Somewhere in the sky and amid a dark cabin it dawned on me that flying around the country to see the same punk bands repeatedly is dangerously close to Dead Head behavior.
For casual fans of music, this wouldn’t be cause for alarm.
But in the world of punk, Jerry and his boys are persona non grata. Bad pastors, guilty of jam sessions that meander like two-hour sermons and guitar solos far too self-indulgent for punks that favor anger, brevity and gang vocals over technical prowess.
Was I just a hippie in disguise? The evidence was mounting.
The global and domestic travel for shows.
The fact that I don’t hate A Touch of Grey and its theme of resiliency.
Or my discovery of that it makes for a solid punk rock cover song.
Sorry. I don’t hate it.
Good lord, I even had a crush on a hippie girl named Cindy back in 1995. She had long blonde hair, striking features, seemed exceptionally poised (or just high) for the age of 19 and was most certainly out of my league. When I found her crying in the stock room at the K-Mart we worked at, she told me Jerry had died and that she’d had a bad premonition all Summer long.
I mumbled my condolences and walked away as my associate number was called over the intercom to man the snack bar. Those soft pretzels and Icee’s needed my attention more than Cindy did.
Disturbed by these revelations, I buried them quickly back in the clouds, fearful of being exiled from all future shows and sentenced to a life of Venice drum circles.
Besides, there were more important things to think about, like the fact that I was headed back to Charlotte, North Carolina for the first time since 2022.
Carolina On My Mind
For reasons I can’t explain, I’ve wanted to return to our old neighborhood in Charlotte ever since my wife and I moved back to Los Angeles.
The Covid pandemic had sent us on an unexpected detour to the Tar Heel State that fell far short of my naïve hopes for what a fresh start and move sight-unseen could deliver.
It’s not a feeling of nostalgia or a sentimentality for our time there that drew me back.
More so, maybe just a desire to sit with fresh eyes and reflect more deeply on a time in life that felt equal parts foreign, jarring, calming, joyous and isolating all at once.
Everything Happened In Charlotte. Nothing Happened In Charlotte.
Sure, we bought a house. Had a baby. Watched the world re-open, cautiously. And did our best to familiarize ourselves with surroundings that felt more like an arranged marriage than a move based on true love.
Yet on the flipside, I struggle to remember the details of our months there. Or the weekends, workdays, and daily rituals. Slates of black in my mind, that run for several awkward seconds before the film of recollection finally begins to play when called upon.
There are things that remain vivid.
Holding Fallon in the delivery room and feeling a wave of relief when I saw her eyes dilate as she took in the world for the first time.
The feeling of guilt in getting to hold her first, unsure of how to process the joy that is the nerve-wracking miracle of childbirth balanced with the concern of seeing a wife shake from the medication required for emergency C-section.
Of course, I recall the long walks with the stroller, my feet tracking the same path time and time again, over the bridge and through the park under a canopy of trees and dark clouds, often with two Hazy IPA’s nestled into where baby bottles would normally reside. The thunderstorms often got the best of me at the point of no return.
Right around this part of the walk, another tall boy seems in order.
I remember our neighbor Jeff, and how he sold vegetables in front of his house on the weekends. Despite not feeling well, he graciously planted flowers on the side and front of our house. When I stopped seeing him take his daily walks, a subtle whisper within me feared that the bone cancer he told me about had returned. A month after returning to LA, I learned that he passed.
There was also Simon, the truck driver I met at the local market whose Sick of It All and Bouncing Souls tattoos immediately caught my eye and were cause for introduction and conversation. Sometimes when Lindsay and I were walking Fallon in town, I’d hear “Hey Mike!” and see Simon waving to me from the patio or doorway of a dive bar that was a little too local for my tastes.
While I don’t enjoy the memory, I certainly recollect the day that I decided I could no longer white knuckle and self-manage depression on my own. With a baby eight weeks away, it was time to swallow my pride, wave the white flag and for the first of surely many times, put my daughter before me.
Asking for help is not easy. But when the doctor asked me rhetorically how I could not be clinically sad after leaving the beach and sunshine for clouds and flat terrain, I had to laugh for what felt like the first time in months. I should have sought help sooner.
Finally, every day I’m reminded of happily agreeing to get the Charlotte Hornets teal and purple integrated into the tattoo that signified my love for my daughter and acknowledged her place of birth.
No really, I’m actually a Pistons fan.
The rest of the memories all blend together in a rather bland porridge of monotony. Coffee shops. Breweries. Bahn mi sandwiches and weekday boba drinks.
Boba sales in the city are probably down 33% since Lindsay left town.
Memory Lane
The plane lands and upon checking into my hotel, I make my way towards our old neighborhood in my rental car.
There are butterflies growing in my stomach as I drive towards the old house, a peculiar nervousness I can’t explain. Further evidence of something unresolved within me, I suspect, as landmarks within town gradually becoming more and more familiar. It’s as if I’m waking from a coma, slowly being coaxed to consciousness with faces coming into focus.
I head down Central Ave and make a left on Arnold. There, on the right side of the street a few homes up, sits the house we lived in. It looks the same but surprisingly renders me feeling devoid of emotion or insight.
Somewhat disappointed by the anticlimactic reunion, I drive a little further down the street and park in a small cul-de-sac. From there, I walk down to a small entry that leads into the path where I used to walk Fallon as a baby. I can hear the wind hum through the tree tops while the clouds grow ominous as they always seem to do at the 5 or 6 o’clock hour. A familiar feeling appears and it’s how calming and lonely this walk used to be.
As I finish my walk and make my way back to the car, I’m greeted across the street by a mural on a local restaurant. I was there when it went up and I find myself in reluctant alignment with The Dead once more – “What a long strange trip” it’s most certainly been. The older I get, the more I find cliché to simply be truth.
With the old neighborhood rendering little satisfaction in whatever closure I was seeking, I drive back to my hotel to get some rest.
Perhaps some answers would live in my next day’s destination, Asheville. If nothing else, I knew good music and biscuits were waiting for me there.
Let’s Play Two
Asheville, for the uninitiated, is a mountain town in North Carolina that feels like Berkeley, Flagstaff and Boulder got together and had a love child. It’s a beautiful place with a fantastic vibe to it. In an alternate universe, I could see myself residing there. Or, let’s just say visiting more frequently.
Popping into a small brewery called The Whale, I’m greeted by a bartender with dreads who asks me if I’m in town for “the show.” Unsure of what act he’s referring to, I admit that I am and will be seeing Strike Anywhere, The Suicide Machines and The Bouncing Souls at the Orange Peel that evening, and will be headed back to Charlotte the next day to see the same show.
The mention of Strike Anywhere elicits a lot of excitement from him and he tells me that the guy who just settled his tab flew in from Miami for the same show.
Funny, I think. He appeared somewhat old and mild mannered. But then again, I fit that bill too.
Hours later, I find myself in a familiar setting, which is the floor of a small club where I am engulfed by a few hundred other people screaming lyrics to songs that have meant so very much over the years.
All of the bands aforementioned are phenomenal, as is the opener from California “Human Issue”, and it dawns on me that this may be the best small club show line up that I’ve personally ever experienced.
The mighty Strike Anywhere.
As The Bouncing Souls strike the final chords on their last song, strangers begin giving each other hugs as is often the case when a group of people experience the unity and euphoria that only music can deliver in intimate settings. As I’m embraced by the sixth or seventh person, it dawns on me that this is the degree of community, or connection that I longed for but seldom experienced during my time in Charlotte.
I walked back to my hotel shrouded in cool mountain air feeling a sense of joy or belonging that I always longed for while in the state. Something feels like it’s shifted inside of me.
And All Was Forgiven
The next morning, prior to leaving Asheville, I stop at Biscuit Head to revisit one of the better breakfasts Lindsay and I had while in North Carolina. Fresh biscuit, apple pie and cherry jams, southern scramble and a bacon mocha latte later, I’m back off to Charlotte for night two of the same bands.
Gimme the biscuits and no one gets hurt.
Upon arrival, I go back to the old house one last time and admire the fact that it looks the same. We never made much use of the large back yard, but it certainly was the perfect house to bring our daughter back to from the hospital. We ate pho that night, and I can remember Lindsay holding Fallon in one hand while she held chopsticks and noodles in the other. That’s a good memory.
Prior to going to the show, I meet Anna, my old coworker and her husband, Steven, at a brewery. It’s great to see them both and I’m reminded that when we first moved to Charlotte, work was fully-remote and people weren’t really getting together.
Meeting new friends is tough as an adult. It’s even harder when you throw a pandemic on top. For a second, I wonder what life would have been like had we moved to the city in normal times versus under the blanket of a pandemic, to which I cannot hold Charlotte responsible for.
Before I know it, I’m back in a sea of sweaty shirts and raised fists again at The Underground. A tornado of bodies goes round and round as the night’s sets are just as explosive as the night prior.
I meet Jesse from Wilmington. Ed from Charlotte. And a host of other welcoming people that while strangers, are clearly bound by the same shared love of music and bands that ultimately make us community.
At some point, a wave of emotion comes over me and it dawns on me that it’s forgiveness.
For moving the family away from our home for a year and a half.
Charlotte, for not being what I wanted it to be, even though I don’t think it could during that point in time.
And the world for unexpectedly changing and for the things and people that were altered with it.
The show ends. I make my way out into the night.
Before I leave, I meet Rob and Kim. They’re from Vancouver and have been traveling up and down the East Coast following The Bouncing Souls’ tour. They have an infectious enthusiasm and are a fitting way to end my stay in North Carolina.
Since they plan to hit all the shows on the West Coast in 2027, we agree that we’ll certainly see each other at the LA stop. And hey, since I’m basically a closeted Dead Head, maybe I’ll even fly up and see them at the Portland show.
Until Next Time
Back in the sky headed west with my knees squarely in my throat thanks to American’s falsely advertised extra legroom, I ride a high far above our current altitude that a weekend of music can deliver.
I love Los Angeles and have never been happier living here.
But I now find myself with a fondness for North Carolina that I’d always hoped I’d discover.
It feels good to now hold two very different places so close to my heart.