Sunday, July 13, 2008

Dimeras (That's the Title)


Man, the Tower is looking great. I mean that. I don’t know why I feel that way, maybe it’s all the bizarre shit drawn on the walls that make the barren room feel a little less like a squat and more like a drunken punk kids first apartment. Or maybe it was all the young tail that was there the night that the Dimeras were playing last week. Yup, probably the girls. I can't help wondering where they all parked, I rolled in with two other guys and we were all cracking jokes about how we were going to die to ease the tension from our real worries of getting stabbed in the beer store down the street.

No matter what the decor looked like or how many unapproachable were in attendance, the Dimeras still tore it down. I had caught them once before over the Christmas season at the Death Sweats show when they were playing under a different name and I’ve gotta say there’s been a progression. They provide nothing fancy but enough quickness and snot that they sound like The Stitches shit faced off a twelver of Commodore Perry. In good faith I slammed a beer per song and it just made the whole thing better. I don’t know a single song title or how many tunes they played but I can go on record by saying that none of that matters. It was Cleveland punk and that’s a welcome gift. Shades of the TKO’s and Pagans and scary enough to go head to head with any band coming through Now That’s Class. They’re playing with King Kahn and the Shrines which makes good sense but these guys could be the perfect opening match for a night with the Spits too.

Good shit for a hot summer night. That twelve pack of Budweiser that I shared with Brad Thrasher was gone before I knew it. I was swaggering in the back lot as people pissed on a yellow school bus. I always forget that this is what July is supposed to be built around; beer, broads and bands. Pardon me for being so jerky.

This is a bad show review but, forgive me, I was loaded and it was over a week ago. I’m finding the right places and the right bands in Los Angeles but nothing comes close to shows like this. Cleveland summers and the burn out bands that come with it are a delicacy that the tourism board needs to take heed of.

Some dude played afterward who wore a fucked up bunny mask, or so I kind of remember. Not bad but my head was spinning and it was time to leave before things got blurry. The next night I drank dollar beers at Johnny Malloy’s and I thanked God.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Cleveland Calls...

Being back in Cleveland was like Back to the Future, only it wasn’t the future, man, it was the present. A time warp. Or, as my friends describe a black out, time traveling. I felt twenty three again. Full of piss and bourbon, confident and secure. Not that Los Angeles beats the piss out of me: it’s just that there’s no place like home.

While I was in town for the Amps II Eleven shows I learned to reconnect with friends. All it takes is beer and loud guitars. Maybe some dry ice in a plastic bottle creating an H-100 worthy bang. Or a BBQ… or whatever. I also learned that you don’t have to do everything to have fun. Lunch at Sokolowski’s and a beer at Johnny Malloy’s are worth the flight across the country. $1 draughts? Holy shit! Buy one get one burgers? Four please.

Why do you suck me in time and again, Miss Cleveland. I’m not worthy of your rusted touch but I always come back for another case of lock jaw.

I met a model from Shaker who was on my flights back. She used to work in New York City and now lives in Beverly Hills but she still comes home for the fourth of July. That’s like the article my mom cut out for me about how Drew Carey still goes to the same pizza place in Parma whenever he’s there to grab a pitcher and a pie. That’s her calling to them just like me.

This is the precursor to some live reviews I am going to spit at you and some general shit I might write in the next couple of days as I drink pricey beer in my pricey apartment that smells like rotten pricey turkey that I have had in the refrigerator since October.

Beware.