While I’m aware numerous articles have already appeared in this, and other, top shelf, highly-respected music and entertainment periodicals — regarding the much anticipated reunion of one of the original, late ‘80s early ‘90s south-end rock bands, SQUIRT — I also remember that you couldn't swing a cat through the issue of Rolling Stone after Kurdt Cobain “passed” without seeing another page from someone needing to offer up his or her two cents on the subject. There were at least a thousand articles about how the ol' boy’s life and death spoke to the emotional tides of a generation and birthed the first stage of a cancer that would consume and destroy the very industry that created the boy wonder. 

In the vain, if this is — as I fear — the last time we will be graced with the greatness of rock created by Electric Vee Vee Roark, Eric “The Swede" Olson, and the FUCKING LEGENDARY Dick Rossetti (aka, Reg Slade, aka Ric Caesar, aka Ric Jet, aka Richie Buttocks, aka Rick Shabazz etc, etc) — not to mention whatever drummer they honor with an invitation to play with them (in this case it will be yours truly) — I say this last gasp of true, pure, honest, well-crafted, passionate and (hopefully) well-executed rock is at least as important — in its impact on our generation and (what's left of) the "industry" — as the tragic demise of a guy who loved to get high, play music, and then immortalized and martyred himself only to go live forever as a 27-year-old on t-shirts, posters and classic alternative radio stations everywhere.

Long before Napster, file sharing, and burnable CDs, Kurdt Cobain and his band were credited with the destruction of the music business. Cobain didn't have fancy clothes, or fancy stage theatrics, or even fancy songs. He just got up on stage and gave all that was inside him. But Nirvana was only one band in a region full of bands doing that — a region full of bands that knew damn well there was never any payoff to all this — a region full of bands that knew it was just the best possible way to spend your time, maybe get to drink some free beer, and maybe, MAYBE ... get a couple of bucks to put in your gas tank. The Northwest was full of bands back then that were passionate — bands that were AMAZING. They played for the love of music and created a community, before words like "scene" and "rockstar" became sarcastic disses — before the collective sounds that were being created became such a worldwide presence that "they" had to give it a name.

Squirt was easily as good as any of the bands that scored a winning lottery ticket, and far better than most of the ones that had any success at all.

And you have but three more chances to see them crank up the rock —before another tragic death befalls our fair city's "scene."

Editor’s Note: Squirt, with Mr. Reading manning the skins, rocked Hell’s Kitchen in Tacoma last night. Stay tuned for a review of the show from Joe Izenman. If you have yet to get your Squirt fix, check out the band at the Wonder Ballroom in Portland tonight, tomorrow on KEXP at 6 p.m. and live at the Tractor Tavern at 8 p.m., or on Sunday at 4 p.m. at the Sunset Tavern in Seattle.