Music and Memory (by way of Stray Cats)

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“Do people really not know who the fucking Stray Cats are?” Jeff Tweedy asked from the stage.

With mock incredulity, Tweedy explained to the sold-out Royal Theatre that the song he just finished was about the legendary rockabilly trio—not missing pets—after some Vancouver Island yokel in front shouted something about actual cats.

“The Stray Cats were the first concert I ever saw,” he then told us.

This came after Tweedy and his non-Wilco touring “family” band (composed of his two sons and his musical neighbours) played what has become my favourite track on his new, critically-lauded Twilight Override triple-album.

“Stray Cats in Spain” is a reflective vibe of a song—less a structured tune, and more a quivering thrum. A moment in time. The alchemy of music and memory.

The song recounts Tweedy seeing the Stray Cats again in Spain, decades after that first concert, and the warm authenticity a band emanates at just the right time. “Stray Cats in Spain” conveys the feeling of being away from home in almost-Covid times, and how a live show can deliver a needed sense of serenity.

Oh what a beautiful day

Following the smell of pomade

At an angle from today

The Stray Cats are playing in Spain

Stray Cats in 2019, rocking in the street

For me that night, Tweedy playing “Stray Cats in Spain” resonated with emotional contagion. This song about live music being played live for me triggered my own Stray Cat memories that commingled with his. I guess it was a personal concert moment, if you will.

Tweedy’s song reminded me just how intensely loyal I was to the Stray Cats as a little shit in grade 6. They were my very first band crush. From my Calgary bedroom, I played their cassette tapes until crinkly and warbled. My beloved band t-shirt (bought with my allowance from Sam the Record Man) triggered a letter home from my teacher, Mrs. Brosch, about my inappropriate, not-safe-for-school clothing.

Then this, which I’ll never forgive my younger-self for: June 9, 1983—on a school night—my mom was offered two last-minute tickets to the big Stray Cats concert at Calgary’s Stampede Corral and wanted to drive me and big brother Brent to see the show. However, with the long drive from the suburbs, we would’ve missed the first third and we had homework or an upcoming test or something…so we said NO. Even with mom’s nudging are-you-sures, we gave up our shot of seeing the Stray Cats at their peak.

What buffoons. Mom was always cooler than us, anyway.

I would exponentially make up for that mistake, around (sexy and) 17 years later, when I shared the stage with an actual Stray Frickin’ Cat.

It was around 1999 or so, when our band, The Dino Martinis, bagged a lot of international gigs after the whole swing/lounge scene went bonkers. This included weekend jaunts to Hollywood, playing plum clubs like The Viper Room, The Derby, and private functions with guys like Mr. Hanks:

Around that time, we were exiting another benefit gig (this one hosted by Glenn Frey), and wandered into the Cat Club on the Sunset Strip because it looked lively. Turned out the bar was owned by Slim Jim Phantom—drummer and one-third of the Stray Cats. Well, then.

Seeing my tenor sax case, Phantom invited me up to join some L.A. players (like Guns N’ Roses’ Gilby Clarke) and himself on his classic Stray Cat kit. It was an absolute gas. I sax soloed with a good rockabilly growl, and atoned for little Jordan giving up that Stray Cats concert way back when.

(I must note that, being cocksure in my twenties and enjoying creative gifts in my path, I forgot about my young, fanboy self. Instead of later thanking Slim Jim for his band’s musical footprint on my youth, I coolly bought beers from him behind the bar, and griped about the closet-sized bathroom being locked for way too long, to which he replied, “they’re probably having sex in there man, relax.”)

Still, there it was: a surreal moment in time. The Stray Cats transported me from a Calgary bedroom to a Sunset Boulevard stage. A moment, a memory. And a specific music that brought us full circle.

Now here were the Stray Cats again, sung about in a song by another music hero, just a hop away from my Vancouver Island home.

April’s Victoria show was my tenth time seeing Jeff Tweedy play in some form. And as he played “Stray Cats in Spain” about his moment in time with the band, I was right inside the song, my memories piled upon his memories, the music responding to other music, and all of it feeling familiar and life-affirming.