The Rocketship of Theseus
SMF. Sacramento Metropolitan Field. Sacramento International Airport. And I keep thinking of The Smurfs. La la la la la la la. This is how I’m getting to Los Angeles today to meet up with Nancy at the Teragram Ballroom. She’s literally on the road with Rocketship, headed to the third show of the 30th anniversary tour for ‘A Certain Smile, A Certain Sadness,’ an album we’ve had in our stacks for three decades, and she’s been playing bass and singing in this live iteration of Dusty Reske’s thing since September 2024. I helped out with wrangling their digital mixing board from September 2025 until two weeks ago. Nancy broke her right foot while walking Delia, and I’m now the “road hubby,” “stepper schlepper,” who’s temporarily stepped out of the frame and the van for the day to cash in on unused United air miles to avoid the planned six hour drive from Sacramento to LA.
They played The Chapel in San Francisco two nights ago, The Starlet Room in Sacramento last night (while a reconstituted Pharcyde pushed bass up the backside downstairs at Harlow’s). The show tonight is sold out. 750 tickets. All ages. They. Not we. But we did fly from PDX to SFO on Thursday, oversized and overweight suitcases in tow, containing the entire rig, Presonus digital mixer, Lilliputian guitar and bass amps, an origami drum kit, microphones, cables, in-ear-monitor transmitters and receivers, a travel wi-fi router, a Fender Strat and Mustang bass, and two Roland 707 Grooveboxes for all the synth and keyboard sounds on which 'A Certain Smile' floats (because you need a spare unit for mission-critical gear).
One phrase has been hovering like a carrier signal: the Ship of Theseus. It's the ear worm you'll never ditch, the tinnitus whine that never leaves, because once you hear it, it's everywhere. The vessel that's been sailing long and rough enough that every plank, every nail, every scrap of sail has been replaced, and at some point one of the deck hands wonders if this is the same ship on which they came on board years and seasons before. One might assert that the human body is such a ship, every cell eventually replaced, and if I am still I, then I must be me. Rock bands? The question cuts a bit deeper, but...
Cruising altitude somewhere above California. I'm tipsy, bordering on drunk, thanks to the sparkling wine before takeoff. On the flight to SFO I indulged in a complimentary old fashioned after staying away from alcohol for months. The blissful haze of feeling carefree at 35,000 feet curdled into nauseous questioning of life choices, so I should have known better, but given the circumstances…
I was sleep drunk a number of hours ago, waking up to my tablet alarm at 5AM after dropping asleep at 1AM, intending to provide enough lead time for Nancy to get up and ready to head out with the band in the van by 7AM to make the load-in at the Teragram. We snooze for an hour, get to the Courtyard's lobby Starbucks by 6:40 for oatmeal, Americano, cheese danish, caramel macchiato. Much less utilitarian than the carbs, caffeine, and cholesterol complimentary day-starter in Alameda the morning prior, and at $30 including tip, I shrug. Nancy notices a roach on the floor between our table and the counter, on its back Gregor Samsa-like, twice narrowly avoiding the shoes of the folks waiting to order, getting squashed the third time, but still twitching. "I can't remember the last time I saw a roach," Nancy notes. I can't either. I grab a napkin and ferry Gregor to the bin, a slight crunch between the fingers transmitting through the paper.
Andy, Rocketship's current drummer and the designated driver of the 15-seat "church van" has been loading up since before we were pondering breakfast. Rocketship's Serenity, I call it, which I guess makes Dusty Mal from 'Firefly,' and Andy, Wash. I'd pointed that out to Andy with the caveat that Wash bought the farm in 'Serenity.' "There's always the retcon," we console ourselves. Five minutes to seven, and Alex (sound engineer) hears a leaking tire. Andy thinks he can keep an eye on it and still make it to LA, but Kim (keyboards, vocals) makes the call to call AAA, and the full size spare goes on while the compromised unit literally whistles while losing air. Andy's grandpa once found a screw in a tire, got a drill and forced it in tighter, and it held for six months. "Screw it," gets a new meaning, but unlike gramps, Kim isn't taking chances, which is correct. I think it's around 8AM Serenity finally pulls away from the Courtyard, and I return to our room to shower and nap, sleeping through Nancy's Telegram message that they've stopped at a Les Schwab to patch the bad tire (because you need a spare unit for mission-critical gear).
I first heard of Rocketship through a pen pal in 1993. I think I ordered the "Hey Hey Girl" 7" from Parasol Mail Order from that recommendation; it's entirely possible that that friend sent me a copy. If you know the band, you know the song. Between that single and 'A Certain Smile,’ one might say that Rocketship blasted off and set a course, although the recent re-review of the reissue on Pitchfork has that publication's characteristic dig of wondering where he wandered from the trajectory of the album's earnest, heartfelt, vulnerable, and not a little joyful sound. Cells self-replace, band members get replaced, not unlike screwed tires and probably not patched up and kept as spares for the spares. Nancy and I road tripped to Denton, Texas in 1996 to see Dusty and his then-band. I took a Polaroid of Dusty on a lawn chair, seated before the keyboards. I don't remember much from that night, other than having to stop at a motel on the drive back because we were getting tipsy from exhaustion.
Nancy's been playing guitar and singing since forever. She told me stories of playing the local McDonald's as a child, and I've seen snapshots of her in bands during college and grad school. In an early encounter at a mutual friend's record shop in Austin, she played me a song she wrote, and I enthused about recording it whenever she made it to Houston. "Marigold" became the A-side of our first 7" as The Imaginary Friend. She dug out a copy the other day, and I wasn't too horrified by the arrangement and engineering decisions from 30 years ago. It's still a very good song. The flipside is a cover of "Hear From You," written by Robert Scott of New Zealand indie icons The Bats, and originally recorded by The Magick Heads. I'd forgotten the shoegaze whammy bar dive bomb that comes in on the chorus, and I visibly cringe when the chord hits. It's also still a very good song.
Over the summer of 2024, we recorded a cover of a song from Aki Kaurismaki's 'Fallen Leaves.' Maustetytot, literally "Spice girls" in Finnish, played this mopey, melodic marvel in a dive bar where the main characters meet over alcohol and cigarettes, two of the three main ingredients in a Kaurismaki film (the third, a dog, enters the story later). We turned it into a more upbeat version, overdrive bass and guitar, and Nancy learned the song phonetically (a bit of DuoLingo and other self-instruction helping out). We made a very hand-hewn video, Nancy posted it on Instagram, and Dusty, whom we'd met at a mutual friend's birthday gathering, messaged her. "Are you a bassist or bass-curious?" Nancy took a few bass lessons with a jazz/improv guy when we were in Houston, a decade-plus ago, but it hadn't clicked like being asked to join what one could uncharitably and not inaccurately frame as an indiepop heritage act.
As we're about to land at LAX, I see the ocean to the left, and we just flew over what I think is the aqueduct that got used for car chases in 'Grease,' 'Repo Man,' 'To Live and Die in L.A.,' and 'Terminator 2.' I think Snake Plisskin went jet skiing in it for 'Escape from L.A.,' but I've never ventured past his Manhattan shenanigans. I am propelled through the airport's causeways, and in a handful of minutes I'm in a Tesla Y, headed to the venue. I call Nancy, and they're about 25 minutes away, I'm 20 minutes behind them, and I arrive as the last of the gear is being brought in. There are three green rooms, one for each band. I help as I can getting Nancy's bass rig set up, making coffee (Andy comes through again with the "one inch rule" of how much grounds to put in the filter if you don't have a scoop handy), and taking a selfie with Nommi to send to our friend JJ who played bass in an early iteration of my band, Buddha on the Moon. The band are sound checking, and they sound glorious. At least from backstage, while my tinnitus yawns and stretches.
Hanger-on, barnacle, waving hi to folks in Kids On A Crime Spree and the Tony Molina crew (Hello Bill, hello Mario, I'm writing down your names because I'm going to get quizzed later, hello again Alicia and Tony), knowing how the bass pedals, amps, and direct input are connected, burning AI tokens to make a pastel-colored, slice-of-life anime style of the band in the green room. It looks like they’re all doom scrolling; they’re finalizing the guest list via Google Sheets. I've already forgotten the name of the Teragram's house engineer.
Fast forward 24 hours. McMenamin’s Kennedy School, Concordia, Portland, Oregon. The Cypress Room bar, Cajun tots and a non-alcoholic cocktail. Grey skies, jacket chill, The weather distinguishes the scenes: the cool balm of San Francisco’s Mission, an uncharacteristic downpour and thunderstorm in Sacramento, that SoCal sun of Los Angeles. All three California shows are in the rear view mirror, liked and reposted on Instagram. Nancy is down the hall, sitting in the alto section of Portland Sacred Harp’s weekly shape note singing.
Ten hours earlier we were both groggy in Burbank, having checked into The Tangerine and going to bed around 1AM, Nancy particularly upset after jarring her foot while unloading the van after Teragram. “I managed to make it this long without maybe reinjuring it,” she observed. “Well, at least it happened after the shows?” I offered. Some silver linings are actually lead, but she’s well enough in the morning to outpace me on the long walk from the rental returns to the terminal, and she’s singing the alto parts from the 2025 Denson Sacred Harp, because she wants to.
The LA show. I suppose I should know by now how memories age and ferment, and I guess this particular document is but one formulation of that pickling brine. 750 isn’t even rookie numbers for the stadium tier, but that’s not the altitude we’re flying in. A sold out show is just that, and what I will remember as a full floor singing along with a record that somehow managed to hold a cultural orbit for the past three decades. Los Angeles, mostly folks I’d unintentionally diss by calling them kids, a lot of Latino and Asians, all singing along. I did a short turn at the merch table while Alicia was on stage with Tony Molina, and I got some face time with some of those kids who were more than patient with someone who’d never run a Stripe POS app until a few minutes prior. T-shirts. Lots of t-shirts, surprisingly few LPs, and all the CDs had sold out (I wasn’t told of the inventory situation, so I confessed ignorance and stupidity while apologizing profusely). It’s one thing to look at an audience from the stage or through streaming analytics; handing them a medium and a large and ringing up a payment after they decide is another. So is watching someone’s face light up when you sell them the last shirt in their size.
Let’s see. What else? Going to dinner with the band and Nommi, asking AI on the sly about what Indian dishes are suitable for sensitive tummies, wobbling back to the Teragram and being let in by a security team that makes an NFAC kill team look like kindergarteners, jumping in behind the merch table, then rushing back stage to help Nancy get her bass rig and IEM set up, hanging out just outside the frame of stage right snapping photos of the band from the back with Andy's camera. Nancy taking a photo of the audience making heart shapes after the last song as she's leaving the stage. The takedown and packing of the gear, Kim's brother hanging out with us and taking her home while the rest of us make our way through LA's uniquely Gothic tableau of grit and grime to check in at The Tangerine. The street people right out of ‘Prince of Darkness,’ the empty but bright Burbank streets on the other side of midnight reminding me of the star crossed lovers in 'Miracle Mile'.
Last fall, the band did a video shoot for The Big Box Set, a public access-inspired YouTube channel run by Elyse and Alex (the flat tire spotter), and during a break Dusty wondered out loud, “Is this a Rocketship cover band?” I thought of and cited Mark E. Smith: “If it's me and yer granny on bongos, it's the Fall.” To be fair as many iterations of Rocketship have flown, the personnel changes pale compared to The Fall’s sprawling family tree. Yes, he’s the only person from ‘A Certain Smile’s lineup, and he’s also the guy who wrote and recorded the whole thing. You look at all the crossed out names on Rocketship’s Discogs page, and you’d at least raise an eyebrow. A band with a 75% personnel drift, but songs and arrangements locked in well enough to resonate with a full house. Loudly.
In the fatigue-tinted afterglow of the after show, someone who will remain nameless wandered into the green room and played for us their cover of “We’re Both Alone,” a sassy reimagining of the midtempo earnestness into a bit of Bossa Nova sassiness that had me thinking of Stephin Merritt. I think they really wanted to play it for Dusty, and asking him about it the next day, they didn’t get that chance. “Songs are like vintage clothes,” I observed. “Someone made them, someone else wore them, you get to make them yours, and eventually someone else might make them theirs.”
7 PM Sunday, twenty four hours after watching people, places, and things come together for Rocketship’s hour of magic. I’m about to crash after a restorative bowl of ramen. We’ll spring Delia from doggy camp tomorrow, and she’ll have to go back for one more night when the band plays Seattle next week. It’s the same ship, different crew, but it flies true.
Afterword
They came back smelling like airports and other people's floors. The tall one's voice was wrong — quieter, scratchier, like when he talks to the rectangle too long. The other one had that thing on her foot again. I don't know what it is. It has a blue button. I've decided it's furniture.
They were gone for a long time. I know this because I slept four times at the place that isn't home, where the water bowl is different and someone else's dog had been in my spot. They put a cloth on me when I left. Rainbow. I didn't ask for it. I wore it because arguing takes more energy than compliance, and I wanted to get in the car.
The tall one fell asleep on my couch before I got back. I know because it smelled like him when I reclaimed it. He does this. He goes somewhere, comes back tired, lies on my couch, and then wants to walk me like nothing happened. I allow it. The walk is non-negotiable regardless of his schedule.
Apparently they were at a show. I've been to exactly zero shows. I've heard the music from the room where the guitars live. It's fine. I prefer when the other one sings in the kitchen without the amplified parts. She was singing something in the kitchen before they left, and she's been singing since she got back, and I don't know why they had to leave for that to continue.
They keep looking at a rectangle and showing each other pictures. There is a van involved. I do not like vans. There was apparently a tire, which I understand is a round rubber thing, and it broke, which I understand is what things do.
The tall one talks to the rectangle more than he talks to me. The rectangle doesn't need walks. The rectangle doesn't enforce the cheese tax. The rectangle has never once told him to stop typing and go outside. These are my contributions and they are undervalued.
I have no opinion on the Ship of Theseus. I am the same dog I have always been. My bowl is in the same place. My spot on the couch is the same spot. The blue furniture on the other one's foot will eventually leave and the foot will smell normal again. Things change around me. I remain.
The cheese tax is due. It is always due.
I'm glad they're home.
— Delia, Portland, Oregon. April 2026. Uncompensated, underappreciated, correct about everything.