The night of the Smashing Pumpkins concert, Kenny shows up at my house with Chris riding shotgun, and we cruise south to Marengo to pick up Heather en route. Displaying considerably more dexterity for the OSU parking scene than I had, Kenny finds a curbside spot on 11th with no problem, maybe two blocks at most away from the Newport. With time to kill the four of us hang out in this nearby head shop for a moment, as Kenny slings b.s. with the owner. Chris, meanwhile, is telling me about the Nirvana show he and Damon caught down in Dayton two months ago. It had gone off pretty much as expected — a good, solid rock show, well attended and well received — although there was the comical added twist that somehow Novoselic and Cobain were convinced former drummer Chad Channing was in the audience, and kept pleading with him to show his face.
“He’s done acid, I can tell,” Kenny explains as we’re strolling up the sidewalk, speaking of the shop owner we‘ve just deserted, “there’s this one thing you can see in people’s eyes if they’ve done acid, it’s easy if you know what to look for.”
Immediately inside the Newport, I buy this black tee shirt with a red devil surrounded by gold glitter on front, the legend “Mission To Mars” on back, while Kenny opts for the white one with an angel instead. The four of us then drift upstairs and plop down in a sea of familiar comrades. Scott Anderson is here with a sizeable crew, Dan Bandman on the premises with the same. Somewhere outside, Travis Tyo and Andy Thomas are attempting to sneak in with no ticket, to no avail. We have a seat on the bleachers and settle in for the show.
All we know so far of the two opening acts is that they are named The Frogs, a personal favorite of the band’s, and Swervedriver, with whom seemingly no one among our extended circle is familiar. Let’s just say I will not be writing a post about The Frogs anytime soon. They play first, and are a costumed comedy-rock routine who are only on the bill because Smashing Pumpkins bandleader Billy Corgan is a good friend of theirs. But then a short while later, the equally unknown Swervedriver take the stage, and things suddenly get very real.
Swervedriver quickly establishes itself as the best opening band I’ve seen in my short existence, a sentiment shared by most of the people with us. Chris notes that it’s insanely loud, which I suppose it is, and yet there’s this weird melodic flow at work here, as the music washes over the crowd somehow like waves. A dense mosh pit forms below us, in front of the stage, but as a significant portion of us upstairs remain bolted to our benches, nodding along with the shredding guitars’ hymnal sway, this represents a perfectly logical option as well: the average listener’s response could realistically veer in either direction. In fact, while Heather and I had not moved from these bleachers during the Primus show, she and I do venture down to the pit, alternating in various combinations with Chris and Kenny so as not to lose our seats. We make determined vows to find out more about this British four-piece, a sentiment echoed by many.
“They’re, like, heavy, but mellow at the same time,” I will later observe, to my pal Dan Bandman.
“That’s a perfect way to put it,” he agrees.
Maybe the phrase “shoegaze” was already in circulation, maybe not, but I certainly hadn’t heard it as of this night in December ’93, and am guessing most others present had not, either. Nowadays Swervedriver is often mentioned as one of the progenitors of subgenre, however, owing to this strange confluence of sounds I was alluding to: quite loud yet chill at once, particularly if you see them live.
I will eventually catch another show of theirs and even meet/hang out with a couple of the guys at an aftershow party, years later. Their first two albums are considered classics of the shoegaze sound and are both recommended, as is their fourth, 99th Dream, despite its terrible cover. I can’t find any setlist online regarding what they would have played that night, but guaranteed it was heavy on the cuts from Raise and Mezcal Head, those aforementioned first two releases, from 1991 and 1993 respectively.
Following the show, the latter became my favorite of the two, particularly the track Last Train To Satansville. And it still rocks, don’t get me wrong, but by this late date I’ve somewhat cooled on that tune — they have far better offerings, and it’s possible the cheesy title, which would seem more at home on a White Zombie song on something, has also influenced my opinion, is a little more difficult to get so rah rah about beyond your early 20s. But throwing on Raise while typing this post, for the first time in who knows how many years, Deep Seat struck me as a particularly awesome song and precisely the vibe I’m going for today.
Trust me, if you’re a fan of rock music and haven’t listened to Swervedriver, you should. It’s time to change the error of your ways pronto. The guitar work is typically quite inventive, songs overall are mighty catchy, and while the vocals do just sort of float along — which is part of the point —everything hangs together in a dreamy groove to carry you over the horizon in your vehicle of choice. Which might just be a really cool tune.
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I traveled to a time that was not my own. I was forced to make a new life for myself, and I met the man of my dreams. But I had to live many years to catch up with the time where my husband was. I still wanted the best his life without me could bring him, but my sister has always been jealous of me, her heart set on what was mine.
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