War stories.

Gather 'round, kiddies ... ol' grampa Big Green is going to spin a few tales about the glory days of yesteryear, when it was us against the world, gas was 35 cents a gallon, and love was just a buck forty-three away. Heh heh. (Get off my lawn!)

Yeah, the truth is, Big Green is pretty short on war stories. That occurred to me today as I was driving along, listening to an old Fresh Air interview with Keith Richards. (In truth, the most interesting parts were when Terry played some of the old Stones hits, which I still like o'plenty.) You expect some of the pillars of rock and roll to have the ripest, pithiest tales about backstage exploits, drugs, women, men, asteroid wrangling, pretzel bending, and so on. But bands like us, clinging to the clammy underbelly of pop music ... well, we don't have a lot of that.

Sure, there are stories. But nobody wants to hear about riding back from Middlebury College on NY Route 8 in the dead of winter, in a battered old van that had no heat and kept threatening to stall. Nobody's interested in the gig we played in the dive bar in Syracuse to a bunch of somber patrons who later explained that someone had been stabbed there the night before. And who wants to ride along with us to Oneonta to play in a music store doorway in the pouring rain, then hike over to an old railroad station bar where we played into the night? Nobody, that's who .... nobody!

Ever get down on your hands and knees and beg a potato to get fat? Ever shake your fist at an apple because it shriveled on a stick? Yeah, me neither. But if I had, those would be in the memoir, for sure. All we have are pointless stories of low-grade adventures that any plain clothes musician in the northeast could probably top without even trying. Maybe that's Big Green's true calling: giving other bands something to feel good about. (At least we're not THEM!)

Hoo boy, is that the time? Peace out.