The thing about plans is: they necessitate optimism. You have to assume the world will keep turning for long enough to get to the plans in… The Future.
Three months ago, I went, “We should see the Pool Kids”… in Ohio! Somehow it made sense to fly 1200 miles to see them on a Thursday versus the normal hoops I have to jump through to see any band here in Texas (Austin and Denton are a Tuesday and a Wednesday. Any time I see a show in Texas, due to the fact that I live nowhere anyone would ever want to come on purpose, there is always extra time off to be requested for drive time — 3ish hours for Denton, 4 hrs one way for Austin).
“Good Girls Go to Heaven, Bad Girls Go on Tour” also represents the Pool Kids’ first foray out on the world as… headliners (starry eyes.)
I didn’t write about the Pool Kids back in March. I should have. It would be a lot easier now to describe what they mean to me if I had.
The Pool Kids are a delightful anomaly in my own history. I discovered them 100% on my own. No outside influence what so ever. Doug and I simply lamented one night in late 2018/early 2019 that we really needed to find something closer by to do. Maybe something is happening close by and we don’t even know it! Something that won’t require… taking off time from WORK?! So I got on Spotify and searched for bands touring nearby — within a 100 mile radius (Dallas is 186 miles). I looked at the results: someone called the Pool Kids. In San Angelo. 91 miles!!
They were the *only* band not wearing cowboy hats in their profile picture.
They’re new (at the time) album was called “Music to Practice Safe Sex To.” Ok. I put it on for a listen. Girl singer. Ugh. Not my thing. But anything to block out the random bullshit background noise in my office. I play it through. Eh. Doesn’t Grab me.
Oh well, it was worth a try.
But time passes… brain says, “lizzz…. lizzz listen to that album again… lizzzz” Yes, brain, I do as you command.
And it grabs me.
It grabs me hard.
And I *love* it. I don’t know why. I’m big on understandable lyrics. And I can’t say I understand half of what is being said. But the melodies are gorgeous. I get goosebumps. Whatever she’s talking about it, it’s sad… and contemplative. And angry (“I should rip your throat out for what you’ve done to me…”) Her voice is low for the most part. Something I’ve only learned about myself recently is I tend toward listening to voices that sound closer to my own and I’m a contralto.
When I look in to the band, I’m told it’s “math rock.” I have no fucking clue what that means (musicians have explained it to me: Complex time signatures. Key changes. Sounds like a new definition of “prog” to me. Close, the musicians tell me, but not quite.) Whatever. Don’t make me label a thing. And for sure if you tell me it’s “math rock” and then assume I will like other kinds of “math rock” I will refuse on principle. I pride myself on being harder to define in my tastes than that.
The reality? My finger is placed squarely on it later. “oooOOOOooo I see!” Hayley Williams from Paramore acknowledges and gives them props at some point… *that’s* it. They remind me of the Paramore appreciation I gleaned from my time as a too-old-to-admit-it-Twihard. Simple.
We absolutely go to the San Angelo gig. Doug and I are easily the oldest people there — old enough to be these kids’ parents easily. The “De Nada” is a artsy thrift store during the day. At night, they push the clothing racks and other offerings against the wall and become a venue.
There are somewhere in the neighborhood of three to five bands. They all sort of run together. The only one I remember is a band from New Orleans. The lead singer is wearing a ruffly shirt and I’m pretty sure he wants to be the Vampire LeStat when he grows up. He does weird acrobatics. Somersaults? Paints his face with red lipstick.
The Pool Kids wail.
I am floored. They are actually kids (something you must know about me is I’ve been approximately 200 years old since I was in high school… I would have acknowledged their youth even if they had been OLDER than me at that point.) But the amount of rock they bring is amazing, jaw dropping. Lead singer Christine, SHREADS, does that “up-on-the-neck tapping” guitar thing I only saw as a kid stealing glances at MTV when Mom wasn’t around (baby cousin posted look out at the door… promptly and cheerfully narc’d on me for doing something I wasn’t supposed to).
I have a couple videos from that night on YouTube. One example being:
We talk to them after. Doug wants to know about their influences. In the accidentally condescending way my brain works, since I’ve been 200 years old this whole time… I am interested to hear what they say. How do you cultivate that amount of raw power and instrument mastery at that age? The only thing I remember being mentioned was Pink Floyd.
Nice.
I come prepared. I cashed out my Christmas money before coming. Pretending to be a baller, I fan out the cash and buy as much of their merch as possible. It was $100, but the way all their eyes lit up, I felt important. And I loved it. I think Christine hugged me. I don’t really remember. I hope that got them lots of van gas and hot meals as they continued on their way… bringing the good news of rock to other points of the compass.
I was now flush with copies of their album. I sent one to Salim and one to Sue Harshe – a friend we made on a pilgrimage to see Scrawl (godmothers of riot grrl — look them up!) in Knoxville in 2015.
Fast forward…
Life changing time with Salim on the road Feb 2020… two last shows: Caroline’s Spine in Tulsa… And the Pool Kids in Houston. March 2020. On an impressive bill with the Wonder Years. Bigger! Poised for up up up bigger and better things.
Then the world ended.
But it got better….
(didn’t it?)
We saw them in Dallas this March at Amplified Live.
And I cried.
Not just a quiet trickle from the corner of my eye.
I cried hard. There they were. Rocking. Bigger and better. Christine working the crowd like a young Bono at Red Rocks. Coming in to herself. Coming into themselves as young rock gods. Master of the stage. Master of all they survey. I was just so in love with what I was seeing and hearing. So proud of them. So happy that we as humans were back. Able to watch a show like this and just be together again. Maybe everything would be ok after all.
I talked to Nicolette (complete bass domination — Doug commented much later that she seems to have the most fun performing on stage of anyone he’s ever seen… and his history as a fine appreciator of rock is ten years longer than mine) at the merch table later. Tried to get myself under control. Still had an embarrassing hitch in my throat. I have seen a LOT of good performances, but none that have gotten that kind of response before.
She remembers me. I know not a huge amount of time has passed, but in their history and progression as a band and our progression as a now traumatized people… millennia have passed.
I am touched.
So now we are back up to current. They are headlining. Of course they are. They deserve every bit of this. Again I swell with pride though… I’ve backed a winning horse. This is rare. Usually when I love you, you break up (RIP People in Planes).
The deciding factor that made us pick Ohio though was two fold: first date of the tour and where it was: ACE OF CUPS. Ace of Cups was owned by the other half of Scrawl, Marcy Mays (what I didn’t know at the time was that Marcy no longer owns it as of the end of 2022.)
I Facebook squeal. Sue, I tag, can I take ANY sort of credit for this? She agrees that I can, but without elaboration. I don’t know if the credit comes in the fact that I just love them THAT much and have therefore done that “manifesting” thing I keep hearing about. I have WISHED this in to existence. In my happy mind movie though, back in 2019, Sue passes the album on to Marcy. Marcy agrees that they wail. Mentions as ownership of Ace of Cups passes from her, that the Pool Kids are really amazing and if they come by, you should totally get them. Pool Kids acquired.
Perhaps best to just enjoy my happy mind movies and not require further elaboration.
Back to present-present.
Flying always seems like such a doable thing until you (I) are there. I forgot my calm-down pills. The little white bits of magic that make the anxiety grey out for a few hours. There’s also that lull where you watch your airport gate fill up. Maybe *this* time the flight won’t be full.
It’s always full.
Leg one is to Atlanta. Short layover.
Text from Salim, “Can you talk at some point today?”
Literally, right now. This is the most available I will be all day.
So he calls. He’s had a health set back (read his Facebook… I never know what I’m allowed to talk about when it comes to other people.) Our trip that was on the books for the 07/21-07/27 with Rhett [Miller] is off. Off 100% sure? I am just trying to clarify for the purpose of undoing plans. But the voice that lives in my head and constantly tells me I’m an asshole pipes up. Way to make it about you. Jerk. He’s poorly and you are asking if the trip really, truly is off. That’s not what I meant. It’s never what I mean.
I am able to cancel all the hotels and get credit for the plane fare before we even queue up for next boarding.
I have always had a sense for when something is meant to happen. I didn’t feel like this trip was a good idea. Salim is a big proponent for listening to the universe when it tells you something. I try to be too. We were all meant to stay here for now. I hate that he had to have something health related happen, but in the end… I think we will all realize we were supposed to stay home. Whether I get sick, or Doug, or one of the cats. Something will happen to make me go, “Oh. Here it is. I hear you, universe.” For Salim, I think his prescription is stillness. He is the most go-go-go person I know. He never stops swimming. Something wants him to stop swimming for right now.
This is ok. Seriously. I don’t mind and the only thing I am worried about is my friend.
So we board for hop to. Columbus. Our destination.
The flight is not bad. I feel optimistic. Maybe soon I will master my fear. Fly all the time like it’s not a big deal… maybe make an international jaunt before too long — an idea I’ve never entertained before.
We land at two-ish. Haven’t eaten. There’s a Bob Evans in our hotel’s parking lot. I’ve never been to a Bob Evans. It feels sort of like a Dennified Cracker Barrel. I don’t eat much. I drink even less (there’s that foreshadowing thing again).
We go back to our room and sleep. It’s good sleep. The bed is soft, but not too soft. We wake up at 6:30. Venue is a mile away. Doors at 7.
I primp a bit. No makeup this time. Though it’s easily 25 degrees cooler here than home and there are perceptible dark clouds that might mean a bit of rain if we behave ourselves. I could have worn makeup, but it doesn’t matter.
The venue… there’s that twinge in my chest again. It’s worse this time. But I am delighted. The stage is dark and light chevrons, the backdrop: red curtains. There’s a recognizable symbol on the wall (the thing that looks like an ant’s head with antennae on either side). This is what BLM would have looked like. We HAD the red curtains purchased — they are in our dining room now. The chevron design is a rug … that’s still rolled up in a corner and hasn’t been touched for a year now. Someone else is like me. They know. Again I don’t know if that was Marcy or the new owners and it doesn’t matter if I ask. It still exists. If I managed to walk any further back past the stage… there probably would’ve been owls. Schrodinger’s venue. By not exploring further, it contains all possibilities.
The first band is Chase Petra (the second is Sydney Sprague per the tour poster.) I didn’t look either up ahead of time. I have never given much credence to the idea that I could be influenced to love just by proximity to the band I came to see… but I instantly recognize this idea as false: I got Salim from being an opener. I got Jesse and Landon from Salim… sight unseen.
And I love them both.
Chase Petra is amazing. They are young and saucy. They have attitude. In keeping with the name of the tour, emphasis on “girls.” Chase Petra are 3/4 girl. And all power. The vibe is similar to the Pool Kids. A strong, young, shredding female vocalist, but the show stopper was the other guitarist. She was an eighties hair metal rock god reincarnate. All flying fingers and whipping hair.
It’s so FUCKING LOUD. The hair on my arms vibrates, my heart doesn’t know when to beat, my stomach vibrates.
I love them. The audience loves them too and shouts along with most of their songs.
Band two: Sydney Sprague. They are older. The bass player wears a neckerchief like Fred from Scooby Doo and commands a Moog in between bass slinging duties. The singer is all in black and reminds me of me. Same dark hair style and cut I kept in high school. She’s got a sweet voice, higher than the other girls on the bill. Their performance is a little more low key, but no less powerful. They are a fantastic, cohesive unit in total control of their art.
Someone further to my left up front has brought huge bunches of roses. One for each band. Chase Petra’s bunch lives on stage by their set list, Sydney receives hers like a beauty queen. All blushing and sweet thanks. “Fred” leans over and buries his nose in the bouquet for a moment.
Finally, the moment draws close. I am keenly aware that I am running out of time. I have spent energy enjoying the first two bands. I will pay for this. My spine continues to grind itself to sand, as I assume it will for the rest of my life. I have already remarked that it’s “hot in here.” Liz, it’s not, Doug says. Not good. I’ve had a total of maybe 4 ounces to drink today. All in the name of easier travel.
I’ve taken small moments in between each band to sit on the edge of the stage. I know I will eventually hinder something to do with the bands and their myriad cables and plugs, or the imposing young doorman with the impressive afro will come along and tell me to get up.
Neither.
It’s Nicolette the lovely bass player again. “Excuse me, I have to get in here,” I was sitting on a blank plate that ended up covering electrical sockets. I touch her shoulder. She looks at me. Ah, there’s the recognition. She’s glad to see me.
She puts out the setlist. I’m excited. But filled with dread. I have to last this long. I have to fight my own body for 12 songs and I’m already flagging… but it’s starting and I can’t think about it now.
Their entrance music is… “Sandstorm” and I’m dying. I’m ready to rave. But the music stops abruptly. Starts again. But the moment is gone. Oh well. They tried.
Christine is wearing white platform go go boots, short skirt, fishnets, midi top. Nicolette has an equally short skirt, neckerchief too, but there’s nothing Scooby Doo about hers. I don’t know where to look. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think. They look amazing. Someone on TikTok later declares, “Their fits!!!” Fits… ‘fits… outfits? That has to be it. Women have been weaponizing their sexuality since they were admitted to the boys club that is rock music. Courtney Love’s ripped baby doll dresses and bruised innocence, L7 and… throwing… stuff… on stage, performing in bikinis, performing in too little, too much. Anything open for interpretation and therefore derision or scorn. But sexualizing is not cool anymore. I don’t know what kind of commentary I am allowed on this subject, but I am left echoing the same cry, “their fits!!” Their oufits, they are “fit”, they are there and raw and breathtakingly sexual and powerful. You don’t stare at the sun either, but you’ve tried it. You’ve dared.
I also have a revelation. Role models. These people are amazing, iconic. I take a moment to bless the proliferation of media I’ve cursed in past. If I had access to these kinds of strong female role models as a teen, my life would have been completely different. I wouldn’t have let my mother’s flat declaration, “You aren’t good at music. PICK SOMETHING ELSE.” Turn me from my fated course.
It makes me happy that social media is exposing young people to bands like the ones on this bill. There’s hope for the future.
They open with “Swallow,” one of the songs on my revised Ketamine playlist. There’s a bit of treated vocal that is the absolutely definition of why music is good. Music should give you that thrill like sticking your head out of the window of a moving car. That drop in your stomach. Momentary breathlessness.
“Can’t put my finger on it
Don’t know what makes it so appealing
I’m not begging for your affection
I’m just addicted to the feeling…”
Two songs in. Time for the third. How many people here were around for our first album – Music to Practice Safe Sex to? ME!! MEEEEeeeeeEEEE…. I scream. You can hear it on the video. I should be embarrassed. I’m too old to be reacting like this. But I got such a late start…
The music doesn’t know the social constructs of age or sex… it just knows what feels good.
The “Safe Sex” portion of the show is two songs long. This makes me sad. You never forget the album you came in on. It’s a much more forlorn sounding album though. I know from Salim that the forlorn ones don’t get people dancing. But “Patterns,” ah… I would have lost my mind for “Patterns.”
“And I spent one too many nights banging my head against the wall to hear another voice telling me that I’m doing something wrong
So excommunicate me
You’re no better than the fucked up doctrine that sent me running to your doorstep in the first place…”
Fucked up doctrine. My youth is fucked up doctrine. My memories are tainted by it. I still wonder how they can wield so much word power at such a young age, but then again these struggles are as old as the generations. As long as their have been the elder and the younger, the subjugator and the subjugated, rulers, oppressed, one group will chafe against the other. It hurts the heart, grinds down the soul… but it makes the music amazing.
We make art, music, poetry, to feel hope.
I make it almost to the end… almost… Talk Too Much: Christine does the young Bono thing and goes out in to the crowd. Several times a mini mosh pit has broken out right where she is. At some point, someone flicks beer on us… at least I hope it was beer. Ugh. I am done. The anesthetized feeling starts in my finger tips.
I am going to pass out.
I mouth to Doug, “I have to go. NOW.” I head for the stool previously occupied by the imposing young doorman. I lay my head on the counter for a second. I wait to be booted off. I’ve been doing this for years. I’ve passed out, tried to pass out, and all stages in between for years, in myriad venues in cities all across the US. I like to be in the front. My constitution takes issue with this. But I do it anyway.
I try to gesture to Doug: thumb at my lips, fingers curved around an invisible cup. Drink. Please I need water. But there are too many people.
Next best thing: air. I lurch out the door and land on the pavement beside the door. The Kids are launching in to an encore. I can’t heard what it is. Doug is on his phone summoning the Uber. Imposing Young Doorman Man appears… with a cup of ice water in his hand. THANK YOU, DEAR BLESSING, SIR! You have no idea how many people normally just go, ‘YOU — you can’t sit there!’ (Hi, La Zona Rosa in Austin… the scuzzy incarnation not the gentrified one) even though I’m pretty sure if you kick me out of your establishment while swooning and I faceplant on the cement, I could sue you. Or something.
People aren’t normally friendly about it because they assume I drank too much… when it’s the opposite: I didn’t drink at all.
The Uber appears and we are whiskered away. I still couldn’t hear what the encore was. But I’m not sad. I got most of it and it was AMAZING. Nicolette saw me so I exist. Mission accomplished.
We are back in the hotel. Doug orders Denny’s Doordash. The thing about prolonged exposure to sonic assault is: nausea. Nothing sounds good. Until Doug says… macaroni and cheese. And I know EXACLTY what kind Denny’s has because I’ve noticed it on the menu before. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t pretend to be something else. It is real: really Kraft boxed mac… and at that moment it sounds like the AMBROSIA of the GODS.
Which is exactly what it tastes like.
I am replenished. The gods of rock are appeased for another night …
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