Cruising down 285, en route to the Ohkay Casino, in a giant pulsing beast of a car-a white two-door 1970 Chevy Caprice that goes by the name of "Mothra." The iPod shuffle has shifted from the dirty Berlin-rap of Peaches and now we are blasting Prince at top volume, selections from
Purple Rain
. "The Beautiful Ones," with its shimmering waterfall of angst from the Purple One, then "Take Me With U," with the timeless lyrics "To be around U/is so-oh right/ U're sheer perfection (thank U)/Drive me crazy/ drive me all night/ just don't break up the connection…," then "Let's Go Crazy," the latter conjuring the strange, melancholy flavor of the '80s, when even party songs were infused with apocalyptic themes.
The reason we're barrelling down the highway-myself and a few other friends-and listening to Prince is we're headed to the casino to catch Morris Day and the Time. You know what I'm talking about: Don't step on my Stacey Adams. Jerome. Chile sauce. Who will Appollonia choose?
So we've already whisked through Peaches, then "Jungle Love" and "The Bird" and halfway through
Purple Rain
by the time we reach Española, and here we are searching for the
bright yellow neon casino sign. I'm worried we're late, and every instance I ask "What time is it?" I giggle.
But it's nothing compared to the giggles when we get to the casino itself. The will-call is a lean-to portable card table set up in the middle of a floor full of slots. I go up to get my comp tickets, announcing proudly I'm from the Santa Fe Reporter. The tickets, supposedly reserved by the casino's PR guy "Clyde," are nowhere to be found. After much sifting through folders, they turn up under the heading "Taos News." Whatever-they're still free, right?
More giggles as we're informed that a shuttle will take us to the "venue." So we head back out to the front entrance to await the van. I ask my friend where the "venue" (it doesn't seem to have an official name) is, and he lazily points a short distance away. "That's it," he says, indicating a shadowed, creepy, closed tent-like structure that less resembles a rockin' auditorium than a secret apiary where the government performs secret experiments with specially trained killer bees. We opt to walk.
Inside, it's even more surreal. I've always thought that my stint years ago as a high school sports writer had prepared me for the shock of just how dingy and depressing the inside of a cavernous building can be. Trust me, spending lots of time in a Class A high school gym in some po-dunk town in southern Oklahoma should steel you against anything. But the interior of the "venue" resembles what I picture as the interior of a haunted Vietnam veteran's mind, or maybe that of a deranged clown: dark, echoing, cobwebbed.
The casino folks, bless their hearts, try their best. With gleaming, genuine smiles and tiny flashlights, they escort us to our folding chairs, though even the ushers get a little lost because the row and seat numbers are basically just taped on the chair backs.
The crowd is small-I've seen more people at a high school prom-but, despite the atmosphere, damn, they're enthusiastic. Everyone zips about with huge grins, Bud Light in hand, dressed in what I call "concert best": cheap leather jackets, white shirts and tight, tight jeans. As my friend and I are washing our hands in the bathroom, we hear the band introduced. A woman comes flying out of the stall, not bothering to wash her hands. "They're starting! Are they starting? I think they're starting!" She looks at us as she grabs for the door, "Ladies, have you seen them before? You are in for a show!"
And damn if she isn't right. As Day takes the stage with his trademark swagger (he hasn't aged a bit), white suit and hip swivel, a little twinge of adrenaline trickles through my belly. About half the Time consists of original members, the important ones, Day, Jerome, Jellybean Johnson and Monte Moir, and suddenly the asbestos-laden depresso-pod transforms into a gleaming time machine, transporting me back to 1984.
The show proves way out of proportion to the venue. There are lights, a double bank of keyboards facing each other and the Time's famous choreography. Best of all, there's the group's sexually charged guitar-based R&B, a sound I haven't heard live in years. Who knew I was so starved for it?
Still, the element of cartoonish surrealism lingers and catches momentum again when Day ("How you feelin', Santa Fe-Albuquerque?! Where the fuck are we? San Juan?") exhorts all the fine ladies in the audience to come on stage for an unbelievably awkward 12-minute grind session. Picture it, a rainbow of camel toes, about 20 in all, all housed in this husk of a building, gyrating in poor rhythm while Day strains to get the energy up. It is a lesser Chicanobuilt, if you can imagine. It is demeaning and bizarre, a failed bit that drags the air out of the room. It is strangely awesome.
After the scraggly parade of ladies is released on their own recognizance, there are only two orders of business left: "The Bird" and "Jungle Love." This is where the paranoid government apiary fears, the conviction that I will die of asbestos poisoning and projected embarrassment all disappear. The Time does not phone it in, and the rendition of their two greatest hits are a sublime mix of sex, funk and nostalgia. As we file out of the pod, I realize: Maybe Appollonia should have chosen Morris.
