ROCK N’ ROLL ZERO: THE BIG TIME – PART 2

It was closing in on 4am as I drove home from the audition. Weary, whacked, worn out. Also, positively brimming with elation and excitement. The adrenaline continued to surge through my veins like a rush of beautiful chaos. As I pulled into my driveway, it somehow felt that the events of this very early morning were nothing more than a surreal dream; some gorgeous hallucination.

I quietly slipped into bed as my girlfriend stirred slightly and asked how things went. I told her I had a magnificent time and it was an extraordinary experience, but I walked away with no real augury of whether or not they were interested in me. As the golden rays of dawn began to gently illuminate the gaps in the shades, I faded into a contented slumber as the idiotic grin I had tried to conceal earlier was now gently smeared across my face.

After a truncated slumber of less than 4 hours, the alarm began to clang and, unexpectedly, I awoke refreshed and full of energy, still buzzing and vibrating from last night, or rather this morning. As I stood in the shower readying myself for another long work day followed by a few hours of evening classes, I began to wonder how long it might be before hearing from the band. If I ever did.

The days continued to inexorably pass and then turned into weeks and, finally, into months. I’d heard nothing back about my audition. I wasn’t necessarily devastated as I had exceedingly low expectations going in, though I thought it was odd to get zero communication back from the band. C’est la vie, I figured. At least I had a unicorn-class experience and another memory of a lifetime. Though my girlfriend proffered her apologies, it was overwhelmingly transparent that she was rather delighted.

After the three-month mark, I had already put the possibility of joining the band to a reverenced rest and was simply consumed with work, school, domesticity and trying, as usual, to eke out some fun here and there. It was a late Saturday afternoon and I was lounging in my back yard nursing a beer when the phone rang interrupting my attempt to rid myself of the week’s lassitude. Imagine my sheer shock and amazement when, upon answering, I realized it was Singer/Bandleader.

BIG TIME

“Hey,” he said, “Sorry for the radio silence, but there’s been some family stuff going on. Anyway, I wanted to see if you’re still interested in playing with us?” “What kind of ludicrously asinine question is that?” I thought to myself as my body became nearly paralyzed by virtually unfathomable exhilaration. As I struggled to contain my enthusiasm, I then replied in a somewhat measured response, “Definitely! I’m still extremely interested!”

Singer responds with, “That’s great, we all really liked you. I’ll have management send over an agreement which you’ll need to sign. Don’t worry, it’s pretty standard and details how you’ll get paid for live shows, travel, any recording we might do and all that stuff. Here’s the deal though, we just accepted an offer to play a festival with Jane’s Addiction headlining. It’s in less than a month, but we only have time to practice once, a few days before the show. Think you can be ready?”

“Sure, no worries,” I semi-stammered. “Cool, I guess this is your trial by fire, man. See you in a few weeks. In the meantime, get together with Guitarist a couple times and he can help get you ready.” “Yeah, I sure will. Thanks so much for the opportunity and I look forward to killing it at the festival,” were my parting words as the conversation ended.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. “What the Hell just happened here?” I thought somewhat meekly as my mind careered headlong in to a joyous daze. I could not believe what had just occurred. I vividly recall walking back outside, placing myself gingerly back in the lounge chair and immediately guzzling three beers in an effort to inject a modicum of calm back into my day.

It was only a matter of hours later before I was on the blower to let everyone on the planet know the news. “Guess who’s the new bassist in Big Band?” It was weeks before I got over the maniacal thrill of asking that to anyone within earshot.

Of course, there was one trifling matter still at hand, that being informing the girlfriend of recent events. As you may surmise, I was a bit trepidatious when she walked in the door a few hours later having spent the day shopping for household accoutrements in which to adorn our rapidly coalescing nest. My principal stratagem was to communicate the development directly and succinctly, whilst wrapping my delivery in a shimmery cocoon of cavalier confidence.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I just got a call from Big Band a few hours ago asking me to join. I told them yes, and my first show is early next month playing with Jane’s Addiction at a big festival.” Simple, direct, succinct, cavalier and confident. At least I thought so.

To her credit, she took the news passably well. Like me, she was a huge fan of music and liked Big Band a fair amount and she was genuinely pleased that I had got the gig. A bit dumbfounded, but pleased nonetheless. It was a very pleasant, albeit, rather brief moment of celebration between us.

Later that night, both of our pragmatic natures kicked in as we wrestled with the myriad questions of how this might actually work given everything else transpiring in our lives. When would I get the agreement from management? What if is was bad? When would I practice amid 50+ hour work weeks and school 3 times a week notwithstanding homework, research and writing papers? What if I couldn’t coordinate my schedule with Guitarist? Did he even have a job and, if so, when was he free? Shit, I also realized I had a business trip to New York the following week.

All of these questions and many, many more flooded my brain well into the next day and beyond. All of this was no longer a possibility, an improbable dream. It was now reality. My reality. As thrilling as all of it was, it was also a bit petrifying.

In antithetical rock n’ roll fashion, but in accord with esteemed business practice, I received the agreement from Big Band’s management before 9am on Monday morning. As Singer stated, it was pretty boilerplate. Having worked at two record labels during university, I had previously been exposed to this species of legal document. It appeared to be rather fair and equitable, but I still sent it over to my music-industry attorney pal for a formal review. “It’s very straightforward and there’s nothing really to be overly concerned about. The recording terms kind of suck, but the performance fees and travel terms are pretty good.” With that, I signed the agreement. I was now, officially, in.

Later that day, I put a call out to Guitarist. He’d already been briefed by Singer and we arranged a time to meet the following weekend. Fortunately, he also had a day job with weekends off and I was supremely grateful for that.

I arrived at Guitarist’s place in Silverlake sometime in the late morning that Saturday for a marathon session of “getting the bass player up to speed.” He was very kind and said he’d go as long as needed to get things dialed-in. As in our prior interactions on the phone and at the audition, he was very cool, laid back and we got on like long-lost brothers. In between trudging through the set, we talked a good deal and learned we had quite a bit in common by way of music and our mutual passion for post-punk, collecting rare vinyl, and alternative music history and trivia.

Nine hours later, we had finished for the day. With his tutelage, I had all the moving parts and, more importantly, new arrangements down. He availed himself to get together on the Saturday, the week before the festival and our one and only full band rehearsal the Wednesday before. I would take all the support and assistance I could in order to be as prepared as possible come showtime. He asked me to stay for dinner with his wife and we continued to bond and strike up a burgeoning friendship.

In the Navy, prospective SEALs, elite special operations troops, are subjected to the fabled and legendary Hell Week, the toughest training in the U.S. Military. Comprised of 5 ½ days of cold, wet brutally difficult operational training on fewer than 4 hours of sleep, it truly separates the wheat from the chaff. Above all, Hell Week is designed to test determination and desire.

This is precisely how the next 2 weeks felt for me. A seemingly never-ending blitzkrieg of work, school, and practice. I was up at 5am to shower and then run through the set before heading out to work and arriving at my office at 7:30am, then a quick run-through the set again for 30 minutes at lunch, before leaving at 5:30pm directly to school until 9:30pm, get home and do some homework and research and then collapse into bed at midnight. Rinse and repeat. Same drill on the weekends, but with 8 hours dedicated to writing papers and another 6 on practice. It was, unequivocally, a test not only of my determination and desire, but also of my physical stamina.

By Wednesday of our rehearsal, I was feeling pretty bullish on my mastery of the material, if not more than a bit weary from all the late nights and early mornings. The second Saturday with Guitarist was also a welcomed boon and I received a solid vote of confidence from him.

So it was that I trekked back to the shambolic, fetid practice digs in the dead of night dodging a bewildering array of slovenly drunks, outrageously conspicuous drug dealers and transvestite prostitutes. But it was different this time. While I still felt a bit of unease, I possessed far more confidence, and a wee bit of swagger, knowing I was officially part of the band. It was with a certain degree of pride and fervor that I entered the room with bass in hand at, precisely 12am.

Identical to my prior call, it was the same cast of characters: Drummer, Keyboardist and Guitarist. Second verse same as the first, apparently. Fortunately, Singer and Wife-cum-Rhythm Guitar strolled in slightly thereafter. Unfortunately, the stupefying reek of patchouli and pot also returned.

We made short work of digging into the set and it sounded brilliant, although there may have been a flub or two from the bassist. When we finished we ran through it again before taking a break. It was then that Singer expressed his desire to play a song for the encore that had only come out on a compilation record prior to the original album. A song most of the band had never heard and none, but the Singer, had ever played. Yet another unpleasant surprise. Again, second verse same as the first. I was secretly hoping that this was not a “thing” in this band.

We all listened intently as the ancient, battered cassette tape spun in the even more ancient, battered boombox. Yes, I said that correctly, cassette and boombox. It was to we musician’s collective good fortune that the song was both very straight forward and rocked pretty damn hard. It certainly would provide weapons-grade octane to close the show. We spent the next couple of hours getting it ultra-tight before fleeing to our respective lairs to rest and ready ourselves for Saturday’s big festival.

THE SHOW

I awoke at 5am on Saturday, the day of the show. I bounded out of bed electrified by excitement and virtually consumed by nervous energy. My general rule is to never practice for a show on the day of the show and, despite an overwhelming compulsion to do so, I held fast. The festival was scheduled to start at noon and our slot was at 8pm. I wanted to marinate in the experience, my official inauguration into the rock and roll big time, and absorb and enjoy every possible moment, so we decided to arrive at 1pm.

Notwithstanding some minor confusion with parking, getting to the artist and crew area was fairly easy. None of my other band-mates had arrived, but Guitarist said he and his wife would be coming around 3pm, so I stashed my gear in our meager staging area and headed out front to join the crowd and check out a few of the other bands.

Guitarist finally arrived and the two of us and our ladies spent the next few hours chit-chatting while waiting for the rest of the band and 2-person crew. As the sun began to set, casting gorgeous pink, blue and amber hues into the dimming sky, we began to ready ourselves. We donned our stage clothes, subjected ourselves to some glam from Keyboardist’s hair and makeup expert girlfriend, tuned our instruments, and checked our pedal boards and other gear.

While I was well aware that bands rarely, if ever, get to soundcheck in a festival setting, I was hoping we would perhaps get a line check. Nope. I was certainly used to this from the 5 years in my punk band, but the stakes well eclipsed those of playing in a filthy club at 10pm on a Tuesday night to 25 inebriated rapscallions. Such situations did not necessarily demand superior, equalized or balanced sound. This was much, much different. Fortunately, we were allowed to bring our audio control package, outboard gear, and mics and the rest would be in the hands of the front-of-house engineer.

As the moments began to slowly tick toward our start time, my nervous energy began to take on a life of its own. I’d always had pre-show nerves, which is perfectly natural, even for those in global acts who’ve done it for decades. And I never had much stage fright to speak of. This was due largely to the copious amounts of beer swathed back both well before and during shows in my punk days.

This felt different, but very real. This was the big time. This was my first show with a band I loved and respected and I did not want to let them, or anyone else, down. In addition, it was, far and away, the biggest audience I’d ever played to. A little over 6 thousand were in attendance. There was no way in Hell I was going anywhere near a drink now. So, I just rode the wave and tried to breathe deeply and simply pretend it was another practice.

As the band onstage was starting its encore, the stage manager let us know to get ready to go. This was really happening.

Let’s hope I don’t suck.

I will never, ever forget the unearthly, dreamlike feeling that consumed me as I walked on to the stage, drenched in bewitching blue, purple and white lights while the wild cheers of the audience easily overpowered the sonorous blare of our intro music. It was, truly the moment of a lifetime. As I put my bass around my neck and grabbed a pick, I looked to the front of the crowd and saw my girlfriend and all of my other closest friends screaming wildly, shouting my name and giving me the thumbs-up. “Now is the time and this is the place” I thought as the music faded and the loop to our first song kicked in.

1, 2, 3, 4…

BOOM!

We tore right in to the first number and it was astounding. The sound was of the divine, so perfect, so clear. So fucking loud. Admittedly, sound at a festival is generally sub-par. When you’re in the audience. Onstage it was otherworldly with the mix spitting directly at me through the stage monitors. I’d never sounded so good. Adding to this delirious sensation was the near concussive volume which sent delicious shock waves throughout my body with each drum hit, each note and each chord. Electrified ebullience. I was irrevocably intoxicated by all of this.

Overstimulated by the emotion and physicality of this moment, I found myself myopically focused on the micro-universe that consisted of only me and the five feet of space in my immediate radius. Awash in a world of my own of sorts, notwithstanding making surreptitious looks at Singer for any onstage cues.

It was somewhere in the 2^nd part of the set that I began to notice Singer consistently casting sidelong glances back toward Guitarist with a disgruntled frown. I couldn’t determine the nature of his discontent as, at least according to my observations, everything was going down swimmingly. No mistakes, no technical problems, no, well, no nothing. Strange, indeed.

I continued to focus on raining down the sonic bliss to the eager crowd, while gyrating in wild, unfettered abandon. Again, I gazed to center stage and immediately noticed that Singer was not in my line of sight. I then turned my body slightly back only to witness Singer, microphone held down and behind him, with his face directly in the ear of Guitarist as his jaw moved ferociously. It was only a moment before Singer returned to the front of the stage and the song began it’s final chorus and ended shortly thereafter.

I’d been in a lot of live situations and it’s not uncommon, and many times, completely necessary for one band member to verbalize with another. This is usually done when there is some particular issue or other matter of relevance weighty enough to break the consistency of onstage presence. Then again, there are bands who are legendary for their very public, very onstage inter-band fracases. Dinosaur Jr., The Replacements, The Kinks, Marilyn Manson, Megadeth, and Oasis immediately spring to mind. Was this one of those bands?

In the lull, I turned to grab a bottle of water perched on my amp and looked to Guitarist who was now standing completely rigid, hands at his sides, looking thoroughly nonplussed. Just then Drummer clicks us in to the next tune. And we’re off again.

Or are we?

When we all came in together I immediately realized something was dreadfully, woefully wrong. There was a colossal absence of sound. In fact, there was an ugly, gaping hole where Guitarist should be and was not. Only the distorted, chunky chords from Wife-cum-Rhythm Guitar could be heard. Alarmed, I again looked over to Guitarist and instantly identified the problem at hand.

The problem was that Guitarist had not only unplugged his guitar, but was now rapidly and efficiently packing up his gear. It was such a completely unexpected, singular occurrence that my already overloaded brain could hardly process what my eyes perceived. Is Guitarist really walking off the stage in the middle of a song? In the middle of a performance? In the middle of a massive music festival in front of thousands of people?

I wasn’t sure until a minute later when I looked again and saw him off to the side-stage, invisible to the audience, but quite visible to all of us in the band. Both of his arms were defiantly raised high with all conviction, while both middle fingers were on full display. All the while his inaudible screams could not be heard by any of us, but it was abundantly clear by reading his lips what he was violently shouting in the direction of center stage: “Fuck you, motherfucker. FUCK YOU!”

And the show went on, because the show must always go on…

WHAT’S NEXT?

I hope you enjoyed this series and, as you’re likely guessing, there’s definitely more to this story. If you’re interested in hearing the rest, please send me an email at contact@fatesonfire.com and you’ll receive a PDF of this tale’s denouement for your reading pleasure. This little reminiscence also happens to be a modified, blogified excerpt from my forthcoming book, “Rock N’ Roll Zero” which is full underway.