To the Basement
“That Shane’s guitar?” I ask Vince Poprocky, who plays bass in Shane’s band, The Pony Signal, of a random guitar situated amidst the pile of music equipment resting on the porch of Vince and Pony Signal drummer Zach Dowdell’s South Oakland apartment, a humble living space The Pony Signal rhythm section shares with six other Pitt students.
“No,” Vince says. “It’s mine. Shane said he’d bring his, but with him you never know,” he says in a low tone, fatherly aware of Shane’s forgetfulness, general slaphappy tendencies, and overall spaciness.
I laugh as I grab some gear and head towards my car. Only Shane. Only Shane.
Jobless, degreeless, and not so long ago homeless, Shane Stowers is somewhat of a vagabond artist and quite possibly the only person who would forget to bring an instrument to band practice—what many people would call a bum—but to this laid back slacker’s credit, he is one of the more gifted musicians I’ve met, and that’s saying a lot considering the creative community I call friends. When watching him play, a sincere love of music that overrides all selfish ambitions and pretentious displays of emotion can be witnessed. No “don’t listen to the song but see how good I look while I play it,” just a pure, child-like joy that can make even the grumpiest forget about their problems for a few precious moments.
Unfortunately, college, lack of transportation, and a broken arm has kept Shane’s band from practicing for nearly two months, and a lackluster last performance in late November left The Pony Signal feeling somewhat discouraged.
“We took a month break for Shane’s arm to heal. Once we got a show, we practiced every Saturday before (the show) for four or five weeks. We’d play as long as we could, until Shane’s arm couldn’t take anymore,” Vince says of the weeks leading up to the band’s last show as he, Zach, and I head east towards the suburbs.
“During the show Shane was having trouble tuning his guitar, and he didn’t want to use a tuner. He couldn’t get his guitar to sound the way he wanted to either, so he would leave the microphone in the middle of a song and start playing with his amp. He would start playing a song even though he knew his guitar wasn’t in the right tuning, which didn’t make sense. He knows the songs won’t sound good if his guitar isn’t in tune.
“ He was just kind of flustered. It wasn’t really a big deal: the only people watching us were our friends. Shane told me he had a mini panic attack on stage and got a bit freaked out. The show going bad wasn’t his fault. It was our first show back after his arm, and he was just anxious to get back on stage.”
I recall Shane randomly doing some exaggerated arm stretches the last time I saw him, maybe three weeks ago. His arm must still be healing. He confirms my assumption later that night. After I drop off Zach at his house along with the gear, Vince and I quest for Shane. Vince calls Shane to tell him we’re on our way. We park in a church parking lot that kisses his backyard. Shane is nowhere to be seen. A few moments pass. Vince and I sit silently in a brief eternity and wait. Suddenly, movement disrupts the snowy tranquility outside the car.
Shane is hard to see at first because he’s moving quickly and is slightly hidden by a small hill. Suddenly, his green canvas jacket and loose blue jeans come into focus. He’s tall and lanky and his braided hair bobs as he walks up the slight grade toward the car, one hand keeping a gig bag strapped over his shoulder balanced, the other tossing a cigarette into the snow. He brought his guitar.
“Your shoes are untied,” I say, grinning.
“Yeah, I like a looming sense of danger when I walk,” he replies as he takes a seat.
Shane’s current creative outlet is a rock ‘n’ roll trio dubbed The Pony Signal, but besides one-off shows and filling in for friends, he’s been in roughly 10 bands. He started his first band, Suicidal Alien, around the age of 14. In Suicidal Alien, he sang and eventually played guitar as well, a duty, which would count as his first experience with the instrument.
“You look stressed,” Vince says to Shane.
“I had a weird night last night. This girl I used to like was flirting with me, then all the sudden she was like, ‘you need to get your life together.’ I was like, ‘bitch I’m trying. It’s hard.’”
“Well, you’ll feel better once we start playing.”
“Yeah, I’m going to play the craziest guitar solo ever then kill you both,” Shane says jokingly.
Did Shane have a weird night? Or does the band’s dismal last performance incline him to believe that The Pony Signal might be on the line? In February the band will be two years old, a life span that has exceeded all three members’ expectations. Though it’s unlikely, the good times maybe over if this practice doesn’t go well. Shane’s band is pointless if it’s just a stressor.
As I drive to Zach’s house, we tell jokes about our friends and talk about a new T.V. show, Portlandia; the jokes continue as we enter Zach’s basement and don’t stop when the band starts seting up equipment. The small basement is cramped and cluttered with Christmas decorations, some of Zach’s engineering textbooks, and board games. Not the ideal practice space, but to The Pony Signal, the basement is simply home.
“Hey Shane, you remember the stuff you were playing at Dan’s house?” Zach calls out behind a couch that separates him and his drums from the rest of the band as they are setting up gear.
Shane detunes a string on his guitar, says he remembers, and begins to strum what sounds to me a mid tempo punk rock response to a bluesy classic rock tune. Zach begins to play the drums; during the free seconds in between adjusting volume knobs on his amp, Vince contributes some bass.
“That was good,” Zach says after the song ends.
“Yeah,” Vince says. “Pretty sexy.”
“I think that was it,” Shane says.
“No, that was no it at all,” Zach says. “Actually, it was completely different.”
“Yeah, I can’t remember the riff,” Shane says as he noodles with some low octave notes.
The band begins to run through their show set list. They begin with a song called “Manderson’s out for Blood,” a title that serves as an inside joke about a friend, Matt Anderson. Sitting on a couch and preparing to sing into the microphone, Shane looks like he’s where he belongs—spouts of boyish wonder and confident smirks interrupt deep concentration. He closes his eyes, begins to sing. Any previous stress, whatever the cause, melts away. The music sounds good. The Pony Signal is back. The band celebrates as they end the song, for the performance was up to snuff; over the cheers, Zach begins to play a hip-hop drum beat, which Shane starts riffing over before he begins to freestyle rap. I can’t make out any of the words. The four of us are all smiles.
As the joke dies down, the band starts focusing on the next song, “Heavy Hearts,” a new tune that, in sorts, runs the gamut of sonic possibilities by transforming some clean-tone, tightly-picked arpeggios with dancelike drumbeats and bass weaving in and out into a heavy and sludgy indie rock breakdown into more loose, minor arpeggios, which build back up into heavy fuzz rock ecstasy. Unfortunately, the band is on different pages; they stop mid-song and in order to fix the glitch, start talking technicalities. “How many measures before we switch to the next part?” “I think the tempo is a little different here.”
Things stay loose as the band works out the kinks in their song. Not that the band isn’t driven to play its songs to the best of its ability, for a fish-not-the-fisherman mentality drives The Pony Signal to do the songs the justice they deserve, to let the songs reach their full potential, but in the end, fun is this steam engine’s wood and water. They’re not writing songs together because they’re friends—they’re writing songs together to become better friends.
The band isn’t spending 40 hours a week in a basement slave driving the music to perfection in order to send some record company their demo. They are getting together in order to take a sonic photography, they are attempting to document this perpetual feeling of telling the future to bring it on despite the haziness and uncertainty that comes with being young, despite not necessarily giving a damn what said future holds, they are finding themselves in their compositions.
At some point Shane comments on the confusion. “I’ve been playing it by myself for the last two months, so it’s weird in my brain.” It’s a short and far from intriguing answer, but his response backs up this “let’s not worry about the specifics and just get the song right. This doesn’t work if it’s not fun” mentality. After the band’s brief discussion ends, they give the song another go and nail it on the second try.
Shane continues to lead the band’s journey through their musical portfolio; the good times and good tunes continue. During a lull in the jamming, I press Shane for some info pertaining to his influences and the band’s genre, and he doesn’t really know what to say. It’s secondary to the nature of what he’s doing here.
“Indie rock? Maybe alternative. I don’t know, man. Influences? That’s a hard one, man. Radiohead I guess. Uhhh, The Beatles.” He pauses for a moment to ponder my question, concurs when Vince chimes in with King Crimson, and continues, “I don’t really think about that stuff. I just think about making songs.”
The band’s dreamlike, hazy sound makes it hard to keep track of how much time has gone by, let alone how many songs they’ve actually played. At some point, the band begins to play a song called “Revelry.” It sounds like Shane is singing, “Breakdown. Breakdown. Breakdown before you can try.” Singing this drearily tranquil, emotive melody, an oddball slacker who seems to take pride in being a nonsensical prankster becomes eerily sincere.
Musically, “Revelry” is bright, dreamy, and almost hypnotizing. I’m staring at Shane’s guitar, and for a second I get the visual sensation that the room is spinning in circles—hand washing window, not moving Ferris wheel or Merry-Go-Round. Later that night, Shane tells me “Revelry’s” simple, almost aphoristic lyrics, which make me feel ambiguous and melancholy but all the wiser, are about realizing that something can be viewed in different ways and realizing that’s cool.”
After the final notes of The Pony Signal’s set-closer, “Visionary Breakthrough,” begin to fade out, the band decides to play their songs, “Big Cheese” and “Space Girl,” two numbers that no longer seem to be canon in The Pony Signal universe but are just fun to jam out and improvise on. I’ve heard these two songs countless times throughout the last what-seems-a-lot-longer-that-a-year-and-a-half; however, the unfamiliar, off-the-cuff riffs and fills certainly validate the band’s musical chops and make these two songs seem new to me. After the guys rock their hearts content, Shane bounces a new song idea off of his band mates; they dig it, but the band decides to shelf the idea for later in favor of running through their set list songs one more time. They play the set once more. “Manderson’s out for Blood,” “Heavy Hearts,” “Blue Sunshine,” “Summer Sedation,” “Revelry,” and “Visionary Breakthrough.” Practice is over. The band decides it’s dinnertime. They set their sights on Burger King. On the ride over, Shane gives me a crash course on his musical history.
“I started playing piano when I was seven. I took lessons at Johnstonbaugh’s in Shady Side. I kept at it because I wasn’t too confident in any of my other abilities when I was younger. And it’s important to express yourself.”
“Yeah,” I interrupt. “When you were screaming at the end of “Visionary Breakthrough, you looked legitimately pissed, but then you were laughing like two seconds later. It was like you weren’t really angry, but you were just being angry for fun.”
“Yeah, it’s definitely a cathartic thing. There are things you have to do emotionally to get your point across, and there are also things you have to do dynamically to make a song work. But I’m pretty sure I was angry when I wrote that. Actually, I don’t really remember. I might have written that part and been like, ‘Alright, I’m gonna get all pissed and angry here.’ I dunno.
“I should probably tell you about the bands I’ve been in. That’s probably important. The biggest band I was ever in was called Massif. We were on a label and stuff. We had a song on a sludge-metal compilation. That was like our big accomplishment. We never really got paid, but the label would buy us beer before shows and food from Wal-Mart.
“When that band broke up, I was in a band called Teeth. We disbanded because our drummer died. He overdosed on OxyContin. I actually woke up next to him the morning after. That was kind of weird.”
A phone call interrupts Shane. We pull into the Burger King Parking lot before he gets off the line. We eat and hang around for maybe a hour. Afterwards, Zach and Vince decide they’re going back to Oakland in order to go to the bars with their roommates. Shane and I decide to call it a night. He’s broke. I’m tired. As I drive him home, Shane tells me about his band, Books.
“Books were a noise-rock duo. I played guitar, and my friend Pat played drums. There’s stuff I play on guitar that doesn’t really work when you add in other instruments, but some how Pat could play along with it and make it sound good. He was a drug addict though. That was the band that got the most girls. We decided to take a break, so he could move in with his mom and get better. We officially broke up when he sold all of his drums for drugs.
“After that was when I was trying to do Fragile Evil with Rob and Anthony, but it wasn’t really working. But I guess it not working worked out cause that’s around the time I met Vince and Zach.”
I remember Fragile Evil. That was the summer I first met Shane. That band played two shows, I believe. I didn’t go to either. I was too tired. Around that time I was working produce in a grocery store, and the opening shift started at 5:30 in the morning.
Two weeks pass before The Pony Signal gets back to the basement. Vince and I pick Shane up in the same parking lot. He sprints out of his house towards the car and says incoherently something along the lines of, “I broke like 15 tackles on the way to the car, yo.” Shane’s excitement is palpable. Tonight is his night. If there was ever a time to watch a band play, it’s tonight in Zach’s basement.
On the way to practice, Shane discusses his school situation. He’s recently enrolled in Bidwell Training Center, a laudable endeavor for anyone, not just an almost-25-year-old jobless man-child who still lives at home, and in typical lounger fashion he refers to his undertaking as an attempt “to be a real person.”
“I’m studying chemical engineering. I don’t know anything about it. Learn something new I guess. Figure I’ll get smart real quick. Plus it’s free. It’s been pretty easy so far. I used to be bad at math, but now I’m not. My brain just got better. It’s all that turtle soup I’ve been drinking lately.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Vince asks. “Killing turtles in America?”
“No,” Shane says. He looks out the window. “I know this place that only does turtle soup: The Turtle Factory…in Turtle Creek. All the Turtle Soup one’s heart could desire.”
Unfortunately, circumstance leaves this practice far from ideal, for Vince leaves the band’s only microphone stand at his apartment, and Zach’s mom wants the band to keep practice brief because the loud noises are rough on their dogs’ ears. Fortunately, the band’s music, aside from a few dead notes, is good enough to stand on its own, a merit which keeps the practice enjoyable, the countless turtle soup non sequiturs a simple bonus. Post-practice Burger King is a ritual for the guys in The Pony Signal, so after they run through their show set list once, we’re off, and once again Shane and I decide to call it a night after the meal while Vince and Zach are off to god only knows.
In the car Shane tells me that he’s bummed that today’s practice wasn’t the real deal, but that it’s all right because the band’s friendship is the important part. I drop Shane off at his house. “See ya soon,” he says.
His comment about the band’s friendship gets me thinking about why I think garage bands like The Pony Signal are so special as opposed to mainstream music—Why music listeners who find the art form sacred are so drawn to people like Shane. Sure, underground music is more sincere. Sure, radio rock is about as sustainable as canned food. Sure, art takes on more depth when you know the people responsible for it. Not that you necessarily know who, what, where, or when the art is about, but finding a way to apply it symbolically to your own life is far less a stretch. Sure, there are exceptions to the rule.
I begin to recall a concert I went to with Vince the first weekend of November, a small underground punk show in the basement of a rundown grocery store. A new band from Fort Collins, Colorado, Elway, is playing their first show in Pittsburgh in support of a six-month-old debut album. Despite the fact they’ve never been in town before, all 40 or so kids that make up the audience know every lyric and are shouting them right back at the band. There is no stage; the band and audience are eye level. Equals.
Then I realize why musicians like Shane are special. It’s not obscure music bragging rights or credibility. It’s knowing that you were a part of something unique, knowing you’ve gone beyond what you’re told is good, hip, and intelligent music and found something that makes sense to you, knowing that without you this best kept secret could have never happened. You may not agree with all the perceptions and ideologies of the people involved—you may even find some of your fellow crowd goers utterly unbearable—but they and you are what make this unique thing what it is. It feels like you know that rock ‘n’ roll is going to be what saves your soul.
Shane knows rock ‘n’ roll is going to be what saves his soul.
Given the competitive nature of existing, the necessary role money plays in survival, and the expectations of parents, it’s baffling that Shane can go out and be an artist and get nothing in return and come home nothing but satisfied. Whenever I’m at college and I write a story or a song, I feel like it has to be published, it has to be heard. Otherwise, it’s worthless. When I’m back home and surrounded by friends like Shane, I feel like I can burn my creation in my back yard by myself, never tell anyone about it, and be cool with it.
Being okay with going hungry and not always having a place to sleep because you at least having a guitar isn’t really my ideal, but to Shane, it’s simply the good life.
In the back of my mind, Elway finishes a song; the singer looks out into the crowd and proudly proclaims over feedback, “If there was ever a time to dance in Pittsburgh, it’s right now.” For a brief period of time the ramifications and consequences of the outside world don’t matter.
