Yesterday I was reading through my friend Leo’s rather serendipitous story about the days leading up to the launch of Tar Hut Records. Those were such interesting times. Meeting Dave for the first time was like meeting a long, lost brother. This fact was cemented a year or two later when, during a late night conversation at his house in the Chicago suburbs one night, Dave’s wife Georgia told me that it was a little frightening to her how similar we were in so many ways. She meant that in a good way. I hope.
Leo’s reference to Dave’s hair also made me laugh. It is, indeed, a bit Elvis-like and very much remains so today. Anyway, thinking back about old stories, it reminded me of a night when I was mistaken for an indie-rock hero.
I was leaning against a post of a nightclub in Providence during a set break (Blue Mountain had just finished and Son Volt was coming up), most likely filling up with Rolling Rock, when this guy approached me and asked what I thought of the Blue Mountain set, blah blah blah. He then asked me if I was Lou Barlow (relatively well known musician and member of Dinosaur Jr and Sebadoh).
I let the guy know that I was not Lou Barlow and then he told me I was and that he understood if I didn’t want to be recognized or whatever. I swore to him that I was not Lou Barlow and offered to show him my licence. He declined, but walked away, disappointed. Funny.