Louisvillainy

Do you believe in fate? Me, I'm not much of a fatalist. I like to take responsibility for my actions. Actually, I don't. But I DO like to blame other people for things and have them take responsibility for my actions. Regardless, or irregardless, or ungardless, I don't really believe in divine providence. Or at least, I didn't believe in it until a fateful night in Louisville (pronounced Loo-uh-vull) two nights ago.

Despues de un after-party that involved push-up bras, drunken moms, tire-squealing SUVs, and breaking beer bottles in parking lots, our merry band trundled--or rather stumbled--down the main hipster strip in Louisville toward Cahoots, an establishment that serves greasy food and good times. Last time we went to Cahoots (we play Louisville a lot) I witnessed a man defecating in a urinal trough and a fight over someone's old lady within, oh, five minutes. That tells you what kind of classy joint it is.

Anyway, we were promised that Cahoots was only four blocks away by Jesse from the Merediths (who, by the way, played a stellar set earlier at the RK--maybe their best and weirdest yet). I don't know what blocks are like where you come from, but where I come from "four blocks" does not equal "30 minute hike." So we are a million miles from home and a thousand miles from our van when the sky opens up in a most unexpected fashion, sending down sheets of rain that drive us into Akiko's, a sushi bar cum karaoke place cum schlubby guy showcase. This was the hand of God steering us toward destiny.

I have to backtrack and say that we've been talking about Bob Seger a lot lately, as you do when you're on the road. Mainly we've been talking about "Turn the Page", which might possibly be one of the smarmiest, sweatiest, most arrogant, sweatiest, oiliest, sweatiest songs ever recorded. I mean, the man even references his profound ability to sweat in the song, and when have you ever seen a picture of Bob Seger that didn't make you want to take a shower afterwards? The man is sweaty. It's true. He is a sweaty, sweaty man. He was born with pit stains.

So "Turn the Page" has been on our minds. We don't really know the lyrics but we've been botching them steadily for the whole trip (remind me later to teach you the lyrics to the song I wrote for an imaginary dessert restaurant called "Sweet Escapes") and imagining ourselves in the song, sweating onstage with the Silver Bullet Band.

We trundle into the neon and flourescent glow of Akiko's karaoke room while some Louisville ladies (featuring omnipresent push-up bras, of course) warble an off-key rendition of some modern country song that none of us knows (or admits to knowing). We take a seat. And then, seemingly out of thin air, in walks Joey. A working man. A man still wearing his apron and red work shirt. A man with a paunch and a bald head and out-of-date eyeglasses. A man still wearing his nametag for whatever anonymous food service establishment he works with.

He took the stage, confident in what he was about to unleash on us. And the little colorful 8-bit TV screen thingy displayed that he was indeed about to unleash "Turn the Page". It was a Christmas miracle five months after Christmas. Microphone clutched in a death grip, the man prowled the stage with animal grace, nailing all of Seger's sweaty melodies while adding his own working class, stuck in the kitchen, ain't been laid in four months fury to the proceedings. The entire place was alive with energy, all of us sloshing beers on each other singing along as Joey told us about smoking the last night's cigarette and how the amplifiers buzzed in his head. What began as a sweaty, oily, sweaty, and smarmy paean to sweaty rock excess was reborn as a working class anthem: "Me...Joey...I'm the star. I'm America. I'm the one keeping this ship of state afloat. I'm the one on the stage. Me. Joey."

It was a glorious five to seven minutes, a real testament to the transformative power of karaoke (who am I, Greil Marcus?). And, then, in a blink, Joey was gone, off to whatever greasy, health code-deficient dungeon he came from. Before he left the stage, I boozily walked up to him and patted him on the back and said something along the lines of "You are the greatest person I've ever met."

He looked at me like he had an appointment to make, not really making eye contact. "Cool," he mumbled. And then he was gone.

Cahoots was okay as far as they go, but we all knew the night really ended back at Akiko's, much like Steinbeck knew his journey was over after New Orleans. We were just prolonging the magic.

Lucas