Hurricane Gloria

We’ve been working on a Green on Red box set for some time, in fits and starts. Every once in a while, an old photograph or something will pop up and the memories will come flooding back. And they’re not all great. Even though I do have an incredible ability to romanticize just about anything, if you give me enough time.

I will say this: every bad wreck I’ve ever been in was while on tour. The first one was black ice near Seattle on the way to Calgary. And next up was this mess. I’ve learned that the stupidity stacks up over the years. And the meter is running. It gets expensive. What else can you do but wise up? Eventually. I guess that’s wisdom. Or something like it.

---

There were murmurs. Chris Cacavas, who I roomed with, said, “Well yeah, there was some drinking going on.” He wasn’t thrilled about it.

I was probably too out of it to think there was anything out of the ordinary.

I do have vivid memories here and there. But a lot of my memories are incomplete, selective. Flashbulb memories, they call them.

---

It says here on Wikipedia that Hurricane Gloria made landfall on September 27, 1985.

We were playing in Providence that night. The gig was at Lupo’s Heartbreak Inn. I had hoped to get a T-shirt from the club with its namesake. Chrissie Hynde was often photographed in a Lupo’s T-shirt, looking impossibly cool.

Chrissie Hynde looking muy elegante in her blue and black Lupos T-Shirt

Joe Strummer wore one too. The shirt had this cool typography and an (unlicensed, I assume) Elvis image. It was the kind of T-shirt that said, “Look at me, man. I was there.” And certainly a few steps above “Hard Rock Café.”

We played our gig. To a light crowd. Ending with Van Morrison’s “Gloria” for twelve minutes or whatever as our last song. It was fitting if nothing else, as Hurricane Gloria was very much headed our way, and she was threatening to be a doozy. Although I don’t remember anyone being terribly concerned. I do remember loading the gear in the back of a rented Ford Econoline after the gig, standing around smoking and taking notice of the National Guard piling up sandbags—stacking them against the bottom and sides of the building, creating a barrier. That was curious. I thought, maybe there really is something to this whole hurricane thing.

---

I’m from California, where we don’t experience things like hurricanes very often. Earthquakes? Sure! People will say you can feel the quiet before the storm. That there’s electricity in the air and it hangs heavy. Animals know the score; they’ll go hide under the house.

I can’t say I had a sixth sense for any impending disaster. But every day with that band was an impending disaster. All I could think was, “What now?” I probably just took it in stride.

---

After we loaded out our equipment and packed the van, we were waiting around while someone in the band (I assume) went into an office, or huddled with the club owner or house manager or whoever, to do the settling up. Never my favorite part of a gig, honestly. Especially when the crowd is light and the attendance doesn’t quite justify the guarantee. (“Er, ah…yeah, sorry…slow night…hurricane and all…”) Oh, and we got our customary case of beer to go, like we always did. Priorities, you know.

I don’t remember who was behind the wheel. Barch? I don’t know where we were going. Boston? To a hotel off the freeway? Away from the hurricane? Into the hurricane?

The freeway had a merge or turnoff or something, and a cloverleaf that was pretty sharp. That’s where we lost it.

---

We went flying off the road. And we were really moving. We’re lucky the van didn’t flip.

Down an embankment into a ditch. Flying. To a crashing stop. With the weight of all the gear surging forward on impact. And there was a heavy load back there in that rented Econoline: drum hardware, a bass amp and speaker cabinet, plus a couple Fender Twins. Maybe even a Yamaha CP-70 piano. A mighty surge.

To this day, I dread seeing equipment stacked up in the back of the van. All I can think of is coming to an abrupt stop and everything flying forward. It's a good way to end up getting decapitated by a flying Anvil briefcase. (Attention, touring musicians: place the soft bags on top, like duffel bags filled with T-shirts and things. You’re welcome.)

---

We were moving at a clip. The impact was intense. With all that weight of the gear hefting forward, the bench seat I was on came unseated from the floor of the van. I ended up wedged in there between it and the bench seat in front of it. The impact knocked the wind out of me instantly.

Along with the gear surging forward, the case of beer cans were crushed on impact and exploded everywhere. There was beer and foam all over the inside of the van, in our hair, on our clothes…everywhere. Comical.

---

Eventually a highway patrolman pulled up. He made his way down the embankment, pointed a flashlight, stuck his head in the passenger window, and asked us if we were alright.

Mostly alright, yeah. We climbed out of the ditch back up to the road. I’m sure we were a sight.

We were standing on the side of the embankment when the patrolman looked down at the dozens of skid marks heading into the abyss, and said, “They should have put a guard rail up here years ago.” When we first went over, I had thought, pretty dumb, guys. Well, from the looks of it, stupidity had company at this lonely turnoff.

Green On Red in Barch’s backyard

---

I guess he called for a tow truck. Maybe some of us hung back, while the highway patrolman gave the rest of us a ride to our hotel. We got in his patrol car and he didn’t waste any time reaching a cruising speed of like 90 miles an hour. It took my breath away. I was shook up.

He asked us if we’d been drinking. I know the beer cans had sprayed me so much, my hair was wet. Of course we said, “Oh no, officer.” Dan Stuart reckons the patrolman had other fish to fry. Maybe there was another patrolman. Seems odd that he would just leave the scene.

---

Just today via email, I asked Jack, Chris, and Dan if they remembered anything. Crickets. Though Dan had some disjointed recollections. Barch is no longer with us, so he’s not talking. Neither is Alex McNichol, sadly. Both among the dearly departed. Does anybody remember the name of the company we used to rent the van and the gear from? All the bands rented from him. Especially those British bands flying over the pond for some East Coast dates.

The next day they sent a guy out with a new van to collect us and the gear. He looked like a teenager. Had that bleached blonde Fargo look. Did we get to the next gig? Was there a next gig? Anyone?

Dan recalls that in the morning, CNN was covering the storm and had footage of the hotel where we were staying, with windows blown out. Weird pressurization all night, doors wouldn’t open. We watched it on television from our rooms.

Could have been much worse, Dan says. Like, “that’s all folks” worse.

I hear ya.

—CP

P.S. I never got my T-shirt.

PPS: Thanks for subscribing. For being here. They say the only way to get good at writing is to actually do it. Just do it. One misspelled word at a time (praise be to spellcheck). And, that’s one reason why I’m here. You’re the other reason. So thanks for being here too.