but at the time they were both trying to be in a band together and it wasnt really working out.
in college, in a land of great musicians, in a peninsula of a million bands, greg was the best lead guitarist
he also wrote some funny ass songs, and painted, and ruled.
jeff, in that same land, wrote the best songs, and dated the girl who most resembled a prettier Uma Thurman
so after college they naturally moved to LA, like many of us did, in order to follow their dream, in their case it was rock.
i was not following my dream. my dream was to be in the music business but i was driving a company car around the valley
teaching salesmen how to sell better, and failing miserably.
miserable is actually a good word because Greg Jeff and I were pouty little bachelors living in Atwater Village.
we had found a 3 bdr house on Glenhurst, just blocks away from where the Beastie Boys were recording Ill Communication
“Glendale Blvd., thats the one!”
the three bad brothers you know so well were doing far better than the three bad roommates.
greg even made an art school film called the three bad roommates where my character punches his in the gut
because he had borrowed my appetite for destruction cd and had not returned it.
it was really just a great excuse for him to use slow motion while spitting out kool aid.
their was hella tension in the house because we were in the post-Isla Vista hangover, and their band wasnt really working
then in the middle of the night, 4:20am i think, i heard and felt what seemed like a slap on the side of the house
like a bigass slap from the hollywood sign.
i shook, opened one eye, closed the eye, and went back to sleep.
minutes later i heard an AM radio and greg and jeff panicking.
soon they knocked and opened my door and said Earthquake! the powers out. your book case fell over!
i asked “is the house on fire?”
they said, “no.”
so i said, “i’m gonna stay sleep then.”
which boggled their minds for some reason. and when i woke up a few hours later the power had been restored and they were watching LA freak out on the tv.
one line we heard over and over those few days was “and now from Chopper Two we have Stu Mandel. Stu, how are things from where you are?”
what made this earthquake unlike any that i had experienced was there were hella aftershocks.
the first one came that first night. it felt like a school of whales swimming underneath our street.
you could hear it rumble as it approached you and it got louder and louder and then your house wiggled in the most unnatural way.
and then you could hear it roll past.
sometimes there were just big smacks on the side of your house. it was unnerving. especially at night.
the best part about this house was it had a rock room basement. which was the reason we rented the home.
because there were already tensions, the weirdness of the aftershocks only made things worse.
so i got behind the drums one night right before we were gonna strangle each other and tapped out a little Native American rain dance beat
fuckyou earthquake, fuckyou earthquake… i chanted as i beat the toms.
jeff plucked the open bass string fuckyou earthquake fuckyou earthquake he sang into his mic
and when greg powerchorded to the beat Chopper One was born and we played off the mojo and made it ours.
if we were gonna die we were gonna do it with rocking a soundtrack of defiance.
after a half hour we started playing nirvana, the velvets, van halen, bruce springsteen, and any other song we all could play instantly
my favorite was the romantics’ what i like about you. pretty much the opposite of fuckyou earthquake.
about a month later we threw a party, introduced chopper one to the world, and only got together one more time,
my 30th birthday in frisco.
thats pretty much what i remember of the northridge earthquake: it created Chopper One.