Drunks, strippers, and a band
Written May 24th. 2006
I have been playing drums for the better part of thirteen years now, and for at least twelve of those years I have been in a band. The last band I ever played with was quit un-tastefully called “A New Revolt“...I know...I thought the name sucked too, but it was actually the best group of musicians I have ever had the pleasure of playing with.
ANR was basically an amalgamation of two heavy metal guitarist's, Leon, and Rob “Quickie“, a sly main stream bassist, Steve, one hell of a buxom, imaginative, and lets not forget muscle laden front man Rayce, and myself. All my tender by no less then five to ten years, which seems some what pivotal to this story. By the time I had decided to form ANR, I had already lettered in High School band, played in no fewer then five bands, preformed a handful of rather disastrous shows, cut three demo albums, and been fired on stage, while in the middle of a gig. Now The reason I mention all of this is to help you garner a mental picture of me the hard bitten old guy, surrounded by four barely graduated from high school kids, who promptly dubbed me the nick name “Mother", for my constant bickering and stern professional approach at the way the band would operate. In short, I was hell bent on success, and wasn't going to let one of these little shit’s screw it up.
Alright image in place, we'll move on. Fast forward a year and half later. We had established ourselves on the local scene, staked our claim as house band at Tony's billiards, secured a small slot of air time on the radio, and even made the local news for taking part in a free fund raiser performance, to raise money for a local girl with cancer, aaaaah.
We were on our way, and in demand on the local scene, and I had just booked us a gig at a bachelor party, as our story begins. As it happened the mother of my oldest offspring had just walked out on us only a few weeks earlier, so needless to say, I was looking forward to throwing caution to the wind, and leaving “Mother” at home for this one.
Now as I understood it when booking the show, the nights entertainment would consist primarily of us, a lot of alcohol, and two strippers...........
Strippers? This will be “Awesome!” Free after four years of hell, I thought it was time to cut loose. Find a sitter for the offspring, and then it's a simple matter of padding my wallet with fifty dollars in fives, before we headed out with the gear.
All of my past band experience could not have prepare me for how this evenings festivities were going to unravel.
Unloading the gear was typically a nightmare. A rhythmic ballet of one vehicle backing up to a back door, where it is quickly unloaded in a fervid if not near panicked manner, and then moved out of the way for the next. This place was cake. A huge and luxurious farm shop, with bay doors, we could drive through and right up to the stage, a single double drop trailer, where we unloaded right onto the make shift stage.
Seat up, sound check, and a couple of beers later, and I'm ready to play. Then the other performers arrive, the strip -- err, exotic dancers, and trouble begins before any entertainment has even begun. No one had informed the exotic dancing company that a band would be performing, and expecting a much smaller crowd, they have only brought along a lone bouncer, who at the moment of seeing us and the conflux of testosterone swarming the shop, is thinking it would be in their best interests to bug out on the spot.
Suddenly and quite unexpectedly this ill turn of events is dropped into our hands. It would seem it is our fault we were booked for the show, and now it's up to us to smooth things out with the edgy bouncer.
Leon the smooth talker goes to work, chatting it up with the missing link of a looking bouncer, and after fifteen tense minutes of wondering if we are going to get paid for packing all of this equipment all the way out to B.F.E. an agreement is reached. We are allowed to play three songs, while the afore mentioned exotic dancers perform, and then we are to promptly retire, until the dancers have left. Well things could be worse. I still have my fifty dollars in fives.
Show time. We have a killer set, consisting primarily of our own material, coupled with a mean cover of Golden Earring’s “Twilight Zone” and a dark and methodical rendition of The Rolling Stones “Paint It Black” to finish out the set. I'm ready, and start in with the opening tribal groove to “In bed with the walls” on the tom tom's. I've played this song a thousand times, and know it by heart. There is no way I could mess this one up.
Now the thing of it is, the curious quagmire that was about to befall me, this, this, Gordian knot that I was about to find myself in... I've on several occasions seen naked women...And I've on more then several occasions, played drums to a crowd...But I've never seen a naked woman, while playing my drums in front of a crowd, and this is where the trouble begins.
Eight bars into the song the stripp -- err, exotic dancers come out and begin to put on their show. I've still got my head down, getting into the groove, and listening in on my monitors, to insure I can hear all of my band mates (sitting behind the drums, even in a miked situation your monitors are your life line. Without them, all you can hear is you). The monitors are good, and I'm hearing everything I need to hear. We are all on, and it's time to relax and enjoy. I raise my head, ready to unleash the fury, and suddenly everything I was thinking is crammed into a, single, simple, if not redundant (as if we didn't see this one coming), word.…“Boobies“.
Everything has gone blank, and the hickory 2B Vic Firth drum stick that was only moments ago, firmly planted in the palm of my right hand has just become a 16 inch wooden projectile. It was one thing to lose the handle on my stick, I've lost or broken countless sticks over the years, it's really just a simple matter of reaching over to my stock pile, mounted abreast my left 16 inch crash cymbal stand, and grabbing another one, but my hand can't seem to comply. “Mother” kicks in, and I grab a fresh stick, but now it's on to the next problem. I can't figure out where I'm at in the song. I can't even remember what song we are playing. There is only that one singular word, permeating through my mind…“Boobies“.
A quick, collective deep breath, and I drop my head back down, focusing on the smiley face I've drawn on my snare, and the monitors. I find my spot, and finish the song. It's almost over. Two more songs, and we are going to park it until they are done performing. At this point I have completely forgotten about anything other then executing the songs, like they are a maneuver that the balance of the entire world is resting on. There is a lot of money riding on this gig, and Mother has to balance the bands budget tomorrow. This was suppose to be fun. What happened to fun? I've got a wallet full of fives, where is the fun?
We play on, and finally finish the three song set, that expeditiously feels like a world wide broadcast night at Wembly, the entire time, my nose practically rubbing the head of my snare drum. We end with “Cold Fusion” and I think I'm safe and in the clear. That is until the next problem arises.
Still warming a wallet full of fives, that I at the time am more then eager to spend, the missing link of a looking bouncer approaches me, while I'm taking on a fresh refill of ale, and says “The girls like you. They want you to keep playing“.
What do you to say to that? “Sure! You are freakishly large, and I'm not about to argue with you because I'd like to wake up tomorrow morning, not knowing what my insides look like. Let me find the guys, and we'll get back on the set.” That might not have been exactly what I said, but it was fairly close. I think it was something more like “Okay.”
Thirty songs, four smoke brakes, a fried foot pedal, and four wooden projectiles later (typically when I break a stick I just toss it over my shoulder and grab a new one, but for some reason this location just resonated with the urge to toss them over head), the set is finally drawing to a close, and I am just happy as hell, cuz it is getting close to two in the morning, and I'm tired as hell. We are getting ready to play “Paint it black” and I'm thanking the guy that has gotten so wasted that he's forgotten about the girls, in order to keep my cup full (God I just want a glass of water right now).
We play our closer, and end the show. The girls depart, and the bouncer leaves us a number saying “Give us a call. We’ll play again.” I just want to go home. The nights pay out. $500...no wait. $550 I still have fifty in fives in my wallet.
While we ended up playing three more shows at that location, before the band split six months ago. We never did call the exotic dancer company back.
I decided to write this earlier tonight, while I was looking over my kit, which is now stacked in a pile in the garage. I haven’t touched them sense we played our last show on New Years Eve under the alias “Counterparts“. Shortly after the show we shook hands and said our good byes. ANR was officially breaking up, and I think...I think I don't mind. On the outside looking in rock sham glam allure is so appealing. For years I’d worked in an effort to become apart of it, and in a way I came close enough to taste it. Close enough to feel the pressure and realize just how fake hype is when you are in it. Take all the sham and the glam away, and all you've got left is a guy that is doing a job, and just wants to go home at the end of the day to the things he really cares about.
His family.
Static
Drunks, strippers, and a band
Written May 24th. 2006
I have been playing drums for the better part of thirteen years now, and for at least twelve of those years I have been in a band. The last band I ever played with was quit un-tastefully called “A New Revolt“...I know...I thought the name sucked too, but it was actually the best group of musicians I have ever had the pleasure of playing with.
ANR was basically an amalgamation of two heavy metal guitarist's, Leon, and Rob “Quickie“, a sly main stream bassist, Steve, one hell of a buxom, imaginative, and lets not forget muscle laden front man Rayce, and myself. All my tender by no less then five to ten years, which seems some what pivotal to this story. By the time I had decided to form ANR, I had already lettered in High School band, played in no fewer then five bands, preformed a handful of rather disastrous shows, cut three demo albums, and been fired on stage, while in the middle of a gig. Now The reason I mention all of this is to help you garner a mental picture of me the hard bitten old guy, surrounded by four barely graduated from high school kids, who promptly dubbed me the nick name “Mother", for my constant bickering and stern professional approach at the way the band would operate. In short, I was hell bent on success, and wasn't going to let one of these little shit’s screw it up.
Alright image in place, we'll move on. Fast forward a year and half later. We had established ourselves on the local scene, staked our claim as house band at Tony's billiards, secured a small slot of air time on the radio, and even made the local news for taking part in a free fund raiser performance, to raise money for a local girl with cancer, aaaaah.
We were on our way, and in demand on the local scene, and I had just booked us a gig at a bachelor party, as our story begins. As it happened the mother of my oldest offspring had just walked out on us only a few weeks earlier, so needless to say, I was looking forward to throwing caution to the wind, and leaving “Mother” at home for this one.
Now as I understood it when booking the show, the nights entertainment would consist primarily of us, a lot of alcohol, and two strippers...........
Strippers? This will be “Awesome!” Free after four years of hell, I thought it was time to cut loose. Find a sitter for the offspring, and then it's a simple matter of padding my wallet with fifty dollars in fives, before we headed out with the gear.
All of my past band experience could not have prepare me for how this evenings festivities were going to unravel.
Unloading the gear was typically a nightmare. A rhythmic ballet of one vehicle backing up to a back door, where it is quickly unloaded in a fervid if not near panicked manner, and then moved out of the way for the next. This place was cake. A huge and luxurious farm shop, with bay doors, we could drive through and right up to the stage, a single double drop trailer, where we unloaded right onto the make shift stage.
Seat up, sound check, and a couple of beers later, and I'm ready to play. Then the other performers arrive, the strip -- err, exotic dancers, and trouble begins before any entertainment has even begun. No one had informed the exotic dancing company that a band would be performing, and expecting a much smaller crowd, they have only brought along a lone bouncer, who at the moment of seeing us and the conflux of testosterone swarming the shop, is thinking it would be in their best interests to bug out on the spot.
Suddenly and quite unexpectedly this ill turn of events is dropped into our hands. It would seem it is our fault we were booked for the show, and now it's up to us to smooth things out with the edgy bouncer.
Leon the smooth talker goes to work, chatting it up with the missing link of a looking bouncer, and after fifteen tense minutes of wondering if we are going to get paid for packing all of this equipment all the way out to B.F.E. an agreement is reached. We are allowed to play three songs, while the afore mentioned exotic dancers perform, and then we are to promptly retire, until the dancers have left. Well things could be worse. I still have my fifty dollars in fives.
Show time. We have a killer set, consisting primarily of our own material, coupled with a mean cover of Golden Earring’s “Twilight Zone” and a dark and methodical rendition of The Rolling Stones “Paint It Black” to finish out the set. I'm ready, and start in with the opening tribal groove to “In bed with the walls” on the tom tom's. I've played this song a thousand times, and know it by heart. There is no way I could mess this one up.
Now the thing of it is, the curious quagmire that was about to befall me, this, this, Gordian knot that I was about to find myself in... I've on several occasions seen naked women...And I've on more then several occasions, played drums to a crowd...But I've never seen a naked woman, while playing my drums in front of a crowd, and this is where the trouble begins.
Eight bars into the song the stripp -- err, exotic dancers come out and begin to put on their show. I've still got my head down, getting into the groove, and listening in on my monitors, to insure I can hear all of my band mates (sitting behind the drums, even in a miked situation your monitors are your life line. Without them, all you can hear is you). The monitors are good, and I'm hearing everything I need to hear. We are all on, and it's time to relax and enjoy. I raise my head, ready to unleash the fury, and suddenly everything I was thinking is crammed into a, single, simple, if not redundant (as if we didn't see this one coming), word.…“Boobies“.
Everything has gone blank, and the hickory 2B Vic Firth drum stick that was only moments ago, firmly planted in the palm of my right hand has just become a 16 inch wooden projectile. It was one thing to lose the handle on my stick, I've lost or broken countless sticks over the years, it's really just a simple matter of reaching over to my stock pile, mounted abreast my left 16 inch crash cymbal stand, and grabbing another one, but my hand can't seem to comply. “Mother” kicks in, and I grab a fresh stick, but now it's on to the next problem. I can't figure out where I'm at in the song. I can't even remember what song we are playing. There is only that one singular word, permeating through my mind…“Boobies“.
A quick, collective deep breath, and I drop my head back down, focusing on the smiley face I've drawn on my snare, and the monitors. I find my spot, and finish the song. It's almost over. Two more songs, and we are going to park it until they are done performing. At this point I have completely forgotten about anything other then executing the songs, like they are a maneuver that the balance of the entire world is resting on. There is a lot of money riding on this gig, and Mother has to balance the bands budget tomorrow. This was suppose to be fun. What happened to fun? I've got a wallet full of fives, where is the fun?
We play on, and finally finish the three song set, that expeditiously feels like a world wide broadcast night at Wembly, the entire time, my nose practically rubbing the head of my snare drum. We end with “Cold Fusion” and I think I'm safe and in the clear. That is until the next problem arises.
Still warming a wallet full of fives, that I at the time am more then eager to spend, the missing link of a looking bouncer approaches me, while I'm taking on a fresh refill of ale, and says “The girls like you. They want you to keep playing“.
What do you to say to that? “Sure! You are freakishly large, and I'm not about to argue with you because I'd like to wake up tomorrow morning, not knowing what my insides look like. Let me find the guys, and we'll get back on the set.” That might not have been exactly what I said, but it was fairly close. I think it was something more like “Okay.”
Thirty songs, four smoke brakes, a fried foot pedal, and four wooden projectiles later (typically when I break a stick I just toss it over my shoulder and grab a new one, but for some reason this location just resonated with the urge to toss them over head), the set is finally drawing to a close, and I am just happy as hell, cuz it is getting close to two in the morning, and I'm tired as hell. We are getting ready to play “Paint it black” and I'm thanking the guy that has gotten so wasted that he's forgotten about the girls, in order to keep my cup full (God I just want a glass of water right now).
We play our closer, and end the show. The girls depart, and the bouncer leaves us a number saying “Give us a call. We’ll play again.” I just want to go home. The nights pay out. $500...no wait. $550 I still have fifty in fives in my wallet.
While we ended up playing three more shows at that location, before the band split six months ago. We never did call the exotic dancer company back.
I decided to write this earlier tonight, while I was looking over my kit, which is now stacked in a pile in the garage. I haven’t touched them sense we played our last show on New Years Eve under the alias “Counterparts“. Shortly after the show we shook hands and said our good byes. ANR was officially breaking up, and I think...I think I don't mind. On the outside looking in rock sham glam allure is so appealing. For years I’d worked in an effort to become apart of it, and in a way I came close enough to taste it. Close enough to feel the pressure and realize just how fake hype is when you are in it. Take all the sham and the glam away, and all you've got left is a guy that is doing a job, and just wants to go home at the end of the day to the things he really cares about.
His family.
Static