The Sun’s Up, I’m Not: (continued)

Before we even rehearsed Rob extricated himself from the plot. He was heading back down to San Marcos and transferring to Southwest Texas State (now known as Texas State-San Marcos). He didn’t, however, leave us drifting because though he absconded the scene of the soon-to-be-committed crime, Rob introduced us to another guitarist who had agreed to play in his stead. Chip Kelsey was a swimmer who lived near Rob in the athletic dorm. Typically, he had a long athletic build, and short white-blonde hair, not exactly a rock n’ roll look coupled with his fairly mainstream garb, but Rob assured us Chip was a lead player and that he rocked. I was a callow whelp who wore the guitar, adequately bashing out chords and hoping to land all the changes. Chip’s accomplished technique, along with Hunter’s would lend credence to our rude alchemical punk stylings. Another distinct advantage to adding Chip to our unseemly combo was that he had guitars, real ones, two of them. Chip favored the standard Clapton Strat, black with a white pick-guard, but also owned a gem which he would let me play. It was a Les Paul Custom with black and pearlescent finish and mother-of-pearl inlays. I then had the power I craved to go with the heft I had become used to with my guitar. “The Twanger,” as Hunter dubbed it, was retired to the same closet which now held its partner “The Twister.” I would play through someone’s grounded amp from then on.

Rehearsals began in as much earnest as a lark like something called Madonna Wannabes could warrant. (And all to irk a bunch of Greek house dwellers). Clark Hall, to its extreme credit, allowed us to practice on Saturday afternoons in a large, empty basement storage room adjacent to the laundry room. It was hidden away deep in the dorm’s innards and would have gone unknown if not for the punk assault we trumpeted to the campus above through external ground-level vents. I can lucidly remember Darby hauling in a case of Shiner Bock the first time, and how great it tasted in the sweltering, windowless must. I was certainly the factor that could threaten our musical valence, as I hadn’t had much experience fronting a band and had a sparse store of chords at my disposal. Hunter, as always, bolstered me with his “you’ll do fine” attitude that never faltered, even when I did.

I must note at this point that some details are fuzzy regarding what songs were played, who was in the band for which shows, what order certain things occurred in, and why certain things were done at all, but I may be, and I stress maybe, the most coherent witness available. Safeway had a “Wines of the World” special, three bottles for seven dollars, not to mention Heaven Hill Bourbon and Shine On Harvest Moon Moonshine from King’s Liquor. It was college, and a rock band, the ultimate combo for inebriated capers. ‘Nuff said.

The inaugural run of Madonna Wannabes took place on November 18, 1985.
It opened up with a charged-up cover of Tom Petty’s “I Need to Know” and included an equally ripped up version of Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away,” “Your Generation,” by Gen X, The Ramones’ “Rockaway Beach,” and Hunter’s dramaturgically damaged rewrite of “Material Girl.” A dance student I recognized from the fine arts building came up and told us that she was from Athens, and that we reminded her of home. That was high praise indeed to a neophyte like me who had cut his teeth on R.E.M. and all things Athens. Needless to say, we were not the victors in the battle of bands that day, but we had germinated something in our attempt at campus contempt. People continued to ask if we were playing anywhere, though we hadn’t even thought about what happened if people actually liked us. Not long after, we played a show at The Library, a cinder-block dive that was almost next door to Clark Hall. Notably, Hunter broke a low E string on his bass during the set and bolted around the corner to the Hi-Hat Lounge, borrowing one from a blues band, and returning in a trice to restring and continue the set. I wore a dirty-blonde wig, and we taunted the crowd with the intro to “CrazyTrain,” as Ozzy was in town that night.

Around this time Carney, high-spirited lad that he was, and as bibulous as any college kid might be, presented us with quite a problem. He, in one particularly sloshy and surly episode, after being upbraided for some dorm transgression, commandeered a fire extinguisher and shot up the place, the R.A. and bystanders in specific, with chemical froth. The next day found him dispatched forthwith from the university by the man we called “What the Fuck” Buck Bennecke (sic), Dean of Students. Darby, indomitable as he remains today, soldiered on looking for a new drummer. It was further decided that the “Madonna” part of our appellation would be truncated, leaving the name Wannabes, sans article.

A truly strange episode occurred around this time, wherein I convinced Hunter and Chip into playing in the band for a Theatre TCU production of “Grease,” in which I was playing Kennickie. I took a perverse pleasure thinking that ¾ of Wannabes was performing for alumni and blue-haired theatre donors when we did my solo number “Greased Lightning.”

In short order Hunter unearthed a replacement for the drum throne. Jeff Nichols was a wry, cagey Kansan with an acerbic drollness that was tailor-made for our darkly comic lot. Things were looking up. We had already played at The Hop once, opening for Rob Thomas’ band from San Marcos called Public Bulletin (later renamed Hey Zeus) and had made a friend in a guy named Les Hoffheinz, who offered to record a Wannabes’ demo at his house near campus. Les went by the dubious moniker “Les Cargot” and fronted a party/cover band called The Cows (editor- not the noise band from Minneapolis). Somehow he convinced us to co-write and perform with him a song so ridiculous, I hesitate to mention it. “Hankerin’ for Hoecakes” was a paean to the dish ordered by most of us at The Old South Pancake House, preferably with Swedish lingonberries. It was played once and once only.

I was unable to schedule a time to do my vocal tracks on the demo until the morning I
was flying home to Florida for Christmas. The lead vocals were the final piece of the puzzle, and I had to nail them in time to make a flight out around 10:00 A.M. In those days, Saturday mornings were always rough, slow moving, wooly-brained affairs, and the dawn found me possessed of a hangover that had vanquished my normal vocal prowess. Darb came down
and pounded on my door until I rustily roused myself, and we Dodge Darted our way to Les’ house. Dr. Cargot prescribed margaritas, on the rocks, with barely any rocks, to loosen me up for singing. Loose I did get at 9:00 A.M. and slogged my way through the required numbers: “Too Drunk Too Early,” appropriately enough, “Love On a Stick,” and “Sun’s Up,” all written by Hunter for the most part. There was a fourth original that Chip had written words and music for but for which he’d yet to come up with a melody/vocal line, called “Grey With A Shade of Green.” Les piled us into his pickup and shuttled me, drunker than sin, to DFW for my flight. Hunter would do the legwork to get the demo out while I was gone and try to get us some gigs. We were logically looking toward Dallas and Austin.

1985 found a paucity of underground rock going on in Fort Worth. Other than Wannabes there was really only League of None, a psychedelic new wave outfit who we played with once, and two or three bands whose names elude both me and history in general. There was no shortage of great blues, country, rockabilly or other roots styles in Cowtown, though. The Brutons, the Bramhalls, the Farlow Bothers, Bugs Henderson, the legendary Robert Ealey (who owned The Bluebird, a true down-home blues bottle club,) and his group The Blues Movers. I’ll never forget U.P. Wilson, a guitarist who propped his electric up on a table, turned up loud, and played one-handed on the fretboard while he smoked a cigarette with the other. These were but a few of the immense talents floating around Fort Worth at the time.

Hunter had turned me on to a scene coming out of Austin that a major American rock magazine, (which shall remain nameless) pompously labeled “The New Sincerity.” We battened ourselves on the bounty, despite media attempts to corral and exploit for momentary gain anything coming out of Austin. Translate Slowly by Zeitgeist (later known as the Reivers) and Doctor’s Mob’s Headache Machine became the most- played records in my collection. We met Doctor’s Mob at Theatre Gallery and enjoyed many laughs with them as I engaged in verbal jousts with their manager Pat Blashill.

Another of our compatriots at the time was Peter Blackstock, who was a sportswriter for the TCU Daily Skiff (and is currently co-publisher of the No Depression magazine). He would later tell me after a Wannabes gig that we played “Time’s Up” faster and louder than Doctor’s Mob themselves. That, I can assure you, was mighty praise indeed. This was after a show at The Backside Lounge, a name we joked at the time, sounded like a gay bar, but was thusly named because it was literally on “the backside” of Hulen Mall. They had carpeted walls and pillars, mirrors galore, and a tessellated, multi-colored, lighted disco dance floor. We were made to set up in front of the restrooms, with a lane of access behind the drum kit. Patrons filed to and fro throughout the set. At one point Hunter disappeared mid-song, bass and all, with his vocal mic, only to urinate and flush at the end of the tune for all in the crowd to cheer. Also, a sodden cowboy shouted for “The House of the Rising Sun,” which we did not know, but the chords of which I figured out on the spot, and played for him with Charlie from Public Bulletin guesting on harmonica. Afterwards the cowboy bought us a tray of Coronas, saying, “That was the best damn version of ‘House a’ tha Risin’ Sun’ I ever heard!” We also threw in Husker Du’s "Green Eyes” as a dig at a member of Public Bulletin, I think Joe, who had learned the song to play for his new girlfriend, as her green eyes had him enchanted; He found out just after that she was sporting colored contact lenses...

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