ALMOST INFAMOUS - BUSTED AT BLUE CHEER

Live free or die—those words are emblazoned on license plates all across the Granite State, and they’re also the unofficial motto of biker culture. For decades, motorcycles (like rock ’n’ roll) have embodied the spirit of the American outlaw—of personal freedom against authority and convention. As a kid, my parents used to drive me to New Hampshire every summer to visit my grandparents, and each year I’d stare in excitement at the swarms of Harleys passing by us on the New England Thruway—wondering where they were all going, and what they would do when they got there. I later learned that one of the nation’s largest annual biker rallies was held in Laconia, NH—a usually sleepy town nestled between the White Mountains and Weirs Beach. I hadn’t been back up that way since my grandfather passed away several years ago, but when I read online in 2005 that Blue Cheer—the underrated progenitors of heavy metal (and winners of two 2008 Doobie Awards—see the story on page 46)—were playing in the US for the first time in 13 years at the rally, I knew it was time for me to go back.

I managed to get in touch with a guy who represented the band, who told me that founding frontman Dickie Peterson was a big fan of the magazine, and that if I wanted to drive up, he would set me up with free tickets and an exclusive interview. The next day, my cell phone rang—on the other end of the line was none other than Peterson himself, who offered me, in his gravelly voice, not only an interview, but a place to crash with the band. So on a warm mid-June morning, I packed a bag and headed north on I-84 toward the Broken Spoke Saloon and rock ’n’ roll history.

What should have been a five-and-a-half-hour drive ended up being eight, thanks to breaking down on the highway, some fucked-up directions from the yokels, and getting lost three times trying to find the right turnoffs on the unmarked dirt paths that pass for streets up there. I was supposed to meet the band at the farmhouse where they were staying, help them load up and catch a ride with them to the venue. But because I was so late, I was forced to find my own way to the Spoke and meet up with them there.

I’d never seen so many motorcycles in all my life. Driving around town in a Jaguar rather than a chopper elicited strange and unwelcome stares, and made navigating the narrow, crowded roads and finding parking nearly impossible. I finally got to the Spoke around 8 p.m., pushed through the swinging doors and made a beeline for the bar. It was a big place, all wood, with sawdust on the floor and a huge dirt backyard complete with a stage and food and clothing vendors. Finally, after about 30 minutes, I spotted him—a short, grizzled old stoner with a thick platinum-gray mullet, covered from head to toe in denim.

READ THE FULL ARTICLE IN THE AUGUST 2008 ISSUE OF HIGH TIMES