Archive for the The Bobby Wilson Chronicles Category

The Bobby Wilson Chronicles: Holding Steady with Jack Daniels

Posted in Essays, Music, The Bobby Wilson Chronicles with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 31, 2009 by jnagle4

jack-daniels-label2

It happened again. For the second week in a row I had finagled my way into a party sponsored by a prominent brand of liquor. Two weeks ago I found out The Hold Steady was playing a free gig at the Recher. I initially wasn’t going to go based upon my experience at Ram’s Head last summer. The band was awesome, but the crowd was really violent and the Recher doesn’t have the safety of a balcony. I changed my mind when I realized that it would probably be the only chance I’d have to see the band in such an intimate venue. Besides, how can you say no to a free show?

Getting tickets was easier said than done. I wasn’t a member of The Hold Steady mailing list, nor did I post on their message board. The only way you could get tickets from the Recher box office was to show up in person. This is a problem if you don’t drive. I had one way of getting tickets, and it was a long shot. My dad is an attorney who works in Towson, not far from the Recher. He could get tickets, but I didn’t think he’d be able to make it time. Animal Collective announced a surprise show at the Ottobar a few weeks before, and the show sold out in a matter of minutes. Still, it was worth a shot. I called my dad and he said that he’d do what he could.

I have been going to shows at the Recher since I was fifteen-year old metalhead, so I had that working in my favor. My dad went to the Rec Room and ran into Brian Recher, who told him that the tickets weren’t available yet. My dad mentioned my name and I was in like Flint.

My dad’s word is his bond, but I still wanted to talk to Mr. Recher myself so he wouldn’t forget about me. I went into Towson around 2:00 and got to the Rec Room around 2:30. Good to his word, he remembered the conversation with my dad. He called over Buddy, the manager of the theatre, who I have quite a rapport with.

“Hey Bud, I promised John’s father that I’d get him a ticket for the show tonight,” Mr. Recher said.

“Well you’ll just have to tell John’s father that it was impossible,” Buddy said, jokingly.

“Well my word trumps all else, since it’s my venue.”

“The problem is that we have no actual tickets yet, but I’ll write you a voucher. You’ll get in.”

“Thanks Bud, you always take care of me,” I said.

“Whatever. Just no naked wheelchair rides OK?”

Buddy tore off a guest check and wrote out: “OK, one Jack Daniels ticket. Buddy.”

This ticket looked totally bogus, which is what made it so great. As I was putting my “ticket” in my wallet, I ran into Bobby, the drummer for the Hold Steady. I asked him if we could do an interview at some point and he happily obliged. This was a good day.

Doors didn’t open until 8, so I had plenty of time to kill. I went to the mall and grabbed a slice of pizza and a Dew. I bought a physical copy of the new Mastodon record, which came with a free t-shirt. I went to the library and borrowed a bunch of CDs that I would never actually buy, but wouldn’t mind having on my computer. I listened to Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian” and pretended to play Brad Gillis’ guitar solo. He still wails man, he still wails.

When I was finished motoring, I went back to the Recher. I expected to see a line around the block, but found only three fans. To my surprise, it was the exact same group I met last summer. Brendan, Emily and Kim are way more hardcore than I will ever be. We hung out under the marquee as the wind began to blow. Franz stopped by to say hello and also promised me an interview. We were joined by a few more people, but were surprised that the line wasn’t longer.

As the hour approached, the staff rolled out the red carpet and set up the velvet rope. We were clearly VIPs, like J-Lo, or Brad Pitt or Scott Baio. They sent out a dude with a guitar to serenade us with some cover songs. “Livin’ on a Prayer,” (without the talkbox), GNR’s version of “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” (the main difference is the “wah” at the end of every word), and “Sweet Caroline” (complete with “bum bum bahhs”). The Jack Daniels girls graced us with their presence and handed out the proper tickets. We all filled them out even though it was impossible to write on the laminated surface. When everyone had received their ticket, they let us inside.

You haven’t lived until you’ve faked your way into a liquor party. The moment we went in, a free t-shirt was bestowed upon us. There was free food, free booze, and free hats. I committed a cardinal sin within 30 seconds of entry. I went to the bar and ordered an amaretto and Coke and was informed that this was a Jack Daniels party. I hate Jack Daniels. It’s like drinking motor oil to me, which is the primary reason that I will never realize my dream of being in a sleaze-metal band. I reluctantly ordered a Jack and Coke, because it was worth another try. I took a sip and made a face. It was still awful. Oh well, it was free.

J. Roddy Walston and the Business were the openers. I’d interviewed them for Metromix a couple months ago and was anxious to see them. They lived up to their reputation. They really were “four young Elvises who never discovered downers.” It was the perfect way to get in the mood for The Hold Steady’s verbose story songs about party pits, Adderall and constructive summers.

The biggest difference between the show at Ram’s Head and the Recher show last night was the crowd. When the opening band left the stage at Ram’s Head, I felt a sense of impending doom. I could feel the crush of the crowd behind me, and things went downhill from there. This time around, I had lots of space. This was a Jack Daniels party, so there were a lot of people from the liquor industry there. However, it never felt like a totally corporate show. People clearly knew who The Hold Steady were.

The band hit the stage around 10 and they kicked ass. That’s a phrase that’s thrown around entirely too much these days, for things that don’t necessarily warrant it. For instance, “I saw Hinder last night, they kicked ass,” or “Man, that new John Cena movie kicks ass and take names.” I’d like to come up with something more clever, but it’s the most accurate description I can think of at 2 AM.

The thing that strikes me about the Hold Steady is the passion. I’ve read so many columns about how music is dying. As a music journalist, I’ve written a bunch of them. Watching The Hold Steady last night, I realized that music isn’t dying. Fandom isn’t dying, but the industry is. Why is the music industry dying? Because instead of catering to a group of kids who are willing to drive eighteen hours from Minneapolis to see a band in a tiny club, they went after the casual music fan. They fucked up, because if they catered to the fans that I met last night, they wouldn’t be in the situation they are in.

Craig Finn told us to stay positive and left the stage. I ran into Brendan, who was now drenched in sweat. We both had a killer time in the party pit. I hung out for a bit and got Franz’s e-mail. The band signed my copy of Separation Sunday, and then I left. I went to the 7-11, where I bought a bag of Goldfish and a bottle of Dew. I got home in time for the rerun of Breaking Bad. Life was good.

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The Bobby Wilson Chronicles: The Tuaca Body Art Ball

Posted in Essays, The Bobby Wilson Chronicles with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 24, 2009 by jnagle4

body-art-ballPhoto credit: Mark Gross

I love happenstance. A month ago, I wrote a column for B-More Live about being a handicapped 20-something and the problems I encounter with accessibility. I didn’t think anything about it until my editor, Laura, told me that they wanted me to do a photo shoot with one of their photographers. I’d never done a photo shoot before, but I was pretty much game for anything.

Sunday was the day of the shoot. I called Laura around two o’clock to ask her where she wanted me to meet them. She told me that the photographer couldn’t do the shoot and that we might have to do it another day. I was about reschedule my entire evening when she remembered that she had another contact that might be able to do the shoot Fifteen minutes later, she called me back and told me that the other photographer’s name was Sean and that he was shooting the Tuaca Body Art Ball at Ram’s Head Live. She wanted me to tag along, mentioning that there would be models there. She didn’t need to ask twice.

I put on my trusty Ramones t-shirt, my suit jacket and my fedora. I grabbed my iPod and went into the great unknown. I was meeting Sean at 8:30, so I hung out at the Inner Harbor for a while and met a friend for coffee. When she left I started psyching myself up. John Nagle couldn’t be at this event, at least not the usual neurotic Woody Allen meets Joey Ramone one. Tonight I had to be Don Draper. Tonight I had to be Steve McQueen. Tonight I was going to be Ric Flair. I listened to “View From the Afternoon” by the Arctic Monkeys, “Big Poppa” by the Notorious B.I.G., and “Get Up (I Feel Like a) Sex Machine” by James Brown. Tonight I was going to live in mansions and Benzes, give ends to my friends and feel stupendous.

I met Sean in the lobby of Ram’s Head. As it turned out, his sister has cerebral palsy and can drink him under the table. We made our way to the registration table, which was manned by seven gorgeous girls in little black dresses. Sean seemed to know all of them, which made me a tad envious. We made our way inside, where we were greeted by a blonde with a heaping tray of Tuaca shots.

“Would you like to try a Baltimore Big Apple?” She asked.

“Sure. Thanks a lot!” I said.

I downed the shot in one mighty gulp. It tasted like apple flavored cough medicine. The strong taste made me cough slightly, but I immediately felt the glow. It was going to be a good night. I went over to Sean, who was with another girl.

“John, this is Cammie.”

Cammie was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen in my life. She was a tall brunette, with piercing eyes, a perfect build and a smile that lit up the whole room. I was thunderstruck by her. I felt like Wayne Campbell seeing Cassandra on stage for the first time. Something came over me, an odd sort of calm. I didn’t talk too loud or too much. It wasn’t too obvious that I liked her. I was smooth.

“So what do you do?” I asked.

“I bartend. How about you?”

“I’m a journalist, I write for Metromix.”

“Oh awesome, I read Metromix a lot.”

Sean told Cammie we’d catch up with her later and we headed upstairs to the VIP section. I got another drink, my usual amaretto and Coke. I obsessively stirred the drink with my straw, hoping to balance the almond flavored liquor with the caramel flavored Coke. After several minutes of stirring, the sting of the alcohol hadn’t dulled. This was the perk of the VIP bar. Sean took a couple pictures of me behind the stage, telling me when to smile and when to look detached and cool.

The main event of the evening was the Body Art Ball, which featured several dancers wearing nothing but body paint. They contorted themselves into positions that nature never intended, which was the appeal. The best was a girl dressed up as half Marilyn Monroe and half Marilyn Manson, performing a schizophrenic dance to “The Beautiful People” and “I Wanna Be Loved By You.” It was pretty awesome.

After awhile, Sean and I decided to go back downstairs. When we got off the elevator, we found Cammie by the desk. Sean was busy talking to the PR person, and I decided to do something really ballsy. I went up to her.

“I just wanted to tell you that I think you are really cute.”

Usually when I tell someone something like this, it goes horribly horribly wrong. I end up embarrassed and retreat to my room for the rest of the day, listening to The Smiths and wondering why I am so unbelievably unattractive. Not tonight. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe St. Steve McQueen was looking out for me, but the stars were aligned.

“Really?! Thank you sweetie!”

With that, she put her arms around me and gave me a huge kiss. It was an amazing feeling. Somewhere in heaven, McQueen, Elvis and Sinatra were raising their glasses to me. I’d joined their famous band of international playboys. Before I had a chance to get important information, Sean told me that it was time to go inside. I bid Cammie a fond farewell.

Sean was with Abby, the PR person for Tuaca. I started telling her about the column I had written, when she got a quizzical look on her face.

“You look familiar,” she said. “I feel like I’ve seen you before, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. You look like someone.”

“I do?” I liked where this was going.

“I got it!” She exclaimed. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Ethan Hawke?”

“No, I’ve never heard that before.” I replied.

“Really?! Because you look just like him. I think it’s the hat, but it really is a striking resemblance. Sean, doesn’t he look like Ethan Hawke?”

“I definitely see the resemblance.”

This was insane. In the span of a few hours I had gone from a mild mannered music nerd desperately trying to get a fraction of James Brown’s mojo, to the adorable slacker star of several mid-90s romantic comedies. A girl walked by with a tray of Baltimore Big Apples. I grabbed one and wondered if I could use my resemblance to date Wynona Ryder and direct a Lisa Loeb video. Sean broke my trance by introducing me to a couple models.

We took several shots. The models looked pretty as I looked cool and detached. The models looked pretty as I looked fun and carefree. The models looked pretty as I smiled like David Lee Roth on the Diver Down tour. What had I done to deserve this?!

When we were finished, Sean and I kept mingling. Girls were talking to me left and right, and they didn’t notice the camera until Sean made his presence known. One of them asked me what I was drinking. I ordered another Baltimore Big Apple.

“L’Chaim!” I said.

We clinked glasses and down the hatch it went. It still tasted like apple cough medicine. As the drink was going down, she said something to me.

“You are cute.”

“Thanks!” I said, my ego now inflated to the size of a small continent, “So are you.” Like Cammie, she quickly exited the scene.

The staff was cleaning things up now, and the party had come to an end. I had to go back to being John, mild mannered music nerd. I thanked Sean for the amazing night I had. It was good to be the king, even if it was only for a short while.

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Bobby Wilson: An Evening at Lux

Posted in Essays, The Bobby Wilson Chronicles with tags , , , , , on January 25, 2009 by jnagle4

lux-logo

I straighten my tie and put my jacket on. I take one last look in the mirror. I like what I see. I take a deep breath and wonder what I am getting myself into. My phone beeps, and Clyde tells me he’s at the front door. Here goes nothing.

“Dude, if I’d known you were dressing up, I’d have done it too,” he says. “On the other hand, I am your bodyguard.”

Tonight Clyde and I are attending the grand opening of Lux, a new upscale dance club downtown. I’ve never been to a dance club before, mostly because they scare me to death. Axe body gel, throbbing techno music and flashing lights are not my idea of a good time. However, my new year’s resolution was to get out of my comfort zone. When I received the invitation to Lux, I couldn’t think of anything better.

Clyde and I can’t sit still, so we pace the floor of my room incessantly. If he’s nervous, he certainly isn’t showing it. We shoot the bull for several minutes, before Clyde comes up with a brilliant idea.

“What we need is a good story. Something we can impress the ladies with.”

Translation: When in Rome, do what the Romans do.

“I got it! We work for a magazine. I’m the publicist and marketer, you’ll be the writer.”

“Um, OK.”

“I’ll be like ‘Hi, I’m Clydesdale McFarlane. What? You think that’s a weird name? You’d be surprised how marketable it is. That’s what I do, I market a magazine. This is my writer, John. You guys should get to know each other.’ It’ll be that easy.”

Clyde was extremely good at this. It was almost like he’d done it before. Still, his story had a hole.

“If we work at a magazine, what is our boss’s name?” I ask.

“Bobby.”

“Bobby?”

“Yeah. Bobby Wilson. He’s a genius. He really turned the magazine around. It was floundering before he became editor.”

“What’s the magazine called?”

“M.U.”

“What does that stand for?”

Clyde actually thinks about this one.

“Modern……damn, I’m drawing a blank.”

I finally contribute to our elaborate ruse.

“Modern Urbanite?”

“That’s fucking perfect dude.”

By now, it’s 8:15, and it’s time to hit the road. It is a bitterly cold night, which makes me nervous. Extreme cold brings my disability to the surface. Hopefully we won’t have to wait in line too long. We get dropped off across the street from the club, and a gust of bitter air hits my face. Clyde and I gingerly go across the street as my back begins to tighten up. By my estimation, I have ten minutes before I start to have a spasm.

Damn! There are steps, and no ramp. I send Clyde in to check out the situation. I start to take deep breaths to ward off the inevitable. Fortunately Clyde comes out, flanked by two bouncers.

“Hey dude, we’re gonna have to lift you up,” he says.

I quickly scan the situation. Two steps are far from ideal, but they are definitely do-able. Any more steps and we probably would have to go home. I don’t do three and up. The two mountainous bouncers pick up my 200 pound chair like it’s a feather, and the warm air of the club is reassuring.

Even though I’m now inside, I’m not out of the woods. I quietly go up to the girl behind the desk. She asks me if I’m the list. I reply in a choppy sentence and she confirms my presence. Clyde and I hustle into the elevator, which is lined with mirrors. I am pale. Clyde has never seen me in this state, and starts to get worried.

“Dude, are you OK?” he asks.

“I’ll let you know in a minute.” I reply, desperately sucking air into my lungs. My back starts to loosen up. I’m going to be OK. The elevator doors open, and we are now in the nerve center of the club. The pounding techno beat slams against my skull. It takes me a while to figure out who is warbling, but then I hear Beyoncé call out to all the single ladies. Clyde and I walk across the dance floor and go up to the bar. It’s still early, so we get our drinks quickly. There is an open bar for an hour, and Clyde and I are taking advantage. My amaretto and Coke is perfectly mixed. Clyde and I go downstairs and find a table. We scope out the situation.

“There aren’t any chairs in this place John, except for yours,” Clyde observes. “Why is that?”

“Probably because chairs disrupt the minimalist motif.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well, they want this place to look like a minimalist underground loft, judging from that sculpture over there.”

There is a metal sculpture across from our table. The sculptor was trying way too hard to be edgy.

“That may be,” Clyde replies. “But when I am drinking whiskey, I like to be sitting down. I’m serious about my drinking, in case you didn’t know.”

“We could sit on those couches at the bar.”

“Dude, I am not drinking Jack Daniels on a couch!”

By now, more people have started to trickle in. Attractive women are in full force, but unfortunately most of them seem attached. Their boyfriends seem like parodies of macho club guys: gelled hair, bulging biceps, and Armani Exchange t-shirts. There are only two people in the club wearing a suit. The other one looks like he as a stick up his ass. After a few minutes of people watching, Clyde and I start to talk again. At this point, the music is so loud that we have to scream in each other’s ears.

“DO YOU EVER WALK INTO A ROOM AND AUTOMATICALLY KNOW THAT YOU ARE THE SMARTEST PERSON THERE?” I ask.

“THAT’S PRETTY MUCH HOW I FEEL RIGHT NOW!” Clyde says.

“WHERE IS DJ SKRIBBLE? I THOUGHT HE WAS GOING TO BE HERE!”

“I DUNNO MAN, BUT DOES IT MATTER?”

“OF COURSE NOT!”

The dance floor starts to fill up. I go back up to the bar. I am about to order a second amaretto and Coke, but then I remember my resolution. Therefore, I utter a sentence that I never thought I’d use.

“I’ll have a Jack and Coke.”

The bartender serves me my first real drink. I look at it for a few seconds, and think of how proud Monica would be if she were here. She’d be wiping away tears of joy. After a few proud thoughts, I take a sip.

Christ! This stuff is terrible. It’s like drinking motor oil. Monica and Clyde drink it straight! I feel like a complete wuss at this moment, so I decide to suck it up and finish it. I return to the table and take another sip. I make a face, and Clyde asks me what I ordered. I tell him.

“What the fuck were you thinking, ordering a Jack and Coke?!”

“I wanted to try it.”

“John, you don’t ‘try’ Jack and Coke. That’s a real fucking drink right there. I mean, it’s quite a leap from amaretto and Coke to Jack and Coke. It’s a man’s drink.

“I guess I’m not a man then, because this is awful.”

“No, you are just a different kind of man.”

Clyde can be quite kind in certain situations. He finishes my Jack and Coke, complaining because there is apparently too much Coke.

We scope out the dance floor, which is now completely full. A group of 40-year old women are dancing in a group. Christ, they’ve spotted me. One of them dances over and starts petting my hair. Another one grabs my chin. This is awkward. I am now thoroughly creeped out, so I retreat. I see them talking to Clyde and I feel guilty. I look like an asshole. I sheepishly apologize to the cougars. They are very nice and I dance with them, but my stock has significantly gone down. I’d rather be dancing with that hot blonde over there.

By now its 11:30 and the techno is getting to me. Clyde agrees, and we call for a ride home. I’m bummed out they didn’t play my jam. While we wait in the lobby, I hear the first few bars.

“It was all a dream, I used to read Word Up! magazine”

Goddamn it!

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