This is a meandering one, so maybe go get yourself a drink before reading any further.
In the summer of 1986, I was a college student between my freshman and sophomore years, spending half my break working as a surly dishwasher out in Westhampton Beach at Ina Garten’s Barefoot Contessa. It was by no means a glamorous job, sequestered, as I was, in the dishwashing station in the rear of the kitchen, just a stone’s throw from the outside dumpster and the canal. Outside the kitchen, it was celebs, `80s fashions and teenage wildlife, but back where I was, it was stacks of soiled baking sheets, filth-encrusted mixing bowls, sharp knives hidden in murky sink water and tireless airings of Black Flag and Iron Maiden. My family routinely got a tremendous kick out of bringing friends by the rear of the kitchen, on busy Friday nights, to watch me toil. I failed to see the humor in this and responded accordingly.
It wasn’t all drudgery, though. I made several friends and often spent nights out drinking my wages with them. One early August evening, we repaired to nearby Sag Harbor to a club called Bay Street to catch UB40 perform. I realize this wins me precious few points in the cool department, but we went with what we got. It’s not like New Order or Love & Rockets were swinging out to play gigs on the East End of Long Island … although we did also get INXS and the Fine Young Cannibals, if memory serves.
I’m not gonna lie, though — while UB40 are largely maligned in credible reggae circles for their paucity of authenticity (I’m trying to be diplomatic, here), I did quite enjoy Labor of Love from a year or so earlier, which my (now late) friend Danny had been a huge champion of. Maybe they lacked the ganja-toasted edge of Peter Tosh or the righteous indignation of Steel Pulse, but as a roundly reggae-ignorant rockhead, at the time, I was just fine with it. And hey … it was a night out with beer and girls. Who was I to complain?
To be honest, I don’t actually recall that much about the show beyond more or less enjoying it. I do remember spotting a long-lost childhood friend in the crowd — a kid named Jimmy Rothwell, who I’d formerly played “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” with a decade earlier — and having a beery reunion. UB40, for their part, played the hits, including the big ones off Labor of Love, and their then-new single “Sing Our Own Song,” seemingly oblivious to the irony of performing an anthem about the hopeful emancipation of apartheid-era South Africa to a club full of privileged, white Hamptonites. They closed, as I recall, with a rousing trek through the title track of their new record, Rat in Mi Kitchen (which, oddly enough, was retitled Rat in the Kitchen, here in the States).
As one does, despite my lukewarm affinity for the band, I dutifully bought a t-shirt, which was white with a cartoonish rat posed in front of a hypnotic black spiral, and the band’s logo on the back.
I wore that shirt for a little while, albeit not with a great deal of zeal. At some point, I believe I farmed it off to one of my nephews. The last time I saw it, it was on the back of my beach-lifeguard nephew Tristan, who’d chopped off the sleeves to showcase his guns, which are admittedly impressive.
Around the same time all of the above was going down, over in the UK, my wife (who I’d obviously not met, as yet) and her sisters also latched onto UB40. Peggy’s older sister Lizzie bought the 7” of “Rat in Mi Kitchen” (that’s me holding same, up top) and evidently played it with alarming frequency. To this day, it remains her favorite song.
At virtually every family event, Lizzie finds a way to play “Rat in Mi Kitchen.” It was kinda funny, at first, but now it’s just kind of predictable and, of course, annoying. At one recent point, I indulged Lizzie by treating her to the anecdote above, which made her squeal with jealousy.
After hearing the song played at so many family get-togethers, my daughter Charlotte has now been indoctrinated into the faith. When I told her that I’d seen UB40 on that tour and bought a shirt, her eyes bugged out. “WHERE IS THAT SHIRT NOW?” she demanded, although she was under the impression UB40 was a solitary individual, and not a band. I told her that it’s probably back at her grandmother’s house, if it’s anywhere, at this point.
The next time I was out at my mom’s, I searched the basement for the UB40 shirt, but came up empty, assuming that Tristan might still have it. As a lark, I hopped on the internet to see if I could track a version of the shirt down. I came up empty on eBay, but did manage to snag one off a website called Grailed. It wasn’t entirely cheap, but I figured Charlotte would love it, so I ponied up and ordered it.
Weeks went by, and I kinda forgot I’d ordered it …. until a mystery package arrived.
From a battered envelope covered with odd, unfamiliar stamps and odd lettering, the shirt was mine again. Closer scrutiny revealed that my seller was mailing the UB40 shirt from that 1986 tour … from war-torn fucking UKRAINE.
Now, I don’t know about you, but this instantly put things in a new perspective. Now matter what sort of stupid-ass strife you have going on in your life, I think you’re hard pressed to compete with some dude off in the wilds of Ukraine, busily stuffing a vintage concert t-shirt of little or no value into a mailer while the fucking Russian army is busy shelling his town. It certainly took the sting out of the higher-than-preferable price I paid for this silly garment. The guy even wrote to me asking if the package arrived safely and lived up to my expectations. What a true salesman.
A few days later, I packed the UB40 shirt, which has now crossed ocean after ocean, into a new mailer and bundled it off to my daughter’s college in Scotland as a surprise package. As expected, she was elated.
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