I never got the chance to see Mother Love Bone. I met the bass player, Jeff (Ament), one time at the Alice in Chains Pain in the Grass show in the summer of 1989. Al Tompkins from my first band, Sledge, introduced us. We hung out for a second - nothing special - but at that point in time just being in a band put you in a fraternity. Soon enough Soundgarden would jump from their indie label to A&M. Alice in Chains had JUST signed to a major. The Posies already had the first record out on DGC. Mother Love Bone's Apple was to be released in the coming months. In little more than a year, the second bass player for Sledge would jump ship to join Green Apple Quick Step. It was all happening. 

After Pain in the Grass, Al and I got in his car and headed back to his mom's place - which was also the Sledge practice space in Fremont.  On the way, we came upon Jeff and his buddy SCREAMING down Dexter on the north side of Queen Anne on their bikes.  We gave ‘em a little beep-beep as we passed, and Al immediately started talking shit about Mother Love Bone.  Al knew everybody. He was old. At least to me. Older than his years. He was the most sarcastic person I had ever met, and, being too green to know the difference, I thought he was mean. Now I understand he was just one of those people always pushing the limits of what you could get away with musically and socially. He would push both those boundaries right snug up against the point that gets you into a fight or arrested. He was a master. And that made him hard to get along with. He was the epitome of old-school Seattle.

Months later, Sledge was booked to play the Squid Row on St Patrick's Day, 1990. Unfortunately for me, the Friday before, when I showed up back at work from my day's deliveries, the two men I mistook for corporate big-wigs turned out to be Seattle detectives there to arrest me for an incident that took place at a New Year's Eve party, some two-and-a-half months prior. Needless to say, it was all a big (BIG) mistake - a mistake that would win me a cost free weekend as a guest of King County along with a lifetime supply of being harassed trying to cross the Canadian border.

When the two dicks arrested me, they read me my rights - just like in the movies. So I said I understood them, just like everyone does in the movies. I had NO IDEA what the words REALLY meant.  But I said I did, and it was off to the King County station attached to the jail just above Pioneer Square. They ran me through the whole operation. Pictures, fingerprints, signatures...

Then they took me to an interrogation room where they explained to me that if I just told them what happened, I probably wouldn't go to jail. JAIL!?!  GOOD GOD!

I sang like a fucking bird. Told ‘em the whole, stupid story. They wrote it all down, I signed it, and then they took me to jail. I was an idiot, shit-for-brains kid with no idea what was going on, and those detectives were complete dickheads for taking advantage of it. Our hard earned tax dollars at work. 

It was a Friday, and since I felt like the worst thing that could possibly happen would have been for my parents find out, I was left with no one to call for help. The misunderstanding I was currently embroiled in involved a girl that was NOT my then girlfriend, so calling her seemed less than ideal. And my friends at the time were not the kind of guys that could bail you out of the pokey. So overnight it was to be. Other than, "Find the biggest dude in here, and make friends by offering to give him your desert for your entire stay," all I could think was, "I'm going to miss my gig."

I was super bummed.

After an entire day, Saturday night rolled around, and the show must go on... There were about a half dozen places to play shows around Seattle back then that didn't involve renting out a VFW, Elks, or Shriners Hall.  Even the Squid Row, which was a "real" venue, didn't have a P.A., or a stage - let alone microphones. It was a total DIY/basement party out in public kind of vibe.  At the Squid, you would set up your gear on the floor. There were no windows either. It would get so smokey that I distinctly remember walking out after shows there onto the sidewalk and exhaling smoke for a half dozen breaths. 

As I've mentioned, being in a band then was not like being a band now. Think of how many people you know that are or were in bands in the last 15 years. NONE of them were in bands in the late ‘80s early ‘90s. There was no MySpace assaulting you with five bands requesting your friendship every time you log on. There were no cell phones shouting group texts at you about performances you care nothing about. You couldn't even Google "live music Seattle 3-17-90" to find a show if you DID want to see some live music. There was no Stranger and the Seattle Weekly still employed friends of my dad's. It was for old fogies.

There was The Rocket, and there was KCMU. And it was good.

You didn't have to know anyone in a band, you just had to know where to GO.  The Rocket could tell you and KCMU could tell you, and more and more people listened and read to find out.  A band didn't need to have 100 friends guaranteed to show up in order to procure a gig, they just needed to have 45 minutes worth of good music. The CLUB had the draw. People would go out to see LIVE MUSIC, not necessarily specific bands. But if you DID have a friend in a band, and you were a live music fan, it was a very special time. It was like you were in on a secret. Seeing your buddy or your boyfriend (or girlfriend) or your favorite dishwasher at Mama's Mexican Kitchen rocking out in front of a full, smoky club - tangled with people you didn't know, doing the weirdest dancing ever seen this side of a Grateful Dead concert - was pretty amazing.

This was the atmosphere, and from what I understand, Sledge was already on stage when a bunch of people  - including my girlfriend - rolled into the Squid expecting to see me playing the drums. As it turned out when the fellas failed to hear from me for practice the day before the show, they somehow figured out my predicament and enlisted Steve Weid  - drummer for Tad and roommate to Al, and Al's mom Iris.  My girlfriend fought her way to the front of the stage and when they got to the end of a song, demanded, "Where the fuck is Geoff?!"

Over the PA, Al told her - and everyone else in the place - I was in jail for murdering someone.... That Al.

By Sunday, the word was out to my family and friends and the wheels of justice started turning in my favor. I had a bunch of visitor, including one good friend who before the year was out, would go from being a decorated Army retiree and union electrician (at 22-years-old) to doing time in a federal prison for bank robberies in three states after getting hooked on heroin. 

Sunday night, when I knew for certain I would be released sometime Monday, I stared east out the widow some eight stories up, looking over Interstate 5 and the western side of Pill Hill - and only a very small slice of the sky. It was here that I fully realized where I was and its implications - for the future of ANYONE in that position, guilty or not. It was a real wake up call.  That was the last day of my adolescents.

Monday, after an all day ordeal, I was released to my own custody. My girlfriend met me outside the jail. She took me to 13 Coins. At the time it was the only 24-hour fancy restaurant in Seattle. We ordered steak and lobster and it was the best meal I had ever had. Even though three days had been taken away from that I could never get back, I still felt I had somehow dodged a bullet. It was March 19, 1990 and it was the first day of the rest of my life.

As we were making the long skinny walk out, I happened to look into one of the booths along the windows. There sat that bass player, Jeff - who I had met at the Pain in the Grass. From the looks of it, the most of his band was there too. There were four of them sitting around the table with an older guy who I didn't realize until later was their manager. Jeff instinctively looked up at me - and recognized me - but kept eye contact for only a second with no effort to hide the heartbreak on his face. None of the others looked up from the decimated slump they all had in common.  Then I was outside and on with the rest of my life.

The next day I heard Andy Wood had overdosed and died.

Drummer Geoff Reading - who writes a bi-weekly online column (Fridays) for the Weekly Volcano called "Holding Down the 253" in addition to his weekly Wednesday music column - has played music in tons of Northwest bands - Green Apple Quick Step, New American Shame, Top Heavy Crush and most recently Duff McKagan's LOADED - to name but a few. He's toured the world several times over, sharing stages with the likes of Slipknot, The Cult, Buckcherry, Korn, Journey, The Sex Pistols, Nine Inch Nails and on and on. He has called Tacoma home since 2005, and lives in the North End with his wife and son.