I can’t remember if I have any 9-volt batteries. I gotta stop borrowing batteries. Stevie is always fishing around in his bag du gig and taking out battered batteries and touching the two terminals to his tongue to see if there’s any charge left in them. If there is, he gives them to me, and they quit in the second set. I swear nothing is ever open on the way to a job, and nothing on the way home, either.
I keep breaking E strings. They tell me it’s not possible, they’re as big around as a pencil, but here we are. If I played the guitar, I could just buy E strings, but they only sell bass strings in whole sets. I’ve got three A strings on the goddamn thing now. One flaps and one is as tight as a suspension bridge to stand in for a D string. Then again, if I played guitar, I’d never work, because everybody plays guitar.
I can never remember what key anything is in. I can play anything in any key but you have to tell me every time what the hell key it’s in. The other guys memorize everything by rote, and god help you if need to sing it in a lower key. They always want me to play funk songs, and sing them, too. You try playing syncopated lines and singing.
Jaysus, wedding gigs. I remember the time they asked for Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady, and the bride weighed 250 pounds, easy. We’re all looking at each other like deer in the headlights and wondering if she’s in on the joke or not. We’re all turned into Roman Centurion extras in Life of Brian, trying not to crack a smile.
Why do they call it blue-eyed soul? All the bands are Italian. Haven’t they ever met an Italian? No, we’re not going to play Freebird no matter how many time you ask.
You can get into trouble half-way through on any given night, but you know you’re in trouble right off when a woman in blue hair comes up to the stage while you’re still plugging in the monitors and asks, “What time does the orchestra start?”
I used to play the bass. Barbara Dennerlein plays the bass better than I ever did. With her feet, just to really rub it in. She’s from Munich, Germany, so I assume she can’t tell jokes. Other than that, she’s got me beat.
If the music wasn’t any good, she’d be a circus act. But it is. The first band is called the Barbara Dennerlein Trio, but she doesn’t need the other two guys to call herself that.
The Fabulous Thunderbirds in 1980. Kim Wilson, the singer, recovers quickly from an opening soundman brainfart with a simple gesture, and the train keeps a rollin’.
There’s never been a better roadhouse band. Jimmy Vaughan is playing the Stratocaster boat oar with very tasteful stick-on mailbox letters. Keith Ferguson is playing an old-school Fender Telecaster bass upside down, or backwards or something. This is more or less their original iteration of the Thunderbirds, except Fran Christina had replaced Mike Buck on the drums after their first album.
Fran’s interesting. He’s left-handed I think, but he plays a right-hand drum kit. He plays with what’s called an open-handed method. Drummers usually cross their hands, with their right hand playing the hi-hat cymbals on their left, and the left hand banging on the snare between their legs. They generally “open up” only when they move the right hand over to the ride cymbal on their right. Open handed drummers play the left side of their kit with their left hands, and the right with their right. Fran’s got two big rides, but he favors the one on his left, and plays the high hats with his left, too. Lots of heavy metal drummers play this way now, but only because they really don’t know how to play the drums. Fran’s terrific.
Fran’s a paisan from Westerly, Rhode Island. He was an original member of Roomful of Blues, which is still kicking around, although the personnel is a ship of Theseus at this point. Here is Roomful playing in the Knickerbocker Cafe in Westerly in 1979:
I performed in so many places back in the day, I can’t remember if I ever performed in the Knickerbocker Cafe. But I certainly remember being drunk in there. It was a terrific place to hear blues bands. There was an underground railroad of musicians from Providence to Texas and back, back in the day. Duke Robillard and Preston Hubbard were both in Roomful, and eventually made their way into some iteration of The Fabulous Thunderbirds. The Austin crews used to make the trek north to perform in places like the Knickerbocker and Lupo’s and did cameos in the old Met Cafe. I remember seeing Jimmy Vaughan’s brother, Stevie Ray, playing at the Knickerbocker with Lou Ann Barton doing the singing. I think she ended up getting traded to Roomful of Blues, with a player to be named later.
There was no such thing as “recreational” drugs back in the seventies. There was plenty of booze of course, and ditch weed doobies galore. What drugs there were were serious drugs. Several of these fellows I mentioned favored the most serious of drugs. Several of these fellows are dead, and died young, with a sandbag where their liver used to be. Rest in peace, fellas.
Alright. Now you come clean. You figure this is another of my crack-brained schemes to buy property with impromtu skylights in the roof, and wild animals roosting inside. I’ll admit that’s my usual M.O., but not this time. Every single one of those buildings looks immaculate. Viz:
This isn’t a Potemkin village, either, with a bunch of false fronts with a trailer park behind it. The interiors are sweet:
Even the minor buildings are perfect.
This is like being offered Colonial Williamsburg or Mount Vernon or something. And it’s not located in to hell and gone Maine, either. It’s just outside Gardiner, and an easy commute to the sweet little burgh of Hallowell and the state capitol, Ogguster.
Plenty of parking for your Chevy or your Clydesdale, depending on how you roll:
The local church is handy. You know, if you’re a Congregationalist. You’ll own the church, which is a good way to avoid having the minister preaching against anything in your particular stock portfolio. I think all the damn dirty Papists will have to commute to nearby Augusta, to pray for that brown patch in the lawn to be healed.
America has become a place where people know the price of everything and the value of nothing. This place is Exhibit A, your honor. It’s been on the market for years, with no takers. It’s amazing, and no one wants it.
Oh, by the way. One more thing. About my offer to go halfsies in the title. While it’s true enough, in the interest of full disclosure, I feel I should specify that your half of the bargain is to bring 5.5 million dollars. My half of the proceedings is to meet you half way to Pittston and pick up the dough.
Regular reader and commenter and interfriend Gringo has apparently pointed out our little hovel project over at the Chicago Boyz website. I’m always grateful for this sort of attention. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Chicago Boyz before, but I recognize the names of some of the contributors. The title of the post in question is The Most Wrecked House on the Market, and to my semi-delight, the house in question is in Frankfort, Maine. I’ve been in Frankfort, Maine at least once, and I’m quite familiar with the larger burghs that surround it. I’m familiar with the General Grant style of the house in question, too. So the author has my nose, as they say.
Now is generally the juncture in the proceedings where I disagree, of course. I’ll try to avoid becoming unintentionally disagreeable. I am a serial failure at that, but we do try. The most wrecked house on the market? I think not. Actually, I know not. Not even in Maine.
It’s vanishingly easy to find much worse than that in Maine, and in much less desirable locations than Frankfort. Viz:
Hmm. I said, let’s look at it. Bah, there’s a tree in the way. Let’s try again:
Well, now we’re getting somewhere. The tree is clearly a maple. Probably a sugar maple, but it’s hard to tell. Dadgum it, fortune favors the bold and ill-informed, so I’m going to stick my neck out and say it’s an acer sacchurum. There may or may not be a house behind it.
No, I mean it this time. Let’s look at it:
For crying out loud, where is that door? Why is it pictured in a vertical letterbox? Are you trying to sell this house, or aren’t you?
Well, you see, you can’t really tell anything, because realtors refuse to do their jobs. Their only job is to convey information, and open the door if it’s locked. It doesn’t matter if they can or can’t do these things, they won’t, so there’s no difference, really. There maybe one useful photograph of the exterior, and none of the interior. Hell, I’m pretty sure the only picture of the front of the house is taken without getting out of the car.
Never mind, I’ll do a driveby and we’ll see what we can see:
Now we’re getting somewhere. According to my new best friends at Chicago Boyz, this house needs nothing short of gasoline and a match. I’m not qualified to argue about arson with people associated with Chicago in any way, but I don’t see any cows or lanterns in the yard, just an old Sunfish sailboat. I’ll cut the author some slack. Both she and I are laboring under imperfect information. That’s the primary tool in the real estate agent’s toolbox, so we’re cooperating nicely by drawing conclusions without knowing much of anything. But the author says her daughter is an agent, and she says houses like this one aren’t worth saving. In internet yelling, that’s called an appeal to authority. It’s also like waving a red flag at a bull to say it within my earshot.
I’m trying to avoid snark, because we’re talking about relatives here. But in my experience, which is voluminous, real estate agents are the least competent person to offer input on the renovation of a house. Any house. They have no idea what things cost, how to go about fixing them, or what is dangerous as opposed to plain icky. They don’t know a cape from a split level. In Maine, their advice usually consists of informing you that can install ceiling fans in every room, paint every room gray, and vinyl side the place. If that won’t do the trick to double your money, you can always knock the place down and put a double-wide on the lot.
Let’s go around the side:
There’s a junk removal sign by the stop sign. There’s one problem solved. The authoress has made an assumption that the interior must be a total wreck because the realtor refused to enter it. That assumes facts not in evidence, your honor. Your typical realtor thinks they’re participating in a very, very unfashionable fashion show at all times, and they don’t draw any distinctions between icky and dangerous. They’re wearing open toed shoes and won’t go inside.
So I’m a pro. What can I tell from looking at the Google Maps images and the listing?
1. The house is architecturally interesting and significant. It’s worth saving for its own self.
2. Previous owners listened to a realtor, and put a big addition on the back, even though the main house is probably 3,000 ft2. As is usual, they thought construction was like going mall shopping for cute tops, and ran out of money before they finished. The addition has a solid roof, however, and modern windows and doors. It also has stainless steel chimneys galore, for wood burning appliances. There’s nothing much visibly wrong with it, except it’s a dumb idea.
3. The eaves are quite rotten. The authoress assumes that means it’s been raining indoors for decades. Not so fast. It’s a General Grant house. The eaves project from the sidewall of the house. They need beaucoup work, but it’s not raining indoors from the eaves.
4. The (granite) foundation is OK, at least as far as I can see. The sidewalls are perfectly flat and don’t sag anywhere. This is a big, big plus.
5. The glass is still in the windows. That’s a good sign. It’s probably not full of vandalism and raccoons.
6. The front porch is in great shape, which is miraculous. Even the balustrade is complete and restorable.
7. There’s very little paint left on the siding. It makes it easier to repaint. And there is no evidence of water getting in the sidewalls. The paint weathered away, it didn’t jump off because of water leaks.
8. The original wood sashes are there. They have a curved top, which is kinda wonderful. All the trim around all the windows (but one) is in really good shape.
9. It’s only $79,000. I’ll bet you they’d jump at a lot less than that, too. The house probably has a well and private septic. A lot of land nearby with those would probably cost way more than that.
10. Bangor, which is a plenty big metrop to find a job in, is only 30 minutes north of this place. Bucksport, which is lovely, is a few minutes away. Belfast, which is in the running for the prettiest town on the eastern seaboard, is twenty minutes south, hard by the Atlantic Ocean. My children performed at the Belfast Harbor Fest once. Taxes are low, and Frankfort is a nice place to live. Hardly anyone lives there to prove my point. I gather that everyone wants to step over bums, syringes, blood and shell casings, and human excrement to get to their crummy apartment building in a big city. You’ll have a hard time amusing yourself like that in Frankfort, Maine.
OK, so I’ll admit that Ray Charles could tell this house has been neglected. I say thank god for that. You see, that house can be restored because it’s been neglected. Neglect is the optimal situation. The former denizens no doubt exhausted their Home&Garden ceiling fan/slipper tub/gray floor urges on the crazy addition, and left the real house alone. Neglect is always preferable to active, flipper malice. I can fix neglect. As they say, I can’t fix stupid.
Let me give you an example. In 2022, someone bought a house down the street from this one for under a hundred grand. It looked like this:
There’s an iconic Maine house under the plastic carapace. It was an end-entry Greek Revival farmhouse that the realtor no doubt would call a “cape-style home.” It has a small version of the “Little House, Big House, Back House, Barn” that Mainers used to build to work the land. It was defaced with vinyl siding and plastic shutters and so forth, but the bones weren’t bad.
The interior is a ridiculous incoherent gray mess, like someone ate a Home Depot and vomited it in the house.
So I can assure you that I could probably fix that pale yellow wreck of a place, and wish I could. And it would probably be worth a half a million when it was done. But I couldn’t fix the second house. How can you explain to a realtor that you’d have to rip out $160,000 of plastic crap and start over again? That is the house that’s not worth anything anymore, because it’s fixed. This is the house that should be bulldozed. But it won’t be, and the other one will, and the world will be incrementally diminished.
Month: September 2024
sippicancottage
A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything.
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