Once...Was Enough

The bar is full, but not quite packed when we arrive around 10:30. The band is scheduled to start at 11:00, but few tings here start on time. (This tends to work well for me.) I mainly want to people watch, but do chat briefly with a European fellow. His hair, which looks to have once been red, is wispy and longish in a Back-to-the-Future-Christopher-Lloyd kind of way. What strikes me most is the giddy smile on his face.

“I usually don’t come to this side of the island but I’m starved for music down here, man,” he says with a goofy grin. I agree. It delights me to watch his diaphanous hair flutter around him while he paces enthusiastically around the room in anticipation of the band’s arrival.

I notice a girl with messy bleached hair and roots as dark as her eyeliner. Her big British jugs are held in by a much-loved Kurt Cobain tank under a short-sleeve plaid t-shirt. She wears tight cropped jeans and black boots- an ensemble I find both nostalgically comforting and anachronistically absurd. I don’t believe I’ve laid eyes on a Cobain shirt since high school. Many of the grunge kids I hung with were Nirvana diehards. For years, I was the lone Pearl Jam fanatic.

If this many people showed at a Pearl Jam knock off concert when I was a teen, it would have thrilled me, at least in finding other regional fans. But now I look around at those who exited their regular island orbit tonight to hear Once play at the Caribbean Saloon, and instead of excited, I am critically curious, expecting this to be lame. I know it won’t generate anywhere near the group energy produced at the ten or so Pearl Jam concerts I’ve seen over the past twelve years. This band will focus on hits, many of which are usually my bathroom or beer break songs.

Fittingly, the band looks similar to my high school alternafriends. The guitar and bass players even go so far as to look like teenagers themselves. But the lead singer must be well into his thirties. He wears long cargo shorts and work boots. His hair is brown, wavy and shoulder length. From behind, he does indeed look a lot like a mid-90’s Eddie Vedder.

But his voice is a caricature of Ed’s. This annoys me greatly, however does not at all surprise. I was, in fact, afraid of it. Eddie’s voice is quite distinct and easily mimicked. Most short-careered bands in the mid and late nineties copied his vocal style. This guy’s voice reminds me specifically of the singer from Seven Mary Three, the one who added “cumbersome” to many a poser’s vocabulary.

They play Alive first, a song I consider a set closer or encore pick, per Pearl Jam’s usual method of procedure. I reserve the enthusiasm exhibited by those around me, hoping they’ll break out a more random tune later in the show.

So, I am happy when they play Down, All or Nothing, Breath, and State of Love and Trust, and leave my barstool to move a bit among the crowd. During one of these exertions, I meet a very happy little guy from Puerto Rico. He approaches the stage and requests the Screaming Trees. I ask if he’s referring to the song from the Singles soundtrack.

“Singles soundtrack?!” He yells at me. “Yes, you know Singles soundtrack?!” But with his wonderful accent it sounds like he’s saying “Sinnells soun-track.”

“Yeah, of course I know it. I grew up with it!”

“Me too! Nobody in Puerto Rico ever knew the Sinnells soun-track!”

“You grew up as a Pearl Jam fan in Puerto Rico? God, you probably had an even worse time than me when it came to finding other fans! I thought I had it rough in Iowa, but I bet Puerto Rico was worse.”

“Yes, I was the only one! It sucked!” he yells at me above the music, smiling widely, and holding out his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

Here we are, both living on St. Thomas, yet neither of us born or raised here. Both making a specific effort to catch this Pearl Jam cover act, the closest we’ll get to seeing our favorite band live in the Caribbean. I look around at the diversity of the people—a favorite I’ve not yet mentioned is a large black man with one of those fat rolls between the bottom of his bald head and the top of his thick neck. He seems to know every word to these songs and he couldn’t be further from the grunge rocker stereotype.

At a real Pearl Jam show in Minnesota, I would mostly run into other 18-55 white Middle Americans. In a way, this makes sitting through what might as well have been a performance by the avatar band from Guitar Hero worthwhile. I get to pay a bit of homage to a bygone era in American rock music with a group of people as varied as the species of flora in the Virgin Islands.

I hope this island serves as a place of evolution for the diverse group here tonight as much as it does for me. Because who wants to be like a cover band and remain frozen in time?

Open-Minded Adapting?...Or Lowering One's Standards?

The consequences of my actions were not lost on me. Let me tell you. Before moving to St. Thomas, I understood that in doing so, I deliberately placed myself smack dab into certain discomforts. Indeed, this was part of the point. Almost like manipulating the environment of a Sim chick out of pure curiosity in the result. How will she respond to living without convenient access to things she loves like seasons and sweet corn and art house movies?

While lush in many ways, the Virgin Islands are a virtual desert when it comes to new rock and Pop* music, a Current of which flowed freely in the Twin Cities, and from which I thirstily drank. One could even say I was a bit spoiled in this regard.

If I needed a live music fix, I could see under-the-radar star M. Ward at 1st Ave or news-coverage-grabbing Rage Against the Machine at the Target Center. Since very few nationwide tours skip the Twin Cities, I had the opportunity to catch whatever act excited me at the moment, and easily be home by midnight.

I patronized cool independent record stores, my favorite being the Electric Fetus for its consistent selection, fun location just south of downtown Minneapolis, and long history in the community. Growing up, Mom always pointed the Fetus out to me when we drove on I-35 to the city from Iowa. (More often than not the trip was dedicated to seeing a rock show—few tours stops in Iowa.) She often shopped there during her brief stint in Minneapolis after high school. This knowledge always made buying music at the Fetus an extra special experience, akin to ancestral traditions like eating lefsa during the Holidays.

And, of course, The Current kept my discerning ears stimulated throughout the work day. The MPR rock radio station never failed to challenge my taste and keep me abreast of the best in new innovative and interesting (mostly indie) rock and pop.

Island radio formats consist of mass-appeal pap, Caribbean music, and Christian talk. I was, of course, completely aware of this. To keep somewhat plugged in, I planned to podcast Sound Opinions and Musicheads, read music mags and blogs, and hopefully catch a festival in the States during the summer. Any music shopping would be done online, as I assumed (however, still have not confirmed) that the music shops here don’t cater to rocker types like myself.

I figured the closest I’d get to enjoying live music on island would consist of a mediocre bar band.

So, it was mild excitement I felt when, during a brief listen to the modern rock station that broadcasts from St. Croix, I happened to hear an advertisement for Once, a Pearl Jam cover band scheduled to play on island in early December. Of course, I planned to check it out. A $5 cover and a trip to the East End are totally worth it for rare entertainment like this on St. Thomas. At the very least, I knew it would be a fun blog post to write.

To be continued…


*I mean Pop Music here in the large sense. In my mind, the small pop, defines artists of an inane variety such as Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers, whereas Pop in the large sense can refer to artists as diverse as the oft disturbing Iggy Pop, as well as the anti-sellout Neil Young. Mayhap this makes sense to you. Mayhap not.

Day Sail to the British Virgin Islands

Hey ya'll.

Oops, my Britney impression accidentally popped out again.

But I guess these days it would sound more like:

It's Ashley, bitch.

And with that, let's begin this pictoral journey.

A month or so ago (yes, my story-telling is on island time), we chartered what I think would be considered a small yacht and sailed to Jost Van Dyke for the day. Jost (pronounced y-oast, rhymes with toast) Van Dyke is a little island in the BVI, past St. John. I think it cost about $70 per person, plus $10 or $15 to get into the BVI. For this you get the boat's captain to take you there and deal with all of the passport stuff. Plus, there are some light snacks and a cozy, comfortable interior in case, for some reason, you don't want to sit on deck in the sun.

Port of Entry

We received stamps on our passports along with an official certificate declaring us welcome in the British Virgin Islands for the rest of the day. After attending to this official business (which required no actual attending on our part other than remembering to bring our passports and sipping Presidente's on board while the Captain cleared us), we took a short trip to White Bay, the next inlet West and home of the famed Soggy Dollar Bar.

Yes, we sunblocked the tops of their heads.

The water in the above picture is not digitally enhanced, nor is it chemically treated. This is true blue Caribbean ocean water.  I fantasized about water like this as a child in my bathtub and at the local swimming pool. This water makes you feel as if you absolutely must jump in and become engulfed in its translucent, warm beauty. This is why, believe it or not, it wasn't even hard to convince me, the fish phobe, to jump off the boat and into the sea.

Which is a good thing.

Because the reason it's called The Soggy Dollar Bar, is the lack of any docks at this beach, so if you want to go to shore, you have to swim. So a lot of the cash transactions at the beach bars include wet money.

Some Soggy Dollar Bar Items of Note:

A whimsically painted sign above the toilet that delightfully rhymes:

 "In this land of sun and fun, we don't flush for number one."

Seagrape trees.  I found myself frequently staring at their rich red bark.

A kitty who loves people. It's a good thing, since she's constantly surrounded by beaching tipsy tourists. She allowed me to pick her up without a yeowly fuss, so I brought her to join us at the table.

"Would you Memorex the moment already? I'm bored."

Someone also felt it necessary to turn the camera on me. Thank you Universe for the crop feature.This is what I look like these days. I haven't turned into a salty old sea hag quite yet.

Ain't my armpit a beaut?

Not a bad jaunt for a regular old Saturday. Many islanders travel from one rock to another for entertainment and variety. Each island has it's own personality and all have gorgeous beaches. Why not island hop?

And, of course, no marine outing would be complete without a homeward sunset shot.