I didn’t get to see ’em too many times, and they weren’t around too long – a year or three in the early ’90s. One freezing Anyway Fest evening in the perfect old Stache’s building sticks way out, tho’. I convinced my friend Yvonne that this was the thing to do – having no car, I had to – but after a few hours of not much happening, including the firing up of the room’s heater (guess it wasn’t worth it to waste $$ on the ten or twelve of us in attendance), she remained unconvinced. “Just stick it out a little bit longer,” I begged. “I promise you’ll thank me.” I think they’ve used looks like she gave me to unhinge the jaws of prospective stoolies in the interrogation room. Anyhow, something like Appalachian Death Ride gave way to Waybald and she started to look at me a different way, and finally – and this is nearing the one o’clock mark – Matt wandered onstage and over to the mic. “We’re just gonna play a coupla songs and you can go, we promise. We’re tired and have to work in the morning too.” Maybe they played for twenty minutes, but Yvonne wasn’t mad anymore.
