Welcome

Welcome to The Tribe.
Your Humble Ruler, Rajah Cheech Beldone, King of the Gypsies.

Friday, May 24, 2013

Chicks dig scars

So it's like 1989 or something, the band I'm in is doing a 6 nighter out in the end of town where I grew up, at The Saxony Hotel Tavern, known locally as The Sax.
I got about 15 different stories about this place.

Anyways, we were two days in, and our sleazeball coscksucker booking agent


calls me and says the place is cutting us down to one set a night (and, of course cutting our pay in half) and bringing in these other fuckers to do the second set.
So it looks, in effect, like we're fucking opening for these bumwads.
These other fuckers are this shitheel outfit with a frontman who looks like a portly Diamond Dave and dresses like the dudes from ABBA


and a chick singer, and they do like Janis Joplin and Bob Seger covers and shit

But the real shitty ones, not the cool ones like Katmandu or Her Strut or R&R Never Forgets

Seriously cheeseball stuff.
Practically a fucking showband for fuck's sakes.
I'd tell you their name but there's a good chance they're playing at your local Travelodge out on the Interstate.


Anyways, the fucking agent says we're getting busted down to a set a night because the Bar Manager thinks we're too, now get ready for this...
"Punky"

What the fuck EVER that means, we had no idea.
I mean we played, like, Zep


and Joe Jackson and Credence and Crazy Horse


and shit.
So so who knew what the fuckin guy was talking about??

Anyways Greaseball McScumbagger tells us we should consider ourselves lucky that they didn't just can our asses, and that if we "clean up our act" that we might get 2 sets Saturday night.
Which is, of course, total horse hockey, because fucking Murph and The Murphtones will never give up their spot.

So, you know, we did the sensible thing, the Big Picture, career minded thing, the mature thing.

We went home and learned Sid's version of My Way.



And finished our Friday set with it.

Just before we started, the drummer looked at me and mouthed "Wreck the kit?" and I said, you know, Fucking A, Bubba.

So we did the Big Ending and he started kicking his shit over, so I, being a supportive rhythm section member, joined in and started whacking the kit with me bass and all.
At one point, the singer Dog Boy grabbed a medium sized crash and flung it at me like a Frisbee.
Naturally, I held up my bass to defend meself.
Or maybe I tried to Hank Aaron the motherfucker into the bleachers, who remembers?

Either way, I met the edge of the cymbal square on and the resulting impact left a deep longitudinal gouge in my bass that you can still see today just south of the pickup.

Also, my wireless unit, which was gaffed to my strap, got squished. But it still worked.

And we finished and walked off, leaving the Velourtones with a semi-destroyed drum kit and everything.

As we passed them I had the distinct pleasure of paraphrasing The Killer


to the lounge lizard singer, and said

Follow that, cocksucker

Surprisingly, we weren't asked to finish the week.

However, in two months the place flipped managers and we were back doing another 6 nighter.


Solo.

Raj

No comments:

Post a Comment

Hey, thanks for the fuckin feedback.
Readers' opinions and feelings are fucking important to me.
No, I'm fucking serious.
Really.