The Incoherant Ramblings of a Poetic Compulsive: Essay: Worst Show Ever

I'm not naming names here, some of the details have been slightly modified...but this really did happen to us.

Background: In July of 2004 our bass player quit. He was 19, just graduated, super talented! And right after our recording was finished and he got his name on the liner notes, he shipped it to a university and used it to get himself a full-ride music scholarship. We had shows lined up at the time so we had to fill the spot fast. We did. The replacement was a nice guy, but 15 years older than everyone else, and had just picked up the bass a year or two ago. We've all been playing since junior high/high school. Anyway, he didn't last long, so we paid a pro to play bass for us during the fall of '04.

Story: In the Fall of '04 we were made aware of a band tournament being put on in the midwest for bands specifically just like ours. Where we're at, doing what we do. The past the winners of this tournament have gone on to label contracts. This particular tournament came heavily recommended by somebody, who heard from somebody else, that it was worth it for us to go. We looked into it, submitted our stuff, and were chosen as one of the bands to "compete". The website was quite professional, the sound and lighting was supposed to be pro caliber, the press quotes seemed legit, and the flyers, etc made it look like quite an opportunity. We practiced and practiced and as we did we found out more and more about this show.

There's like 24 bands and three rounds. The bands are split in groups of 8 to do initial competition. Two winners are picked from each group. Two groups of three do a second round and then the last round is the two "best" bands. And plane tickets aren't covered. So I'm starting to freak out about where the money's coming from when the argument was brought up we couldn't afford to NOT go. See, every band that competed, did so in front of

A: industry professionals in the audience. People from labels, management companies, booking agencies, regional promoters, etc.

B: a panel of judges, even more impressive with their industry professionalism credentials. These judges did critiques of your performance and scored you, gave you advice, etc whether you won or not.

And the winner of the tournament goes on to play a showcase in a huge music city (NY/LA/Nashville). They threw out some names of some very important people that were guaranteed to be there. One of whom we’ve been trying to get a hold of for some time now. We even had some contacts of signed bands, that are successful in a big way now, that have played there before. More on that later.

The hired gun bass player simply states, so long as his expenses are covered and he makes his usual fee plus 15%, he’ll come, but he won’t fly his amp cross country. Slightly perturbed that I now have to rent gear for him to play at this fly date at an inflated rate, we agree to it and I start calling music stores in the town.

It was more or less agreed this was too good an opportunity to miss out on. So we shell out the bucks to not only fly from where we're at, to where this event is ($800 per person roundtrip) but to ship our overweight and oversized gear on the plane ($300 in additional luggage fees). So we get there, and it's snowing. Now apparently, this town doesn't get snow very often, because they had a whole inch and the guy is now telling me on my cell phone they're considering canceling the show, as my captain announces we're about to land at our destination. Some nonsense about the sound guy not wanting to come out in "blizzard conditions".

The ‘hired gun’ bass player is now beginning to whine. Loudly and frequently and my patience is already wearing thin. Remember, hired guns are not responsible for any expenses, and he gets paid whether we do or not.

Here we are in this airport, trying to rent a van that will fit us and all our gear so we can drive another 100 miles to where the event is. The venue did not pay for plane tickets, overage charges, a rental car, backlined gear, food, lodging, nor is he paying us to come and play. The only hope we have of making any money is selling mass merchandise to the supposed 500-1000 in attendance and dozens of industry professionals. But we can’t even do that if he cancels the show. I’m thinking the other 8 bands are going to be with me on this, even though I’ve never met them, so I start applying some pressure.

“You can’t cancel this show. We flew all the way out here on our own dime to do this. We’re not making any money, we’re all taking massive losses because we believe we have a good chance at success here. Half an inch of snow, that I’m watching start to melt in front of me (and you’re only an hour and a half away) is not ‘blizzard conditions’. You tell that sound guy he’s going to owe us a serious chunk of change if he doesn’t get there!” Just then the sound guy miraculously shows up according to the fellow on the phone and we’re “good to go”.

Bass player: “I’m hungry. Who’s buying me dinner?”

I hang up with him only to find out from my keyboard player that there are no vans available at any of the in-airport car rental companies. So we had to pay for a shuttle to take us to a specialty vehicle rental place. Then we had to stand in the snow with our gear while a vehicle is procured, costing us twice what we budgeted for car rental. It would’ve been cheaper to get 2 SUV’s at Hertz.

So we finally get a vehicle, hit the highway and drive 100 miles in slush and the most boring country in the southwest. When we get to the venue we pull in to find that it is an old abandoned warehouse. The bass player is now beginning sing a chorus of “I knew this was a bad idea,” and the rest of us are really starting to think we misjudged this event.

We had no idea.

The place was all closed up still. 3 hours till soundcheck. It’s early but I thought somebody would be here. We circle the place because first reaction is, “this can’t be the place.” But it is. A small poster on the side door has the venue’s name on it and our worst fears are beginning to be confirmed. We’re playing in a warehouse.

I’m trying to shoosh the expletives from the back seat and read the flyer at the same time. It’s an old flyer. I can’t see what the text says but I see some faces on the cover. Looks like a previous show from awhile back. So this is definitely the place. Silence from the van. Dead silence. But there’s still a glimmer of hope. OK, so the acoustics are going to royally suck, and the sound guy may not show, and we’ve blown a small fortune getting here….but we’re here. About to play in front of some very important people and make a good first impression on them too. Pep talks are useless though. We go get some food to shut the bass monkey (as he’s becoming effectionately referred to). Bass monkey is screaming wildly and doing to the verbal equivalent of flinging poo all over the van.

After dinner we head back to find a couple bands, the promoter, and the sound guy shows up on our tale, one hour before sound check. We all get in there and there’s…I don’t know….5 bands maybe there? I can’t tell band members from sound crew from venue employees. They all look the same. And nobody knows who anybody is except for a few guys that are walking around shaking hands, giving hugs, exchanging witty banter, saying things like “What’s it been? 6 weeks?” We are obviously the outsider. As the sound crew sets up the stage, the promoter gathers us all together to have a little chat.

He starts listing off bands and where they came from, giving nods to those he’s had direct communication about the event with over email and phone. It hits me that all the other bands drove in from adjacent states, or two states away. We’re the only one that flew, and the only one not from the Southwest with an accent to prove it. I wasn’t sure if that would work in our favor or not. As he talks and explains how the transitions will work, who’s MC-ing, how long we have, rules about stage activity, etc. He’s not making eye contact with anyone. Almost purposefully. He’s glued to his clipboard. As I scan the circle of bands waiting to hear their name and introduction, I notice a few things. There’s a theme in their clothes and suddenly I realize all these other bands are from the hard core side of rock. Punk, metal, thrash, hardcore, emo, etc. And I begin to worry we did not screen this event correctly and we’re possibly severely out of place. My band and I are rock and roll. We ride the lines between pop rock and hard rock, but you would not classify us as punk, metal, thrash, hardcore, emo, etc.

But for a second I actually think this may go in our favor with the judges, and that’s when I hear “crowd reaction will be a big part of your final score”. Having no idea what this event was promoted as, I once again, start to worry. We may be a lone fish in a sea of musical enthusiasts that not only dislikes our genre, but hates what we play with a passion, just because of what the style is regardless of how well we execute it. I have the next hour to think on this and worry myself into a basketcase. If we don’t win tonight, will the whole ordeal have been a complete waste of thousands of dollars? YES!!!

We draw straws to see who goes when. We drew the shortest straw and, as fate would have it, have to/get to go last. I step down from the 5 foot tall stage as the bands disperse to get ready, only to find we have the worst possible location in the place to setup our merch booth. Our tee shirts, CD’s, stickers, buttons, and hooded sweatshirts will be in the back corner, far from any lighting and too far away to monitor from the stage with no one to man it while we’re playing. I suddenly have to pee. When I make it to the most grotesque bathroom I suddenly feel my bile duct raging. I turn the light on and a couple cock roaches scurry to a nest in the wall. Suppressing the need to vomit, holding my nose from the stench, and pissing all at the same time I run out only to find the handleless door to the unisex “bathroom” did not close behind me when I went in and there are some seedy looking characters that have been watching my ordeal since I went in (both genders). I walk out without flushing the toilet. There’s no water in it, and I’m not waiting around and see if it even COULD flush.

My fears were once again confirmed as the show starts. What passed for a pro caliber light show was a teenager flipping the buttons on and off on the light faders and an old guy in the back turning on house lights when the MC called for it from the stage. You could hear three chord strums for every one the guitar player made from the back of the warehouse where our merch booth was. We sat silent, arms crossed. We sold a couple of CD’s which wouldn’t even put half a tank in the van we rented. The ceiling had to be 30 feet high and metal. Like listening to music in a tin can. The closer you got to the stage the less reverberation you heard, but the louder it got to.

And yes, no other band was anything like us. A couple hardcore screamo bands played first. The first band, from the town the event was in, only paused long enough from his top-of-his-lungs screaming to catch his next breath. By their third song he had no voice left and only let out air and a small squeak when he went to scream. The guitar and bass player played a barrage of power chords in drop D. The drummer broke 8 sticks, 2 heads and cracked his high hat during 5 songs. The dozens of kids on the floor in front of the stage (yes I said dozens, not hundreds) were either standing there pretending to be bored or moshing like I’ve never seen slam dancing and they hooted and hollered between every song. The warehouse was filled with the stench of sweat by the third song. They turned on the heater (because afterall, it’s blizzard conditions outside) about half way through the event, which was almost as loud as the band on stage at the time and right over our merch table. The heater suspended from the roof and had to be a thousand watts. It was designed to heat the whole warehouse. It rattled and blew hot air all over our table.

I searched and searched, weaving in and out of the crowd, to find these judges and the industry professionals that were watching, critiquing, evaluating and taking notes on the performances. They were nowhere to be found. Between the 3rd and 4th bands, the MC gave a “shout out” to the judges, who were in the back, on top of the concession stand seated in lawnchairs. I found out later the “industry professionals” were members from last year’s competition. Not even members of the winning band, just your average joes. The band before us finished with their 5th trashcan ending for the night, we prepped to take the stage. The transition went smooth and we huddled together as the MC kept the crowd interested. Over the course of the night the crowd had tripled in size since the first. Late comers have moseyed in. One group of kids that all came together, looked more like our usual patrons. As we huddled the last pep talk of the night was force fed from all of us to all of us. The feeling was unanimous. Let’s not let these playing conditions stop us from doing what we do best and giving these people a good show. That’s what we do. Let’s go do it. Forget about everything else. Bassmonkey, time to earn your keep.

We took the stage and played our opening intro. When I hit the first chord the lights kinda blasted at us and we saw everybody for the first time. The synergy we have at every show was there. The thoughts of the horrible conditions, money wasted, all of it was gone, shed from memory for the duration of our 5 song set. Somehow I almost think the trials made us play better. As the same mix blared from every monitor on stage, nobody complained. We did our job and…get this…this crowd of now mixed musical taste was so incredibly into it. We were all over that stage, jumping around, getting them into it, throwing water at the sweaty masses and they loved it and screamed for more. We played no ballads, because for 5 songs, we wanted to keep the energy up. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was just my own adrenaline playing tricks on me, but we left that stage with an impromptu trashcan ending of our own and left them screaming for more, and I really thought, hey, maybe this was worth it afterall.

The MC took the stage and was ready to announce the winner. Pretending to rip open the unsealed generic envelope for drama, he pulled out the piece of paper and read the hand-written word scratched in pencil. It was the first band. The crowd was now only half interested knowing the last band had played and were slowly migrating out the door. A few dozen cheered loudly, but mostly people looked at each other and mouthed the question, “Which one was that?” I heard one girl say, “That was the last one….had to be.” It was not. As the MC announced second place, which I had completely forgotten about, and was really curious to see if we’d get the nod, because we rocked the place, said to myself “it doesn’t matter if it’s us…we’re not coming back here.” It too, was also not us. First place went to the first hard core band. The bass chord playing, guy that lost his voice from screaming, drummer that broke half his set, screamo band. The second place band was a 3-piece teenage instrumental thrash band.

It was debatable, in my mind, whether we were the best or the third band. They were hard-hitting with catchy hooks and really good writing. I thought for sure we’d take first and second with them if the judging was honest, but I had my doubts from the beginning whether or not that would be the case. The mother of one of the teenagers in the second place band came up to me as we were loading out in the melting snow. She handed me a piece of paper and said, “You should have won.” The letter said she was told by the promoter that her son’s band, and the band that took first would win this event. The two local bands. The first place band, an ex-house band of the venue, had a cousin of the promoter and used to play in the band the other judges were in. As we pulled away from the venue, ready to put this all behind us, the promoter tracked us down and handed us a packet of papers. “You almost forgot your judge’s review,” he said with a smug look on his face. As the bassmonkey prepared to fling verbal poo at the guy, I stopped him, thanked him, took the paperwork and drove away. The “review” was most insulting. Commenting on everything from poor timing to the lead singer’s shirt. BTW, our timing is dictated by metronome to the drummer via headphones and he was on all night. They were making this crap up. Peppered throughout the review were comments like “Your musical genre has no social relevance today.” And “either go softer or go louder, but stop playing pop rock”. Some comments were simply cheap shots, “You suck”. No elaboration, no justification, no room to argue. We never saw their faces, we never met them, they did not offer their names on the forms they filled out.

We drove to the airport, bassmonkey complaining the whole way about wanting a shower and needing to find a 24 hour fitness when we get the city. We slept in the van for 5 hours parked in a hotel parking lot, ate nothing. We turned in the van, paid for another shuttle, paid another overage charge for the gear, boarded the plane and flew home. We said nothing to each other, only slept.

The single most expensive learning experience I’ve ever had right there. We recovered. We’re all good now and still playing, Touring very soon as a matter of fact. We found ourselves another bass player that we kept as a member and we’re all much tighter friends.

But that….was the worst show I ever played.

:Bazooka-Joe

Bazooka-Joe made it so at 9:55 AM

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Monday, August 01, 2005

Essay: Worst Show Ever

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