Songwriting Diary: Corner Store

Celebrating the 30th anniversary of “13 Soda Punx”.

This is a story of how The Stand GT song Corner Store came to life. These are the scenes I remember when thinking about this song.

Also: this is a companion piece, so if you haven’t read it yet, start here: “Look Ma, I’m a Soda Punk”. And pick up the repress of Soda Punx at Top Drawer Records here.

Wally was slowly shaking his head with concern. He told us how much his arms hurt.

“But I can drum,” he promised outside the club in Thunder Bay. Our band The Stand GT was playing there that night.

“I know I can do it.” We had faith in our best friend and drummer, but this was certainly dire. Wally was never one to complain.

He continued. “I can do it, guys. But my arms hurt sooo much.”

**********

There’s no denying it. The Stand GT enjoyed a good party. So when an afterparty presented itself when we were out on the road, we always agreed to attend. There was never a vote.

One time in our early touring career, we found ourselves in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario.

The city was always good to us. We could count on tons of kids at our shows, always scooping up the merchandise we had.

And good thing. The next tour stop was over the lake to Thunder Bay, which could be a 10 hour drive without much in between. The income was a much needed boost for an indie touring band.

After this one Sault Ste Marie Saturday night show, we got invited to a party at ‘someone’s’ house. We loaded up our gear, got directions and piled into our van. We made our way across the city to the address written on a piece of paper, diligently following a city map we bought at a gas station. Pulling up to the address we figured we were at the right place: even though it was well after midnight, every light was on in the house and there was a bunch of kids outside.

I yelled to a few partiers from the van. “Is there anywhere to park around here?”

Two of them nodded quickly and enthusiastically pointed to a large parking lot across the street.

“You guys can park there, man. And don’t worry, it’s free. You can park there all night.”

Glorious, I thought to myself. Free parking all night. We’ll set up camp right beside the party house. What luck.

We pulled the van into the giant empty lot and wandered into the house. The place was raging: music blaring, kids hanging out everywhere smoking, drinking and yelling above the music.

As we came through the front door, everyone acknowledged us with big ‘Whoos!’ and raised bottles and glasses. We felt like rock stars as freshly opened beers were handed to us from every angle. We were far from home and this touring thing was hitting us in all the feels. I knew then I could easily get used to this.

“Make yourself at home!” some guy yelled over the Ramones blaring on the stereo. “There’s people in the basement too.” He pointed to the stairs heading down. Wally shrugged at me, took a huge swig of his beer and made his way down the stairs. Doug, Tom, Johnny and I wandered to the kitchen.

These after show parties were always a strange blur. We were inevitably exhausted from driving all day, loading gear, and playing a high energy show. I remember being wet from sweat, half drunk and thinking a shower and warm bed would be a nice thing. I think I thought that? But I was young and new experiences of the road were everywhere. All that comfort stuff could wait.

I wandered around the house drinking beer but not really connecting with anyone. There were clicks of people talking in groups. They were our people though: punk rockers, goths and grunge kids. But it was still hard for me to strike up meaningful conversations with people in those parties. Plus, everyone was so drunk from the show.

I wandered to the basement to check on Wally. There was a bunch of kids playing poker at a table in the corner and another group had gathered around Wally, who was sitting on the floor.

“What the hell?” I thought to myself. He was sitting in a rowing machine, pulling the dry land oars like he was training for a college rowing team. I figured he was in some kind of bet to win over locals. With each row, the gang around him chanted, cheering him on to his imaginary destination. I smiled, shook my head and went back upstairs.

I found another room with a giant couch and sat down. I was exhausted and my cold beer tasted heavenly. The couch sucked me in and I felt an incredible wash of peace and satisfaction come over me. Our band was doing it. Touring. Figuring it out. The feeling was indescribable. And we still had a month of shows in front of us. The Clash was blaring in the next room, but the volume in this darker room was just what I needed. It was a bit quieter and I found some time to wind down.

As I took a sip from my bottle, a red headed girl appeared and was standing over me. She had a brown corduroy jacket with patches and band pins on her lapels. Her silhouette hovered, backlit by street lights beaming through the large picture window at the front of the house. She looked down at me and smiled.

I started a friendly nod to acknowledge her when she said “That was such a fun show tonight. You guys were so great.”

“Thanks,” I’m sure I said. She sat next to me and continued on.

“We don’t get a lot of shows in Sault Ste Misery,” she said with an eye roll and a pronounced accent on the misery. “Most touring bands cross down into the States and take the Interstate below the lake.” The lake of course was the monster Lake Superior. It was true most bands took that route. Driving over the lake by the Trans Canada Highway could be treacherous in those days.

I explained that tonight was only the third show of a month long tour and we were heading to the west coast. She smiled and took it all in. She had a dreamy look as I spoke about distant parts of the country. I suspected she was yearning to escape the Misery.

After a while she asked if I wanted to go outside.

“Um, not really,” I responded honestly. The couch was beyond comfy. Plus, I was exhausted. She seemed like she had energy to burn and going outside with her felt somewhat…dangerous.

“No, I’m serious, come with me!” she sort of pleaded as she rubbed her thighs.

Again I politely declined, though I enjoyed her company and was terrified to offend. I offered a little excuse about resting my bad knee which she promptly ignored.

She tried again. “There’s a corner store three blocks from here and I’d love to get more smokes. And I don’t want to go alone.” She tilted her head as she looked at me and conjured puppy dog eyes.

The ‘I don’t want to go alone’ tactic was hard to turn down.

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

She jumped up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out of my happy place in that deep couch. I followed her outside where she went into full flirt mode and my nerves kicked in.

“Look,” I said, desperately searching for a distraction, “Why don’t I pull you in that wagon to the store?” I playfully pointed to a little kids wagon by the side of the house. She laughed and agreed. I felt a sense of relief, knowing I could keep some distance between us for the three block trip.

I pulled her along the sidewalk and we made small talk I can’t remember.

We rolled into the corner store parking lot. The florescent lights from the store spilled out onto the pavement. She bounced out of the wagon and skipped through the door. She got her smokes and walked back out as she quickly opened the pack and lit one. I remember her looking up to the summer sky as she dragged hard on the cigarette. We stood there for what seemed like a long time. I figured she knew I was looking at her.

She eventually looked down from the sky and stared at me.

“Want one?” she said, breaking the silence and pointing the pack toward me. Her voice couldn’t have been more playful. My senses were tingling and given the choice, I wanted to get back to the loud party and the company of strangers.

“Oh I’m good,” I said. “Besides, it’s time to get back in the wagon.” I smiled and made a hand gesture toward the little wagon like a drunken concierge.

She squinted at me and took another long drag off her cigarette. Her eyes didn’t leave mine as she slowly blew smoke from her lips.

“Nope.” she said in her playful tone. “It’s your turn to ride.” She took the handle and turned away from me as her hair flung across her back.

I remembered my goal to keep the wagon between us, so I sheepishly agreed and sat down in the little thing. I pulled my knees up to my face and I could smell the evening’s spilled beer on my jeans.

She started to pull me up the street, like some magical creature with smoke billowing from the top of her head. The streetlights shone over her, reflecting shades of red and orange in her hair. There was a large band patch on the back of her corduroy jacket. I stared at it for three blocks while she giggled and smoked and pulled me back to the party.

******

I woke up in the van with sun beating down and the mid-summer temperature baking me like a dirty bun. With one eye open I peeked out the windows in the back of the van. We had built an upper bed back there that held a large mattress. It was the comfort zone of our van and could sleep two, maybe three. Our amps, guitars and drums were safely tucked underneath, only accessible from the back door.

Through the windows I could see a lot of activity in the parking lot: families milling about, people wandering around, staring at our van. I looked to the front of the van and I could see Johnny asleep in the passenger seat with his head on the dashboard. The passenger door was wide open, clothes hanging off the window which was rolled halfway down. On the drivers side, Wally had the seat back and was fast asleep. The driver’s door was wide open too.

I pulled my arm out of my sleeping bag and touched my sweaty forehead. I was trying to find the rewind button for my brain. I started to recount the previous night’s events as I lay there: There was a party. There was a red headed girl. I don’t remember her name. Did I get her name? There was a wagon. There was a corner store.

I looked toward the front of the van. Outside the windshield, I could see clothes hanging from the antenna and the hood: white T-shirts, a towel and a pair of ripped jeans.

Doug was sleeping on the backseat bench, just below me. I looked out the windows again. There were two little girls in their Sunday best pointing at the van. Their Mom had a look of disgust and was trying to pull them away. They were giggling while looking at the man sleeping with his head on the dashboard.

“Sunday best,” I thought to myself, my fuzzy brain coming to life.

Jesus Christ. The shock fell over me in a dark and hilarious way.

“We’re in a church parking lot.”

Lyrics:

And now you're into something
If I can get up off the couch
I hate the things you're thinking
As you reach to haul me out.

It's easy when it comes down to it
But it's the last thing that I need to be:
Close to you
Anyway.

A pack of smokes is why
That I should follow you outside?
And I'll pretend I'm sore
So we can both avoid the store.

Keep the wagon between both of us
Cause it's the last thing that I need to be:
Close to you
Anyway

A pack of smokes was fine,
But please don't make me follow you outside.
Cause now I know you more
I wish I had said, 'f*ck the corner store'.

Keep the wagon between both of us
Cause it's the last thing that I need to be:
Close to you.

This close to you.

My first attempt at Corner Store while writing songs on anything I could find.

The Stand GT in Burlington, Vermont circa 1992.