How do you like your rock and roll served? Clammy and limp or standing up for itself? For the last year I've been involved in a rather flaccid excuse for a rock band. I've been told that I'm going to be kicked out. Why? My antics! I am apparently too drunk on stage. Man, you'd drink too if your front man wore beads, pink shirts and glitter and had lyrics like, “Come on boys.”
Time and time again I've heard from people, “You guys would rock if it weren't for your singer.” Frankly, the only one in the band not in on the jokes is the singer himself. Every one of us has laughed at the situation while conversing over drinks but for the singer.
I joined this band as a favor. When we first came in, there was talk of it being temporary but one show led to the next. Early on, we were simply excited to play for crowds again. But listening to your gut is usually good advice, because even back then we got telling responses from people: “Wow, you guys are a lot more animated than the old line-up.”
Its true though, I saw the old band. They stood on stage like statues. There was no interaction, movement, excitement or intensity. There was simply motion. Like the band at Chuck E. Cheese: Glorified animatronics. Automatons replaying the already recorded material note for note with little deviance or improvisation. Likely they were having the same experience I was.
Why then did this continue? Well, none of the new members felt like they had a right to give input, at least at first. None of us knew the material and so the focus was on learning the nuances. Hints would pop up here and there of the storm to come. One missed note, in key or not, and the whole castle would tumble. Unless of course it was with me, and then there would be silence and avoidance. Rarely would I be told, “that's not right,” if I were off. Perhaps I engendered that attitude, but I'm a rather willing and capable learner.
As time went on, we recorded an album. An album written before we were members. An album envisioned recorded without any effort to become intimate with the songs. An album recorded because we had a place to do it, even if it wasn't the right time.
As time went by, the line-up changed we shuffled things around. I was playing bass at the beginning and frankly it was boring. No dynamics at all. My deviance wasn't appreciated either. Whenever I would change something even a little, just to riff here or there, I would be told, “No, the part actually goes like this.”
So, one of our members left us to go to the great North. We were left with a void which precipitated a need for a new member. Our choices were a pompous asshole from another band whose personality rivaled that of an unruly earthworm, an unknown girl and a guy with a bass and a practice space.
I expressed my wish to move to the guitar spot and we all discussed the benefits of having a permanent place to practice our music. The guy with the bass and a space was ultimately chosen, and in retrospect, it was a great choice. He fit into the fold well.
Time went by, things went as normal: Learn this this way. Don't deviate. I would and then be told to change. Mostly I just did what I wanted anyhow. If we couldn't contribute to the song writing we could at least contribute to the way songs were played. The drummer did in kind, though his changes were more up front. I'm told I should have expressed my wish to do things, but as I look back, I think I did just fine. The new songs which were most often liked by people were given changes from the versions we recorded on the album.
Our lead singer, who you must all surely know because he likes to ask his bandmate's MySpace friends out for “drinks” even though he himself only pretends to sip the beer, worked tirelessly on the album. Changing things here, injecting things there, augmenting his off key vocals and asking for advice he didn't really care to hear. We planned “meetings” so we could listen to the material but only had one. We, who were supposed to be part of the group, were relegated to back-up band. Essentially we were playing covers of our own music.
Man, this sounds like a VH1 special.
Several months ago I expressed to our “metronome” I was getting tired of things. I said I wanted to leave but I was persuaded to stay. He and I are great friends, you can't ask for a better person to play in a band with. In truth, I really wanted to continue to play live, even though it was kind of embarrassing.
Our first show of 2007 was actually the first installment in what was to be the trilogy of my final shows. (I just wanted to use the word “trilogy” because I've been playing Lego Star Wars lately.) It shall go down in history as “The Glitter Incident.” Personally, I thought it was sweat, but Metronome called him out. It wasn't taken well.
To everyone we know, we became an inside joke which we hid from the singer, though not with much effort. When a local magazine sent us an email interview recently, the rest of the band was given only a day to answer the questions, though we weren't told it needed to be returned immediately, so we all took our time. Only after we sent each other hilariously funny responses to the questions did the drummer send back his real responses to our singer. The singer simply said, “Oh, I don't we have time to send them. I'll just send my responses.” Standard, expected response. To my knowledge, our bassist wasn't even given the opportunity to look at the questions.
I'll probably post my comical responses to the magazine interview later, and if the drummer allows me too, I'll post his because I think they're even funnier than my own.
About two weeks ago, I expressed to the drummer that I was going to quit the band. He asked me to give it one more chance and I conceeded. Last week, we were given less than 5 days notice that our bassist wasn't going to make it to the show with Earl Greyhound and Dirty on Purpose, two relatively large acts who put on amazing shows. At first I was angry, but the bassist had little choice in the matter as he was going on tour with one of his other bands. Being on the road for ten days with guys mad at you for screwing up a tour would be uncomfortable to say the least.
So we racked our brains for a solution. We had a few choices: cancel the show, play without a bassist, or find someone who'd be willing to learn a set with us and play a show. Immediately I thought of several people who played guitar and had the skill. We went with one person who was close with the singer and she was given 7 songs to play.
So, with three days to go, her induction began: Wednesday, she had a private session with the singer which the drummer and I did not attend. Thursday, our normal practice day, we got together as a whole and practiced the short set list. Seven of our own and one cover. By the end of the first hour of practice, our stand-in bassist was markedly upset. The singer was treating her like shit. I kept mouthing to our drummer “I'm gonna quit,” and “I'm quitting,” to which he just laughed and shook his head. In reality I was only partly joking at this point, but the way our stand-in bassist was being treated by the singer was really pissing me off. She was doing US a favor. She had only learned the songs the night before... her mistakes were very, VERY, acceptible and to be honest, she did a damned good job. Still, she was berated and mistreated.
I debated playing the show and simply saying, “Thanks a lot, everybody. This was my last show.” I was told this wasn't exactly the best thing to do, though at the time only a handful of people knew the whole story. Frankly, I think that would have been a better route than writing this.
So, Friday rolls around and we have another pre-show practice. The drummer and I decide to get trashed for the show. We hit the “Beautiful Smoke” bar across the street from the venue and have several shots of whiskey and then head back to the venue.
We set up and start the show. My customized telecaster I'm playing through is singing sweet tones through the vintage '65 Gibson Minuteman I'm playing through. I'm an equipment snob and always look for a better sound. The singer's guitar is honking out its typically terrible tone. This is the second most common complaint I hear behind his terrible voice. I have my flask of vodka and two cans of Wittekerke sitting on the speaker next to me, easily within my grasp and in plain view of the singer. He loathes me at this point. I don't trust anyone who doesn't drink or doesn't have sideburns.
On the third song I switch to my vintage Epiphone Wilshire. I overload the pickups with my fuzz pedal and the speakers spill out that beautiful crackle of distortion. And shoes. Wait. No, that was just the drummer throwing his footwear at me.
Its on! I'm at a serious tactial disadvantage being up front and having my back to the battery. A while later, a drum stick whizzes past my head and strikes a girl on the foot. This is getting dangerous! I motion for her to throw it back to me at which point I catch the returned stick and start playing the guitar with it by using it as a surrogate pick. After a bit I toss it over my shoulder and it bounces harmlessly by the drummer.
Another song trundles by and we begin to play again. The drummer calls me over and I so I comply. Beer fountain! A spray of suds flies in my face and past me. I'm sure some hits the singer. I'm sure he hates it. More loathing? God, I hope so.
Why I keep letting my guard down, I can't say, but on the next song I'm facing the audience again. I turn around and I see something hurtling towards me. Pure cat-like reflexes save me. I catch the newly flung drumstick deftly between my middle and ring fingers on my strumming hand without losing my pick. In the same motion as its caught, I rotate my wrist and whip it back sideways at the drummer. It nearly misses his head and bounces off the wall behind him.
The show ends with a blasphemous rendition of a Pavement song. I hate covering the same song twice, especially two shows in a row. Even worse than that, I hate to commit heresy towards a band I love. Whatever though, at least I can say that the last song I played was great, even though its execution was lame.
The night ends with the singer hanging out with yet another one of the people he stalks on MySpace. He didn't even give us a look of disdain. I have nothing but contempt for this punk-ass.
The weekend goes by and there's nary a word. I discuss the situation and recount the story to our friend in the North, the ex-band member. He laughs reservedly but I have a feeling he doesn't really believe everything which has transpired.
Monday afternoon rolls around and the drummer says he has a few things to tell me. Apparently the singer has made it clear that I am to be kicked out of the band along with the bassist who is on tour right now. Nice welcome home present for when he returns.
The singer wants to reform the band with a new name and image and a new lease on music. Right.
Le band est mort. Vive le band.
