(The story you are about to read is true. The names and places have been redacted so as not to cause lawsuits or people lookin' to clock me in the face stopping by for mentioning them or their band's by name.)
I hold little enmity to those who screw up. Booking too many bands, fliers being off. But when you deliberately over book and make sure to put your own band’s friends on last, or to not have us play at all, I take a little offence.
But sometimes a band has an illness.
It all went down this a-ways in the summer of ‘ought 4.
We had driven out to ______________________ in______________________ off Highway ________________ to play a gig with 9 other bands. My band, the Frankenstein punk band, had our thing down. We were a three man walking time bomb bursting into argument that did fast load in/outs. On stage for that matter. Fast in all respects. We could set up and tear down on autopilot. We had a discipline to it and we all knew our jobs.
There is no “most important guy” in my bands.
There was a pecking order at this gig however and we didn’t catch on.
We were “the least important band.”
There were these $5 buckets of big reds on ice too. Six for five bucks! Couldn’t beat that. They set a band that could drink a bathtub full of beer in front of that sorta hook? Man, we’re gonna bite. A dangerous president was set with the buckets. One we took full advantage of.
So we’re all sitting around, waiting. Every once and a while I would amble up to the singer of the band that booked us. I had known the band for years. I had played in previous incarnations in fact. Our bands were close as could for the disparate styles.
The singer I had not known for so long and I wouldn’t get nor want to.
He was on the way out and he knew it. Having had a minor role in a fizzled scene he brought all his friend’s bands. Ours was bottom of the list. Literally. We didn’t get till later that he wanted to look cool. Our band’s warts hung off & we could have cared less.
“Hey… uh… bro,” I’m talking out the side of my mouth like I’m trying to cop in Tompkins Square Park, circa 1974,”are we going on soon?”
“Yeah, very soon.”
I amble back, put another $5 down, tip and this beer thing made not being up and playing soon as bad. I can be mollified with hops and barley. Or in this case rice.
As an aside, Chinese beer tastes exactly like the King ‘o Suds to me.
I see band after band. Including this one I couldn’t take my eyes off of. I forget the name but their guitarist’s shtick was to act like a lizard. We were Spinal Tap to his tiny Stonehenge. Our mouths hung open in disbelief.
We saw that the youth were getting restless. My friend ____________ from the band whose yeller put this circus together is up in the guy’s face as I walked to the facilities yet again.
“I don’t care what you think,” This is the only guy I know who can yell and whisper side by side, “we do, they are our friends and you WILL get them on stage!”
“Crap. There is trouble in the house.”
I heard that from inside the crapper.
After getting to know the urinal by name as we had seen so much of each other, I wanna see what has transpired. I come out. Now Mr. Low Rent Promo Man races up to me, “I overbooked. Can we play a show with you later on this month?”
I laugh. My drummer and bassist overhear it. They stumble over. I mean we’re trashed. But we practiced that way so it was alright. Please don’t try this at home.
We’re professionals.
“Noooooooooooo, we’re going on next.”
Period the end from my lips into his pointy little head.
“My friend’s band…”
“Is going to have to take it on the chin and drive home. We’re on next.”
So the scummy guy says nothing back and his friends are on stage before I can find him to furiously mock him with big words he would have to look up the next day.
I wasn’t going to do any grievous bodily harm. But I was thinking about yelling. I can’t find the guy! So I ask my friend _____ where this guy is and he doesn’t know.
Finally I find him.
“I want up.”
“You won’t have time to set up your stuff.”
“Shut up. We’re going.”
As the other band is leaving the stage we’re bringing our gear in.
The well-oiled rusty bike chain.
All the cymbal stands are up, drums a few minutes from getting played on. We load in the amps and all having tuners are up and ready to go in ten minutes. Would have been 12 if I had to change strings or a drumhead.
We jump up and double time it through an already shortened set. Two songs in and the very worst happens. The house PA comes on. “Last call. Last call.”
I look at ____________’s singer. Mr. Big Show! The king maker!
Moron.
The people watching fly away for beer and shots. It was a migration! He took the change to run himself. We didn’t stop. We were pissed and betting half might come back if turned into the best band of all time. Some did return.
They brought two more buckets!
There were there were some people there for the food and whatnot who didn’t dig the metal. They thought it was going to be a punk gig. They liked our music. Like spy-punkers.
Crouching 30s man, hidden spiked bracelet.
This guy comes up in a leather jacket after the show. Told us we sounded like Husker Du with a little Minutemen and some Sabbath in there. High praise. I usually just get a, “Russ, you’re slurring the lyrics.”
We tear down just as fast and get all the stuff out to the van in back of the club. This has been stupid and we want to go home and crack into some vodka.
We walked out to a warzone!
There are four bands yelling at each other. The guy who set it up is involved, my old bassist ________ is involved and all were taking up for us. We were good sports, but they knew just how shafted we felt. But this was my fight. No offence to the other guys in my band but when you need a heavy I’m the guy who weighs the most.
“Please be quiet.”
If I’m loud I’m having fun. If I get quiet I’m not. From what I understand the low tones and that my southern accent comes out. Like when I sing. I wasn’t singing
All becomes silent.
The ‘promotor’ had his back to me. He spun around quick and I flinched. In the process I think he took me as bowing up to him. Most comically. “What are you going to do? Hit me? WELL GO ON! HIT ME!”
I got all cowpoke. I had been wearing this panama cowboy hat I had picked up in Mexico all night. I was sweaty, drunk and might just have come off a cattle drive.
“No, sir. Not from me. The way I settle things is through a-thumb wrestling.”
If you could record outside and have perfect silence that would have been the time and place. Eyes bugged out, people shut up and this guy is looking at me like I have flipped my wig.
“Thumb wrestle?”
“You’re not… chicken? Are ya, d-u-d-e?”
I know. He didn’t get the dude mock insult and I sounded like Gabby Haze (intentional) in my head.
He wrestled me. Sad day for him. I have a-been considered a world class thumb wrestler and it wasn’t even a challenge. He should have forfeited. Me? Three. Him? The Egg. He looked totally flabbergasted as the other bands and personnel.
I have huge gorilla mitts. I use the Ali floating like a butterfly. I’ll goad you into going after me.They all knew about my prowess in the digit holding & pinning art.
They all knew I never learned anything school except make paper footballs and pencil fight.
I had made a fool of him.
They were laughing as his face grew fever red.
It wasn’t long until the band was cured of him.
It was just a bug.
I hold little enmity to those who screw up. Booking too many bands, fliers being off. But when you deliberately over book and make sure to put your own band’s friends on last, or to not have us play at all, I take a little offence.
But sometimes a band has an illness.
It all went down this a-ways in the summer of ‘ought 4.
We had driven out to ______________________ in______________________ off Highway ________________ to play a gig with 9 other bands. My band, the Frankenstein punk band, had our thing down. We were a three man walking time bomb bursting into argument that did fast load in/outs. On stage for that matter. Fast in all respects. We could set up and tear down on autopilot. We had a discipline to it and we all knew our jobs.
There is no “most important guy” in my bands.
There was a pecking order at this gig however and we didn’t catch on.
We were “the least important band.”
There were these $5 buckets of big reds on ice too. Six for five bucks! Couldn’t beat that. They set a band that could drink a bathtub full of beer in front of that sorta hook? Man, we’re gonna bite. A dangerous president was set with the buckets. One we took full advantage of.
So we’re all sitting around, waiting. Every once and a while I would amble up to the singer of the band that booked us. I had known the band for years. I had played in previous incarnations in fact. Our bands were close as could for the disparate styles.
The singer I had not known for so long and I wouldn’t get nor want to.
He was on the way out and he knew it. Having had a minor role in a fizzled scene he brought all his friend’s bands. Ours was bottom of the list. Literally. We didn’t get till later that he wanted to look cool. Our band’s warts hung off & we could have cared less.
“Hey… uh… bro,” I’m talking out the side of my mouth like I’m trying to cop in Tompkins Square Park, circa 1974,”are we going on soon?”
“Yeah, very soon.”
I amble back, put another $5 down, tip and this beer thing made not being up and playing soon as bad. I can be mollified with hops and barley. Or in this case rice.
As an aside, Chinese beer tastes exactly like the King ‘o Suds to me.
I see band after band. Including this one I couldn’t take my eyes off of. I forget the name but their guitarist’s shtick was to act like a lizard. We were Spinal Tap to his tiny Stonehenge. Our mouths hung open in disbelief.
We saw that the youth were getting restless. My friend ____________ from the band whose yeller put this circus together is up in the guy’s face as I walked to the facilities yet again.
“I don’t care what you think,” This is the only guy I know who can yell and whisper side by side, “we do, they are our friends and you WILL get them on stage!”
“Crap. There is trouble in the house.”
I heard that from inside the crapper.
After getting to know the urinal by name as we had seen so much of each other, I wanna see what has transpired. I come out. Now Mr. Low Rent Promo Man races up to me, “I overbooked. Can we play a show with you later on this month?”
I laugh. My drummer and bassist overhear it. They stumble over. I mean we’re trashed. But we practiced that way so it was alright. Please don’t try this at home.
We’re professionals.
“Noooooooooooo, we’re going on next.”
Period the end from my lips into his pointy little head.
“My friend’s band…”
“Is going to have to take it on the chin and drive home. We’re on next.”
So the scummy guy says nothing back and his friends are on stage before I can find him to furiously mock him with big words he would have to look up the next day.
I wasn’t going to do any grievous bodily harm. But I was thinking about yelling. I can’t find the guy! So I ask my friend _____ where this guy is and he doesn’t know.
Finally I find him.
“I want up.”
“You won’t have time to set up your stuff.”
“Shut up. We’re going.”
As the other band is leaving the stage we’re bringing our gear in.
The well-oiled rusty bike chain.
All the cymbal stands are up, drums a few minutes from getting played on. We load in the amps and all having tuners are up and ready to go in ten minutes. Would have been 12 if I had to change strings or a drumhead.
We jump up and double time it through an already shortened set. Two songs in and the very worst happens. The house PA comes on. “Last call. Last call.”
I look at ____________’s singer. Mr. Big Show! The king maker!
Moron.
The people watching fly away for beer and shots. It was a migration! He took the change to run himself. We didn’t stop. We were pissed and betting half might come back if turned into the best band of all time. Some did return.
They brought two more buckets!
There were there were some people there for the food and whatnot who didn’t dig the metal. They thought it was going to be a punk gig. They liked our music. Like spy-punkers.
Crouching 30s man, hidden spiked bracelet.
This guy comes up in a leather jacket after the show. Told us we sounded like Husker Du with a little Minutemen and some Sabbath in there. High praise. I usually just get a, “Russ, you’re slurring the lyrics.”
We tear down just as fast and get all the stuff out to the van in back of the club. This has been stupid and we want to go home and crack into some vodka.
We walked out to a warzone!
There are four bands yelling at each other. The guy who set it up is involved, my old bassist ________ is involved and all were taking up for us. We were good sports, but they knew just how shafted we felt. But this was my fight. No offence to the other guys in my band but when you need a heavy I’m the guy who weighs the most.
“Please be quiet.”
If I’m loud I’m having fun. If I get quiet I’m not. From what I understand the low tones and that my southern accent comes out. Like when I sing. I wasn’t singing
All becomes silent.
The ‘promotor’ had his back to me. He spun around quick and I flinched. In the process I think he took me as bowing up to him. Most comically. “What are you going to do? Hit me? WELL GO ON! HIT ME!”
I got all cowpoke. I had been wearing this panama cowboy hat I had picked up in Mexico all night. I was sweaty, drunk and might just have come off a cattle drive.
“No, sir. Not from me. The way I settle things is through a-thumb wrestling.”
If you could record outside and have perfect silence that would have been the time and place. Eyes bugged out, people shut up and this guy is looking at me like I have flipped my wig.
“Thumb wrestle?”
“You’re not… chicken? Are ya, d-u-d-e?”
I know. He didn’t get the dude mock insult and I sounded like Gabby Haze (intentional) in my head.
He wrestled me. Sad day for him. I have a-been considered a world class thumb wrestler and it wasn’t even a challenge. He should have forfeited. Me? Three. Him? The Egg. He looked totally flabbergasted as the other bands and personnel.
I have huge gorilla mitts. I use the Ali floating like a butterfly. I’ll goad you into going after me.They all knew about my prowess in the digit holding & pinning art.
They all knew I never learned anything school except make paper footballs and pencil fight.
I had made a fool of him.
They were laughing as his face grew fever red.
It wasn’t long until the band was cured of him.
It was just a bug.
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