The Marcco van, Norfolk, and the mystery dancer - By N.L. Belardes
The white van pulled up and several blaring honks screeched into the Oleander Arts Collective that seemed to rustle the very leaves of the great sugar maple outside my door. I peeked through the screen door, gathered a few trinkets and saw the trademark red lightning bolt ‘M’ on the Marcco/Norfolk van knifing across its chipped white paint… James Ratliff had arrived for one final fling in the old tour van… so much music history in an old vehicle now going for its final ride, this time to the Norfolk studio on Chester Avenue, then to Azuls: the blue-lit downtown venue once the home of Paco’s Taco’s.
One last trip in the old Marcco van...
I jumped in the van’s back seat. Pedro was in the passenger seat and James said for the hundredth time, “Hey Nick, this is my friend Pedro. Have you guys met?” I wanted to sock James in the head, but held back N.L. Belardes style, and just laughed and said, “Dude, you introduce us every time.”
James giggled as he hit the accelerator. The back seat I was on lurched as if about to flip over backwards. What the hell did I care? This was the final ride. We sped down to the studio where a gathering of the Norfolk tribe had already commenced. I helped gather equipment—one lousy mic stand, while I met some of the band’s buddies who were on a rescue mission from San Jose to pick up a wayward bass player stuck in the nexus of the Bakersfield landscape. They stood in a hallway and talked while the band rushed past with equipment to shove in van; a collection of trinkets to head east, downtown on a Silk road: the Marcco van to the exotic orient of Azuls.
The equipment was piled into the Marcco/Norfolk van for the next to the last time and off we went, headed for downtown’s Wall Street Alley. James drove past Azul’s at about ten minutes to nine and the doors were closed. None to worry. We parked right in the alley itself. The shoe shine man sat on a chair outside of the Alley Cat bar while several folks milled about on the alley street near the corner of the tattoo parlor.
Finally the doors opened. Peter Prevost stood with a big amp looking a little worn. He bustled inside of Azuls while several of us grabbed equipment to take out to the Azul patio. James handed out equipment while a haggard drunk passing by stood in line to tempt James for a handout. James handed him a guitar. With a shocked look and a grin the man said, “What? I was just kidding! I, uh…” and then he wandered to the back patio as if he were meant to be there to take part in the Marcco van’s last moment, to take out its musical innards and transplant them in the blue-lit bar. I’ll never forget the look on James’ face, smiling, laughing, with a triumphant look that such moments were worthy of rock and roll moments.
I walked into Azuls and introduced myself to Luis. I’d never met him before and he was very grateful for what Danielle Belton had been writing of his bar. Norfolk set up and I snapped a few pictures of the bar while Luis poured me a cider.
Luis pours me a drink...
The blue textures of the room...
The back patio of Azuls is small, and the stage, rung with a blue glow isn’t big enough to fit the entire band, but makes for enough of a stage gesture to draw center attention; it adds to an atmosphere of a hip counterculture scene perfect for Bakersfield’s bar alley haunts.
Norfolk put on as good of a set as usual, with Peter Prevost tearing into his guitar and doing his trademark hip shake and strumming. He said to me later, “I’m going to see Tom Petty at the mid-state fair!” Pablo smashed his drums to the point of pummeling his snare to death. He broke a few drumsticks but managed to triumphantly return to form… Jason Ford Turner was in a happy mood, thumping the bass, and before the show was doing a hilarious sound check that had everyone laughing at his antics. But then, everyone in Norfolk has a great sense of humor.
This alternative country band who deserves to ride that big crystal horse of Buck’s is a great tribute to the roots of country here in Bakersfield, California. My only complaint: their song, “Move to the City” was too short and left an unfulfilled taste in the air as if something endearing was going to echo from its rising passion, but then got cut off and lost...
The mystery dancer woos James...
The set ended with James laughing uncontrollably as someone started dancing a drunken mic-humping hula in front of James as if James were Jim Morrisson belting out a lost 70s tune to her loins. I think she had it all wrong. Do the two-step, not the sex-step. James stepped back with jaw-dropping glee and embarrassment which made for one of the funnest and funniest moments in local rock lore…
A ROCK STAR enthralled
And then I realized I had attended high school with this mad dancer. And that was back in the big 80s.
As Liars and Thieves and Nunez pounded out the ensuing two sets I hid in the bar and downed a few drinks, hoping that eye contact wouldn’t be made with this person I saw hip-gyrating to Sal’s music-driven “Yeahhhhhs”. But then the dreaded eye contact occurred and, shit, there’s no more point to this story…
One last trip in the old Marcco van...
I jumped in the van’s back seat. Pedro was in the passenger seat and James said for the hundredth time, “Hey Nick, this is my friend Pedro. Have you guys met?” I wanted to sock James in the head, but held back N.L. Belardes style, and just laughed and said, “Dude, you introduce us every time.”
James giggled as he hit the accelerator. The back seat I was on lurched as if about to flip over backwards. What the hell did I care? This was the final ride. We sped down to the studio where a gathering of the Norfolk tribe had already commenced. I helped gather equipment—one lousy mic stand, while I met some of the band’s buddies who were on a rescue mission from San Jose to pick up a wayward bass player stuck in the nexus of the Bakersfield landscape. They stood in a hallway and talked while the band rushed past with equipment to shove in van; a collection of trinkets to head east, downtown on a Silk road: the Marcco van to the exotic orient of Azuls.
The equipment was piled into the Marcco/Norfolk van for the next to the last time and off we went, headed for downtown’s Wall Street Alley. James drove past Azul’s at about ten minutes to nine and the doors were closed. None to worry. We parked right in the alley itself. The shoe shine man sat on a chair outside of the Alley Cat bar while several folks milled about on the alley street near the corner of the tattoo parlor.
Finally the doors opened. Peter Prevost stood with a big amp looking a little worn. He bustled inside of Azuls while several of us grabbed equipment to take out to the Azul patio. James handed out equipment while a haggard drunk passing by stood in line to tempt James for a handout. James handed him a guitar. With a shocked look and a grin the man said, “What? I was just kidding! I, uh…” and then he wandered to the back patio as if he were meant to be there to take part in the Marcco van’s last moment, to take out its musical innards and transplant them in the blue-lit bar. I’ll never forget the look on James’ face, smiling, laughing, with a triumphant look that such moments were worthy of rock and roll moments.
I walked into Azuls and introduced myself to Luis. I’d never met him before and he was very grateful for what Danielle Belton had been writing of his bar. Norfolk set up and I snapped a few pictures of the bar while Luis poured me a cider.
Luis pours me a drink...
The blue textures of the room...
The back patio of Azuls is small, and the stage, rung with a blue glow isn’t big enough to fit the entire band, but makes for enough of a stage gesture to draw center attention; it adds to an atmosphere of a hip counterculture scene perfect for Bakersfield’s bar alley haunts.
Norfolk put on as good of a set as usual, with Peter Prevost tearing into his guitar and doing his trademark hip shake and strumming. He said to me later, “I’m going to see Tom Petty at the mid-state fair!” Pablo smashed his drums to the point of pummeling his snare to death. He broke a few drumsticks but managed to triumphantly return to form… Jason Ford Turner was in a happy mood, thumping the bass, and before the show was doing a hilarious sound check that had everyone laughing at his antics. But then, everyone in Norfolk has a great sense of humor.
This alternative country band who deserves to ride that big crystal horse of Buck’s is a great tribute to the roots of country here in Bakersfield, California. My only complaint: their song, “Move to the City” was too short and left an unfulfilled taste in the air as if something endearing was going to echo from its rising passion, but then got cut off and lost...
The mystery dancer woos James...
The set ended with James laughing uncontrollably as someone started dancing a drunken mic-humping hula in front of James as if James were Jim Morrisson belting out a lost 70s tune to her loins. I think she had it all wrong. Do the two-step, not the sex-step. James stepped back with jaw-dropping glee and embarrassment which made for one of the funnest and funniest moments in local rock lore…
A ROCK STAR enthralled
And then I realized I had attended high school with this mad dancer. And that was back in the big 80s.
As Liars and Thieves and Nunez pounded out the ensuing two sets I hid in the bar and downed a few drinks, hoping that eye contact wouldn’t be made with this person I saw hip-gyrating to Sal’s music-driven “Yeahhhhhs”. But then the dreaded eye contact occurred and, shit, there’s no more point to this story…
This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on
Sunday, August 07, 2005.
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