Loam

Prior to getting married and purchasing a house in the Great White North (a.k.a., San Marcos), my sister Heather was a local-band groupie. Not old enough to accompany her to the bars, I would tag along whenever her favorite groups or musicians -- The Rugburns, Jewel, etc. -- were playing at Java Joe’s Café in Ocean Beach, where you will find a *$s today. Faye (the nickname Heather earned in our family after we shortened “Feather Head” to “Fay Hay,” or as we’ve come to explain it -- because Faye stands for Feather, and Feather rhymes with Heather) was a Wednesday night regular at the Ould Sod on Adams Ave, when Loam, one of her favorite bands, would take the stage. I never got to see them. By the time I was old enough to walk through the door, the Hatchet Brothers (a band that includes a few members of Loam), had taken over the Wednesday night gigs.

Loam, consisting of Frank Lee Drennen, Christopher Pacilio, Clark Stacer, and Charlie McCree, never “broke-up,” they just started playing with other bands like Dead Rock West, the Hatchet Brothers, Berkley Hart, Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash, among others. Recently, Faye heard that Loam would be getting back together for their first show in nearly a decade at the new Java Joe’s – a pub in the college area owned by the same old Joe, sans java. 7 1/2 months pregnant with her second son, even a barrage of baby-belly kicks couldn’t keep Faye away. I dragged my mate with me to the new joint on El Cajon Blvd.; the last time I had been here, it was called Kelly’s. Java Joe’s Pub bore little resemblance to the warm, intimate atmosphere of his old coffee house. After showing my ID and forking over some green, the stench of stale beer-soaked wood mixed with years of sweat, urine, and vomit, slapped my face like an angry pimp.

After composing myself, suppressing my gag reflex, I staked out barstools closest to the “stage,” where modish musicians were taking their time with the sound check. Opposite those busy-boys, I could see at least two butt-cracks peeking through gaps between the dirty jeans and raggedy T-shirts adorning seven old guys sitting side-by-side at the bar. At 9:00, my sister arrived, her protruding midsection preceding her into the bar. It wasn’t long before a young crowd – probably college kids – began filling up the place. Young girls in groups of three, boys old enough to drink, but not enough to sport full-grown facial hair -- I amused myself watching them regard each other from afar. Around 10:00, a new population took over: Folks not as old as the geezers flaunting their dirty cheeks, but not as young as the ogling barely-legals either.

I recognized most of these faces from the Ould Sod. Thirty and forty-somethings piled in, some having resurrected their faded Loam T-shirts, all with smiles and warm greetings for each other. I had a feeling this was not the typical crowd for Joe’s on a Friday night. Men with long hair and full beards, women with elaborate, beady jewelry – a hippy crowd, a happy crowd, you wouldn’t find any angry, raging hormones here. Looking on proudly was Joe, a caricature of himself -- for those of you who know him (and you are plenty), you know what I mean. Whereas most bar owners and band-pushers look slick with styled hair and sharp suits, this one -- pleasantly disheveled and camouflaged as one of his patrons -- is not your average Joe.

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