Touring across the U.S. with a band to promote your second full-length album isn't a bad place to be for a 23-year-old. Trevor Straub, better known to his fans as Pookie, is pretty much living out his dream. He only pays $200 a month in rent, which affords him a closet that he's called home for the last three years on Telegraph Avenue and 36th Street in Oakland. While that's probably not most people's ideal living situation, it's a lifestyle that makes his decision to go on a 25-city tour in as many days with Pookie & The Poodlez that much more appealing.
"Young Adult," released on Southpaw Records in September, very much follows in the footsteps of other former Bay Area lo-fi rockers like Nobunny and Hunx (and his Punx). Straub holds high opinions of both these acts, who have since moved on to other locations.
His ten-song album packs the perfect punch of drum-machine pop and garage rock with titles like "Gonna Make Him Mine (Tonight)" that explore sexual fantasy and obsessive desires, taking cues from the angst-ridden teen, doo-wop era anthems, but with a modern twist. Pookie, pretty much a living cartoon character, sings in an immediately recognizable nasally hi-tone about being tongue-tied at the mere sight of the boy he thinks is the raddest thing in school. With his pitch conveying a certain brattiness, he's determined to get inside his pants, and fast.
But he also touches on getting "shit on" growing up as a punk living in the suburbs, which for Straub was reality. At his age, it must still be fresh on his mind.
"Antioch was not an okay place to be gay," he said. "Kids will beat you up if they're bored with no hobbies. I played guitar for hours and hours as a teenager. There's nothing to do. That's how I got all my aggression out."
We sat on the curb outside of Krystal, a Southern fast-food chain, where he enjoyed a smoke before heading inside. Between gigs in Nashville and Little Rock, Arkansas, he was surprised at how cheap cigarettes were in Memphis. Here, he had just finished playing his set at Gonerfest 12, an important annual tastemakers' showcase leaning towards intensity and abrasiveness. Hundreds of Goners pack venues for three nights of music before heading to the bar for after-parties where bands (not DJs) can be caught in full swing well past 3:30 a.m.
"Out here [in Memphis] it's all based on chops and your guitar-playing skills," he said. Pookie's freshly-dyed hair was shocking orange, just a few shades from the cherry-red Freeze beverage he bought me.
His guitar malfunctioned mid-set during Friday afternoon's Buccaneer Parking Lot Rock show, rendering his Fender useless. Without an instrument, he continued singing to the backing of band mates Shelby O'Neal on drums and Chevelle Wiseman (of Guantanamo Baywatch) on bass. He called for a loaner, playfully mocking the "dudes" in the audience who all brag about their Gibsons, and was eventually appeased when a fellow musician presented him with another Fender that had been floating around. This one matched the pastel of his dirtied pink Chuck Taylors. He finished the set barely missing a beat.
"I thought being in a queer band was how to meet guys," he said with slight disappointment inside the fast-food joint. "The last boy took an Uber to my house wasted at four in the morning and I had to work at 10 a.m.," he lamented. With only a few notches in his belt, he said he wants an "experienced guy to show him things."
"I'm getting letters from kids telling me they've come out as being gay or bisexual to their parents because they listen to my music. I think basically everyone questions their sexuality at certain times. I mean, I've had girlfriends and boyfriends."
As for his own parents, who were once heavily into religion, something they've since renounced, he said they've never really talked about it.
"I'm sure they know, with, like, the Internet. But I've never even had like a boyfriend long enough to bring him home for Christmas or anything like that. I guess I'll just cross that bridge when I finally want to bring someone home."
It's probably safe to assume his parents do know and that they support him fully.
"A long time ago my parents were just like, 'You know what? We don't know what's wrong or right. Do what your heart tells you to do. Just follow your heart and you can do whatever you want.'"
His parents are about to celebrate their 30th anniversary in December and the lineage of a strong family bond runs deep. His grandparents, who can be heard singing "Happy Birthday" to him over the phone in one of several audio clips on the new album, just celebrated their 60th.
"I think being the youngest, they never told me I couldn't do anything. They were like 'Yeah, do it. Figure it out.'"
After a two-year stint in private school, which he calls the "worst years of his life," his parents let him drop out of high school his sophomore year.
"I got fucked with so hard. My voice was ten times higher than it is right now. I was basically like the skinniest, smallest little kid."
After reaching a deal that he'd earn his GED when he turned 18, Pookie started playing in hardcore bands. "I've basically been playing music ever since then."
He has two sisters and a brother who's eight years older. He'd watch "Clueless" with his sister and all her cheerleader friends, but he'd wrestle with his brother as if to balance out his testosterone levels.
"They never shit on me at all," he said of his siblings. "They made me tough in ways, but only super loving."
He remembered how they let him tag along to parties with them when he was 12 and around the same time, took him to his first concerts.
A momentary lull in our conversation reveals Green Day's "Time of Your Life (Good Riddance)" is playing noticeably over the speakers in the fluorescently-lit dining room. As if by coincidence, he notes the absurdity that it's playing during his interview and we chuckled over our frozen drinks.
Strangely enough, Pookie basically grew up at a funeral home from the time he was six, until about 11.
"My mom did hair and make-up and she was the receptionist. People would hire her to sing at a bunch of funerals and stuff."
That's where he met 'Metal Tom,' a metalhead embalmer who played an instrumental role, giving him his first guitar and amp and the nearly literal death-metal roots that would ignite Pookie's musical curiosities.
"I thought he was really cool always wearing Iron Maiden, Sabbath and Judas Priest T-shirts. He taught me how to play 'Iron Man'. He'd play the drums in the chapel and there'd be like, caskets around."
But being Christian, they'd change the lyrics to funny things like, "And when darkness struck the hour, I forgot to take a shower."
Somehow that skinny awkward teen playing folk music at Barnes & Noble open mic nights has made it. The same kid who once dreamed of sharing a bill with Nobunny now gets to play in his band.
He'll have five days at home between national tours and this time, gets to go to Puerto Rico. Not bad for someone who spent his first tour sleeping in parks because he couldn't afford a hotel room.
"Honestly, I started the band to just be like, 'Yeah I'm gay, but I'm a punk.' If you call me gay, I'm gonna get in your face if you try and bash on me for that. I'll fight back."
Then he softened for bit with a big grin as his words emptied from his mouth.
"If I stop and think about it really, I can't even handle it. It's too much. It's unreal. Now it's like all my dreams came true, so I'm running with it. I'm just going for it."