TBTs HIS-TORY OF THE WEEK: HAMMONASSETT (VIA BLOCK ISLAND?) The thunderstorms are chasing the cattage under the bed. Sounds like it’s time for a summer tale. Roll back to the early ‘80’s: Creek is a working band, hauling around the proverbial two tons of gear (yes, we weighed it), so its no surprise multi-night shows where we set-up, played, and then took down on another night were a treat for all concerned. And, with no strike to worry about, the obligatory after-show festivities that night were often memorable – so to speak anyway. “I go to parties sometimes until four… Its hard to leave when you cant find the door.” Sensing some growing consternation out there... Let’s remember, it was the ‘80’s. Children: These are the proverbial olden days. Parents: These are not your children. So: multi-night shows were loads of fun. Three-day gigs? A party to give Keith Richards a run for his money. A three-day weekend on Block Island at the Yellow Kittens? Time to re-landscape the mental shrubbery. Time for significant celebration among the masses. But first, one must get there. While a lovely trip for the average visitor, getting on and off The Block for Max Creek was a rite of passage in and of itself - for some more than others. First, they might have had a high-speed ferry back then, but not for cargo, which we were. As the truck was too big to go on the slow ferry, everything – 4-way sound system, stage gear, monitors, lights, etc. – had to be piled on pallets and then fork-lifted onto the lower car deck. As you can imagine, the dockworkers at Point Judith just loved Max Creek. Next, there is the operational word, “Island”; island, as in ocean, as in waves, as in motion, as in seasick, as Maurice is prone to. The trip across could be absolutely beautiful, or not. Frinstance: one trip there were thunderstorms and high seas. We were the first ferry they tried to send that day – you know, like an experiment? If this one sinks, don’t send another ferry. The swells were as high as the upper deck. Everyone was a little bit green - but Maurice rode the garbage can over. Another time, there was a choppy return trip where I could have made a cartel out of selling Dramamine. I think Greayer (“I was a Scout – I don’t get sick…”) decided to stay in the bay of the ship with the gear – and all the diesel fumes; I think he ended up hurling on one of Rob’s cases. I digress. Maybe it wasnt an eternity, maybe the crossing actually took just over an hour. Maybe. Once we landed on B.I., Loafer (EP’s buddy who lived there) would haul the equipment on his flatbed truck up Water Street, past all those quaint Victorian hotels, round the corner to the Yellow Kittens. Next, load everything in at the Kittens, stake out some sleeping accommodations in the band rooms upstairs (if you refer back to a previous post, these were among the better…), then set up the stage, and then…cocktails and dinner at the fine-dining restaurant next door. Now this is the life. After that, party some, then the show, and then time for that significant celebration (even the few scant, distorted memories remaining would require another post). The next day on BI brought beach/sun/moped, Pina Coladas on the upper deck with our favorite bartender, then repeat as needed. Great stuff. Fun stuff. However. By Show Three, the wear and tear started to show some; edges frayed, a few would crawl out of naps, stagger into the show, muttering, “Lord, get me off of this rock...” And then, then-n-n-n...it all had to be packed up at some goddawful hour. What seemed like minutes later, we’d get up with the ducks and load Loafer’s flatbed at 7:30 am. Ah, the pain…trying to remember that this is something we WANTED to do. As an aside, due to these mornings over a quarter of a century ago, when I become King, nobody will ever have to do anything at 7:30 am ever again. But wait: I only told you that story to tell you this one… Occasionally, in their infinite wisdom, agents would book a show the same day as our return from B.I.. Now there’s a good idea. Assuming that is, that the band - yes, the same band we just described with cerebral/spinal fluid loss and terminal hangovers - can get back to the World, get the gear off the ferry, back on the truck, get to the gig (with all the members), and perform. Dandy @&*%n idea, IF there was plenty of time to get to said show, IF we hadn’t been on the Block for three days, and IF it wasn’t the end of a three-week run with only two days off. Again, try to remember this is something we WANTED to do. This particular “on your way home” gig was the following Wednesday, an afternoon show at Hammonasset State Beach on the Connecticut shore. The show was sponsored by the (then) very-popular WHCN and the New Haven Agora: a co-bill of Cryer, Thunder Road, and Max Creek: three regionally popular acts who, on a Wednesday afternoon, might draw, what? Two, maybe three thousand people? Hm. Let’s hold that thought for a moment, and head back across the Sound to the band back on Block Island. In an ideal world, if the band crawls onto that first 8:15 am ferry back to Point Judith, there was exactly enough time to get from the dock to the State Beach in Clinton, CT. What could happen? Also note, it was earlier that same morning that (name redacted to protect the guilty) decided to view the dawn through, ahem, rose-colored glasses, dismissing the spacial-temporal plane as irrelevant. Meanwhile. Down at the ferry slip, things were moving as well as they were going to – all the gear was loaded on the boat, and everyone stood on the ferry feeling like their own shade of crap. Almost everyone. The question began to be asked: “Where’s (name redacted to protect the guilty)?” “Did you see (ditto) this morning?” Oh crap. Miss this ferry and it will be too late to make the show... Utter crap. Everyone is alternately streaming obscenities and/or fre-ee-ee-aking out. Let us pause here for a moment. About this time, the ships Captain normally blows the whistle a few minutes before the ferry leaves - sort of a nautical Last Call. Then the lines are cast off, the engines start to rev, and the boat pulls out. Perhaps it was that baleful sound rolling across the dunes that jump-started the perception of time passage in redacted-world. For, peering through our ohshit-colored glasses from the rumbling boat, we could just make him out, running his redacted tail round the corner, past all those quaint Victorian hotels, back down Water Street. Fortunately, someone talked the Captain into holding the ferry at the dock for a minute, and Mr. Ditto was able to jump on as the boat left. Sigh. Finally, with all aboard and relatively on the same spacial-temporal plane, we reached Point Judith at 9:30 am or so, and loaded everything back into the Titanic (the truck) - okay, time to go... Across the street, the rest of the band were still packing the car in the parking lot. The Chinese have a proverb that says, “The elephants are slow, but the earth is patient.” Bob, Roger, and I are not Chinese. We had to cover that 70 miles before noon. We hauled ass… Fast forward to an hour or so later, we were roaring down Highway 95 - suddenly our lofty view up in the cab revealed the traffic in front of us stopped dead…backed up waay-y-y-y up the road. What the hell could be going on? A huge accident? Either way, I’m standing on the brakes when Roger points and says, “Hey Arch, there’s an exit!” Except it was two lanes over… I think I might have checked the mirrors. Perhaps not. Either way, all 20,000 pounds of the Titanic just caught the ramp right where the reflectors marked the dirt median –we made it, and weren’t dragging anything owned by the DOT under the rear wheels. Lo and behold, right off the exit was the old Post Road - which parallels 95! We can do this! We followed the road south, and it was about 12:00 p.m. when we reached the Hammonasset light. Until then, we had practically no traffic, but here in front of us, the access ramp leading to the entrance was a madhouse. Again, what the hell is going on…? We then realized “what is going on” was a very sizable turn-out for the show. WHCN was expecting three-thousand people, they got 30,000. Hot damn. There was a cop standing there looking pissed, and I told him we were one of the bands; frowning, he said something like, “Well-l-l, I guess Ill let you in, but we are closing the road.” He waved us on through. I remember thinking, “That was cool...dick.” Close one: they actually closed the entrance about 1:00 pm. We found the load-in area, parked, and rolled all the stuff through this maze of boardwalk ramps and food stands to the “stage” – which was just a wide part of the boardwalk. Check out the photo; pretty sure thats Bobs kit to the right of the PA stack, and hes on the other side of the two guys with his hand to his hat. Clearly, there were people everywhere. On things, over things, under things, through things… Incredibly crowded, incredibly hot, and we were incredibly toasted, inside and out. I do remember this: when we arrived, one of the other bands was playing already; they struck their gear, we got set up, but the sound company trashed repatching all the microphones. (For the uninitiated, in mixing world, one patches similar microphone channels together – vocals, then instruments, then drums, etc.). I was informed the 30 or so channels “might be a little screwed up…” Really. Let’s see, there’s a rack tom in Channel 1, synth in channel 2, Scott’s vocal is channel 3... I remember thinking they could not have #$%d it up anymore if they tried. No time to check or repatch it. The band is tuning – I sent word – it might be a bit before you have mikes, please to start with something simple? Well, Creek begins and I’m frantically yanking up faders, cussing and fussing as the song goes, but out of boogie. At least Creek was on. One of the sound company kept bringing me beer and hot dogs; that’s what I remember: beer and hot dogs – some of the 50,000 hot dogs sold that day. Beer and hot dogs; Im a big fan of whatever works. The rest is a blur. In the Middletown paper, the reporter waxed Woodstockian, ”By 2:30, when the Hartford band Max Creek hit the stage, the park had been transformed into a pulsating, wiggling collage of tanned bodies and pastel bikinis, saturated with sound and permeated by the odd scent of coconut sun-tan oil mixed in with beer…” Yeeks, the imagery. Was this guy at the Block…? Nah. Anyway. Thirty-thousand people, one for the record books. And they haven’t had a concert at Hammonasset since…
Posted on: Fri, 25 Jul 2014 02:15:09 +0000