The Old Post Office Emporium in Hilton Head was open from 1985 to 1994. In that short life, The Band, Leon Russell, Santana, Taj Mahal, Little Feat, and Widespread Panic all played there. So did we. History is generous about who it lets in the door. It’s just pickier about who it remembers.
Same tour as the Hootie story. After the pitcher incident, I’m still not sure how we got invited back, but we did, this time to open for some outfit called the Dave Matthews Band. Having already misjudged Hootie, I set my expectations firmly at “polite.”
At sound check I had my big white Gibson double neck strapped on, which is a lot of guitar for one man and arguably two. We were running “Song for Bob Dylan” by David Bowie. So picture it: a song for Bob Dylan, written by David Bowie, played by Another Roadside Attraction, in front of Dave Matthews. Lots of famous names in one room. Only one of them was ours, and nobody had heard of it.
Dave sat off to the side with a do-rag wrapped around his head. I figured he thought he was losing his hair. I would later come to understand that feeling personally.
Then came the drum situation. Our drummer at the time wasn’t Cupcake. It was a guy named Caponetto, who was very particular about his massive drum set. The Dave Matthews Band wanted him to play Carter Buford’s kit, and he threw a fit. In fairness, none of us knew who Carter Buford was yet. In less fairness, he’s one of the greatest drummers who ever lived. Caponetto was essentially offended at being handed a Stradivarius.
We played our set to about a hundred people, most of whom were at the bar. We were on stage. They were not looking at the stage. It was a healthy, honest arrangement.
Then Dave hit the first note on his acoustic, and the room exploded. Everybody came running, dancing, cheering, singing every word. And I stood there knowing this guy was writing the songs I wished, in my wildest dreams, I could write. So well built. So perfectly put together. His whole band was incredible, and they weren’t even polished yet. The rest of Roadside didn’t seem impressed. I knew right then that dude was destined for greatness.
My talent-scout record was now one miss, one hit. I’ll take it.
If you see photos of me from the early 90s, yes, that’s a do-rag. I thought it was a cool look. The truth is I wanted to be Dave Matthews. The headwear was the only part I could afford.
That night, Dunston and I, the two they always roomed together, got somewhat intoxicated and went swimming in the ocean with bags of wine on our heads. The next afternoon we heard a giant school of hammerhead sharks had been spotted in the area. We were not consumed. I thank God the sharks weren’t wine connoisseurs.
Years later, I took my daughter to see Dave Matthews at the Coca-Cola Amphitheater. Tens of thousands of people, all agreeing with what I’d figured out in front of a hundred distracted bar patrons. It was one of the best concerts, and one of the best times, I’ve ever had with my daughter.
The Old Post Office Emporium has since been demolished and redeveloped. The stage is gone. The bar where everybody ignored us is gone. But the moment isn’t. Sometimes the most important night of your music life is the one where you’re not the best thing in the room, and you’re humble enough to notice. Envy can make you bitter. Admiration can make you better. And grace, apparently, can keep the sharks away.
— The Captain
Roadside Stories: True stories from the road, as best as the Captain can remember them.
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