The Smell of the Grease-paint, the Roar of the Crowd'

'Fan Mail' from an early gig in Belfast

Tomorrow marks, oh , I don't know, the 27th or 28th anniversary of my first professional gig as a musician. As you will recall from previous posts, or if you have read any of the major Rock History books, it was the wedding of Carla Starbird, a friend of the Bigfoot family. It was a night to be long remembered in infamy, not necessarily for Carla and her Groom, but for the legion of fans of Jet, the rock and roll juggernaut that would become Pavlov's Dogs, the greatest band that never was.

Not much has changed in the last twenty odd years for me. Oh sure, Ive gotten married, become a responsible adult, had kids, grown staggeringly old and boring....okay, a lot has changed. But the fact remains that I will be, once again, be rocking the herd, as of old, to celebrate the anniversay of Jet's innaugeration, this Saturday at the Solon Hotel in downtown metropolitan Solon Maine. Once again I will hear the calls for, 'Freebird'! and, 'one last song'. Once again I will taste the sweet, vindicating nectar of free beer, supplied by the bar tender as a balm for the startling lack of feduiciary compensation for providing the masses with fine classic rock and roll. Once again I will feel the blisters develop on my right ring finger in the third set. Once again I will hear the mind-numbing 60mhz mid-range feedback when I try to sing 'Brown Eyed Girl'. I will play 'Cocaine' for the 1,358th time, and the crowd will say unto me,'Woooooo'! as they do the dance of the old white guy. I will scan the crowd, and eye the babes that now are way too young for me to be eying. I will watch as I play as the bouncers, with glee, throw out drunks into the cold Solon night. It will be good to be back in the saddle.

The reasons that I wanted to get into a rock band were far different when I was a lad back in the scruffy streets of Liverpool. Back in the day, being in a band was chiefly for the money, the fame and the babes. Alas tomorrow, we will not be playing in New York, Boston or LA. We will be playing in Solon Maine. We will be playing at the Solon Hotel, to be specific. If you've never been, think of the saloon in Clint Eastwood's 'High Plains Drifter', only with bigger women and instead of horses out in the front there are Moose and the ocassional rusted out GMC Blazer. Fame we are not seeking. As for the money, my haul tomorrow will not likely broach $100. Gas to Solon from the friendly confines of Orono will likely be almost that much. As for the babes, well, even if I weren't so insanely in love with my adorable spouse, I haven't near the Moxie necessary anymore to put up with the bullshit and conversation required to pick up and/or take home any sketchy babes hanging out at the old Solon. In any case, I'm much too old and creepy for even the skankiset of bar mavens at this point in my life.

Yet, here I am again. I will once again don the Hawaiin shirt and strap on the old Fender Jazz Bass. I will meet up with my old buddies Dan and Linda. We will chill out with some of the early regulars and enjoy a cold beer or a shot. They will ask us what kind of stuff we play. We will set up the gear. We will do a sound check. With a little luck, we will get a free dish of fries or a Chimchanga from the bar's kitchen. The crowd will start to fill in, with a little luck, and soon it will be time. I'll grab anothe quick brew, or a water, we'll turn on the PA and I'll tune up the Fender. We'll scan the song list for a few minutes to formulate a plan that we'll soon abandon after just a few songs. I'll turn on the amp, which will be picking up an annoying transister buzz from the house lights, and I pull a pick out from my shirt pocket. Start with 'Sweet Home Chicago' methinks. We give each other a nod and a wink and the lights come up. It is precisely at that moment that I remember why I keep doing this shit, why I keep on playing the same old songs for the same old people in the same old places, drinking the same old beer and shots. It is at that exact moment I remember why I got into the Rock and Roll game to begin with.

At that moment I remember it. At this moment, however, it seems to be eluding me. I don't know why I do it anymore, to be honest. But I do. Ask me tomrrow at the Solon why I do. Maybe I'll remember then.

Anyhow, keep on a rockin' kids.

BFC