In Case You Forgot: A Retrospective on the Magic That Was Chris Gaines

Where were you the first time you saw this face?

Chris Gaines' face, that is, not Garth Brooks. Just remember—that is not Garth Brooks! That is Chris Gaines! Australian-born, LA-raised, pooh-poohed-his-family's-dreams-of-him-as-an-Olympic-swimmer-so-he-could-become-a-tortured-rock-star CHRIS EFFING GAINES!!!

Just wanted to be clear on who we're talking about here. 

I was working in a Border's Bookstore in Cerritos, CA, when I was first ensnared by the magical gaze of this powerhouse of a performer, this necromancer of song, this puma of a man.

I was terribly confused. I had no idea what on earth Garth was doing. It took me some time to understand the whole concept. Unfortunately, by the time I understood his plan, it was all over. Chris Gaines had disappeared. All we were left with was a memory and a whiff of perfume.

I wonder what the music sounded like.

Lucky Punk

Box boys in grocery stores are the personal whipping boys of everyone else in the store. New box boys are the personal whipping boys of all the other box boys who have been there longer.

When I was sixteen I took my first job, a box boy at the local Lucky supermarket up the street. My neighbor next door was one of the managers of the place, and I think he must have pulled for me when my application came up. I was excited to have become a working man and jumped into my job full bore, busting ass to push more carts than anyone else, bag groceries more efficiently, safely, and speedily than all the others, and keep the store sparkling clean.

Moron.

What did I get for all my efforts? I wasn't allowed to accept tips, I was the one who was always given the job of cleaning up the broken bottles of gefilte fish and the busted bags of rotten vegetables and butcher offal in the back, and I was, more than once, the butt of a pretty serious practical joke. Sadly, one of those practical jokes led to an ill-conceived and poorly executed rebuttal on my part, which subsequently led to my near death inside a shopping cart, speeding down a loading ramp and into a crowded parking lot.

That's all I have to say about that.

The Happen-Ins, or, The Best Damned Band in Town

Earlier today I found myself sitting in the filth and mire of the kind of disappointment that can only be brought on by one thing... Finding out that you were mistaken when you thought your favorite band in town was playing the next night.

It had been four days (count 'em!) since I last saw the Happen-Ins tear the stage apart at Emo's, and yes, I was already jonesin' for the greazy, slithering, and sometimes very pretty songs being pumped out by these four extremely talented cats.

Why? Simply put: THE HAPPEN-INS ARE THE BEST DAMNED BAND I'VE SEEN IN THIS TOWN.

Seriously, these guys rule. Apart from the groovy, perfectly pocketed bass lines (John Michael Schoepf  is like a Slinky wrapped in vintage furs, dipped in motor oil, and plugged right into the back side of a Victrola; all groove and no filler), the trash-canny, Charlie Wattsy, spot-on timing of Falcon Valdez's drumming, the intricate and finely balanced vocal and instrumental interplay between guitar guys Ricky Ray Jackson and Sean Faires (whose frenetic playing sounds like lost Stones or Faces tracks), there are the songs.

Oh, the songs! It's been a long time since I've found a band that plays an entire set of songs that I love. I won't waste a lot of digital ink here detailing the minutia of each one... I will leave it up to you to get off your ass, come see these guys, and learn to love the songs (writing duties are shared by Faires and Jackson) on your own. But I promise you, if you have anything in you that needs to shake, needs to shimmie, needs to drink, or needs to... well, you know... these songs will get inside you, rattle your bones, and boil your blood.

Honestly, when was the last time you heard a singer tell you to "go on and do it," and you really felt compelled to go on and do it, whatever "it" may be?

The eponymous album hits the shelves of Waterloo Records, 6th and Lamar, tomorrow, March 4, 2010. They'll be throwin' down at the Scoot Inn, 1308 East 4th Street, on March 12th to release the record on wax, and I'll be picking one up, just to see how killer they sound scratched over "Paul's Boutique." Maybe I'll pick up two copies. I'm pretty terrible at scratching.