An afternoon of photos with the Soulsteppers - By N.L. Belardes
The car headed into the heart of Bakersfield, just past a murderous house where a young woman had been recently gunned down. “Hurry up and get your ass in the car!” Mike yelled just before he sped the car through the parking lot toward Columbus Avenue. A young guy with dark brown hair had jumped in the back before we were off.
“Go all the way to Mt. Vernon Avenue,” I said.
“I don’t know my way around here very well,” Mike admitted. He’s a big guy with soft eyes that could quickly transform into a smoker’s hard stare. His brown hair was cut short; his clothes retro-Seventies.
It had been a scary neighborhood. Not one where you wanted to cross anyone when offering you a hot DVD unless they were just down-and-out addicts, harmless, and looking for a buck.
“Makes you almost think twice when your friends are addicted to heroin and offering you a cheap player,” came another voice. Everyone knows the addicts sell cheap, we all laughed accordingly. The voice was AJ—he sat right behind me. He was retro too with straight hair cut and styled to perfection to suit his high cheekbones. AJ is part owner in Gigantic Vintage, a local vintage clothing store in a local Mexican marketplace. He’s also a tailor and promotes Indie rock shows at Bakersfield’s Pizza-a-go-go.
“We could get a little business going. Get the discount items and resell at a big price,” Mike laughed. “Wonder if anyone has a Soul Collection for sale. I need Soul music.”
“Yeah, you’d find out it was your own,” laughed the third voice.
We passed John’s Burgers then headed further to Mt. Vernon, stopping at a corner gas station. The dude in the back bought a giant case of beer that he shoved into the trunk. Mike lit a cigarette in the sweaty afternoon. He opened the door, leaned out, smoked, drew a few deep drags. We were there but moments and soon headed down the steep hill road toward Hart Park and the Kern River. The hills looked fragile, rolling carpets of foxtails seemed to be waving like matches, ready to alight into a massive grass fire at the flick of an incendiary. Beige-painted pipelines wound aimlessly across the landscape while the foxtails were so golden they seemed to flicker and spark.
When AJ and Mike of the Soulsteppers asked me to take pictures for their upcoming vinyl 45 to be distributed in France, how could I say “No”? Impossible; I am all for the arts: the Bakersfield scene, the music, the fine arts—they’re much bigger than me and deserve to be illuminated. I grabbed my camera and headed out the door. That was the day before. I waited at the park near the snack bar where as a young boy I once hooked a dead pig in the small lake and dragged it to shore on a strand of frail fishing line. I remembered back and chuckled to myself at such an innocent memory. This day, kids in the dozens dove into the lake, into the carcasses of memories. They swung from ropes, splashed endlessly in the heat near where Father Garces once crossed the Rio de San Felipe.
I had bought a strawberry snow cone and watched the paddleboats. The Soulsteppers never arrived. They were running late and there was no phone service at the park. We all went the next day instead, piled into Mike’s car and off we went…
The park loomed close. The San Felipe, more than a hundred years ago named the Kern River rushed past in a deadly torrent. Inside its waters, hidden bodies stuck to roots, were lodged under rocks—you never knew where they were; sometimes not until the October trickle, when the river lowered from the less abundant run-off could a lone fisherman stumble onto such decay.
We stopped at the snackbar.
“We should take pics in the paddleboat,” Mike soon laughed while their buddy downed a cold one. The rest of the beer grew warm in the trunk.
The laughter continued: “We could have a prop guitar and girls in the paddleboats with us. And canoes!”
Soon everyone inspected the metal bridge that hung over where the lake drained toward the river. There used to be a time when kids hung out at the rocks down below. They caught Perch and stared into the swirling waters. But now the way was blocked by large spiders that had somehow blocked the passage to the bottom in giant webs strung between trees and between the metal lower portions of the bridge. I snuck in close to snap a photo but the spiders blended too much with the background and I didn’t want to slip on the incline while attempting a close up—only to get tangled in a web and wrapped in venom.
We took some photos on the bridge then moved to a stream and snapped more photos. Mike puffed on a cig on the street above the run-off before we all marched closer to the river. Soon we left the river as well. We were on a leafy bed along the river and Mike and AJ put on boots for the photos. AJ reluctantly sat in stickerbur leaves that stung my knees as we took a few final shots. They drank a few beers and we then drove out of the park and back up the hills, into the urban landscape where the Soulsteppers and I could all embark on our own lonely Sunday journeys…
Here's a few photos we took for the 45s:
“Go all the way to Mt. Vernon Avenue,” I said.
“I don’t know my way around here very well,” Mike admitted. He’s a big guy with soft eyes that could quickly transform into a smoker’s hard stare. His brown hair was cut short; his clothes retro-Seventies.
It had been a scary neighborhood. Not one where you wanted to cross anyone when offering you a hot DVD unless they were just down-and-out addicts, harmless, and looking for a buck.
“Makes you almost think twice when your friends are addicted to heroin and offering you a cheap player,” came another voice. Everyone knows the addicts sell cheap, we all laughed accordingly. The voice was AJ—he sat right behind me. He was retro too with straight hair cut and styled to perfection to suit his high cheekbones. AJ is part owner in Gigantic Vintage, a local vintage clothing store in a local Mexican marketplace. He’s also a tailor and promotes Indie rock shows at Bakersfield’s Pizza-a-go-go.
“We could get a little business going. Get the discount items and resell at a big price,” Mike laughed. “Wonder if anyone has a Soul Collection for sale. I need Soul music.”
“Yeah, you’d find out it was your own,” laughed the third voice.
We passed John’s Burgers then headed further to Mt. Vernon, stopping at a corner gas station. The dude in the back bought a giant case of beer that he shoved into the trunk. Mike lit a cigarette in the sweaty afternoon. He opened the door, leaned out, smoked, drew a few deep drags. We were there but moments and soon headed down the steep hill road toward Hart Park and the Kern River. The hills looked fragile, rolling carpets of foxtails seemed to be waving like matches, ready to alight into a massive grass fire at the flick of an incendiary. Beige-painted pipelines wound aimlessly across the landscape while the foxtails were so golden they seemed to flicker and spark.
When AJ and Mike of the Soulsteppers asked me to take pictures for their upcoming vinyl 45 to be distributed in France, how could I say “No”? Impossible; I am all for the arts: the Bakersfield scene, the music, the fine arts—they’re much bigger than me and deserve to be illuminated. I grabbed my camera and headed out the door. That was the day before. I waited at the park near the snack bar where as a young boy I once hooked a dead pig in the small lake and dragged it to shore on a strand of frail fishing line. I remembered back and chuckled to myself at such an innocent memory. This day, kids in the dozens dove into the lake, into the carcasses of memories. They swung from ropes, splashed endlessly in the heat near where Father Garces once crossed the Rio de San Felipe.
I had bought a strawberry snow cone and watched the paddleboats. The Soulsteppers never arrived. They were running late and there was no phone service at the park. We all went the next day instead, piled into Mike’s car and off we went…
The park loomed close. The San Felipe, more than a hundred years ago named the Kern River rushed past in a deadly torrent. Inside its waters, hidden bodies stuck to roots, were lodged under rocks—you never knew where they were; sometimes not until the October trickle, when the river lowered from the less abundant run-off could a lone fisherman stumble onto such decay.
We stopped at the snackbar.
“We should take pics in the paddleboat,” Mike soon laughed while their buddy downed a cold one. The rest of the beer grew warm in the trunk.
The laughter continued: “We could have a prop guitar and girls in the paddleboats with us. And canoes!”
Soon everyone inspected the metal bridge that hung over where the lake drained toward the river. There used to be a time when kids hung out at the rocks down below. They caught Perch and stared into the swirling waters. But now the way was blocked by large spiders that had somehow blocked the passage to the bottom in giant webs strung between trees and between the metal lower portions of the bridge. I snuck in close to snap a photo but the spiders blended too much with the background and I didn’t want to slip on the incline while attempting a close up—only to get tangled in a web and wrapped in venom.
We took some photos on the bridge then moved to a stream and snapped more photos. Mike puffed on a cig on the street above the run-off before we all marched closer to the river. Soon we left the river as well. We were on a leafy bed along the river and Mike and AJ put on boots for the photos. AJ reluctantly sat in stickerbur leaves that stung my knees as we took a few final shots. They drank a few beers and we then drove out of the park and back up the hills, into the urban landscape where the Soulsteppers and I could all embark on our own lonely Sunday journeys…
Here's a few photos we took for the 45s:
This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on
Monday, August 15, 2005.
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