In 1992, I attended a concert with a lifelong friend and met another guy who wound up being a lifelong friend. At the time, I'd had vague plans of reviewing the concert for the school paper; the piece below is as far as it got. Never published until now. I make no claim as to its accuracy.
LAKE ZURICH--The first thing you notice about Cemetery Ridge when they take the stage is their long, flowing locks and their magnetic stage presence.
The second thing you notice is their name. Because they tell you.
“We’re Cemetery Ridge,” the lead singer snarls, and man, when you hear him say that, you really believe it.
“I’m better looking than most of them,” I mutter to my friend Xen, who’s dating the lead guitarist.
“What,” she asks absently, fixated upon the stage. “What? That’s nice. What?”
Reminded once again how stupid girls are, I start studying the performance. Cemetery Ridge has been touring mostly the Palatine and Barrington areas, and as far as I know, this is their first show in Lake Zurich. The basement of the Main Street Thrift Store has never seemed more cutting edge, more avant garde, and the band has filled it to capacity. In the back, a trio of retirees are rummaging for clothes for their grandchildren and calling for a cover of “Motorbreath.”
The lead singer pauses to strike a more flattering angle for the photographers. “We’re Cemetery Ridge,” he reminds the crowd. “And we’re here to rock.”
And rock they do. They’re done tuning up, and they’ve now launched into an original called “Cutting Edge.” The singer chants weird, Lovecraftian lyrics about the end of the world. The bassist is filling a vial with the blood of a virgin. The lead guitarist is strumming and smiling confidently into the audience, which is absolutely losing its mind. Xen is rummaging for the roses she brought to throw on the stage. I realize it’s now or never: I have to make my move.
“I can play guitar better than him,” I whisper into my friend’s ear. “I mean, if I learned, I’d play way better than that wuss.”
“What?”
“I also make out better than him. I mean, once I get to do it for the first time and get the kinks out of my system.” I pocket my notebook and gesture towards the parking lot, leering seductively. “What do you say to you, me, the underside of the bleachers and a whole lot of gravel?”
“We’re Cemetery Ridge,” the singer shrieks into the microphone, and the crowd revs up all over again.
“I love this part!” Xen gushes and draws me into the center of the children’s clothing aisle, where the mothers have gathered and are slamming into each other with distracted abandon. “Come on, let’s grind.”
I immediately start unbuckling my pants.
“Hey.” A hand falls on my shoulder. I turn, and behold the rival for the girl of my dreams. Medium height and build. Blonde hair down to the shoulders. A Fender Stratacast slung across one shoulder. A glint in his eye.
I steel myself for a fight. I can take this asshole. I can take him like I take my bearings in the playground at school.
“You must be Gregg, right?” He extends a hand. “Xen has told me all about you. I’m Chris.”
Wow. This guy is smooth. In the face of a rival and he doesn’t even flinch.
I shake his hand slowly, cautiously. By the set of my shoulders and the furrowing of my brow, I do my damndest to project prison yard tough, street smarts and overall knowingness. The kind of guy who can shop at Aldi and not get harassed by the cashier. “How do.”
He turns to Xen, who’s all but throwing up in adoration over his very presence. “He seems like a nice guy. Innocent.”
I zip up my fly.
The singer appears at Chris’s elbow. “Hi,” he tells me. “We were Cemetery Ridge. And we’re here to rock.”
“You mean you were here,” I remind him. "You already rocked."
Chris turns back to me. “Who are you again?”