Written by Shaun Soho (Crash Midnight)
The Crash Pad (Part 1)
We called him “Jasper” (we never knew his real name). He was the door guy at our apartment, and during the three years we lived there, I can’t recall him ever saying anything but a very raspy version of the Matthew McConaughey “alright, alright” line whenever we walked through the front door.
The high-class touch of passing by a doorman served as a pretty stark contrast to what awaited any guest as they entered the “Crash Pad” during the height of its debauchery. This was the true birthplace of Crash Midnight, and the inspiration for some of our best material.
The Crash Pad was located down by Fenway Park in Boston. It was just across from the famous Citgo sign, and only a few blocks away from the old apartment that Aerosmith used to call home back in the 1970s. It would have been a nice two-bedroom apartment (had it ever been occupied by only two people at any time). Within about a month of moving into the place, Alex “welcomed” both myself and Bo as semi-permanent residents along with his cousin (the only other person to ever be formally on the lease).
Bo and I were drifting from the Crash Pad to various girlfriends’ apartments at the time, so we would come and go as relations picked up or broke down with whoever we were seeing at the time. Most nights, however, there was a default party at the Crash Pad. If we had a concert that night, there would be a blowout. If it was just a regular weeknight, there would be a gathering that inevitably devolved into some level of shit show as well.
We bought bottles of 151 at least twice a week. It got to the point where all the space on top of the kitchen cabinets became jammed with empty 151 bottles …prompting us to come up with the “ingenious” idea to sign the empty bottles and give them away as souvenirs. The mixers of choice with 151 were Coke or Dr. Pepper, which formed a semi-toxic sludge we dubbed “Jet Fuel.” It was potent enough to keep the entire band lubricated for the night, although we’re still evaluating the long-term effects of rampant high proof rum abuse.
Post-show parties were never complete without Bo blowing 151 fireballs, and a collection of miscellaneous ladies underwear strewn like Easter eggs throughout the place. We would tack the bras and panties up on the walls, which really only seemed to serve to encourage more girls to leave mementos behind and take their place amongst the décor.
One winter morning, we woke up to a pair of girl’s jeans left on the floor. With no owner present, we were left to wonder how exactly some girl managed to make it home without any pants on. To this day, my working hypothesis is that she must have worn some sort of long fur coat, but the theories are numerous. Those pants took their own special place of glory up on our wall. No one ever seemed to have the guts to claim them (lthough we all have our own particular suspicions).
We somehow got it into our heads to throw a beach themed party in the dead of winter. The original concept was to buy a bunch of bags of sand, dump them on the floor, and string a badminton net across the living room for beach volleyball. In a rare example of foresight, we realized what a pain in the ass the cleanup of all that sand would be, along with the inevitable damage it would do to the hardwood floor. We opted to put down straw, which did the job without the extra headache.
The “volleyball” ended up becoming a balloon rather than hitting a real ball full force in our living room (another solid decision). We must have really been on our game that week. Of course, beach volleyball devolved into topless beach volleyball. Thankfully, Bo managed not to light the straw on fire with 151 fireballs…although with everything that took place in that straw as the night went on, setting it all on fire might have been an advisable move.
Later that first year, we were nominated for a Boston Music Award and the pre-party was held half a block away at one of our favorite bars, The Eastern Standard. This place offered some of the highest end cocktails in the country, and we knew everything they had behind the bar by heart. The BMA people made the mistake of making the first hour of the night an open bar. After about 20 minutes, we had already ordered three rounds of their best top-shelf whiskey. They shut that shit right down.
It was a wild night. Our drummer’s appendix burst at the pre-pre-party at our place. Somehow he managed to tough it out and not even mention it at the party (and a full three days after that) before he finally went to a hospital. Alex got himself intoxicated enough that pictures of him throughout that night have been featured in numerous band after-party flyers. My particular favorites feature Alex holding on for dear life on the elevator ride back up to our apartment, and another shot of him passed out on the floor, halfway in the bathroom and halfway in the hall. Both shots really sum up the night.
The insanity of all this is, at the time, we hadn’t even hit our stride yet at the Crash Pad. This first year was organized chaos compared to the hedonism that followed in the second year of the Crash Pad.
Tune in next time for Chapter 5 of “My Rock and Roll Journey”: The Crash Pad (Part 2).
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