Moving and Joining

DCOI started in 2003 and released two full length CDs, two seven inch EPs as well as two bass players by the time I joined the band in 2008.

In 2007 I was living in Washington State while being thoroughly depressed and discouraged after both bands I was in at the time came to a screeching halt and disbanded.

So when I received a call from DCOI guitarist Justin asking if I wanted to fill in for their bass player and join them on a Canadian tour, of course I said yes right away.

Prior to going on this tour I had only met Justin once or twice through our separate travels and really had no idea what to expect.

They drove 12 hours straight after playing in Berkley and picked me up at my house before continuing the rest of the drive Canada.

After five minutes of being in the van I felt at home.

The first show we played together was at a venue called the Cobalt in Vancouver, B.C. We had never practiced together and I had learned about half of their songs on my own by playing along to the CDs in my small apartment.

The venue was not what you would call a pleasant place by any means; the alley behind was frequented by all sorts of drug users and was riddled with hypodermic needles and broken crack pipes. This was defiantly not the ideal place for Darby, the resident band dog, to run around and play with his ball.

As we got deeper and deeper into the tour the guys and I became more familiar with each other while becoming better friends. We literally spent about 95 percent of the trip together, sleeping in the van, indulging in substances and cracking weird jokes that made no sense to anyone unless you were delusional from staying up for 30 plus hours.

The biggest shows on this particular tour were in Calgary and Edmonton, where we were scheduled to play with some old friends, unfortunately they had to cancel because half of the group decided to go on a team building camping trip; they received some severe hassling next time we crossed paths.

By the end of the tour I was so incredibly stoked on these guys, the music they were making, and where they wanted to take their band (everywhere).

I mentioned to them that I was moving down to California in hopes that they would just ask me to join. About three weeks later I was receiving “love letters” telling me to hurry up and get down to California so I could join their band.

In August of 2008 I was living in California, commuting about 80 miles three times a week and playing music full time again.

I would go insane with out this band. It keeps me productive, creative and happy. Long live DCOI and the friends I have gained.  

David Fricke

Whether he is interviewing John Mellencamp for a video broadcast or covering funk-pop band Red Hot Chili Peppers’ secret show in Big Sur, Calif. David Fricke has been writing about music and reviewing records since he was in college.

Now into his 50s Fricke is a senior writer for Rolling Stone Magazine and has a column entitled Fricke’s Picks and a blog called Alternative Take. He covers all shapes and forms of Rock ‘n’ Roll from the collaboration of Metallica and Lou Reed to the reunion of New York City Punk Icons D Generation.

Fricke graduated college with an English degree and spun records for a small radio station at night; music was Fricke’s passion and what a golden era to grow up in since he was around 15 or 16 when the Beatles started producing albums.

He began writing reviews for anyone and everyone who would publish them and said in an interview that his first ever check for writing was for $5 from a local free newspaper.

Fricke’s writing flows nicely without being overly simple. Though I haven’t followed Fricke’s column or blogs in the past, this could change.

Reading about what 1970’s punk band is doing a reunion or what artists are getting together for an off the wall collaboration really peaks my meters and holds my interest.

Though the 1960’s 70’s and 80’s are long behind us, Fricke still writes about great music from the past as if it is still the best thing since sliced bread.

Recently in his column, Fricke’s Picks, he wrote on a Buddy Guy and Junior Wells collaboration album from 1970 called Buddy and the Juniors (Hip-O Select). He seems to enjoy bringing the highlights of his yesteryears back to his readers attention, as they shouldn’t be forgotten. “I recommend Buddy and the Juniors without reservation, because I bought it when it first came out,” Fricke said in his column.

It is also quite refreshing to read something with no political underlining; it’s strictly music as far as I can tell and it feels nice to know that I could probably read through his work for days and be pressed to come across some political agenda.

He may not be refined enough for the Washington Post; in an interview with Road Trip Nation Fricke explains how he jumped through all the hoops for applying to the post only to have them write back saying he didn’t measure up. Fricke also explained in the interview that when people ask him how he got into writing he has one answer.

“I just did it,” Fricke said in the Road Trip Nation Interview. “I just sit down and I do it.”

His column is interesting and his writing flows well; I would suggest anyone with taste for or knowledge of music to give his column a read and maybe go look for some new albums.  

South of the Border... Slightly

          Being upset over illegal immigration has never made much sense; the thought process had never gone much further until I visited Tijuana to play a show this last summer. The thought of playing in Mexico was exciting, even though Tijuana lies right on the border, touring state side has grown increasingly stagnant over the last few years.

            The band walked into Mexico after parking our van safely in the U.S. and we brought no gear out of fear of being robbed.  Well in the know that no one would want to pay for anything we had to offer, a backpack was stuffed with CD’s and T-shirts to give away to the crowd.

            From the moment we crossed the pedestrian bridge into foreign territory, an alien world in which we were technically now aliens in, my heart began to sink.

            Mass amounts of people had set up tent cities along a bayou that contained what looked like anything and everything but water, the “chiclet” joke, I so often heard growing up in Texas, was no longer a joke to me but a sad reality that defined so many children’s lives.

            As the journey to the venue continued the experience became more and more sobering as our guide told us stories of his high school days.

            “When we were underage TJ is where we came to get loaded… go to a strip club and get free tequila shots. We didn’t care at the time but about half your shot was rubbing alcohol rather than booze.” He then warned us “Don’t drink anything that isn’t out of a bottle that was opened in front of you.”

            We finally made it to the venue which was a bar on Revolution Street called Mi Pueblo; the front door was not a door but two swinging pieces of wood much like you would see in an old western movie. The floors were slanted and covered in filth, most likely from the bathroom that was constantly over flowing from patrons doing their business or faulty plumbing, either one could have been the culprit.   

            The stage was past the bar, behind the god awful stench of the bathroom and through a door frame which led to an open area the size of a large barn.

            I looked up to find the roof had collapsed, most likely many years before our visit to Mi Pueblo, but none the less none existent. 

            We played and then kept playing when the crowd insisted on an encore; we felt it wasn’t very wise to be rude since we were clearly Americans.

            Walking back to the border, accompanied by numerous packs of stray dogs, I saw row after row of whole families sleeping by carpets that displayed their merchandise.

 They were open for business even while they were sleeping, all you had to do was stand around for a few seconds and they would wake up and start their sales pitch.

            I then realized why illegal immigration never got me up in arms as it does to so many Americans; people are literally doing whatever it takes to feed their families and survive.

            If it means sleeping on the sidewalk and selling souvenirs to foreigners, or leaving home and illegally crossing a border to find work, they were in it for the long haul.

            Many Americans may feel illegal immigrants are bleeding this country dry while taking advantage of our education and health care systems, but It would be nice to think anyone who wished to better themselves or support a family would go to such extreme lengths. Borders will be crossed and laws will be broken, after all that’s how this country was started.

Professors, Goals, and Hard Work.

                A goal is a wonderful aspiration; it’s there to keep you focused when you start to slip. When pressure is mounting to a nearly unbearable level at least you have a reason for putting yourself through this seemingly never ending headache called college.

                In theory college should not appeal to a person with a fairly nihilistic outlook on life, in fact the number of reasons for attending is significantly less than the reasons not to.

                A good professor is like biting into a crisp juicy apple rather than a mushy flavorless fruit that was often found in your local high school lunch line, most likely null and void of any nutritional value.

                They will push students toward their goals and inspire you to prove you have what it takes to pass their course, they can offer encouragement and help if you are open to it and show you want to be a part of the class.

                Spring semester of 2011 was a big semester, finally I had major classes on the schedule but there was one class I was particularly worried about, mass media law and regulation. 

                The first day I could have sworn not dropping the class would have been a death sentence, but I decided I would at least give it my best effort and see how things went.

                At first I was slightly intimidated by the professor’s methods and syllabus which only contained four assignments but when we started getting into lectures and his favorite thing was to make students talk and be a part of the class, I felt relieved.

    “He wants us to do well,” I thought to myself, even though his sassy attitude and constant heckling may have given students the opposite first impression.

     The class and the lectures continued and quickly became the highlight of the school week, one midterm came and though it wasn’t perfect the content was there as well as helpful suggestions.

     The decision had been solidified; I was going to pass this class come hell or high water. The next midterm I wrote in the back of a van, hungry, exhausted, hung over, and broke but no matter what the circumstances I was going to power through this assignment.

     I had a goal with in a goal now and that professor inspired me to want to do well in his class even though at first it felt like attempting to swim across the Atlantic without ever being taught how to swim.  

                That course didn’t only teach law and regulation it taught how to work through a problem no matter how “in the dark” you may feel on the subject, if you take on a goal and really want to reach the end most likely you will do whatever it takes to succeed.

               Being pushed by someone who wants to see you succeed really can make a smile appear on the sourest face, and then when the goal is achieved they may feel satisfied but all the glory is left to the victor.

               I ended up with an A in the class and though satisfied with the grade and effort put forth, it was upsetting that I’d most likely never sit through another lecture where I could see the person sleeping in the back try to answer a question they didn’t hear.  

               Roughly 2 more semesters and my stay at Sacramento State will be complete; I will have completed the goal, beaten the game, and been sent home with a piece of paper to hang on a wall.

Get out of my way! Can't you tell im late?

SACRAMENTO, Calif., USA-   The Traffic had backed up to a standstill along the exit I needed to take in order to make it to school, I even left an hour early  though it’s only a 15 minute drive from my house in West Sacramento. When the clock hit 8:52am, only a measly eight minutes before my first class of the day, I hadn’t even gotten off the freeway much less parked, I was frustrated to say the least. 

I could see it in the other drivers as well which lightened my mood a little, knowing I wasn’t the only one suffering.  One after another cars began whipping wildly around other cars only to find themselves stuck one or two spots ahead of where they had started.

There was a decision to be made here. Should I Stick with Plan A and wait out this horrible first day of school madness… or should I choose a new route? Simultaneously cranking the wheel left and stepping on the accelerator the decision had been made to abandon Plan A and take a different route to the Campus. 

Everything seemed on course as I was racing down Howe, already late for my class by a good 10 minutes and really feeling the stress about the coming day, when J St. suddenly came into view and offered me zero support. I was stuck again. Although in slightly less congestive traffic, traffic none the less.

Finally, I managed to get my car on campus. It felt like such an accomplishment I could have actually smiled a little.

Things were moving a bit quicker now and by no time at all the first parking structure was approaching fast; which also happens to be the busiest. Not being able to resist a gamble I pulled in and promised myself to only spend a couple minutes searching for a parking spot and then I would move on to the dreaded walk of shame from the back lots. 

Almost immediately I saw someone pulling out and I knew the spot was mine. The gamble had paid off and it’s a good thing too, the clock on my phone had just hit 9:30am. I grabbed my Backpack and began my walk through the campus to Mendocino Hall where my class was scheduled to take place.

Walking through campus has become quite irritating during the peak of the day. Numerous people on skateboards that are made to go faster than your average skateboard while being controlled by students who appear to be just barley in control, seems like I have seen a good five ankles smashed by a runaway boards recently. Of course there are the cyclists weaving through the crowd as well as the scooter riders. 

Then there is me… late and stuck behind some turtle paced pedestrian with a rolling bag in tow, it took every ounce of energy to not kick that pack over off its wheels and run by screaming like a mad man.

I held my composure and made it to class about 35 minutes late only to find a mob of people trying to add the class. Knowing I was already enrolled in the course I felt good about walking right past the entire group, all too occupied hammering the teacher with questions about adding the course to notice me. I sat right down in the front row as one student got “scared away”.

 Attendance was called and I felt relieved in knowing the instructor couldn’t think of me as the one who showed up late on the first day.