[LEMONS] 11.11.2003
I Live in Pilsen in a Pile of Burning Tires
Just after we got back from Asia, Harper bought the Fruit Bats' album, Mouthfuls. It quickly worked its way into our CD heavy rotation list, and has become one of my favorite albums of the past few years.
Yesterday evening, while I was messing around on Upcoming , I saw that the Fruit Bats were to play at the Bottom of The Hill last night. $8. Harper's out of town, so I flew solo. I haven't been to a show by myself in some time. I kind of like doing that, you (or at least I) really get more out of a performance if you are there strictly to see it, and not to socialize.
Lurking about, I noticed several other solo lurkers lurking about the BOTH, all of them guys. It's always guys. The problem with going to a show by your lonesome is that you don't really have much to do between bands other than stand around and drink beer. I ran into an old friend from work, and talked to her for a few minutes between two of the bands, but for most of the time I just paced the floor, or circled back around to see if, maybe this time, they had anything for sale at the Merch table that I might want. I noticed at least three other guys doing the same thing. I also noticed that whenever I made eye contact with any of the others, he would quickly look away, as if to say, "this is my own private Idaho, bud. Go get your own." Anyone who goes to a show by himself is a weirdo. Anyone.
But the Fruit Bats, who had apparently left their backing band at Mount Shasta (no, really), were exceptional. Eric Johnson was one of the better guitar players I've seen some time, and I was surprised how good the songs--which I had previously assumed were heavily produced--sounded, coming live from a two piece with a minimal set up. Those gorgeous songs. Johnson is, in my opinion, one of the better songwriters of my generation. Although the Fruit Bats do sound somewhat similar to The Shins, who sound somewhat similar to The Apples, who sound somewhat similar to The Beatles, I'd rather hear a well-crafted pop melody than a completely original composition that lacks emotion, strength, and soul.
But the real clincher for me was reading the group's tour diaries, which feature such shimmering little pearls of wisdom as the following:
Portland -- Any time you're a musician or artist and you live in a city or go to cities a lot, you usually run into people who live in unusual spaces. Or at least you overhear people say 'yeah, I live in Williamsburg in an abandoned bauxite mine shaft,' or 'yeah, I live in Athens Georgia in a tree,' or 'yeah, I live in Pilsen in a pile of burning tires,' or my favorite, 'yeah, I live in Silver Lake in a hollowed out whale carcass. ...(snipped)... We were going to have to drive down into the warm, forgiving arms of California, the place where all the wretched souls of the earth come to for salvation, and some are saved, some are saved.San Francisco -- San Francisco is gorgeous, there's no doubt about it, but I stick out like a sore goddamn thumb there. To blend in, you need to be there for a little while and breathe in the air, the air where even the bus fumes smell like eucalyptus and the garbage smells like pines. After that little while you get it deep down in your bones, which is why people can't leave there. It's a bit like a cult, except instead of this enigmatic leader who appears occasionally to take another young bride, you just have this city perched on these hills, water on three sides and some really attractive people. Attractive and filthy rich people living on houses teetering precariously at 90 degree angles, and attractive and simply filthy bums who probably came from someplace clean and easy and boring and a million miles away from this wonderland. A few times ago that Fruit Bats played in San Fran, some bums were actually in the club and heckled us during our sound check. Nobody in the club really said anything; they just sort of grinned and said something like, "that's our boys."
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