1. Colorado
Friday, March 28, 2003. 6:00 am. A God-awful hour for high school and college kids. We--Andy, Dan, Joe, Kyle, Brian, Nick, and me--met at King Soopers when the sun was still streaked purple and orange across the sky. A quick run through the grocery store to grab donuts, beef jerky, Mountain Dew, and water (the Breakfast of Champions), a quick stop for gas, and we were on our way.
The quickest road out of Colorado going west is I-70, which climbs through the foothills, up and over Vail Pass, then coasts down the other side, into the mesa country of western Colorado and eastern Utah. People live along it; it’s the road skiiers take to most of Colorado’s ski resorts; abandoned and inhabited mining towns are all along it (or, more accurately, the highway was built along the mining towns). It was our way out of Colorado and almost all the way through Utah, until it ended when it met I-15.
It snowed on Thursday night and Colorado was cold and windy, the highway slushy and wet. We were piled into two cars with walkie-talkies to keep in touch. Most of the first several hours was spent trash talking each other through the walkie talkies (or hitting on each other, whichever you prefer).
We had to stop in Vail because the slush kicked up so much dirt behind the cars in front of us that Kyle’s car ran out of wiper fluid and he couldn’t see out the windshield. We tried to get to an exit but Kyle ended up pulling off to the side of the road--he couldn’t see at all and was hanging his head out the window Ace Ventura-style.
If you’ve lived in Colorado, like I have, and you’ve spent a lot of time camping out and backpacking, like I have, you get a very definite impression of the mountains. They develop a personality--huge, megalithic chunks of rock that alternately don’t care whether you live or die or seem to actively try to destroy you. There’s no such thing as friendship with the mountains--the most you can hope for, if you know them well enough, is some level of benevolence. Everything you need is there, if you know where to look--but the mountain won’t help you find it. It thinks it’s enough to have put it there. The mountain is more likely to make life difficult for you. Once I was on an eight-day backpacking trip, and it rained for six of those days. By the fourth or fifth day, we were cursing the mountain and cursing the weather gods. The mountains toy with you. It can beautiful sunny weather at eleven o’clock in the morning, and by one o’clock it’s raining and you’re hiding from lightening, digging in your pack for long underwear. Beautiful, stunning landscapes hide loose rocks that can sprain your ankle (a minor injury normally, but pretty serious when you’re twenty miles from the nearest road and forty from the nearest hospital). The mountains are full of deer and elk and everyone wants to see them and avoid attracting the attention of a cougar or a bear, forgetting that the seemingly harmless herbivores kill more people every year. What’s beautiful is dangerous, the seemingly harmless can be deadly, and only bitter experience can teach you the difference. That’s what the mountains have taught me.
Humans’ attitudes toward the mountains vacilates between changing it, controlling it, and keeping it exactly the same. We build towns and highways, carve trails, put houses on hilltops. We climb to the tops of peaks and say we defeated the mountain. We chop trees, clear undergrowth, and control the animal population. But then something will happen that’s totally beyond our control--like a wildfire ripping through thousands of acres, destroying everything in its path. In the natural course of events, this is followed by soil erosion from the massive loss of vegetation. It’s a vicious and brutal process, but a natural one, part of the mountain reforging and renewing itself. But humans don’t give it the time anymore, after a forest fire nowadays we go in and plant quick-growing seeds like wheat and grass that will take root and lessen the erosion. Back and forth, hot and cold, that’s how the mountains are. You learn to live with them because they sure as hell aren’t going to alter a damn thing to learn to live with you. And they won’t ever be subdued.
While I stared out the window for a good four hours thinking about all this, the mountains slid past us, the highway tracing between and around and through the peaks. We held our breath going through tunnels (except the Eisenhower tunnel which is too long) and listened to music. When you’re travelling a long distance to a show, getting there is half the fun. You listen to music and in the back of your mind floats the thought, “By this time tomorrow I’ll be hearing this music live and it will rock!” As for me, I don’t have a lot of friends who tolerate--let alone like--ska, so it’s exciting just to be in a car with people who can sing along with my music.
2. Stupid Utah
The first impression of Utah is a big blank brown expanse of nothing. The sign “Now Leaving Colorful Colorado--Please Come Back Soon” is painfully accurate and it seems like not only have you left Colorado behind, but all the color has been sucked out as well. We also wondered about the sign “Caution: Eagles on Highway.” Doing what? CIA operatives? Weapons of mass destruction? Hitch hiking?
We spent some time in Utah seeing how fast we could get Andy’s car to go. I-70 in Utah is long, flat, and empty and there’s nothing to hit (except possibly eagles). We got up to 122 mph before our fear got the better of us. Best not to die a horrific fiery death before Ska Summit. Wait until the drive home.
We stopped in Green River for gas and food. One thing I’ve observed about people: if you’re a freak wandering around alone, no one takes any notice of you. I can wander around Denver by myself all ska’d out and no one cares, except to ask questions that are polite and friendly even if they’re a little annoying (“Toasters? You like kitchen appliances, eh?” “Avoid One what?” “H2O? Yeah, I also like water.”). But when you’ve got a whole posse of freaks, people are a lot more likely to fear or despise you--and a lot more likely to show it. Put that posse--a bunch of blue-and red-haired freaks wearing trench coats and patch-covered hoodies--in the middle of rural Utah, and you’ve got trouble. The ladies at Burger King didn’t speak to us, the customers all stared at us, the gas station attendent refused to sell us cigarettes. We got pulled over by a statie who didn't use the radar gun, didn't check the ownership of the vehicle, and said, "You boys don't want to go speeding over them passes. You might go over into the canyon and not know what happened>" ("Whoa, we seem to be at the bottom of the canyon! How did that happen?!")
At the Green River gas station, Andy helped himself to some of Dan’s CDs out of the other car. We weren’t five minutes out of the station when Dan came crackling over the walkie talkie.
“Hey fuckers!”
“Yes, bastard?”
“Do you have my CDs?”
“Umm...define ‘have.’”
“Are holding in your possession, asshole.”
We couldn’t answer for several seconds because we were laughing too hard. Finally Andy said, “Well, maybe.”
“Fuckers!”
We turned up the music and held the walkie talkie up to the speaker.
3. Welcome to Sin City
By the time we got to Las Vegas, the mountains were turning purple and the sky was going dark. My first glipse of Vegas was full-blown, all lit up, neon lights blinking against the sky. The entire skyline was hotels. A little overwhelming for a kid who doesn’t even like the corporate neon sign on top of the Qwest tower in Denver.
By the time we found our hotel rooms it was after nine o’clock and we didn’t think it would be worth it to try and find the ska party, so we just hooked up with my friend Lori and found dinner (we were all tired and cranky and delirious by this time. I was so hungry and tired I was lightheaded). Then we went out wandering the strip.
I think Las Vegas is a corrupted Disneyland for adults. I mean, what kind of grown man builds a hotel shaped like a castle? (I know, I know: a rich grown man!) Vegas is some kind of weird alternate reality. Its economy seems to be based entirely on tourism. I don’t think I saw one office building. And does it always have that smell?
In front of the New York New York was a small group of anti-war activists, holding signs and handing out fliers. Behind me, a big beefy tourist muttered, “Oh great, more protestors. Just don’t say anything.” Then as soon as we were beyond them he started talking about how sick he is of protestors, they don’t know anything, they’re stupid, etc. I was so mad I could barely talk, but I managed to say, “I like how you can mock them behind their back but won’t say anything to their face.” I mean, come on. I’m not naive enough to think humanity will ever come to a consensus on anything, and I don’t care if people disagree with me as long as they show some degree of respect for my viewpoint. But don’t talk shit about people behind their backs. All that proves is that the kids on the street hanging out the fliers, putting their opinions up on display, have more nerve than you.
Okay, I’ll get off my soapbox now.
Not much else to say about the strip, I guess. The water fountain show in front of the Bellagio was quite amusing. That pool, I think, has more water than the entire state of Colorado. And once again, there is a hotel shaped like a castle. A castle!
Tomorrow: Ska Summit!
1. The Kids are Alright
So many kids! So many checkers! Checkered hats, checkered pants, checkered shorts, checkered capes, checkered backpacks. Good lord. (Incidentally, I think that saying “checkered” over and over out loud is a grand way to lift your spirits. It’s just a fun word to say. Like spork. And quark.)
There’s one thing that always makes me wary of large, outdoor music fests, and that’s the mosh pits. The more mainstream a concert is, generally speaking, the worse the pit. Anyone who’s been in a pit at the Warped Tour knows what I’m talking about. I have a friend who broke three ribs and almost had to have her spleen removed after she fell in the put at an Offspring concert and no one helped her up. Don’t get me wrong, I like mosh pits and I’ve been in more than my fair share, but I don’t like being in a pit where people think it’s all about hurting each other and don’t help you up if you fall. That’s not a fun pit.
My other, more recent beef is that lately (at least in Denver) there has been a severe shortage of skanking at ska shows (say that six times fast). I went to the Toasters/Selecter/RBF show and there were drunken people trying to mosh to the Selecter. The Selecter, for crying out loud! And the thing that sucks is that two or three people who want to mosh can disrupt dozens of people who want to skank. I go to dozens of shows every year where there's mosh pits; I go to about three where there's skanking so when a ska band comes along, you better believe I want to skank.
But neither of those things happened here. A thousand people, at least, in the pit at any given time, all knowing how to skank and how to be cool to each other. So much skanking!
2. It’s a Small World After All
So, imagine. You’re seven hundred miles away from home. In a city you’ve never visited before. And suddenly, floating out of the crowd, you hear your name. You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. But sure enough, Doug materialized out of the crowd, the lead singer of the Accidents, a ska band in Denver that my band, Action Shot, has played with.
“Holy shit, what are you doing here?” he asked.
I looked around at all the ska’d out kids. “I’m doing my taxes,” I said, “What’re you doing here?”
I ran into four other kids I knew, another one from the Accidents and two from the Rightaways, another local Denver ska band. It was then I realized somethat that Ska Summit has that other music festivals don’t. It’s the coming together of a community. And it’s important enough that people came hundreds--even thousands--of miles to attend (the people on either side of us in the hotel were also Summit-ers, one group all the way from Canada), and then find themselves right back at home, among people they know, in the same community they thought they’d left. Funny that some crushed, hot, crowded piece of grass and cement and temporary stages and tents could be come a home, a community, but it did, for a few hours.
3. Overload! Pleasure Overload!
After we got into the show, we wandered around for awhile, scoping out the booths, buying merch, getting free stuff, pretty much just figuring out where stuff was. We saw Dr. Octopus on one of the back stages. They were really good, very catchy, and snazzily dressed to boot. Plus I’m always enamored with anyone who speaks an Australian, British, or Irish accent.
Around noon we all gathered in front of one of the big stages (we kept seperating and then finding each other again, usually near the big stages when we were all watching the same band) and looked at the schedule Kyle had in his backpack. “Who’s up next?”
“Well, Let’s Go Bowling is on that stage at 1:00...then the Skeletones on that stage...then Buck O Nine...then Fishbone...then Attaboy Skip...then Monique Powell...then Mustard Plug...” and so on.
Oh my God, I thought. I had to cover my face for a moment. I am seeing all these bands. Today. If I didn’t go to another concert all year...Have you seen that episode of the Simpsons when the teachers go on strike? Bart’s in his living room plotting all the wonderful evil things he can do now that he’s got all this free time, and he just gets completely overwhelmed by all the possibilities and kind of grabs his head and cries, “Overload! Pleasure overload!” That’s what it felt like. Up until that moment, I don’t think it had truly sunk in. I’d been so occupied with getting there. Saving up money. Getting time off work. Getting up at hour o’clock in the morning and meeting the guys at King Soopers. Driving through Stupid Utah, wandering the strip at eleven o’clock at night. But with all that past me, standing on the pavement and feeling the sun scorching the back of my neck, watching the skating kids and the ska’d out rudies and skinheads, I suddenly realized where I was, what I was here for, and how special this event was. It was overwhelming.
“Damn, we better get food now,” said Andy, “’Cause we won’t be moving for another eight hours.”
I spent basically the rest of the day migrating between the two main stages. One thing that always endears me to bands is if they look like they’re having fun themselves, I enjoy them that much more. And ska bands are great for that. I think they were as excited to play the Summit as I was to attend it. Let’s Go Bowling was over-the-top amazing. If I ever have half the musicianship that any one of them has in his left ear, I will shit myself. The Selecter blows my mind. Props to them for still playing the weird, off-beat (well all ska is off beat, but you know what I mean), soulful music for all these years. Fishbone was...well, Fishbone is Fishbone, I don’t think they could suck if they tried. Though it was odd seeing Norwood in regular clothes; I’m used to seeing him in attire like a bathtowel and running shoes. I got to see Neville Staples perform “Ghost Town,” which is not as cool as it would have been had the whole original lineup for the Specials been there (the Specials were one of the first ska bands I ever listened to), but if they had been, I probably would have had a seizure and died. It was my first time seeing Buck O Nine and the Voodoo Glow Skulls and Attaboy Skip, and I was happily impressed. Mustard Plug were their usual happy selves. I talked to Jim afterward at their merch tent. And the Toasters. Oh my God, the motherfucking Toasters. Also one of the first ska bands I ever heard. I could babble for pages just about them, but I will stop short and just say that they were at the top of their game, the best I’ve seen them in a long time, and I got onstage and got a hug from Sledge. Woot!
I was the only one with any energy left after the Toasters (who were the last band) and that was only because I was wired from being onstage. We went back to the hotel and laughed at Andy swimming in his merchandise (he had enough to bury himself in, almost) and at each other’s raccoon-style sunburns where we’d missed with the sunscreen. We found food ($4.95 steak and eggs all the time!) and collapsed into bed. Life is good. Tomorrow, back through Stupid Utah.
1. On the Road Again
The conversation in the morning consisted almost entirely of groans of exhaustion and pain. We were all sunburned, some worse than others (I think Dan, Joe, and me took prizes for the worst) and Andy had sprained his ankle. Plus there’s just general soreness after roughly eight hours of skanking. We all wanted to go home and talked Dan out of bungee jumping, but had to stop for souvenirs at the World’s Largest Souvenir Shop, so it was after ten o’clock before we got going.
Conversation faded in and out, mostly restricted to what needed to be talked about. We would stop for gas and get out and talk a bit and feel revived, but soon after we got back in the car the conversation would fade away.
“We should do this for longer next year. Stay a couple more days.”
“Catch 22 needs to play next year.”
“And the Mad Caddies. And Less Than Jake.”
“And the Pietasters.”
“And the Smooths. If they got back together.”
“Or did a reunion show like Attaboy Skip.”
We got through Utah without incident, hitting 128 mph in Andy’s car and passing a van that had “Ska Summit Vegas 2003” written on the back window in soap.
We were all tired and cranky, too tired even for post-ska exuberance. But it’s stored away, we’ll take it out and think about it when we have the energy. When I get bored at my job or sitting on the bus, I’ll pull out the memory and shake off the dust and it’ll put a smile on my face. As Brian said, "This would be the best weekend of my life if it weren't for Utah."
As soon as it got dark, I fell asleep. I think my biological clock had had enough flourescent lights and long days. The minute the sun was gone, I was unconscious. Besides, there’s not much else to do driving over a mountain pass at night. It’s a good thing I wasn’t driving.
2. One Week Later--Sunday, April 6, 2003
I finally got a decent night’s sleep on, um, Thursday. I’m currently rocking out at band practice. Everything is, seemingly, back to normal. I told everyone my Ska Summit adventure stories, but left out the total exhaustion because that’s not what sticks in your head. The image that comes to mind now when I think “Ska Summit” is of the Toasters onstage; Bucket bobbing back and forth, his eyes shut against the bright stage lights; Jack Ruby rolling around throwing things at Sledge; Sledge looking angry and then at the last moment breaking into a grin. The keyboard player hoisting his keyboard on his shoulder like a boombox. Mark Darini playing “Another One Bites the Dust” during his bass solo. Buford O’Sullivan and the Jeff Richey skanking, their horns held away from their bodies; and the people around me gently bumping shoulders as they danced.
Ska Summit wasn’t a revival. It wasn’t a kickstart to a floundering scene. It was a statement. It was a promise: here we are, and we’re not going away, fuck all you people who thought ska was dead. After the explosion of the nineties and the following implosion, things didn’t look optimistic and plenty of people left. But more stuck around. If anyone had a reason to leave the scene for dead, it was Bucket Hingley, but he’s still around. And it’s a credit to the ska scene that it has not only survived, but is thriving. There’s five ska bands in Denver, at least. That’s a lot for a city that doesn’t really get recognized for its national scene (I’ve gone to out of state shows and when people find out I’m from Denver, they say, “Denver? What’s in Denver?”). Ska has continued to play and evolve and always will. Once, years ago, I read an interview with Bucket, and he said something like (I’m paraphrasing), “Ska’s not a trend. Ska’s been around for fifty years. People think it’s just getting popular now, but it’s been popular for years, and it’ll always be around.” I didn’t quite understand what he meant then because, I admit, I was one of the kids who got into ska during the nineties explosion, and hadn’t ever been a part of the scene when it was on the downturn. But downturn it did, but to me the scene seems even stronger now than it was in, say, 1997. It’s more cohesive and more friendly. Ska’s bigger than one label or one country or one style, and as the Ska Summit showed, has the power to bring people together from miles and miles away. And everyone that was there took a piece home with them. So, with that in mind: Go forth and skank.