Editor’s Note: Scene stalwart Gary Carra’s Nightcrawler column has long been a fixture at the Valley Advocate — a history that goes back, as he explains here, to the bygone era of Advocate branches in Springfield and New Haven. This week, his column transitions into a semi-regular blog on our refreshed and expanding website. Be sure to stop by online and read his full essay at valleyadvocate.com. In the meantime, enjoy some farewell thoughts from a man long dedicated to following local and national music, wherever the road may take him. — Hunter Styles
My parents would probably like to think it was the tens of thousands of dollars they spent on my journalism degree. I would chalk it up to my rapier wit, dizzying intellect — and, of course, always maintaining a humble demeanor. But the truth is, I owe my real start at the Advocate to my colleagues’ collective beef with … well, beef.
“Is there anyone here who is not a vegetarian?” editor Josh Mamis bellowed across the New Haven Advocate newsroom. The year was 1995. I raised my hand, followed by my head, just high enough to crest the wall of my cubicle. “Mr. Carra,” Mamis said, “Come here for a minute, would you?”
The news was good — in fact, it was a bonafide Advocate gig. During my soon-to-expire internship stint, I had done unglamorous grunt work, like typing up press releases and uploading the week’s movie times. I still remember the titles … Welcome to the Dollhouse at 7:30 and 9:15 … Sense and Sensibility at 7 and 9:30 …
“I need you to work with the ad reps and highlight items of interest at the area bars and restaurants,” Mamis explained. “You know, new menus, new chefs, specials…”
He even named it for me: Scoop Du Jour. So off I went, into the streets of New Haven, scarfing down pizzas at Bar and throwing my peanuts on the floor at J.P. Dempsey’s. I tagged along with the locally legendary barfly “Bob” on the happy hour circuit.
During weeks like that, my friendship with the new Advocate music writer Chris Arnott was particularly fortuitous. Arnott was brilliant, and he offered to take me under his literary wing, assigning me music blurbs and giving advice — plus access to his precious cabinets and bookshelves (back then, files with PR photos and band bios, and rock encyclopedias were priceless).
Arnott lived on Elm St. in New Haven. This became “Scoop’s” regular crashpad on Tuesday nights after a long evening of “column research.” Though I stayed there several times, I always arrived late at night, and while my memories of the space are fond, it was really a glorified hallway. I don’t recall much actual furniture, and what was there was buried in the piles of books and records Arnott had amassed over the years.
I would sleep on these piles of books and records, doing what I could to form a sort multi-media rock nest for myself. Then I would arrange my leather jacket to double as a makeshift pillow and throw blanket while Arnott’s multiple cats took turns scampering across my back (at least I hope those were cats).
Paul Bass, Kathleen Cei, Beverly Gage — it was a great team in New Haven. And I wrote a story there that, to this day, has enjoyed the widest circulation of anything I’ve written.
For this story, I was playing Santa at the Chapel Square Mall. But the company, apparently, was hiring elves off the street. These homeless elves were shooting up heroin in costume, stealing from each other, and getting into fistfights. It was unbelievable.
Bass howled with laughter when I told him how it went. He guided me through the draft, interrupted only by intermittent giggles and guffaws. “Heroin Elf, Meet St. Nick” was picked up by every Advocate and affiliate, from the Valley to Fairfield and Westchester weeklies — some 250,000 strong, I was told.
Of all those eyeballs, though, it was the pair owned by Dan Caccavaro that impacted my life next.
“Mr. Carra,” the voice on the other end of my office line said, “it’s Dan Caccavaro, up here with the Springfield and Valley Advocate. I’ve been following your stuff, and I heard you actually live up this way, so I was wondering: why are you writing down there?”
“I can answer that rather simply, Mr. Caccavaro,” I countered. “I sent you my resume, the same as here. You just never called me.”
It was a situation he was quick to remedy, and within days, Scoop Du Jour had surfaced in the Springfield and Valley Advocate. I enjoyed doing it, and I was always happy that my successor in New Haven kept the name, referring to himself as “Scoop” for years to follow.
I missed eating cheese dogs and generic sodas purchased from the food trucks along Long Wharf in New Haven, sitting on the hood of my Taurus station wagon (not the coolest, but it was a handy gear hauler for musicians) and watching the boats during lunch break. But I wouldn’t miss the hour-long commute between Somers and New Haven.
The Valley Advocate office was in Hadley at the time, a beautiful farmhouse with hardwood floors with a working waterwheel. In that office, circa 1997, I pitched my dream to Caccavaro. “Look Dan, Scoop is fun and all, but my passion is music,” I explained. “We don’t really have a column here that covers locals and nationals alike. I’d like to try my hand at it.”
I had taken the liberty of writing a few columns on spec, so that he could get a clearer picture of what I was talking about. “It’s called Nightcrawler,” I said. “Hope you like it.”
He did, as did the musicians, the masses, and even Advocate founder Geoffrey Robinson.
“Do you know him?” Caccavaro asked excitedly one day.
“Yeah, I ran into him in New Haven a few times,” I answered. “Nice guy. What’s his deal?”
“His deal? He started the Advocate! He’s legendary! We just had a staff meeting and read your column to everyone — start to finish — and he said that this is the reason he started the Advocate. To entertain and inform.”
Caccavaro ordered more. I doubled as a working musician on the circuit, so his order was easy to fill. I was playing at the Bay State with Aloha Steamtrain, at Geraldine’s with Orange Crush, and at The Solution with Believer. I played Fat Cat, Theodore’s, and The Infinity. I recorded at Slaughterhouse with Mark Alan Miller. I got to know Joe Bartone, Ray Mason, Scott Lee and his metalfests, Terry Ward, the open mic nights at Tic Toc Lounge, and Hypnotic Kick at the Iron Horse.
Then there was Roger Salloom, Shadows Fall, Killswitch Engage — putting the metal scene on the map — AAA Entertainment and its roster of tribute acts, Fear Nuttin’ Band, Knucklehead at Cabot Street, The Waterfront, Katina’s, Julie Rader pushing Red Henry, Pajama Slave Dancers, Dinosaur Jr., Sebadoh, The Fawns, The Figments, The Sighs, Pallet, and those pretty lil’ Winterpills.
Amy Fairchild, The Lonesome Brothers — is there a band JJ O’Connell isn’t playing drums in? — Zing Studios, DJ Kissy, The Ostrich Farm, Drunk Stuntmen, Long Green Hair, Itchy Fish. And does anyone remember Primitive Ink at Mikaras? What those guys could do with a peace pipe and some war paint…
And of course, there was Staind. I still remember the call from guitarist Mike Mushok, after his return from Florida with Limp Bizkit’s Fred Durst, to talk about the signing. I followed Aaron Lewis’ road to Nashville. I covered Stone Coyotes and Elmore Leonard, Jamawokee’s Eric Holden scoring Shakira and Josh Groban gigs, Bittersweet Thirty Stones tales of Keith Hopkinson passing, Andrew Freeman going to Vegas and singing for Last in Line — and, later, a one-off with Def Leppard. Watermelon Wednesdays, Jo Sallins, Ed Vadas and Art Steele (rest in peace to you both), John Juliano with news from the Big E. Eric Suher restoring The Calvin. Mike Barrasso re-doing the Paramount. Split Shift. John Joyce. Lurok Entertainment.
To stoke the sonic fires, I would occasionally hold court at local watering holes for impromptu — or, at least, extremely informal — meet and greets. The Advocate ran an ad that featured a picture of me jamming gummy worms into my mouth, with the words: “Feed the Nightcrawler information about your band.” I would bring a banker’s box and grab a beer, and the bands would come by the dozens. They brought discs and bios, and we talked shop. I would leave with enough subject material for months.
Over drinks with Caccavaro, I explained something we had done in New Haven: the Grand Band Slam. “We’d have a big, townwide celebration of all of our Reader’s Poll winners, and it’s a real good time for all.”
So we did it in Northampton, and in downtown Springfield, in multiple clubs, indoors and out. It was amazing. One year, in front of thousands congregated at Grand Band Slam Springfield, I screamed onstage in my best Brian Johnson voice — “The best tribute band, as voted by you, here to rock for you … ladies and gentlemen … BACK .. IN … BLACK!” — as the AC/DC tribute band vamped on the intro of “For Those About To Rock.”
For every local notable — and I apologize in advance for the many I undoubtedly forgot to mention — I got to know nationals. I remember shooting pool with Slash while swilling his customized “Slash’s Edition” Jack Daniels. An interview-turned-luncheon with Dan Aykroyd. Squiring an up-and-coming Days of The New around town, then losing them all in Thornes Marketplace before a sold-out Calvin show. Joan Jett ushering my then five-year-old daughter Emily on stage to “Cherry Bomb.” Beers with John Paul Jones the night Wilt Chamberlain passed.
A cigar-chomping David Lee Roth talked with me about original songs versus covers — “that’s the difference between art and commerce, my boy” — from the driver’s seat of his tour bus after a show at The Sting. I remember stories on Cinderella, Winger, The Who, Elvira, Tiny Tim, Weird Al, Duff McKagan, Living Colour, Stone Temple Pilots, Slaughter, Kevin Bacon, Iron Maiden, Scotty Ian, Zakk Wylde, Disturbed, Dave Matthews Band, and Sublime.
I also frequently appeared on the radio as a recording artist. Like so many locals, Lazer’s Mike “Haze” Dejesus graciously gave me and my bandmates some interview time and spins. There is just nothing like hearing a song you wrote and performed over the airwaves. I remember, one time, Haze was spinning my “Smiling @ Spotlights” tune when I was a minute from home. I pulled over and listened to it in the Somers Volunteer Fire Department parking lot. It was a steamy, summer night, but I was rubbing goosebumps down.
Another time, Haze had my longtime Springfield Republican counterpart Donnie Moorhouse co-hosting. At one point during the discussion, Moorhouse pointed out that “Gary is also the Valley Advocate Nightcrawler, so he writes about music, and plays music. I guess what I am saying is that, if local music had a shape, it would be Gary.”
The Advocate changed hands, but I didn’t care who owned it — or where it was. I was doing what I loved. My original Valley team — which included Stephanie Kraft and Maureen Turner along with Caccavaro, Tom Vannah, and James Heflin — was a publishing powerhouse of its own.
The cessation of the printed Nightcrawler column is certainly the end of an era. But with the blogging format, I can disseminate news in a more timely manner, when I need to. While I certainly pride myself on never missing a deadline or skipping a column in my 20-year-plus run, I can also work around my schedule a bit more.
I also want to make more music — live and recorded. If that isn’t enough, there’s always those four children of mine to keep me busy.
Besides, us old rockers get a pass on phony farewells, don’t we? How many times has KISS come around since their first ‘Farewell Tour’ in 2000? But unlike them, my decision to carry on in the blog format is far from a last-ditch cash grab. I’m doing it for a song. More precisely: my love of songs, and you beautiful people who write, perform, record, and listen to them.
Contact Gary Carra at [email protected].
