HiFi Mama (R.I.P. Dusty Hill)

 

 

I only saw ZZ Top once, in Philly at the Spectrum in March 1980. It was the Deguello tour, which supported their first album in four years, after a bit of a break. This was before they got slicker, and started supplementing things with drum machines. It was even before all those MTV videos where Dusty and Billy moved so much in sync that we'd joke that they probably went to the bathroom at the exact same moment even when they were thousands of miles apart.

The setlist is stunning to look back at. And it was a hell of a show at the time. I enjoyed it, but it came, for me, right at the brink of a real shift in my concert-going over the next couple of years. That same spring of 1980, I not only saw this show, but also Pink Floyd, and the Clash. Yup. One of these things was not like the other. Or maybe none of 'em were, but -- and we'll talk about this subject in more detail at a later date -- the Clash really changed my view of what a concert should be like. And they did so just weeks before I saw ZZ Top. My then-17-year-old brain had been melted by the manic energy of the Clash in a 3000-seat Tower Theater, so forgive me if ZZ Top seemed a bit far away and distant in comparison at the time in a 19,000-seat hockey arena. My perception of the perfect concert was shifting, and, as Mudhoney would say, I was learning to "like it small."

So, while I have good memories of that show, and I'm posting about it in honor of just-deceased bass player Dusty Hill -- who took a solo lead vocal that night on "HiFi Mama," which you can hear either here, or in the video at the top of this post -- my most distinct memory is of the lead-up to the concert.

********

It was my younger brother Paul's very first rock show. He had just turned 14, and my parents specifically let him go because he was going to be with me, his older brother. That was possibly a misjudgment on their part (but it was definitely one they repeated often), because I was not his mama, nor an authority figure of any sort, but it made them happy. What trouble could he get into? Right? Er, right?

We were riding the Broad Street Subway to the show in South Philly. Somehow, because I attract dogs and drunks like a magnet, a mildly-intoxicated lad of 16 or so struck up a conversation with us on the platform as we waited for a train. Mostly, I think we were, as teenage boys do, honing our craft regarding excessive use of the word "fuck." But he was much louder. "Fuckin' AAAAAAAA!" our new pal would yell. "I AM SO FUCKIN' PSYCHED FOR FUCKIN' ZZ TOP!!!" His enthusiasm was shared by some around us, but he stuck with us for the long haul. We were... just that lucky, I guess.

But here's the thing: it was probably 6:30 p.m. The subway was not only populated by concertgoers at that hour. Real human beings who were employed -- quite possibly at jobs that they hated -- were also there and they were not only not ZZ Top fans, but they were really not fans of our new friend and his loudly garrulous ways. Unsurprisingly, he did not care. "AHHHHHH FUCK 'DAT!" he exclaimed at first when I suggested he pipe down a bit. But he then took my suggestion more seriously when I pointed out that the cop down the platform a ways might ruin his plans for the evening, especially when those plans included the fifth of vodka that was poking out of his jacket. "Right, man. Yeah, we need to be cool. <pause> When we get on the train, we'll have a cocktail though!"

We got on the train. It was very crowded. Again, there were a sizable number of ZZ Top fans, but there were also commuters, and one little old lady close by. We were standing. "So, gentlemen? That cocktail?" our buddy asked. "Sure," I said. I was 17. I had done a bit of drinking previously. I knew that this was not going to be a "cocktail," but, rather, at best a swig of some moderately shitty vodka, taken in a manner so as to hide it from others. "Ummmmm, I don't have nothing to mix it with," our friend apologized, and he took a surreptitious swig and passed me the bottle quickly. "That's cool," I said, and sort of hid the bottle in my coat as I took a pull.

None of that secretive behavior was engaged in by my brother. He was 14. He was still learning. He, I guess, figured this was the party train and he was going to party? Or maybe there was no figuring at all. In any event, he grabbed the vodka bottle like it was a fucking Dr. Pepper, and, balancing himself against the sway of the crowded train by setting his feet wide, he just went for it. Elbow out. Head back. Bottoms up on that bottle pointed to the subterranean sky. He probably downed four or five ounces -- nothing extreme, but his methodology sure was. That poor old lady went bug-eyed. 

A few commuters giggled as our friend and I corrected Paul: "Jesus Christ! What the fuck! Put that thing away! We'll get arrested!"

The old lady looked displeased. Paul truly had no idea what he had done until we told him. Like I said, he was 14.

The bottle got hit a few more times, much less obviously those times, even by Paul. And it was discarded by our new friend outside the Spectrum. We never saw him again. That was, honestly, no great loss. He was loaded. We were not. 

The concert was great. It wasn't as great as the Clash, but, really, what was?

********

Dusty Hill passed away today. I hope that you can find some ZZ Top to listen to that makes you happy in order to honor his memory. The band has had a few different musical phases. I definitely prefer the 1980-and-earlier version myself, but here's the thing: even though they got slicker, it never felt like they sold out. That unto itself is a rare thing in the world of Big Stadium Rock. Fuck yeah, Dusty. I raise my glass to you. I bet my brother does too.