LUNKHEADED

Part 2

Soon after, Kev called me to tell me we had a show. His hillbilly uncle put on this daylong outdoor party called Fieldstone at his farm in Wildwood every year, where local redneck bands would play and people drank all day, downing Solo cup after Solo cup of this weird concoction the uncle prepared in garbage cans with cantaloupes. It got really rowdy we heard, so we told the uncle we were a go, then called John and Pete. John was skeptical, but into it. Pete, however, was not so optimistic. He would continue to be voice of reason within LUNKHEAD until the end of our days. As usual, he was right. As usual, we ignored him.
That week we practiced like madmen, going for hours to attempt to forge the slightest of repetoires. By show day on Saturday, we’d amassed six songs; three originals, a Weasel cover (Supermarket Fantasy), a Naked Raygun song (Managua), and the ubiquitous “Wild Thing” to close things out.


Saturday night came all to soon, and the next thing I know, I’m standing on the ‘stage’ (an unhinged flatbed trailer), trying to convince Pete we HAD to play.
“Dude, it’s too late to back out now, we gotta do it…” I was saying.
“I don’t know, man…”, he looked out over the crowd, “What have we gotten ourselves into?”
We assessed them from behind the amps. It was the cream of the Wildwood crop. Lots of old bikers and hippies, Jim and his burnout crew, our skater buddies, the usual. Wildwood is a tiny lake town about forty miles north of Chicago, which is just far enough to retain it’s redneck edge.
There was a weird air of anticipation for LUNKHEAD. Everyone was talking about the first ‘Wildwood Punk Band’, I thought it was cool, but destined to let them down.
The country band wrapped it up and we loaded on at nightfall. I remember looking back at Pete and wondering how someone could look so pale without actually vomiting, but he was hanging in there like a trooper (which would become one of LUNKHEAD’s better traits; the ability to play under duress. One time on tour we all got super sick and played with bottles of Chloroseptic spray duct-taped to the mike stands just to make it through the show.), and he never missed a beat.


It seemed like it was over before it started. I looked up and we were done. And it wasn’t that terrible, ya know? I mean, I see the video now and I totally cringe, but back then, I don’t know it worked. I remember forgetting some words to “Managua” and the Broken Hope guys moshing to “Supermarket Fantasy” and it was over. Afterwards, me and Pete amended one of the four goals- now we had to play a REAL show.


Pete. Man, I’ve never felt closer to anyone in my life than him during those years. We were like brothers. Lived together, hung out constantly, played together. If I could pick my own brother it would’ve been him, no doubt about it. We finished each other sentences, knew each others birthdays. Shit, I don’t know ANY of my other friends’ birthdays (well, except Isatalo, but his is Halloween and that’s easy).
We tried everything at the same time, for the most part. I remember one of the first times we smoked pot, we used this bong that belonged to Pete’s brother, Jim, that he kept hidden in the garage. So we climbed up and pulled it down (along with the Vanna White issue of Playboy) and put this little bud we had into the bowlpiece. Pete knew about the carb on the bong, but neither of us knew you were supposed to add WATER to these things. So we sucked and sucked, spewing out enormous clouds of reefer smoke like two teenaged pot volcanoes. Later on that afternoon, the normally docile Pete would punch our friend Cara in the stomach during an unusually heated game of HORSE. Cara was the second girl whose breasts I was privy to, the first being Erica the neighbor girl, upon whose mother I had once vomited when she was substitute teaching my second grade class.

Pete lived with his brothers Jim and Tom in a townhouse near my folks’ place in Wildwood. They used to live a block behind us, but their parents got divorced while we were in high school and the four of them moved over there. Their dad was a trip. He was a salesman of some sort and was always rushing in and out. During the summers Pete’s house was the hangout and with three brothers and three sets of friends coming and going it was a busy place. And every day, at some point amidst the chaos, Pete’s dad would appear, poke his head down into the basement and call out, “Hey guys. Any calls? Messages?” Every day, the same question and a half. Any calls? Messages? It was his mantra. The crazy part is that there were NEVER any calls! OR messages! EVER! Then, one day, someone actually DID call for him and left a message, and we all sat breathless with anticipation for his arrival. Eventually his Chevette rolled into the driveway (when Pete first started driving, we’d tell chicks he had a ‘Vette- a CHEV-Vette!!!), and Pete’s dad strode into the house. His head poked down, “Hey guys. Any calls? Messages?” We exploded in cheers. It was as if he’d won the Super Bowl. “YES, Dad! There IS a message!” Jim hollered proudly. And he came down the stairs to get it to rousing applause, looking confused.