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Gonzo Report: Gary Wilson rises again
Past & present collide with douchebaggery at Tower Bar
Escovedo, Wilson and Habegger, spanning the ages.
“Excuse me, I have to put this fire out,” says Joseph Bursey, the doorman at The Tower Bar. I see he’s being literal as I nosily follow him to the corner of the building, where a butt can attached to the building is smoking with a vengeance. A cup of water extinguishes the noxious fumes, but there are other figurative fires to put out as the night goes on. Inside, a triple bill that spans five decades of San Diego music is taking place. But Bursey will be denying entrance to people who take exception to him checking IDs, monitoring crowds gathering outside the venue, and having drunken conversations foisted on him, all while maintaining his cool.
Inside, I meet Danny Robles, as we almost simultaneously compliment each other’s shirts. He’s wearing King Diamond, and I’m sporting Janis Joplin. It’s a throwback moment when shirts strike up conversation, a thing that don’t happen in the outside world as much anymore, but which is still the norm at the Tower. King Diamond seems to draw people together. Earlier in my conversations with Bursey, he showed me a Mercyful Fate tattoo altered to resemble his senior cat.
Onstage, Jack Habegger’s Celebrity Telethon is tearing through a set that crossbreeds AC/DC and Waylon Jennings. Having known Jack since before he was old enough to drink, I’m mesmerized by the transformation from casual chatter to pseudo hillbilly demon onstage, with bassist Jack Moriarty providing bass tones akin to Elvis session musician Emory Gordy Jr. He addresses the crowd like friends hanging out, even when someone shouts “you grew up in North County” when he says the show is a homecoming. He grew up watching and listening to hometown heroes like The Dragons and The Zeros, the latter of whom is represented at this show by occasional Zero Javier Escovedo and his band the City Lights. It’s a more focused sound than The Zeros, who still play occasionally, but the heart is the same.
Between sets, I get to chat with Telethon drummer Isaac Beach, who tells me the band is as influenced by film as much as music. A Lynch appreciation society meeting spontaneously opens, sparked by Beach’s choice of brews - Pabst Blue Ribbon, just like Frank Booth from Blue Velvet. Our extended and transcendent discussion of the impenetrability of Inland Empire is one of many high points of the evening.
Headliner Gary Wilson doesn’t hit the stage. Rather, he seems to rise out of it, wearing a dress, makeup, and sunglasses, with an obvious wig. It seems fitting to close the show with an acclaimed underground artist plucked out of obscurity while working at a local adult emporium, after being named in song by Beck. Wilson’s presence brings the past and present of San Diego’s music scene and community to bear, and his anti-entrance is an effective salute to this — though I’m sure my being behind several people heightens the illusion. It’s a sight to behold, onstage and off, as most of the crowd have come to see a myth that came and went long before they were born.
Outside, Bursey gets to deal with two drunk guys waiting for their ride. Props to them for not drinking and driving, but their inane conversation leaves too many opportunities for my wiseass and possibly lethal contributions. They want to know what’s inside the tower that sits atop the bar, repeatedly saying that if they worked there, that’s the first place they would go. I suggest Google, and then take it further by telling them to dress as King Kong and climb the tower to find out.
Their fixation on the landmark is derailed when a woman wearing an animal print jumper moseys into the bar. The guys want to know if the print is cheetah or leopard, if she’s fast or mean. The woman handles their douchebaggery with a dismissive “both” as she disappears inside. They say that’s fine, because they have two ugly women waiting for them. I marvel at the phenomenon of men who likely couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse with hundred-dollar bills being so delusionally confident. But they’re the exception to the night of cool and respectful patrons, and they can’t kill my vibe.
Later, the bands are all hanging out in the back of the parking lot, and Wilson is still in his stage wear. I consider getting an interview with him, but I have enough footage and I want the myth to stay intact.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Gary Wilson rises again
Past & present collide with douchebaggery at Tower Bar
Gonzo Report: Gary Wilson rises again
Past & present collide with douchebaggery at Tower Bar
Escovedo, Wilson and Habegger, spanning the ages.
“Excuse me, I have to put this fire out,” says Joseph Bursey, the doorman at The Tower Bar. I see he’s being literal as I nosily follow him to the corner of the building, where a butt can attached to the building is smoking with a vengeance. A cup of water extinguishes the noxious fumes, but there are other figurative fires to put out as the night goes on. Inside, a triple bill that spans five decades of San Diego music is taking place. But Bursey will be denying entrance to people who take exception to him checking IDs, monitoring crowds gathering outside the venue, and having drunken conversations foisted on him, all while maintaining his cool.
Inside, I meet Danny Robles, as we almost simultaneously compliment each other’s shirts. He’s wearing King Diamond, and I’m sporting Janis Joplin. It’s a throwback moment when shirts strike up conversation, a thing that don’t happen in the outside world as much anymore, but which is still the norm at the Tower. King Diamond seems to draw people together. Earlier in my conversations with Bursey, he showed me a Mercyful Fate tattoo altered to resemble his senior cat.
Onstage, Jack Habegger’s Celebrity Telethon is tearing through a set that crossbreeds AC/DC and Waylon Jennings. Having known Jack since before he was old enough to drink, I’m mesmerized by the transformation from casual chatter to pseudo hillbilly demon onstage, with bassist Jack Moriarty providing bass tones akin to Elvis session musician Emory Gordy Jr. He addresses the crowd like friends hanging out, even when someone shouts “you grew up in North County” when he says the show is a homecoming. He grew up watching and listening to hometown heroes like The Dragons and The Zeros, the latter of whom is represented at this show by occasional Zero Javier Escovedo and his band the City Lights. It’s a more focused sound than The Zeros, who still play occasionally, but the heart is the same.
Between sets, I get to chat with Telethon drummer Isaac Beach, who tells me the band is as influenced by film as much as music. A Lynch appreciation society meeting spontaneously opens, sparked by Beach’s choice of brews - Pabst Blue Ribbon, just like Frank Booth from Blue Velvet. Our extended and transcendent discussion of the impenetrability of Inland Empire is one of many high points of the evening.
Headliner Gary Wilson doesn’t hit the stage. Rather, he seems to rise out of it, wearing a dress, makeup, and sunglasses, with an obvious wig. It seems fitting to close the show with an acclaimed underground artist plucked out of obscurity while working at a local adult emporium, after being named in song by Beck. Wilson’s presence brings the past and present of San Diego’s music scene and community to bear, and his anti-entrance is an effective salute to this — though I’m sure my being behind several people heightens the illusion. It’s a sight to behold, onstage and off, as most of the crowd have come to see a myth that came and went long before they were born.
Outside, Bursey gets to deal with two drunk guys waiting for their ride. Props to them for not drinking and driving, but their inane conversation leaves too many opportunities for my wiseass and possibly lethal contributions. They want to know what’s inside the tower that sits atop the bar, repeatedly saying that if they worked there, that’s the first place they would go. I suggest Google, and then take it further by telling them to dress as King Kong and climb the tower to find out.
Their fixation on the landmark is derailed when a woman wearing an animal print jumper moseys into the bar. The guys want to know if the print is cheetah or leopard, if she’s fast or mean. The woman handles their douchebaggery with a dismissive “both” as she disappears inside. They say that’s fine, because they have two ugly women waiting for them. I marvel at the phenomenon of men who likely couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse with hundred-dollar bills being so delusionally confident. But they’re the exception to the night of cool and respectful patrons, and they can’t kill my vibe.
Later, the bands are all hanging out in the back of the parking lot, and Wilson is still in his stage wear. I consider getting an interview with him, but I have enough footage and I want the myth to stay intact.
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