Before I booked shows, like not before I booked my first show, but before I booked rock shows on a regular basis as a, I guess job, I would have parties at my mother’s yoga studio. After the teenagers would rage into the night on the hard wood floors spilling bits of weed, beer and nicotine I would clean the place to a T. I’m not really sure what that saying means, but I’d would go pretty nuts making the studio look like it did before the party. I’d mop the floor. I’d take out all the trash to the dumpster in the back of the old mill building that the studio was in. In Massachusetts there are ton of mills that were created during the industrial revolution that have been repurposed a number of times since their creation in the late 1800’s.
I’m not saying that I loved these moments when I’d clean. In most of the cases that it was happening and I was doing it I would be so fucked up or hung over. So, it usually wasn’t pleasant, but it was a moment that I had to myself. Sometimes, and really not often someone would help me. More often than not, someone would be like 62% conscious enough to have a very undetailed conversation with me, thus, keeping me from digging so far, too far into the depths of my thoughts; my head. That person was usually my former best man, JC.
I remember the last time we had… well, the last time we had a party while we were in high school. It was the night before he went to college. That’s a special night, so naturally we had to celebrate extra hard. And, that we did and it was reflected in the more expansive clean up that I had to do. As I collected empties, swept, mopped, cleaned the bathrooms and whatever else detailing I had to do, the sun rose for JC and I. He was slouched over in a folding chair set in the middle of the room. He, knowing that he only had hours until he would move his life into Bentley College, was entertaining a conversation about… pshhh… probably, the Red Sox, or the party the night before. Who knows what was actually said, but that was one time that it was nice to not be solo dolo.
The yoga studio was the first place that I really started to clean up the party, but it definitely wasn’t the last. Flash forward to me carrying a bass cab up the dingy flight of graffiti covered stairs from The Middle East Downstairs’ back door up to Green Street, a bland, brick, backstreet in Cambridge, MA.