SINCE SOMEONE has to do it, this week we explore the visceral nature of where ideas actually come from and how stories happen. If you’re a creative type, your brain is like flypaper—ideas just stick to it wherever you go. Of course, sometimes you have to remove the ideas, like flies, and eat them because they don’t work.
But what follows is an example of one that did work. The timing is perfect, since this Sunday afternoon marks the 2010 “Never Forget” rock show at the VooDoo Lounge, celebrating the many folks from the San Jose underground music scene who’ve departed this life over the last 10 years. In the scene, whenever someone dies of any cause, “Never Forget” shirts and stickers are made with the person’s name. A memorial show takes place roughly each year around this time.
Exactly three years ago, yet another friend passed away, this time of a drug overdose. She is one of many being memorialized at the Never Forget 2010 show this weekend. The day after, upon getting the call that she had died, I left the office around 1pm and headed to a nearby dive bar—one of her/our haunts—where several friends were congregating in various states of intoxication.
There were tears, hugs, screams, fits, people freaking out. Some had obviously experienced the death of a friend before, while others had been virgins up until then. It was not a pleasant situation, to say the least. I showed up and drank two double shots of Jägermeister and two draft beers in 30 minutes, all of which essentially just took the edge off. I wanted to stay and get obliterated, along with everyone else.
The problem was we had a job to do. Metro photographer Felipe Buitrago had to drive us to Menlo Park so I could interview author Barry Eisler for the following week’s cover story, but now, given the circumstances, I really didn’t want to go. Felipe was at the bar also, as the deceased was his pal as well.
Since I don’t have a cell, Felipe phoned the editor at Metro, and I tried to get out of writing the story, but there was no chance. So we left the bar, called up Eisler to inform him we were going to be late and then rocketed up 280 to Cafe Barone in Menlo Park—the agreed site for the rendezvous.
During the interview, I could barely concentrate; I wasn’t prepared, and I asked Eisler, completely off the cuff, to say something about death. I didn’t even know what I was asking, but he responded with one of the greatest quotes I’ve ever had the pleasure of repeating: “It’s strange that we think of sexual experience as involving a loss of innocence. I don’t see it that way at all. … It’s when you first experience death—and it’s the end and it’s real and it’s final—that’s when you really lose your innocence.”
Somehow, we finished the cover story, and for my column the following week, I recalled just a few of our local rock & roll scenesters who’d passed away over the years. I ended the column, in their honor, with the above quote.
That, my dear reader, is a perfect example of where story ideas come from, and without further adieu—forgive me if I forget someone—here is a list of some of those characters in the San Jose alt-music scene who’ve departed this life: Abby Anderson, Metal Marc Ashton, Tim Brauch, Eagle Buckett, Rockin’ Rob Dapello, Nichole Choley Davis, Pat Dooley, Mike Kilduff, Big Tom Laughlin, Lisa Lewis, Jason Lynch, Luis Ramos, Tom Trevino, Terra Nova Trudeau, Ching Vang and Robert Waite. I hope there will not be any others added to this list. May they all rest in peace.
