So I left a really bad show at a bar that was sold out for the upcoming Guided By Voices show, their first indoor set in Dayton in fifteen years. But they went and broke up today.
So I was shooting the shit with the bar owner, just sharing disappointment - his both for the guaranteed money and, duh, it’s Guided By Voices. I didn’t tell him I was trying to date his daughter, but whatever.
And on the ride back I realized how Dayton I really am.
Skipping the highway because I knew construction re-commenced after 8:00, the nooks and crannies of Main Street, the way the city kinda spreads out before you on Route 4, passing by streets where my friend blew out a tire and needed help or where my ex-girlfriend used to live before moving to Brookville or the backroad with the lake that we sometimes skinny dip or whatever. Friends, memories. music, the Radio Birdman CD in the disc changer taking a backseat to nostalgia.
I don’t think I love this city at all, but it’s so incredibly me that it’s hard to deny it. Sometimes I forget that - can’t explain it. Shitty shows or great bands or spoiled weekends, who cares? It’s encoded in my DNA.
Something about this song makes me really, really wish I’d gotten my second French teacher’s number. She was a 26 year old pixie from Dijon and I swear I had a chance one time.
Oddly enough I have my first French teacher’s number. I remember getting drunk with him (on Swedish Fish vodka no less!) and him relaying his story of coming out, thus confirming what everyone in that class was pretty sure of.
Goddamn that was a lonely time.
Anyways Alex Chilton produced this album, and it’s not really that hot, but I still love this song.
Peter Gutteridge apparently passed away a few hours ago.
I suppose this cements his status as an obscure figure, even though his pedigree includes co-founding The Chills and The Clean. He’d later hook back up with the Kilgour brothers in their Clean-related project The Great Unwashed, including this song, where he lends his vocals. And boy, does the worn wistfulness of “Born in the Wrong Time” seem extra heavy tonight. There was Snapper, at least, who have scored some degree of respect for Gutteridge’s songwriting. I know he did a stint in The Puddle too, but they are always forgotten - even by New Zealand standards. I think he had a solo album, but hell if I know what it sounds like.
In terms of kiwi musicians, they rarely come more talented and they’re never as unsung. Rest in peace.
So on September 11th (my sister’s birthday) last year, I came out of a week-long coma. I don’t remember it or much of the next day, maybe two. Bits and pieces, could’ve been dreams. For example, I don’t recall a single ray of sunlight and I would’ve sworn the hospital ICU was underground, but apparently it was on the 3rd floor. That’s pretty telling, I think.
This picture was either taken yesterday last year or today, hard to really say. I was moved to the 1st floor in a standby room while they waited for a hospital bed in the mental ward to open up.
I was on suicide watch with a rotation of three orderlies, all of them younger black girls, which was nice? I mean at least I didn’t have anyone twice my age looking over my shoulder like I was gonna break out in a run. Not that I could’ve, I’d nearly broken my foot jumping out of a second story window in a hospital in Columbus on the 1st (I think).
I spent all day watching The Hobbit and picking at hospital food. I felt pretty horrible, but not as bad as one might imagine coming out of a coma would feel.
By tonight I was in the mental ward, where I’d stay for two weeks.