Above the marquee, on the wall, in glowing, rainbow-coloured letters two feet tall:
RAY ‘N’ JAY’S SUPERSTAR BAR
“Shit!” yelps Akim.
“Shit!” Lola screeches.
“Shit!” hollers Jimmy T, “We set up at The wrong friggin’ bar!”
Akim slams on the brakes.
Jimmy T, who never wears a seatbelt, peels his face from the windshield, then barks, “What the hell are you stopping for? We’ve gotta go get our stuff and get back here right away! Shit Shit Shit!”
“Um,” Akim growls, “Since we’re right in front of the place and all, shouldn’t we maybe stop and tell them what’s happened?”
“No!” hollers Jimmy, “They’ll think we’re a bunch of idiots! What kind of losers set up at the wrong bar?
“ Akim shrugs and steps on the accelerator, launching Jimmy firmly into the back seat.
“Besides,” says Jimmy, “my stage clothes are back in the Mercedes, and my Mercedes is at the other bar.”
Akim speaks through clenched teeth.
“Maybe you should have been paying more attention to where the actual bar was instead of worrying about your damned stage clothes, Jimmy T!”
Jimmy T, sensing that he is in danger of getting his lights turned out by Akim, lowers his voice somewhat.
“Now, let’s not get irrational, Akim. Everything is under control.”
This makes Akim even angrier.
“We’ve got less than half an hour to tear down at the place we’re currently set up at, then set up again at the place we’re supposed to be set up at, then do a sound check . . . and you think that everything is under control?”
“It’ll be tight, but we’ll pull it off.”
“No wasting time with your fairy-costume changes, then; you’ll be helping carry the equipment in with everybody else!”
“Of course I will, Akim.”
“Damn right you will!”
Now Tristan speaks up.
“And what the hell is the deal with the ‘Jimmy T and the Featherless Bipeds’ back on that marquee?”
Jimmy T’s face flushes deep red.
“The bar must have made some kind of mistake! Honest!”
We race into the bar where we accidentally set up, and the shadow-eyed waitress remains as indifferent to us as she had been earlier. Under normal circumstances, Jimmy doesn’t carry much equipment other than his own guitar and amp, but this time he struggles with the big bass amp, as well as both of the PA speakers. Poor Jimmy T! All sweaty before a performance!
As we approach Ray ‘n’ Jay’s Superstar Bar from the opposite direction, we can all see that the other side of the marquee reads:
SATURDAY
JIMMY “T” BAND
SUNDAY
MALE STRIPPER
Jimmy T sinks even lower in his seat.
“I suppose that’s a mistake, too, eh Jimmy T?” Akim says. “Maybe later I should climb up there and take the words ‘band’ and ‘Sunday’ off the sign, mail a picture of it to your bigwig father. Jimmy T — Male Stripper! Wouldn’t he be proud?”
“Please don’t do that,” Jimmy T says. “Just beat me up later.”
Akim wheels the van up to the curb in front of the bar, and we all rush into the building, each carrying some equipment. There is no time to lose. We run through the old movie theatre foyer into the main part of the building. The place is huge. There must be close to thirty big round tables, with a swarm of wobbly chairs around each, a dozen pool tables and as many air hockey games, and an array of bleeping, pinging, blinking video games and pinball machines.
“Wow,” Jimmy T says to me, quietly enough to avoid being overheard by Lola, “I bet it’ll be Babe City in here tonight.”
The glassy look in his eyes reminds me of one of those starry-eyed, airbrushed children who appear on Christmas cards, except instead of sugarplums, it’s visions of squirming nineteen-year-old girls in tight T-shirts dancing in Jimmy’s head. He’ll have to be careful, though. Since Lola is at this gig, he won’t be able to ogle the chicks without facing major repercussions.
“Can I get you fellas something to drink?” comes a John Wayne voice from behind the long bar. The stocky bartender wears a red and white checkered Western-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a string tie, and a brown cowboy hat.
“Hi, there,” grins Jimmy. “We’re the Featherless Bipeds — the band for tonight.”
“Thought you guys were gonna be no-shows,” the bartender says. “So you guys are a rock band, eh?”
“Um, yeah,” I respond, “Isn’t that what you usually get?”
“That’s what Jay usually gets.”
“Oh, I see, and, um, what sort of band does, uh, Ray usually book, then?”
“Well, I’m Ray,” says the bartender, “and I don’t like rock ‘n’ roll.”
With that, he steps back from the bar and hooks his thumbs into the enormous embossed silver buckle of the leather belt that holds up his loose-fitting jeans. He crosses one of his road-apple-stabbin’ boots over the other, and says, “I’m a country music fan, myself.”
Suddenly, an old hippie-type comes rushing toward us from the other end of the room. His braided ponytail and long, haphazardly maintained beard bounce as he runs. His Birkenstock sandals skid to a stop in front of us. He runs his hands over the front of his Hawaiian-print shirt and cut-off jean shorts. “Don’t listen to him,” he says, “we love rock ‘n’ roll here at the Superstar Bar.”
He’s got the same bulbous nose and squinty eyes as the guy behind the bar, and it occurs to me that this must be Jay, Ray’s brother.
“Hi! I’m Jay,” the hippie guy says, extending his hand. “Welcome to my bar!”
“Our bar,” the Roy Rogers clone behind the bar grunts.
“So,” says Jay, vigorously shaking each of our hands “do you folks play any Grateful Dead?”
Ray leans forward against the bar, turns his cowboy hat from side to side.
“Rock music is crap,” he says.
Jay, the Jerry Garcia clone, gets right in his cowboy brother’s face.
“The only people who want to listen to that hurtin’ cryin’ country crap-ola you listen to are those cheap-ass buddies of yours, who never pay their freakin’ tabs! This bar makes its money from the rock ‘n’ roll crowd!”
Ray shakes his head again, and his voice deepens.
“Rock bands bring in young hooligans who fight and smash things and throw up all over everything. They ain’t worth the powder to blow ’em all up.”
Jimmy T interrupts.
“So, Ray, Jay . . . should we set up our stuff, or not?”
“No,” says Ray.
“YES!” says Jay. Then he turns to his brother. “Look, the only people in town who will want to roam around in the muck at the fairgrounds for the Buttermilk Festival are all the country music losers. The rock ‘n’ roll crowd will be into something better
. . . this here rock band!”
Jay crosses his arms and smiles with saccharine sweetness at his brother.
Ray crosses his arms. “They better know some country songs.”
“We know an Eagles tune.” Jimmy T says.
Ray stomps away.
Jay turns to us. “Well, get your asses in gear, you’re on in half an hour. Oh, and when you’re onstage tonight, could you mention tomorrow night’s male stripper? The women go nuts for that stuff, drink like sailors all night.”
“Uh, sure,” says Jimmy T. “No problem.”
“Maybe I’ll stick around for that,” Lola says.
Jimmy T looks hurt. “I need a smoke,” he says, sulking towards the back door.
“Oh no you don’t!” Akim barks. “You get your ass to the van and help carry the gear in!”
While lugging equipment in through the back door, Tristan sighs, “Look how big this place is. I’ll bet the acoustics suck.”
“Not after we get the place filled up with bodies!” Jimmy T s
ays.
“Whatever, Jimmy,” Akim says. “You heard the guy. There’s some big fair or something going on. We’ll be playing to an empty house. Again.”
Despite the bar itself being the size of a commercial aircraft hangar, the stage is deceivingly small. The drum riser is not nearly large enough to hold my drum set, and cannot be removed from the stage.
“Excuse me, sir,” I call out to Cowboy Ray, “Have you got an extension or anything for this drum riser? It’s not quite big enough for my drum set.”
“It’s big enough for a country drum set,” he grumbles.
I scrounge around in the storeroom behind the stage, and manage to find a bunch of two-by-fours, which I stack up in front of the drum riser to precariously perch the front legs of my bass drum on. I leave half of my kit lying lifeless in the van, and set up only the bare essentials — bass drum, snare, two toms, high hats, a ride and a crash cymbal. Even with this skeleton kit, I’ll have to get behind the kit first and then move the floor tom into position — it’s that tight, and still I’m hitting my elbows on the wall behind me.
Great. This is going to be so much fun.
SATURDAY NIGHT’S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING
(Warm-up)
We haven’t even played our first song yet, and already someone hates us.
“Do you guys do ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’ by Elton John?” the bottled-blonde in the undersized mock-velvet gymsuit asks me.
“Nope, “ I respond, while tugging the floor tom into position “Why not?” she says, “It is Saturday night, after all!”
“We don’t know it,” is all I will say.
This statement is not true, of course. We used to play a real kick-ass version of the song, but the last time we played it on a Saturday night, at a place called Doctor D’s, it caused several fistfights to break out. None of us want to push our luck by playing it again “C’mon!” Ms. Fuzzy Jumpsuit persists, “Play ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’. For me, sweetie?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“Well, screw you, then!” she says.
“Thank you very much,” I reply.
Within the massive space of this bar are, at most, two dozen patrons. Our one-night-only show has not exactly packed the place. So far, it seems like the Theodore Buttermilk Festival is the biggest draw in town. The few customers scattered throughout the massive space of Ray ‘n’ Jay’s each fit into the following watering hole archetype categories:
The Pool Table Pec-Flexers. These are the half-dozen testosterone-addled goons gathered around the pool tables, striking poses that make their muscles bulge like somebody’s shoved air hoses up their butts. Even from this far away, they smell like an overturned cologne truck. I’m guessing that these dudes are the proud owners of the souped-up Honda Civics in the parking lot with the “IMASTUD” and “BIGDK” license plates. When we start playing, these guys will act as if they’re too cool to even notice.
Their posing is mostly for the benefit of . . .
The Dance Floor Enigmas. These are the handful of pouty, bored-looking teenaged girls, who are seated as far away as possible from the several pouty, bored-looking middle-aged women. When the band starts playing, some of them will dance, but they will not look at the band or make eye contact with anyone nearby; they will simply stare blankly through everyone and everything. They think of this as playing “hard to get”, and that this act is extremely sexy.
These women pretend not to notice the squint-eyed leers cast toward them from . . .
The Barstool Critics. These beer-bellied bar fixtures will proclaim loudly that we suck, and that they themselves could get up onstage and play better music than the “crap” we’re churning out. Since we play a lot of original songs now, it doesn’t help that they despise anything they haven’t heard on the local radio station a hundred thousand times. And, since we’re a rock ‘n’ roll band, it also doesn’t help that each and every one of them has had the radio on top of the beer fridge in his respective garage tuned to the same Country/ Western station for the past twenty years.
And that’s pretty much it. Nobody in this whole colossus seems to be here to listen to a rock band play, except maybe the few unobtrusive, geeky-looking kids playing video games and pinball.
They’re the reason I will still play hard, even when everyone else is oblivious to what we’re doing. If there is a single pair of ears listening, I will give them as much as I can.
(Round One) “Well,” says Akim, draining the last mouthful from his beer glass, “Let’s get going, I guess. I’m sure it’ll warm up in here.”
Tristan twiddles with the controls on his bass amp, Akim plugs in his freshly-tuned Strat, Lola tugs her microphone from its stand, and I click my sticks together, “One, two, three . . . ”
Our first four songs pass without incident (or applause).
“Hey, Lola, honey?” Jimmy T says, “Is it okay with you if I sing the next song?”
“Yeah,” Lola says, surveying the nearly empty room. “Knock ’em dead, sweetie.”
We coast into the beginning of this Doors tune that Jimmy T loves to sing, when a lone, bristle-faced, barrel-shaped drunk rises suddenly from his table. Seconds earlier, he had been slumped over in a semi-comatose stupor, but now he’s on his feet, hollering “I wanna be in this band! WHOOOOOOOO!”
Everyone in the band simultaneously looks back at me, savoring the irony that we’re finally being appreciated — by this guy. We stop grinning, though, when the guy charges, like an angry bull, directly toward the already-crowded stage. He wedges his solid girth between Lola and Jimmy, somehow managing to knock my kick-drum back so far that my foot begins cramping while I try to continue playing.
“Well I just got into town about an hour ago . . . ” Jimmy sings.
The drunk grabs Tristan’s mike, and croons along, “Relli jiss gaa inna tonna button a-ago!”
The incomprehensible accompaniment disappears almost as soon as it began. Jimmy, who never takes kindly to anyone stealing the spotlight from him, has spun the boor around, grabbed him by the face, and launched him shot-put style from the stage. But, for a guy who could hardly keep his head off the table one minute earlier, the drunk is pretty quick to get back on his feet. He lumbers like an accelerating freight train toward the stage. In the short seconds it takes for all this to happen, I am sure I see steam coming from his bullish nostrils.
“Took a look around, see which way . . . ” Jimmy T manages to sing before the drunk reaches the stage. Jimmy quickly removes his guitar and, in a single, fluid motion, swings it around over his head like a sabre. The body of the guitar crashes against a cymbal, deflects off the headstock of Tristan’s bass, but unfortunately misses the man’s head by six inches. Jimmy sets the guitar down then leaps from the stage to meet the charging attacker.
For the first few seconds of the conflict Jimmy T holds his own, locking his left arm around the head of the man, his right fist pounding his opponent’s big belly. But Jimmy’s fist only connects a few times with the drunk’s concrete abdomen before the man uses his considerable weight advantage, and tosses Jimmy T onto the dance floor.
Akim, the ever-focused songsmith, takes over on vocals, warbling out the words, “City at night . . . city at night . . . ”
This all happens faster than the speed of sound. We continue playing, on musical autopilot. The full realization that the drunk is preparing to crush Jimmy between the hardwood dance floor and his own cement-truck body has not fully imprinted itself on my brain.
Now what the hell am I doing?
I have jumped over my drum set, sending a cymbal stand crashing over in the scramble. My feet skid across the floor as I land on the dance floor, my face inches from the snarling mug.
For the first time all evening, all eyes are upon us. Even the Pool Table Pec-Flexers are standing upright to see what’s going on.
I jerk my wallet from my back pocket, remove a yellow card, and wave it an inch from the man’s bloodshot eyes.
“You’d better think twice before doing that, buddy!” I holler.
“Huh?” comes the expected response.
Tristan and Akim are still plunking away on their instruments behind us, and Lola has taken over the vocals.
“This is my certification card, pal!” I bark, my mind racing forward, “International Karate Federation. Black belt. Third degree!”
“Ball-shett!” he burbles, his hot breath reeking like a distillery disaster, “you vulla crrrap, ash-allll!”
He pushes me aside, and prepares to throw himself on top of Jimmy T, who is too stunned to get the hell out of the way. I poke the beast’s round, sweaty shoulder with my finger.
“Listen, buddy,” I say, “with my karate training, I can collapse that little thing that sticks out at the front of your throat in one quick shot. Believe me, suffocation is not a fun way to die.”
The man folds his tree-trunk arms across his chest and grunts.
“Or, with one quick upward jerk of my knee, from right where we’re standing, I could put your nuts up into your lower intestines. You’d have to wear a plastic bag to piss into, and, of course, you would never be able to do . . . it . . . again . . . ”
This, of course, captures the big man’s attention more than the threat of actual death. He takes a step backward, away from me, and away from Jimmy T, who finally takes the opportunity to scramble to his feet.
“But, you know, I’d rather not have to permanently disable you if I don’t have to,” I say, the bastion of goodwill, “so, howsabout the band buys you a beer, and we forget all about this little misunderstanding, okay?”
He nods, upping his hand over his crotch. I bring him a beer which, within a minute or two, will push the level of alcohol in his blood up just high enough to cause him to pass out and fall spread-eagled on the dance floor.
I climb back behind my drums, and say into the mike, hockey-announcer-style, “And Jimmy T, of the Featherless Bipeds, is back after serving two minutes for roughing.”
A few of the formerly expressionless young guys at the pool tables, and a couple of the old lumps on the barstools begin to clap.
Featherless Bipeds Page 13