The Subways played a sold-out show at the Troubadour on August 9. We sent two writers and a photographer to keep an eye on them both and make sure they didn’t fuck anything up this time.
Bill’s Take
Casagrande was pissed. Not in the British sense meaning drunk. Which is important and foreshadowing. I was in his office downtown – a liver-shaped coffeetable in the middle of four unprimed slabs of drywall. With a view of Macarthur Park. Empty light sockets stuck out like disoriented periscopes. He was relocating.
“You’re three weeks late on your Starbucks review,” he says programming his phone.
“Coffee takes time,” I say.
“And you’re $15,000 over budget.”
“And money.”
He doesn’t look up. “You’re going to review a band at the Troubadour. I’m going to send the Cowboy with you to make sure you don’t fuck it up.”
“Or what?”
“Or we take your parking space,” he coolly responds clapping his phone shut and then using it to cut his sandwich in half.
* * * * *
I respected the Cowboy. In the same way you respect a guy who knows a guy who knows how to take a boot off your car. He made things happen. He was the backbone. He grew up in a haystack listening to rock and roll. He ate pig colons and drank Japanese beer. I called it “crazy.” He called it “a profession.”
We met at Dan Tana’s. He was already blitzed. A sixty year-old woman had her hand on his thigh. This was nothing new for the Cowboy.
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