we played an insane show at a roller skating rink in gloucester, va with avail and squatweiler sometime in the summer of 96. squatweiler were this great mixed gender punk operation where the lead singer broke out a french horn from time to time (non-ska application of brass intruments in punk music is exciting, no matter what anyone says). we needn't mention that avail were/continue to be amazing.

gloucester is a fairly isolated place, down on one of the peninsulas of eastern va. the drive to the show was not insubstantial, but the mildly exotic venue combined with the bridge crossings necessary to get there gave it the feeling of being far more removed from civilization than it actually was.

the show was thrilling and sweaty. afterwards, AP was packing our trusty astro van with our gear and being the most amateur band on the bill, we were the slowest getting this basic task done. while we packed, we jawed with the very entertaining drummer of squatweiler who was avoiding the selfsame task with his own band. i believe this man was named bill. he was one of these conversationalists who really loved an audience, and we were more than willing to engage him (having several conversationalists of the same stripe in our own band, we were well trained).

during some extensive piece of storytelling on his part, we finished packing. bill understood he was losing his audience and looked around for his own band-van in the now almost-empty parking lot. he scratched his head and then uttered the priceless:

"i think my band kind of left me."

keep in mind this is pre-cellphone. well, pre-less-than-a-suitcase cellphone. we all looked at each other, and slightly shocked, asked him if we could give him a ride somewhere. he decided, no...waiting would be the best option, surely they'd come back once they realized he wasn't in there. of course, they'd managed to leave him, so one could only guess at what point in the night they'd pick up on this important piece of data. did he get oil-spotted on purpose? was it a lesson the rest of the band was trying to teach him? "goddamn, bill is over there telling that poor band his fucking carpal tunnel story again while he should be loading his idiotic double bass drums. let's leave his ass."

after considering the myriad possibilities of trying to chase the rest of squatweiler down, driving bill to a bus station, or taking him back to richmond, we grew to agree with him that waiting was really all he could do. mildly disturbed with our own actions, we shook his hand and drove off into the humid coastal dark.

that was the last time i ever saw him, standing under a streetlight in a roller rink parking lot, the moths and mosquitos flitting in circles around him. i never saw squatweiler again, and our personal paths never crossed again in the languid circles of the southeast punk scene. i don't know if they came back and said "that'll teach you, dillweed" or "oh god. we are so. very. sorry." or if he spent the night sleeping by the skate rental counter, but in my last visual memory of him he's holding drumsticks. he probably didn't really have them, but it makes for a nice closing shot.