Walkabout (through Beach Bash) – May 25th, 2002
by Bing Futch
[[bbwater]]The money swept over me in a swiftly curling wave, spraying dollars and cents against the rocks of my prison. I used to argue against the phrase “money makes the world go ‘round”, but unfortunately that is the rock solid case. Money is green grease for the tracks, it makes the way smoother down a road where just about everyone has their hands out. No tickee, no shirtee, no money, no time. Even hookers charge by the hour. Everybody wants a piece of the action and the more you have in your pocket, the farther you get down the road. With enough of it, you can buy your way into space – and that’s a fact that’s made the local news a couple of times in recent past. Freedom’s just another word for “loaded to the gills”, which is exactly what I felt like when the hold was finally removed from the escrow check that was issued from the sale of my house. Having been advised by my girlfriend that incorporation was a good idea – I hired an employee and began investing in my company.
In other words – I went apeshit.
“bbdesk”And while I purchased gear for Dark Studios, I also turned to the great arena of internet shopping and began arranging for presents to be shipped out to friends and family. I paid off some old debts, picked up a nice keyboard, sent a dulcimer to my oldest son, got an annual pass to Walt Disney World for one of my friends and sent flowers to another. All the things that I’d been wanting to do for others could now be done and I was doing it with a flourish. But it was all pennies compared to prices on my shopping list for the studio. $3,500 dropped at Mars Music, over $7,000 at Comp USA, $5,000 through internet sales of the camera equipment. No more wishing that the right tools were within reach. No more pining for bitchin’ gear. I simply located what I wanted and said “wrap it-ship it-next day.” Some $20,000 later – the facility is home to a digital video camera with Steadicam JR, a 3.3 megapixel still and motion mpeg camera and a Mac G4 loaded with Final Cut Pro 3.0 to dump it all into. Plenty other goodies that help make Dark Studios a fully contained production facility again.
Vacation’s going to be spent reading the manuals.
The search for a house was proving to be real super-pisser. The property that most attracted me was in foreclosure and it was taking forever to get signals from the bank. With summer quickly approaching, I was hoping to get into a place in order to clean and prep the “other people’s essence” out of it. Two more gigs with Naked Head and I was free-floating for awhile. First stop – Melbourne, for three nights of music and good vibes associated with the 7th Annual Beach Bash. Second stop – Key West, where ten days of island splendor would allow me the meditation required for this walkabout. As it would turn out – this transformation of spiritual energy began as early as May 17th.
MAY 17th – The Hustler
We arrived late to the party thanks to Dani’s slow ass and missed Outreach and Real Love Diplomats. But she redeemed herself with a spectacular job during the three-day shoot, taking many of the pictures you’ll see here. Paulie Gregg, who founded the event and is a co-promoter, requested that I get some shots in order to chronicle what took place. The Sony VX2000 and Steadicam JR rig arrived the day that we were set to depart for Melbourne, so I had only a few hours to assemble and learn the very basic functions of the unit. For at least a week, the National Weather Service was predicting rather wet conditions for the show days, particularly Sunday the 19th, which would take place outside on the Holiday Inn boardwalk. As we sped towards Indialantic, the purple skies were hard to read in the darkness.
We arrived just in time to catch Doorway 27 at the start of their set. Lead singer Bryan Wohlust had gotten wind of the video project that I’d pitched to Paulie. He also had a digital video camera and had begun shooting footage as early as that morning, talking about getting ready for the show. This was great news! That meant that for a lot of the three day span, we’d have two camera coverage on some of the entertainment – always a plus. The night had gotten slow by the 12:30 a.m. mark and a few stalwarts hung out to listen as the band trotted out some light and colorful beach jams and nudged them up against boisterious rockers with an 80’s euro dressing.
“It doesn’t look like a whole bunch more people are gonna show up,” says Wohlust as he scans the crowd.
“Fuck the police!” someone shouts.
“Yes, fuck the police!” repeats Wohlust, jabbing his finger in the direction of the voice. “I’ll get back to you in a minute, sir.”
A drunken Mike Fresh from the band Freeflow Conspiracy takes the stage with fellow conspirator Jack Move and the two throw down mic skills and turntable spins to Doorway’s laid-back and reggae-fied “F.T.P.” Generally, it sounded less-than-average in quality and the sound guy seemed to be chasing it from start to finish. This, of course, was a harbinger of things to come for the next night when Naked Head and Buck 32 would perform on the second evening of the pre-party. Joy. Now, The Hustler’s a little hole in the wall that tore down a divider and became a bigger hole in the wall. Though they’ve made significant improvements, like adding a back bar and bringing back the deli room, the fact remains that The Hustler is a bar that just barely escapes the “dive” definition by the fact that it’s no longer completely black inside.
We got into room number 603 at 2:30 a.m. Paulie was having a little continuance of party over at his pad around the corner so after dropping off some of the equipment, Dani and I headed over. This trip was serving as a training exercise to get her accustomed to production assistance. Anyone who has worked with me on a production shoot knows that I’m an asshole and won’t accept anything less than what I want, which is usually too [[bingdaniwwrr0002]]much. Dani’s main job this weekend was serving as 2nd camera – using the still camera to capture alternate angles to what the video camera was shooting. She was informed that she’d also be making runs to the store for appropriate items, changing discs, running dead batteries to the charger up in the room and so on. Her WWRR on-air duties bring her $10 an hour from my pocket, but this weekend was like a boot camp training day for interns, all expenses paid. Dani quickly warmed up to the equipment and began shooting in earnest at Paulie’s house while Wohlust and Matt Cahur of Boxelder jammed guitars with Doorway’s Chris Cartrett. This would happen again before the end of the weekend – a sort of musical raising of the cone of power. After screening video dailies (“that’s fucking amazing quality” said Wohlust upon seeing the camera fire up) and nearly destroying one of Paulie’s fountains, I slinked out with Dani to seek some grub. Only the Ocean View Diner was open, so we gathered there to enjoy a 4 am breakfast and then slipped into the room just before the sun came up. Looking at the schedule, Saturday was going to be our one and only day to semi-relax and something told me that a majority of that time would be spent unconscious. Luckily, I was wrong on both points.
May 18th – Where Does The Day Go?
The last Beach Bash that I attended featured the naked antics of my then-girlfriend Chinesa, whom I later married and subsequently divorced. In this edition, she is a wistful footnote to the proceedings, though there’s plenty of nudity later on in this piece. A bit of paperwork business between us was conducted uneventfully in the way of a letter left behind the front desk. I picked up the document later and thanked her when we spoke again. On this weekend, it was a new girlfriend that was driving up later to spend the evening with. Along with some good friends and band boosters that were coming out in the afternoon, we anticipated taking up several rooms at the Inn with our crowd alone. Shortly before noon on the 18th, a bit of hazy sunshine poked at my eye with a gentle strand of gold and I slid out of the king-sized bed that Dani and I were sharing. Pulling the curtains apart brought into view a sky of robin’s egg blue spotted with bright white and puffy cumulus. A gaze towards the west revealed more of the same and a strong breeze ushered a sweet current of wind across the balcony. Dani shuffled outside to take in the scene.
“We got a great view of a roof.” she said.
And the ocean, which was particularly green from the sixth floor height. You could tell that it was a muggish golden-brown color down where the waves licked the beach. The elevator ride was short and it took about five minutes to hit the ground floor where a convention of firefighters was setting up displays in the lobby. Outside, the yellow disc of love continued to break up the clouds and bless each and every belly, back and baldspot as we took on the boardwalk. Steadicam JR unit unfolded and in “flying” position, I began to photograph our walk down to the beach, using the color LCD monitor as a reference. Swinging around backwards and targeting the camera at Dani, we hitched up a step, past the tiki bar and around a little stage set-up where two guys were preparing to start their set. “I can see clearly now, the rain has gone,” sings the guitarist – which seemed like perhaps an answer to a prayer. Thoughts and concerns about the predicted thundershowers were still looming and at this point, anything seemed like an encouraging sign.
It would be a bright sun-shiney day. And there we are on the beach – I’m standing in the surf with a brand new camera, dangling it over the incoming waves – Dani’s taking shots of me doing this, what I described to her as “production stills.” These become stupidly valuable because they supercede art by deconstructing it, or something like that. This dance of technology between a couple of freakskins on the beach was too much for one couple to ignore and they approached us as we rolled tape.
[[bbbingguy]]”What are you doing?” the woman asks. She is an attractive blonde, thirtysomething late – with shades and a red swimsuit that accentuates her impressive bosom. We tell her that it’s a documentary shoot. Her husband is talking to Dani up near a dune. He reminds me of Dewey from the “Scream” movies. “For 7 bucks, you can’t beat that deal,” he says after hearing of the entrance price for ten bands. “Is that your real hair?” the wife asks me. They both pledge to be there at the show on the following day before continuing their stroll down the beach. Back in the lobby – a giant sand sculpture of a FDNY fireman is slowly starting to crumble around the edges. Dani observes that there are some kind of “fireman games” that have been taking place and that many of the firefighters are staying at the hotel. We both figured that it was a pretty safe place to be if the place should go up in smoke.
A quick run to Wal-Mart for a tripod and we were in search of some food. By the time we returned, I had run into a scheduling conflict with my girlfriend and there was a storm brewing by the time I reached the hotel. She had managed to snag room 323 – the same party palace that Buck 32 had in the 5th annual Beach Bash. It was a great suite – living area, bar, l-shaped balcony and private bedroom. It would be the perfect place to see the show as it played out at the head of the boardwalk. Whipping out the camera and mount, I took the stairs down to the third floor, pressed “record” and came out just as she was walking by with a container of ice.
“Hello,” I ventured, holding the camera in front of me.
“Please turn that off.”
“It’s drama, I want to catch it.”
“I’m not amused Bing.”
“You don’t have to be amused, it’s not here for your amusement.”
“Please turn it off.”
“You’re being so mean.”
“We need to talk.”
Those four little words are the sure mood-killers of any circumstance. It’s enough to drop your stomach into a bungee water-dip, it shreds your confidence, always a wild card, you typically never know what’s to follow when you hear “we need to talk” intoned at you like a sentence. I only knew that in my head, there was no big issue. We talked, she steamed, I deflected, obviously a miscommunication – the beautiful thing about us is that we can communicate our lack thereof and bounce back fairly quickly. But as I would come to find out, I had prepared neither Jae or Dani for the level of interaction that I require on one of my shoots. Things change as conditions mandate, this includes weather, and it was looking increasingly spotty by the time the Naked Head crew showed up. This included superfan/ex-member Zeke and his wife Cecille, Dan and his wife Beth and kids, and my ex-girlfriend Renee’, who has recently taken up with Gary, our drummer. Add to that mixture, a promised appearance by Elizabeth Anne, who is always some sort of lightning rod, and you have a recipe for low to moderate drama, especially fused together with the always-high energy of a beach bash.
[[bbsolo]]We gathered in Randy and Susan’s room before the show. Gathered our things and hauled over to The Hustler; set up and hung back waiting for some flow to appear. Around 11 pm, we started our set. Now, I attempt to be as objective as someone in the band can be, we did alright as a whole. I regret to admit that a combination of elements resulted in egregious dulcimer feedback – but a great deal of the sound glitches were due to fucked-over house equipment and a sound guy who was only working the room for the second time. But then again, that’s the bitch of a disgruntled band member, which I’m not. I think we earned our applause. There’s a first time for everything and though I’ve never seen violence at a Buck 32 show, sorry to say that it’s not the case today. Can you hear me now? Good. These guys, one of them some sort of wanna-be WWF contender, began slamming agressively at the front of the stage while the quartet did their thing.
One petite-looking girl barely missed being bodyslammed by a whirling brute with a thick neck and a complexion the color of fresh salmon. All the pacifist music lovers in the front sort of scattered as the “pit” began to form. It was one of those pathetic, “we are few, but we are many” kind of pits that consist mainly of four or five guys shoving each other around, pursing their lips ferociously and standing at the edges of the pit occasionally repelling wayward bodies. One cat, a tall, bald black dude, was getting loose with the elbows as Buck 32 fired up a skanky new version of “What It Was.” They called me on-stage to sing the third harmony part for the song and it was from up there that I witnessed The Toss.
I think it was sometime during the second chorus, I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember what it was. All I know is, the big black guy, who’s been slinging people arond like waffles, takes both hands and lays them on a hapless lone mosher who happened to be in the near vicinity. He shoves the dude with a snap that launches the drunken rude-boy face-first into a chair parked by a wall. He was airborne before his hands had a chance to react and I watched him in an almost slow-motion crawl – head soaring towards the lip of the chair, arms and hands dangling uselessly behind him, legs stretched out and scrambling, forehead meeting chair lip and skull pushing form-molded plastic into squinchy positions on the black concrete wall. Limbs and chair legs shoot skyward and suddenly all eyes are searching for the black guy, wanting to keep him “in sights.” Faces angry and there’s little Renee’ in the middle of it as one of Thrown’s buddies goes after the Thrower. “Knock it off!” she screams – and no-one crosses her lines. Wes is on the mic saying “okay now – love, we need love” while the cluster of seething energy and flesh boils and funnels itself out to the parking lot. There’s something wrong with the vibe.
The band finished not long after and we split the premises for the Holiday Inn. A large group had set up chairs at the foot of the stairs that led down to the beach from the boardwalk. Tonight, Dani had 603 to herself. I’d be in 323 with Jae, we knew that Randy and Susan were in 728, Doorway 27 was in 517, a tour of rooms ensued, we had drinks and bean salad and then headed down to the beach. This is where Jae was parked along with some girls from South Dakota who were completely naked along with Zeke, who was likewise completely naked. They were off frolicking in the surf and I found Jae to tell her some kind of warm and fuzzy thing. Everything was fine. She had been jazzing off of one girl who had never been to the ocean before. She had basically planted her chair in the sand by the waves and hadn’t moved in ten hours, just taking it all in. She didn’t know when she’d be back and wanted to get every last bit of it that she could. Her friend was running naked in it. When Zeke showed up with a cooler of beers, they asked him “why aren’t you naked?” 30 seconds later, he was. By the time Dani got down there, Jae had suggested that I go with the flow – so, I stripped and took off running down the beach towards lights north of the hotel. I ran for a good long time and didn’t think twice about the fact that I was butt naked. My mind tripped back to some forgotten time and I didnt know why I was running, but knew that running was important. So, I gave it my all and felt the wind against my bare skin and the splashes of water hitting me here and there. I angled deeper into the water and my hotness felt like ice within the grasp of each wave. Visions of “Jaws” ran in my head as I realized my situation as the perfect scenario. Trying not to splash, I laid down in the water and felt my privates swish and sway in the water along with my dreadlocks. Born of earth, floating in sea-water, made of water and air and earth, returning to the elements. Peace. Black sky. A multitude of midnights, spent like this, on my back, in a sensory deprivation tank on an island far from all else, all influences, all distractions, a light caught the corner of my eye, all distractions, a sharp light, swinging towards me from the shore, distractions, all vehicles, I duck down in the water and look up to see a car turning in a parking lot behind a dune. I am aware now that I’ve run an undeterminable distance from our little camp where my clothes are lying in a heap. With my only covering coming and going with the tide, I hiked back onto the sand and took my sweet ass time walking back, daring anyone who might materialize to say “what are you doing?” Just so that I could say – “I’m walking naked in the dark, do you mind?” We’ve come so far to be held back. Sure, they have places where that sort of thing is “authorized” but I say, think outside the box.
Sunday, May 19th – Rain Kills
By 9 am it was apparent that this show was going to need some re-thinking. For three hours, the sky had sent forth beads of love and a flexing of grey tones that indicated more where that came from. Word was that the main ballroom inside would be used for the show. At Naked Head’s scheduled start time of 1 pm, they were still assembling the stage. Vendors set up inside the lobby area and the Sea Turtle Preservation Society had a camp right at the ballroom entrance. Every one of the Beach Bashes has been a success in that it raised money and awareness for its cause, along with introducing people to a group of musicians who generally embrace a world-view of diversity, unity and respect amongst brothers and sisters. It’s more than just a colony of bands, it’s a movement looking to inspire and incite and cause people to stop and evaluate what’s going on, in their heads and in their everyday places – their homes and their jobs – their places of amusement. Hit [[bbnh]]’em with it, the Love Bomb. We set up quickly and started the show. During “Mary”, Susan’s microphone went out, just sort of ended while I was strollin’ through the far end of the ballroom. A quick change-out and we re-launched with “Lower” before wrapping up a short set with an encore, the only one of the whole show. Here again – what can I say and what do I hear? That we’re a good band, but Susan – either you love her or you hate her with the vocal stylings. I know she’s perfectly capable of following melodies and hitting notes and that she’s also prone to screaming, yelling, vocalizing, screeching and doing things that send weaker-hearts running. This is all fine and dandy if we’re a post-punk, neo-fauvist band or some weird new-wave shit like that, but it seems that the band has been positioning itself in a pop vein – which unfortunately, is not going to have any room for banshee divas and bands that need to figure their line-ups out. I do believe that this chapter of Naked Head has its closure and that the next chapter will be something completely different. This is just my feeling about it, feel free to form your opinion, that’s highly encouraged where applicable. Paulie could be seen running about periodically in the main hall as the people continued to trickle in.
While loading equipment into our vehicles out back, we heard a loud sizzle followed by a rather ghastly bang that came from the direction of another hotel. Behind us, the Holiday Inn’s emergency generator kicked in. Something inside was probably suffering as a [[bbbuck]]result. Once inside, no surprise it was Buck 32, trying to get through their set while the speakers popped and crackled. Apparently Wes wasn’t feeling well – but he put on a brave performance and gave 110%, except for his bathroom break during the power failure – but if you gotta go, let nothing stand in your path and God help them if they’re slow. With the floor lights accentuating every shower, Wes looked pale and ghostly as he sang at the group’s punky-poppy power ditties. They crowd showed love for tunes like “Take Your Sister Home” and their sing-along tune “What It Was.” What really kick-started the crowd was the band’s version of the Violent Femmes’ “Blister In The Sun.” The relative few that were present were really in a mood to shake something loose.
Doorway 27 encouraged much dancing and the front row people were boogeying while the wallflowers looked at their watches and wondered if they were really going to have to pay the $5 re-entry fee. On this particular day, their sound was fuller than on Friday night – and the different parts sounded out more clearly. A hippie-fied vibe was starting to settle like the haze of marijuana in the halls of the Holiday Inn. Doorway’s final jam took some fun dynamic turns that left the crowd blissed out and ready to continue the show. Paulie led Ricky Carroll into the room as he clutched the donated surfboard that he had shaped. Superfly Rodeo was up next and I was of the mood to take a quick break upstairs – Jae was leaving me to my documentary making and the show was already two hours late. Ironically, the weather had cleared up outside and it a recharging spot for people who were burned out on staying inside to hear the music. Frustration was obvious on some faces – but there seemed to be an attempt to elevate despite the change of venue. The crowd still looked thin. I went to find someone to purchase a raffle ticket from.
[[bbdoor]]”Well, it benefits sea turtles plus you get to win a surfboard and if you don’t want the surfboard, you can always give it to a friend or sell it. It’s one for a dollar, seven for five dollars, forty for twenty dollars and if you’re lucky and you buy forty you can pull it out of my shirt with your teeth.” She was a Jodie Foster lookin’ girl, truly cute and irresistable with her sales pitch. I picked up $80 worth of tickets and let her slide on the bit about the teeth. I knew I stood a good chance of winning the raffle – which was the idea, I had a plan in mind. Besides, the money was going to a good cause either way. By this point in time, anyone who had ‘em was smokin’ ‘em or poppin’ ‘em, linin’ ‘em up and snortin’ ‘em away. There are two kinds of people found at day-long, roots-inspired concerts: drug users and non-drug users. The latter may get whimsically tanked on a variety of libations throughout the day and the former may cut their illegal use with some good old-fashioned legal intoxication. You’ve still got a high percentage (pun intended) of folks that will be seeing and hearing things from a somewhat filtered perspective. This was the perfect time to witness Superfly Rodeo – sandwiched in the middle of so many chilled, grass-roots type bands – this aggro rap-rockin’ hard-edge machine (signed to Atlantic Records) was a curious reverse eye in the hurricane. Playing to a much smaller number than they’re used to – the band ripped up a seemingly short set filled with heavy rhythms, head-banging guitar crunches and the off-key desolation of lead singer Lee Grisham’s vocal delivery. Perhaps stymied by the change of musical moods – a handful of people took this opportunity to take in some natural goodness by the sea and of the sea. By the time their set was over and Shakti Cypher hit the stage, you could sense the palpable change in the room – people began moving, grooving, dancing, holding their arms up in the air, disappearing often upstairs and coming back downstairs with an almost visible trail of smoke drifting off of their earth-tones. Really, the timing couldn’t have been better. The group oozed funky, jazzy sass and slicked it over with some live jungle beats here and there – a spacy urban funk, dreadlocked lead singer leaping about, tight codas and wicked hooks. “Rockin’ It” in particular was a jam that snagged the crowd, just before a dizzying piece that presented itself as a sort of musical “free canvas” featuring saxophone, cymbals and didgeridoo. For that duration, it seemed that we had all been transferred back to some ancient dawn on notes of pure and utter chaos. Soon, the band had kicked into a vaguely middle-eastern stroll and the trance was somewhat broken. This diversion and correction, dissonance and resolution theme would appear again later in the evening, in a much more demonstrative way. I looked over to see Dani snapping a picture and, knowing that the rest of the set was in good hands, stepped outside to take advantage of the good weather outside.
Some clouds, but basically dry. The boardwalk where things were supposed to be taking place was still dark brown from the earlier rain. A pair of people here and there along the beach, but the gloomy threat of more rain seemed to be enough of a deterrant. I kicked some sand off of my sandals, damn cheap OP products , and turned to look at the penthouse that was grand central station for artists and others. A magnificent glass-walled affair dangling sea-side, the HI penthouse looks like it belongs in a Sharon Stone movie, the good kind – like she made back when she still had a body. Two stories, beginning at the fourth floor. Some of the Doorway 27 guys were standing on one of the many balconies, playfully shouting out limericks to passersby. I hadn’t checked in with the Naked Head crew on this run between bands, so I made it a point to stop by before heading up to the penthouse. Susan, Randy and Dan were in the room, discussing what I can only assume to be her aforementioned stage persona. I don’t know how much direct dialogue had been made about it – it was always such a non-issue, there was no question in citing this as a problem – that’s part of the creative process, isn’t it? Susan admits that she’s out of control when on-stage, however. No-one agrees with her out loud. She’s a flower. We don’t wish to harm our flower at all.
That’s why, you know – I’m not thinking about what youa’re telling me. I’m just thinking about what I believe in, okay?” she says, apologetically. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be so difficult!” In my opinion, everyone in the band has at least one issue that they’re working through just by virtue of being in the band. A band is also a name for a ring, one that goes upon your finger – one that stands for a promise or a heritage. There’s always much more than meets the eye. I was sensing that the band feared losing me, like I was basically quitting after these two shows. There were some conversations, some affirmations – but I feel spirit-led to take this time and ultimately, they supported me on this decision. Sure, I’ve given thought to what happens after walkabout. With my feet firmly back on the ground, the Great Mental Enema will have shown me all the clear trails left for me beside the highway. There were other issues within the band, none of which I’m at liberty to reveal here – suffice it to say that the next phase of Naked Head would take on an entirely different form, not to mention our friendships and love bonds. Music is the communal orgasm that you share with only those closest to you, so you’ve got your really right-on, absolutely mind-creaming good sex nights and those undeniably ice-cube freezing bad sex nights – but no matter, sex is sex and better than no sex at all. Take that philosophy and match it with that of bands and you’ll see some interesting data.
[[bbdchad]]The penthouse was filled with techno music and tables that gave the room a buffet-in-waiting look. Nothing much happening. After flying the camera around the place for some footage, I schlepped back downstairs in time to catch Chad Jasmine in mid-stride. The eclectic Jacksonville resident had already made his fruit offering to the crowd (would you take fruit from this man?), a ritual that he says helps him to bond with his audience. After several people braved the knife-wielding guy with the long goatee to receive the fruit, the band kicked into what Jasmine dishes out best; fucked-up hippie-love grunge with a penchant for twists. His music seemed to be the natural extension of the previous act – a sort of logical musical evolution. Though not always on key, Jasmine’s energy sold every note with a vibrancy seldom seen on the small stage. At one point, he slowed things down and noticed Susan dancing by the side of the stage with a pair of lighted glasses on. “She gets it,” he said, bending down to look at the lights at his feet. “That’s good, the lights and shit. Psychedelia.” Dodging a feedback spike, Jasmine stepped to the front and said, “this is very important – I want to express myself and we as a band want to express ourselves.” Then he sang:
“this is the time of the show where we get to tell you how much
we adore you,
this is the time of the show where we get to tell you just how much we fuckin’ LOVE you” (click here to continue)</b>
