photo credit: Linda Dawn Hammond, IndyFoto.com
I met a cherubic, clean-shaven Cameron McGill, some time around 11 years ago (Seriously? Has it been that long?), when he waltzed into Schubas Tavern and simply asked someone there if he could open up for the band playing that night, Ours. I instantly fell in love with his voice, lyrics, and music. That performance was, as Humphrey Bogart said, “the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Soon I would also start incessantly begging for him to, ironically, “Play it again, Cam.”
Before I conceived of playing music myself, I immersed myself in the variety of music and performers in Chicago’s dingy, ill-lit, night-life locales. Since I already possessed a strong interest in photography, I merged my enthusiasm for music and words by taking photos at concerts and writing about them in my college newspaper, The DePaulia. First I merely roamed the local venues, where I waited like a patient puppy to ask permission to shoot the shows. Soon, however, I was catching a plane, riding a train, or renting a car to travel to remote gigs.
Much to the chagrin of my college roommate, Cam and the Army eventually allowed me to accompany them in the van on mini-tours. They referred to me, adoringly, as the unofficial, green-haired band-member, and although I was always too shy to admit it then, I loved my roll. I imagined myself the lovable orphan stowaway. With my frizzy, veridian braids, my often dusty cheeks, and my mishmash of country and punk costumes, I looked the part of the tomboy sister, and the boys became my adopted family, wherein each of them was a brother with a different, yet always protective, personality. Continue reading