it used to be, I know that in basements and warehouses and backyards throughout New Brunswick, the scene lives and will continue to thrive.
It’s 100 percent impossible to name everyone who has been a direct part of that experience for me, but there are a few names that must be put here. Always and forever to my left on any stage, Mike, the Dark Crane, and our sweet Tish; the very first bandmates, Jesse and Drew; all our drummers, Little Alex, Tommy, Trip, Dave; ExVegas, Thierry, Jim, Rich, George; my sweet Urchins, Karen, Albie, Dave H., Andy; a few of the people who made the scene happen and didn’t play instruments, Jim Testa, Bryan Bruden, Kirk Miller, Stuart Wexler, Gus; the bands whose likenesses I may have riffed on a little here (yes, I did do that), Aviso Hara, Landspeed Record, the Scott Farkus Affair, Plug Spark Sanjay, Boss Jim Gettys, Bionic Rhoda, Buzzkill, 3 to 6 inches, Stuntcocks, Mildred Pierce, Sicker than Others, Instant Death; the Powerbunny 4X4 Pit Crew, Jeff S., Jeff N., Dave, and Frank and honestly, there are just so many incredible bands and people to name and thank that I’ll never be able to get everybody in here. I’m sorry for that. Please know that every single one of you who got out there and rocked the Melody, the Court, the Roxy, the Dead End, the basements, Cook College, Ag Field Day, Demarest dorm, Brownies, Khyber Pass, Maxwell’s, the Continental, CBGB, and all the places in between, know you all made my life better and still do, even years later.
By the way, thanks to Ween! Obviously, the depiction of Ween and Mickey Melchiondo here are straight from my imagination. But thank you to Ween for being all around good guys and inspiring all of us. You might be from New Hope but know that New Brunswick has always claimed you anyway, because that’s just how we are.
When I wrote this, I tried as best as I could to capture what it felt like to come into my adult years and fall in love while playing in a band in New Brunswick, because that’s something I know about. But this book was never meant to be an accurate portrayal of reality, just a reflection of what has stayed with me about that time in my life. I’ll always hang onto the music, the friendships, and the laughs.
And the husband, too.
Yeah, that guy.
Alex.
It almost seems too obvious to say that without you, there’s no story here. There’s no band, and there’s certainly no love story involving Big Muffs and last minute gigs in Baltimore.
There are husbands who support your dreams, and then there are husbands who share the stage with you, who stand there on your right and say things like, “Turn up. You’re not loud enough.”
And that’s a special brand of true love.
Chapter One
March 1995
Don’t fuck anyone in the band.
This is rule number one of being in a band, and it’s especially true when you’re the only girl. Which means whatever I’m doing with my guitar player’s face between my legs goes from Oh God, oh yes, oh please at five a.m. to Oh no, oh shit when I wake up at noon.
I don’t know how I ended up in this position, but I do know I can’t stop thinking about his tongue all over me, his hands with those long and dexterous fingers digging into my thighs when I come, the way he looks like he’s going to devour me when he’s deep inside of me. I know I’m still thinking about it, eight hours later, four hours after he kissed me on the forehead and left, saying, “Sorry—don’t wake up—I have to take the van in before nine. Call me when you get up and I’ll take you to breakfast.”
What I also know is that it can’t happen again. That’s what I’m going to tell him when he gets here.
“I’ll get you in an hour,” Travis said when I called him, his voice still rough from screaming into the microphone during “Fake Tan” at our show at the Dead End last night.
“No, I’ll meet you at Neubies.”
Long, awkward pause.
“See you there at one, then.”
See? Weirdness. Exactly why you don’t fuck your own guitarist.
Sex always complicates things, and being in a band is already plenty complicated with feelings and egos and band girlfriends and boyfriends who bitch about all the time you’re spending in rehearsal and the fact that shows always trump all other weekend