I spend the better parts of my mornings in deep thought. Sometimes it is a brain dead trance that I pretend is deep thought, but I do truly have some of my more memorable creative “flares” in the morning. Funny thing is – I’m not exactly a morning person.
In fact, it’s probably because of this that I have these moments. I like to be left alone and enjoy quiet time interspersed with music blaring in the car. I have not gotten to the aged existence that would lead me clear of the loud music and toward the dreaded TALK radio! Air guitar just seems way cooler anyway.
One morning a few weeks back I received an email from the booking person at a club that shall remain nameless somewhere in the greater Midwestern area of the United States. He informed me that “with much regret” the club would be shutting its doors permanently that weekend. He also wanted all of us on his mailing list to know how great the shows were these past couple of years and that he was humbled to have gotten to know all of the performers over that span of time.
I had to laugh out loud when I opened the email. I had played the club about a year ago somewhere in those days between winter and spring in the Midwest where it is warm during the day but still cold at night. The picture that he painted in the email was quite different than the bar that I stumbled into on that April evening. If only it had been as majestic as he offered in recollection. I remember it a little differently.
I had flown to Chicago from Nashville on a Friday night. My goal was to show up a day or so early and rehearse with my buddy Moose who lives in Chicago, plays mandolin, and had agreed to do a few shows with me. Sounds easy enough, right? I took the trip with my friends Micah and Kelli. They are good friends, great fans, and they used to live in Chicago. I figured I could use all of the company that I could stand and so we hit the airport bar, drank a beer and a shot, and headed onto the plane. I hate flying and it is now compounded by the fact that I carry a 20 pound Calton flight case with me and hope to God that I don’t have to check it as baggage (Baggage handlers and guitars don’t seem to get along too well). After an hour delay, we departed for Chicago and were excited to hit the town, find the closest liquor store, and eat real Italian food.
We arrived without a hitch and did all of the things that we had hoped to do. The rest of the evening was spent with Moose ironing out most of the kinks and going over all of my songs. Rehearsing is actually fun for me so it was a great night for us. We spent the evening drinking beer, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, and playing tunes. It was great.
Saturday morning we awoke and got into the workings of the traveling musician. We had to pick up the rental van, load the van with our bags and equipment, round up all of our fellow travelers, have lunch, and get out of Chicago. This was no small feat, but we got out of town basically on time and we headed toward the first gig location – the earlier mentioned hallowed hall in an unnamed city several hours from Chicago.
We arrived in town several hours early which seems to always be the case. Luckily, we had a hotel room for the night so we checked in, unloaded most of the van, and relaxed for a few hours.
By this time, I was still riding the occasional high of the traveling musician. I was out on the road playing a gig. I had my good friends traveling with me. Things were good.
I touched base with family and friends on the cell before drinking a few beers in the hotel room and getting showered and dressed for the gig.
Moose and I opted to arrive at the gig a few hours early to do a sound check and get the “lay of the land”. Kelli, Micah, and Moose’s girlfriend Jessie took us to the club and we all proceeded to check out the digs. Thus began the downfall of the evening…
The club was in a really run down section of town. It had been advertised as a historic district. I think we actually drove through the renovated historic area before landing in this seedy, low-rent part of town. The building was an old hotel of sorts. It was in various stages of disrepair. I remember thinking, “This is the place?”
We were greeted by a man that could have been GG Allin’s brother or at least a distant relative of GG Allin. He was – in a word – scary! He told us that the booker (we will call him Mike) was not there yet and that we could put our stuff near the stage in the adjoining room. Despite our intimidating host, we put down our instruments, merch, and equipment and did what any self-respecting musician would have done…we went to the bar.
Our friends bought us a round or two of shots and PBR tallboys over the course of about an hour. In that time, the real host – Mike – showed up give us the run down. I should tell you now that Mike looked like something out of a Poison video in 1986 with a heavy dose of trailer park meth lab sketchiness thrown in for effect. Moose and I were a little taken aback, but we are nice enough guys and we tried to take all of this in stride.
“So you guys are the musicians, huh? My name is Mike”, he said extending a hand.
“Yep, that’s us. What time are we playing? We were thinking we would go down the street and get some food.” I replied anxious to get the hell out of Dodge.
“Oh no! You guys get a complimentary meal for playing here. We will make you one of our famous hand-tossed pizza and you each get 2 drink tickets!” Mike explained.
“Oh, OK. That sounds good.”…Moose and I kind of looked at each other and figured that sounded pretty good.
We told our friends and they proceeded to take off to a Greek restaurant in a nicer section of town. We, as it would later seem, had been thrown to the proverbial wolves. I am sure that they were laughing at us and not with us as they pulled out of the gravel lot beside the club.
The next hour and a half or so were spent alternating between water and PBR tallboys, making the evening’s set list, and smoking hand-rolled cigs. Several times I had been prompted by Moose (and my own hunger) to find Mike and ask about our long lost pizza. Each time I had been reassured, “Oh, man, it’s on its way. Have another beer and just hang out”. Uggh.
Eventually a big guy comes over to our little table in the back of the music venue portion of the club.
“Are you guys the musicians?” he wondered out loud.
“Uh, yeah”, I probably didn’t even feign my disgust by this point.
“Well, here’s your meal”, he muttered before turning and disappearing into the dark recesses of this hell hole of a club.
All of this happened in slow motion as I recall it now. He was putting the pizza on the table and Moose and I were looking at each other in disbelief. There, on the table, sandwiched between our PBR dead soldiers and an overflowing ashtray was a tiny six inch miniature pizza that would make Pizza Hut’s personal pan pizza look like a giant.
This was the meal that we had waited several hours to be delivered to us.
With equal parts disgust and humor, we split the tiny pizza in half and ate it. Could the evening get any worse? People were starting to show up for the gig so we felt as though we could still right the ship for the remainder of the evening. And when in doubt, order some more beers.
It’s all fuzzy after a year of not thinking about it, but at some point in the early parts of the evening we met our opener. A local electric blues band was going to open for us. I remember thinking that it would be a trio, but when they showed up there was about six or seven of them. They did a sound check and their fans began to fill the room.
I was still optimistic at this point. I had some friends in town that had committed to coming down to the show and we had received a critics’ pick in the local alternative weekly paper. What can I say? I was keeping the faith.
The blues band was fine. They played standards from the cannons of Buddy Guy, Stevie Ray, and all sorts of electric Chicago and Texas blues guys. They were white guys so it was good but not great. (I have always and will continue to uphold the theory that white guys playing the blues is about as believable as me playing western African tribal music – EXCEPT for Joe Harris but more on that in another entry).
Moose and I sat through the blues set and continued to hammer out our set list. By this time our friends had returned from their filling, uptown dinner. We all had a good laugh about the evening’s events. Eventually, the blues band played their last song and left the stage. Their fans milled about the room and talked with the musicians. It was as typical a moment as any that I have had in a club playing music.
THEN…it was time for our set. I admit that with my long beard and my “Mustache Rides – 5 Cents” hat, I do project a certain image. I don’t exactly blend into a crowd any longer. This night was no exception. Moose and I took the stage and after a few minor tweaks we lit into our first number. Within the first 60 seconds, the entire room cleared out of the performance hall/playroom portion of the building and had headed to the bar. So much for keeping the crowd’s interest, huh? We had traveled all of this way and we were playing for our friends and traveling companions. I kept thinking, “Couldn’t we be doing this back at the hotel and have more fun?”
After a few songs, I played my wildcard. I played the dirtiest song that I will perform in public – Artie Fenaro’s “SMD”. I figured, “Fuck it”, the crowd doesn’t care. By the second verse, many of the crowd had come back from the bar and enjoyed the remainder of the song. Our friendly doorman, GG Allin back from the dead, was standing in the room with the crowd and singing along. They all clapped and hollered and wanted more. So we proceeded to hit on all points bawdy and questionable with favorites like “Morning Wood” and “Corn Dog”. When I had run out of material that was of any apparent interest to this crowd, I called the set short and opted for the quickest way out of this ordeal.
When the set was over, the crowd left us again. A few hung around to ask about the dirty songs, but when they found out that there were no versions on CD they quickly turned tail and headed back to their pals at the bar. My friends and I were spent and it was time to deftly get the hell out of this place.
I found Mike and made up a bullshit excuse.
“Hey, man, some of our folks are heading out of town and we’ve got to take off”, I told him.
“Oh, OK. Well, let me get you your money”, and he turned back to the doorman.
Within a minute or so, Mike had returned with a fistful of ones. “Here’s the draw, man. Sorry it’s not more”, he told me as my friends were sneaking out the side door with my 20 pound Calton and all of the other gear.
Honestly, I never looked at the money until we were back in the van and getting the hell out of Dodge. I remember the sinking feeling – part horror and part hilarity – when I counted the money to find thirty dollars. I thought to myself, “Really, thirty dollars for all of that?” I was still hungry. I was tired. I was probably a little more than embarrassed since I had drug my friends to hell and back in this crappy Midwestern city for a measly thirty bucks.
How does one remedy such an evening? Well, a trip to Denny’s no less. It had been a long night and I was ready for Moons Over My Hammy and some shut eye.
I could leave you, dear reader, at this point and you could feel sorry for the traveling musician and all of the tribulations that occurred on our little jaunt. I can’t, however, do that just yet. I must tell you that for every bad gig there is a good gig somewhere on down the road. The next night I was scheduled to perform in Chicago at a relatively well-known club along the folk circuit. With much fear, I got myself to the gig and had the obligatory pre-gig beer at the bar. I did my sound check and then feared for the worst.
Well, the worst never came. In fact, it was one of the better gigs that I have done in my years of performing. We played to packed house, sold lots of CDs, saw some old friends, met new ones, and generally had a big time. In one night I made up for my losses from the night before. All was right in the world.
During the after-show party back at Moose’s, we celebrated the success of the evening and laughed off the horror of the night before. In the wee hours of the morning as I drifted into slumber, I realized that despite things not exactly working out the way we had hoped – it was a good trip and I was ready to get back home.
In fact, it’s probably because of this that I have these moments. I like to be left alone and enjoy quiet time interspersed with music blaring in the car. I have not gotten to the aged existence that would lead me clear of the loud music and toward the dreaded TALK radio! Air guitar just seems way cooler anyway.
One morning a few weeks back I received an email from the booking person at a club that shall remain nameless somewhere in the greater Midwestern area of the United States. He informed me that “with much regret” the club would be shutting its doors permanently that weekend. He also wanted all of us on his mailing list to know how great the shows were these past couple of years and that he was humbled to have gotten to know all of the performers over that span of time.
I had to laugh out loud when I opened the email. I had played the club about a year ago somewhere in those days between winter and spring in the Midwest where it is warm during the day but still cold at night. The picture that he painted in the email was quite different than the bar that I stumbled into on that April evening. If only it had been as majestic as he offered in recollection. I remember it a little differently.
I had flown to Chicago from Nashville on a Friday night. My goal was to show up a day or so early and rehearse with my buddy Moose who lives in Chicago, plays mandolin, and had agreed to do a few shows with me. Sounds easy enough, right? I took the trip with my friends Micah and Kelli. They are good friends, great fans, and they used to live in Chicago. I figured I could use all of the company that I could stand and so we hit the airport bar, drank a beer and a shot, and headed onto the plane. I hate flying and it is now compounded by the fact that I carry a 20 pound Calton flight case with me and hope to God that I don’t have to check it as baggage (Baggage handlers and guitars don’t seem to get along too well). After an hour delay, we departed for Chicago and were excited to hit the town, find the closest liquor store, and eat real Italian food.
We arrived without a hitch and did all of the things that we had hoped to do. The rest of the evening was spent with Moose ironing out most of the kinks and going over all of my songs. Rehearsing is actually fun for me so it was a great night for us. We spent the evening drinking beer, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, and playing tunes. It was great.
Saturday morning we awoke and got into the workings of the traveling musician. We had to pick up the rental van, load the van with our bags and equipment, round up all of our fellow travelers, have lunch, and get out of Chicago. This was no small feat, but we got out of town basically on time and we headed toward the first gig location – the earlier mentioned hallowed hall in an unnamed city several hours from Chicago.
We arrived in town several hours early which seems to always be the case. Luckily, we had a hotel room for the night so we checked in, unloaded most of the van, and relaxed for a few hours.
By this time, I was still riding the occasional high of the traveling musician. I was out on the road playing a gig. I had my good friends traveling with me. Things were good.
I touched base with family and friends on the cell before drinking a few beers in the hotel room and getting showered and dressed for the gig.
Moose and I opted to arrive at the gig a few hours early to do a sound check and get the “lay of the land”. Kelli, Micah, and Moose’s girlfriend Jessie took us to the club and we all proceeded to check out the digs. Thus began the downfall of the evening…
The club was in a really run down section of town. It had been advertised as a historic district. I think we actually drove through the renovated historic area before landing in this seedy, low-rent part of town. The building was an old hotel of sorts. It was in various stages of disrepair. I remember thinking, “This is the place?”
We were greeted by a man that could have been GG Allin’s brother or at least a distant relative of GG Allin. He was – in a word – scary! He told us that the booker (we will call him Mike) was not there yet and that we could put our stuff near the stage in the adjoining room. Despite our intimidating host, we put down our instruments, merch, and equipment and did what any self-respecting musician would have done…we went to the bar.
Our friends bought us a round or two of shots and PBR tallboys over the course of about an hour. In that time, the real host – Mike – showed up give us the run down. I should tell you now that Mike looked like something out of a Poison video in 1986 with a heavy dose of trailer park meth lab sketchiness thrown in for effect. Moose and I were a little taken aback, but we are nice enough guys and we tried to take all of this in stride.
“So you guys are the musicians, huh? My name is Mike”, he said extending a hand.
“Yep, that’s us. What time are we playing? We were thinking we would go down the street and get some food.” I replied anxious to get the hell out of Dodge.
“Oh no! You guys get a complimentary meal for playing here. We will make you one of our famous hand-tossed pizza and you each get 2 drink tickets!” Mike explained.
“Oh, OK. That sounds good.”…Moose and I kind of looked at each other and figured that sounded pretty good.
We told our friends and they proceeded to take off to a Greek restaurant in a nicer section of town. We, as it would later seem, had been thrown to the proverbial wolves. I am sure that they were laughing at us and not with us as they pulled out of the gravel lot beside the club.
The next hour and a half or so were spent alternating between water and PBR tallboys, making the evening’s set list, and smoking hand-rolled cigs. Several times I had been prompted by Moose (and my own hunger) to find Mike and ask about our long lost pizza. Each time I had been reassured, “Oh, man, it’s on its way. Have another beer and just hang out”. Uggh.
Eventually a big guy comes over to our little table in the back of the music venue portion of the club.
“Are you guys the musicians?” he wondered out loud.
“Uh, yeah”, I probably didn’t even feign my disgust by this point.
“Well, here’s your meal”, he muttered before turning and disappearing into the dark recesses of this hell hole of a club.
All of this happened in slow motion as I recall it now. He was putting the pizza on the table and Moose and I were looking at each other in disbelief. There, on the table, sandwiched between our PBR dead soldiers and an overflowing ashtray was a tiny six inch miniature pizza that would make Pizza Hut’s personal pan pizza look like a giant.
This was the meal that we had waited several hours to be delivered to us.
With equal parts disgust and humor, we split the tiny pizza in half and ate it. Could the evening get any worse? People were starting to show up for the gig so we felt as though we could still right the ship for the remainder of the evening. And when in doubt, order some more beers.
It’s all fuzzy after a year of not thinking about it, but at some point in the early parts of the evening we met our opener. A local electric blues band was going to open for us. I remember thinking that it would be a trio, but when they showed up there was about six or seven of them. They did a sound check and their fans began to fill the room.
I was still optimistic at this point. I had some friends in town that had committed to coming down to the show and we had received a critics’ pick in the local alternative weekly paper. What can I say? I was keeping the faith.
The blues band was fine. They played standards from the cannons of Buddy Guy, Stevie Ray, and all sorts of electric Chicago and Texas blues guys. They were white guys so it was good but not great. (I have always and will continue to uphold the theory that white guys playing the blues is about as believable as me playing western African tribal music – EXCEPT for Joe Harris but more on that in another entry).
Moose and I sat through the blues set and continued to hammer out our set list. By this time our friends had returned from their filling, uptown dinner. We all had a good laugh about the evening’s events. Eventually, the blues band played their last song and left the stage. Their fans milled about the room and talked with the musicians. It was as typical a moment as any that I have had in a club playing music.
THEN…it was time for our set. I admit that with my long beard and my “Mustache Rides – 5 Cents” hat, I do project a certain image. I don’t exactly blend into a crowd any longer. This night was no exception. Moose and I took the stage and after a few minor tweaks we lit into our first number. Within the first 60 seconds, the entire room cleared out of the performance hall/playroom portion of the building and had headed to the bar. So much for keeping the crowd’s interest, huh? We had traveled all of this way and we were playing for our friends and traveling companions. I kept thinking, “Couldn’t we be doing this back at the hotel and have more fun?”
After a few songs, I played my wildcard. I played the dirtiest song that I will perform in public – Artie Fenaro’s “SMD”. I figured, “Fuck it”, the crowd doesn’t care. By the second verse, many of the crowd had come back from the bar and enjoyed the remainder of the song. Our friendly doorman, GG Allin back from the dead, was standing in the room with the crowd and singing along. They all clapped and hollered and wanted more. So we proceeded to hit on all points bawdy and questionable with favorites like “Morning Wood” and “Corn Dog”. When I had run out of material that was of any apparent interest to this crowd, I called the set short and opted for the quickest way out of this ordeal.
When the set was over, the crowd left us again. A few hung around to ask about the dirty songs, but when they found out that there were no versions on CD they quickly turned tail and headed back to their pals at the bar. My friends and I were spent and it was time to deftly get the hell out of this place.
I found Mike and made up a bullshit excuse.
“Hey, man, some of our folks are heading out of town and we’ve got to take off”, I told him.
“Oh, OK. Well, let me get you your money”, and he turned back to the doorman.
Within a minute or so, Mike had returned with a fistful of ones. “Here’s the draw, man. Sorry it’s not more”, he told me as my friends were sneaking out the side door with my 20 pound Calton and all of the other gear.
Honestly, I never looked at the money until we were back in the van and getting the hell out of Dodge. I remember the sinking feeling – part horror and part hilarity – when I counted the money to find thirty dollars. I thought to myself, “Really, thirty dollars for all of that?” I was still hungry. I was tired. I was probably a little more than embarrassed since I had drug my friends to hell and back in this crappy Midwestern city for a measly thirty bucks.
How does one remedy such an evening? Well, a trip to Denny’s no less. It had been a long night and I was ready for Moons Over My Hammy and some shut eye.
I could leave you, dear reader, at this point and you could feel sorry for the traveling musician and all of the tribulations that occurred on our little jaunt. I can’t, however, do that just yet. I must tell you that for every bad gig there is a good gig somewhere on down the road. The next night I was scheduled to perform in Chicago at a relatively well-known club along the folk circuit. With much fear, I got myself to the gig and had the obligatory pre-gig beer at the bar. I did my sound check and then feared for the worst.
Well, the worst never came. In fact, it was one of the better gigs that I have done in my years of performing. We played to packed house, sold lots of CDs, saw some old friends, met new ones, and generally had a big time. In one night I made up for my losses from the night before. All was right in the world.
During the after-show party back at Moose’s, we celebrated the success of the evening and laughed off the horror of the night before. In the wee hours of the morning as I drifted into slumber, I realized that despite things not exactly working out the way we had hoped – it was a good trip and I was ready to get back home.
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