As many of you know, we have been recently engulfed by our move from our nation’s armpit (New Jersey) to our nation’s Old Spice (Philadelphia). This move, while practical for so many reasons, crept up on us like a cat on his ball of yarn (or aluminum foil, in the case of our beloved Moses). This not being out of the ordinary for most Bad Apples operations, we were not phased in the least. But it has taken a few stages for the move to fully set in.
The first stage involved the purging of our old house. We downgraded from a 4-bedroom house to a 2-bedroom apartment. Much cleansing was needed. I sold my oversized dresser for Tupperware money so I could store clothes under my bed. We all had to reassess the necessity of our possessions, from little used instruments to furniture to general house supplies.
The next couple stages occurred on my last day of work in Jersey. I had to write down my forwarding address so my boss could send me my much needed last paycheck. I think it was writing such a foreign zip code that really got me. I have been to Philly many times in the past, but the memorization of the zip code is a task reserved for residents.
Immediately after work I went out for appetizers and drinks with my suddenly former co-workers, a direct prelude to the first of my moving trips. We left for Phiadelphia at 9:30 pm - I felt a rush similar to the one I experienced as we left for our first tour last summer. I knew that we weren’t going to have a real home for the next few days in the mess of the move, and we’d be spending most of our time in the van. It’s a feeling only nomads like us can truly appreciate.
Carrying the contents of a whole house up three flights of stairs into a small apartment is nothing to write about, save the efficiency in which we did so (Bad Apples efficiency is off the charts on economies of scale). Another stage of setting in finally hit when, as we were pulling out of our apartment complex at midnight, we watched black plastic bags roll across the deserted streets as tumbleweeds, remnants of good times had somewhere close by.
“This is almost as fun as a gig!” I declared during the final day of moving. The two events are similar in a few ways. They both involve carrying lots of heavy stuff much farther than you want to. Once carried to the final destination, it must be set up in a manner that is both practical and aestheically pleasing. This requires creativity on all fronts. The only reason moving isn’t as fun as a gig is because you don’t get to play music once everything is set up.
As new residents of a city known for its cheesesteak, we made the requisite run to Pat’s King of Steaks at midnight of our first night in town. It was a glorious occurrence. The neon lights of Geno’s Steaks across the street lit up the tiny corner that is home to the two original Philly Cheesesteak vendors, even giving light to the patrons of Pat’s. While Geno’s looks far more impressive than the quaint, unkempt Pat’s, their steaks lack the size, taste, and authenticity of a Pat’s steak. Not to mention they refuse to add bell peppers. I always figured Geno’s lights were a compensatory measure, like a tough guy with his muscle car trying to make up for a deficiency in his manhood. We each got peppers wit wiz (you must order in the precise manner that they advertise on the menu, or you risk not being served, a la Lou’s Lunch in New Haven) and made quick work of them. It was not a scene for the faint of heart, watching 3 grown men devour an amalgamation of cheese wiz and cow with equal parts speed and efficiency.
The move set in even more when we left our apartment complex for our first gigs since we moved in, not 2 full days into our stay. With two shows over the weekend in Williamsport and Stroudsburg (both PA), we would not be coming back that night, either. It was a familiar sensation, being back on the road - I felt more at home in the van than in our new abode. Though it was odd, when waiting for the gate to open and let the van out of our complex, looking at the Liberties West logo on the side of an adjacent building, that I felt a sense of deja vu - it was a familiar feeling in a strange place.
The last real stage of setting in happened when we met up with Dave, owner of the Sarah Street Grill in Stroudsburg, where we would play later that night. We have played the venue several times, and Dave is a legit Apples fan. He had no idea we had moved to Philly. “So you guys are Pennsylvania boys now!” he boasted, clearly as excited as we were to be sharing a home state. This was the first real reference to us living in Pennsylvania that set in for me, as though I thought Philly was a totally separate entity.
Finishing up our new home state of Pennsylvania tour, coming home to Philly, a huge piece of the Bad Apples puzzle was now in place. Philadelphia, here we are. You’re not going to know what hit you.
-Albis
