a bass. Must be Heidi. I guess I'll meet her later. I wrestle all the rest of the stuff through the crowd to the green room and collapse therein. Kelley's in there too, along with Chris Rael from Church Of Betty, with his sitar. He's playing a few songs with Stew. Frankly, this Green Room thing is so comfy that I elect to catch most of the set from within. Kelley introduces me to a woman named Penny. Turns out it's Famed Downtown Performance Artist "Penny Arcade." Well, THIS is pretty cool too!

Kelley comes in and out. Me and Monte are stationed on the couch, talking about his band "Swell." I am, as I said, mortified that I don't know of them--they have FIVE albums out. He promises to send me some.

Alex, Jerod, Joanne, Ragi, Chris, The-Other-Guy-From-Church-Of-Betty, (damn! sorry, guy) and Jon Weiss wander in and out variously. It actually sounds nice and clear in the green room. You can hear Stew's music just fine, and at a civilized volume. And, at this point, the audience is REALLY packed. It's hot out there, and VERY smoky. So I leave the room only a couple of times--to see Wendy and to go upstairs to the men's room.

Jerod has brought along some of my drums and stands, which Ragi was variously using and not using. He was also using part of a kit that, apparently, belongs to the venue. And here was a bit of a problem. I couldn't leave the green room even if I wanted to--because some evil-looking Knitting Factory Minion keeps coming into the room, scowling, looking for More Drums To Take. Ragi and I keep shooing him away from my stuff, which he keeps trying to abscond with. It's a good thing Ragi's in there--'cause, frankly, I'm not totally sure which stands-and-such are MINE.

At one point, talking to Kelley and me, Jerod remarks how well it went--and how people in the audience kept remarking that "there was a real BAND vibe."

Yay!

After Stew finishes up, we all end up outside the bar in the little foyer area, and I finally meet Stew and Heidi. Jerod has told Heidi all about the Wednesday Week Xmas song I did, and she's anxious to hear it. We chat for a while about Wednesday Week, and how I remember seeing them on the Arsenio Hall show. I give her a copy of the Wednesday Week compilation CD I whipped up at home. She's almost overcome.

Thirteen years after Wednesday Week, Heidi still looks great--and in addition she weighs about 32 pounds. I mention this only because she is wearing a pair of pants that I will not even attempt to describe. See for yourself.

Apparently this was to be the last public outing for The Pants. She told Wendy they were falling apart and needed to be retired. Kelley insisted that she reincarnate them as a throw-pillow or something.

All in all, the assembled bunch of us spends almost an hour, I guess, in the foyer. Moving variously in and out of the conversation. Halfway through this, Joanne crashes into dreamland right on the couch. It's late.

Eventually we all head upstairs and load up the cars. Ragi needs a ride to the upper West side somewhere (how many friends does this guy HAVE??) and I volunteer. But by the time we actually all get around to leaving, he decides it's too late to drop in on whomever, and he goes back to Brooklyn with the Jerod Gang. As I pull around the block and head North, with Wendy behind me, she rolls up alongside, beeping the horn. "You forgot Ragi!!" I explain the situation, and we caravan homeward. 3AM to bed again, and work the next day. Bleah.

Thursday afternoon Kelley calls. We had all made vague plans to get together, probably at our house, before Kelley goes home. Between Kelley, Jerod, me, and Wendy, we decide on Saturday evening as the best possibility. Monte will, unfortunately, have left by then. But Ragi will still be here--he's going back with Kelley Sunday afternoon.

So, Saturday comes, and we await our visitors. Jerod has previously scoped our outdoor grill, and has claimed that he will bring a Huge Pile Of Meat. We like this idea. But, of course, there is a snafu. No one can find Ragi. They wait and wait for him, and finally Jerod suggests that WE go to Brooklyn instead. Well, we had been looking forward to hosting (which we never get to do) AND we have already made the salad and some other stuff--but this will be way better than nothing. So I get directions from Jerod, and we prepare to head out, and the phone rings again. It's Jerod. "Screw it! We're coming over there!" Ragi will be left to fend for himself. This is not as cruel as it sounds. He'll be able to see two or three dozen other NYC friends that he was otherwise going to blow off.

So I run around the corner to the Foodtown, to get--what? I forget. But it was something important. On the way back, it occurs to me that Jerod had not asked for directions, and I hope he has been smart enough to bring the nicely written-out ones I gave him. As I pull into the driveway, the phone's ringing. It's them. They don't have the directions. So I give him directions over the phone, knowing they'll get hopelessly lost. He asks me where, along the route, there's a supermarket. So I tell him about the Foodtown which I was just at, which is right on the way.

A fair amount of time passes, and then the phone rings. It's Kelley, on Jerod's cell phone. The last part of the directions that Jerod wrote down are apparently unclear, and he needs assistance. Sure, I say, where are you now? He replies that they're in the parking lot of the Grand Union I told Jerod about, and Jerod's inside procuring Meat Products. I reply that that's great--they're right around the corner. And I give him directions to the house.

A few minutes later he calls back. And with good reason. You, dear reader, may have already picked this up, but of course I didn't. They are NOT around the corner. They are at some Mystery Supermarket, the location of which I have no idea. All we really know is that it's somewhere in New Jersey, which is helpful. I hear another cell phone conversation going on in the background. It's Joanne. She's talking about being lost. I have no idea who she's talking to. It turns out to be Alex, who is in a SECOND car that we heretofore have no knowledge of. It's being driven by some friends of Alex's who were in town and are coming over with her. Well, the more the merrier. But first they have to GET HERE, which is looking less likely all the time.

Finally Wendy dopes out that the Jerod Car has blown through a light they were supposed to turn at, and they're in Closter Plaza. This won't be TOO difficult. But we need a map. Wendy goes and gets one. 'Cause we know how to get here but we don't know the names of the roads.

After consulting the map, we give them one final set of directions. Where, by the way, is Alex? They don't know. Good luck.

Shortly thereafter, of course, Alex calls. It's difficult to tell exactly where they are, but we gaze at the map and just have her holler out street names until we locate their coordinates on the mappy. To be safe, I elect to stay on the phone with her and steer 'em all the way here. This takes about fifteen minutes, during which time the Jerod Car arrives safely. What a comedy routine this has turned into. I go outside, with the phone, and tell Alex we'll be standing outside so she can find the house. Three more minutes and here everyone is. Finally. Hours late.

We unwrap Jerod's Mound Of Meat and I slather it with various marinades, and let it rest a few minutes while we conduct the guided tour for Joanne, Alex, and her two friends. Then I take the Mound Of Meat outside. I have moved the grill into the driveway, where there is light (night has long ago fallen, contrary to our plans) so I can see what I'm burning. Jerod mans the stove and does some sort of a mushroom-and-onion thing. Yes!

Meanwhile, Joanne is fascinated by the concept of Compost and needs to see the pile and learn how it works. So, in addition to the house, which we are of course proud of, I get to show off my Pile Of Organic Crap. An unexpected filigree.

Wendy has adjusted the number of placesettings, and when the meat is ready we all swarm around the table and eat like people who don't eat too very often. This is a really nice cap for the week. Jerod is impressed with the way the meat turned out. He turns to me and exclaims, "Is there anything you CAN'T do?" "Yes," I reply, "Get Paid."

After we stuff ourselves and sit around for a while, I suggest we go downstairs and view the Cavestomp pictures. They've only seen the ones that are here on this here website. So this we now do. After which, the Alex car goes back to NYC. Without incident, it later turns out. Because this time, they have actual directions.

A discussion took place earlier, at the table, pertaining to Echo And The Bunnymen--and I have told them about the pictures I took at the old Ritz, at their first American gig back in 1981. Kelley and Jerod are beside themselves and need to see the pictures. So now I dig 'em out.

But Jerod does not make it. He has faded away, on the couch in the record room. So me, Wendy, Kelley and Joanne look at these and many other pictures. Kelley does not quite make it to the end either. Joanne crows. Apparently this is something of a victory for her. Well, good!

Wendy magically procures more pillows and blankets than I ever knew we had, and we metaphorically tuck everyone in. Peace, out.

The next morning, I gently slam everyone awake with a soothing slab of Nick Drake, and Wendy pulls together an excellent Muffins-And-Coffee situation. Everyone is happy, and they hang around a while and then go home pretty much just in time to get Kelley to the airport. After they leave, we marvel at the way Jerod managed to sleep on a couch that's barely a step or two away, comfort-wise, from the inside of an alligator's mouth.

This was one of the best weeks of my little life. And I do hope that a) I get to do it again, and that b) YOU get to see it. Because you should see it. Amen.

The Past Was Faster, by Kelley Stoltz (with Monte) is available on "The Telegraph Company" records. Not easy to find in stores. But all the online places have got it. And so should you.

[Addendum, 4/20/00: Thanks to Don Rotolo for tweaking the Monte photo much better than I did.]