It's not often that I get serious around here. Usually this is for flittering flights of fancy, random ramblings, or just plain ignoring and not bothering to post for months. But every now and then, something strikes me that's of a more sobering nature, and I like to speak about it. As such, here's a story for you... It's about a 1 year old child, a now-defunct band, and a rock club in NYC that's long gone.
My story starts... Well, I don't remember exactly when. I'll place it in 1995, but that's an estimate, a stand-in, considering it may have been a year or 2 before. My phone rings, it's my friend Nick. Nick's older brother worked at Tower Records, which for us was the epitomy of cool-as-shit. I was never able to pull off a job there. I'd applied once, and though I thought I'd aced the music test they included on the application, I guess I just wasn't cool enough.
Nick's brother was our musical barometer. Back then we didn't have the ways to find new bands that we do today. Nick calls me, and says we're going into the city with his brother to see a band which he swore would change our lives; a band with intertwining guitars, deep bass, and tightly-wound drums, so tight you'd swear they'd split open when they were hit. How could I possibly say no?
Well, I did. I protested that I was tired, and I had to work or something the next morning, and I just didn't want to go into the city that might. Thankfully, Nick and his brother won, and I got into the car and off we went to Coney Island High.
What we saw did indeed change my life. We saw Jawbox.
At the time, apart from going to school, I was an intern for a small college radio promotions company. This isn't so important to the story, but it leads to something more, because after around 2 years there I decided to move on and intern at a label. Talking with my bosses, they agreed to help me where they could by reaching out to friends. All I had to do was pick the place I wanted to be at.
I went through labels in my head, and in the end knew that there were a few where I'd be put to good use, but only one where I knew I'd be happy. Atlantic Records. Why Atlantic, with an entire city full of record labels? Jawbox. I wanted to play whatever small part I could in drumming up support for them, knowing that had just recently put a record out.
I saw them play a few more times... Brownie's, Maxwell's, other places I can no longer remember.
And then Atlantic dropped them, along with the other few bands I personally gave a shit about, in a purge designed to only keep acts who were selling Hootie numbers, this being the day when Hootie & The Blowfish sold 16 million records. (Seriously. 16 times platinum. I shit you not.)
And then, Jawbox went away.
But I didn't. At least, not entirely.
Jawbox is still a regular part of the constant swirl of music on my iPod, and everytime I'm scrolling through and opt to stop on them for a while, I'm always happy I did.
Jawbox, and as a result J. Robbins, did much for me when I was younger. They helped shape and refine my musical tastes in ways they never otherwise would have had I never been turned onto them. I know I'm not the only one who feels this way.
And now, it's our turn to help J.
J.'s wife, Janet Morgan, gave birth to their first child, Callum Zachary Robbins, on January 27, 2006.
In September, after a visit to their pediatrician and subsequent trips to specialists, Cal was diagnosed with Type 1 Spinal Muscular Atrophy. J., on his sites, and Bill Barbot and Kim Coletta, on theirs, put it so heartbreakingly simple that I won't even try. Cal Robbins has a very difficult life ahead of him, and we can help.
J. and Janet are accepting donations to the Callum Robbins Family Fund. I've given a small something, not much, but what I could, and I'm asking you to do the same.
Visit Cal's blog for more details on his condition, and for more information on how to donate.
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