The World Famous Weed Eaters

"And people, they don't understand ... Your grandsons, they won't understand."
-The Strokes, Last Night

The last three months had been brutal. The blizzards and frigid temperatures seemed endless. Massive snow banks made ever walk an expedition. Stranded cars littered the side streets. All-time records for accumulation were shattered a week into February. Overcast was the forecast. Columbus' gray skies and the vitamin D deficiencies they cause can really get to you. The experts call it Seasonal Affective Disorder, but anyone who lives in the Midwest just calls it winter.

Looking out my window with a free and easy feeling (no work PLUS it was Friday), I was very pleased to see the sun making its presence felt. I honestly couldn't remember the last time I awoke to clear blue skies. I had to go outside to have a cigarette, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Sometimes killing yourself with tar smoke, on a beautiful day, really makes you feel alive. When I got back upstairs I had this voicemail waiting for me.

"Yo, Jacob, it's Steve from work. Me and the guys are hosting a function tonight at The Vault. Corner of Gay and High. We'll be playing. There will be some DJing. Should turn out to be a righteous gathering. It's Mardi Gras themed, so grab some beads or a mask at Yankeetrader and come check it out. Good people and good vibes man. Hope to see you there, check ya later."

I loved the way this guy talked. Jerry Garcia meets Dave Mathews. A product of the sixties and a throw-back hippie all at the same time. He possessed a kind soul, he was a family man and a genuinely good person. Positive chi hung around him like gold chains on Mr. Tee's neck. Without a doubt, one of the bright spots of a shitty part-time job.

Steve had been asking me to come check out his band for awhile. I would try to make a show after work but hadn't. A couple times he would have a rehearsal for me to check out, which would then fall through. Tonight would be different.

After Shooter got off work, we headed downtown. Javan and Suzie met us in the alley beside the building, next to the pink dinosaur mural. I had been pals with both of them for awhile. Javan is a gifted local photographer, check out his stuff at http://theculture-vulture.blogspot.com/ ... stat. The four of us, (all wearing gold, purple, and green Mardi Gras beads) crept into the side of the building through the maintenance door.

The outside of the building is regal, professional and dated. The structure is an old reception hall, built in the late 50's to host weddings and other such events. However, looking through the first floor windows, the interior looked clean and up to date. I wouldn't get to inspect things up close. We would be spending the evening in the building's basement.

Walking down some stairs, following sharpied signs through cramped hallways, we found The Vault. It must have been a large storage room at one point, but now it was drywalled and carpeted. It had been made into some sort of frat house-esque party basement with a stage area for live performances. The partially punched-out walls, musty couches, and soiled carpet was a stark contrast to the glitzy facade of the upper floors.

A wide mix of people put dollars in a basket and poured their own beer from the keg. We were all on the honor system. There was a DJ mixing some old school hip-hop, just loud enough in the background. I Introduced Steve to my buddies and we had a laugh over a drink. He told me the story about how he got hooked up with The World Famous Weed Eaters.

"Well I sat in for a session," he explained in his soft, slow and mellow tone. "They asked me to play guitar a little bit. I told them I would help them out till they found somebody else, I was pretty much done with being in a band. That was two years ago man! Now here I am." We talked a bit longer then he had to start setting up. We rolled a spliff and waited for the music to start.

They opened with a cover of Dark Side of the Moon that got the crowd grooving. There were seven of them crowded onto the stage area: Todd Reed on vocals, Steve Moc on the acoustic guitar/harp, Mike Cooper on electric, Paul Mattox on bass, Dre Walker on drums, KGB on the turn tables and Nicole on flute/sax.

"Damn, they got more band members than people at the party," Psyco-1 (aka Todd Reed) said into the mic after the first song. Their sound was very eclectic; a mess of jam band, rap, DJing, and wood wind instruments. Some people won't understand, but I dug it very much. An original called Who Am I? had a lot of energy and flow. The crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation.

Psyco-1 was the perfect front man. He was tall and slender with bleached blond dreads that were surprisingly good, considering they sprouted from a white man's head. He had "Pain" tattooed on his stomach, in an appeared homage to Tupac's "Thug Life" tat. Part Perry Farrell and part Lil' Wayne. He oozed confidence, strutting on stage like a peacock, nappy white and yellow feathers blazing.

Each song seemed to highlight someone different in the group. A flute or sax solo here, a scratch session or guitar riff sprinkled there. I liked the experimental sound they are going for a lot. Crossroads was another personal favorite of mine and the harp on Sunshine was stellar. I've dabbled with harmonica but this man had it perfected. There isn't a hobo riding the rails across our great nation that has shit on Steve.

Walking to the bathroom, I was struck by the feeling that I had returned to college. The atmosphere was very campus but we were downtown. This sense of duplicity mixed with the alcohol made me feel like I was back in Lexington, at the Sigma Pi frat house. I drunkenly walked into the woman's bathroom by accident and went into the closest stall. While releaving myself, I saw "Crab's jump off here" scribbled on the wall with an arrow pointing down at the seat. I had a laugh and zipped my fly.

While washing my hands, a girl walked in and gave me a look like she recognized me from a picture on the sexual predator notices. I quickly glanced around and realized why. I mumbled something to the affect of "Sorry about that, they're drowning cats in the urinals next door," and hurried out.

The four of us had a few more brews and decided to leave. It was getting very cramped and the only places to stand were right in front of the speakers. Not a good idea if you value your hearing. We liked the tunes but we were out of smoke so it was time to go.

Outside I almost collapsed with laughter. Parked on the street right in front of us was a Mustang painted like Superman. Literally, the top half was red and the bottom blue. The owner even had the "S" decals on the doors. Congratulations pal, every 9-year-old in the neighborhood wants to be your friend on Facebook. Good luck getting laid, unless your dating Wonder Woman.

After some more silliness and tom-foolery, it was time to call it a night. A great Friday out and a wonderful show that I couldn't wait to write about. Check out their web site ... http://www.theworldfamousweedeaters.com/ ... for gig dates and info. Of course nothing can compare to my trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras in '07. Planning to post the article I wrote about my experience in Cajun country soon, so stayed tuned! That and much more to come.


-J.R.

A Strange Evening Indeed (The Return of Butter's)

"Hang me up to dry, You've wrung me out too, too, too many times."Cold War Kids, Hang Me Up to Dry



It was an unspectacular Tuesday. Tony and I had just finished watching Easy Rider for the first time and we were both picking it from our teeth; digesting it slowly. I'm not really sure what I expected but it was not what I had just experienced. For a 'classic' I didn't think it was all that great but as time has passed it's grown on me.

Earlier in the day I had bumped into Janis and Georgina on High Street. They were grabbing a bite to eat before Janis had to head into work, tending bar at one of my former haunts Butter's in my home suburb Gahanna. Saying I was a frequent customer when I first moved back to Ohio and lived in my parents house (less than a mile away) would be the understatement of a lifetime. I was on a first name basis with the owner. I knew all the regulars and got love on my tabs but still managed to spend half my pay checks. It was where all my coworkers congregated. I met a women I ended up dating there as well as a fling or two. Classy, I know.

Since moving downtown, I hadn't returned and part of me was very curious to see how the place was holding up without me. Surely it had gone under. How could it possibly go on? In my mind I single-handily kept them afloat. With the way I tossed my Visa around people thought I was working on my Disc Golf game.

With the movie finished, I felt a strong itch for booze. I said bye to Tony and took off. The Cold War Kids had been getting heavy play in my car stereo of late and as I blasted down the freeway at 95 MPH their off-beat riffs and poetic lyrics coursed through my speakers. My high powered machine cut through the night air like a white shark through water. I made it to the burbs in 11 minutes flat.

Apparently business was fine. The only thing unable to stay afloat in my absence was the deflated ego owned by yours truly. They obviously didn't need me around to keep asses in the seats. Everything was just how I left it. There was a large, rectangular bar in the middle, a pool table to your right, two more to the rear and a modest dance floor. Dirty Dave was up to his old tricks in the DJ booth, enthralling the surprisingly large crowd with Def Leppard or something equally shitty from the 80s that most of us are happy to forget. He followed it up with (insert new auto-tune rap song from the radio) before sneaking in Cotton Eye Joe just as people seemed ready to dance. The crazy bastard was all over the place ... as usual.

Gahanna, New Albany, and Westerville high school alum of varying ages littered the room: hometown heroes, lifers, townies ... fiends and degenerates mostly. People who still live in the same zip code they grew up in. Sometimes in the same house even. Not that I can say much, I was one of them six months ago and some still call me a degenerate lowlife. The rest were residents of the neighboring apartment complex or randoms stopping in to find Mr./Mrs. right-now. The place can feel a little sleazy at times but I wouldn't have it any other way. To truly appreciate clean you must first get dirty. I was glad I'd moved downtown just the same.

Sitting at the bar, I caught up with Georgina who had just gotten back from a trip to Oregon to see her mom. She had been gone four months so there was a lot to talk about. First thing I noticed was her hair, which was now blond as apposed to the auburn I remembered. She showed me her camera full of photos and told me how things had been on the West Coast. Having never seen the Pacific I was captivated.

Janis kept the draft PBR's flowing, which are $1 all-day everyday at Butter's. I even saw some of my old high school crew who stumbled in. Shots were poured and laughs were had. Everything was copasetic until it was time to close out.

Some jerk on the other side of the bar had been giving Janis grief all night and it was escalating. He was a young fucker. Maybe 21 or 22 at the oldest and lousy at holding his liquor. After talking to her, I found out he was a regular and usually a problem. His ride had left him and someone was going to have to take him home because he'd bailed on so many cab rides without paying they refused to pick him up. After studying the guy, I couldn't blame anyone for hanging him out to dry.

"Well depending on where he lives, I may be able to take him home," I said to Janis and Butter, the owner.

My buzz was healthy but not unmanageable and I felt I owed him a solid for the many nights he had hooked me up in the past. He thought a second and then walked to his register. He returned with some green backs and slapped them down on the counter in front of me.

"That's $30 cash," he said. "Your tab is taken care of. I'm not dicking around. Please get that kid out of my fucking sight."

After little thought, I realized for better or worse I had just signed up for a possible suicide mission. I didn't know this guy from Adam. He might be a psychotic killer, or worse, a Jesus Freak ... but probably not the latter considering how smashed he was. Either way I was going to find out. I waited until he went to the bathroom to break the ice.

Once I was standing next to him at the urinals I made some small talk. Asked him where he went to high school, where he worked, where the after party was. He was an unemployed, high school drop-out but he had beer at his place. He just had no way to get there. Perfect segue.

"Well I can give you a ride," I said with a forced but convincing smile. "Long as I can snag some of those beers."

"Thanks man," he said. "That's no problem. Let me close my tab. You're such a kind soul."

Well who's soul wouldn't get kinder when cash money is involved? Of course I didn't tell him about the bribe. We hopped in my six-cylinder chariot and started to leave, Cold War Kids blaring. Apparently he was also a fan and he couldn't stop telling me about it. He was one of those drunks who keep repeating themselves, over, and over, and over until you just tune them out completely. Nodding as your mind drifts in any direction opposite the blather spewing out of their mouth.

Half way to his parents house (where he was living ever since he'd dropped out of high school) he decided he was hungry. God bless the McDonald's all-night breakfast menu, especially since it was on his dime. After stuffing our faces I dropped him off and told him I was going to have to pass on the beers. Busy day of sleeping in ahead of me but I made up some believable excuse about having to work early.

Pulling away I watched him lumber up the massive driveway to his parents palace. Part of me felt sorry for him. Based on his sob stories, people had been hanging him out to dry for as long as he could remember. A perfect but tired example of someone who's been 'screwed over' their whole life. This coming from a kid who lived in a million dollar mansion in New Albany, with his parents. Rent free. The irony was killing me.

As a result the other part of me wanted to slap him around out of disgust. Another spoiled rich kid who was pissing away his life. Wearing out his welcome at local watering holes ... but am I really any better? True, I have a job. I graduated from college but I've been run out of a bar or two in my day. I've felt sorry for myself and hoped to find the answers to my sorrows at the bottom of a bottle. Maybe he just needed some time to be a fuck up. He might grow out of it. Start taking responsibility for his life. I did but somehow I doubted he would.

Heading back downtown a richer man than I'd been when I left, I reflected on my night. It'd been fun but I was more relived then anything that it was over. I could go back to my new home in the Short North, away from the self-perpetuating hometown cliche. It felt strange being back and it's not everyday you get paid to Chauffeur a drunk stranger around after drinking on the houses' tab. Throw in a free breakfast and you got yourself one eventful evening indeed. It'd be awhile before I returned but I hoped my next visit to Butter's would be as lucrative.


-J.R.