By Steven R. Wolf

This is a reporter's notebook, a loose diary, of the events of the weekend of June 18, 1998 as I witnessed them. It's a bit long, so grab a fresh beer and have a good read. Or click here and go straight to the pictures. Included are links to the photos you can go see as you read.

A pile of exposed film, schizophrenically scattered notes on various napkins, 
place mats and hotel service brochures, and remnants of a sleep-deprived memory
are all that is left me and the Sixth Annual Rockabilly Rebel Weekender held 
June 18, 19 and 20 at the Fountain Square Theater in Indianapolis. Long weekend, 
great time, lets roll from the git-go...

Flying into Indy from Minneapolis. No greasy-haired brethren aboard. Shame. 
Grabbing a ballsy little red rental car and a 50's radio station, the highway 
leads to the Holiday Inn Southeast, for a rented bed and bath.

Squealing into the HISE parking lot, its all smiles. Stylish pictures on a creamy 
background walk past attached to a girl prettier than sunshine on a junebug's 
wing. "Dressed to kill," her attire says, and she is deadly.

Smile grows. Rockabillies all around. Stand out like a turd in a punchbowl where
they live, but fit like a glove here for the next three days. 

A button on a wide lapel reads, "I'm a rockabilly and I'll kick your ass." 
Nice. The owner says he may wear it all the time, tired of going to the 
store and being asked if he was, seriously into "Fonzie," going to a costume 
party, or the simply rude, 

"What are you?"

Gotta eat. Big Po'Boy with all the trimmin's. Running late, so bee-line it 
for the Fountain Square Theater, know the joint well. Cameras loaded, in we go.

Band onstage. Truly Lover's Trio. Missed most of the set. Backstage, Truly 
wipes down his guitar before slipping it into a battered case. He's just a 
kid really, originally from the Florence area of Italy and still carrying \an 
accent thick as molasses. Handsome, boyish face and crooner vocals, backed by 
down-home roots of Indiana-bred cohorts Keith Brewer and Johnny Paradise. This 
kid will go places.

Thursday ticks by with the countrified Tip Top Daddies of Indianapolis, 
Kim Lenz and Her Jaguars, a tough chick with a rockin' backup, and the hi-
billy stomp of Big Sandy and his Fly-Rite Boys gracing the stage of the renovated
historic district theater.

Tip Top Daddies play their last show together. Jeff Stevenson and Matt Fisher 
both have personal reasons for leaving the band. Eric Kinsey says he will find 
new Tip Top Daddies to fill out the unit. Ending their set with 
"Mule Skinners Blues," Kinsey flips his guitar to show "Thanks" printed on the 
back. That's the definition of the word "class." 

No big attitudes here as far as the first night is concerned. Musicians
and fans commune peaceably in the audience and at the HISE. All of the
musicians are imminently approachable and seem genuinely glad to meet
the fans of the music uniting them for three days of grease, suds and
nastiness.

Back at the bar, young Chicago beauty Nicole Vant tells Big Sandy about their 
up-and-coming marriage plans. Amusing news to the sturdy bandleader.

They're not really to be hitched, but Vant tells Sandy about the
co-worker who publicly announced their fictitious nuptials. It seems Vant made 
a comment about tying it to the frontman of Thursday's headlining act during a 
shift of slinging hash and her co-worker took it as truth.

Theater empties rather quickly after the show. A lot of people are waiting for 
the shuttle bus back to the HISE before the show's end. Disappointing. 
Doesn't seem like you get your ticket money's worth by leaving early. Your loss. 

Staying late for a bite to eat, Kirk Olmsted from Detroit and his new wife, Beth,
married four days as of this night, sit alone in the deserted Fountain Square 
Diner in their own little world. 

"Weekender your honeymoon?" 

"As close as we're gonna get."

Shuttle bus is a good idea. Keeps the drunks off the streets and parking would 
be a devil's horn in the ass if y'all and your '59 landyachts tried to park near 
the theater.

Revelers arrive back the HISE, and things get heavy. Apparently a Baptist 
ministers' convention is to have their meetings in the room scheduled for the 
sock hop and the hotel personnel are scrambling to get it open for the heathens 
waiting in the lobby. What cat booked these two groups in the same hotel at the 
same time? One of them, presumably the Baptists, should have been warned.

All greased up and no place to go. Luckily, there is a man of action in our 
midst. A southern gent from Atlanta by the name of Adrian Evans comes through 
with his 1970 Cadillac Coupe De Ville convertible Thursday night. Evans pulls 
his  boat under the canopy of the hotel, drops anchor, cranks up "That'll Flat 
Git it Vol. 3" from the vaults of Capitol Records and dancing ensues on the dry 
parts of the cobblestone drive in front of the hotel.

Evans. If you wanna pull that cheesy Stallone-Rocky-YO-ADRIAN rot with him, 
remember the first one is free. You do it again and he'll deck ya. He says he 
has dated two women in his lifetime with his same name and says there is nothing
better than being able to scream your own name during sex.

Eventually, the party starts inside the hotel and the worst of the weekend 
begins. The 'fridge in the hotel kitchen is raided. So is the bar. Eventually a 
luggage cart joy-ride penetrates a plate-glass window. Righteous bucks in damage 
assessments by the hotel that are charged to the host, David Loehr. Some people
just shouldn't drink alcohol. Many chip in to pay Dave back for the damage. Some 
hope the guilty parties chip in heavily. Beer bottles are broken in the pool area
and the pool is drained.

Friday morning arrives and many spend a few minutes of the sunshine in blissful 
slumber with visions of two more nights of raging music and parties.

Discussion of the hotel damage is in nearly every conversation as the Diner 
fills with hungry folks looking to line their stomachs for a second night of 
booze. Rumors of room checks and hotel evictions to happen are rampant, but in 
reality never surface.

Baby's-butt-style smooth-talking keeps all your passed-out asses tucked safely
in your rented beds. Kudos to that slick tongue.

Tales of rudeness circulate in many conversations this day, but confirmation of
them never arises by observation, or keen questioning of others. People are just 
here to drink a little, swing a little and meet some others living the life.
A few tough guys with bad attitudes easily avoided in a crowd of friendly faces.

Friday show starts on time with Johnny and the Blades. Six p.m. show start ticks 
off more than a few. Not enough support in the showhouse for the early bands. 
Lots of good music missed for a schedule prompt.

The Blacktop Rockets from Atlanta play. More fans filter into the theater for 
the nights festivities. Film zips through cameras like spit through a gapped 
tooth. Band is kicking ass non-stop. Studying the crowd for the people to
photograph for a series of portraits of rockabillies from across the country. 
More cool clothes, great hair, and fine tattoo work.

The Bettie Twins, Kim Leitz and Becki Hall of Detroit, wow guys with dresses that 
show imaginations a thing or two. The pair keep the overtly sultry look of pin-up
queen Bettie Page spinning cartwheels in the minds of those born long after her 
pinup photos startled many with their "frankness."

Jeremiah Brockman of KC, Mo., primps his pompadour in a mirror on a candy
machine in the back of the theater. Strongest picture of the weekend. Nothing so
quintessential except maybe the Diner.

Lunch at the Sunshine Cafe. A tight group of Hoosiers tell an interesting tale 
reaching back maybe three hundred years.

A guy and his gal are walking to eat lunch. 11 a.m. She is dressed 
for the day. Hair done, rouge rouged and lips sticked. Police roust them based 
on the premise that she is too made up for that time of day. Puritanical 
rumblings abound in our great country.

Backstage to check out the next band. Frantic Flattops next on the bill, but 
the Derailers lounging in tight offstage quarters. They are called out for a
special performance in their honor.

Lydia Ash of Lawrence, Kan., has a dream. Seven years of belly dancing experience 
were not going to fail her as she is granted the opportunity to dance for the 
headlining Derailers.

A fabulous shimmy and shake for three of the four band members in the center of 
the dance floor receives an ovation I'm sure caps her trip from the prairies. 
A gutsy gesture the band members appreciated.

On to the next band. The Flattops smoke the place down to the butt and stump it 
out with one big leather-clad heel. Their psychobilly bop and twang moved the 
dance floor like a puppy being spanked under a blanket. What the fans had come 
for: juicy, medium well, rockabilly with a side order of depravity. 

Headliners take the stage and no one leaves early tonight as the =Derailers 
are anticipated with baited Marlboro Red, onion ring and light-beer breath. At 
least that was what was coming out of one guy's mouth as he screamed his approval
of their stage show. A couple of encores are well received.

Friday at the hotel, more beverages flow. Many made the mistake Thursday night of 
thinking the hotel bar would be open to supply libations. Now runs to the super 
were made and tubs were brimming with ice and hooch chilling during the show.

Del Villareal of the Go Kat Go radio show from WCBN radio in Ann Arbor, Mich.,
spins the tunes for the second night of the late night sock hop and various
instruments and musicians make their way to a P.A. in the corner for the inevit-
able impromptu jam. The after-hours dances are a bit high school but the meet and 
greet makes it bearable. No wallflowers here either.

Party is officially killed at 5:30 a.m. by business-minded hotel employees.
Didn't matter, room 503 was available and a contingent of about 10
including Tony Villanueva, front man of the Derailers, make their way to the
new location.

Cold beers still in hands as the sun rises to the left and Tony and a guy named 
Hank bang out old Hank Williams and George Jones tunes with some Bloomington 
girls singing backup. Something is just right about a fifth-floor balcony 
serenade to other hotel guests on their way to the morning repast.

Tunes and pina coladas are flowing at the pool by mid-afternoon. Someone had the 
fortitude to bring both a tape deck and a blender. Partying Professionals.
Saturday is mellow around the HISE. Lack of sleep takes its toll.

Those Legendary Shack Shakers tread the boards of the theater stage. Look cool 
enough. Got big props from a guy named Rocko. What that was worth was to be seen.
A chicken-inspired strut steps the Fountain Square Theater up to a wailing frenzy! 
The Col. J.D. Wilkes and the rest of these maniacs tear through their 
time-limited set to open Saturday's show with a bang. 

Wilkes is a walking photo-op with his animated antics that include the entire 
band. At one point, guitarist Nathan Brown pounds his head on Wilkes' back while 
Wilkes blows his harp. Every pound comes through the harp as a quick crescendo.

Josie Kreuzer, cool enough to be at the weekender for the duration, steps 
backstage to get ready to play. Why does this bombshell twang a synaptic chord?

She has a face you can't get enough of. A singing voice that matches her beauty 
She puts on a calming show as the Hot Rod Girl is why. Breaks a plastic guitar 
pick and switches to vinyl midway through the set. Supported on electric guitar 
by longstanding backup Teri Tom. 

Josie is followed by King Memphis. Tight group. Relies on solid chops and time-
tested roots to quench crowd's thirst for rock 'n' rollin its most basic form.

King Memphis are a good example why rockabilly never disappeared since that 
fateful night in 1954 at Sun Studios. Basic, pure, elemental rock 'n' roll that
comes in more flavors than ice cream.

A spider crawls around the unfinished backstage area of the FST. If only the 
spider knew or cared what was going to happen to its home when the Twistin'
Tarantulas take the stage and light it on fire.

Pistol Pete nearly passes out from oxygen deprivation as the Tarantulas
bombard the audience with a pounding beat and fast guitar work. Literally
out of breath, Pete says he is dizzy following the cover of Motorhead's
"Ace of Spades."

Headlining Saturday's show is Mac Curtis. He says this is his first U.S. show 
in 20 years.\A good return to the states. Backed up by King Memphis, Curtis ends
a great night of rock 'n' roll with more of it. Like icing on top of icing.

Back at the HISE, more impromptu jams and dancing ensues. So many good
conversations about music and their lives away from the weekender go down.  

Need sleep. Plane to catch in a couple hours.

Seat near the tail of the plane. Chatting with pretty blonde stewardess about 
weekend, photography, general bullshit. Also about the change from what rock'n'
roll photography was in Jim Marshall's 1960's and my 1990's. Marshall, a 
legendary photographer who photographed the first (real) Woodstock and damn 
near everything else since then, is featured in the in-flight magazine.

Stewardesses have trouble wiping the smile off a baggy-eyed, sideburned face all the way back to Minneapolis.

*If you made it through all that, have another beer. You earned it! Don't forget to look more into the People section. They're kind of under-presented in the Reporter's Notes. And they are my favorites!! Thanks, Steve

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