Doug Gillard is known (rightly so) for his guitar wizardry in bands such as Guided By Voices, Cobra Verde, Death Of Samantha and, for the last few years, Nada Surf, but that notoriety sometimes overshadows the fact that he’s an accomplished solo singer/songwriter. With his third LP, Parade On (Nine Mile), Gillard continues to show off his virtuosity—solos like the one on “On Target” are just ridiculous—as well as his knack for catchy, folk-inflected power pop. Gillard will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our brand new Q&A with him. To see more photos corresponding to these entries, go here
Gillard: In 1986, Death Of Samantha had been a band for roughly a year and a half, and freshly signed to Homestead Records by one G. Cosloy. Our label for self-releases up until that point was called St. Valentine Records. That August, three Cleveland bands that had releases on the label decided to go on a St. Valentine package tour. The as-yet-unknown kicker being that we did it in an RV rented from U-Haul.
Well, not one, but a succession of three different RV’s. More on that later.
Death Of Samantha, the Reactions and Shadow Of Fear were the bands that packed into the RV and made our way to the East Coast from Cleveland. Death Of Samantha were John Petkovic: leader, vocalist, main songwriter, clarinet, licorice; Steve-O Eierdam: drums, props, frivolity, archivist; David James: bassist, graphic artist; and myself on guitar, vocals, platforms and a bit of songwriting.
Dave Swanson was the drummer and founder of the Reactions, a neo-psychedelic pop trio. (Dave would later join us in DoS on bass, then also Cobra Verde and briefly GBV on drums. He now leads the Get Hip Records band Rainy Day Saints). Shadow Of Fear were progenitors of dark and gothic sounds, led by one Chris Andrews, owner of a series of great Cleveland record stores and later of the Spudmonsters.
First stop was Philadelphia’s Kennel Club, a three-level nightclub/venue where they seemed to worship the sun. No memory of the actual show, but we all walked around after the show with some writer from Option or Sound Choice.
The next morning is a little more vivid, as the RV was sidelined two days into the trip with a broken sewer-waste-tank bracket. We were on the side of some road, heatwaves wafting in the August air, with a hanging sewer tank. The protocol was to call U-Haul, and instead of an on-the-spot repair, they would drive a new RV to you and change it out. OK, no biggie. At least we didn’t DMB any poor pedestrians from some bridge.
Next stop was Washington, D.C., at The Complex. All I really recall is playing to about five people in an empty room while punks walked past us with their skateboards to get out back and hang outside. The hardcore kids were pretty nice to us considering we looked like rag-tag Midwestern glam-punks, goths and paisley-clad power-pop lovers. The Complex must have encouraged a culture of tolerance among genres. Even in ’86, it was all still pretty “alt” and under the same underground umbrella.
Stopped for lunch at a Philly/South Jerz-area Denny’s. All three bands grouped around a huge table. A server asks us if we are the Hooters. We say no; then upon leaving, Chris takes her aside and says, “They really are the Hooters. I’m the tour manager.”
Up to Trenton, N.J., for a show at the infamous City Gardens. I’m very grateful to have played there, albeit it was way too big for our little bands to draw in, but fun nonetheless.
Was this the show our drummer Steve-O ate an entire pizza right before going onstage? I can’t remember. It seems like it was. Played to literally one person that night in that cavernous space.
Weird, wild schtuff.
Stayed overnight at Cheesequake State Park campgrounds. A couple members of Shadow Of Fear walk on fire. Steve-O’s name is invoked in a possible sacrifice.
We originally had a show booked at Pyramid Club in NYC but had that day off due to Pyramid bumping us for Specimen. Well, la-di-da, Pyramid.
Spent the next couple days off in NYC, and I seem to remember walking in the Village area and being accosted by one of the many scam artists, who took a closer look at me and said, “Oh no brother, you look like hell hit you three times!”
Then a friend told me that the black spray on hair color I used for the show the night before was running down my face in the hot sun. Great. Amateur glam boy.
Most of the guys got tickets to a David Letterman taping that day (then at NBC at Rockefeller Center) and a few of us missed out, so, a member of another band was eager to score something, anything, in Times Square. I was left with no choice but to walk there with him and a buddy. “Nothing but vice” doesn’t begin to describe the vibe there—and it’s all gone. 42nd Street and Broadway was teeming with hustlers hawkin’ drugs of all kinds. Theater-marquee lettering blaring out, “Now showing: Anal Spitfire,” everywhere you turn. Band guy goes to the first dude who calls to him. Gets ripped off in a major way. We walk all the way down Broadway to the West Village and sit on a stoop. Band guy smokes the tiny rock he got, laughing nervously. Somehow, we make it back to convene/congeal with the others.
The RV breaks down again. This time it was the solenoid. We were all 18-ish at the time, and thought Solenoid was some Devo song. So that was no help. We are parked at the corner of Canal St and Sixth Avenue in front of the bodega until we can be towed by U-Haul. With time to kill, John and Steve-O get out and busk on the corner; John playing clarinet and Steve-O beating on something or other. John has his clarinet case open and the pair make $20 in an hour. So, off to U-Haul we go, and they replace the RV yet again, and we transfer all the amps and drums, etc., to the new one.
Next, up to Boston to play at T.T. The Bear’s. We would stop on subsequent tours at the Middle East next door, The Rat and Bunratty’s, but T.T.’s was the first. Swan song for the blowup doll that night, as the fratty crowd tossed poor Gertrude around. She deflated, and so did Steve-O’s giant inflatable Genesee Cream Ale bottle, but our set was great.
U-Haul’s amazing Southwind RV breaks down for the third time. The air conditioner malfunctioned, sending water onto the floorboards of the RV, soaking everything touching the carpeted floor.
We were somewhere on 95 I think, at night, and changed out yet another RV, cross-loading amps and drums, licorice and blow-up dolls.
“Hurry—we gotta keep those platforms, feather boas, goth-wear and paisley shirts dry.”
Hoboken, N.J., is next, for our first show ever at Maxwell’s. At Maxwell’s, we are met in the RV by Gerard Cosloy, who has a kid he wants us to meet. He says “This is J. He’s 19 & in a band called Dinosaur.”
J silently looks around the RV, fascinated by the notion that bands actually wanted to tour in this thing, as well he should.
Dinosaur was a Homestead labelmate of ours for a while, and now John Petkovic and J play together in rock’s Sweet Apple. Maxwell’s stage was green at the time with that Reznor heater overhead.
Ira Kaplan was our house sound man here once, but I can’t remember if it was this night or a subsequent visit.
I think this is the show John introduced the blow-up doll and whipped cream to the stage. Not sure. In a picture from the show, my ratty feather boa is on the ground, no doubt doused in whipped cream and a bit of the licorice John used to throw out from the stage. Twizzlers were the “fifth DoS member”. At first fans of things underground and punk, Death Of Samantha began as a sort of rag-tag Americana/garage/post-punk/paisley-underground mashup, spewing Lou Reed/Ian McCullough/Jeffery Lee Pierce-isms over herky-jerky beats, Byrne/Wynn rhythm guitar and Precoda/Ronson/Jones (Mick or Steve) lead-guitar skronk. By 1986, we were changing a bit, getting into different music. I started spending more time with T.Rex and Bowie records and decided I had to have a black Les Paul and a feather boa with platforms. A fateful trip to Trivets Antiques in Cincinnati took care of a lot of that. The basement of this classy thrift store was stocked with unsold merchandise form the ’60s and ’70s, replete with vinyl snakeskin bell bottoms and tons of Elton-worthy platform shoes. The punk in me still wanted to shock a bit, so I decided to lean a little glam. No one was doing retro-glam authentically, really (the burgeoning hair-metal scene didn’t count), except for a few kindreds unbeknownst to me like Redd Kross and Celebrity Skin in L.A. So, for these reasons and the overall look of the band in general, no one knew what to think of DoS, but at least it stood out. Greg Fasolino is one Jersey punk who snapped a few shots that night. Tour is over. Back to Ohio, and back to school.
Photo after the jump.
