catsup plate recs is owned & operated by one prince of a man, rob c carmichael. reach him by emissive or at
CPR
box 375
sotmore, penna
19081
Catsupfesst 96 was a lovely time, made all the more lovely by it's confused sitation in time. an hour dropp'd off the stage, tomato, may i call you that? sprawling to post-tres, bodes well for spring. arrived in fucking swarthmore around 7:00 after many hours waiting around in or around train et trax, exhausted and sickly and aching in the head, bumbled around the stone bldgs and wet grass, grasshopper suitcase in hand and la diablita along side, trying to find relief in the form of rob conant carmichael. finally happened upon a campus phone, dialed him up, no avail. ended up at the hippy cow, this unfortunate coffee spt where the bathroom was about 100 degrees, i'm not kidding! ate a bowel of vegetaire chile, my travelling companion a garden burger, and coffee coffee. finally stumbling out (it's dark now) there's rob and jason (mr. pottery recS) aha very fine, we hopped in the car, my grasshopper hops into the trunk, and we're off to robs room to rob some much needed nappping. unfortunately my brother (who attends college nearby), his phone# was in my bag and i was supposed to call him to invite him to show and tell him where and when, but the bag eluded me for the rest of the nite, so no dice, my apologies herr wednesday! ok, tried to sleep in rob's room, no avail. instead plunked on his guitar and ironed out a set list, which i would later abandon. the show, ah the show. first, the crazy florescene in the downstairs of the club. lots of rockers, all folks i'd never met, including charlie mcalister & his crazy old guy pal jeff, mr. doormouse whose name i kept forgetting over the course of the nite & can't for the life of me remember now, will simmons & george williard & the "cruise control pills" (will simmons' band, who were weird, b/c they were such rock boys and we were not). But charly, my darling charly, how good it was to meet him in the flesh (& su sombrero de futbol) after lots of correspondence and a couple of nut-job late-nite phone calls! he is a hero. ok, where was i? i didn't bring a guitar so i had to borrow one, and operatics ensued to garner one. offer'd the choice between herr doormouses LOOOW tuned jobber, charlie's crazy half-ass'd stringly tiny jobber, and jason's regular guy yamaha jobber, i chose the regular guy. i could sing a long with it, and you know i am a regulary guy. so showtime. mousey play'd firstly, he was marvelous and beautiful with his sad limping songlets. made anne's hart stop, she later confess'd on the amtrak. he ran off right away, though, so i never got to talk to him, nor did he see any of the other acts. this, to me, is a shame. gram was next, and i took this occasion to step outside and have a breather. not that his songs aren't lovely, but i needed a breather and his was the set i'd feel the least like i was missing something to breathe during. came back to see the rock act edith presler, who were in far rockier form than the previous time we'd played to-gether, when they were goof-ball college boy folkniks. those were the embryonic days, tho, and i'm proud to say i knew them when. (that show was actually when I first met jason; he gave me a lovely robot valentine in exchange for a super-special msr cassingle and a deep pooly meaningful glower)**in progress, check back in the future, where i spend most of my $$$ and tears.
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