An Evening with Surf Rock Artist Donovan Frankenreiter

A few weeks ago I began the tedious task of planning what I was going to do for my wife's birthday. I'd received strict instructions from Brittany to limit my spending due to our ever dwindling budget. What was a compassionate, always on the lookout to do nice things for his wife, hubby to do?

After twiddling my thumbs for days and pounding ideas around in my brain like a game of Bop 'Em, I received the phone call that terminated my creative cold streak and shocked a few volts of excitement through my veins. My friend Caleb called me on a miserable, rainy day to inform me that he'd seen a flyer showing that Donavon Frankenreiter was playing at the SoapBox in Downtown Wilmington. The date…a miraculous August 22, 2006. Brittany's birthday. Cha-Ching!

No boring surprise parties. No dinner and a movie formula. Brittany was to be serenaded by one of her favorite bands on her birthday. Man, I'm good. Real good.

I immediately popped the Jetta into fifth gear, pressed my Topsiders to the pedal and floored it all the way to Military Cutoff where my office is located. I hopped onto my laptop, surfed the Internet a bit until I located a web portal that allowed me to purchase tickets online and I printed them off. Two tickets later I was a saved man. ETix.com you are my invisible hero.

Fast forward to the morning of August 22nd, 2006. Using the "shock and awe" birthday campaign, I'd started the morning off by taping a little Happy Birthday homemade sign to the refrigerator, her first pit stop every morning after executing her usual series of yawns. She'd be surprised, and immediately I'd received 10 Hubby points right off the bat. I accumulate these points so eventually when I do something bone-headed I just cash the points in and defeat her objections.

Anyway, the sign was killer. I mean, the thing had balloons drawn onto it. How can you possibly beat a handmade sign with perfectly drawn balloons? I'll tell you how…You can't. So don't even attempt it. And of course, I had included a birthday card confessing my usual "Love You's" and "The only thing we need is each other" quips.

Besides, Brittany and I had created our own holiday deemed, "Birthweek," an invention that is heralded by many as the most fabulous holiday since "Festivus" from Seinfeld. Birthweek is our way of extending the excitement of a Birthday to a week long event, requiring me to baby Brittany and cater to her every interest all week long. If she wants a back massage, then these bony little fingers better get to work.

After a few strategic phone calls throughout the day reminding my wife to have a "Happy Birthday" the evening rolled around the rain showed no mercy. I wasn't about to let a few puddles shake the fact that Donavon was here. He was in town. And you know what, Donavon is such a cool cat that I bet the raindrops simply bead up upon contact, roll right off of him, and before the drops hit the ground they've converted to Jack Daniels. He always stays dry. What a bro…

Seven o'clock is upon us and we park just a few spaces away from Fat Tony's, a cozy little pub that is dimly lit and offers a great beer/wine list. We charged through the rain like Reggie Bush dodging linebackers and made it to cover under the awnings. Caleb and his wife, Allen, were already waiting on us so it took no time to find a table. Two Miller Lites and three slices of delish cheesy pepperoni pizza later we paid down the debt on our bill and headed just down the street to the dive known as The Soapbox.

The place couldn't be any more Indie. Anytime there is a Laundromat on the floor directly beneath the stage, not to mention that they sell detergent near the bar, you know you're in for a good night worth of cramped standing room and an intimate setting with the entertainment. One hand stamp later, we were in the zoo of a place that was already packed at 8:15. We got our beer appetizers, deciding to stick to the Miller Lite for our first choice, and made our way to the front of the stage to see the opening act, a big husky of a man known as The White Buffalo.

After ten minutes of standing idle a large, thick bearded man with long hair and a dirty flannel shirt stretch over his lumpy body took the stage. I'm willing to bet this whale of a man is The White Buffalo, and I'm liking my odds. My suspicions were confirmed when threw the guitar over his shoulder and the words, "White Buffalo" was etched in white lettering onto his guitar strap. He cracked open a fresh cold PBR, and got to work doing what he does best. White Buffalo has a very distinct, raspy voice that at times can be mono-toned until he breaks it with his intense and emotional choruses.

He strummed the guitar with a vengeance, as if he were reliving the heartbreak he now sang about and he was looking for something to take it out on. Rather than strumming, he pounded and plucked and I was waiting for a string to pop but it never happened. The highlight of his set was when he merged one of his originals into the Johnny Cash classic, Folsom Prison Blues. Cheers immediately broke out and White Buffalo now had a crowd singing the familiar words that now exited from his big, beefy lips. His style was like no other; but I can say he was fond of the outlaw, folksy sound that made The Devil Went Down to Georgia so popular. To date, I've never seen a musician so intense and focused as he was during his set. His set was about an hour, if I remember correctly, and I was impressed. A White Buffalo fan was born.

By 10:15 the place was a sauna. I was visualizing in my head about my romance with the rain after the show and how it was going to cool me off. I was just ready for Donavon. Within minutes after The White Buffalo drank his last PBR and exited stage left the techs were on stage tuning the equipment for Donavon. This was a good sign. Donavon was, in fact, coming. It wasn't some cruel joke my friend Caleb was playing that day with the phone call about the flyer. At around 10:20 Donavon came on to the stage. Wow. It was a scene right out of the 1970's.

Donavon wore tight, flared white pants with a vintage jacket, a torn black tee underneath and capped off with a green hippie hat. If you didn't know Donavon's music, and you didn't understand his style then you'd think he was one crazy mother f'er. But for him, it works. He can get by with wearing stuff like that because he is Donavon Frankenreiter and he was about to give 500 screaming fans what they wanted. The man grew up a surfer, renouned as being one of the biggest free surfers in the world, and his relationship with Jack Johnson was all the exposure he needed to start an underground fan club. His music is driven by funk, blues, and an arsenal of irresistible grooves.

Brittany and I exchanged a few words about Donavon's attire and turned our attention to him. Caleb and Allen at this point had retreated to the back for some fresh, cool air. We were right in the midst of the battlefield. And Donavon was leading the charge.

He opened up with the riff driven That's Too Bad, a song with a thick bassline, and guitar parts that were hot enough to set his Wah Pedal on fire. Our adrenaline was pumped but he immediately slowed things down a bit with a few of his rootsy low key hits off his first album with Brushfire Records. He rarely spoke to the crowd, with the exceptions of a few introductory comments like, Nice to see you guys here. Had a great time in your town today. Tried surfing, but the storms wouldn't let us.

Taking White Buffalo's lead, Donavon decided to mix things up a bit with his nice transition into the Skynard classic, Simple Man, paying tribute to our southern state. He played a selection from his first and second CDs, surprising me at times to forego some obvious choices in the more catchy tunes and instead playing songs that got the crowd more involved with funk, sunkissed rhythms and also balanced by his more soft ballads. Donavon making sweet love to my ear drums. And it felt damned good.

One highlight for me was a slow, acoustic version of Call Me Papa where Frankenreiter confesses he wrote the tune for his son, Hendrix. Does that name give you any indication as to his devotion/love for music? He's not simply a bored surfer turned musician, he's a real one-of-a-kind talent that's always had a passion for creating music.

Remember the green hippie hat he wore? Three quarters into the show Donavon, now jacketless and bearing his torn, vintage black tee with rings of sweat across the front and back, takes his hat off and launches it into the crowd. If Donavon was Randy Johnson, then I was Jorge Posada. (That's a New York Yankees baseball reference for those that don't follow) The hat came in my direction, however, I wasn't expecting a slider from Frankenreiter. It curved to my left. I jumped the highest vertical of my life and extended my left arm out to catch it like an outfielder but I came up empty handed. The guy in the baby blue shirt next to me caught it. Yep…I know. It would've made a great birthday present to Brittany.

I couldn't shake my disappointment, but I still paid attention to the show to the best of my abilities. Donavon's set lasted for another twenty five minutes and many of the songs he extended the original by adding in a few clever guitar, drums, and bass solos to let the remainder of his band shine in the spotlight. Donavon closed the show with Move by Yourself, an anthem many believe is aimed at his recent feud and departure from Brushfire Records with Jack Johnson to his new home at Lost Highway, a label that calls itself father to the likes of Johnny Cash and Ryan Adams.

Move by Yourself was so far probably the song of the night, and he had perfectly orchestrated the song selection to climax at this particular moment. The whole "going out with a bang" scenario. He said his goodbyes, and as he walked behind the curtain the crowd began shouting Donavon, Donavon, Donavon! Within seconds he was back on for an encore. And this time he had a friend. The White Buffalo, cigarettes and PBR in hand, was back for more.

The first song from his encore stole the thunder from Move By Yourself. It was a cover of The Band's song, The Weight. White Buffalo herded himself together and huddled around the mike, puffed the remainder from his cigarette just in time to sing the opening line, Pulled into Nazareth, I was a feelin' about a half past dead. It turned into a giant sing-a-long session for the crowd, especially on the chorus: Take a load off Fannie, take a load for free; Take a load off Fannie, and and and you can put a load right on me. It was such a feel good song for a feel good moment.

He had one last song to sing, from his first CD entitled, It Don't Matter. Odd choice for his closing song, being that it was never a radio hit and is not on most people's list of favorite Donavon songs. But it worked. Halfway through the song Donavon jumped off the stage and waded through the crowd like surfing in the ocean, until he stood a foot from me. He took the microphone and took turns singing the song with those in the crowd, giving us a chance to hear ourselves over the speakers. I laid my hand on Donavon's arm like he was some sort of zoo animal.

Maybe a little too far, huh? I didn't care, it was Donavon Frankereiter's arm. That arm's helped create a lot of great baby making music. The song finally completed and he thanked the crowd for a wonderful time. Elvis, or should I say Donavon, left the building in great fashion. Only the sound of reverb bouncing off the amplifiers, putting us in to a trance like state as he walked by. All he needed was a smoke machine to solidify the moment.

That was our night. Brittany, happy with the show and tired from the dancing, retired at 12:30 that night and retreated to bed. She had a great birthday, great new memories, and a great stamp on her hand to serve as evidence of that time. I, tired as well, laid by her side with a smile on my face. Mission completed.

Husband of the Year strikes again.