The Feelies
July 3, 2008
"How do you like not working?" I asked Brian, who recently quit his job to concentrate on a few personal projects, including a novel and several screenplays, none of which he's managed to touch since quitting.
"Dude. It's fucking glorious. I love it. I can't begin to tell you. But doing nothing is fucking expensive. Before I quit, I figured I had enough money to cover rent for about six months. I don't know what I was thinking. I forgot about food. The money will probably only last half as long as I planned. But in the meantime, I'm loving life. Next week I'm definitely going to get back to writing." He put his fingers in the air and pretended to type.
Just then, Brian's phone rang. I could hear Joe's unmistakable voice through the receiver, and though I couldn't make out what he was saying, he was obviously one of his famed rants. "If you go," said Brian, "I'll meet you over there."
Does anyone out there remember a band called The Feelies? They were a pretty big deal in the Eighties and early Nineties, and were regular fixtures at Hoboken's legendary Maxwell's. Joe was a fan, and in 1992, he scored a ticket for the second night of a two-night stint at Maxwell’s. Apparently, the drummer fell ill, forcing them to cancel their second show, leaving Joe swinging in the breeze. Whether the drummer was ever actually sick or just sick of the band was never made clear, but according to Joe, Maxwell’s offered no refunds, and the Feelies never rescheduled. In fact, they disbanded shortly thereafter. Until fifteen years later, in the grand tradition of rock and roll reunions, The Feelies regrouped and booked a tour, including two nights at Maxwell's. By the time Joe heard about it, the shows were already sold out.
Joe never forgave The Feelies for leaving him high and dry back in '92, and when he heard about their sold-out Maxwell's gig, he was determined to hunt for his old ticket, which he claimed to still have hidden away somewhere, and show up at the door to demand that Maxwell’s and the band honor it. I’m not sure if Joe was calling to persuade Brian to meet him at Maxwell’s or not, but Brian offered. Although, as fun — or at least funny — as it sounded, Brian doubted Joe would bother to follow through, since he lives in western New Jersey, a good ninety miles from Hoboken.
After dinner, Brian and I walked to a coffee shop to continue talking about music, movies, books, art, Ireland, Paris, married life, and chicks.
In that order.
I was disappointed to hear that Brian's family is selling their Irish cottage — a small house they bought twenty years ago for $13,000 that is now worth nearly twenty times as much. I've been to the house a few times and always hoped—assumed, even—that I'd visit again someday.
"I'm planning to go in September,’ said Brian. “The house needs some work before we put it on the market. You’re welcome to come.“
"If I can, I will."
After dinner, I took the subway home to Brooklyn, and when I got off the train, there was a voicemail message waiting on my phone.
"The Feelies fucked me in the ass, fucking bastards."
I called Joe back to get the whole story. "Tell me the details," I said.
"Dude, I can tell you the exact dates of the original show, because I went back and looked it up in my journal. But I couldn’t find my ticket! You have to write about it in your blog."
"Email me the details and I will."
I don't know if he will or not, but I already gave you the gist, so I doubt there will be much to add.
