I had to get out of there. I’d barely touched my food, but I’d had enough weirdness in my day already, so I made some lame excuse and left. I suppose I could have gone back to the room and taken a last look at tonight’s set list or something, but I went for a walk instead.
It was almost eight and I was on my way back to get ready when I ran into Glenn on the street.
“Hey, man, how’s it going?” I asked.
“I’m good,” he said. “How about you?”
“Fine.”
He nodded, but as he watched me, his nod morphed from up and down into side to side. “I don’t think so,” he said. “What’s up?”
I almost said, Well, ya see, there’s this girl … as sort of a joke, but I didn’t really want to go there. “I don’t know … things are a little weird.”
“Do you mean here, or back home? Is it us? The music?”
“How about E: all of the above?”
He laughed. “I hear ya.”
“I mean, sometimes this seems a little like one of those behind-the-scenes TV shows or something. And even a newbie like me can tell I’m only seeing the tip of the iceberg.”
“And you’re sitting there wondering when the whole thing’s going to come apart at speed …?”
Man, he’d nailed it. “Yeah, and leave bodies strewn all over the road.”
“If I do my job right, it won’t.”
“Why is that your job?”
He shrugged. “Things work best if you let everyone play to their strengths.” He changed the subject. “And about the music thing, I don’t love doing some of that stuff any more than you do, but that’s part of being a pro—making the customer happy.”
I snorted. “Assuming you can even figure out what they want. I mean, this place is way different than clubs back home.”
“Yeah, and the venue next week might be different than this. That’s another part of the job—sussing out what the people want.”
“Maybe, but the way I see it, another part of our job is getting past the human-jukebox level to where we can do what we want.”
He cocked his head. “Touché, brother.”
I clicked my sticks in tempo. “One … two … one, two, three …” Slam!
As we launched into “Can’t Get Enough,” I looked around and took in the whole scene. Whoa. It was too bad Kimber wasn’t here—she would have appreciated the surrealism of the moment. It was freakin’ wildish.
After the dinner crowd had left, Jake and his crew had opened the movable wall between the club and the dining area, effectively doubling the size of the gig. I thought that was pretty optimistic, as there was almost no one in the room at the time, but I kept my newbie yap shut. Good move.…
It turned out the place was empty because the club doors were kept closed by design, which was actually a pretty shrewd idea. I mean, having people lined up around the block is better advertising than a dozen billboards, and it’s free. Right before nine, one of the bouncers opened the doors and the place filled up in a hurry—there were like five hundred throwback rockers packed into a club made for half that many. I swear, I thought the fire marshal was going to show up and shut us down, except that apparently half the Bozeman fire crew was out there sucking down dollar beers and free tacos along with the rest of the locals.
And there was an actual soundman doing the mix and a guy on lights—including a follow spot, if you can believe that—so we looked and sounded totally pro and we didn’t have to worry about anything but the music. Well, the music and the wardrobe …
I was wearing those goofy balloon pants and the tiger tank top, and I was probably the most conservatively dressed one in the band. Brad was in full-on spandex, while Glenn had on a black-and-red jumpsuit and a kamikaze headband in this weird sort of Hendrix-meets-Def Leppard thing. Danny was Spinal Tapping it to the max with faux leather from head to toe, more eyeliner than all the members of My Chem put together, and a big, scruffy black wig that made him look like Slash on Rogaine.
Amber and Jamie were both done up like an unholy cross between a biker-chick-from-hell and a sixties go-go dancer … tall black boots, tiny-ass miniskirts, leather push-up bras, and hair and makeup all over the place. Totally over the top, but I had to admit they looked pretty freakin’ hot. And Amber wasn’t just sitting out in the crowd, either. Sometimes she was strutting it on the floor with no one in particular, but she spent most of her time up onstage with us, dancing, playing tambourine, or just swaying to the beat and having fun.
When I saw her pick up the tambourine the first time, I cringed and thought, Thank God she’s hanging on Danny’s side of the stage, because Danny doesn’t sing, so there’s no microphone near him. You get a tambourine anywhere near an open mic and the whole world can hear it, which can be pretty bad if you only think you can play tambourine, like everyone does until they actually try it. But guess what? She was actually not bad. She wasn’t doing anything fancy, mostly just whacking it on the backbeat, but everything she played was in the pocket.
As we came offstage during the first break, I fell in next to her. “So, where’d you learn to play tambourine like that?”
She winked at me. “Church.”
“Wow. My church sure didn’t do music like this. No drums, no guitars …” I cleared my throat. “And certainly no badass percussionist–dancer-girl at stage left.”
Instead of laughing like I’d expected, she shot me a worried look. “That wasn’t planned, believe me. I wasn’t sure what to do, but Danny said, ‘Hey, it’s just a giant costume party. Come hang with us and add to the vibe.’ Was I stupid up there?”
I thought it was funny that Amber, of all people, would worry about what I might think of her dancing or playing tambourine onstage during a gig. “You were great,” I said. “You didn’t even drop a beat. Seriously, it’s totally cool with me.”
Just then one of the customers—who’d evidently gotten a head start on the festivities—came up to her. “Hey, brown sugar, that’s some hot dancin’,” he shouted, talking way too loud, like the band was still playing. Then he reached over and grabbed her ass. “Do you do private parties?”
I didn’t even stop to think. I just stepped between them, shouldering him out of the way. “She’s with the band. Keep your freakin’ hands off her, man.”
He looked me over like, Who the hell are you? Oh crap, it was going to be that whole Kevin Flanders thing all over again. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw Danny approaching, fast. I had no doubt—there was gonna be a fight.
But instead of laying into this asshole, Danny put his arm around him like he was a long-lost friend. “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?” he said cheerfully. “You having a good time tonight?”
“Well, I was, until—”
“Good!” he interrupted. He nodded toward me and Amber. “These are my friends Zach and Zelda. My name’s Danny.” He steered the guy away from us. “You like our music?”
The guy nodded. “Uh, yeah.”
“Cool! I can tell you’re a fun guy. Is there anything special you’d like to hear …?”
By then they were out of earshot, heading over toward the restaurant side of the club.
Amber turned to me and let out a big breath. “Thanks.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why guys think that being a total jerk could ever work.”
“Because sometimes it does,” I mumbled.
She just looked at me for a moment. “Are we talking about anybody in particular?”
“Nobody you know.” I went to go get a coke and a bottle of water for the next set. As I made my way back to the stage, Danny came up to me.
“Hey, bro, thanks for watching out for Amber. That dude was hammered.”
“No problem. Man, you did a stellar job of turning him around.”
“Drunks are mimics—they pick up your attitude and adopt it, like a chameleon. Half the time, the only difference between a friendly drunk and a mean one is the mood of the guys around him.”
I looked
around at the raucous crowd. “Well, then we’d better get up there and keep all these guys happy.”
And by all accounts that’s exactly what we did for the rest of the evening, although I got a little lesson in mob psychology on the way.
We’d blazed through most of the third set by midnight, and the place was in total party mode when suddenly I noticed some sort of commotion back by the bar. I could barely see the area from my little perch up on the stage, so I craned my neck for a better view. At first I wasn’t sure what was going on. If it had been happening in front of the stage instead of in the back of the room—and if we’d been playing more Anti-Flag and less Aerosmith—I would have sworn it was a mosh pit. But I was willing to bet most of this crowd had never moshed in their lives. Nope, I was seeing my first classic bar brawl.
I couldn’t make out the details, but it spread quickly as people kinda backed away in a circle and others tried to crowd in for a better look. Meanwhile, the floor was still packed with people dancing, but I could see things getting out of control. I wasn’t sure what to do but I figured I should do something, so I stopped playing. The other guys, however, tried to keep going. Didn’t they know what was happening?
Glenn came back to me and shouted over the noise, “Keep playing, man!”
I jumped back into it and believe it or not, people kept on dancing, oblivious to what was happening. I looked back at the fight, and two of Jake’s guys had waded into the mess and dragged someone out by the arms. As quick as it had flared up, it was over.
By the time we ended the song, they were marching the guy to the door, and they didn’t seem too worried about hurting his feelings, either. I got a good look as they tossed him out. He was beat up, bloody, and belligerent. And guess what else? He was the same drunk who’d been such a butthead to Amber.
But I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, because we lit a fuse under “My Generation” and kept the party blazin’.…
SON: “WHEN I GROW UP I WANT TO BE A DRUMMER.”
MOM: “MAKE UP YOUR MIND—YOU CAN’T DO BOTH.”
“That was a great Saturday night,” Jake said, “even by our standards. I’ve said since the beginning of the week that you guys sounded great, but with the classic tunes and those clothes and all … Well, it was just about perfect—they ate it up. You can bet I’ll be giving Corey an outstanding report on you.”
We were hanging in the bar well after the last set was done. It was long past last call, and by law the place was supposed to be closed down by now. Hell, by law I wasn’t supposed to be there at all once the gig was over. But there we were, along with a dozen customers and the staff, just kinda basking in the afterglow.
“Hey,” Danny said, raising his glass, “we appreciate it.” He was sitting at the bar with Amber. I was at a table near them, talking with a couple of locals about bike trails, and Brad and Jamie were at the table next to me.
Somebody sent up a cheer. “Here’s to Big Habit!” Everyone raised their drinks and toasted. I couldn’t resist. I raised my glass and joined in, louder than anyone. “Yeah, to Big Habit … whoever they are!”
Brad corrected them. “It’s Bad Habit. Bad Habit.”
“Okay, here’s to Fat Habit!” someone else said. They were drunk, but not that drunk. It was like an inside joke or something.
“It’s Bad …,” Brad insisted.
“All right, three cheers for Big Fat Habit!”
“Bad …”
“Sorry. Hooray for Big Bad Fat Habit!” And on it went, with bigger and better messed-up versions of our name.…
Finally, after a few minutes of this, some guy stands up on a table. “Okay, everyone—I’ve got it! Big-Fat-Badass-Funky-Monkey-Hobbit-Habit!” Everyone cheered and he took a bow and sat down. And that, apparently, was our new official name.
Where was Glenn? He was missing all the fun. I looked around and spotted him at a table across the room. With Jackie-the-waitress on his lap.
I would have expected him to look a little happier, considering. But he was just sitting there, not saying much. She put her mouth to his ear while her hands went elsewhere. He looked at her, then finally shook his head. She leaned forward and kissed him—long and slow—then stood up and left.
The scene reminded me of the last time I’d seen Kimber. Uh, except for the kiss …
Shit. I had to get back to her.
From: Zach Ryan [[email protected]]
Sent: Sunday, June 27 3:04 AM
To: Kimberly Milhouse [[email protected]]
Subject: RE: Road life
Yo, Kimber—
Got your text. Nothing’s wrong—we’re good. (Well … you could do so much better than Toby. Trust me. But whatever.)
Other than that, things are going good here. We finished the week knowing maybe forty more songs than when we started (necessity being a mother, etc.). Per Your Majesty’s request, attached is a pic Amber took of us before tonight’s gig. Yes, that’s really me in the middle, and no, it’s not 1980. (I know … major throwback time. Although I’d pay some serious money to see you in the outfits Jamie and Amber wore tonight. Ha!)
It’s been a little weird, the whole group dynamic of this band. Not that there are knock-down, drag-out fights onstage or anything. (Well, there was one of those tonight, but not onstage.)
But it was a pretty good week overall. The place was nice, the people at the club treated us great, and the locals were friendly.
Well, I’m toast and I’d better get some sleep—tomorrow’s a travel day. We pack everything up and head to Billings, then Helena, then Butte, then … (Okay, I’m not going to lie to you—it’s going to be a long summer.)
Take care of yourself, okay …?
Talk soon,
Z
PART III
RASH
19
“Shot Down in Flames”
“What’s the name of the club again?” Jamie asked from the passenger seat as we were coming down I-15 from Helena into Butte. After three weeks on the road, the venues were starting to run together in our heads.
“Hang on,” Brad said, scrolling through his phone. “Uh, it’s called the Four Leaf Clover.”
“Okay, everybody,” she announced. “Keep an eye out—we’re looking for some good luck.”
Less than thirty seconds later Glenn drawled from the driver’s seat, “Well, if that’s the club up there on the corner, we sure could use some.”
As we approached it, the big green blob painted on the side of the building resolved into a faded clover. Except one of the leaves had halfway flaked away, so it was more like a three-and-a-half-leaf clover. And it got better from there.…
The front of the building was all windows, but the faded blue curtains were pulled so the light of day wouldn’t scare away the roaches. Some of the windows had been broken and were boarded up with plywood. Above one of the boarded-up windows was the universal symbol for a classy joint: a neon sign—also broken—depicting a martini glass. And if there was any remaining question, this was resolved by another sign that simply said LIQUOR. But hey—this one actually flickered a little.
There was a marquee above the door, but instead of announcing the band playing, it just said LIVE MUSIC. Brilliant—that way you didn’t have to change it every week.
We parked and got out, looking at the place. “This can’t really be it, can it?” Jamie asked.
I was thinking the same thing, but when we got to the front door, we saw a sign taped up inside one of the windows, like someone had taken a piece of paper and scrawled a quick note on it.…
BAD HABIT ~ TUE-SAT
The last couple of weeks had flown by, almost in a blur. The bookings at Billings and Helena were fine. Not as nice as Bozeman—I was starting to realize we were spoiled there—but the clubs were decent and the people were nice. And the gigs themselves went okay—the crowds seemed to like us and people danced a lot (once we decoded the vibe of each particular venue, that is). But nothing really memorable l
ike that classic gig at the Dog & Pony. Okay, one thing that sticks out was an email from Kimber, which I got the evening after I’d written her.
From: Kimberly Milhouse [[email protected]]
Sent: Sunday, June 27 8:18 PM
To: Zach Ryan [[email protected]]
Subject: Goofy boy!
Dear Zach,
Thanks for the email. Sounds like you’re having a great time out there without me … ha ha!
About the Toby thing, all I can say is—you’re goofy! I just mentioned that he’d asked me—I never even hinted that I’d actually go with him. I’m not sure whether to be insulted that you thought I might consider it or flattered that you care. ☺
Thanks for the pic of you! Yeah, the clothes are a scream, but I’m seriously liking that goatee. Is that what you meant by the Musketeer comment? If so, just call me Constance, mon bel ami.
In other news, Kyle’s got his hands full trying to deal with the Sock Monkeys, and between you and me, he’s not loving it. I heard some of the tracks coming out of their sessions. I guess they’re not terrible, but that’s about the best I can say. (He probably won’t tell you this, but I can tell he really misses you—as a drummer and as a friend.)
GTG—I have some homework to finish for tomorrow morning. Some of us have to further our education—we can’t all be traveling around the country without a care!
L,
K
For some reason I was in a better mood after that. And that lasted all the way up to when I finally finished that track I’d been working on.
It needed a bass part. I could have asked Danny to play it—he would have nailed it, first take. But that would have meant telling him I was working on one of Glenn’s original tunes, and I hadn’t even told Glenn yet.…
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