Stockton doesn't seem to belong in California. The whole nine hours we drove from Portland, we saw some gorgeous country. Northern Cali: mountains, rivers, ocean, greenery, vineyards. What we saw of Stockton seemed entirely incongruous with it all.
And then, we pull up to the Blackwater Cafe without a second to spare. By the time we loaded into the tiny coffee shop with hardly a stage to mention and a PA smaller than some boomboxes we've seen, the opening band was finishing their last song.
Most places you play in America, the audience does one of three things. They ignore you, they dance, or they stand around with drinks at their chest like highschoolers around a keg. At the Blackwater Cafe in Stockton, California, they sit and listen at full attention. All eyes on the band. And then they clap between each song. Strangest thing, man. They were enthusiastic, no doubt, but they had an odd way of showing it. Like you're performing for your family in their living room. That's it--that's exactly how it felt. Not ideal, but strangely comforting.
We made a few friends, and my best friend, Matt did the long-ass commute from the pretty part of Cali to see us. We drank, ate some of the food they make at the cafe, which was delicious. We met a gradeschool teacher who asked us if we had a joint. (She didn't ask us for marijuana. She wanted a joint.) And during the following band's set, her best friend screamed out, "I love this place! If it weren't for the Blackwater, Stockton would suck!"
Hell yeah. If it weren't for the Blackwater Cafe, Stockton would probably suck. We'll definitely be back.
Keith
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