Band Peeves for 2001

Thursday June 28th, 2001 @ 8:51 PM

Filed under: Everything, Tales Told Well

WARNING: SARCASM TO FOLLOW. IF YOU ARE OVERLY SENSITIVE, DO NOT READ.

In reverse order of abrasiveness.

10. The Peter Pumper. This is the guy who recognizes you at the urinal and wants to shake hands. I know it is a natural reaction when spotting a performer, but good grief, how am I to hit the target with some guy pumping my hand like he was jacking up a truck. The last time this happened I had to reach my right hand across my body to take his hand and he was so vigorous that it turned me toward him and I peed on the porcelain and it splattered on both of our pant legs. There’s just something unappealing about having a guy take his hand off his ding-a-ling-a-ling and extend it to you. These guys are super-extraverted by nature and therefore grin all over the place and squeeze very hard and won’t let go. My unattended equipment looks like one of those little boppin’ dogs in the rear window of a low-rider. To make matters worse, I never was any good with my left hand. Damn!

9. Dumb and Dumber. I’m sure you’ve heard ingratiating speakers at seminars make this statement: “There are no dumb questions.” Where on earth have they been? There are questions so damned dumb they would embarrass a man beating his head against a wall. Furthermore, we hear them every week at the bandstand. If I had to ask somebody a question as stupid as we hear, I’d at least go whisper it in a back alley, but no–these people ask loud and proud right in front of the home crowd.

In Colorado this past April, two ladies came up to Miss Blues while she was deeply and passionately singing one of her slow blues, and began waving to get her attention. Now if you’ve seen Miss Blues perform, you realize that the intensity and drama of her performance is spellbinding and it seems almost sacrilegious to interrupt her. When she did not respond to their handwaving, they reached out and grabbed her arms and tried to pull her out onto the floor. Now Miss Blues is a big ol’ collard-green-eatin’ country gal and when her feet are planted, the left tackle of the Baltimore Ravens isn’t going to budge her. She was gracious. But seeing she wouldn’t come off the stage they started asking, “Can you sing Mustang Sally? Come on, can you? Come on, you can do it. Don’t you know the words? We’ll help you, come on…” If God Almighty were a street musician He’d have snuffed them both out like altar candles after a service. I know Jason wanted to shoot them in the face with a Blunderbuss filled with machine shop shavings.

Here’s one I heard recently: “Hey, you guys know any Joan Jett?”

I hear this one too often and it just amazes me: “Are you guys the band?” No, idiot boy, we’re astronauts from the space shuttle, isn’t this Edwards Air Force Base?

How about this one: “Are you guys any good?” I feel like blubbering and crying, “Oh my gosh, you found us out, pleeeease don’t tell anyone.”

My personal favorite: “Is that a harmonica you’re playin’ there?” I want to say something like: “Oh, no! This is a duplicate set of Jimmy Carter’s teeth…”

Our BDS all-time favorite came a few years ago in Idaho at a Biker rally which must have been attended only by Bikers who ran Harleys over each other’s heads. The guy stood in front of us for fifteen minutes scratching himself, and then spit some tobacco, shook his head, and said these infamous words: “Hee Haw, huh?” Now I defy you to answer that question intelligently. What on earth was he asking? Chuck, Jason, and I still use that one when someone stupid approaches the bandstand.

8. Somebody’s Relative. “My nephew plays in a band called the Honky Tonk Frogs. They’re killer, man. My nephew plays the guitar like nobody you ever heard. They opened for the Swamp Whores over in Ditchwater last year and tore the place apart…”

So why are they telling me this? What am I supposed to say? All I can think of is: “No shit.”

I guess the name of this game is implication/inference. O.K., let’s see, since you have some of the same bloodlines as your nephew, and he is “killer” enough to open for the Swamp Whores, who, even though I never heard of them, must be great because you are assuming I have heard of them–so by some circuitous reasoning, I should conclude that either you are somebody, or that you know what you are talking about. Correct?

Here’s a hint when talking to any band performing on a given night. Talk about them. Not only do they not want to hear about your nephew’s band, they hate your nephew’s band, and they hate your nephew, and they wish the curse of the mummy on your whole damned family.

Think of it this way, what if you just finished baking your friend a cake. Your own private recipe. You hand whipped the eggs and used imported French Vanilla from Paris, and decorated the frosting with the silhouettes of Fred Astaire dancing with Ginger Rogers in formal attire. You set it down in front of your friend because you hope to make him happy, and what does he say? “You know, my Aunt Mable makes a real cake. There ain’t nothin’ like it this side of the Big Snapper River…”

Think about it, wouldn’t you want to shoot the bastard?

7. Hearing Aids. These are the people who make a dramatic point of putting their fingers in their ears to let you know how loud the music is. If you don’t notice right away, they will walk in front of the band or out the door–fingers in ears, eyes rolled back, and a stiff, indignant backbone forming an exclamation point of effrontery. If you see this display, glance just above Jason’s head and you will see some bubbles connected to a cartoon balloon displaying a string of profanity that would blister a Rhinoceros hide.

Electrically amplified music will always be too loud for somebody. Club owners who order a band to turn down when one of these Hearing Aids whines and pouts, demonstrates disregard for his true live music patrons. Any high quality band who has been around the block, has a reason for playing at their chosen volume. Ours is that we need dramatic dynamic range. We like to build up the volume and then drop back to a whisper, and give the audience a roller coaster ride of dynamics. Some bands are power bands whose music doesn’t work unless it is loud. Others, like Chris Duarte, are virtuosos who demand that you concentrate on their performance and not on playing grabass and chatting about Thursday night’s bridge tournament.

We’ve noticed one thing over the years, the more famous you are, or the more money you make the club, the less you are told to turn down. The Hearing Aid ilk should not be in an electric amplification venue. They should go down to the coffeehouse and listen to Savah Wail and the Mousetones play mandolins and sing about cosmos connections. We are a band whose stock in trade is to kick your butt, not tickle your fancy.

I see some of these sissy listeners resort to making their children stick their fingers in their ears and stand before the stage glowering at us. I pretend to be very concerned about their child. I say, “Is something wrong with your child’s ears? I notice that out of six hundred people at this concert, she is the only one whose ears hurt. Is it congenital, or did she have an accident?”

My kind of fan is the one who builds a camp of booze bottles, cigarettes, dollar bills, and camera film, right in front of the main speakers. They get high on the blast and when you give them the thumbs up, they scream back, “Damn right!”

6. Give Me Liberty or Give Me Breath. I have a keen sense of smell. I’m not sure this is a blessing. Any given bar has bags of Nacho Cheese chips, varieties of cigarettes, pickled eggs, and enough alcohol to fuel a dragster for a blazing quarter mile. Put all these ingredients into the human mouth over a four to six hour period without brushing, and you have the makings of Al Capp’s “Skonk Works.” Unfortunately, the glut is often mixed with effervescent liquids like Coke, 7-Up, and Club soda, so as it brews in turgid fermentation in the stomach, it is repeatedly burped up into the little reservoir of nicotine that sits at the top of the esophagus.

Now most people who are out and about, realize this, and chomp on breath mints or at least keep their distance, but of course there are those who come on like a happy hound dog and unwittingly try to melt the skin off my face. I tried to solve this problem by carrying gum or mints with me to gigs and offering them to the offenders. Ironically, their answer is usually: “Naaaaahhhhh, never use the stuff, I got some Copenhagan, wanna pinch?”

5. Hey Mr. Tambourine man. I’m the tambourine man in our band and although it looks easy, playing it poorly can mess up the whole groove and feel of a song. That’s why I don’t let drunk girls play it. Guys never ask. Sober women never ask. Only drunk girls. Sometimes they just grab the tambourine and start shaking it. If I try to take it back they will run and giggle and play it even louder. Most of them have the natural rhythm of a Gooney bird landing. Unbelievably, if this happens the entire audience will quit listening to the band, or watching us, and will focus on the twit as though she was twirling a fire baton. Seeing this, she will start to undulate and make sexy faces between inane giggles.

She hasn’t a clue that if murder were legal all four of us would pull out machine pistols and turn her into Swiss cheese. These are the same girls who grab my harmonicas in venues without a stage, and start blowing chords, in the wrong key of course, and pretend like they are Big Mamma Thornton. If they knew how nasty harmonicas are, they’d projectile vomit, but instead they gleefully turn themselves into a court jester at the expense of the band and the true fans–who incidentally, would also like to kill them.

These are Dr. Spock kids. No one ever gave them a good spanking or made them behave. Their disrespect for the band is outrageous. Would they go into a car repair and run around with the mechanic’s wrenches? I’d like to have Miss Blues slap the crap out of them and then hold them still while I gave them a good dose of Castor Oil like in the old days. Whoever raised these girls should be made to watch films of their behavior at a community meeting and then placed in the town stocks with dunce hats and signs that say “Shame on You.”

4. Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire. If I’m going to be lied to, I want it done well and with a measure of intelligence and imagination. I loathe a poor and pathetic liar who makes it obvious. Not only does he offend me with his dishonesty but insults me by assuming that I’m stupid enough to actually believe his dose of steaming horseshit.

The other day I was told that a guy used to catch the band in San Francisco back in the late eighties and that he and I went out partying together. What? Does he think I wouldn’t know if I partied with his sorry ass? Blinddog Smokin’ was formed in 1993 and we have never played in San Francisco.

The worst guys are those who claim they ran sound for The Grateful Dead and the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, God, Jesus, and Holy Ghost. Truth is they couldn’t run sound for Mrs. Buttmore’s Kindergarten pat-a-cake party.

Didn’t these guys have mothers or fathers who told them they were full of shit? How can you get to be an adult of any age and not be slapped silly for prevarication this crude? And they should be slapped, mind you. Not by their momma, but by a five hundred pound Gorilla with knuckles like boxcar couplings.

Recently I’ve begun a new tactic: retorting with a worse lie. “Oh really, your father played a private concert for Queen Elizabeth? Wow! My only claim to fame is being the illegitimate son of Janis Joplin, she and my dad were drinking Southern Comfort together at a Speakeasy during the Great Depression, it was a hangout for famous guys, you know: Elvis, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe and Marilyn Manson, people like that. Anyway Janis had this premonition about overdosing and begged my dad to plant a seed in her that night to give her like, immortality, you know, and they did it standing up in the men’s room because my dad had this trick-knee from the war and had to stay on his feet like a horse, you know, and he never saw her again. After she died, the police brought me in a basket to my Dad who made prosthetics in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and he knew by my raspy voice and trick knee that I was his son all right…”

Maybe the rhyme is correct, we should set these guys pants on fire. How embarrassing for them to be so ignorant. There are women in this category too, you’ve heard them: “I was raped by this alien…,”

3. Pedestal Peddlers. A true fan is one who sincerely understands, appreciates, and values, the particular music of a given band. Anyone else will eventually drop by the wayside. The worst fans are those who bring a pedestal with them and determine that one or all of us in the band is going to stand on it. These are the people who seem too good to be true and indeed they are. In my case, they fall in love with my stage persona, which if you know me well, is not anything like the private me. They ooh and aah and dispense great praise of the most maudlin variety. They claim to have somehow known me forever, etc., etc., blah, blah, blither…

I used to think I must really be somebody to inspire that kind of devotion and scrutiny from fans who a few months previous were total strangers. But, I learned, not once, but time and time again, that people who make me stand on a pedestal will kick it out from under me just as soon as I disappoint them. And disappoint them I will.

The magic of the stage and its smoky, red, flood lights, and the power of amplification, and the passion of an evening, can lionize even the most meager of musicians. We seem to be bigger somehow, bold and undaunted. Some people need heroes and heartthrobs. Unfortunately, we are all just relatively small pieces of meat walking around this earth for a few years trying like hell to overcome our appetites, strike a little mark, and make sense of it all before we return to dust and hope for the resurrection.

I happen to be a very boring guy off the stage. I spend my time reading and writing and planting a few petunias and going to the cheap movies with my wife. I don’t party or go out at all. I don’t drink or do drugs. I eat health food and work out at a local gym. I don’t listen to music, I like peace and quiet. My idea of a vacation is to build an addition on my deck.

I get grumpy when I’m hungry, and grouchy when I’m tired. I’m horribly unpunctual and too often lazy. My method of high rolling is putting twenty bucks in a savings account. I get in sarcastic moods, and I’m cynical. I tend to be reclusive and can be rude to annoying salesmen and Mormon missionaries. And, these are the faults to which I will admit. I don’t know exactly what my wife sees in me. She makes more money than I do and is much nicer.

If you look too closely at anyone’s life, you will be disappointed. Especially an artist. I choose to admire the performance and not the performer. I admire the shoe and not the cobbler, the building and not the architect, the poem and not the poet. We come as close to purity in our creations or labors as we’ll ever come, or so say I. I wish that fans wouldn’t bring a pedestal to the gig. Just hunker down and let the music take you somewhere. That’s all I have to offer you in reality. I’m a teller of tales, whether by note or word.

2. The Sheepdog. Herd me into a corner, that’s what they do. Then I’m trapped. I feel like crying. Sometimes a little whimper escapes me. Prayer doesn’t work. God probably thinks its funny. These people are really good at spotting me in hiding places. None of us in the band hang out in corners anymore because of the sheepdogs, but we still get caught sitting on the stage.

This just happened to Jason. A middle-aged woman appeared suddenly and pinned Jason with a knee on each side of him. She then put her arms around him and talked to him nose to nose. I was sitting with some fans twenty feet away and started laughing. “Jason is hating life,” I told them. “He is in an absolute state of panic. Watch carefully because when she makes the smallest mistake, he’ll break for daylight and strap on his guitar.”

This lady then kissed him on the cheek. Jason doesn’t display public affection and became visibly uncomfortable. I was looking for Chuck so he could laugh too.

“May I kiss you on the lips,” she pleaded with him. He was looking around for someone to rescue him or to give him a reason to be abrupt. Of course, Chuck and I would never rescue him because we enjoy laughing so much. Don’t feel too bad, though, Jason not only doesn’t rescue us, he sends sheepdogs in our direction so he can laugh.

It is a game we all play called: point the Sheepdog. Roland didn’t catch on for the longest time and was easy prey for about a year. We never could trap Andy, he was the best at evasion.

When she puckered up, Jason jumped up and desperately strapped on his guitar. Of course the lady was offended, which is one of the qualities of sheepdogs. They have an inordinate need for attention and affection and are highly emotional and usually drunk. They are always on the verge of being offended if you act disinterested in them. Often the scene ends with them calling one of us a stuck-up-arrogant-son-of-a-bitch, and saying “So you think you’re too good for us common folk, huh?”

We have become adept at staying on the move during breaks. If you watch me on break, you’ll notice that I’m always using the old side-long-glance like a deer, alert for the sheepdog. I’ve become really good at pretending to not see them as I talk to other people and continually keep my back to them no matter where they go. Sometimes the only thing I can do is run away. But they are skilled at herding, they have years of practice. If I do get herded into a corner, I’ve learned to direct the conversation like this:

Sheepdog: My uncle plays the harmonica really good, you should hear him, he can play the beer barrel polka and yodel at the same time…

Me: Are you kidding me! Roland has a relative who can do the same thing. I’ll bet you’re related somehow. Hell, Roland can yodel like Roy Rogers, I’ll go get him, maybe he’ll do it for you if you keep after him long enough.

Sheedogs can be any age, race, or sex. They have these things in common: They are socially unacceptable. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t have had to learn the art of herding people into corners in order to hold a conversation. They are emotional black holes. You can’t fill them no matter how much attention you pay. They are desperate. They have absolutely nothing to say of interest to anyone older than two years. They won’t shut up. They won’t go away. They are as boring as Alan Greenspan’s wardrobe, and they are volatile. You will know when you have encountered one because they will be standing between you and any escape route and because you will feel the increasing urge to commit suicide.

1. A Bitch in Time Saves Nine. People who bitch at me for my Tales Told Well are my number one peeve for the year 2001. These people love to be offended. I lose from ten to thirty subscribers after every TTW offering I send out. Pieces like this one knock off at least thirty. Feelgood pieces lose the fewest. I don’t mind. The list still grows anyway. Unsubscribing keeps the list groomed and healthy. But I wonder why they have to send me nasty sermons on the way out. It seems they want to save all the rest of you from my corrupted mind. If they can convince me of my writing sins, they surmise, maybe I will repent and start writing the way they would write if they had hundreds of subscribers. Of course they don’t have any subscribers because they are small-minded and self-righteous.

I write first and foremost because I’m a writer. A writer writes like a fish swims and a bird flies, they have to, and they love to. I choose the subjects I do because you readers are fans to one degree or another of Blinddog Smokin’ and my intent is to let you in behind the scenes and inside our heads, our lives, and our music. I write the way I do because that is who I am.

I am more careful and considerate than it might appear. I read these things through with many people in mind and change them accordingly. I don’t purposely try to offend anyone. I hide the names of towns and people if I think it would cause embarrassment. I stay away from causing controversy for the most part, and try to mix in a little something for everybody. The subjects range from pathos to peeves and much in-between that defies category. I am honest and frank and the tales are all as true as I can remember them.

Still I get indignant reprimands after every mailing. I always answer every letter, good and bad. Is there anyone out there who can speak to the contrary? I don’t get paid to do this and yet it eats up an entire day when I undertake a writing. I get plenty of ego-gratification being on stage in the band. I continue these Tales because most of you get a lot of enjoyment and enlightenment from them. You tell me so and I am grateful.

I’ll end with a quote from a letter I received after my “Miss Peggy’s” piece: “I can no longer in good conscience continue to subscribe to Tales Told Well. I thought the content would be as refreshing and satisfying as your music, but all you talk about is yourself. Do you really think we care about what happened to you as a kid? Your ego is outrageous. You really think you are cute don’t you? With your ability to write you could contribute so much more with descriptions of your gigs, fans, venues, and other musicians you have met. All we hear about is Carl this and Carl that. Try being a bit more generous and altruistic in your writing and with your talent you may find that the world is more receptive…”

It goes on and on and gets worse. Gosh, I’m glad she unsubscribed before this piece. I wonder how the people who call me names and impute motives and attempt to tell me how to write get through this world at all. It must be a scary place for them. If my Tales Told Well are offensive to them, what must the reports of war and the poverty of third world countries be like when they read it? They must recoil at the literature promulgated by dictators. They must shiver at the lyrics of punk and rap artists. I’m just trying to have fun and give you something you can’t get anyplace else.

Carl

Posted by Carl