Get Out the Chicken Wire - it's Gig Time

My new band played Saturday night.  I have only been with these guys for a little while and have only played at some outdoor gigs thus far.  They told me the bar was a great place to play.  In fact, one of them described it as follows...

It's the kind of place where there's a fight in the parking lot and everybody walks by it like this happens every day.

I approached neutrally, figuring I'd let the place make its own impression on me.  I was not, however, prepared for the sign outside the bar:

As if this weren't enough, as I was taking the picture, a denizen walked by, looked quizzically, and started drunkenly spouting something about colors, the Eagles, several F-bombs and a smattering of N-words.  He was a very happy drunk and walked right inside.

Uh-oh.

The wife and I looked at each other with a smile.  We were home.  These were our people.  Well, not really.  But I've played in front of them frequently.

I hauled my gear in and waited for the rest of the band.  We were greeted by an impossibly perky waitress, who served us the best burgers we have eaten in a while.  This girl was all about service and we were suitably impressed.

Then we looked up to discover Mr. F-bomb actually worked at the bar.  Well, there's nothing like a happy racist.

Looking at the stage made me wonder where we were going to put the rest of the band; there are rather a lot of us and there wasn't a lot of stage.  After about an hour, someone managed to get the lights on, and when I say lights, I mean a pair of revolving red and blue lights.  I felt like the cops were after me all night.

In addition to the police lights they had black lights.  As a result, my shirt and shoelaces glowed white in the dark.  I must've looked like a dancing shirt from the front of the stage.

Most of the band noticed the waitress, who was everywhere at one time.  Most of the band made suitably rude comments about the attractive waitress.  And since most of the band wives were there, no one made any unsuitable propositions to the waitress (thankfully).

Much to my surprise, everything in my rig worked.  And all of the band's gear worked.  There was adequate power.  The p.a. was loud enough.  We had monitors.  Almost no one was sick.  It was like a scene out of a dream.  And there was no burden of being in-charge.

We played several long sets and the crowd was most appreciative.  At no point did we have to put up chicken wire (because no one threw anything).  I hear that management really likes us.  We old folks were pretty beat up at the end but it was a really great show.

The Great Sock Crisis of the 2000's

Today I'd like to revisit an old, important, and painful issue: socks.

As some of my original readers might remember, I have had many issues around socks.  It started innocently enough, when I caught my wife snickering to her friends about throwing out certain socks.  The girls were all snickering along knowingly.  When I listened in, I discovered that my wife was systematically disposing of all my socks with colored stripes around them.

When confronted, she claimed it was only because they were worn out.  This might also explain why the new socks that tended to magically appear now and then had no stripes whatsoever.  You can call them Magic Socks if you like but I was pretty agitated when I discovered this nefarious plot.  And you have never experienced anything like a room full of women knowingly laughing at you (I hope).

Next up was the grief I experienced from my band, all older than me, some by ten years.  I appeared at an outdoor gig with shorts and suffered no end of teasing from my bandmates about my socks.  I checked for stripes but there were none, so I had no idea what was so funny.

This time the issue was height.  Yes, apparently my socks were too high.  After the trauma of the stripes, I couldn't imagine things could get worse, but there I was, with socks that were apparently way too tall.  Now I know for a fact that my socks did not grow: they were the same socks at the same height I had always worn them.  For purposes of identification, the packages say Crew Socks.  They have heels and come midway up the leg.  I refer to them as Regular White Socks, as I'd imagine most of us do.

A quick look around revealed that my bandmates were either wearing nothing or gay socks.  Now before you get your panties in a knot, my wife's best friend, a gay male, refers to socks that don't cover the ankle as gay socks.  My wife, thrower-out of all socks striped, confirms that I'm simply not a gay socks kinda guy.  I'd have to go along with that assessment.

I have to admit this was a bit of a surprise.  There I was, playing the guitar like a man possessed, totally unaware of my apparent Fashion Faux Pas, when the guys, impersonating the Fashion Police, dropped the sock bomb on me.  I was totally unprepared for it.

Fortunately the lead antagonist, the drummer, is also a bit OCD and complained additionally that my socks were not even (pulled up to the same level).  I pushed one all the way down, much to his vocal dismay, and did the rest of the set that way.  This might explain his performance that day.  Imagine... being picked on by a drummer!

Apparently the band was too polite(?) to mention my shorts.  Shorts, much like socks, have always been the same for me.  I managed to ignore the `shorts' that come below your knees, as well as the Multi-Person Pants, into which you can probably fit a small band, not to mention pants that look like you're going to walk out of them at any moment.  I'm opposed to crack in any form.

Our yearly outdoor pig roast is almost upon us and after looking at pics from last year, I have decided to avoid all of the usual hagging and criticism from my Queer Eye bandmates and just not wear shorts, thereby hiding my apparently way-embarrassing socks.  As they're expecting 500 people this year, that comes to 250 people laughing at each sock.

But things haven't all been sunshine in the sock department.  My niece looked on in horror as she patiently tried to explain socks to Old Uncle lefty.  She really tries to look less mortified as she attempts to correct my horrid abuse of clothing (and speaking) etiquette.  After her explanation, I realized that I had taken on the appearance of a Crazy Old Man who doesn't even realize that most of the known universe laughs at his socks (even when he wears them with long pants).  It was a sobering moment.

Unwilling to remain sober for too long, I consulted a coworker who is hip and only ten years my junior.  I thought for sure she would understand socks.  But nooooooooo..... she too recognized gay socks as the only socks.

My nephew apparently loves socks.  No one knows why.  He told my wife that if he ever wins the lottery, he wants enough socks to wear a new pair every day (aim high!).  Oddly enough, Jerry Lewis refuses to wear a pair of socks more than once.

I was feeling terribly old and decrepit (even though I'm in my late forties).  Suicide was contemplated but quickly taken off the table.

The other day I auditioned an additional band.  I liked their selection of music and they spent the entire time verbally assaulting each other.  It was a beautiful thing; just like where I work.  Everything seemed ok until I stopped and looked around.  Every one of them was wearing shorts that came past their knees.  Two of them wore gay socks.  The rest of them wore no socks at all.

I officially give up.

Failing Spatial Relationships [or Gig Report]

My band got to play its favorite club on Friday.  It's our favorite club because it books us and it's practically at the end of my street.  It's also across the street from The One True Pizza, which never hurts.

The band makes a point of arriving at least two hours early so we can set up.  Using New Math<tm>, that allows the six of us twenty minutes each to set things up, plus thirty seven minutes each to complain.

Unfortunately the band got its math wrong and used all fifty seven minutes (each) to complain.  Because we were setting up differently than the previous time, there erupted four different conversations about how exactly to set up.  Since the owner said something to the effect of `set up THERE', I chose to set up THERE.

This was not sufficient for my esteemed cohorts.  They got out their fung shui manuals and proceeded to argue about the right way to set up.  Another set discussed their Vision for our setup.  Yet another had a Bad Feeling about the location.

After I damn near carefully set up the p.a. system, they asked me the best place for the speakers.  I suggested exactly where I put them.  Two minutes later I watched them moving the speakers.

I had to fetch my wife after sound check because for some strange reason, she didn't want to sit there for two hours and watch us debate where to put the drums.  Aside from her choice in men, she's a very wise woman.

Unfortunately it was getting rather close to sound check time and most of us weren't set up yet.  My agitation level had passed the roof and was headed for the clouds.  It was an easier night for me because only one pedal and a guitar string was giving me trouble.  When only two things break, it's a light night.  I travel with a small army of gear because everything breaks.

By the time we achieved fung shui and the karma was exactly right, we managed to eke out a song to check our sound.  I rushed to get my wife.  She was on the step and when she saw me, she did the only thing she could: she walked back inside the house.  My wife is not a girly girl and she doesn't generally keep me waiting.  As the car clock indicated it was 8:33, the band was supposed to be three minutes into its first set (had we discussed a starting time).  I made this point rather loudly to the wife when she reappeared.

Things looked no different when I returned.  While it is not advertised, we specialize in Milling About, and we were doing our best.  Shortly thereafter, we launched into our first set.

In retrospect, nobody is entirely sure what happened during the first set.  What didn't happen was a good band playing together.  Much speculation has gone into this.  I think our percussion department was actually playing with the band at the bar down the street.  Others were playing to their own internal drummer.  I'm not sure, but I might have been onstage with Hendrix at Woodstock, messing things up.

After the set, I chose to make my one positive statement for the year: good thing we brought the crowd or we'd be TOAST.  The optimists agreed.  But I hate optimists.  They're the kind of people who say `we had some problems but it could have been worse'.

My wife was under the weather so I had to take her home.  This was complicated by my arch enemy: seatbelts.  I maintain that seatbelts are only good for three things:

1. holding your dead body inside the car after a crash
2. preventing you from reaching your cell phone
3. stopping the car door from closing

Suffice it to say the neighbors must have thought there was a satanic entity loose in the neighborhood from all the noise.  And in the three seconds that I turned around, Marshall the Cocker got into the kettle corn.  Again.  This was his third bag.  Between that and the tissues, the dog loves his fiber.

The second set went better, but only in the sense that there were no overt train wrecks.  It's kinda sad when something is better because it wasn't as bad as the previous try.  At least we all seemed to be playing with the same group in the same location.

Speaking of playing with, we seemed to have forgotten our stage manners.  Between songs, we appeared to be playing with ourselves and adjusting our trusses.  In other words, it took rather long to get to the next song on the list.

We were partially saved by our youthful exuberance.... we manage to appear to be having a great time no matter what happens.  We were also partially saved by the singer's daughter, with the voice of an angel (and the body of something further south).  Once we convinced her boyfriend to remove his hands from under her shirt, she joined us for some serious rocking.  I told her not to come to class unless she brings enough for all of us.  I spent the next hour running from her father, the singer :)

My outlets somehow managed to situate themselves in a place convenient to the bassist's feet.  He was bumping and grinding to the music, simultaneously turning my amp and effects off and on.  It took me a while to catch on to this effect, which seems much funnier now.

I have some sort of back issue that gets really bad with standing.  This makes being in a band a rather painful experience.  My wife, the genius, recommended that I carry aspirin and take it before the pain sets in.  She reminded me of this all week, which will indicate to any of my loyal readers that I forgot the aspirin.  By the end of the second set, I thought I might have to be carried onstage and sit in a chair (I'm normally very active onstage).  Fortunately the adrenaline overcame the pain and we made it through the third set.

What continues to surprise me is the reaction to Jeff Beck and Jimi Hendrix songs.  People seriously liked them.  I never would have thought so....

I somehow managed to get my stuff into the car (it had put on serious weight since I brought it in) and limped on home.  Two ibuprofen and an hour later, I was erect (so to speak) and off to sleep.

Next up is a huge block party and pig roast in June.   I often say I have two bands: one that comes to practice and doesn't play well or know its songs, and one that shows up to gigs and plays wonderfully.  I sure hope the good one comes to the block party.

Who Are You and What Have You Done with my Band?

It was getting dark and just started raining.  Of course it just started raining - I had just loaded the car and we were on the way to the club where the band was performing.  The optimists will say `at least it wasn't snowing.' I hate optimists.  Optimists weren't at this place last time when it was raining cats and frogs.  Cars and small houses were washing by the window as we were playing.  We had to wait for a ferry to the front door.

As any non-optimist would predict, the rain stopped after we loaded our gear into the place.  At the risk of sounding like an optimist, at least it would be nicer for the people coming to see us.

After three grueling years, we managed to agree on a name [Wolfe Blitzer].  And when I say agree, I mean no one objected, which is the best we could manage.  I remain convinced that Male Pattern Baldness would have been a much better name, but got voted down. [as George Bush said, `things would have been easier if this were a dictatorship and I was the dictator'].

In related news, the bar still had old information about our name.  We're used to this, as we sometimes change our name three or four times a night.

The core of the band has been together for about three years.  Recently we added a new bassist, percussionist and keyboardist, which really seemed to fill things out (as well as taking up much more space onstage).  And when I say onstage, I mean `the area in front of the pool table, which wasn't moving and upon which we were instructed not to place anything.'  As that was our single instruction, we complied.

SPATIAL DYNAMICS

Spatial dynamics is the science of how things fit, given a certain space (and I'm only making up a tiny bit of this).  Within any group (or marriage), there will be people who get it and people who don't.  The band is somewhat gifted, in that two thirds of us get it.  Unfortunately it's the ones who don't get it who cause all the trouble.  See if you can pick them out:

Bob brings in his equipment and sets it up where it doesn't interfere with everyone else.
Sue brings in her equipment and plops it down in the middle of the stage then goes to talk to people.

Julie sets up the p.a. system because the band needs to start on time.
Stan watches the p.a. be carried by then starts drinking heavily.

George tunes his guitar and sets his amps.
Roger excels at finding the most annoying noises imaginable.  Over and over again.

We've all got them.

THE CROWD

lefty's First Axiom of Performing is that if the band starts, roughly at the same time, and finishes, roughly at the same time and in roughly the same key, people will enjoy themselves.  I'm not certain the band believed me at first but it bore itself out in the first set.  The crowd went nuts.

lefty's Second Axiom of Performing is that if you bring the crowd, it doesn't matter how poorly you perform. This also proved true (it was axiomatic).

We are the kind of band who brings new meaning to the phrase `Drink up - we sound (and look) much better the more you drink'.    We had a band meeting last week, during which we discussed our appearance.  I made sure to mention that since we're onstage, we have to look as LARGE and LOUD as possible.  As a result, everyone came in jeans and black t-shirts.  Our lighting consisted of four or six red and blue spotlights, which succeeded in making us look darker, as if that were possible, not to mention the fact that no retinas were spared.  We went blind before the second song.  So much for DIY lighting.

The place was packed.  We were standing room only (SRO).  There were people actually dancing.  It's been so long since we've seen happy audience members that we became concerned and wanted to call an ambulance.

It probably doesn't happen at every show but people actually cheered when we played Jimi Hendrix.  It probably didn't hurt that after the songs, I set the drummer on fire.  This might also have something to do with my wife's comment that we held the Geritol crowd enthralled.  It was, however, a bit sad when we realized that these people were our contemporaries.

Due to the spectacular lighting, I had to look down at my guitar a lot.  I also `go away' sometimes when I play.  It flipped me out to look up and have women going crazy in front of me.  But I am a true musician<tm>.  And what is a true musician<tm>?  The one who marvels at the women staring at him.  Then one steps up to the mic.  She sings out of key.  And POOF - she's no longer desirable.

It's a sickness, I assure you.

No,. really, it was an incredible experience, especially for a first time band outing.  I'm older than most of the people out playing these days.  My goals are not all that lofty:

• to play enjoyable classic rock in dive (and nice) bars
• to make people happy
• to stroke my ego with attractive women
• playing is the best therapy there is - I want lots of it

For clarification, I'm married, so all stroking is strictly visual (and imaginary).  It seems that I met my goals.  This does not happen often and was a welcome surprise.  I spent the next few days smiling (and sore, but that's a different story entirely).

My friends `caught' me playing a Springsteen song and asked if Madonna was next.
The reactions were mixed and hysterical:

"When are they playing somewhere with a real stage?"
"Why aren't they playing originals?"
"They should play song parodies."
"How come only one of them moves?"
"I"m sorry, I had to stay home and do my hair."

EVIDENCE

I saw a lot of flashes and cell phone cameras, in addition to a video camera or two.  As a result, there are almost no pictures and absolutely no video of the event.  Should this change, I will post it here.

I did see one light in the darkness after we were done.  It was my best friend, holding up his iPhone, on which was an animation of a lighter.  I told him I would have recognized it earlier if it were an Android phone.

Friends don't let friends use iDevices.
Don't be an iHole.

TECHNICAL DETAILS

The band had its first outing with the brand new p.a. system.  The system included a Peavey 8600 powered mixer and a pair of Peavey two way speakers (15" and compression driver).  The percussionist promised me he had Marshall decals to cover the Peaveys because I was embarrassed but he never produced them (he was subsequently fired).

I will say this once and if you quote me I will deny it emphatically: the system absolutely rocked.  It did exactly what it had to with plenty of headroom to spare.  We had to jigger up a monitor system because we don't have any and wound up using guitar amps, which worked fine.

guitar: lefty `77 Strat, `59 reissue Les Paul --> Voodo Vibe, Dano compressor, CTO-1 overdrive, RV-3 reverb, original Fender Blues Deluxe amp.

guitar: backwards (righty) recent Strat, Fender Blues Jr amp

bass: custom Rick 400x, SVT stack

keys: Nord, Sony(?)

drums: round bangy things with a strategically-placed vibra-slap.  The evening could not have gone as well without the vibra-slap (the thing that sounds like a rattlesnake in All Along the Watchtower and Feelin' Alright).

percussion: more round bangy things with a few plastic bangy things (and lots of callouses)

Positing on Pig Parties and Pravinder Plant

It's not often you see what I saw last night.

T'was the week before Pig Roast, meaning that it was the band's last practice before said pig roast.  For reasons beyond me, we must practice constantly.  I am not one to use age as a bashing point, so I categorically refuse to posit that if we don't play every week, the band is so old they forget all the songs.  No, that cannot possibly be it.

So my wife dragged me to practice, which seemed rather more crowded than normal.  I should explain at this point that, among the other interesting circumstances surrounding this outfit, the band tends to take on personnel somewhat more frequently than I would prefer.  One day it's a neighbor, the next it's a wife, so one never knows how many people will actually be at practice, no less how many non-members will be playing with us that evening.

Two weeks back, they informed me we had to stop to pick up Bill, who was going to play percussion.  I don't know any Bill, nor do I know many percussionists, especially of the variety that were going to perform with my band, so it came as a bit of a surprise.  I kept my glee in check and managed not to ask if he was jamming that night, performing a song at the pig roast, or joining the band on a full-time basis.  Since my input was not sought, I figured I'd sit back and pretend to enjoy the ride.

Bill, as it turned out, is a pretty nice dude, not to mention a kick-ass percussionist.  I said it was nice to meet him and he told me he remembered me from last year's pig gig.  Well, at least that made one of us.  I'd have sworn I never saw him before in my life, but then again, I don't pay close attention to many things I should.

At this point, I still don't know how long Bill's with us, but it hasn't occurred to me to complain.  Yet.

For some reason known only to the Flying Spaghetti Monster Himself, everyone who was supposed to show up to practice did.  This in itself is a minor miracle.  Trying to get a bunch of fifty-somethings with Real Jobs<tm> in one room is only slightly less difficult than balancing the national budget (but still more likely to happen).

Practice went mostly as practices go: we played, I bitched about having to practice and rolled my eyes when someone suggested repeating something.  I have absolutely no tolerance for repetition and precious little for practicing.  The band says it's because I'm a better musician.  I think it's because they're too lazy to learn the songs right.  I will not go much farther, as they recently discovered this blog's URL :)

When we were done, we started messing about with Led Zeppelin tunes, to the partial delight of all assembled.  Our keyboardist lunged for the mic and let it be known that he wanted to sing some Zep so we told him to go for it.

If we weren't making enough noise to move the foundation of the house, you could have heard a pin drop.  This guy absolutely nailed it.  He nailed the tone, texture, and wailing of Robert Plant, in a way Robert Plant can't anymore.

The assembled masses and spouses were dumbfounded and, along with the musicians, were evenly divided between tears rolling down their faces and spasms of laughter (not to mention something else that looked a lot like gas).

What I have neglected to mention is that our keyboardist usually sits there behind his keyboards and manages to largely look hypnotized (which is a polite way of saying asleep).  At this point, he was moving around like 70's era Percy Plant and singing.   The other thing I haven't mentioned is that the fellow is a six foot tall (non-American) Indian.

How many six foot tall Indian dudes have you seen?
How many six foot tall Indian dudes have you seen playing keyboards?
How many six foot tall Indian dudes have you seen doing frightening impersonations of Robert Plant?

The bassist was the first to see the light, declaring that we needed to shift our focus and do a Bollywood Zeppelin show.

I suggested a blonde curly wig and half-shirt.

My wife is still shaking her head, speechless, but determined to keep calling him Robert.

And the pig roast (this Saturday) will have no idea what hit them.