A LONG STORY ABOUT MY SADNESS FOR DIME
Friday, December 16th, 2011 at 1:30pm by Anso DF
On December 8, 1996, I ventured out in the freezing Minneapolis night towards downtown music venue First Avenue to see Orange 9mm. Late-era Helmet guitarist Chris Traynor was in that band, as was future Glassjaw/Head Automatica drummer Larry Gorman at some point. I was on the club’s permanent guest list, so it took no doing to pop in for some opener’s thirty-minute set — even one I liked as mildly as I did Orange 9mm. My plan for the night was to hang for a bit, scam on suburban chicks made gooey by a trip into the big city, nod at some jamz, and split before the headliner and in time to watch TV at this girl Brooklyn’s house. I had it all worked out.
Well, my plan went immediately to shit cuz Orange 9mm had cancelled. But I must’ve felt frisky or high or something cuz I stayed for Downset and the show’s headliner, the Deftones, who had just begun their commercial ascent. That was unknown to me at the time, their music too, but my jaw hit the ground by song two. It was one of those holy-shit experiences. I loved them. Awesome.
The show ended, sweaty dudes with wallet chains began to file out, and I silently praised my own spontaneity and good fortune. I’d found a new band to love and that’s what we’re all in this for. To think, I might’ve bailed and missed the whole thing. But I stayed! Success!
Here I’ll stop setting the mood and come to the point: Right as I was feeling awesome, kinda replaying the Deftones’ set in my mind at a downtown bus stop, kinda crumpled over against the arctic wind, kinda dying for the next morning to come so I could get on the phone to Maverick Records for an interview, I got punched in the face. I had no idea what was going on. I went down pretty hard; I remember my sight kinda going blank, rolling and fuzzy for an instant like a black-and-white TV dropped from short height.












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