Gladys the van and FPM have been on my mind since this post the other day about the old band rehearsal house.

As the keeper of the van, I remember getting a literal crash course in brake calipers while driving Gladys to one of our first shows, at a hall called the Little Devils Shack, as I recall. It was named after the Belleville, IL-based Little Devils football team, and I suppose it was their home base when folks like us weren't renting it out on the weekend.
While driving either to the same rehearsal house referenced in the earlier post above, or maybe from that house to the show in Belleville, one of the wheels just kind of locked up—like, the brakes were stuck or something.
That's exactly what was happening: one of the brakes on one of the wheels locked up and held on for dear life as we somehow pushed the old girl through the pain and on to the gig. No doubt squealing, and definitely pulling to one side with great conviction and might.

We pulled our wounded vehicle into the Citizens Park entrance, which led back to the Little Devils Shack, tucked behind the property next to the railroad tracks.

Our friend Erin, a budding photographer, took our first official 8x10 black-and-white promo photo (below) out in the back of the building that night.

Here's what it looked like today in that same spot behind the old Little Devils Shack (not called that anymore, I suppose):

I remember opening with the song "Scary Spiders"—about three minutes of a haunting bassline with Scott doing a low-key vocal thing before the drums and guitar finally kicked in. It featured a slow, very heavy four-on-the-floor rock beat and a distorted guitar part chugging along a la The Melvins.
Tim, Dave, and I had actually opened for the Melvins not too long before that, back when we were still a band called Dementia 13—which featured Tim's brother Dan O'Saben on vocals and a completely different repertoire of songs.
The people there who knew us from the Dementia 13 days had no idea what to expect from the new rock entity known as Fragile Porcelain Mice. I remember not really knowing what to expect either. But when the first big crash cymbals kicked off the heavy, driving rock—almost metal, probably—section of the opening song, something clicked.
I didn't know it yet, but that busted-brake gig at a rented-out football shack next to the railroad tracks was the start of a 25-year ride.
