On the Dusty Banks of the Rio Salado

I saw him the other day,
Not as an apparition at a seance,
Conjured by a second-rate Mrs. Rita,
Or brushing past me in a club.
I didn't see him at the mall.
He wasn't holding someone's cellphone,
Singing into it,
Like he used to do at concerts,
(And maybe still does).
He wasn't standoff-ish,
And brusque,
Trying to ignore me,
In some VIP backstage area,
Like that time,
We played together in Hayden Square.

No,
I saw him in a video clip,
On social media.
(Like we see everything these days!)
He was playing a song,
Live in the studio,
He didn't look like a rock God anymore,
He looked like someone's dad,
(By the way,
I'm aware that I too,
Look like someone's dad!)
Actually,
He kind of looks like,
That Food Network guy.
No,
Not that Guy,
The other one,
The serious,
Bespectacled one.
You know,
The guy that used to do the irreverent,
DIY cooking shows.
Anyway,
I forget his name*,
But seeing that video,
It reminded me of 90s rock,
And the little-known,
Tempe Sound!

There was a time,
When the desert blossomed,
Becoming,
(Forgive the pun),
A hotbed of sound,
A little like Seattle,
Only not as rainy,
And not so gruff or grungy.

The Tempe Sound was more cactus,
Less Pacific Northwest.
More jangly chords,
Less brooding garage rock.
¡Mas tequila!,
Less heroin.
More sunshine and melancholy sadness,
Fewer dreams.
But with the same amount of ill-advised flannel,
And the same tragic tales,
Told,
(At some dive bar, of course),
Of the ones who didn't make it.

I missed out on that Tempe by a few years.
I never saw the glory days,
Back when Mill Avenue was crawling,
With musicians,
Of every type and quality.
Back before the mid-90s rockstars-to-be,
Punched the clock on their 15 minutes.
When they were all still only plotting,
And planning,
To meet up that mission at midnight.
I never followed them,
As they traipsed boozily,
Between Long Wongs,
And The 6 East Lounge,
(Known ominously as The Beast),
Or up the street to Gibsons,
And over to the The Sun Club.
I never had to worry,
That maybe,
They'd fancy a drive,
Before things got too blurry,
And that they'd crash somewhere,
As they swerved over to Nita's.
I never had the pleasure,
Of hearing a new tune,
As it was worked out,
While having refreshments,
At the Yucca Tap Room.
Alas,
I missed those times completely.

I heard the echoes, though.
I witnessed the rusting hull,
The withered Workshop.
I walked the abandoned wreckage.
I stumbled,
Much later,
Into those establishments myself.
I stood nodding my head,
To lesser bands,
In those same beer-soaked places,
Full of memories,
And stories,
(Some of them true.)
I even rubbed shoulders with a few of the survivors.
Legends,
All.
And I heard all about the casualties,
The lamentable,
Cautionary tales of woe,
And youthful misadventure,
The twisted nature of fame,
And the quintessential tortured artist,
Flowering,
And then,
Falling apart in the desert.

Anyway,
When I saw him in that video,
It made me wonder,
Does he still let the cops chase him around?
And when they catch him,
Do they exclaim:
"Oh, sorry,
We were looking for someone else,
You look like Alton Brown*!"

3-26-19