Published January 20, 2005 in issue 0403 of the Hook

American Dumpster
Station
January 16

BY DAMANI HARRISON

"I think he's playing your theme song." She leaned in and spoke the words with a sly grin. I could barely hear her through the muffled music coming from the adjacent room.

I sat back in my chair a bit as if the change in position would help me hear the words coming from the singer any more clearly.

"What's he saying? I can't tell over that cello... is he saying 'penis'?" I replied.

Doing that little conductor thing with her finger she mimicked the tune, "I have a puny penis."

"Ha, very funny," I retorted. "If I wasn't comfortable with our marriage, that joke could've been damaging to my entire sense of self-worth." I made the comment sliding off the bar stool into very manly stance. Walking around the corner of the room to the adjacent area where the band played, I saw two interesting-looking souls chorusing over an awkwardly staccato cello lick. I leaned in closer and heard the truth: "I have a purple penis."

This wasn't my theme song.

Forgive my vulgarity, but I have to say that "purple penis" could have been the theme for the evening. Only because any encounter (whether you are male or female) with a purple penis would be the most random out-of-this-world encounter you could have in your life.

As I sat there and took in the sounds and images of American Dumpster as they began to play (after the cello dude), I felt as if I had walked into a parallel universe Charlottesville where rules of commonality and tabooism were skewed and obfuscated. I mean, I thought rockabilly music died out decades ago, yet here I was in a service station turned restaurant/music venue listening to rockabilly/zydeco sipping Irish coffee watching the first snow.

American Dumpster's lead singer was witty and ripe with dry humor as he led his ensemble through an Elvis cover, (what I believe was) a John Prine tune, and an insanely jubilant arrangement of "Viva Las Vegas." Even if the execution of the song wasn't completely flawless, there was never a lack of energy from the six players on stage. Lemme see... the lineup went something like drummer on a three-piece, lead guitar, bass, washboard percussion, rhythm guitar, and keys/accordion. I was loving the fact that the lead singer's guitar was so well maintained and quite pristine, but ironically plugged into an amp that looked handmade and painted by blind three-year olds with spray cans.

Of the 20 people in the room, at least 10 of the them were dancing for the majority of the performance. Most interestingly was a tall slender man with bloody elbows and busted eye. He was wasted and had obviously lost a fight earlier in the evening. But even he wasn't a sore thumb in a room that also included a painted-faced guy wearing striped purple pants.

To tell you the truth, I really can't find anything to complain about. The energy from the band was absolutely infectious. There was almost more love than I could handle. When my wife and I got home, we laughed about how much fun we had. We warmed up snuggling on the couch listening to a 12" of Marvin Gaye for a little late-night theme music.

American Dumpster
PHOTO BY DAMANI HARRISON

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