Back at the fruit stand. The allergy attack lessened greatly around 8:30 last night, and I was able to sit with the window open next to me. The temperature dropped a bit, so that may have been the deciding factor.
I sit at the fruit stand listening to a playlist of the dB’s first 2 albums, Stands for Decibels and Repercussion. I do love these records, such great songs, and laden with memories. My dear friend Rita gave me Repercussion as a gift over 40 years ago, and I bought Stands for Decibels on my own. I used to be amusing with my imitation of Chris Stamey’s singing style, and I can still do it somewhat, but years of smoking have decreased my skill, and “a possible emphasis on emphysema has taken its toll,” he joked.
Years ago, I ran into Peter Holsapple on the PATH train as he was headed to work at a record store at 23rd and 3rd called Music Maze. I regarded Peter Holsapple as a rock star, though I did not know Peter was struggling with the bottle. I do not think he would recall meeting me or the discussions we would have at Music Maze. Drew Wheeler was a friend of Peter’s and a rock & roll writer.
I saw Peter Holsapple a few times when the dB’s were in limbo, at Folk City mainly, where Peter sang ‘Elvis, what happened?’ I was smitten, and most of my friends were on board with the North Carolina rock & rollers.
I also saw Chris Stamey a number of times, much more than I saw Peter Holsapple. One evening springs to mind, it must’ve been around the holidays of 1986. My friend Martha Keavney came over to my apartment with mushrooms, which we devoured. While waiting for the kick to occur, my brother, Frank, called, telling me of his fight with our parents. It was not good, and when the phone call ended, the mushrooms started to take off, and it promised to be a not-so-good situation.
I gave Martha some money to run down the block and get a bottle of Absolut, knowing that alcohol could counteract a bad psychedelic experience. It did the job, and Martha and I wound up at Maxwell’s for a holiday party featuring Chris Stamey, who was god-like that night due to the mushrooms and my staring at the Christmas tree for most of the night. There were a lot of mushrooms going around Maxwell’s during that time.
My dear friend Jane played with Stamey a number of times, and I would go to see Jane rather than go to see Stamey. The last time I saw Jane with Stamey, a mutual friend mentioned that she wondered if Chris Stamey was on the spectrum. It could explain quite a bit.
There was the one I called the DNA Cup previously. I found him to be a pain in the ass. Another mutual friend listened as I wondered what his problem was, so grouchy all the time. The mutual friend remarked that maybe DNA Cup was homophobic. I mentioned this to another mutual friend who, in turn, told DNA Cup, who phoned me up quite irate, explaining he has many homosexual friends.
There was an attempt in the early 1980s, when my brother Frank and I went to the Peppermint Lounge on 45th Street to see the dB’s. Earlier that day, I had bought some sensimillia and was told by the Rasta not to smoke it like it was regular weed; it was quite potent. I, being me, did not heed the Rasta advice and smoked it as I usually did, or do.
By the time Frank and I were at the Peppermint Lounge, I was waylaid by a splitting headache and could only sit by the bar with my head in my hands. I never did see the dB’s that night. Years later, a few decades later, actually, I did see the dB’s live in Hoboken at the Art & Music Festival. There they were, the songs were great, but they had zero stage presence. All that time for nothing.
But here I am, years later, listening to their first 2 albums, which are still classic.
The Google Gemini rewrite:
The High Fidelity of the Fruit Stand: A Dispatch from the North Carolina Invasion
By Cameron Crowe
It’s Tuesday at the fruit stand, and the air is finally starting to clear. Around 8:30 last night, the Great Allergy Attack of ’26 decided to call a ceasefire. I sat there with the window cracked, letting the cool Jersey air bleed into the room, watching the temperature drop like a fading house light.
Right now, the soundtrack is pure jangle. I’ve got the first two dB’s records spinning in my head—Stands for Decibels and Repercussion. They’re more than just albums; they’re time machines. My friend Rita handed me a copy of Repercussion as a gift over forty years ago—a lifetime in rock years—while I tracked down Stands for Decibels on my own, digging through the bins like a kid looking for the Lost Ark.
I used to have this bit—a total crowd-pleaser—where I’d do an imitation of Chris Stamey’s vocal style. I can still catch the frequency if I try, but the cigarettes have added a layer of gravel to the gears. As the man himself might joke, the emphasis on emphysema has finally taken its toll.
The Path to Music Maze
I remember seeing Peter Holsapple on the PATH train a lifetime ago. He was commuting to a gig at a record shop called Music Maze on 23rd and 3rd. To me, the guy was a walking, breathing rock star, even if he was just another soul navigating the maze. I didn’t know then that he was wrestling with the bottle, and I doubt he’d remember our scattered conversations at the shop. He had friends like Drew Wheeler—real rock & roll writers who lived in the ink—and I was just another fan in the pews.
I caught the dB’s in that strange limbo period, mostly at Folk City. I remember Peter standing there, pouring his heart into “Elvis, What Happened?” and feeling completely smitten. My whole circle was on board. We weren’t just listening to music; we were joining a movement of North Carolina rock & rollers who seemed to know something the rest of the world hadn’t figured out yet.
Mushrooms and Christmas Lights
Then there was Stamey. I saw him more often, but one night in ’86 stands out like a neon sign. My friend Martha Keavney swung by my place with a handful of mushrooms. We devoured them, sitting in that expectant silence before the world starts to melt.
Then the phone rang. It was my brother, Frank, calling from the front lines of a heavy blowout with our parents. By the time I hung up, the mushrooms were taking off, and the vibe was turning dark—fast. I handed Martha some cash and sent her on a dead run for a bottle of Absolut. It’s an old roadie trick: alcohol to ground a bad psychedelic flight. It worked.
We ended up at Maxwell’s for a holiday party. Stamey was on stage, and between the chemical glow and the way I was staring at the Christmas tree, he looked absolutely god-like. That was the era of Maxwell’s—you couldn’t trip over a guitar cable without hitting someone on mushrooms.
The DNA of a Grudge
My friend Jane played with Stamey a few times, and honestly, I was usually there to see her. The last time we caught them, a mutual friend leaned in and wondered aloud if Stamey was “on the spectrum.” It’s one of those theories that suddenly makes the whole puzzle click into place.
Then you have the guy I called the “DNA Cup.” He was a world-class pain in the ass, perpetually grouchy. I wondered aloud to a friend if the guy was just a homophobe. Bad move. Word got back to him, and he called me up in a righteous fury, screaming about how many homosexual friends he had. It was a classic rock & roll misunderstanding—loud, messy, and entirely unnecessary.
The Rasta’s Warning
There was one more attempt at the dB’s experience back in the early ’80s. Frank and I headed to the Peppermint Lounge on 45th Street. Earlier that day, I’d scored some sensimillia. The Rasta who sold it to me gave me the golden rule: “Don’t smoke this like it’s regular weed, man. It’s potent.”
Being me, I ignored the sage advice. I smoked it like a chimney.
By the time we hit the Peppermint Lounge, I wasn’t watching a band. I was a casualty. I spent the night at the bar with a splitting headache, my head in my hands, while the music happened in another dimension. I never actually saw them play that night.
It took a few more decades before I finally caught them at the Hoboken Art & Music Festival. They stood there, playing those perfect songs, but the stage presence was… well, zero. All those years of waiting for a shoegaze performance.
But as I sit here at the fruit stand with the speakers humming, none of that matters. The first two albums are playing, the jangle is perfect, and for three minutes at a time, everything is still classic.