Geezer Rock

Iron Horse Plaza, Dec. 13 2008

We played our third shopping mall gig of the year on Saturday. The last two were at The Fountains in Roseville this summer. We played near the dancing fountain and light show. The fountain drew a bigger crowd than we did both times, although we did better the second time. Drew seemed awe-stricken by the experience. "I can't believe I'm playing at a fucking shopping mall," he kept saying over and over as we set up, stunned by how far he's come in such a short time.

Yesterday's gig was a promotion at Iron Horse Plaza in Danville. The usual stuff: raffles, gourmet food samples, free blood pressure checks.

The center's layout didn't leave much room for the band. The result was one of the most surreal gigs we've yet played. We set up under a tent in, yes, the shopping cart return area of the grocery store. We literally played under the sign that said "Return Carts Here." The band faced, not the parking lot, but the two lane main entrance to the plaza. Cars drove back in forth inches in front of us all day. Drew near passed out from belting out tunes while bathed in exhaust fumes from the cars and from the gas-powered generator running our rig. We had a video guy with us shooting some promotional footage for our website. He described the visuals as "extremely surreal." Grumpy shoppers with cart loads of groceries had to get back to their cars by squeezing between the bellowing PA columns and subwoofers and the the main traffic artery. I could have reached out and lifted loaves of bread and cartons of eggs right out of their bags, they were so close. People winced and tried to plug their ears.

Some players might let a gig like this destroy their morale. They might even give up! It is hard to believe how far short of rock glamor we fall by playing in a bush league band like KDOG. But, like Tommy always says: "What - and quit show business?"

Other highlights of another incredibly day in rock and roll:

• The band, plus Philip, gathered at my house to load up at the non-rockin' hour of 8 a.m.
• We didn't forget anything. But I did have to buy duct tape at the grocery store.
• Drew lost his book of lyric cheat sheets. This forced him to wing it. He didn't get all the words right. But singing without a music stand looks more rock and roll. Reading lyrics off the stand makes you look like you're delivering a talk to the Rotary Club.
• The mall's owner - and a client of Kenton's - was a genial fellow named Don. Don's company owns 50 malls and shopping centers. He is not a man who sleeps well of late.  
• We experienced a short rain delay. About half the gear, including the sound board and power array, got covered with raindrops, despite the tent. "This is how I want to go," I said. "Fried like bacon in the shopping cart return area of a grocery store."
• I made an extra 50 bucks as emcee for a stupid pet tricks contest. Two of the judges were members of The Oakland Raiderettes, who I kept referring to as "The Raisinettes." (Amusing quip I kept to myself due to rampant family ambiance: "I LOVE to eat Raisinettes!") The grand prize was a year's worth of dog food. "There is a catch," I told the winner. "No matter how tough things get in this economy, this food is only for your dog, got it?"
• Unloading the gear later, Philip complimented the band for self-control of our sound and showmanship. "I didn't feel the need to set at the board constantly making adjustments," he said. You were all self-regulating." He noted that the lack of fooling around between songs "really helped" the presentation. "You're making it look much easier."
• Risking my life by stepping into the traffic lanes, I stepped out in front of the so-called stage to check the sound and balance.  It sounded good! On stage, I can never really tell what's going on. It's like the fog of war: you don't know what's going on when you're in the middle of it.
• It was my turn to screw up "Bad Little Doggie." I missed one of the transitional riffs in the middle. Nobody noticed. They were in their cars. 
• After unloading a 6:30 p.m., Philip and I hustled to St. John's. We're in a little choir that's singing at the "Candles and Carols" concert on Sunday. The Long-Suffering Mrs. Chance was there too. We rehearsed our two big numbers for a small group of people who wandered in for the church's Second Saturday open house. We then sang Christmas carols by request for an hour. I tried to sight-read the bass harmony parts. I sounded sort of like a foghorn with a dead goose stuck in it. Ah, music!
• The KFOG radio promotion guy said he liked the band and wanted us to play some KFOG events in San Francisco this summer, since our playlist lines up with KFOG play list. We'll see if this actually happens. It's hard to imagine that a San Francisco radio station would have to import a band from Sacramento to nail a classic rock vibe. Maybe it's KDOG every day low pricing policy. The poetic synergy between "KDOG" and "KFOG" may help. What better name for the radio station house band. We'd be just like "The Shindogs" - the great house band on the 60s TV show Shindig, led by the legendary guitarist James Burton. 
• A live recording a KDOG did supply the music track for the radio spots promoting the Iron Horse event throughout the Bay Area on KFOG. I guess that's sort of a wow. 
• People did seem to like the band, even though they couldn't get near the stage without getting flattened by the luxury sedans streaming in and out of the parking lot all day. Of course, nobody danced. Even with the free wine samples, nobody danced. People just can't seem to achieve the condition of "boogie fever" in a shopping cart return area. 
• Nick continues to attract nutty older chicks. During one break, I found him at the win table with a 60ish lady who threw a fit when she was refused a cup of wine because she didn't have a wrist band. She started ranting about "living in police state" where you can't even get a glass of wine without following all kinds of fascistic wristband rules. Nick made Drew give this suburban Fidel Castro his wrist band. The people at the wine table poured her a plastic cup of wine, which she poured on the ground because she forgot that her doctor told her not to drink wine. 

  ©2008 Edward Dean Chance. All Rights Reserved. (Is this mumbo jumbo even necessary?) Check out the offical KDOG website.

Jonathan Richman: Back In Sac

I met my future brother-in-law, Tommy Dunbar, at a family Thanksgiving. We spent the day raving about our favorite records. I asked Tommy if he knew Jonathan Richman, since both Jonathan and The Rubinoos had recorded for Berserkeley. Tommy told me that he'd played on two of my favorite Jonathan tracks - "New Teller" and "Gov't Center." I had been listening to those songs since I was in high school. When I got to college, my friends thought I was nut. Jonathan did not fit into the typical radio formats they'd been fed. "This guy can't even sing!" they complained. I was impressed beyond belief and immediately felt a new surge of hope for my family life.

"If your sister doesn't marry this man, I'm going to kill myself," I told The Long-Suffering Mrs. Chance on the drive home.

Jonathan and Tommy are still pals. We always go to Jonathan's shows in Sacramento. I have never seen a performer with such a desire to entertain. Jonathan has said of himself, "I have a lot of nerve and I'm not afraid of being laughed at." He's certainly proved it by, for example, crawling around the stage on all fours to portray the title character in "I'm A Little Dinosaur."

A typical Jonathan show combines singing, dancing, percussion instrument freak-outs, acoustic guitar power strumming, dancing and comedy monologues, all wrapped around Jonathan's "anything-can-be-a-song" compositions. They're all based Jonathan's feelings about ordinary life experiences: riding the bus, going to an art museum, driving at night and listening to rock and roll radio, dancing at a lesbian bar for the first time, running after the ice cream truck. His entire body of work, even the songs about suffering, are unified by a single message: "I'm Happy To Be Here Damn You Bet."

Jonathan believe in experiencing every aspect of life fully, including sadness. Every critic acknowledges Jonathan's child-like approach. Some people prefer to call it infantile, but it's refreshing to hear at least one artist utterly free of the typical "I'm so angry and cynical" singer-songwriter pose.

My daughter, Sara, grew up listening to Jonathan in the car, but was not a fan. "Dad, he's just so cheesy," she complained at age 11. After we forced her to attend Jonathan's show at the Great American Music Hall last year (Tommy and the Rubinoos opened) she softened her attitude. "I get it a lot more now," she said.

At Thursday's show, Jonathan's songs tackled subjects including:

• Cell phones and how the screw up eating breakfast or hanging out at the beach

• The Dutch Painter Jan Vermeer

• Using air conditioning, Prozac and gated communities to avoid really living and feeling

• The difference between lesbian bars and boring heterosexual bars

• Women who don't need make up and high heels to be mysterious and sexy

Jonathan is one of my favorite guitar players. His unique lead/rhythm style gets so much music out of a simple tool: a nylon-stringed flamenco guitar that's not even plugged in. When he wants it louder, he moves up to the microphone. For quieter he steps back, just like the performers at the Grand Ole Opry used to do. Jonathan's guitar antics are similar to my other favorite guitarist, Wilko Johnson, co-founder of the great 70s British R&B outfit Dr. Feelgood. Even though Johnson is loud and electric, thrashing is famous red-and-black telecaster, the similarities seemed obvious on Thursday.

• Jonathan and Wilko both disdain the pick, raking the string flamenco-style with their fingernails.

• Both play lead and rhythm at the same time to fill out the minimalist sound. Wilko's now fronts a guitar bass and drums band. Jonathan is accompanied on drums by Tommy Larkins.

• Both offer a unique stage presence. Wilko stage presence featured an ugly pudding basin haircut, cheap black suits, bulging eyeballs, jerky robotic movements and a habit of carrying his guitar like a machine gun.

• Jonathan and Wilko are big influences on punk. Critics have graced both with the title, "Godfather of Punk."

• Both of these mad geniuses are still playing clubs for small, but devoted crowds. Wilko rarely leaves England, but he's quite active. He's bald now, but the black suits, bulging eyeballs and frantic energy is still intact. You can check them both out on YouTube.

Jonathan sent Tommy his latest single last month - an actual 45! It's called "You Can Have A Cell Phone That's Okay But Not Me." The record echoes the stomping blues chant of "Pablo Picasso." The audience on Thursday night loved it. "Cell Phone" is joining Jonathan's long list of most-requested tunes.

I've never met Jonathan. I won't even ask to be introduced. Jonathan doesn't like to talk before or after the shows to save his voice. I don't think he cares much for the meet-and-greet aspect of performing. Jonathan came up to Tommy before the show. He was standing within 3 feet of me! I held my ground. What was I going to do? Barge in with some lame fanboy line like "I'm really a big fan and uh...it's...uh great to meet you?" I'll pass. You should never meet your heroes. What if he told me to get lost or had bad breath? You have to be careful with Jonathan. A person could end up in one of his songs.

©2008 by Edward Dean Chance. All Rights Reserved. My lawyer will pinch you head off!

Sweet Artist Deal

Tommy and Jon Rubin have an artist deal with Fender that entitles them to buy gear at cost - about half of what they'd pay at guitar center. They ordered a couple of custom made Stratocasters. Cool enough. I was not jealous. I have a cool guitar already. I'm addicted to amps. My dream is to own one guitar and all of my favorite amps. (All Fender tweeds. Originals or boutique reissues. Nothing over 30 watts.)

Then Tommy got the itch to buy the recently released 1965 Princeton Reverb Reissue, having become insanely jealous of mine. (It is the best reissue of the classic blackface designs that Fender makes - sweet, dimensional, hi-fi, with an incredible musical reverb. Not exactly the same as really good original, but close. An amazing accomplishment considering that the reissue uses a printed circuit board and other modern "improvements.") Tommy was about to go to Guitar Center (Slogan: "We have one of everything - we just don't know where it is.") to buy one for $800, when he decided to call his Fender rep to see if the artist gravy covered amps, too. "Oh sure," the guy chirped. "Those are available. I get one out to you today!" Total cost: $400. The amp arrived two days later. It's every bit as magnificent tonally as mine. I have resisted being jealous of Tommy's full-time professional guitar slinger lifestyle, since the existence of the professional musician is often a poverty-stricken, mortifying grind. But this - now I'm jealous.

© 2008. All rights reserved. Like anyone's going to steal this crap.

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.)

Retarded Chihuahua

On Wednesday, July 9, the family and I returned from Columbia , where we'd gone to visit the exchange student who lived with us for most of 2007. My stomach still felt like it had a tree growing in it, the result of a volcanic case of tourista. I violated every precept of safe eating on the trip, consuming raw, unpeeled fruit, non-pasteurized cheese, drinks with ice cubes and lettuce. Thanks to Cipro, I avoided permanent latrine duty, save for one highly entertaining 24-hour period in Bogota. I prayed to every god I could think of for relief, even the ones with multiple arms and extra eyeballs.

On Thursday, Kenton and I had a church band rehearsal, followed by consecutive KDOG gigs on Friday and Saturday. Then, of course two church gigs on Sunday: the contemporary service at 11:30 am and the ultra-feely FLOW service at 5 p.m. This brutal schedule of musical activities made me as happy as a kid with a new bike.

I prepared for the Friday night gig at Swabbies by taking two slugs of Pepto Bismol for insurance. I was planning to assault my digestive tubing with the excellent tacos at Swabbies and had no interest in duplicating the famous story Joe Walsh tells about simultaneously crapping his pants and throwing up while on stage in London with The James Gang. The roadies rigged up a towel like a giant diaper to hide the stains on Walsh's pants. Joe never stopped playing. The crowd went nuts at this bit of showmanship, but I preferred to stick to my more traditional stage antics.

Favorite moment: Nick showed up wearing a t-shirt he'd made. It featured a picture of a retarded chihuahua and "KDOG" in block letters. The dog sort of looked like Kenton. I knew Kenton would go berserk when he saw the shirt. "Why do you insist on baiting him like this?" I asked Nick. People loved the shirt, though. "You know, we could probably sell 30 of those things tonight if we had them," I told Drew. I thought we should change "KDOG" to "Que Dog," though. I'd still like to produce this design.

Kenton laughed when he finally saw the shirt, but threatened to rip it off Nick's body if he dared to take the stage wearing it. I thought Kenton should let Nick wear the shirt. But, then, it's not my name. I suppose I'd feel differently if Nick showed up in a shirt that said "Dean" over a color photograph of a bulldog's asshole.

©2008 Edward Dean Chance. All Rights Reserved. 

Quiet Please!

DOG is playing a private birthday party at Java Cafe at Madison and Sunrise tomorrow night. It's a social event - people want to talk, whether the band is playing or not. It's their party, not ours. We're getting paid to make sure everybody has a good time. No problem, right? After all, The band's unofficial mission statement is  "Everywhere we go, there's a party." 

We violated this sacred oath at the last private party we played - the 40th surprise birthday bash for Kenton's fiancee, Melissa, at Momo's on J Street.

Kenton paid a fortune to rent the place out and fill it with friends, family, business associates and a bunch of our chums from St. John's Lutheran Church.

We were too loud from the first note. Two minutes into the opening song, "Bad Little Doggie," The Long Suffering Mrs. Chance ran up to me and screamed in my ear: "Can you turn it down? It's TOO LOUD!"

The guests who had been standing in front of the band waiting for the music to start were stunned - and not in a good way. They fled to the farthest reaches of the Momo. People had to shout their drink orders to the bartenders, who looked grumpy. The job is stressful enough without people yelling at you. I guiltily slipped a $20 bill into the tip kitty later to apologize for the racket.

If I had any leadership ability, I would have stopped the show after the first song and huddled with the band and Philip, our sound man. "We're blowing out the room," I'd have said. "What can we do to fix this right now?"

Instead, we blasted our way through the first set. Nobody danced, or even came close to the band. On the first break, a woman came up to me.

"I'm an artist and a musician," she told me. "You've got to keep on eye on the crowd and watch their reactions. Did you notice how everybody moved away when you started? That means it's too loud."

"Don't tell me - tell that asshole over there," I said, waving a hand toward Kenton, who was fiddling with his drums. That's typical for me: rude, refusing to take responsibility. Would it have killed me to just listen and say thanks? Or actually address the problem, instead of luxuriating in righteous anger?

I had been quite grumpy since Kenton, Philip and I had visited Momo the day before to plan the load-in and set up. The manager seemed unhappy at the prospect of a fully equipped rock and roll band invading her fancy club. "People are going to be eating downstairs," she said. "Is this going to be real loud? You have to be OUT before 10 when we open up."

Kenton and I immediately got into a fight about set length. Kenton wanted to play one hour sets.

"That's too long," I said. "Forty-five minute sets! Thirty-five would be even better. We don't need a break, the audience does. They want to talk. They want to order drinks. You need to entertain your guests. You need to pay attention to Melissa."

"It's my party," Kenton said.

I nearly bit my tongue in half to avoid saying, "Oh? I thought it was Melissa's party!" I didn't see any point in going nuclear.

Kenton called me that night and apologized for being so irascible. I counter-apologized for losing my temper instead of talking about the issue constructively.

Kenton only sin is was trying to damn hard. I could understand this. As I self-absorbed show-off, I've made plenty of messes while trying to impress beyond my abilities. This merciful and diplomatic attitude didn't survive the irritations of the Momo gig, however.

• We had to haul all the gear up the steep, narrow wooden stairs leading the Momo's back entrance. I couldn't imagine this complies with city codes. 

• Kenton arrived with one of his super-sized drum sets - gleaming forest of cymbals, stands, two snare drums, roto toms, a cowbell and God knows what else. This required a two-hour set-up before we could sound-check. Nick and I killed time talking to Drew about his birthday present to himself: a tattoo done in L.A. by the lady from the TV show, LA Ink. It was still freshly bloody and scabbed, which I thought made it look ever more dangerous.

• Kenton displayed the "KDOG Finest Jamm In Town!" more prominently than the "Happy Birthday Melissa" banner - directly over the drum set.

• Kenton had a long-standing rule going back to the days of The Bittermen Blues Band that Nick was not allowed to stand in front of him. At Momo's, he extended this prohibition, positioning Drew and I off to the sides and out of the spotlight.

• If you have to beg people to dance, you know the gig isn't going well. Kenton hectored people to dance at the start of "Crossroads," which features his big drum solo. A bunch of people finally came up, danced for two minutes, then found themselves with nothing to do when the drum solo started. This killed dancing for the rest of the night. I really went berserk over this gaffe

The whole show was as unintentionally hilarious as the great scene in Spinal Tap in which the band plays for a cocktail party at the military base. The problem was I lost my sense of humor. Taking any of this too seriously is fatal. I endured several cracks at the band's expense about this gig. My  tender ego wouldn't tolerate this ribbing. This led to a rather hostile conversation with the Long-Suffering Mrs. Chance:

"It was just too loud. People couldn't talk."

"We're a rock band! Rock is loud! People should just deal with it!"

"I'm sorry, but our dearest friends in the world were telling me that it was just too loud to be enjoyable."

I thought, "Why work so hard to just make a fool of myself?" My playing at the Momo was hardly a model of musical excellence.

I thought about quitting - for about five minutes. I didn't really want to return to civilian life or start a new band.

Philip the sound guy seems to be the only person who can deal with problems constructively. He autopsied the Momo gig with Kenton, deftly explaining the Kenton didn't have the mojo to front a band from the drum chair. The show drum kit created an expectation that he couldn't match. The less Kenton tried to grab the spotlight, the more he would impress people as a drummer. A drummer, like a hockey goalie, has to hang back and play his position. Kenton sent me an e-mail explaining all this. I wished I could discuss this stuff so sensibly. Philip focuses on fixing the problem, rather than fixing the blame. Philip is Swiss. Hunting for the guilty is a very American trait, and one of the most annoying facets of my personality.

My black mood and the crisis passed. Within two weeks, the band's summer calendar was suddenly booked up with gigs from May through October. Most went well.

Now, we're getting ready to confront the Momo problem tomorrow night: a private party, a small room and plenty of opportunities to make fools out of ourselves one more time. I wonder if we've learned anything?

Rubinoos Fact Check

I woke up this morning to an e-mail from Greg Keranen - bassist, Rubinoos co-founder and former member of Jonathan Richman and The Modern Lovers.

Greg offered some corrections to my interview with Tommy and the history of the Rubinoos.

Hi,
I'm Greg Keranen, original Rubinoos co-founder, bassist.

I enjoyed your interview with Tommy - stumbled upon it in the course of doing some research into my own personal history.

It is really hard remembering details, but here are a few things to add to and/or correct what Tommy said.
(my date convention is year.month.day - sorts alphabetically that way)
---
1968.12 (ca.) 
Brother Buzz Memorial Blues Band formed - Greg Keranen (g, vo) Tommy Dunbar (g) Ralph Granich (d) 

1970.04.10 
Ralph Granich gets sick with regional enteritis and is in hospital, then bedridden for months; can't go to school High school journal 
Tommy and I decide to try and find a new drummer but continue to jam in the garage during lunch time, but get tired having to always ask for the key to the garage from Ralph's father 
I make a surreptitious copy of the garage door key; it gets stuck in the lock the first time I try to use it; I get caught by Ralph's Dad and am big trouble 

1970.10 (approx) 
Formed The Rubinoos, v.1 as an OLDIES band - Greg Keranen (b, vo) Tommy Dunbar (g, vo) Jon Rubin (vo, g) Alex Carlin (kbd, vo) Ralph Granich (d) 
- my Jr. High school journal - First mention of Rubinoos occurs 1970.11.19 

The origin of the name "The Rubinoos" - I remember the day we decided on the name, lying around at Tommy's house.
Our favorite bands were the Ronettes, Shangri-Las, Shirelles, etc. - almost all girl groups.
We couldn't be called the Rubinettes, since we were a bunch of guys.
As it happens, we had developed a private language of substituting the long-o syllable 'oo' for 'y' ... it's kind of a convoluted story that goes back to when I was 3 years old or so and my Mom says I insisted in saying 'dog-oo' instead of 'doggy', when seeing a dog.

This linguistic tradition came into play when Tommy, Jon and I were in Jr. High together in Berkeley - we were making fun of other kids, in particular, retarded kids. There was one kid named 'Bobby' who was sort of the model of being a 'retard' so we took off on that and created my personal character as 'Bobb-oo'; etc.

When the time came to name the band, we needed a suffix, so we chose 'Rubin-oos' in place of 'Rubin-ettes'
I don't recall that the 'Buckaroos' ever played a role in that decision, but it probably must have been an added reason, since Jon recalls that part.

1974.07 (?) 
Inaugural 'Sounds of the City' weekly Winterland concert series by Rubinoos, with guest appearance of Jonathan Richman, dancing to 'Sugar, Sugar', San Francisco, CA 
Bananas were thrown by many members of the audience during 'Sugar, Sugar' and Bill Graham was disgusted with our performance.
The lineup was: Rubinoos; Earthquake; Link Wray; Jefferson Starship (mystery guest - not billed, officially) 

Regards,
Greg

Mitch Mitchell Does Not Choke on Own Vomit

Mitch Mitchell, the last surviving member of the Jimi Hendrix Experience, died in a Portland hotel room this week. He was 61 - only 11 years older than me! Eleven years is nothing. I hope he left a big, unpaid minibar bill.

Sixty-one is old for a rock star. The actuarial tables are against you if you're in rock. The job-related health hazards are up there with coal miner, asbestos worker and suicide bomber.

A 2007 study by the John Moore University Center for Public Health in Liverpool, England found - to the surprise of virtually no one - that rock stardom shaves years off of your life.

The study compared the lives and deaths of rock stars with the rest of the population - i.e., the fat people you see gasping for breath while waiting in the Cinnabon line at the mall.

In the first five years after chart success, the mortality rate of performers climbs to three times that of the rest of us. The average age at the time of death for the 100 stars in the study was 42 for the North American rockers and just 35 in Europe. Drug and alcohol problems killed one quarter of the rockers.

The study suggested that performers are learning to take better care of themselves. People who became rock stars after 1980 died at half the rate during the first five years of their success compared to the before 1980 crowd.

The ultimate rock and roll death is dying on stage in the middle of a performance. It happens. Country Dick Montana, drummer and lead singer for cowpunk band The Beat Farmers, dropped dead on stage in Canada on Nov. 8th, 1995 while singing "The Girl I Almost Married." Heart attack. He was 48.

Of course, KDOG harmonica player and dynamic male vocalist Nick Ciani underwent an emergency triple bypass after not feeling well after one of our gigs. He came close to the ultimate rock and roll death - one of his coronary arteries was 99 percent blocked. Sex and drugs aren't part of Nick's lifestyle. His problem is lousy genes.

Cranky rock critics and other cultural kibitzers like it when rock stars die young.

"There is nothing sadder than an old rock star," according to British music writer Steven Wells. "We have far too many middle-aged rock stars hanging around, clogging things up. It is a microcosm of the way baby boomers have dragged youth culture into the grave with them."

Dying rock stars don't make me feel old. What's really crushing is realizing that the next president of the United States is younger than I am. It never occurred to me that this could happen. I was just getting used the fact that my doctor looks like a teenager. Every appointment is like a scene from Doogie Houser. I'm also working with people who weren't even born when I started my advertising career.

I like to tell them stories about what life was like in the "old days."

"You have no idea how difficult and embarrassing it was to consume porn in those days," I tell them. "You had to actually go to the local dirty movie theater - a public place! You could run into people you knew!"

"They showed porn in theaters?" the Young Persons gasp. "Gosh, I never though about that."

"Sure," I tell them. "Guys used to masturbate in there. Those weren't black Juji Fruits sticking to your shoes."

"Gross!"

"The worst part was that after risking your reputation and having to buy a ticket, you spent most of the movie sitting through someone else's porn! There might only be one or two scenes that you thought were erotic. Of course, now days you kids and your fancy Internet can download exactly the kind of porn you want to see for free in the privacy of your own home. You're all spoiled and weak!"

©2008 Edward Dean Chance. All Rights Reserved. (Like anyone's going to rip off this crap.)

What I've Learned - So Far

Where Have I Been?

KDOG played a record number of gigs this summer. I spent my summer working on my book about all this, which will be called "Never Too Old, Always Too Loud: A Long-Haired, Pill-Popping, Guitar-Mangling Idiot at 50." Between May and October, I brought the manuscript to 40,000 words. Then I wrote a 150-page proposal and started trying to find an agent. This meant writing query letters and suffering rounds of form-letter rejections. I don't recommend writing a book while employing yourself as a professional writer. You're running everything off one set of batteries. Something had to go. That was the Geezer Rock Blog. Coming posts will feature audio clips of me reading excerpts from the manuscript.

I'll also recap the best and worst moments of our many summer gigs. We reached our goal of becoming a working band. We even made a little money, although not one dollar actually reached my pockets. It's been three years of stupid fights, seasoned with occasional moments of actual rocking.

News: the band now has a website with sound clips. Check it out here.

What have I learned about going from the garage to the stage in middle age?

Forget About Recapturing Your Youth

It’s impossible. And why would you want to be 17 again? You were a dork with no money and a volcanic landscape of zits. Only join a band if you want to live in the here and now. If you’re fat and bald, make it work in your favor. Gain more weight and climax your gigs by faking a heart attack. Have actors dressed as EMTs perform CPR, then “come back to life” and do The Clash’s “Death or Glory” for an encore.

 

Rock is More Work Than Work

Plan on at least 50 rehearsals a year. The typical gig is five to seven hours of lifting, loading, setting up, tearing down and reloading. That leaves maybe three hours for rocking.

 

Nobody Hires You For Being Talented

Club owners only hire you so they can make money off of your efforts. You can be the worst band in town, but if you bring 100 people to every show, club owners will love you. Private parties want a human jukebox, not an artist.

 

You’re Only As Good As Your Drummer

The typical club crowd can’t tell the difference between Carlos Santana and the guitar-playing robotic rodent at Chuck E. Cheese. But even the most inebriated barfly knows if “it’s got a good beat and you can dance to it.” Kenton's operating under a lot of pressure, all the time.

 

You’re Supposed to Sell Out

Rock snobs whine about “authenticity” and the soul-destroying effects of “selling out.” Any musician can be pure, obscure and broke. What’s really hard is being wildly popular and profitable. Promoting your band is even more important than practicing.

 

Entertain or Die

It is called “show business.” But most middle-aged rock bands forget to put on a show. They dress like slobs and exude the charismatic stage presence of Alan Greenspan. If you’re too cool to put on a show, stay home. As Angus Young of AC/DC says, “If nothing else works, you’ve go to try tap dancing.” Howling’ Wolf’s Coke bottle trick is a cheap and effective gimmick. Shake up a Coke bottle and stuff it in your pants. At the climactic moment of a song, pop the top and ejaculate “The Real Thing” into the audience. What a crowd pleaser! The Long-Suffering Mrs. Chance informed me, "If you put a Coke bottle down your pants, I'm divorcing you."

 

Hell is Other People

A rock band combines the dysfunctional misery of your family and work relationships. You name it, your band will experience it: power struggles, inability to communicate, passive-aggressive retaliation, pouting, sibling rivalry, ego clashes, whining, substance abuse, poor anger management, finger pointing and all-around bad attitudes.

 

Rock is a Business

Rock stars aren’t rebels – they’re ruthless careerists. The Rolling Stones know more about brand management than the CEO of Proctor and Gamble. A rock band is a small business. Develop a marking plan. Draft a mission statement. (The mission statement for my band is “Everywhere We Go There’s A Party.”) Show up on time. Be prepared. Get a lawyer to draft contracts. Think seriously about a urine-testing program. And always get paid in advance at clubs. Club owners are sharp-dealing rascals who will try to short you $100 because “the door wasn’t what we expected.”

You're Not a Rock Star

Most people simply ignore us at the typical gig. The band is like the free bowl of Goldfish crackers on the bar: something that goes nice with beer.

We Sound Better Playing Outdoors

No one ever complains that we're too loud when the band plays outside. Unfortunately, it's winter now.

Blues on the Blacktop

Drew's 1st Anniversary!
Blues on the Blacktop 2007 was Drew's first gig with the band. It was a rough first day on the job for the new guy. Drew's main bag is singing. We immediately loaded him with the bulk of the songs - most of the numbers I had been singing, plus a few new ones he wanted to do. We forced him onto the stage before he knew all of the words or the bass parts. I recall that "Pride and Joy" was a particularly loathsome. That gig also marked the debut of the man we now call "The Fifth Dog," Philip Howard The Swiss Sound Hound. Philips job is to deliver that unique KDOG sound with punch and clarity, so every mistake can be clearly heard and enjoyed.

A year later, Drew and Philip are still around. God knows why. We're lucky the band is still around. On July 13, we played Blues on the Blacktop 2008. It's an office party the construction management firm on the first floor of Kenton's building throws. Although it's not his party, Kenton goes invests considerable time and treasure in making the gig happen. This year, he rented an even larger stage with a canopy, which meant I only played the first set getting char-broasted by the late afternoon sun. My friend Ron Pinkerton, on the way to Oregon to visit his granddaughter, took more than 300 photos of the show. Drew looks like an incredibly badass rock and roller. I look 15 years younger than I did last year. That was the end of my "old man" outfits. The idea was to look like a real geezer - to exaggerate myself. The outfits were scarily effective. I look like I'm 65 in the pictures. I wore plaid shorts, a too-tight short-sleeved dress shirt and black dress shoes with black socks. I thought this look was an analog for the schoolboy uniform worn by Angus Young with AC/DC. It never really worked. I just liked I was trying to hard: "Look at me! I'm old! Get it?" People can see I'm closing in on my expiration date. This time I wore jeans, white pimp shoes and a Dickie's work shirt with Lucky 13 iron ons. The patch over the left breast pocket reads "old speed." All that remained were the thick, black glasses. Those work, for some reason.
The energy this year was better. Not so negative. We laughed and played our way through the mistakes instead of screaming at each other and shooting dirty looks. As Nick says, "The first rule of show business is never stop smiling and entertaining, no matter what."
Verdict: tighter sound, more together, great singing from Drew. Still too many mistakes.

This is Utterly Exhausting
After loading up all the gear, Kenton's able assistant, Pamela, informed us that we had to take down the tent awning that sheltered the stage. Unofficial KDOG Krew members Cliff Lynch figured out the technique, with muscle supplied by Kenton and Nick Cliff's son, C.J.
"This is utterly exhausting," said Drew. I agreed. And if Drew and I had actually been helping, it would have been totally debilitating.
Nothing makes you feel less like a rock star than assembling and taking down your own stage. Especially after working a full day, then enduring the eight-hour ordeal of loading, setting up, tearing down and reloading. I don't know how many year's I'll be able to do this. We only go thought this twice a month, on average. And we're not driving between gigs for 8 to 12 hours.
I once talked to some kids in in punk band called the New Bomb Turks after their gig at the Capitol Garage. They'd driven from L.A. that day, put on a outrageously energetic show, then were loading the van for a 10 hour overnight drive straight through to Portland. All in one van. The singer seemed quite happy with the whole arrangement. This is why rock is a young man's game.