Everyone has their personal Red Rocks.

            The venue that started it all. That special location with the nostalgic scent of spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke, that makes you feel like a local watching a show. 

            For Spin Cycle, that spot was Jimmy’s Basement. Jimmy was an old hippie who lived on a dirt road in the country ten minutes outside of town. A simple man who loved music. When word spread back in ‘88 that some young bucks needed a place to jam, he offered his basement free of charge. The only thing he asked was that they mow his lawn and tend to his garden, never minding his special plants hidden in the green ferns lining the creek beds in his back yard. He wasn’t ten years older than them, but he was born an old soul, and moved at the speed of one. 

            The Spin Cycle origin story, from Paul’s Garage to Jimmy’s Basement to Madison Square Garden, with a few stops in between. 

            We return to the place we started.

            I carried Paul’s guitar around to the backyard. It was bordered on all sides by tall pine trees. A strong creek flowed down a gulch behind a crab apple tree. A horseshoe pit was in front of the tree. A firepit with charred remnants of wooden pallets smoldered. Amidst it all, insect wings whirred. It was by far the greenest place I’d ever witnessed. 

            Jimmy tinkered with an old engine on a picnic table. The smoker next to him cooked several pork butts. He was a short man with thinning hair, a thick reddish-white goatee, and a well-earned beer belly. The radio from the CD player on the table played classic rock. 

            The beauty of Jimmy’s Basement was that the speakers and drum set and guitar and mic stands stayed up year-round. Same as the Rolling Stones “Some Girls” poster and Bruce Springsteen from “Darkness on The Edge Of Town.” The corners of the posters curled, held up by the same strips of masking tape Jimmy used to commemorate the first live Spin Cycle basement show on the 4th of July in 1987. 

            Four decades later, Henrietta pointed at the Springsteen poster and asked Paul, “Is that the man from your birthday party, Dad?”

            Paul looked up from moving wires and said, “That’s him.” 

            The basement would always be unfinished. Cobwebs hung from the rafters. Three metal support beams separated the work area with benches and a cigarette-ashed coffee table from the stage, with stained carpet and a beer fridge off to the side. A basement show doesn’t work unless you have to slide past the band to get a beer. 

            The guys did ten minutes of soundcheck, which mainly consisted of making sure things were plugged in with no feedback. After that we snacked and drank and tossed horseshoes while the yard slowly filled with friends and friends of friends and locals who’d heard a band was playing out at Jimmy’s Basement. The trick about a small town is secrets never last long.

            A man in khaki shorts and a sunrise blue shirt strode into the back yard with a bottle of clear liquid clutched in one hand. In the other, he discreetly carried a small microphone and a digital recorder. He wore a brown caterpillar thick mustache above his lip. Where the members of Spin Cycle could still pull off stylish, rock and roll manes, this man, who I now recognized from the photo next to his bio in Rolling Stone, settled for unkempt balding, plus mustache.

            “Malcolm Cook.” I shook his hand and offered to add the bottle to a collection forming on a table next to the pieces of cut wood in the basement.

            “Fender Carradine. Pleasure to see you again.”

            He hesitated before saying again like I wouldn’t remember him. He was right. I didn’t. Some books and movies thrust the Malcom Cooks front and center. Your Cameron Crowes and Lester Bangs and Hunter S. Thompsons. I had enough vague images of Malcolm passing through back stages to know he had a story, but a story for another day.

            He scanned the band set up for a moment, settling on a set of cupboards on the other side of the room. He took a roll of duct tape from under a plastic box of fishing lures, ripped off three strips, and fastened the microphone and recorder to the center beam, facing the stage.

            “The lost tape,” I said, finally.

            “Fans will go ape shit over this.” He wiped his hands as if he’d achieved a full day’s work and went outside to clamp a hand on Larry’s shoulder. Larry turned slowly, eyes lighting at the sight of an old friend, and bear hugged the rock (and roll) journalist.

            Around four, Deacon showed up with the scrawny high school kids from the American Legion. To describe the state of their faces when they saw Dad, Paul, and Larry standing on the carpet in the basement is to harken to Meredith’s story about Dad meeting Tom Petty. Dad wasn’t Tom Petty by any means, but he might’ve been to these kids. Who’s to say? They reacted that way, stammering and stumbling over their words. Until Larry asked the kid in the Hank Wiliams shirt what type of drums he used. Once they started talking music, the nerves vanished. People talking to people about music. 

            The young kids went on at 5. They announced themselves as Old Age Americans, and kicked into something loud, fast, and catchy as hell, played on the Spin Cycle guitars and house drums. 

            Dad and I watched their first set from the back of the basement, smoked meat wafting from the concrete patio. He rubbed at a tattoo on the inside of his left palm. It said, “When you’re confused, check the card.” 

The band wailed. I leaned in to speak into his ear. “When did you get that?”

            “Last year. Mary’s idea. All of the good ones are.”

            “What’s the card say? Do you mind?”

            He took a card out of his wallet and gave it to me.

            “Hi, love. Your mind is going, but it’s not gone. This is to remind you who you are.: A proud father to one son, Fender, who lives in Atlanta; a loving husband to Meredith, your former groupie girlfriend who had to go away for a while, but came back; and a member of the greatest rock and roll band of all time, Spin Cycle, formed with two life-long friends, Paul Newman and Larry De Luca. You live in Ludington, Michigan, your former vacation destination turned retirement home. Your address is 2752 Lakeshore Drive.”

            I gave it back to him. “I’m sorry, Dad. Really. For everything. This must be so hard, and your son sticking his head in the sand made it worse.” 

            He squinted his eyes at a solo one of the kids played, grinding his teeth and getting into it. “It’s okay. I promise. It’s life. I’ve lived a good one, and knowing me, my stubborn ass body will stick around far longer than my mind. I don’t want to lose any more time with you, with Mary, with the guys. When I’m a dick, tell me. When I’m not, don’t. For now, let’s live and enjoy our time. And some music while we’re at it.”

            I hugged him from the side. “Love you, Dad.”

            “I love you, Buck.” 

___

Spin Cycle went on at 9:32 PM.

            The night came along with half the town. The basement and backyard were full. The smolders in the pit had grown into a teepee of flames. Children and adults waved sparklers through the air. Someone in the front yard lit off a steady stream of fireworks that willow treed over the house. 

            The band hunched together on stage. Larry said, “Category: types of animal. Brett?”

            “Dog.”

            Paul: “Cat.”

            Larry: “Tiger.”

            “Pig.”

            “Horse.”

            Larry: “Dog.”

            Dad and Paul saw the gleam in Larry’s eye. “Fuck it,” they both said, turning to the microphones. Larry settled on the stool behind the drum set. Malcolm slyly hit record on the machine taped to the metal pole.

            Paul said, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out tonight to celebrate our country’s independence. Before we get started, we’d like to give the biggest shout out to Jimmy, who years ago allowed three cocky teenagers to jam in his basement for the low, low cost of lawn maintenance. Jimmy, wherever you are in this crowd of people, we are forever in your debt and can never thank you enough.”

The crowd echoed the sentiment with a loud cheer. Jimmy was outside talking about Iggy Pop with the teenage lead singer of the Old Age Americans. My hands stung from clapping during their three sets. My throat would be hoarse the next day, a day that included no driving, a thought that made me smile inside and out, and yet, deep down, an ache glowed. 

Dad scanned the crowd until he found Meredith, Deacon, and me. He licked his lips, checked with Larry, and Paul, and faced the crowd. “We are Spin Cycle. And this one’s called ‘Lazy Susan’.” 

The guitars sparked, the drums wailed, the crowd exploded, and the night was lit on fire.

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