I guess it was 1994 or so, and some guy was crowding right behind me into the single bathroom stall at Maxwell’s nightclub in Hoboken. People always complained about the filthy bathroom at CBGBs, but at least no one was serving food at CBs. At Maxwell’s, the bathroom facilities always consisted of one overworked toilet and a urinal with a trash can liner taped over it because it was out of order. This at a venue that combined a 200-person-capacity live music space AND a restaurant, with two bar areas.
“Little personal space here,” I said wearily.
“Don’t worry,” the guy behind me said. “I won’t tell anyone how small your dick is.”
I looked over my shoulder at my stall-mate. “Mojo!” I said. “What’s up? Pleased to meet ya.”
“Is it okay if we don’t shake hands?” Mojo said. “I’m gonna pee on your leg, if you don’t hurry up there.”
Mojo Nixon had just completed a perfunctory sound check on the tiny stage in the back room. It had been some years since Mojo’s late-80s MTV heyday, and there were probably 40 patrons in the bar, a half hour before showtime. Nobody really cared who was stuffing Martha’s muffin, anymore. I didn’t have a ticket to the show, but I rarely had a ticket to any show at Maxwell’s. Usually I’d wander over from my apartment at 8th and Garden, walk into the front bar, and listen in to the first few songs being played on stage. If I liked what I heard, I might push through the swinging doors that divided front and back areas, hand $8 to a girl sitting on a stool behind a cigar box filled with cash, get my wrist stamped, and see the show. Such was the case with Mojo Nixon, who may or may not have been there with his band the Toadliquors. I can’t remember. Continue reading