Atlanta Crew Spreads To The Spaceship

I close my tenure as editor of the Road Trip Of The Month with a sampling of what it's like to travel with the fabled "Atlanta Crew," the nicest, most dedicated, hard-living, fun-loving, bunch of Spread Heads one could ever imagine. They are a group of professionals who spend a large amount of their spare time chasing the pride of Athens, Widespread Panic. My connection to them is through Julian Eldridge who invited me to his house a few months back, where he proceeded to make an amazing dinner for everyone present. He also burned CDs for me of what may have been the most spectacular night of music I caught all year (Gov't Mule with Jimmy Herring, Dr. Dan, and John Scofield at Georgia Theater in October). He exemplifies many qualities characteristic of this group. It is very easy to blend in with them as long as you aren't haughty, and you're willing to contribute to the whole. I have since met many people in this crew, and I am refreshed by their considerable experience, and almost complete lack of unnecessary attitude. They seem to "get it" if you will. They have no interest in being the "most famous Spread Heads," or the "people with the most rare tapes," they just love to enjoy the music and spread it around to anyone interested, lending double meaning to the term "Spread Head." The band itself should be proud to have guys like this in their fan base.

There may be some unfamiliar terms to those who aren't tapers, and some people who's names may not be familiar, but just go with it, this is a very fun read. You will quickly learn that rather than travel light, these folks travel RIGHT.

Next month Ira Pasternack will take over as editor. Ira is one of the nicest people I've ever met, so please don't be afraid to email him any ideas that you might have for a future Road Trip Of The Month (good spot for....dare I ask....a link?). I would suggest that it might be nice to hear about some road trips in pursuit of some of the "Up and Coming" bands like Ancient Harmony, The Slip, Vinyl, Sector 9, Uncle Sammy....etc.

Thanks for reading, see y'all "on the road."

Written by Julian Eldridge email - unclehoolio@hotmail.com

A few days ago, my friend Matt Brill asked me how my Thanksgiving was.

The following constitutes my answer.

"Huhhh" Matt uttered with a sleepy groan as he rolled over, half-startled at the voice of the Waker.

"Get up bro, it's time to cook these birds" I repeated.

It was 7:45am on a cold and rainy Thanksgiving morning in Atlanta, the first really sour fall weather we had seen. Despite the turn in Mother Nature's complexion, my spirits were high. We were expecting a large turnout by the Atlanta Crew for a late afternoon/early evening dinner Turkey Day Feast, and our responsibilities included cooking the turkeys, the dressing, the mashed potatoes, the loaf of sun-dried tomato bread, and the strawberry and apple cobblers. The Feast was the kickoff event for the Atlanta Crew, the pre-departure gathering before we all grabbed one last night of sleep in our own beds and hit the road for 2 nights of Widespread Panic. The boys, as we affectionately call them, were playing the next night (Friday) in Winston-Salem, NC and then Saturday night at the legendary Spaceship, the fabled House that Jerry Built, the one and only Hampton Coliseum in Hampton, VA. These were the last 2 shows of the second leg of the fall tour, and the last 2 shows before the boys break in preparation for the highly anticipated New Year's run at the recently completed Philips Arena in Atlanta. Needless to say, plans for this long holiday Spreadicated weekend had been in the works for several months. Everybody had their tickets, hotel reservations, car arrangements, etc... all arranged, the Thanksgiving Feast had been planned, the menu set, complete with who was bringing which particular item and when dinner would be served.

"So, how much Jack is on those birds?" Matt's first coherent words of the day were appropriate if not expected. The previous evening, we had purchased a half-gallon of Jack Daniels (I know, technically it's whiskey, but Bourbon-Soaked, Mesquite Smoked Turkey has such a nice ring to it). I stirred the 4 cups of Jack-marinated mesquite wood chips that had been bathing in the kitchen all this time. Before I woke Matt up, I had reduced 2 cups of Jack, mixed that with melted butter and flour to make a pastry-type coating for the turkeys, and then reduced another 2 cups in which I had caramelized some chopped onion and garlic.

"Plenty" was the only correct reply.

At 8:30, the birds hit the smoker. Matt had gone to get us some coffee, the wake had been followed by the bake, and we were well on our way towards transforming The Feast from dream to reality. The next several hours involved strict monitoring of the birds and the coals. In order to make the Bourbon-Soaked, Mesquite-Smoked Turkeys come out right, we had to continuously baste them with drippings from the catch basin mixed with the bourbon/butter/flour concoction, refill the cavities with fresh Jack poured straight in from the bottle, and splash them with a touch of orange juice. Other critical procedures involved the continuous addition of fresh hot coals and spoonfuls of bourbon-soaked marklar chips, to ensure the maximum smoking potential. Three hours into the process, I was feeling like a king, confident about how the foul du jour was going to turn out. I think maybe now I should back up and explain marklar. Or at least try, I guess:

Marklar comes from South Park. You know, the gross, hilarious and sometimes even lame Comedy Central cartoon. Every Wednesday night, the Atlanta Crew has a dinner party at somebody's house. Usually it is held at Deepesh & Karen's pad or at Amy, Allen, & Steve-O's place. Each dinner has a unique theme, and the food is always a smashing success, because we never do lame items like grilled cheese's made with orange square cellophane cheese. For example, the 2 weeks prior to the annual Halloween Shows (I would explain the significance of these shows, but rather than try and define the feel and energy of those shows, which certainly can not be accurately captured in words, suffice it to say that you should just participate one year) the theme had been A Touch Of New Orleans, complete with Mike Wheeler's famous homemade hurricanes, red beans & rice, and beignets. (EDITOR's NOTE - Notice that in true Spread Head fashion, they have Red Beans Cookin'). Anyway, these Wednesday dinners always include the ritual of watching South Park. In one of the last 2 episodes before Thanksgiving, Starvin' Marvin the Ethernopan [Ethiopian] had reprised his guest-starring role. Marvin took control of a Martian spaceship and piloted it to the planet Marklar, which is inhabited by Marklars, all of whom are named Marklar, and who refer to every noun with Marklar. For instance: "Hey Matt, put some more marklars on the marklars, and pour some more marklar on the marklars?" which means "Hey Matt, put some more wood chips on the coals, and pour some more Jack on the turkeys". Got it? Good, because I'm not explaining it again, and you just might get lost. Marklar had been thrown into the conversation a few times, but Matt and I were working the term heavily, and from then on it was bound to be a staple of our conversations.

So there we were, rotating the marklars, pouring on more marklar, and adding more marklars to the marklars. This went on for hours, and surprisingly, after the first 5 minutes, it was really easy to figure out exactly what we were saying. So marklar was here to stay, which I thought was really the killer...

One more South Park theme that the Atlanta Crew has wholeheartedly adopted: "I hate you guys so much. So very, very much". This phrase would be in heavy rotation this weekend.

By the time the birds had finished cooking, we had used a quart of whiskey in, on, or around the birds. In the meantime, I had prepared the cornbread dressing, made from scratch thanks to Mom's family recipe (Thanks Mom!), and boiled the potatoes for the Potatoes Collins, a family recipe that belongs to a family other than mine, but I stole it and use it anyway because it's SO DAMN GOOD! About 4pm the first wave hit the door, and it was obvious that the gray skies had not dampened anyone's mood. Before it was all over, all expected parties had arrived: the regulars--Deepesh, Karen, Amy, Wendy (now a.k.a. Thud, or Crash, or Tippy), Disco Don the Squirmingo (don't ask, it's too long a story), Ana, Big Steve, Holly and myself--had been joined by the Floridians (fPete, 2-Armed Steve, Liz Burn, and 2AS's buddy whose name I forget; they had been driving all night, working their way to make it here) the Beckers (Aaron and Archna, pronounced urch-na), and the roommates--Matt "Sleeping Man" Kinder and Cary Romanoff.

"You guys realize that everybody here is gonna see everybody here for the next 3 days, only it's not gonna be here, it's gonna be at the Panic shows, and this crew is only going to INCREASE in size from here on out." Stepping back to let that thought soak in, I felt fortunate to be surrounded by all these wonderful people. I marveled what a powerful force music was, how it could form bonds between people that otherwise might never be formed, bring unity to a group that otherwise might never be united, and help to forge friendships that could withstand all the tests of time. The feeling of being surrounded by family swept over me, and in the most crystal clear Polaroid snapshot of a moment I felt a solid, permanent sense of belonging and relating, of understanding and being understood, of truly caring and being cared for, of loving and being loved... Plus, this group is NUTS, my kind of freaks....

In addition to the Bourbon-Soaked, Mesquite-Smoked Turkeys, all 28 pounds of them, and the dressing, and the Potatoes Collins, and the bread and the cobblers, the menu was a smashing success. Wendy made the green bean casserole, the pumpkin pie, and the chocolate cake. Ana made the sweet potato casserole. Amy made the glazed carrots and creamed corn, Karen brought the squash casserole, and Holly brought us all some chocolate chip cookies. The traditional pre-dinner rituals had been in full effect for some time, with the beer and wine and liquor drinks flowing freely all the while. Dinner kicked off about 6pm, and coincidentally the house got really quiet for the next 30 minutes, all you could hear was chewing and the occasional "yyyuuuummmmmm" slipping out between bites. Not surprisingly, a collective Food Coma set in about 6:31pm, and nobody was left wanting more. The next couple of hours progressed much like the pre-dinner hours, only much quieter, save for the intermittent groaning as folks attempted to adjust to their newly distended stomachs. By the time the last of the crew had polished off the last beer, drank the last glass of wine, and cashed the last bowl, it was 11pm, and we were all ready for bed.

Friday began much the same as Thursday. The weather was still cold, and though a large gray cloud cover still hovered thick and low, the rain had stopped. Some of the water was drying up, some was sinking down, but it was still very wet out. Cary, Matt and myself finished packing and double-checked to make sure that all the equipment for the rigs had been packed. Ahh, the rigs. For me, these are the core of every road trip, for I am a Taper. For this particular excursion, we were bringing what can only be described as an inordinate amount of gear: 3 complete rigs, plus a spare set of microphones, extra microphone clamps, extra analog-to-digital converters (a>dc), spare cables, extra mic stands to accommodate for any taping situation, and plenty of batteries, flashlights, and blank DAT's. We had borrowed most of Jeramy Daniels rig--his Oade m248 phantom power supply/microphone preamplifier (preamp), his Apogee AD1000 a>dc, and all of the necessary batteries, cables, and chargers--because he was not planning on attending these shows (turns out he went to Winston-Salem anyway :). Matt Klaus had mailed us his AKG 460 microphones with the ck8 shotgun caps. Steve Brothers was sending us, via Eric Creighton as "pack mule," the B&K 4021 cardiod mics. My rig consists of AKG 480 microphones with the ck61 cardiod capsules (actually, these belong to Mean Gene 13 of the Home Team) and the ck63 hypercardiod capsules, another Oade m248 preamp, and a Sony SBM-1 a>dc. I also had borrowed Chris Pennington's HHB Porta-DAT, since it has a much better a>dc built in to it than my SBM-1. Cary's new rig was actually previously owned by Max Hester, a longtime Panic Taper and good friend of mine who had not been fortunate enough to be able to attend many recent shows. That rig consisted of another pair of AKG 480's with ck63 caps, another Oade m248 preamp, and another SBM-1. With this collection of gear, we were planning on making a variety of tapes, both from the Taper's Section and from in front of the board (FOB, as it is commonly known).

Me being anal like I am, it is always my job to double check and make sure we had everything, including tickets. For several days now, I had been noticing Cary's ticket for the Winston-Salem show. It was hard to miss, hanging from the fridge by a Domino's Pizza magnet, ripe for the taking, nearly begging to be snatched up because of the way it was dangling there so tantalizingly.

"You see this ticket," I said, clearly identifying it with several hard taps of my index finger.

"I sure do," said Matt.

"The LAST thing I am going to double check, after all the doors and windows have been locked, and the air and all the lights have been turned off, is this ticket. I promise you it will still be here, and Cary will be out in the car, telling me to hurry up, it's fine, let's go..."

"That makes sense to me, knowing Romanoff" he cackled.

After all the bags and rigs and the cooler stuffed with leftovers from the previous nights Feast had been packed, after everything else had been double checked, and just before I turned the knob to lock and close the door behind me, I snatched Cary's ticket off of the fridge and stuck it in my shirt pocket. And then goodbye, it's time to fly... A few minutes later, once we had reached the Interstate and were past the point of no return, I turned to Matt, gave him a little wink and said, "Did everybody remember to get their tickets?"

Matt smirked, trying to contain his laughter as Cary turned to me and said, "Ohh, SHIT! I left my ticket for tonight's show at the house"

"Cary, tell me how much you love me" I said, pulling the Ticket from my shirt pocket.

"I hate you guys so much. So very, very much" came the reply.

Meanwhile, Amy and her roommate and Crew member Allen met up with Don, Shannon, Wendy, 2AS and his buddy (whose name still escapes me), Pete, Liz, and Big Steve had all rendezvoused at Deepesh & Karen's house for a 9:30 a.m. caravan departure. We were not meeting them there, as we had to link up with our friends Nick and Joanna. The plan was for each of the mini-caravans to get on the road, and then we would meet up. This was going to be an easy task, considering the plethora of cell phones and Marklars. (OK, back to the marklar thing for one moment: marklar is the generic use term to replace any noun, while Marklar with a capital "M" specifically means the 2-way Motorola Talk-Abouts, which we have come to rely heavily upon at shows and on road trips as a short-range communication device.) With a couple of quick cell phone calls, this arrangement was confirmed, and the rendezvous points were established. Shortly thereafter, we met Nick and Joanna at rendezvous point #1, a bagel/coffee shop, for some to-go breakfast items and coffee. We zipped across the parking lot to the Circuit City so Nick could buy a Marklar, and got back on the road. Unfortunately, the other part of our caravan that had departed from Deepesh & Karen's house had already passed rendezvous point #2, so we were a few miles behind. No matter, we would catch up to them sooner or later, and then it would all get real.

At 11:30 or so, Cary's cell phone rang. It was Don. The lead pack had stopped to get some lunch at the Cracker Barrel at exit 19B. We would meet them there in a few minutes. Upon arrival at the Barrel, we discovered that the wait to be seated was going to be 20 minutes. A quick discussion later and we all piled back into the cars and zip over to the Wendy's around the corner. Now imagine a calm Friday morning, overcast and chilly, and you are working at this nearly empty Wendy's, not expecting the day to amount to much. All of a sudden, here comes a platoon of loud, excited, gregarious Tour Heads ("Hope you don't mind us barging in the door like this..."), using marklar as every other word, and discussing the possibility of the boys busting out Smelly Cat. You know, the song that Phoebe sings on NBC's Friends: "Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat, what are they feeding you... smelly smelly smelly smelly...." By the time it was all over and we were back on the road, we had totally confused this little old lady who had made the unfortunate choice of stopping at Wendy's for a bite: "What's a Smelly Cat anyway?" She was actually quite a character, eavesdropping on us for a few more minutes while we discussed the fact that Cary's brand new Lexus SUV had no license plate (which was a minor concern to say the least. A thousand-mile round-trip, and we got no license plate.... hmmm, real smart) before chiming in again "Hey, you can have my license plate!" We all got a good laugh out of that, and I'm sure she won't forget us any time soon.

A quick pit stop at the Speedway next door to the Wendy's, and we were back on the road again, a 6-car caravan moving somewhat recklessly towards our destination. With the radar detectors searching for the "warp signal" of the highway Johnny's, we moved at something close to light speed. Screw the fact that we don't have a license plate on our car, we've got a FuzzBuster, and we're gonna haul ass. The drive was pretty much uneventful, save for the banter on the Marklars and the playful jockeying for the lead position that was going on between Big Steve at the helm of the minivan (a.k.a. Red Leader), Wendy behind the wheel of her little green Beemer, and Cary piloting myself and Matt in his aforementioned sporty Lexus, which is quite a nice road-tripping machine, I must say. Some of the cars didn't have Marklars, and I also feel compelled to say that I felt sorry for them, but bottom line, everybody was in a great mood, nobody was worrying about their worries. Which is how it should be on weekends like this.

Our next stop/go session was about the same as the first: quiet Friday morning at the FoodMart, and all of a sudden the clerk is besieged by this LARGE crew of crazy people. By this point I think we all had realized the impact our group would have on the locals, and this knowledge only served to fuel the fire: we began to look forward to the ritual of swarming in to some country-store gas station and freaking the locals out, emptying our bladders, and then dashing off before they could make sense of us. I can hear their comments now: "I hate you those guys so much. So very, very much."

The Courtyard by Marriott across from Lawrence Joel Veterans Memorial Coliseum was our first real destination. But only after meandering our way through some of the less prosperous neighborhoods of Winston-Salem did we manage to land safely there. That particular detour was all Don's fault, but he blamed MapQuest: "MapQuest sucks, their directions are all wrong." (EDITOR'S NOTE: Beware of MapQuest, many others have had this same problem recently) Sure thing, bro. Whatever you say. So we got sidetracked a bit, nobody's loss, really.

Anyway, as we turned in to the Courtyard's parking lot, I looked up to see Holly in the window (she had flown from Atlanta to Winston-Salem that morning, as had Aaron and Archna), and Justin Reese standing in the parking lot with our friend Vann. Before we could fully unpack the car, we ran into Brian Sanders, an Atlanta friend who was to meet up with us in Winston-Salem and join our motley crew to ride with us from there on to Hampton and back to Atlanta. We bumped into Alex Galloway and crew, John Rieben and Lorrie Dixson, who are also big Panic fans from Atlanta, Ben Nelson and his posse, and Mike & Jen Phelps. Turns out we all had rooms on the 3rd floor. It could not have been planned any better than this. By the time Eric Creighton and his buddies had arrived (they drove from Chicago for these shows), checked into the Ramada across the street from the Courtyard, and made it over to our room to deliver the B&K's that they had pack-muled for us, Justin's girlfriend Jess had arrived, Nate "Dey Go Nate" Fisher had arrived, Billy Mixon and "Climb to Stacey" Gates had rendezvoused with the Crew. Eventually we came to the realization that the entire hotel, as far as we could tell, had shown itself to be booked solid by Panic freaks. It really hit me then: WOW, this is going to be a REALLY CRAZY weekend from this moment on. So we got all settled in and began engaging in all of our various individual pre-show rituals so as to be ripe and ready for the show.

At this point, the true value of the Marklar's became known. While we are still in the hotel, "getting down to business" as it were, we begin to pick up radio traffic from other folks with Marklars in the parking lot at the venue. Now these aren't folks weren't part of our crew, per se, but their conversations sure were helpful to our crew. I mean, without ever leaving the hotel, we get all the details about what is going on in the lot, how security is behaving that night, what time doors open, which doors are the best ones for us Tapers to enter through, etc.... It was like having Panic tour's own private version of CNN-all the news we needed, constantly being fed to us! "Thanks to whoever this is for providing us with the 411 on the scene over there, y'all have a good a time tonight...".

Doors opened promptly at 6:30, and the mad rush for the Taper's Section was on. Thanks to the always quick feet of Justin (you just can't beat us quick, sneaky southern boys), we secure our customary front-row, dead center seats in the Section, only to be moved back 4 rows by security because "the first 4 rows are reserved, the Taper's Section starts on the 5th row." Ohh for God's Sake, tell us that BEFORE we start setting up, people. I mean, is it too much to ask that you do your job correctly? Regardless, the Section is located VERY far from the stage, as is typical for large arena General Admission shows. Good thing we got the 460/ck8 combo from Klaus, those puppies have some reach on them for sure.

(EDITOR'S NOTE - Hasn't the Lawrence-Joel Coliseum had shows with taper sections before? Who is sleeping at that wheel? Folks, if you're gonna book bands like this, work out the taping area details in professional fashion, ahead of time. Moving people who have thousands of dollars of equipment, and are paying customers, represents a lack of respect for an event that is bringing in good money for your venue. Hello?!?!?!!??!)

We had decided back at the hotel that Justin was in charge of the Section rig. An experienced Taper kid who has done many shows with my rig, he's as at home in the Section as anybody, and his track record for making great tapes is well established. It's not like we left him there all by himself: the Atlanta Crew has a large Taper contingency, and we all like to hang out together at shows, so it's only natural to find our whole crew in and around the Section at every show. Matt, Cary and myself were gonna pull the FOB action because that was surely going to be the only way to make truly great tapes that night. (Editor's Note - FOB stands for "front of board," ie, tapes made in front of the sound mixing console, usually about 1/2 way to the stage.) Hell, FOB is the only way to make great tapes almost ANY night, regardless of the venue or location of the Taper's Section. FOB is where, from a live-sound standpoint, the sonic "sweet spot" is going to be. I prepped my rig and stashed it all in a backpack, as did Kinder. All the while, Creighton and his boys had joined forces with Big Al and Mike Wheeler to secure the sweet spot, and were waiting for Matt and I to join them on the floor. By the time the Dirty Dozen Brass Band (DDBB) opened the show, we had completely secured the prime real estate, managed to smuggle all the necessary gear down to the floor, and stubbed-down some non-floor ticket holding folks to further bolster our already large contingency of "blockers". Also, I had run into some more friends, Dave & Jenny, and Mark & Carolyn. Now all we had to do was relax, enjoy the DDBB's performance, crack open the several flasks of smuggled-in brown likkah that make those Cokes taste just right, and wait for the boys to "take the field". I love it when a plan comes together.

The DDBB has been a regular opener for the boys this year; they did most of the Summer Tour together. I think that the DDBB is the perfect opener for Panic. Their loose, funky, soulful New Orleans horn-section style is nearly impossible to resist. Tonight was no different. Although they didn't really tear it up and "take me back" the way they had at Red Rocks and in Raleigh, they played solidly, and got the crowd nice and warmed up. Personally, the real deal when the DDBB opens for Panic isn't the DDBB, or even the Panic, but the inevitable Panic with the DDBB sitting in. Something about counting 13 musicians on stage, and hearing the boys throw it down with a rich, fat horn-section backing them up and pushing them on just makes me all goose-bumpy and nervous. Like a schoolboy with his first crush on the little freckle-faced girl with the pigtails. Even now, writing this, I get giddy just THINKING about it. Dave Schools, the bass player for Widespread Panic, said it best in Raleigh: "There's only one thing you can say about the Dirty Dozen: you just can't be unhappy when they're playing.... Ain't this tour grand?"

About 15 minutes to show time, and its time to get our FOB show on the road. The mics and cables come out of the backpack, the stands start to get put together, the final preparations are made. When the lights drop, the stands go up, the mics go on, and the tape starts rolling. Boom, boom, boom, it's gotta be that quick. After that, it's all a matter of adjustment, to make it just right.

Unfortunately for us, about 5 minutes before show time, it all falls apart. Two security guards - the only 2 besides the ones checking ticket stubs and fluorescent stamps that allow you to have floor access that I see all night--just "happen" to be walking straight up the middle of the floor, and encounter us making our final preparations. Cables are hanging out of backpacks, and, though stealthy, our stands are in plain view for anyone within six feet of us. So we are cold busted, literally, caught with our zippers down.

"You guys can't have that stuff up here, you gotta take it back there" says the big black guard, gesturing towards the Section.

Kinder is the first to speak up in an attempt to rationalize our FOB presence, "No, it's all good, as long as we don't block the soundman's view."

"No, you gotta take this stuff back there," comes the refrain, again with the gesturing.

"And this stuff ain't supposed to be in here at all anyway" the white one adds, pointing to the flasks of brown likkah piled around the backpacks. "This has definitely got to go."

As I look away from the white one, trying to blend in and go unnoticed (yeah right, right now I'm about as unnoticeable as an elephant in a phone booth), I think I almost saw him make his move for the flasks.

"Umm, okay" chimes in Wheeler, who beats him to the punch, grabbing the flasks and pouring all of their contents into a single empty Coke cup. "But you can't have the flasks, they're nice flasks."

"Just ditch the booze, son."

"No seriously, it's OK for us to be here, we aren't bothering anyone." Creighton has seen the futility of logic and is attempting to invoke the Jedi mind tricks that Tapers so often use, hoping to convince the stormtroopers to see it our way.

"Nope, you gotta go, come on, get it out of here." The black one, again. Resistance is futile.

"Ok, we're out of here," says Kinder, hastily shoving all of his gear into the backpack and beating a quick retreat. He realizes that these boys aren't going anywhere, so what are we brown-nosing here for? All the while, I'm not uttering a peep, standing there like a deer in the headlights, hoping maybe if I stay real still and quiet that they won't notice me, and will just walk away with Kinder. Again, "yeah right, just like that elephant...."

Then the white one finally points to my backpack and says "This stuff too, get it out of here."

I respond with more Jedi mind tricks: "Oh, this stuff doesn't work without that stuff" I point to Kinder walking away.

"No sir, get this and take it back there" the black one is getting pissed.

"But it's useless without that stuff, can't I just zip up the backpack and stay here?"

"No Sir, it's got to go back there. Now come on, get it and let's go." God, I hate those guys so much. So very, very much. Defeated, I pack my stuff back into my bag, and beat the same quick retreat as Matt. No sooner do I reach the stairs leading up off the floor than the lights drop, and the heroes take the field. Were it not for the stormtrooper escort, I would have circled back around and headed right straight back for the FOB spot. I was hoping that Kinder had thought of that, as he had retreated without the "benefit" of an escort, but it was not to be.

So now here we are, a couple of FOB refugees trying to stash our gear in the dark, in the jam-packed Section, while everybody else is busy getting their rigs running. And just when it couldn't possibly get any crazier, it does. Some guy decks 2AS. The punches came fast and hard, and he's lying on his back, head in Matt's lap, right in the middle of Matt trying to deal with his backpack full of gear. Kinder, not knowing why 2-Armed suddenly appeared in his lap, looks down at him and snorts "Dude, watch out! What's your problem?"

"Fuck, that hurt. That's the hardest I've been hit in a while."

"What??"

"Some guy just clocked me, for NO reason!"

Justin, Creighton and some of the rest of us witness this and aim to get involved. Okay, so here we go, time for a rumble. In the Section, of all places. By this point Kinder has made it to his feet, and is now looking for the culprit, who fortunately has been grabbed by the collar by his buddy and is being dragged away from there as quickly as possible. Smart move on that guy's part, if he had not made the decision to make a quick escape, it would have only gotten worse. There were a lot more of us than there were of them.

By the way, the guy who decked 2AS was a little tiny fella.

Things settled down pretty quickly after that hectic 10 minutes of sheer chaos. After all, there was a show getting starting here. Matt & I stashed our now-useless gear, I checked with Justin to make sure everything was functioning with the rig he was running, and then we zipped back down to the floor, to rejoin the "blockers," who had managed to maintain our floor space. By the time I rejoin the crew on the floor, "Papa Legba", the opening song, is reaching it's closing crescendo. "Papa Legba" is a Talking Heads song that Panic loves to cover. The title figure, Legba, is the King of Voodoo. A very appropriate opener, considering the black magic chaos that has just arisen. Wheeler points out the Coke cup full of brown likkah, which much to my surprise was not empty yet, and I needed a drink.

The "Legba" was followed by a hot "Space Wrangler," one of my favorite Panic tunes. No matter when or where they play the song during a show, it's guaranteed to get me hopping. As for this one, not only was it hot, but the placement was perfect, and it fully redirected my focus to the show. All thoughts of the failed attempt to run FOB tape, and the recent chaos in the Section just melted away as I got sucked into the groove.

"Wrangler" galloped effortlessly into "Blackout," which is always a big crowd favorite. By now everybody in the place was totally focused on the events unfolding on-stage.

After "Blackout" came the now-rare "Ain't No Use," a Meters song that I used to see all the time, but had not seen in quite a while. In fact, I think the last "Ain't No Use" I saw was one that the Meters did when I caught them at Atlanta's Roxy Theater back in February. I love the big jam that leads out of "Ain't No Use," and this one did not disappoint. Slowly but surely the jam melted down, and the easily predicted "Blue Indian" rose from the ashes.

The homespun living room imagery of "Blue Indian" provided the first mellow point of the show, and you could feel everyone relax just a bit to catch his or her breath. After "Blue Indian" came the also pastoral-themed "Holden Oversoul," which exited into another sick jam. The jam began to resemble something familiar, and sure enough, "All Time Low" made it's appearance, with its power-rock chords churning the crowd back to the peak of the "Space Wrangler>Blackout" frenzy. (Side note: I can't wait to hear the boys bust this song out with the gospel choir at the New Year's Shows, another goose-bump inducing thought).

Then a longer pause while an additional amp and vocal mic made their way on stage, and we knew it was special guest time. Most people were probably thinking that one of the DDBB was gonna come out and light it up, but the amp suggested otherwise. Sure enough, out walks Danny from Bloodkin.

Bloodkin, is a straightforward, raunchy Americana-rock band that, like Widespread, hails from Athens, GA. Danny and Eric are the main songwriters, and the heart and soul of Bloodkin. Panic and Bloodkin go way back. In fact, Panic covers several Bloodkin songs: "Henry Parsons Died," "Who Do You Belong To," "End Of The Show," "Makes Sense To Me," and "Can't Get High," immediately spring to mind. And since Bloodkin was playing at a club in Winston-Salem that night, it was only natural to expect that maybe either Danny or Eric or both would sit in.

My first thought, when I saw Danny walk on-stage, was "okay, here comes the 'Henry Parsons Died'". And I was right on the money, not that calling "Henry Parsons" in this situation was tough by any stretch. The "Parsons" was loud and gritty, as it always is, but this one had some extra helter-skelter to it. A bonus scoop of edgy down-and-dirty, if you will. Now, the odds are that "Henry Parsons" this late in the first set also means that this is the last song of the set. Figuring this, I made my way off the floor and back to the Taper's Section, as if I were drawn by some magnetic force, irresistible even though I was not running a rig. By the time I reached The Section, the "Parsons" was reaching its venue-shaking, brain-rattling, eardrum-busting conclusion. And as the last elements of distortion and feedback faded away, the boys & Danny left the stage, and the first set was over. A solid effort, with some gems and plenty of crowd-pleasers to make sure that we were all left nice and thirsty for some second set action.

At this point, it dawns on me: here I am, standing by The Section, and I have absolutely no reason to be here. Then the magnitude of that realization hits me: this is the first Panic show since April, 1996 - about 70-something shows for me - that I have not run a rig. Weird. Very weird. But at the same time, cool. Very cool, actually. It was a really unencumbered feeling. And once I settled into that feeling, realizing that I don't hafta deal with any patchers, or deal with being stuck in a cramped environment, tiptoeing around cables, mountain-goating my way around an obstacle course of cases, stands, and cords, or anything of the sort, I began to actually enjoy my new-found freedom. Hey, I could kinda get used to this....

I should have known that it wasn't gonna last. About 20 minutes into the set break, my friend and fellow Taper Dennis comes up to me: "Man, Julian, you gotta help me, my rig's not working right, it's fucked up, help me figure out what's wrong." Not 5 minutes later, there I am, after mountain-goating my way around all the aforementioned obstacles, right back, smack-dab, in the middle of the Section. A coupla tweaks here, a quick change there, and **presto**, Dennis' rig is up and running. That'll teach me to hang around The Section when I don't have any reason to be there. A few minutes later, the lights drop, and the second set is on.

Now I am originally from Valdosta, a small town in South Georgia. One of the first vehicles I learned to drive (after the motorcycle and 3-wheeler) was a tractor, a small John Deere, to be exact. I can recall bouncing in the seat, trying to remember what all the levers were for. So for that reason, I am particularly fond of "Love Tractor," which just so happened to be the second set opener. Like "Henry Parsons Died," "Love Tractor" is an edgy, rough-and-tumble number, only with a more chug-a-lug feel, almost as if it was written directly to the rhythm of bouncing in the seat of a tractor as it tore along a dusty country road. So I'm all about "Love Tractor." (Editor's Note - Some Panic fans refer to this song as "Fuck Truck.") This one was a top-notch version, the boys pushed it hard, and the crowd responded to the energy pouring off stage and out of the P.A. "Love Tractor" has also recently been known to melt out of its traditional ending into an extended jam, and this one followed that new pattern. The jam was expansive and tasty, and floated on down to just the right point for the corner to be turned, and all of a sudden it was "One-Armed Steve" time. Though one of Panic's shorter, more standardized songs, I always get a big kick out of this song, and this one, like so many versions of songs played that night, did not disappoint. After "One-Armed Steve," more mics moved onto the stage, and we knew it was DDBB time for sure.

At this point, I abandoned my role as surrogate-taper for Dennis' rig, and made a hasty dash for my crew on the floor. I got there just in time for "Weight Of The World" to begin, a selection that came to almost no one's surprise. "Weight Of The World" was recorded on Panic's second studio album, and the studio version features a fat horn-section laying out tasty riffs. I must say that that studio version is one of my favorite Panic studio songs. And to catch it live, with a horn-section, well, that certainly makes the righteous studio version pale in comparison, considering the extended live version features plenty of solo's by the guys blowing horns. Even though this song has been a staple of the Panic + DDBB selections since this summer, I never ever get tired of hearing it. The "Weight Of The World" finished triumphantly, and immediately the beat for "Arlene" began.

"Arlene" is easily one of my top 3 favorite songs, and seeing an "Arlene" with the DDBB is something on the order of wet dream magnitude. They had played a sick version together in Nashville earlier this summer, and after hearing that version on tape (I did not attend that show, that will teach me), I put down "'Arlene' with DDBB" on my list of things I must do/see before I die. Seeing this wish turn into reality was definitely the highlight of the show for me, and probably for a lot of other attendees as well. With the 13 musicians on stage weaving in and out of verses and choruses, sewing a multi-colored tapestry of sounds and tones. And just when I thought it couldn't get any better, the "Arlene" descended into a familiar drumbeat: "Guilded Splinters!!!"

A cover tune, "Guilded" has always been another preferred favorite of mine. As the "Guilded" marched forward on pins and needles, maintaining the crowd's peak energy level, I thank my lucky stars for being fortunate enough to be here.

The "Guilded" jammed into Drums, a standard part of every show's performance. Drums featured some special guests, which always makes it more enjoyable, and Drums melted into a jam that first turned into "Another One Bites The Dust", and then featured some overtones borrowed from Gary Newman's 80's hit song "In Cars". This jam turned the corner into "Greta," a fire-balling JoJo song about the Georgia-Georgia Tech game (which was to be played the next day, I can only assume that perhaps that had something to do with its selection that night). "Greta" jammed out into another slice of uncharted territory before dropping effortlessly into Porch Song, and I knew I had better be getting back to The Section to check on Dennis' rig, because this was certainly going to be the set closer. I plopped down in the empty seat next to his rig just in time to adjust the levels to fit the standard yet massive explosion of sound that always closes each show. The crowd went nuts for a few minutes, and then it was encore time.

Just before the encores, Dave noodled the intro notes to the Grateful Dead's "Dark Star". I got a big kick out of that, and then all of a sudden, they were cranking up "Walk On," a Neil Young tune that they cover about once per tour. Yes, some get stoned, and others get strange, yet right now it was all VERY real. I was beginning to think that maybe somebody had been reading my mind before drawing up the set list for the second set. At the conclusion of "Walk On," the opening measures of "Traveling Light" broke out, and after that song the house lights greeted us.

Back at the hotel, there was a party going on, MANY spirits strong. I was hungry, so as soon as I got all the gear plugged in and charging, I broke into the cooler full of leftovers, and fixed myself a plate of smoked turkey, Potatoes Collins, dressing, and creamed corn. The night manager steered me to the Employee's Lounge, where I found the microwave that I so desperately needed. A few minutes later, my stomach greeted the leftovers like a man trapped in the desert greets a 5-gallon jug of water.

Back up on the third floor, which seemed to be ground zero for the post-show hotel party, everybody was catching up with each other, exchanging notes about the show, and getting into whatever trouble could be found or created. My belly full, I proceeded to jump into the party stream, and the currents carried me from room to room, meeting, greeting, following the age-old advice of "when in Rome, do as the Romans do." Each entrance to a new room ushered on a new round of expressing just how much everybody in the room hated everybody else. So much. SO very, very much.:). Most everybody was still really wound up and wired, so the big floating party continued on into the wee hours. Sometime around 3:00 a.m. or so my gas tank finally hit empty, and I crawled into Nick and Joanna's room to crash (my room was still a party, no way I was gonna get any shut-eye in there). Besides, the next day's hastily constructed itinerary began with a 10am departure time, and I need my beauty sleep.

"GET UP!!! WAKE UP!!! C'MON, GET YOUR LAZY ASSES OUT OF BED!!!"

Wendy had taken it upon herself to be The Waker on Saturday morning. And that was fine by me, pal. That meant I didn't have to do it. It was 9:15 a.m., time to get the show on the road once more. In a flurry of activity that started with finding out who had passed out where (Matt had been locked out of the room, he was asleep on the couches in the lobby area of the 3d floor; everybody thought we kicked him out of the room, we all thought that that conclusion was funny) and ended with a rush job of double checking to make sure that we hadn't left anything in the rooms, we hit the road at 10:10, pretty much right on schedule. Transportation re-arrangements had been made, since Aaron & Archna were now passengers in the caravan, and my friend Chris Keller (whom I was riding with from Winston-Salem to Hampton) had added his vehicle to it as well, bringing this day's total to 7 vehicles. A quick gas stop, and we were on the interstate once more. Cary, Matt and Brian, in Cary's car, had gotten separated from the main body of the caravan (they turned right, everybody else went left), and were actually a few miles ahead of us. We met them at some little interstate mom & pop gas station, I think it was called The Country Store.

The Country Store featured a very appealing breakfast buffet, and since we were all really hungry by this point, it was time to eat. Of course, we did our usual job of freaking out the locals (I could see the headline in the Po-Dunk Springs Sunday Gazette: Saturday Morning Routine Disrupted By Gaggle Of Freaks) as we gobbled up nearly every morsel of food on the buffet. Thank god the cooks were still there to whoop up some more biscuits for us all. Speaking of biscuits, after I finished my breakfast, I stopped by Deepesh's table. He had constructed this pyramid of fresh biscuits and gravy. I mean, literally, a pyramid. One of the seven wonders of the culinary world. Most everybody else had finished, but he still had his mountain to climb. He turns to me and says "I'm gonna finish eating, so be patient, it'll just be a few minutes. I'm not going to rush my food.

"My man, nobody in their right mind would rush anybody to complete the task of engorging a meticulously crafted miracle piece of breakfast architecture like that."

Although we might be a tad bit worried about your arteries...

The stereo in Chris' Jeep had decided to tweak out on us, and despite our efforts with the needle-nosed pliers purchased at the Truckers Center adjacent to the Country Store's restaurant, we were unable to play our bluest tapes for the rest of the ride to Hampton. But that was fine, we had some things to discuss, anyway.

The rest of the ride was fairly uneventful. I eventually made my way back into Cary's car--once they told me that they were gonna be putting on the tapes of the previous night's show, I had to bail on Chris to check out how the tapes came out. He understood, and had no problems with me "catching the Katy" and leaving him "a mule to ride" solo. Anyway, Marklar chatter was less on this day than it had been on Friday, although the occasional "I hate you guys so much. So very, very much" did get exchanged. All thoughts were oblivious to the boring, back country trek that stood between us and our destination, the point on which all thoughts were concentrated: The Hampton Coliseum.

The Hampton Coliseum is nicknamed the Spaceship Hampton primarily because it looks like a spaceship. Beyond the intriguing coolness of its design. The place also has the greatest vibe of any indoor venue on the East Coast. The place has always been booked and run as though it was a large club, not a world-famous concert venue. All shows are totally general admission, and security is normally laid back and laughing - they realize the general harmlessness of the crowds, and are aware of how security's attitude can affect a show's energy and the crowd's perception of that show. This venue has just seen way to many shows to have the generally sucky attitude that so many similar-sized venues (especially some of the new public civic centers and college basketball arenas) reek so badly of. The vibe there is just unbeatable, more relaxed, mature, and mystical than any comparable place. I mean, this place has seen the Grateful Dead (the granddaddy's of jam band music) literally dozens of times, Garcia even played a couple of shows here with JGB. Plus just about any other big-name act you could imagine, from Led Zeppelin to the Rolling Stones to U2 to Phish. Too bad more places don't operate this way; it would make concert-going a whole new experience for many.

The Courtyard By Marriott across from the Hampton Coliseum was our second real destination. Most of the caravan crew had rooms at the Radisson, two exits away from the Coliseum, while the rest of us had reservations at the Courtyard. In order for us to get to our lodging destinations, we had to drive right past the Spaceship Hampton. Several people had no idea what the Spaceship was all about, and as we past it, the Marklar's were ablaze with chatter: "What's THAT??"

"That, my friends, is the Hampton Coliseum."

"SWWEEEETT!!!"

We checked in to our rooms and turned on the Georgia-Georgia Tech game to watch its conclusion. My friend Bari hails from Norfolk, so we got in touch with her and got directions to her house, where she was having a pre-show get-together. We would be there after the game finished. Some of the Radisson folks went to Ethan and Joye Lee's house, as they were also having a pre-show party. I fell asleep watching the end of the game. We didn't leave the hotel until about 5:30, but that was OK, we had to go to Bari's house so I could get a tour of the place that she grew up in. You just learn so much about a person and so much more about other people makes sense when you see them in context of where they came from. It's like seeing them in a whole new natural light. Things just start to make more sense.... We ate some of the Big Party Sub that she had ordered (I thought that thang was the perfect choice for the party at her mama's house) met some new folks, saw some familiar Atlanta faces, and were on our way back to the hotel via the liquor store to grab our gear and head to the show.

We walked into the show without being searched. Like I said, a venue with a clue: searching is a pointless routine. No matter how thorough the search, we always manage to bring in exactly what we want to. Why bother in the first place? The DDBB was already well into their opening set as Matt, Cary and I walked through the doors. We had decided that Justin would again run the Section rig, and Matt and I would again try for the FOB action. I mean, come on, this is HAMPTON we're talking about. Panic's first time in this venue, a place that is very near and dear to Dave ["I just love this place," he says with mock tear before the encores] it's the last show of the tour, and it's the third to last Panic show of the year. So we zip over to Taper's Section, where we found Justin in his usual front-and-center position. We said our hellos and 'I hate you guys so much' to the rest of the Crew that had gathered, as expected, around the Section, then made our way up front in search of the sweet spot.

We were very determined to avoid a repeat of the previous night's FOB fiasco-which is why we didn't come in until the DDBB had started. We didn't want to be seen, because being seen is the first step in getting caught. Also, tonight we only brought one FOB rig, and we altered our backpack-packing scheme to avoid repeating the mistake of being caught with exposed gear. The DDBB finished pretty soon after we grabbed some space, so we commenced to meet our neighbors. Turns out that we were standing in the midst of a large group of teenagers who were Widespread virgins, eagerly awaiting Panic to grab their legs, you know, and pull them in. Ahh, newbies to the scene. Sweet!! A couple of quick "hello, glad to meetchya's" later, and we were explaining the whole FOB taping thing, and letting them know that it sure would be nice if they could manage to keep quiet during the show, you know, for the tapes and all...

"No problem. No problem at all."

Now all we had to do was keep an eye out for security. We never saw any. In fact, I don't recall seeing any security except for at the gates and after the show, when they were hustling people out the door. Like I said, that place knows what it's doing. And believe me, that is a big part of why Hampton is Hampton, it just helps the vibe tremendously. The energy in the show that night was a mix of slight nervous excitement, a big dose of cool, calm, and collected, and a coating of it just feeling right to be there. We knew what this show meant, and we were ready for it.

The lights dropped, and we went to work: Creighton had the mics, Kinder had the stand, and I had the Oade and the HHB, while Cary and Creighton's boys maintained our perimeter. Although the taping did get off to a rough start - the start of "Chilly Water" is missing, and the levels are tweaky for the first few minutes of that song - overall I am of the opinion that, after further review, these tapes turned out the best of any tapes made with my rig all year, bar none. Anyway, "Chilly Water" is, in my opinion, the best choice for opening song, it just gets everybody going at 100% right out of the shoot. I have felt that way ever since hearing the tapes from the 10-3-93 shows, where they open with an absolutely power-house, bone-rattling "Chilly." And this version that I'm standing hear listening to as I watch the levels (another reason to love the "Chilly" opener, it's such a loud song that it makes it easy to set confident levels) is just pounding me in the head, reminding me why it is I love this band so much.

"Walkin'" came next. A crowd-pleaser for sure, it swerved hard right and smack into "Dyin' Man," another raucous, high-energy song that I, along with a lot of other folks, really dig. After "Dyin' Man," there wasn't a soul in the building that wasn't into it big time. And now, "Conrad???" In the middle of the first set?? This is a big sign.

"Conrad" is usually a set opener or closer, it's another one of the extremely loud songs. This is definitely not an expected slot for it. Tonight is really going to be a legendary show. The crowd responds, alternatingly flexing up and down, almost in a stand-still jaunt, them weaving side to side, then twitching, and finally tweaking out in a mass frenzy of tasmanian-devilesque body shakes. I looked over at our newbie neighbors: "Careful kids, you might have a seizure..."

After "Conrad" came a new set of chords, a new drumbeat, and presto, the debut of "This Part Of Town," the new Mikey (EDITOR'S NOTE - He's referring to Widespread guitarist Mike Houser.) tune that we had been hearing soundcheck rumors about. It is a dark tune, about thinking you've seen it all, only to learn something new; to go some place that you haven't been before and couldn't imagine existing. At least that's what I gathered right there on the spot with my first listening. The conclusion to the song was sort of drawn out, tentative, and spacey, and the boys angled softly into "L.A," or "Liza's Apartment," as it is sometimes known. "Liza's" is a rare one, maybe once or twice a tour, and a beautiful song, to boot. Its soothing sensations helped everyone to gather their wits and process the meanings and energy that the first 5 songs had conveyed. After "Liza's" came "I'm Not Alone," another beautifully written, poetic, heartfelt, open song with much emotion and a great energy peak.

And then the mics. The ones whose presence on-stage means only one thing: it's Panic + DDBB time again! Some spacey noise making churns the crowd once more, turning the energy knob up one time, and then, solid as a rock, they busted into "Superstition" (yes, the Stevie Wonder song). Talk about a song that everybody can relate to, a perfect jam band-plus-horns cover! A big-time treat.

After "Superstition," a familiar intro develops, and everyone realizes at the same time "COCONUT!!!" The Holy Grail of Panic tunes, according to some, and the first song they ever came across, according to them. This song sees the light of day maybe 3-4 times a year, max. Except for 1999. Considering how GREAT this song is when done live with a horn-section, and considering how many shows the DDBB were doing with Panic, this song made it back into the rotation much more frequently. And that's fine with all of us, I can assure you that. "Coconut" ended the first set, and everybody sat down to take a breather. The gear went back in the bag, as it must when the lights are on, and we waited patiently for the second set.

During the set break, we got more acquainted with the newbies, who were naturally very impressed with the first set. There was some halitosis going around, so Matt helped our ring of new friends out by passing out some silence-inducing, perimeter maintaining Sweet Breath. When the lights dropped again for the second set, we repeated our start up routine (this time we got it going a bit faster, and it all went much more smoothly than at the outset). They busted into "Ain't Life Grand," one of the most recognizable songs in their repertoire. The crowd immediately responded. The energy in The Spaceship was quickly at peak levels as "Ain't Life Grand" segued into a jam, which settled down into the easily recognizable spaciness that meant "Driving Song" was on deck. I love "Driving Song." It's unique persona derives from the beauty of it's structure, the decisiveness of it's changes, and the fact that they always do "Drivin Song" into another song then back into "Driving Song." It's called the "Driving sandwich." This time around, "Driving" steered into "Tall Boy," another crowd favorite with a mass-appeal hook factor, which searched out into the realms of another jam. This jam slowly wound down to the signature first beat of "Papa's Home."

A "Driving" sandwich with double meat is always better than a single meat sandwich. But a double meat consisting of "Papa's Home," which is often the bread in a "Papa's sandwich," is spectacular. "Papa's" is a family-themed song, another beautiful number full of elegance and vivid imagery. It's lyrics celebrate time spent with families (it's about Christmas, Santa Claus, and making it home to greet the kids at sunrise), which made it a perfect choice for this first weekend of the Holiday Season, and for the last show of the long fall tour. The jam in "Papa's" was played with extreme energy and focus, the crowd soaking it up and reflecting it back on the boys creating a perfectly synchronized energy cycle. My thoughts slipped back to breakfast, with Deepesh's Sausage Gravy Biscuit Pyramid. I imagined that everyone in attendance was a biscuit, and that Panic was pouring on the gravy, which was heavily flavored with the sausage that is the magical taste of this place.

Drums fell out of "Papa's," and everybody again took a moment to catch their breath. Drums was not as good as the night before, and then before we knew it, we were being treated to a Drums & Bass, with Dave laying down heavy riffs from the Dead's "China>Rider" transition point in homage to the spirits that reside here. This moved into a full-blown jam, which then spiraled down into the opening notes of "Wind Cries Mary," the Jimi Hendrix tune. The boys debuted this at Halloween this year (along with "Misty Mountain Hop," by Led Zeppelin, and "Won't Get Fooled Again," by the Who), and it had popped up a couple of times since then. This version was much superior to the one I saw at Halloween, and everybody was digging it. It ended, and a familiar jam immediately ensued. We were about to close the "Papa's sandwich." The end of "Papa's Home" is signature Panic, frenzy slowly decaying into a wave of warm, calming tones, and this one was spectacular.

Now it was obvious that the "Driving sandwich" was going to be completed here, and the ensuing spacey notes confirmed that hunch. A beautifully executed conclusion to a beautiful song, and then it was time for another DDBB sit-in.

This was to be a solo effort, though, as only Roger (Editor's Note - Dirty Dozen sax man Roger Lewis) came out to join them. What ensued was an aggressive, charged, gritty powerhouse rock version of "Flat Foot Flewzy," a NRBQ song that Dave sings. "Flewzy" was loud and hard and fast and electric--"come on Hampton!!" And inventive: "she's a real hum-dinger of a girl," "what does she smell like," "on the back of the bus baby," "have some respect for the girl." The deafening peaks of its crescendo sucked the last bit of energy out of everyone there. You can hear it on the tapes, people were literally too tired to clap for the encore.

And what an encore we got: more mics on stage meant more DDBB. I was thinking we were gonna get a "Fishwater," but once JB mentioned that the next song was a Talking Heads song, I immediately knew we were in for "Swamp," another rare treat that is made all the more special by the inclusion of the DDBB. "Swamp" was ripping it up, we were getting high, high-high-high-high-high, and then out of nowhere the boys turn the corner into "Fishwater," another favorite of mine and many. This version was ripping, and though the song calls for more, I for one did not have anything left in the gas tank, and couldn't have withstood more.

Rather than continue the description of the weekend--which includes: Creighton & crew getting booted from the Courtyard in Hampton at 5:00 a.m., then sneaking back in to sleep on the floor of my room; Aaron bringing us all "breakfast", while Archna was pleading with us "you guys, I gotta get to the airport"; witnessing Cary being assisted by Aaron in the search for his wallet, "nope, Cary I don't see it here," he keeps repeating while throwing the contents of Cary's backpack all over the hotel parking lot; the Great Cracker Barrel Adventure (our plan called for us to stop at the first Cracker Barrel for breakfast. 5 hours later, we finally found one), where Aaron told the little old lady that we were driving all the way to Miami, and they called for "Swallows, party of 2"--let's just say we all made it back to our homes safe and sound, despite the annoying presence of the white Maxima that we had fun 'capturing' several times in our caravan., and the difficulty of keeping a caravan together in the dark. Sometime after midnight on Sunday, we finally reached the junction of 1-85 and I-285 in Atlanta and went our separate ways home, our heads full of unforgettable memories of the fantastic weekend we had just experienced en masse. I for one will never ever forget that weekend, and am so glad that I was able to share it in such large fashion with all my friends: Matt, Cary, Deepesh & Karen, Amy, Allen, Don, Wendy, Liz, Wheeler, Big Al, Big Steve, Billy & Stacey, Justin & Jess, Aaron & Archna, Eric Creighton & his boys, Joanna, Nick, Bari, Alex Galloway, Mike & Jen Phelps, Shannon, 2-Armed Steve, fPete, Chris, Nate, Holly and everybody else that we encountered along the way.