Skeggie's drawings in the van often included this little critter- I think of him as the Skegdog

Of all the bands that I was involved with in one way or another over the years, few meant as much to me as Lifeboat. Which was weird, really, because unlike the Real Kids, the Neats, the Sex Execs and others I hadn't known the guys in Lifeboat for years, nor had I followed them through their early careers- something that makes for a lasting fan-band relationship. They weren't even originally from Boston- but then neither are most bands that end up being known as a "Boston band". In 1985 I was living in the attic of 117 Columbia Street in Cambridge, a musical household I moved into so I could kick narcotics (it worked for three years) and work on my friend Ken Selden's first film- Vacant Lot. Greg Kendall came over one afternoon, we talked, we talked some more, and from that point on we became almost like brothers. Greg was known- then as now -by the nickname Skeggie, a reference to the skeg or fin at the bottom of a surfboard. Not a surprising thing as Greg came to town as one of a number of Rhode Islanders that "made their bones" as part of an extremely vital surf-punk scene centered around Newport and Providence, RI. I later began to refer to this crew of twisted genii as the "Middletown Mafia", as so many of them had grown up in that more middle-class town just outside of Newport. Gary Smith- who would one day become first a manager and then my partner at Fort Apache -also played with Lifeboat, as did the omnitalented Bob Kendall, all of Middletown. Another resident was Bob Lawton, by all accounts a one-man scene back in those days, who managed Lifeboat and then went on to form the mega-prestigious Labor Board booking agency in Manahattan. Members of Throwing Muses, Mente, the Upper Crust and a slew of other bands also once called the Newport-Middletown-Providence Triangle "home".

After we had hung out for a few weeks Skeg mentioned that Lifeboat were going on a tour of the South and Southeast. I was taking a Super-8 class at Boston Film and Video Foundation and I half-jokingly suggested I come along and film the tour. Greg liked the idea. Ther had been some recent tensions within the band, so much so that he was dreading the idea of being jammed in a van with the band's problems clouding the air, and he asked me if I cared to go along as sort of personality buffer. Just as when company is over a couple is loathe to have the really ugly fights they do when alone, Greg figured my presence would put everyone on their best behavior. It must have worked because we had a great time on that first tour. I shot thirty rolls of Super-8 film, we recreated as good American youngsters will, and almost every gig was surrounded by an event of some sort- a great party here, a meeting with some alien life form there, a friendship formed that would last for decades over there. I had never been down South and it was an eye-opening experience for me. Greg, Bob, Gary, Lawty and Paul had a done a lot of networking, and in most towns we were either greeted by an old pal or we made a new one quick. When we returned to Boston, with me carrying along all those rolls of super 8 and an endless supply of the crazy little drawings Skeg would make in the van, I considered at least half the band my close friends.

Another "Skeggie original" drawing from the van; CBGB ad; gig poster.

I went out with the band again for another tour after that, a bit quieter as this time with Bob Lawton was not in attendance (these were still the days when we referred to Lawty as "the Pirate"; a few shots of Jack Daniels over the limit and he was trashing rooms, dancing on/under tables, and in general creating beautiful mayhem). It was a blast, too, but by then I was building Fort Apache in earnest so I had to fly back from Nashville just before the band began the mind-numbing drives through the flat lands of the Midwest. I got to meet Steve Gronbach, who had recorded the band's 12 inch Dolphin EP, and admired the way he'd built the 24-track studio in the basement of his log home out in the woods of North Carolina. With Mitch Easter and Don Dixon beginning to crank out cool sounds from the living room of Mitch's house- soon known as Drive-In Studios -it was evident that a grass roots recording revolution was under way across the country. I wanted in, and despite the low-tech approach we were taking at the future Fort Apache I was convinced that we could build the sort of local and regional nexus in Boston that these other cats were building down South. So when the band got off the road this time I offered them a deal. I needed to learn how to engineer and produce, they needed to record new songs on a short budget. So Lifeboat became my first big project at the then-eight track Fort Apache South.

Sharing the cover of The Noise with Chain Link Fence, April of '85.

Skeggie in 1998, fronting the Tuffskins at a T.T. the Bear's show (opening for the Jolenes and the Pernice Brothers).

Lifeboat made some fine recordings, but their live performances were what made me fall in love with the band. They were powerful, sincere but not schmarmy, and they harnessed their energy always in service of a song, their songs always in search of an idea. Some of the best shows I've ever seen have been while I stood in the back of a nearly empty room during an off-night gig in South Carolina or some place where the band was virtually unknown. When the crowds were there, as in Raleigh or Chapel Hill, North Carolina, or Hoboken, the band would rise to the occasion...but the truly impressive shows were the ones that noone made it to, because it was clear that these guys loved the shit they were playing and not just the fact that someone was out front clapping at it. They won fans over the way touring bands have done for decades- one person at a time. They also sought out like-minded bands and made lasting friendships with them, bands like the Connells and Love Tractor.

Lifeboat calls it quits. A sad day in my world as they were my favorite band at the time.