In the Whirlaway Tavern, near the corner of Kedzie and Fullerton, the conversation between Sally Timms and Jon Langford keeps getting sidetracked by the American Music Awards on television. LeAnn Rimes is holding the last notes of a syrupy song with a sleepy-eyed grin.
Langford’s been bragging about his friend and band mate, accordion player Rico Bell, who titled a song after the bar. “Rico’s coming,” he tells her. “He’s coming next week.”
“I wouldn’t mind living in New York,” Timms says.
“I can’t see you in LA,” he says. “You’d need implants.”
Before that show, Langford told me Pussy reminded him of British holiday revues. “It’s like a pantomime, you know, a musical play. It’s a seasonal thing after Christmas, traditional that every town has a big pantomime.” He said the best of these shows feature a lot of shouting, audience participation, corny jokes, and cross-dressing. “We’re going to do it like a proper pantomime. I’m not quite sure how that’s done, but we’ve got the cross-dressing down.”
“It was just these horrible gigs,” recalls Greenhalgh. “We were playing for packs of skinheads. People were getting stomped. It got ugly. After a time we didn’t want to play live anymore. Not like that.” Greenhalgh got his nose broken at a benefit show for Rock Against Racism. “I don’t know, someone came backstage and punched me in the face.”
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At dusk the Mekons stop for dinner somewhere in Pennsylvania. At the gas station across the street, two 12-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon are purchased along with a full tank of gas. They’re usually harsh critics of beer, but after ten hours in a cramped van, Pabst will do.
