“Why you going to that?” Marty asked. “That’s just a bunch of art-fags being pretentious, lets steal some beers from the A+P and go drink behind the Color Lab.”

Marty Dole sounded like a young Cliff Claven, he was my partner in crime and the closest thing I had to a friend so far in my young life. We would boost six packs of Budweiser from the stock trailer behind the grocery store and walk the train tracks down to the Community Center, usually ending up in the back of an trailer that was stored in the Color Lab parking lot, drinking the brews, smoking cigarettes we would steal from our parents and making out with one of the trailer park girls from Old Mystic.

“It seems cool man.” I said. “Live music? Come on, there are people locally making music, that’s awesome!”

“Nah, they suck. Bunch of REM wanna-bes.” He said taking a long suck off of his Marlboro.

“Well, I’m gonna check it out.” I said rebelliously.

“Cool man, have fun.” He shot back shortly.

It would be the beginning of the end of our young friendship.

Mid-June finally came and it was the night of the show. I was so excited; I drove my mother nuts trying to get ready. To this day, I don’t remember what I wore that night, but I can guarantee that in an attempt to look cool, I probably looked like an idiot, I did that a lot those days.  Like wearing long Bermuda shorts under ripped jeans and things like that. Man, why I didn’t get beat up more is beyond me.

I walked into the Stonington Community Center or “Como” as we used to call it, just as Subliminal Messages was starting. The room was dark. It was a large room with a stage, tile floor and large wooden windows that opened up to a kitchen. The stage was hulking and wood, it was solid. Immediately bad memories rushed over me. This was the very room that the local Cub Scouts conducted their business, including the horrid “Pinewood Derby,” the annual event where each scout makes a wooden racecar and then races it against other scouts down a large track. When I was a young Cub Scout, no one told me the proper way to build it so I proudly put my car together and painted it. What I didn’t realize was that you can’t paint a small wooden racecar after you assemble it because the paint will stick to the wheels and axles causing the wheels not to turn. Therefore rendering the stupid thing totally useless. This was a lesson the small and embarrassed me learned as my car was rolling down the track, barely the speed of an earthworm, herky-jerky as the thing tried to roll down the tracks with the paint stuck to its axles. I never made it past Bobcat. It’s just as well.

I was just finishing my freshman year at Stonington High, and Subliminal Messages was a band of guys from my high school. I knew a couple of them from Marching Band. Part cover band, part original they slammed their way through their set. Weaving in and out of their own songs to The Cure, R.E.M and more. Tony Carlo’s Guitar was loud and heavily affected, Eric and Jay held down the rhythms while Jim hoped around the stage on one foot, spinning and spinning, bellowing out the modern rock. It was cool stuff; I would definitely have to talk to them at school on Monday.

Next up was the Neptune Drivers. To be totally honest, I don’t remember very much about them. I do remember Dan and Chuck being in the band, possibly Mike D.? I do remember thinking that they rocked out pretty hard.

I also do not remember Irwin Project at all.

Alexander Field took the stage next. I was excited to check them out, I had heard a lot about them and was eager to see them. What I didn’t realize at the time was that this was the first of many times I would see this band perform, and Drummer Roger P. would become a good friend and integral part in my own future story.

The Alexander Field was pretty damn original; to this day I can’t really compare what they sound like to anyone else. Sure, there were elements of popular modern rock at the time, but nothing I could really put my finger on. Kirks somewhat monotone, yet melodic vocals swirled around over the dynamics. From quiet to loud, the music arched up and down. Kirk and Talbot’s guitars would swell in and out like the tide, Talbot’s indie good looks kept all the girls with the sundresses twirling in the front row, gawking and giggling as his flipped his page-boy hair around. Roger beat the crap out of his drums. The whole musical movement would be kept together by Roger’s tribal pounding and Scotts bass work. It was great stuff, and I was fortunate to witness it, even if it took me years to realize it.

The anticipation of seeing 17 Relics was building inside of me like a volcano about to burst. The dark room had been steadily filling through out the night and was now almost to capacity.  It is an archaic practice that I never understood. No matter who the bands are, NEVER GO TO A SHOW EARLY! Always be late, don’t show up until the last couple of acts. Personally I think it is stupid, unsupportive and pretentious. I am early for everything, another character flaw.

As the band finished setting up, I pushed my way to the front. The band finished their sound checks and Mike slinked his way up to the microphone. The Relics set to me a blur, a kaleidoscope of sound, image and utter inner contentment. Mike would weave his vocal tapestries, letting the words linger until they turned into a prolonged “Ohhhh.” And the sundress girls hung on every word. Alex’s heavily chorused distortion floated around the room like thick smoke at an Elks Club bar. Just hanging there, filling the whole room with sound. Dave’s rhythmic, melodic and solid bass lines hit you right in the chest, making your heart dance too, especially in songs like “Homage” where the bass carried the melody. And Rich, Rich didn’t need a drum stool as he carried out his tribal exorcism. A perfect blend of fury and precision, standing, banging on his drums with all he had. The sweat shot like a million tiny rockets from his head. The moment was magical, perfect and life changing. The band closed with “Foreign” just to drive the final nail into my already fragile psyche. My mind was made up. I knew what I had to do.

I was starting a band.