Kootchypop.
Our first record.
We make hundreds of copies and send them everywhere, an epic CD blast, to record stores throughout the South, radio stations, record company executives, and to anyone we have ever met or heard of who’s within shouting distance of the music industry. Then we cram into our van and hit the road for something like a dozen dates in a row—playing, partying, and hoping for our EP to hit, to catch somebody’s ear. Waiting for Kootchypop to become a household word.
At one point, my brain fastens on a lyric from a Foster & Lloyd song, “Crazy Over You”—
Is there a chance of gettin’ through?
The song is about a guy desperately trying to get close to a woman, but that one line keeps slamming around in my head. Then I think about the first time I ever heard that song.
A few years ago.
Nineteen eighty-eight or 1989.
I’m working at Sounds Familiar and I have a reputation. I’m the guy who’s knowledgeable about all types of music and who, without exception, is always late. I can’t help it. I keep sleeping through my alarm.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” I keep telling Sharon, my boss. “How can I be late when my shift starts at one?”
I actually have a good reason. We play late, then we have to gather all our stuff, drive back to town if we’re on the road, and then I’m so wired that by the time I fall asleep, it’s dawn.
I vow to change that pattern. One morning, I set my alarm an hour earlier. I roll out of bed, make a pot of coffee, pour a cup, plop down in front of the TV, and start flipping through channels. I land on the country music version of MTV. I don’t arrive here by accident. I love country music and listen to it constantly. It’s my go-to. I settle into my chair, sip my coffee, watch a couple of videos without much interest, and then “Crazy Over You,” by a country duo, Radney Foster and Bill Lloyd, comes on, the single from their debut album, Foster & Lloyd. The song slays me. I chug my coffee, leap off the couch, take the fastest shower on record, throw on some clothes, and race to the record store—an hour and a half before my shift.
Sharon stares at me as I burst into the store. “Are you alright? You’re way early.”
“Do we have the Foster & Lloyd album? I have to hear it.”
“We have one. You know the rule. You can’t open it unless we have two. Otherwise, you got to buy it.”
“I’m buying it now,” I say. “I have to hear this album immediately, as in right now.”
I rummage in my pocket for my cash, buy the album, and play it on the store’s turntable. I listen to the entire album. I don’t merely love every song. It goes way beyond that. The music wrenches me.
“I want to do this,” I say. “Exactly this. I want to sound like that.”
A few years later, after recording three great albums, Radney Foster and Bill Lloyd break up. I’m devastated. Foster and Lloyd seem inseparable, the ultimate duo. They’re like Dean and me. You can’t have one without the other. Then Radney Foster releases his first solo album, Del Rio, TX 1959, and my life changes. I have always believed that I am a country singer. As a kid, I listened to country music all the time. I dug Kenny Rogers, his honey-soaked baritone layered with cool. I loved Willie and Waylon, of course, outlaws, couldn’t get enough of them, and my grandma adored Charlie Rich. But at Sounds Familiar, hearing Radney Foster’s voice, his new, evocative collection of personal songs about his life and his hometown, feeling so moved by his vocal interpretations of those songs, the power of his singing, the pain he feels in each note, each word, I think—
That’s who I want to be.
No. That’s who I am.
Radney Foster makes me hear my voice.
And as Radney finishes the album with “Old Silver,” a five-minute masterpiece that practically brings me to tears, I turn to Sharon, and I speak with an urgency and ferocity that surprises even me. “You hear that? I’m going to do that someday. That’s what I have to do. That is going to be me.”
* * *
Eventually, as the money continues to roll in, we do give up our day jobs. We spend our days now in preshow prep, meaning playing golf or pickup basketball, and as it gets closer to showtime, getting high—in my case, mostly mushrooms or acid. We continue to drive our ratty white van to gigs, despite the increasingly tight quarters. By now, the van has taken on a distinctive odor, a nostril-stinging combination of beer, sweat, and smelly feet. In addition to the four of us, our instruments, equipment, and four sets of golf clubs, we’ve added a fifth human, Paul Graham, our tour manager. The van has only two seats in front so the rest of us have to cram into the open back area and find a spot on the floor. To make driving even more interesting, the van barely has brakes. We take turns at the wheel. I usually pull the late, late shift, after shows, not the best idea because being drunk and exhausted, I tend to nod off while driving. Amazing we survive these trips.
On rainy days when we don’t play golf, we look for a local Y. Mark, in addition to being the band’s engine and a truly superlative guitar player, is a hoop rat. He’s tall and tenacious and eager to take on any five who’ll play us. At first look, when we walk into a gym, we may not scare anybody. We’ve got some height—Soni and Mark are tall—but Dean, Paul, and I look slow, old, and fat. You may underestimate us. That would be a mistake.
One day, Mark is itching for a game. We’re playing a gig in Wilmington, North Carolina, at The Mad Monk and we find a YMCA not far from the club. We walk inside, our well-worn, scuffed basketball cradled against my side. At the other end of the court, laughing, screwing around, shooting silly trick shots and occasionally dunking just to show off, is a group of high school kids. A starting five. They’re quick, tall, and smooth, and they have attitude.
I hate attitude.
Mark suggests we play a game. Full court. Five on five. The high school kids against us old, pear-shaped guys. First team to eleven baskets wins.
We play. We blow them off the court. We win 11 to 2.
We run it back, demolish them again. We beat these kids to a pulp. We’re old, true, and some of us may not be in the best shape of our lives, but we can ball. Mark has skills and can bang with anybody. Soni came to the University of South Carolina to play Division 1 soccer. The young man is an athlete. Paul Graham, too, is a jock. He ran track in college and can flat out hoop. Dean—quiet, chill Dean—rebounds, passes, and sets ferocious picks. You run into Dean, you run into a brick wall. And I can shoot. I’m streaky, but once I heat up, I become unconscious.
We mop up the court with these kids. But right before the last game we play, I notice one of the kids on his phone. Moments later, the guy he called struts into the gym. Their point guard. The all-star. The Mouth. First, though, he shows off his handle. He begins dribbling—whap, whap, whap—with either hand, then crouches and goes all Harlem Globetrotters—dribbling between his legs, behind his back, then he darts forward, stops on a dime, and swishes a fallaway jump shot from twenty feet.
“I’m ready,” he says.
For some reason, he picks me out as our team’s spokesman. “Yo, old man, you ready to run it back? You wanna check me? Or you too fat to guard me?”
“Oh, snap,” I say. “That’s the best you got? Old and fat?”
“No, I got plenty more. You’ll hear it all during the game.”
“Can’t wait for your wit.”
The Mouth says that since we won the last game, we can take the ball out. He rifles a hard chest pass at me. I catch the basketball, trying not to show how much my hands sting.
We’ve held the court for close to two hours now. We’ve got time for only one more game before our gig. I catch Dean’s eye and see that we both have the same thought. As always. We want to end our run today with a win. We want to shut The Mouth up.
The game begins and quickly becomes a slugfest, hard-fought, fast, intense. The Mouth is the real deal—great court vision, clever moves, a deadly shot, and hops. He scores most of their points. Doesn’t matter. We—the old, slow, fat guys—destroy these kids, beat their asses by five baskets. The Mouth never shuts up, spews a continuous torrent of trash talk. The more he insults us, the more motivated we become, the more determined we are to score, to win. We came into the gym looking for a friendly and competitive game of hoops. Of course, we want to win. But thanks to The Mouth, we want to dominate.
We end the game with a flourish.
Dean steals the ball and drills a long bounce pass to me near the opponents’ basket. I’m wide open. I take a couple of dribbles and drive to the hoop for an open layup. But I hear footsteps. Slapping the wood floor. Coming fast. In my peripheral vision, I see The Mouth bearing down on me. If I go up for a layup, he will fly at me from behind, block my shot, and make a statement, along with another stream of sophomoric commentary. I take one step toward the basket, fake a shot, and flip the ball behind me—a no-look pass—to Soni, who’s burning downcourt. The Mouth soars by me, completely faked out, as Soni lays the ball gently off the backboard and into the net, for the winning score.
“That’s game,” I say. “See ya.”
We head to the corner of the gym and start gathering our stuff.
“Y’all can’t fucking leave,” The Mouth shouts. “We want a rematch.”
“Nah, man,” I say. “We’re done. We got nothing else to prove. Ain’t nothing left for us here, bro.”
“You scared of us, old man. You know you can’t beat us again.”
“Let me give you some advice, young man,” I say. “Ever hear the expression ‘He talks a good game’?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you don’t. Stay in school.”
* * *
After the Y, we check into our hotel, shower, and change for our gig. The whole time, we can’t stop talking about our dominant play at the gym, replaying the highlights of each game, and how we shut up The Mouth. We’re still on a high as we drive to The Mad Monk for our gig. I will sometimes use The Mad Monk to gauge our success, or at least our progress. The Mad Monk is a historic venue and one of the largest clubs we play. The first time we played here a few years ago, we drew maybe fifty people. I remember playing that night and feeling that every note I sang echoed off the back wall. The room felt cavernous. But the next time we played the Monk, and every time after that, the crowd increased. This night, as we pull up in the van, a line of people wraps around the building. We have sold out The Mad Monk.
Someone mentions the sold-out crowd and the first time we played here.
“Things have changed,” I say.
At that moment, I have no idea how much.
* * *
After the show at The Mad Monk, as usual, we sell copies of Kootchypop out of the back of the van. And, as usual, we sell out. I lose track of how many copies we move, but by the frenzy of hands reaching toward us for the EP with the crazy name and crazy cover—an ink sketch of cats dressed up, playing instruments—and the money exchanged, I’m guessing we sell at least a couple hundred. And we don’t just sell Kootchypop out of our van. We hit all the independent music stores in Charleston, Columbia, Raleigh, Charlotte, and Myrtle Beach, offering the EP to the stores on consignment. We find out shortly that these record stores can’t keep Kootchypop in stock. At first, each store wants five copies, then they call and ask for twenty more, and then fifty, then a hundred. We keep printing copies and Kootchypop keeps selling out.
Then we hear numbers that make my head explode.
A few weeks after we put out Kootchypop, we hear that we’ve sold sixty-five thousand copies, all in mom-and-pop record stores and out of the back of our smelly van. Then the demand increases. Record stores want more copies. The EP keeps selling. At this point, we’re not aware of any interest in us from record companies. We just go to work. We hit the road, put our heads down, and play, night after night, in front of sold-out crowds in packed clubs, ten nights in a row, twelve, everybody loving our shows, our music, everyone dancing, partying, having a blast, the audiences and us, all of us, every member of the band taking turns crowd surfing. We’ve become the number one Southern bar band, a must-see show.
Then, finally, we hear it.
A noise in the distance. People talking.
Rusty, our manager, gives us the word. Record companies have noticed us and are starting to pay close attention. They’re asking about us. Every week, A&R (artists and repertoire) reps contact Billboard magazine and the bigger record stores in the South and ask, “Who’s selling?”
“Nirvana, Hootie & The Blowfish, Pearl Jam—”
“Wait, wait. Hootie who?”
“Hootie & The Blowfish. They’re a big local band. Huge in the South. They just put out an EP, Kootchypop, that’s selling like crazy. Outselling Nirvana, Sonic Youth, everybody.”
“Kootchy what?”
“Kootchypop.”
“What is that, some kind of ice cream cone?”
“Probably. Yeah. I don’t know.”
“Send me a copy.”
August 1993.
I call Kootchypop our kindling.
Two months later, our kindling catches fire.
On October 31, 1993, we sign with Atlantic Records.