Birthday, Bloody Birthday

I caught my cuticle on a string during the first song Saturday night and sprayed blood all over my guitar. Kenton, ever the concerned den mother, wrapped my index in athletic tape after the first set. "You've gotta be able to thump the bass tomorrow at church," he said. "Put that finger on ice when you get home."

A party guest walked into the men's room while I was taking this picture. He seemed alarmed to find me snapping away in front of the mirror with my pants halfway down.

The gig was a private birthday party for a friend at Java Cafe, a coffee and sandwich shop at Madison and Fair Oaks. Java Cafe is big enough for 60 people to mingle and dance without being crowded by all of our gear. The huge tented ceiling kept the sound from reverberating. That helped keep the noise level down. For once, nobody complained.

The gig paid well - $1,000. Our little band is now at the stage where we don't have fans, we have customers. The customer may not always be right, but they're entitled to want what they want and we've got to give it to them. I have no pretensions of artistic purity. They wanted more Van Morrison, so we played "Brown-Eyed Girl" twice. When they requested The Rolling Stones, I consulted Drew, since he'd done Stones tunes with The Radios. We picked "Jumpin' Jack Flash." It came off great, even though we'd never played the song together. Even Nick went along with the "crowd-pleasing" format and blew mighty harp solos on "Mustang Sally," a song he hates. I believe Nick's exact sentiments about "Mustang Sally" are expressed thusly: "I fuckin' hate that song."

Tommy, my professional guitar-slinger brother-in-law, has probably played "Mustang Sally" 1,000 times. "I don't know what it is, but people love it. Even kids. When the gig isn't going well, just play 'Mustang Sally' and the audience is right back on your side."

People danced all night, favoring the songs they knew - or at least sort of knew. I was surprised by how many people jumped out of their chairs to shake it on down to "Hoochie Coochie Man." That's pretty obscure.

For once, we lit up the party, instead of enraging the audience. I'm amazed at how much work it takes to not stink. My rhythm guitar playing was good, but the solos were fumbly. I used my Bill Nash Strat plugged straight into my tweed Fender Pro Junior, an absurdly loud 15-watt amp with one 10-inch speaker. Phil won't permit me to turn up past  "4."

Kenton played with a soft touch and good control. The tempos were solid and stayed on the rails all night. Except for the dreaded "Bad Little Doggie." Kenton and I both fouled that up good. "I am so over that song," Drew grumped as we unloaded the equipment. I don't blame him. He doesn't want to tear apart his vocal cords doing it this little number if we can't keep up. I'm ready to admit that "Bad Little Doggie" is beyond my skill set. Big deal. Nobody knows it, and you can't dance to it unless you're on drugs or having a seizure.

Kenton and Nick were fighting as they left. Something about Nick's back. Kenton insisted that Nick's back was killing him. "Nothing's wrong with my back!" Nick shouted as Kenton urged him into the passenger seat. Those two guys should get married. Unfortunately, that's now illegal in California.

©2008 by Edward Dean Chance. All Rights Reserved. (But just try telling that to the Chinese.)

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