INTRODUCTION

Toward the end of my freshman year of college, I found myself in a four piece synth-pop outfit that had managed to eke out a modest following with the radio friendly “I Want to Kill My Roommate.” At eighteen years old, having been recently transplanted from a tiny farm town in Connecticut, I was on top of the world. It was an incredible thrill to play gigs at venues around Boston such as The Channel, TT the Bears, and various MIT holes-in-the-wall along the Cambridge side of the Muddy Charles River. But by the time my sophomore year rolled around, unfortunately, my band mates and I were embroiled in the proverbial differences of opinion. And soon, that musical adventure fizzled and popped.

My buddy Tim swung by my dorm room one afternoon to find me sullen, despondent, packing up my bass and shoving it underneath my bed in a huff. In response to his raised eyebrow I blurted out, “I’m quitting the music scene. I’ve tried and it’s too damn hard, man!” Tim proceeded to slap both sides of my face, in refined eighteenth century style, forehand then backhand. He grabbed both of my shoulders and shook me firmly decreeing, “No!” I went to bed that night taking Tim’s counsel to heart. It was the very next day when I picked up a copy of the Boston Phoenix newspaper and saw those four words in the Classifieds section that forever changed my life: “Catunes seeks Bass Player”.

Florian Hall, Dorchester, MA, Spring – 1988

In the wee early days of Mark Morris and the Catunes, stories abounded of the lead singer’s… how shall I put this?… rambunctious behavior. And by the time I joined the band, I had a front row seat. Back in the late eighties we would play three sets a night, every Thursday night, at a VFW hall to throngs of loyal and very energetic south shore kids. The local buzz these folks created in those early days would lay the foundation for what was soon to come. Anyway, at this one particular show who walks in but Marky Mark Wahlberg. But back then he wasn’t Marky Mark yet; he was still just Donny Wahlberg’s (of New Kids on the Block fame) little brother. I can’t remember exactly how it all started, but before I realized what was happening Mark Morris is on the microphone leading the entire house in a boisterous chant: “New Kids suck! – New Kids Suck! – New Kids SUCK!” I watched, transfixed – almost as if in slow motion, Marky Mark plowed his way up through the center of the crowded dance floor, his right arm cocked way back – ready to punch – as he swiftly approached our lead singer. Then, just as they were nose to nose, out of nowhere two gigantic doormen grabbed Marky Mark by both arms and dragged his ass out the front door. Whew! “Man,” I said to myself, “this guy Mark Morris is one ballsy cat!”