After shooting the shit for awhile, I found a seat and listened as Pat Hayes stomped his feet and belted his heart out through his bearded, crusty mouth. The rest of the band, Mark Folkrod, Pete Robbins, Mike Crogs, John Rhoadarmer, all shouted sad alt. country, twang rock tunes along with him. In some ways they reminded me of a cross between Neil Young, Nirvana, and Merle Haggard, all rolled into a mustache itching for a ride. Shit, that's perfect drinking music. Perfect for me, perfect for you, perfect for everyone. By the end of their first set, I did just that and had another IPA. Still counting? 8 beers...
American Dirt came on next. My beer began to taste a lil funny when they busted out their acoustic, garage rock with a hint of country sound. David Wilson, the lead singer, definitely has the voice of an old soul screaming through the dirt of a burial ground, demanding to be heard by all. The rest of the band was pretty good too, from what I can recall, but this is when I started to feel weird. My body grew from loose to completely numb. I began to have fantastic insights on American Dirt and the crowd, but I just couldn't seem to write them down. I even tried to mingle again. Only slurs stumbled out of my mouth. I tried to get up, but all I could do was fall all over the place and annoy the shit out of people. I didn't understand it, I've had gallons more than this before and been completely coherent, but this time, I was a shit show. Pat, from the Volts, recognized the ass I was making out of myself and took swift action. He was kind enough to carry me out and send me on my way with a goodnight kiss from his converse. Sorry American Dirt, I wish I had more to say about your performance.
Outside, the entire world fell into an absolute blackness, including my mind. I have no recollection of leaving and immediately falling asleep in the parking lot and using a curb as a pillow. Nor do I remember when some fine young citizens woke me up and sent me home to my real bed. When I finally arrived, somehow, I was still blacked out and when I woke up in the morning to muddy sheets and all the lights on and the alarm blaring, I realized what had happened, I was drugged. That's the only possible explanation. Come on people! You were keeping count! 8 beers! Then, black out? Impossible. For anyone. I was fucking roofied or GHBed or some shit. Either way, it was terrifying. It made me wonder, do women have to deal with this all the time? I feel sorry for them. Men are the creepiest fucks in the universe. How desperate can you assholes get?
Well, at least I had a good time and from what I can remember the Dead Volts and American Dirt's "mostly alive and sort of acoustic showcase," was phenomenal. They both have a ton of passion and raw energy and hillbilly ruthlessness. They both also play quite a bit around SLO County and I plan on catching them again, only this time, I plan to watch out for my drink. I don't ever want to experience that type of black out again, unless it's by my own self will, but even then, fuck that. On a final note, I really hope I wasn't raped. I guess it's alright if I was, especially if each of the band members had a turn at me. They sure do know how to treat a fan. The icing on the cake is that I have their punktry blues to get me through the rest of my troubled, trembling nights. Thanks fellows. Don't rape anyone else. Not everyone's as good a sport as I am.
thedeadvolts.com
http://www.americandirtmusic.com/
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