Twirling…Twirling…Twirling Towards Freedom!

It's been a while... sorry. Things have changed. People have changed. Hair styles have changed. Interest rates fluctuate. So it goes.

A lot has happened since I last wrote in this virtual eco-environment. I use the term eco-environment just for fun, because I've seen it used in the wrong context at least ten times this week (business articles and emails), and I didn't want to miss the anti-contextual train that's leaving the station regarding the English language. Since William Safire retired, maybe I can fill his arrogant shoes.

I quit Overboard. The story is short: I got a new job, and I work longer hours and travel frequently. A few late afternoon Friday calls from the Tampa airport to band members talking about contingency plans in case my plane wouldn’t get me to the gig were all that was needed for me to come to a decision about leaving. I'll miss that band, but they'll move on as every good band does.

In fact, they were so eager to move on that they changed my picture to the new drummer overnight, whereas it took them six months to put my picture up on the website after I joined. So it goes.

The last night I played with Overboard was New Year's Eve and unfortunately, the last month of playing gigs with them was uneventful in terms of memorable bar folk stupidity. Of course, that is with the exception of a woman throwing up at the bar during the second set of New Year's Eve, but I missed the act because I let another drummer sit in for a few songs while the bar was being covered in spew.

So after taking a few weeks off, I talked to Wigjam to see if they'd let me join them on-stage for double drummer antics. If you actually read this blog, then you've heard of this Grateful Dead style tribute band from previous a previous blog entry called, Liberty.

I've already apologized once in this entry, and sadly I must do it again, because the honest truth is that you're probably expecting a full catalog of bar folk stupid-dom, but playing in Wigjam doesn’t afford such opportunities. I'm sorry. I’ll explain why.

I remembered what it means to be a musician by playing with Wigjam again. To clarify what a musician is, here is an example. I know plenty of guitarists, some of them incredible, but most of them are not musicians. There are some who are even incredible and still not musicians. I even know one who always wears a big belt buckle, but he's not a musician.

To be a musician, you have to know how to listen to other musicians. Making music with other people is like a conversation. Making music in a band is like having a conversation with five people in harmony…not like a choir singing in harmony, but like an actual conversation. A perfectly orchestrated volley of words intertwining at perfect rhythmic intervals and intensity.

Playing with Overboard wasn't about the musicianship, because there was really only one other musician in the band, and we both wore a muzzle so big that we weren't allowed to let it flow. The audience listened more to the band than the band members did. I was always looking for something to distract me… to have fun with… because that was more fun than playing the music. Whether it was seeing how many shots I could drink while playing (ie- role playing Ginger Baker), playing one-handed, or watching ridiculous bar behavior

With Wigjam, I know that when I hit the drum, the rhythm is listened to, analyzed and met with a response of equal thought and skill most likely better than mine. Everybody in the band is a musician.

Most of my friends (the ones who are not already musicians) don't like Grateful Dead style music, so it makes it a little more difficult for them to stomach one of my shows nowadays, but the simple fact is that I don't even know they're watching (if they show up). I don't need to find distraction because I'm busy with the conversation I'm having with the rest of the band. It's a constant dialogue and it's completely improvisational.

That's another thing about musicians versus people who play an instrument-- musicians understand that improvisation is not about the language you speak (scales, technique) but about the originality and the fun of the conversation.

So I don’t know if I'll be able to write blog entries on the topic I've been covering since the summer. I may have to switch it to something else that gives equal attention to humor because not only is there less interaction between myself and the audience, there’s also much less drinking on my part.

There is one caveat—people who show up to Wigjam shows (as any jam band) have a tendency to take their shoes off and twirl in front of the stage. I never understood the phenomenon, mostly a female phenomenon, but it’s been happening since the early days of the Grateful Dead. I guess I'll just have to wait until the night where I see some tanked chick start letting go of her veggie burrito after a few too many vodka tonics in a Technicolor concentric swirl.

Until then, I may start to transition the topic of this blog to something else that gives you your dose of sardonic irony.

Greetings from Union, NJ

Right away it started with a bang. Or should I say a shove? It usually takes about ten minutes to load in all of my equipment. As I shuffle my various bags and cases through the door, I have a sequence that I follow that allows me to setup while I bring in my stuff. The first item to make it through the door is a drummer’s rug.

For those not in The Know, a drummer's rug is not so that we can spread out our toys and play with matchbox cars like we're four-year-olds in a dentist's office. Our drums go on the rug so that when we play, the drums don’t spread out on the floor in different directions during the set. If there’s no rug to keep everything in place, we basically become gymnasts using our splayed limbs like Elastic-man to keep time while the drums try, ever-so-hard, to escape the confines of the stage.

So I walk into the bar, plop down my rug in the stage spot where the drums will go, and the gentleman (Cro-Magnon, funny guy) at the nearest table says to me. “You think that mat is going to show you how to play the drums?”

Ignoring him was the best option, especially at the beginning of the night. There were so many things that could happen for the duration of the gig that could put me in a shitty mood, and I was determined not to let this spark a downward cascade.

As I continued to load-in my equipment, my mind was relentless. I couldn’t stop trying figure out what the fuck that meant. I mean, I got it…in a desperate plea for attention from the band, this guy spewed out the only ounce of wit and shot his load, but what did that question mean? Did he think he was charming the pants off of me? Would I ever be able to repay him for his pithy gratitude?

I wasn’t sure, but on the next trip into the bar, he said it again! Ignoring the hint I was dropping by shunning his verbal jeers, he went for the same line with a little more volume, because he must have realized that I was hard of hearing.

This was the second time I played in Union, NJ where someone greeted me with multiple jeers, but at least this wasn’t in the form of a question like the last guy at Paddy’s Place. That guy kept saying things in the third person, like, “Where does this guy think he is, Madison Square Garden?”

Another hint to the Witmeister came as I looked furiously busy setting up my drumkit. He eventually found something more interesting to do (maybe count his thumbs), and the wit festival subsided. That night was Flipper’s birthday (actually the day after) and I walked over to shake his hand and wish him the nicest gesture that either of us had exchanged to that point in four gigs because of all the political crap that was going on.

The gig had the potential to be a train wreck for Flipper. Anytime it’s someone’s birthday, the band usually goes all out to make sure that the birthday boy needs a new liver by the end of the night. Since we were in a bar where the owner loved us, we figured it would be a no-brainer.

The performance proceeded as planned. Set one began with a mellow rock smattering of Stones and classic rock to ease in the crowd. We were graced with some regulars: the aforementioned funny guy and his wife who inevitably remembers my name when I can’t remember hers; the mollusk (the guy who has a wandering eye and you can never tell who he’s looking at, you or the guy next to you), the bikers, the area people, and some of our friends who came to pay homage to our middle-aged and balding lead singer.

We made a new friend that night. A summer teeth beauty who wouldn’t leave The Admiral alone all night. She hung on him like a Curt Shilling bloody sock. That probably would have been fine if she didn’t open her mouth, but she was a close-talker and was in dire need of breath mints, or maybe a power washer for her remaining molar.

Not realizing that she was hanging on every moment of The Admiral’s precious break time in between sets, she managed to annoy everyone in the immediate vicinity. At one point, after a slurry of shots, Flipper started talking about her in the microphone, replacing as many lyrics with words like, “Halitosis,” and “Breath Monster.” It was not a good scene for the Lady Senator from the Trailer Park.

In a turn for the cool, I had a good conversation with a friend and guitar player who had hand painted a Warner Bros. Gremlin on a patch on his new bomber leather jacket. We had a great conversation about the Gremlin when he explained to me that this was no ordinary leather jacket.

It turns out that he had been following the history of a certain British bombing squadron in World War II that had been responsible for keeping the German V2 Rocket launchers in check. In a nice homage to the squadron, he was recreating all of the patches and designs painted on their jackets, including logos and insignias. Instead of his name on the front chest patch, he had the name of a guy who was actually in the squadron who was the uncle of a keyboard player he played with in a band.

While we laughed about the Bugs Bunny episode that the gremlin patch got its celebrity status from, we pounded tequila and Black & Tans. It was getting to be a good night after all despite the effort s of Funny Guy to bring me down.

A word about the owner of the bar…yes, just one word. Certifiable. He’s certifiably out of his fucking mind. I once saw him chase a bartender out of his bar with a bat because he didn’t like the way he was looking at him. He drinks Fleischman’s with a passion that makes Mike Tyson look like a pussy during an ear-biting boxing match. He’s a Green Bay packers fan who would sooner spray you with a fire extinguisher than let you talk shit about his team.

So I don’t know if I was really surprised of the owner’s next move when he commanded me to play Wipe Out on his head while he was wearing a Green Bay Packers hard hat. This impulsive assertion came during a setbreak before the third set. He had been drinking since 3pm that day and he was all riled up. The Admiral just went with it and told him to come up on stage after the second set and request Wipe Out. Then band would play the song and I’d come from behind the drumkit to the front of the stage and let loose on the owner’s head when the drum solo part came around.

This was a good plan, except for the owner’s poor timing (or lack thereof) as a result of his inebriated disposition. He wound up coming up towards the end of the set while we were climaxing with our series of bad medleys to keep the crowd dancing. It just didn’t work out and it looked as if the Wipe Out moment would have to wait.

But the owner wouldn’t have it. After the show and as we were breaking down our equipment, he brought a chair over to the stage area, slammed it down and said, “Let’s Go!” The Admiral and I took position around him and the ten or so people left in the bar surrounded us. I’m not quite sure what happened next.

For some reason, the owner was confused about something, looking around and holding his finger up to indicate hold on a minute. I think he was looking for a camera, but he just kept calling, “Annie! Annie!” It was a surreal moment, and we just waited it out. Finally, he saddled into the chair with his Packers helmet and I began my descent into Wipe Out hell.

As I played on this guy’s head, the crowd of people started singing the melody to Wipe Out. They made for a great chorus, and the owner’s head sank lower and lower as I droned on through the third chorus. I can only imagine what a full bottle of Fleischman’s and Wipe Out on your head could do for your next morning hangover.

And as always whenever we’re in the vicinity of the big screw, we had to make a trip to The White Castle. This time I took a picture. (I'll post later) Obviously there’s not much light at 2:30 in the morning, so you’ll have to imagine the finer details, but I was able to get my Teva laden foot next to it for a sizing comparison. This screw is truly the 10th Wonder of the World.

The Meaning of Bar Life

Last Saturday at the Marina Grille, I came to the realization that playing gigs down the shore in October could be considered a colossal waste of time. In this economy with the rising price of gas and the 75-minute commute, playing at the Marina Grille in Brick, NJ is starting to become a burden.

The way to make up the difference is to make each gig worth its salt in either alcohol or fun. From now on, I’m going to start looking for ways to egg on stupid behavior from audience members, or facilitate completely outrageous stage antics. Maybe a gorilla suit would be a good purchase.

I decided to start my Mandate on Fun immediately after my classic impasse with Flipper (discussed in Political Jokes: The Orange Lantern, Part Two) from the previous week. I figure that if I can’t quit the band, I can probably have a shitload of fun looking to get thrown out. If he throws me out, it’ll mean the onus is on him to get a replacement. It’ll also mean that I can kick everything up a notch. (BAM!)

The first order of business was to make sure that the political end of things was set straight for the average audience member watching the band. I was no longer going to stand by and watch Flipper declare unanimous band support for the Bush/Cheney ticket from the stage.

I can’t stop him from wearing homemade I LOVE BUSH t-shirts, or making Republican charged comments during the set, nor would I want to infringe on his free speech rights, but I can sure as hell use the training I received from studying Advertising in college towards the goal of dispelling ill communication. Incidentally, the only reason that I was able to go to school in the first place was from Student Loan support from the Clinton Administration, so I felt an obligation to use my training.

Marshall McCluhan has really only made two significant contributions to the world. The first was coining the phrase, “The medium is the message.” The second was appearing in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall as a cameo and scolding a Media Professor from Columbia for pontificating in a public place using his name.

Thanks to Mr. McCluhan, I remembered that the space on my kick drum was a prime location for advertising my conscience and probably a good way to dispel any Flipper delivered myths about the political beliefs of the band members.

After setting up my equipment and waiting for everyone else to leave the stage area, I calmly took the stage and affixed a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker (which matches my drumset nicely) directly to the kick drum head just above the Overboard logo.

The Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker was set slightly askew to fit the area and drew attention to itself like a pair of women’s panties stuck to the back of a public speaker’s pant leg. I wondered how long it was going to take before Flipper realized it was there, or acknowledged its presence (which could possibly be two different things).

It didn’t take long for the audience to recognize the sticker as several people made mention by yelling “Go Kerry!” during the first set. I don’t believe Flipper saw the bumper sticker till the end of the night as I was packing up. I actually turned the kick drum on its end so it was easy for him to see and left it there as the last item that I packed up. He didn’t acknowledge it, so I’m not really sure if he really did see it that night, but if he did, I’m sure it made a miserable thought for the entire ride home.

What the bumper sticker did for me was acknowledge that I differ from whatever comment comes out from his mouth during the show. It may seem immature, but you really can’t understand what it’s like to sit on stage without a microphone and watch a cro-magnon type caricature of himself espouse political theories into the public domain on your behalf. It’s ruins the gig and harbors resentment. I set it straight with the bumper sticker and now no matter what he says into the mic, my view is broadcast from my kick drum as if to say, “I’m not with Stupid.”

I thought that it was a better solution than kicking the shit out of Flipper or quitting. We’ll let time decide.

So, for most of the night I was feeling good. We had some Liquid Jukebox requests and a half a bottle of Tequila per member of the band. It was starting to get loose and then I saw the dreaded lyric sheet for Separate Ways appear on the audio monitor in front of Flipper.

The Assistant Manager of the Bar who books the bands for this place is a big Journey fan. That’s a problem enough (in and of itself), but the problem extended to us after she mandated our performance of a specific Journey song almost a year ago.

I grew up a Journey fan, and I trust that it’s one of those childhood things that you’ll allow me to admit was a mistake, albeit an adolescent one. I watch kids today grow up listening to Boy Bands like Backstreet Boys, and I’m sure that in twenty years they’ll feel ashamed of their allegiance and waive it off by saying, “I was just a kid.”

I even saw Journey in concert when I was like 8 or 9 at the Brendan Byrne Arena (Bryan Adams opened up). It actually was a great show, mostly because Steve Perry’s voice was real and not studio manufactured. It was also a great show because Steve Smith was (and still is) an incredible drumming monster and Neil Schon was formerly a great guitarist who joined Carlos Santana’s band when he was 16. But those positives are discounted now in this situation.

The Assistant Manager was incessantly whining about how we hadn’t played the song for her in a while, and as she stood by the owner with her glass of scotch, the more she drank, the bitchier she got. Apparently, it was too much for Flipper to deal with and he caved.

I saw the lyric sheet rear its ugly head and I got nervous because I wondered if Dickboy had ever really learned the keyboard part. The last time we played Separate Ways, the intro keyboard part that he played sounded more like a combination of the PacMan and DigDug video game soundtracks than the original song.

Right on cue, Dickboy played something vaguely similar to a Nintendo game and we launched into the worst rendition of the song that we had ever performed, complete with cracking lead vocals and wrong notes. It was a train wreck that ended after the first chorus.

I really can’t describe the feeling of a musician on-stage during a train wreck. It happens every so often, but professionals usually have a knack for knowing how to avoid a potentially disastrous situation. I once saw Kiss at the Meadowlands play a few licks of a song that a kid in the front row was hollering for (NY Groove) and they attempted a few bars and stopped, laughing it off, because they knew that they would screw it up and look bad. We should’ve learned from lessons like those.

Speaking of lessons learned, I need to learn a thing or two about second-hand cigarette smoke. In between sets, I’ve learned that I have a threshold when it comes to cigarette smoke inhalation. I grew up the son of parental smokers. My clothes smelled like smoke all of my childhood and I didn’t realize until I left for college that there was anything wrong with that. Thankfully both my parents quit eventually, but I still have a hard time realizing when I need to breathe.

Making our escape to the outside lounge, The Admiral and I relaxed with our lungs as we watched the local crowd shuffle through the front entrances. As we sat and talked and watched these people who we call our “fans” (even though they're not) carry on with their conversations of drunken ridiculousness, I realize that I’d rather be playing a bar than going to a bar to watch another local cover band.

The thought validated my gigging existence temporarily and I thought to myself, you know it could be worse. I could be at home wishing I had a social life or stuck in an office somewhere working on a presentation for championing the removal of a workplace process that no one had used in thirty years.

And then someone barfed on the video game in the back of the bar, prompting a frenzy of support staff to leave their post and take care of business. It was a sobering moment in the perpetual question of the meaning of bar life...

Political Jokes: The Orange Lantern, Part Two

This past Friday our gig was cancelled. Apparently the club we were supposed to play was slated to be under new ownership and we were to play the first gig of the new club. At least that’s what I was led to believe from the following e-mail that I received from Flipper:

“The new owner did not close on the club so he canceled us this Friday! see ya Sat. at Marina! Lets Go Crazy.
Me”

So as promised, I’ll do another blog flashback to cover the cancelled gig, but this time the flashback isn’t from that long ago. Last Saturday at The Orange Lantern in Paramus, NJ, something happened that hasn’t happened in an extremely long time. Actually, it’s never happened.

I became so frustrated that I came inches from either quitting a band or kicking the shit out of someone on stage. Unfortunately, I’ve never come close to quitting a band while still at the gig and I’m saddened to see that someone had brought me to such a dark place in one fell swoop. In most cases, I would be disappointed in myself for letting a situation get that bad in the first place, but this event heralded a new era for poor judgment and incredibly obtuse behavior from somebody other than myself.

I was in a particularly happy place on Saturday considering the story with the Rush maniac who was found inspecting my drums like he was at a strip club ogling female genitalia (See Blonde Jokes-- The Orange Lantern Part One). I was having fun and had no clue what was around the corner. What was about to happen in the second set of a long night needs some setting up, so bare with the story.

Suffice it to say, for those who don’t know me, I’m not a fan of the current Presidential Administration. While I enjoy the civil liberties that this country affords, I feel that a huge and integral part of those liberties are the rights to openly criticize the government for poor policy or decisions affecting the welfare of all Americans.

To quote Benjamin Franklin, “Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.” I wholeheartedly agree with those words and they are only a mere pittance of why I support any candidate other than the current Presidential incumbent candidate. I also believe that lips are like assholes (you know the rest of the saying) and if you can’t articulate your argument, shut up and vote your conscience without wasting other people’s time.

Special Editor’s Note: To all the FBI, NSA, CIA operatives, Dan Brown and other governmental spooks who are now monitoring this website thanks to my posting of that Ben Franklin quote… hello and welcome! I’m a good guy. I’m on your side. Really. No need to tap my phones. If you have a question, feel free to call me.

I don’t have to list why I feel the way that I do about the President and his Cabinet, especially if you’re like me and do your own reading and interpretation of current events. I watch C-SPAN, read The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Guardian, The Nation and The Onion. I also watch The Daily Show, which has probably been the most comprehensive of the aforementioned list in covering the events that most likely shape our world.

Last year, I lost my internet marketing job in a Fortune 500 company. Maybe not to “outsourcing,” per se, but definitely as a result of the horrific economy with a local New York City area spin. I graduated from college in the bubble era (obviously it wasn’t called that back then) and it was a long period of time after graduation that I could have had at least three job offers a week.

When Clinton was in office, I was able to go to school thanks to student loans that he provided, and when I got out, it was the first time in my lifetime that there wasn’t a federal deficit and yet the promise of economic opportunity at every corner.

I’m bitter that our current President has the balls to lie about the state of economic growth in this country, among other things, that threaten our welfare and security (and our children’s security). I’m upset about the arrogance of this administration that has led to our diminished stature in the world. We were among the League of Extraordinary Nations, and some may say at the top alone, but no longer. I don’t know if we’ll ever retrieve that credibility, but one thing is certain— this election is not about a candidate to me as much as a paradigm shift in democratic beliefs.

No longer is it uncool to talk about political beliefs. In my lifetime, it’s never been acceptable to talk at the water cooler about your beliefs or your stance on issues. At some point in the 1980s I remember that there were brief spouts of people finding their political way and vocalizing an opinion on abortion or arms control, but the discussions were canned platform speeches repeating someone else’s ideas.

In some ways, it’s like that now, and I can’t honestly think of any of my Republican friends (I have many) who aren’t spitting back a Sean Hannity or Rush Limbaugh quote to try to seal their argument without thinking for themselves, but that’s ok. That’s the spirit of Freedom and Democracy and everyone has the right to speak their mind (or someone elses), and more importantly, vote their conscience. If you don’t vote, you can’t bitch about the political consequences later.

I honestly believe this election is not about my guy versus your guy. They’re both rich guys who were privileged enough to go to Yale. It’s not like it’s a sporting event and the winner is the winner until the next major sporting event. This election has lives at stake in our military. It has livelihoods at stake in our economy. I take it very seriously and I can’t understand those who relegate it to something you watch on Sunday with chips, beer and funny commercials. Although sometimes I wish John Kerry would call Joe Torre for help, but that’s a different story.

At some point in the second of four sets last Saturday, Flipper (our singer for those who are just tuning in now) decided to bring the band down behind him so he could speak. Usually, this is in an effort to address the crowd and get some bar event moving, like a shot special or an announcement about Liquid Jukebox or to announce the band personnel. But this was different, and a surprise.

Unexpectedly, Flipper found it in his infinite wisdom to take an “Overboard Poll” of who was voting for which candidate in the Presidential election.

Now, I was just as surprised as you might be to find out that the center of United States political thought was in Paramus, NJ that night in the bar. I’m also happy that he was gung-ho for the election and for his candidate (who happens to be the opposite of my choice for the Presidency). But no matter who he’s voting for, there are two things that should be unwaveringly clear:

1. Politics and Bar Music DO NOT mix. Under any circumstances.
2. Bar polls are not scientific and often incite negative circumstances.

I braced myself for what I had a hunch would play out in a moronic fashion. When Flipper asked the crowd who was voting for Kerry, no one responded. Not surprising, considering that everyone I know who is steadfast in voting for the Democratic candidate was either at home with kids on a Saturday night or in shock in the first place that the poll was being taken at a bar and fearful of a drunk redneck screaming Bushisms in their face while they’re trying to enjoy themselves.

Then Flipper asked who was voting for Bush (and added that Bush was his personal favorite for the election). A grand total of two drunk guys raised their fist and screamed with a whooping yell. I was waiting for the “We’re Number One!” chant, but it never came. Pity.

I was more angered than shocked. I couldn’t believe that he had the balls to breach the entertainment rule of mixing politics with bar music, but was he arrogant enough to think that he was going to sway any undecideds by showing two drunk rednecks were voting for his candidate? Flipper even looked at Dickboy (a voiced Democrat) and pointed at him with a smile after hearing the two rednecks as if to say that my candidate is more popular than yours. Wow. Two drunk rednecks. Three if you include Flipper.

Maybe Flipper was on the fence himself, after watching his candidate have a hard time forming complete sentences in the first Presidential debate and was now looking to others in a social situation to help shape his malleable opinion. I couldn’t tell, but I knew I was pissed that I was still on stage in this situation, looking like I was part of a band that endorsed President Bush in this election.

The crux of the issue for me was really that he had crossed the line a final time. For months he had been throwing little Pro-Bush statements into the microphone, including wearing an “I Love Bush” t-shirt as if to shower a ringing endorsement of the President and his policies. Endorsed by the entire band as it would seem. I had definitely had enough.

The Admiral, who is truly a stand-up guy, got my back by trying to diffuse the situation in a more entertainment-like fashion. “That’s not a poll! Politics and music don’t mix, here’s a real poll: Whose wearing a thong?!”

As if the crowd understood that our singer had a momentary lapse of reason, many women yelled to signify their compliance with the thong poll. It was a diversion to reclaim the entertainment value of the moment, but unfortunately Flipper brought it back to the politics and the Herculean effort by The Admiral to undermine the act of stupidity from Flipper was shot down.

As the set continued, I know that Flipper could feel my icy glare burning a hole through the back of his head as he avoided my eyes for the next two songs. He knew what he had done and was standing behind his actions as if to take a hard stance in defiance of my views. Good for him, but I was pissed off not because of his beliefs, but because he was speaking for me to the crowd. That was more than wrong. I needed to confront him.

At the end of the set, he put his guitar down in its stand next to my drums and launched out with, “Do you really fucking think that was appropriate?!”

A furrowed brow indicated he didn’t expect me to say anything, let alone ask him a simple question.

What?!

What the fuck made you think that doing that was appropriate at a bar?!

Yes, I do think it was appropriate. Hey listen, I’m not here for you, so I don’t try to do things that make you happy. I’m here for them (pointing to the crowd).

Bullshit, you did that for you. That’s bullshit and you know it.

Well if you don’t like it, you could fucking quit.

There it was. The ultimatum. To this moment, I’m more pissed that a guy who is 5 times less my body weight got in my face preparing for a fist fight. I was faced with kicking the shit out of him on stage or quitting. Those were two options I wasn’t going to choose.

There are many reasons why I still play in this band, but I’m not sure what Flipper thinks is the main reason. He could fire me, but that would mean that he would have to find someone as good as me to take my place on a moment’s notice. I know he doesn’t have a suitable replacement, no matter what he would have me or anyone else believe.

He’s said many times that there are people jumping at the chance to take the place of our band members, but I know from the few times I’ve been on vacation that the substitutes couldn’t come close to filling my shoes.

That’s not an ego trip. If I could find someone at this point who had as much attitude as me and could actually play, then I would wholeheartedly lead the transition team to getting that guy in to take my place. Especially after this episode.

I wasn’t going to hit him (he’d have broken bones and a lawsuit) and I almost made a move to start packing up my equipment. I was already quitting right then and there in my mind. And then I noticed The Admiral still on stage waiting to break us up if he had to. I walked off the stage and outside to cool off. I remembered that I was in the band because we all needed the money. If I quit, I’d fuck over the other guys much more than me.

I didn’t touch him and till this moment we still haven’t spoken.

So here we are, at a classic impasse. I don’t want to quit for fear of hurting the two-fifths of the band that matter to me (not including myself), but I wouldn’t have much stopping me from exercising my arm strength right through Flipper’s impending broken nose.

What’s this all about? I’m not sure, but I know that this President certainly isn’t a uniter of people as he said he was going to be in 2000. That’s for sure.

Note to the band members of Wigjam: Yeah, I know…

Blonde Jokes (The Orange Lantern Part One)

Wow, was The Orange Lantern in Paramus, NJ a smoke-filled bastion of surreal weirdness on Saturday night. It all started with the entrance of what appeared to be a Dungeons & Dragons user group meeting. In walked five or six pimple-covered twentysomethings donning geek attire that made me yearn to watch Revenge of the Nerds for nostalgic comfort.

I took notice, but also took care not to make fun of our friends because they usually have hidden Hit Points and weapons that I can’t even pronounce. It’s good policy to take a cautious approach to people carrying 12-sided dice and a scowl.

I had setup and was quietly conversing with Big Mike and The Admiral’s Wife who together were continuing her birthday festivities through the weekend when I noticed that they were staring at something behind me. Their glances started to motion me to look behind me, but I didn’t want to be obvious since I could tell from their expressions that they were a bit nervous at what lurked to my rear.

I cocked my head slightly to notice one of the pimple-faced D&D clan in front of the stage staring at my drumkit. Macked out in a blue and white striped (mom-picked) polo shirt, jeans, white high-tops and a key chain that dangled from his right hip beltloop to his mid thigh, this guy was looking at my kit like he was about to attack a physics problem on the chalkboard in front of the math team.

I knew that look, and I took great care not to let on that I owned the kit, because getting into a conversation with this guy with at least an hour before the gig could be disastrous for my mood for the night.

Yes… he was a Rush fan. It was a freaky obsession that had briefly passed through my adolescent formative years. I had just a hunch from his uniform and stare about his obsession but soon my hunch was confidently confirmed by the sudden drop to his knees onto the stage looking underneath my kit to check out the behind-the-scenes stuff.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t wear the same kinds of clothes in 1987 as this guy, but I knew what was going through this guy’s head. He’s an aspiring drummer, wearing clothes from the 1980s and looking to see what I’ve got under the hood to assess my playing before I even got back there to play. If he knew I were the drummer, he’d probably start quizzing me and talking shop.

I hate talking shop about drums. I’ve never been up on the latest gear or what drummer from what band is playing what type of cymbal. As soon as someone starts talking shop with me, I look for a way to divert the conversation to something unrelated or a discussion about music, which is intimately more fun.

If I can’t get out of the shoptalk, I look for ways to kill myself by analyzing the rafters for a good place to throw up a noose. It was clear to me that this guy was ready to talk any drummer’s ear off about what drumheads Neil Peart (Rush’s drummer) uses and how to heel-toe a kickdrum part for more speed. I wasn’t biting.

I did however mention to Big Mike and The Admiraless that this guy was definitely a Rush fan. When asked how I knew, I tried to prove it by saying loudly, “Hey, is that Neil Peart in the parking lot?” to see if the guy would get off his knees from under my drumkit and run towards the parking lot. He didn’t bite either, but he soon got up and went to the door to meet more members of the D&D users group who resembled the Columbine Trench Coat Mafia. Among the new entrants was a young lady, with a touch of the homely, who embraced with our young strapping buck of a drummer.

As if with startling clarity to my prognosis of this guy’s Rushmania, she was wearing a Moving Pictures Tour Shirt from Rush’s last tour. I pointed it out to my compatriots with a grin and a feeling of “My Job is Done Here.” But no…my job was only beginning.

You see, as a former Rush fan and drummer, I felt obligated in 1987 to learn every Rush song note-for-note on the drums. It was an accomplishment for a thirteen year-old kid that rivaled Crossing the Rubicon. I realized that I would probably never have an opportunity again to prove the fruits of my adolescent labor to someone who understood from an insider level, short of Neil Peart walking into the bar and challenging me to a drum duel.

I had to show this guy that I knew his pain, and every fucking Rush lick there was. At least up until Counterparts, because everything after Presto really sucked. It would be the focus of my night. I had to let The Admiral in on my quest.

As I recapped the course of events for The Admiral that occurred while he was away from the stage area, he giggled as we practice-pantomimed the complex and unmistakable intro section to Rush’s Spirit of the Radio. The plan was for us to break into Spirit in the intro section of Jessie’s Girl and then back to the regularly scheduled song.

The move would be a master-stroke and would probably send the guy into a climactic frenzy of high-five jumping and air-drumming for all to enjoy. We couldn’t wait. It was the ultimate homage to Rush and this guy’s key-jingling D&D focused allegiance. Maybe if we were lucky, a potion of healing would fall to the floor and heal our battle wounds.

As it turns out, I couldn’t wait for the excitement and our four-set gig that night ensured that we wouldn’t be playing Jessie’s Girl for another few hours. At every chance I could find, I would throw in unmistakable drum fills into every song that I could get away with.

The first set alone I threw in a lick from La Villa Strangiato into Miss You (Rolling Stones), a lick from YYZ into Can’t Get Enough of You (Smashmouth) and various beat turnarounds ala Neil Peart into every song that I could.

Flipper was beginning to get visibly annoyed at my overplaying, but every contrived lick that I forced into our set sent The Admiral and I into a fit of laughter. We could see our young Rush protégé in the next room beginning to catch on. He came over to the lip of the stage, watching with a smile of a kid on Christmas opening presents. He was getting visibly excited…as planned.

In the second set, we were leading to the big climactic Spirit of the Radio moment as I continued subtly throwing Neil Peart drum fills into every song that I could. LSD was ready for the big moment as we had confirmed that he remembered the complex guitar riff, but two things went wrong in the second set that undid the planning.

1. LSD unfortunately got the cue wrong and forgot which song to enter our planned Coup de Grace. As a result, we couldn’t do that part in unison and it was doubtful that anyone realized what he was playing.
2. Flipper did something so asinine that my mood was ruined for the rest of the night. Consequently, we dropped the plan when Jessie’s girl did eventually come around.

No big deal on the LSD part. He wasn’t sure where it was supposed to come in and when the time came for Jessie’s Girl, we kind of lost interest. We had made our point and our friend was glowing and roaming about the bar with wild glory abandon.

At one point, a DIFFERENT guy (probably of the same crowd) cornered the Admiral during one of his wireless roams during the second set and explained how excited he was that the drummer was playing the lick to YYZ. He just started playing drums and he couldn’t believe that we had thrown that in. His name was George and he was REALLY excited. At least two people were happy that night.

I’m not going to say what it was that Flipper did during the second set to piss me off because it’s a long story. I promise that on the next night we have off, I’ll properly chronicle the stupidity with all the contempt of a pitbull, but until then, let’s just say that politics and bar music should not mix.

Suffice it to say, I was pissed off for the rest of the night, so I’ll skip to the end where our story is currently in-progress.

It was the last set of the night, and we had the crowd in the palm of our hand. They were dancing and Flipper was drunk from drinking Tequila for four sets. This was a first for him since he’s a pussy and can’t drink anything but Old Grand Dad. At this point, The Admiral and I are calling the set because after one drink Flipper forgets how to keep a crowd dancing, let alone what planet he’s on.

It’s at this point that the Jessica Simpson Wannabe jumps up on stage to start dancing. We’ve seen her before at this place and she dances as if she’s in front of a mirror practicing to be a bigger tease than her pop star fake-titted idols. I don’t mind when a good looking chick jumps up and takes her clothes off, but there were no clothes coming off and she was just in the business of making a teasing spectacle of herself without the added bonus of nudity.

As is custom with Flipper when this happens, his dick speaks louder than his voice and he starts his little butt-bumping dance on-stage to act cool and associate himself with the better than average looking blonde in tight clothes.

He salivates obviously, but I guess that’s the mark of a 43 year-old balding hasbeen who wishes he were single. The Admiral, who is a class act with wit to spare, finds a lull in the song to diffuse the ridiculousness after the American Idol chick has been dancing on stage for two songs.

Hey, Flip.

Yes, Admiral

The band lowers the volume and vamps in the background during Sweet Caroline

I got a blonde joke for ya…

OK…

The blonde starts grinding more as if to signify that she’s just been recognized on stage

How do you get a blonde to laugh on Wednesday?

How?


A brief pause…wait for it…



Tell her a joke on Monday.



The entire place is roaring with laughter
As if on cue 20 seconds too late, the blonde leans into the microphone and says in a little petit squeal:

That’s not funny!

She does a little hiccup laugh (unscripted) that usually characterizes a bimbo. The Admiral waits a second with a perfectly timed pause…

Umm…yeah, I think it is.


Right on cue, we brought the band back in to the song to illustrate the punchline and the crowd was cracking up. You couldn’t have scripted the episode better and the blonde stayed on-stage.

I’m not sure if she realized what really went on and ignored it, or just failed to recognize the backfiring of her spectacle, but it was a triumphant step forward for the stereotype.

The only thing better would have been if she had square kleenex boxes under her shirt because she forgot to take the tissues out to stuff her bra. I love that old joke.

Sock Puppets and Medleys

The post-summer Jersey Shore bar scene is a departure from the migrant throngs of Hobokenite ridiculousness. After the dust settles each summer and the “Bennies” leave, as they’ve been called by the year-round shore residents for decades, the NJ Parkway Exit 98 area goes back to a more mellow and rustic atmosphere.

The residents rejoice that they’ll no longer be woken up by sirens and streaking contests at 4am on any given Sunday night. They’re also happy that they can reclaim their bars and restaurants. What they don’t realize is that they provide an equal level of entertainment for their hired entertainment as the Bennies did by falling down drunk and making asses out of themselves in the bar. The only difference is the shame that you can see on their faces as they realize their weakness in-progress. I guess it’s a sign of maturity.

Overboard continues to play shore bars in off-season, and sometimes it makes for an unpleasant 75 minute ride through snow or freezing rain. We started playing this place called Leggett’s a few months ago, a near-beach restaurant turned watering hole for folks living in Manasquan. Brick oven pizza, a decent Italian menu and a bartending staff that knows how to make a drink.

Last Friday night, The Admiral’s wife was celebrating her birthday and decided to come down with Big Mike to kick off the festivities. We had a good time in between set breaks, but that may be because of the drink discount we discovered for band members. Once again, a tip up front to a specific bartender goes a long way, and The Admiral, Big Mike and I drank top shelf scotch all night for a buck a piece.

The crowd was uneventful, but seemed to come alive when we played two new songs that makes three-fifths of the band cringe when we hear the call or see the lyric sheet come up on Flipper’s audio monitor.

1985, (by Bowling for Soup) a provincial attempt at chronicling the complexities of hair metal, pop music and bad clothes from that decade, was requested by Flipper’s wife (at home). So naturally, whether the song sucks or not, we’re going to jump through hoops to learn a shitty song and play it every night on the off chance that she makes it to one of our gigs (hence the Bon Jovi repertoire that we do).

I’ve been playing with this band on and off for three years. I’ve only seen the Wife at three gigs. That’s an average of one gig per year. There are better ways to reconcile a marriage than to force your band to do penance for your guilt for being an absentee husband, especially if the Wife is never fucking there.

We played the song and it sounded like shit. Mostly because everyone in the band has a different idea of what learning a song really means. Dickboy plays every part but his own and ignores the parts that could really be taken care of by a keyboard. Flipper thinks that printing out the lyrics is all he has to do learn a song, so he sounds not only like an idiot when he misreads the words, but also like a white guy trying to sing James Brown without knowing the count.

Admittedly, I didn’t pay attention to some of the stops, mostly because my apathy is overcoming my resolve at this point in my band tenure. I feel bad for The Admiral who in the past week actually went through the pain of learning both 1985 and a quote-unquote Disco Medley of Play That Funky Music/Jungle Boogie/Brickhouse.

I have to give him a lot of credit because he not only schooled the two music teachers of the band who were playing the Disco Medley with the wrong chord structure, but he knew all of the stops and gave me a reference during the set. Kudos to The Admiral, the true Patriot of the band (and non-commissioned officer).

Granted, these problems would not exist if:

1. We rehearsed new songs.
2. Had an inherent notion of how to learn a song as a band.
3. Actually had common sense as a band and exercised it.
4. Gave a shit.

Three-fifths of the band doesn’t give a shit, we just want our paycheck at the end of the night (cash preferably). The other two-fifths of the band just doesn’t have common sense.

In any given situation like the one I just mentioned, people who have common sense (the band majority in this case) tire easily from explaining common sense concepts to the other two-fifths with sock puppets and diagrams. It makes it more frustrating when the state has licensed these two idiots to teach music to children in the State of New Jersey. Way to go New Jersey…put your best people forward in the fight for education.

The fact that the crowd came alive during our pitiful presentation of these two songs seemed to validate an already skewed criteria of what songs we should play. I guarantee that we’ll stop playing 1985 before the next summer season. The medley will probably last, but only because we’ve become the Medley band as of late.

People were dancing in front of us, and since there is no stage at Leggett’s it was cramped. The band has to set up on a portable and narrow riser that occupies the five feet of space between the wall and the bar. I can’t even fit the drums on it, so I setup on the floor. It makes it kind of cramped for the band members to move around, and although I’m safely protected behind my drumkit, the close-quarters definitely heightens the risk of some drunken whale falling over my equipment and denting or breaking it.

Once at this place, a pint glass full of beer fell off of the wall-ledge behind me (moved from the vibration of the amplifiers) and broke on my wrist. Besides the pain, I was fearful that I had broken my wrist. That night sucked, but was made right by a donation from the bar of a Yankee Poster that had the full 2004 schedule on it.

The Yankee Poster was donated in increments. As we were loading out, it was hanging on the wall near the bar exit. Each time The Admiral and I passed the poster, we accidentally knocked out a push-pin from each of the four corners. Eventually gravity took its course and the poster fell to the floor. We helped keep the bar clean by picking it up and escorting it outside. It ended up on a prominent wall at work to guide us through the entire Yankee season.

With a belly full of Scotch, it was only apropos to lead an expedition of glorious Patriots to the most noble of post-gig establishments. Yes, once again, it was time to go to the Home of The World’s Biggest Screw. The White Castle in Union, NJ— Open 24 hours and always willing to satisfy the crave. I’ve never seen a woman (who wasn’t pregnant) steal and scarf down everyone else’s pickles quite the way The Admiral’s wife did that night. It was an Olympic event and a triumphant denouement to a fun birthday outing for her.

Happy Birthday, M.

Liver Damage and Popcorn

Let’s get something straight, people. Musicians don’t like it when you throw things at them. Shit…most people in any situation don’t like it if you throw something at them, except at an egg toss, which is truly an amazing human activity. It doesn’t matter if the person throwing things at you is bald, six foot six and the head chef of the restaurant you’re playing that night… it’s just not good policy.

So after I got hit in the head with an ice cube while unloading my drums, I knew the night was going to be magical. Like a pigeon shitting on your head.

I admonished my bald friend with an icy stare to match his ice that hit me in the head. He came up on stage to shake my hand and apologize. As he held out his hand, I made him wait just a click before shaking it to let him know I meant business. There...I showed him. That bastard owes me a steak. Au poivre, medium rare. Speaking of food…

I hadn’t eaten all day and that usually just fuels more stupidity while drinking, so I laid out a careful and calculated plan for the evening. It consisted of one mantra. Don’t Drink.

But that mantra was soon forgotten when Liquid Jukebox kicked in. For those who don’t know what Liquid Jukebox is, please allow me to explain. Liquid Jukebox is the part of the evening (and sometimes the entire evening) where the band no longer has a setlist, nor a liver.

We’ll play anything you like. Name a song, and if we can’t play it, we’ll buy you a drink. But— If we can get through most of the song (like 2 verses and a chorus), you have to buy the whole band a shot. We make it pretty easy for the crowd by offering our drink preferences in advance. Five shots total-- Four tequilas and one Old Grand Dad. And if the request is a well-known song that we already play in our repertoire, just line the shots up in advance on the bar in front of us.

Things were going pretty well in the first set. We were sounding good and playing tight. We got to the last third of the first set when we started getting requests and announcements of birthdays in the crowd. We played a birthday song or two for LSD’s stalker who usually attends our Marina Grille shows. Her handle is “Rain” on the Overboard website and tends to post flattering comments about LSD’s flashy muscles and what she wants to do with his...socks.

She cracks me up because she’ll sit in her car after the bar has closed waiting for us to come out with our equipment. When LSD gets in his car to go, she’ll follow him. One time, LSD and I pulled out of the parking lot together and caused a traffic diversion at a red light so she couldn’t continue the hunt. She was stuck behind me stopped at the traffic light. As it turned green, I ran interference and LSD got away. By now, after 6 months, we realized that she’s harmless but crazy, so we just go with it.

Song requests started to pour in, and without thinking, Flipper continued to honor them without reminding the crowd of our Liquid Jukebox policy. I don’t know if there’s actually a conscience deep down inside me that speaks up when social injustice is anywhere near, but as usual when this happens, I yell out, “Hey, where’s the fucking shots!” over the music in my booming, yet subtle, masculine voice.

That prompted The Admiral to remind the crowd of our Liquid Jukebox policy in the microphone. We anticipated getting at least a round of shots from the guy in the front requesting AC/DC. But as we turned the corner into the intro of Shook Me All Night Long, I noticed that guy shirking his responsibilities and not approaching the bartender. I called The Admiral over while Flipper was going through the first verse of the song. I explained to The Admiral the plan that I was formulating with mouthed words, hand gestures and raised eyebrows (our usual method of non-verbal communication). He agreed and we hoped that Flipper would understand what we were trying to do. With all the hand gestures, I was hoping he wouldn't steal second base in a communication mix up.

The first verse was almost done and The Admiral leaned in to tell Flipper what to do in a few seconds. I watched Flipper bring his hands up in the air as he was singing the last word of the verse, and …cut.

Flipper cut off the band like an orchestra director and since The Admiral and I followed the direction perfectly, it was easy for the other two guys in the band to cut-off with us in unison. Usually they're in another world, but tonight they were sharp.

Through the newly acquired bar silence: “OK people, my drummer is pretty pissed off that there are no shots coming this way, so we’re going to try something new. Until we get those shots up here, we’re going to play some easy listening. Bobby, play Summer Wind.”

As Dickboy tried desperately to figure out how to play Summer Wind, he gave up and started playing a different song of the same genre. It may have been Memories or something, but whatever it was, it did the trick. Within minutes three bartenders were lining up shots in front of us. The gag worked, and we were satisfied with the drink ratio. On a quick nod, we decided to re-enter the song and like a swiss watch we went right back into the chorus of Shook Me, except it was the last chorus before the guitar solo. Noone noticed that we cut out a verse on purpose to save Flipper’s voice for the night, but the double ruse worked.

When all was said and done and the smoke from the bar cleared like a battlefield, there were 25 shots lined up on the bar in front of us. Like martyrs, we did our duty and drank our allotted shots one by one in quick succession. We closed out the first set a few songs later and braced ourselves for a full bottle of tequila to kick in.

Soon after for the rest of the night, we were missing cues and I was getting pissed because my snare drum broke in the middle of the second set, but the bottom line was that the bar owner was VERY happy that night from the bar sales. The shots kept flowing and our livers were baring the brunt of the toxicity.

Forgetting that I hadn’t eaten didn’t make things easier on my altered state and in a hunger panic I went and found the popcorn machine in the back of the bar. As I was eating the stale popcorn, I casually asked the owner (who was also eating out of the same bowl that I brought over) how long this popcorn had been sitting there? He smiled and said the machine hadn’t been turned on since he bought the place last year. We kept eating and we were both happy despite the really disgusting news.

Musicians take note, Liquid Jukebox works in any situation to make a bar owner happy. And stale year-old popcorn works, too.

Drummer Hubris

As I’ve said before, I love playing new places. There’s something about the newness of things when you’re not quite sure what to expect from the crowd or how the owner of the bar is going to react to the singer jumping up and walking down the bartop.

It’s a totally new experience and there are no negatives in your mind before you arrive at the scene. It’s a calm mental stasis, and the mere fact that you’ve played so many new places before gives you a confident feeling that you can handle anything that comes your way during the course of the evening.

At least that’s what you think up until you’re 30 minutes late and you still can’t find the friggin’ place. Christ, I mean you would think that if you own a bar and you want it to succeed, you should have the bar in a place where people can find it. Take this highway here, make three U-turns there…geez. I drove all over fucking Union, NJ looking for another corner watering hole that has nothing but Annheiser-Busch products and a bar half-full of Marlboro poster children.

I’ve always been paranoid that I’m going to show up late to a new place and piss off the owner and the rest of the band because it usually takes me 40 minutes to setup. I can do it faster, but it makes the rest of the night a jumbled mess trying to play with drums falling down, and the like, because I didn’t setup in the right fashion. I tried to compensate by leaving early, but it seems that whenever I plan on leaving early, it never happens.

Thus was another night in the history of Overboard, a late start for me, a new bar, a new set of rules and a fistful of attitude from the bartenders. A note to bartenders who read this… if the rule is that the first drink is on the house and the rest are slightly discounted, don’t expect the drummer to order a light beer for the free drink. We’re going to order Scotch, preferably Dewar’s Black Label or whatever top shelf we can spy from our lowly posts. I’m guessing the bass player, too…but I’m damn sure about the drummer.

The crowd was pretty much what I’d expected, except it included some regulars from the other dive bar that we play regularly in Union. They followed us. Mind you, the other place was the place where I saw two men over sixty get into a fist-fight where one of them broke a pint glass over the other’s head. Truly the upper echelon of drinking establishments…nothing but the best for Union, NJ.

As we were loading in, there was a middle-aged guy (most likely a fireman judging from his garb) hanging around the front door smoking a cigarette. He was nice enough to hold the door for us and even threw some welcoming comments our way, albeit in the third person.

It’s pretty weird when someone addresses you by talking about you or your bandmate like they’re not there. “Jesus, look at this guy… what’d he get thrown out of the house or something?,” referring to the two-ton bag I was rolling in with drum hardware. “Christ, look at the arms on this guy!,” referring to LSD (our guitar player) who was wearing his usual Everlast bodybuilding sleeveless t-shirt brandishing his guns of steel.

It just so happens that as the owner came up to us to introduce himself, I thought he was LSD’s older brother. He was wearing the same Everlast bodybuilding outfit and had the same gym swagger as he waddled towards us with knuckles touching the floor in a Magilla Gorilla stride. Ben was a nice guy, and explained that he didn’t like cursing and that we should leave a path through our stuff so that people could get to the bathroom and the cigarette machine.

For most bands, this would have been a deal breaker, but I certainly welcomed the opportunity to heckle or elevate the stage status of anyone on their way to the ladies room directly to the left of, or the cigarette machine behind, the “stage.” (Editor’s Note: Stage in this circumstance was a small area of tiled floor cordoned off between the pinball machine, cigarette machine and ladies’ bathroom.)

The Mollusk, our friend from the Liberty Tavern with a wandering eye, showed up to see us. He greeted us with hand slaps, thirteen “What’s up’s” and five “What’s going on’s” as we setup our equipment. He’s a pretty funny guy in general as long as you’re not engaged in conversation. Wind him up and let him go.., fun for the whole family.

Three sets flew by and with the Yankee game on television versus the Red Sox, there wasn’t much attention thrown towards the band, except the owner who kept standing in front of the band with an eyeful of thought. At first I couldn’t figure out if he was pissed at us for not starting on time or something, but I finally started to get it when I watched where his glances were falling. Flipper (our singer) confirmed my suspicion after the first set.

The owner was a musician, in this case a drummer, and his band members were in the audience. I’m guessing he didn’t have a tough time booking gigs at his own place and I wondered how long it would be before Flipper would ask me if I would let the owner play my drumkit to kiss the guy’s ass.

The beginning of the second set, I was pleasantly engaged in conversation with Big Mike over a glass of Scotch. As the rest of the band filtered back towards the ”stage”, I tried to muster up the gumption to join my compatriots, but I just couldn’t get a handle on that elusive enthusiasm. I had to think fast to stall my return so I yelled out, “Play Dave Matthews!!” a few times in a false deep masculine voice.

Now…Flipper was a drummer in another lifetime. From time to time, he feels the need to prove something to himself (much more than the audience) and get behind the drumkit on stage. There are typically two songs that he’ll play, Ants Marching by Dave Matthews, or Angry Young Man by Billy Joel. He chose both because they have flashy drum parts to make him look stunning as if wind should be blowing through his hair with sticks blazing fire as they twirl through his fingers. As he forces his way through the drum charts destroying every fill that he can with unpracticed and un-nuanced banging, I cower in the corner far away trying to act like it doesn’t bother me that this guy is ruining my heads with his percussive drivel.

As I yelled for Dave Matthews, a puzzled and mischievous look came over his face. He didn’t see me at the drum kit, and he certainly didn’t know it was me yelling for the song, so he decided this was his opportunity. He jumped behind the kit and The Admiral quickly spoke into the microphone, “Mike’s the one yelling for Dave Matthews, you dick!”

No matter, The Admiral was the only person not fooled as the band started the song and I had two more songs to finish my Scotch. Big Mike and I enjoyed the rest of our conversation, which centered on something esoteric and witty. As usual with witty and esoteric I can’t remember what it was about. It could have possibly been about Buckminster Fuller or Killer Bees.

Almost two hours later, the beginning of the third set sort of started like the second set when finally the owner joined the band on the drumkit. His cohort bass player joined them as well. As luck would have it, the guy looked just like Ron Jeremy, forming a very surreal picture and historic moment.

Now, I’m not one to criticize other drummers on how they play. I realize that there are different skill sets and levels of talent. I especially realize that there is always somebody better at something than you are… but this was truly painful. I spent the next three songs listening to my drums cry in pain from the torture they suffered. I thought about how I would have to coddle them and hold them later until they loved me again, because I had betrayed their trust by letting someone without certification or license to drum get behind the kit.

As the night wound down, the owner was happy and we got paid. Stupid things were said by a host of people that night, including a statement from Flipper accusing someone in the bar of still having their baby teeth (whatever the fuck that means).

I didn’t realize he was such a dental hygiene nut. I was just grateful he didn’t dock my pay for not flossing. I hate flossing, but I hate not getting paid more.

Always Time for Cripples

I honestly believe that there are no stupid people in the world, just lazy people. Everyday I meet or witness people who do stupid things, but I don’t think it’s because they’re stupid, but rather too lazy to find a better way, or more to the point, an admirable way to conduct action.

That theory was seriously challenged on Saturday. But first, a note about the day.

For those who were in the metro NY area, you know about the fallout of Hurricane Ivan and the gusting windy rain that heralded the early morning. I woke up around 5:30am when branches were hitting the roof above my head in the bedroom and scared the shit out of me.

We had a double scheduled that day, but it wasn’t too far-fetched that our one-set gig at the HarvestFest at noon would be cancelled. The Bloomfield police postponed the event and I welcomed the reprieve.

I’m not keen on setting up in a tropical storm for 45 minutes of playing to noone at an outdoor flea market for a Benjamin. I know that other members of the band wouldn’t feel that way, but they didn’t have to lug a ton of drum gear with a slipped disc.

Our second. yet non-cancelled gig, was a private party in Piscataway, not too far from the Rutgers Campus. A backyard lawn venue with a tent and picnic-like atmosphere wasn’t the most tropical storm friendly place to play a gig, but the weather was dying down a bit.

Back to stupid people and stupid acts.

If you’re a father of two small children, the first rule that you should have explained to you when you’re bringing home your children from the hospital is that from time to time, fathers need to make decisions that garner the title, “Father.”

The title Patriarch is a little too stuffy, but in the very least you shouldn’t do things after you become a father. For instance, when you’re at a party with your kids and a lot of other kids, you shouldn’t wear a t-shirt that brandishes an American flag and accompanying slogan that says, “You Fucked With The Wrong Country.” That’s the first lesson of fatherhood…act like a daddy and a role model to all kids. That's the least you should do. The next thing you should learn is how to change diapers, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.

To make a long story short, I usually don’t agree with the judgment of our singer on most occasions, but this one was tops. During his momentary lapse of fatherhood sensibility, he managed to not only wear the aforementioned t-shirt to our second scheduled gig of the day, but made sure to walk around and play with all of the eleven-year olds at the party. Way to go, dad. Teach them profanity and hate in one fell swoop.

As we played and the afternoon turned to evening, the storm wind made it very clear that the usual amount of people who showed up to this annual party (lovingly referred to as Ronstock in honor of the host) would be much less than anticipated. The great thing about this party is that Ron always catered enough roast pig, live lobster and beer to feed Washington’s army. We gorged ourselves on lobster, pork and various picnic necessities. The liquor was flowing and soon, the real meat of the stupidity would begin.

Depending on how you look at it, private parties could be hilariously funny, or a nightmare for the hired musicians. The last big wedding we played, the groom was a former DJ and “knew” the intricacies of wedding arrangements from a professional point of view. He was also a stubborn, hot-tempered and nasty person. For his own wedding, he hired three different bands that were slated to intertwine sets: a 15-piece orchestra wedding ensemble, a latino DJ from Jersey City and us. Oh yeah, and a piano player for cocktail hour, but that didn't count.

After the wedding and before the party, DJ Dave (the groom) spent most of the afternoon yelling at everyone and even melodramatically ripped up a check to the sound company who hadn’t provided "adequate" resources for three different stage setups. It looked like a nightmare waiting to unfold, but as the night progressed, everything was fine. When the groom got drunk enough, he decided he wanted to play drums. He came over to me in the middle of the set, screamed, “get the fuck up,” and then paused for a second of thought to add, “hold my drink!”

I just laughed and got up because it meant that as long as he was on my kit, I would be the highest paid member of the band. The formula is: Band pay ratio= amount of time spent setting up and playing divided by the amount of money paid for the night.

I went to the bar and ordered myself a few drinks while the drunk DJ groom made a bigger ass of himself slobbering away on my sticks and trying to count to four on a bad Lynard Skynard song.

Anyway…flash forward to yesterday. DJ Dave was actually at the Ronstock party, so I knew he would be chasing me around to try and get on the drumset again. At one point, I mused about the “Get the Fuck Up” story to our singer.

You’d think that you could joke about something like that in confidence to your bandmates who lived the moment with you…but NO, Stupid Act #1, the singer tells DJ Dave about his act of assholity from the previous year. Stupid Act#2, DJ Dave tries confront me about it because he didn’t remember doing it.

Boy, what an awkward conversation that went nowhere. It ended with me looking at my drumset across the field and saying, “What in the world could that be?!” and walking away. Stupid Act#3 (he actually bought it).

The evening got darker and drunker and that’s when the temporary crippled guy (broken leg) comes hobbling up to dance in front of the band with all of the surburbanite moms and their fake breasts. He decided that he was going to dance without his crutches.

Years ago, I broke both my ankles (one per year for two consecutive years). I had a cast and I was on crutches. The crippled manual usually explicitly delineates that dancing is not part of the package when you get a cast on your leg, but that didn’t stop El Moron.

Stupid Acts number four through seven: crippled guy falls onto to his face four times in a matter of 15 minutes. One time he actually falls face first into the band monitor. Had I been more attuned to the situation, I would have placed my bet on this guy to fall way before I saw him dancing.

A big shout out to Big Mike (an old friend of the band) who managed to get a cripple chant going in the crowd. I don't know how he did it, but I swear that guy says the funniest things in every situation.

There were too many stupid acts to spin yarn about, but suffice it to say, DJ Dave made another appearance behind my drumkit for the same Lynard Skynard song. When he got up he asked me if I had any drumsticks that weren’t chewed up..to wehich I replied that I could run to the car and get some for him…and would he like any coffee while I'm out? He didn't get the joke.

Another guy who was standing on stage behind the drumkit all night was drunk enough to approach me during the last set. As is customary in these predicaments, I needed a distraction to keep the drunk guy away from the drumkit while I was playing.

While still playing the song with one arm, I quickly reached out and gave him a drumstick and motioned to get him started on the cowbell. He figured it out and started hitting the cowbell with wild reckless abandon. It was a sight to see.

As the cowbell hardware on the stand began to give way because of a wingnut that was loose, he contorted his drunken body first into an awkward crouched position, then onto his knees to continue playing the cowbell in this new angled state.

I saw he was in trouble (felt bad for his back and knees), so I took the cowbell off of the stand and handed it to him where he continued to play the thing on his knees. I motioned to him that he could stand up and then the look had taken hold of him.

You know the look. The moment when you realize you’re doing something so stupid that you could only be…ummm… shitfaced? That was the moment. He had realized he was so drunk that he was playing cowbell on his knees on stage in front of his wife, kids and friends.

Carpe Diem… he seized the day. He got off his knees and turned bright red. It was the end of his cowbell playing career. Bruce Dickinson and the band members of Blue Oyster Cult would be so disappointed.