Take The Hit

Even as a little kid, I knew I could sing. It wasn’t too far into my first year of school that I discovered I could write. After all these years, it never occurred to me to see if I could write a song.

It is both easier and harder than it looks… especially if years into your quest to become a Rock Star, you still can’t play guitar.

I wrote a song, read it, was just about to pat myself on the back for getting it to rhyme where it should when I re-read it and realized it was crap. So I re-wrote the song, pulling out every overly sentimental and overly dramatic turn of a phrase I could think of, read it again, and then patted myself on the back. I had a fully functioning Jim Steinman-inspired hair metal opus about love. I sent it off to my band leader – he was not as impressed. He liked story songs.

So I went back to the drawing board. I had an idea, not quite a story song, but something about taking what the world has to dish out. I pulled out all the stops when it came to all the rhymes, and without meaning to, I had written a Southern Rock song. I sent it to my band leader and… nothing. The band thought the words were clever, but we were too tied up with other projects to compose music for my lyrics.

So I sat on the song for a while. I wrote another song, a rip out my heart and show it to me love song. A couple of years went by, and my nephew was suddenly a guitar guru, playing with his dad’s bands and accompanying me at the anniversary gig. So I showed him the lyrics and he immediately got it: it was a “Simple Man” message set to a “Gimme Three Steps” beat. Within a couple of weeks, he had the guitar riff and chord progressions. Once I had a riff and chord progression, the melody wrote itself. He recorded his guitar tracks and added in a drum loop and sent the music to me – I loaded it up on my GarageBand and recorded the vocals, and BOOM we had ourselves a demo.

The hope was to have some of my musical buddies help me polish it up; sand off the rough edges, put their professional shine to my diamond in the rough… after eight months of asking and everybody being too busy with their own projects, I finally said “Screw it. It’s a solid demo. Put it online, see what happens.”

So I did. My nephew and I are officially songwriters ’cause we have a song.

I’ve got a musical to help produce and star in out in Terrell all Summer, so the hope is next Fall my schedule and my nephew’s schedule will align, allowing us to take our demo and create a full fledged Southern Rock song ready for digital sale. I’ve got nine other songs written at this point… hopefully, if the recording goes well, we can take on the rest, too. In the meantime… my nephew and I have a demo: Take The Hit, copyright 2016 Keith Craker. Music by Kevin Craker, lyrics by Keith Craker.

Hope you like it. I do.

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Birthday Crossroads

Dentist

“‘Cause I’m a DENNNNTIST!” Photo courtesy of Mesquite Community Theatre

Years ago, I had a blog that was attached to my personal website. I wrote a bunch of stuff I was really proud of, I wrote some fluff I wasn’t so attached to… and then I wrote some stuff that I probably shouldn’t have written; stuff that was technically all about me, but included other people who would rather have those events not discussed so openly and certainly not so confessionally. After catching hell from folks irritated that their dirty laundry was being aired out, I dropped the blog, deleted it, and lost all the old posts. This made a bunch of folks happy, but it left me with a bad taste in my mouth… because while they could complain about their dirty laundry, I wasn’t discussing them; I was discussing ME. I was talking about how those decisions they made influenced and changed my life, and if I was going to be honest with my story, I was going to need to include those people in the narrative. But… as it sometimes happens… honesty and artistic integrity get in the way of relationships. To keep those relationships in solid ground, I would need to promise not to discuss certain details of my life in public. So that blog died.

FVWdoor

Still trying to master the whole “Selfie” thing…

When I started this blog, the mission statement was very narrow: this narrative would be about me and my attempts to not be such a nerd and transform myself into a Rock Star; it would be about losing weight, learning instruments, and performing gigs. With parameters that specific and that tight, worrying about other people and their feelings should never have been a worry… so I didn’t worry. I just started writing.

It was a few months in that I found myself editing myself, not discussing certain matters. I have four other men in my cover band; most of them have significant others, some of them have exes, some of them have kids, and the band itself has a reputation to build and maintain. I do work with two different community theaters, full of troupes of actors and directors, one of which has a board of directors. My wife has aunts and uncles and cousins; I have aunts and uncles and cousins; we both have friends and those friends have family and friends. And even though I had chosen a very specific niche, because I was writing about my life, I still found myself needing to worry about other people’s feelings. As much as I want to be honest, I didn’t want a repeat of last time with its deletions and promises not to ever talk about certain folks and events for as long as I’m writing.

ETGBatVFW

I love doing musical theater… but this? This is where I feel most at home, on a stage with these friends…

It’s been three months since I last blogged. I am finished with my first musical of the year, which, by all accounts, went great. The band had its first gig in eight months a couple of weeks a go, it went well – not perfect, but solid enough to make new fans. I’ve written four more songs, for a total of ten so far, technically enough for an album, but definitely enough for an EP. I am definitely in the summer musical, so much so I just started giving voice lessons to two of the actresses and hopefully growing the class with as many of the other cast members as possible.

And I haven’t written about any of that.

Busking

Nothing better than friends, family, and live music on a sunny day…

My experience with the Winter musical was great. Everyone said I did a good job, I enjoyed the director, I loved the cast, I made some new friends, and I may have opened up a new creative venue for myself. The experience of working in my home town vs working at my parents’ home town was different, though. Not bad… just different. I thought I would be writing about those differences, but I’ve found myself not wanting to… I don’t want my words to be misconstrued and somebody taking an observation as a criticism. I haven’t wanted to talk about the band’s process of getting back into working mode, afraid someone would misconstrue my words and think I’m complaining or criticizing. I don’t want to discuss my voice lessons, afraid one of my cast mates will get my meaning wrong, feel they’re being criticized. I haven’t discussed my songwriting process for fear I will annoy my band mates and musician buddies, or put them all out of sorts.

I haven’t been writing because I’m afraid if I express my opinion, I will hurt or upset somebody. Because I have hurt and upset people before.

I told someone a few nights ago that creating art is the act of ripping open your chest and exposing your heart; that making good art meant always riding that ragged edge of your emotions and risking losing control of them. And since this blog is about a portion of my life that touches other people, for the last three months I have not been taking that risk – I have been keeping my heart securely in my chest, and I have been keeping a very tight reign on my emotions.

Yet again, I now find myself at a crossroads when it comes to this blog. Yet again, I find myself at a loss as to how I’m supposed to create good art with artistic integrity and intellectual honesty while not creating unintentional hurt and needless drama. I am not happy about this particular turn of events. I will have to do some soul searching yet again, decide if I’m going to continue the blog, and, if I do, how I will proceed.

On a happier note, I did just spend a long weekend in the lovely and historic Louisville, Kentucky visiting ETGB’s Biggest Fan. Officially, this was my Birthday Gift to myself, but unofficially, it was the perfect opportunity to grab my mom and a couple of long-time close friends, and carpool up to see our Sister From Another Mister in her gorgeous hometown. Mom had a blast; all the old friends who hadn’t spent any real time together in years got a chance to bond over old memories, great food, and decadent food; and my Kentucky Bestie and I got a chance to be Besties, as opposed to having to settle for texts and a phone call once a week if schedules allow. The trip was worth the exhaustion, though I am very sorry the High School Sweetheart was on her driving shift when the monsoon started coming down. She did great, but I did finish out the trip home behind the wheel just in case the rain got that bad again. I’ve had two nights in a row of eight hours of sleep, so I am back to feeling like my old self once again.

New Year, New You

snow

For Dallas, this is the winter apocalypse…

It’s the start of a new year, and this particular weekend, it is cold. Not “Yay, it’s Winter – better grab my festive scarf!” cold, but “OMG! Are you freaking KIDDING ME?” cold. North Texas doesn’t get too many hard freezes, and we rarely fall below 20ºF, but Saturday morning I checked the news and it was 15º where I live. And before you Yankees start yapping about how that’s nothing, where you live it is routinely in the minus digits, remember I live in a state that routinely hits triple digits during July and August; and not the dry heat you get in Arizona, but the humid heat you get in the Congo, that sweltering heat that means you’re drenched in sweat by the time you walk from your front door to your car. 107º in the summer and 15º in the winter is a bit much for a temperature swing.

(I knew a girl from Minnesota, we waited tables together at the local Tex-Mex restaurant – her first winter here and she was all “It doesn’t get cold like this where I’m from! This is that cold that seeps inside your clothes and into your BONES!” So yeah, our humidity creates hellish winters when those Blue Northers come barreling into town. So shut up.)

It is a new year, though. Grand things are on the horizon. Which means the possibility for drama has also increased.

double-neck guitar

Proof that my bandleader did not kill our drummer…

The band is doing its best to rehearse. The holidays and family obligation got in the way, but that always happens November and December. Our bassist has to spend some time away for work a couple of weeks in January, then I’ve got a personal project the last two weekends of February and the first weekend of March – we’re doing the best we can to get together when we can, but sometimes even the weather seems to be fighting us. When we have gotten together, we sound pretty darn good – not quite to where we were before everything blew up, but we are getting there. Hoping to be able to books shows in March, we should definitely be able to book in April.

I have some personal projects this year, the first of which is I’m reprising the role of the voice of the killer plant from outer space, Audrey II, in the Mesquite Community Theatre production of “Little Shop of Horrors.” Rehearsals started the first week of January. I am thrilled – I was hoping to get to do some work with the lovely folks at MCT, and being asked to play the part was a dream come true. The cast is wonderful, the director is fantastic, and the music director is amazing. It’s weird to be with a new group of theatre folks, but it is also exciting and invigorating.

ensemble

My new crew with the Mesquite Community Theatre – this is the ensemble.

As it stands right now, I am supposed to be in my friends’, The Vagabond Players, summer musical in August, as well. It’s a wonderful role and an opportunity to be out on stage, showing the local theatre scene what I am capable of. The dates are the same as an out of state venue for ETGB, however, so I am waiting and hoping the dates can be resolved – if the dates can’t be moved, I am stuck disappointing some good people and close friends. Which sucks – as much as I want to do more music work, pursuing more possibilities always came with the threat of conflicting dates. I used to tell myself I was just over-exaggerating the possibility, and yet here it is: my first “Can’t Be In Two Places At One Time” obstacle, and I haven’t even started auditioning for more stage work.

I am so hoping my friends can work this out. Both opportunities are too good to pass up.

I did a benefit for a teacher friend a couple of months ago – she’s taking her theatre kids to New York, needed some help raising money for the air fare, so I sang a couple of show tunes for her. I had a blast – I also made a new contact in the local music scene. Once I’m done with “Little Shop of Horrors,” I’m hoping I can catch up with him, hit an open mic night he frequents with a bunch of the local musical theatre scene, and make even more contacts.

benefit performers

A bunch of pros and semi-pros raising funds for theatre kids to travel to Broadway… Yeah…

I have been writing some lyrics the last few years; a few months ago, I managed to corner my guitar phenom nephew and had him write me some backing music to what I considered to be my best chance at a hit. He added in some rhythm tracks, and I am pleased to say my nephew did a good job – we now have a solid demo of a song we have written. It’s rough, it could use some tweaking by folks who know what they are doing, but it shows real potential: the makings of a hit song are all there.

Now that I have actual proof I can do my part, I’ve been showing lyrics off to friends, and so far, even the cheesy songs read pretty good to them. I’ve got the beginnings of one song started with my good buddy and band leader; I’ve got another sent off to my phenom nephew; I’ve got another sitting with a keyboardist friend; and I waiting to hear back from my other guitarist about maybe taking on a pop rock ditty I’ve got rumbling around in my head. With a fair bit off luck and some hard work, I might be able to get all my lyrics set to music in the next few weeks.

What to do after that is another obstacle.

I wrote last summer about how the band was pushing up against that invisible line that separates one professional tier from the next, and what that might entail. One option is to become a tribute band, which are big in these parts these days; another is to add more variety of songs to our sets, become a full-on party band, which are also big in these parts; and the last option (and my personal favorite) is to start writing and producing our own songs, start marketing ourselves as both a cover band and an originals band. But that’s IF the band wants to try and make the jump up to the next tier. That next tier comes with a new set of responsibilities: an increased workload both out front and behind the scenes, the possibility of needing to bring on a manager and side players, a harder push with the band’s marketing, and on and on and on. Playing the bike rallies, playing the dive bars isn’t all that lucrative, but it is FUN, and more than a good enough time to make all the hassles to book the gig worth the time and effort – that isn’t a guarantee when you’re looking to book festivals, outdoor stages, and bigger bar venues. It definitely means it’s now your full-time job, regardless of how well or not well you are getting paid.

the rhythm section

The Rhythm Section teaching us how it is done…

Every indication, every conversation I’ve had with my band leader says he’s happy where the band is, and he’s still cool with the amount of hassle he has to put up with to keep us there. He may change his mind about writing original songs at a later date, but if he does, it will be for the fun of writing original songs, NOT with a mind to move the band up to the next tier. Playing the rallies, playing a dive bar here and there is where he wants to be. Honestly, I don’t blame him – the band has proven time and again that is what we excel at.

I’m ready to grow as an artist, though. I’m ready to add “Songwriter” to my resumé. If I find myself with a dozen songs ready to be recorded and my band isn’t in a place to cut them… I’ll cut them myself. My band has first dibs – the demo I made with my nephew was produced with my band in mind; my band is full of amazing musicians – if I do record the songs myself, they’ll be the first people I ask to help me out in the studio; but one way or another, my plan for 2017 is to have at least an EP (preferably a full album) of original songs co-written by me and my music buddies ready by Christmas. What comes after that is a worry for next year.

The band is getting closer to hitting the rallies and bars again. I hopefully have two musicals scheduled. I have one new contact made, with the possibility of more down the road in eight weeks or so. I have people saying they are on board with helping me complete my songs. It’s the first week of January, and so far 2017 is already looking pretty darn good.

Sometimes You Win, Sometimes You Lose, Sometimes It Rains. Think About That For A While.

Bull Durham movie poster

Bull Durham © MGM

I really like the movie “Bull Durham.” In my opinion, it is a perfect movie: romance, humor, tragedy, character development, sports, sex, excellent dialog, wonderful acting, brilliant direction… why it didn’t win the award for Best Picture of the Year is beyond me. One of the aspects I appreciate most about “Bull Durham” is when Annie is explaining that “Baseball may be a religion full of magic, cosmic truth, and the fundamental ontological riddles of our time, but it’s also a job.” So while Nuke is learning to breathe through his eyelids (old Mayan trick… or Aztec, I get them confused), Bobby is getting released from his contract for being in a hitting slump by The Organization.

It’s a lesson that can be easily applied to any professional artistic endeavor: acting, dancing, singing, fine art, illustration. There’s the magic… and then there’s the nuts and bolts. You can be a fantastic actor or dancer or singer, doing some of the best work of your career, but if the box office isn’t selling any tickets, your show will close and you will be hunting for another job. You can be a wonderfully gifted oil painter or water colorist, but if no one buys your work, you will be manning a cash register during the day. If you are a “professional,” you are expected to deal with both aspects equally well. That’s also part of the job.

It’s hard being a working creative mainly because so many people just don’t understand what it is you do. It’s assumed that you can just turn on your imagination like a faucet and brilliant ideas just flow out. And sometimes, that’s exactly what happens: you sit down at your desk and think “I need something like this,” and out comes this brilliant, fully-fleshed out idea that needs no tweaking. That scenario, however, is the exception, not the rule. Most of the time, you sit there with the equivalent of a blank page in your head, not a clue how to get where you are to where you want to go. So you try a variation of an old idea, then scrap all but a part of that attempt to go in a new direction, then keep the few parts of that idea for a reversal of the original theme, and on and on and on. Finally, you have something that doesn’t suck, and you present it to your boss or your client, and you hope for the best… and when you are really lucky, you’ve been working with this person a while and know what kinds of things pique their interest, you get back your work with just a couple of simple edits. This is also the exception, not the rule – what usually happens is your work comes back looking like someone took an ax to it, it is bleeding so much red ink. At least you now know what the boss-client doesn’t want, and you can redo all the work you spent all that time killing yourself to do.

lightbulb drawing

My day job… or what the public thinks is my day job, anyway. Graphic © bigstockphoto.com

The only thing worse than a boss or client who has no idea what it is you do is a boss or client who does; someone who may not be a creative themselves, but who has seen behind the curtain enough times that they know it’s not black magic you’re conjuring up in your office. They are the ones who say things like “Once you know what I like, once you’ve got the template in place, it shouldn’t take any time at all to do what I want done.” And they are partly right – once the nuts and bolts are in place, it doesn’t take a lot of time to get something done – so you can’t argue with them.

They, however, have completely overlooked how much time and effort it takes to get the nuts and bolts of your template in place.

I was supposed to have an interview Monday. Answered an ad on Friday and was asked to call in and talk to the COO, we set up the interview. Before that could happen, Mr. COO sent me a project. I don’t do spec work, but we did have an interview, so I figured this was an audition; since I didn’t have any plans I would need to cancel, I went to work. After an afternoon of bleeding on the page, I came up with two distinctly different concepts and sent them in.

Sunday, I got a reply – no good. Text was too large, graphics were too small, and the design wasn’t edgy enough. I was thanked for my time.

ETGB at Chasers poster

Honestly… does that look like something I spent an hour creating?

It was the “Thanks for your time” that bothered me. That sounded a lot like a brush off. I was looking forward to the interview, and now I was being dismissed along with my afternoon of effort. I mulled it over and decided to take the high road: I would ignore the brush off, I would take the criticism as constructive, and redo the projects. Since my potential client hadn’t attacked the concepts, I would leave the backgrounds and color schemes in place – I would shrink the texts, add big graphics in their place, and use edgy, grungy fonts. I spent another afternoon on my unsolicited project, then sent the new proofs in.

The new proofs worked, much closer to what my soon-to-be interviewer had in mind. I made the last edits he asked for, and my now-employer asks me to let him know how I’d like to be paid, and to expect a bunch of projects coming after lunch.

To say I was thrilled would be an understatement. I went from feeling I’d blown the opportunity to winning over the COO by sheer determination, talent, and experience. Got my foot in the door with a ton of work as my reward for not giving up. I was on the top of the world, thinking the Universe is about to give me a much-needed and hopefully deserved break.

The first of the tiny corrections came in. Names were misspelled, one of the participants had dropped out of the program. No problem, I made the edits and sent the project back in. A disclaimer needed to be added to the bottom. Not a problem, I made the edits. The new projects began streaming into my email, along with an inquiry on how I want to be reimbursed for my work – I did the math, realized it would be cheaper to be paid by the hour than by the project, and let him know I can charge less if I’m on a W2. Then I gave him my hours.

“That’s about 3x as much as I would have expected. Now that you know what I want, it shouldn’t take you more than an hour to do a project. So let’s keep the hours to a reasonable level.”

According to his math, what he wanted was a project an hour… or, if I was charging by the project, what he was expecting to pay was the equivalent of one hour’s worth of work per project. He knew how long it took to put together the nuts and bolts, so that’s what he was expecting to pay for. He was completely discounting the talent and creativity.

Mobile DJ set up

I know… don’t judge me. As part-time jobs for a college student go, this one didn’t suck. Photo courtesy of weddingdancemusic.wordpress.com

I was already finished with the first of the new projects – I was still staring at it, trying to see if it was up to the level of edgy I had created over the weekend before sending it in – when that email came across my inbox. I read and reread that line about “3x as expected” and “reasonable level” over and over again for the better part of an hour… and then I did the only thing I could do: I turned the job down. I don’t do projects for a quarter of what I’d normally charge, regardless of how much work was about to land on my desk.

Back when I DJ’ed wedding receptions and corporate events, it was a standing rule that if the client wanted you to stay and work past your initial time, it was a standard $50 an hour for each hour of overtime. When the band does private gigs, unless we are up against a venue’s closing time, we are constantly being asked to stay and play passed our contracted time, at which point my band leader says “Love to, but you have to pay us extra.” And invariably, there is always someone who tried to talk me into DJing for free, or tries to talk my band leader to get us to play for free. “The equipment is already set up, you know you’re having a good time, you know we’re a great crowd – stay and play. It’s not about the cash – you know you do this for the love of the music.” It’s that last one that always makes me mad. Because it’s the truth: I DJ’ed and I perform in the band because I love the music, and truth be told, I would have have performed for free, just to indulge that love.

But this is a consumer-based world we live in, and people do not appreciate what they get for free or what they get on the cheap. I don’t charge for my services because I’m a mercenary; I charge for my services because of the level of respect it brings out in other people. And if you discount my talent and my creativity and then expect a discount for my skills and experience, I’m not going to work for you. You, Mr. COO of the company I would give my left arm to work for, do not respect talent and creativity.

UPDATE:

After everything went down, I turned off my email and purposely ignored it the rest of the evening, then went to bed early. I didn’t want to be that fourteen year old girl who keeps checking her messages to see if he had texted back. It had been a stressful four days and I was done being stressed out – I took my sick stomach and pounding head and hit the sack.

After I had finished writing this post, I finally opened up my email – Mr. COO of the company I would give my left arm to work for had written me back no less than four times: three begging me to work with him on rates, and another asking if I would teach a social media class next month. Evidently, when he low-balled me, he thought that was the return salvo of a bidding war for my services. I was stunned… and then I was appalled. My sick stomach and pounding head returned in record time.

A smart entrepreneur would have gone all mercenary. A smart entrepreneur would have upped his rates to the point of raking high-ranking executive over the coals. I’m not a smart entrepreneur, however, and I don’t know how to be mercenary even at my most pissed off. I do know that when someone tries to screw you over once, they will probably try to screw you over again. So after a lengthy email, I told him I would still have to pass on the job – since he’d already shown he didn’t respect me, my talent, or my experience, I just didn’t want to work with him. I got no reply back today, so I’m guessing it’s safe to open my email again.

A Living Entity or Brushing Up Against the Invisible Line

Keith, Kelly, and Tim

Me showing off my brother, Kelly, for Tim’s obligatory selfie. Photo courtesy of Tim Lovick.

There’s the band as a marriage metaphor, which works when all or most of the original band members are still in place; and then there’s the band as a living entity metaphor. I tend to go with the living entity metaphor personally. In my marriage, I have an equal say in things, and while I tend to take a back seat in decisions concerning things like how to decorate the house, my lovely Lady Fair knows my tastes and tries to keep that in mind when picking out colors and designs. As Paul likes to say, “I don’t run my house, but I have veto power.” That’s not the case with the band. I can make suggestions, I can ask questions, I can push for certain decisions, but I don’t actually make those decisions, and I certainly do not have veto power. That’s Paul. The band is Paul’s band. Now, Paul is smart enough and wise enough to take everybody else’s strengths and preferences into account when making decisions, but at the same time, the final Yay or Nay is always his. So no, the band is not a marriage – it is a benevolent dictatorship, and we are all free to leave if we don’t like Paul’s stewardship of the band.

This band is a living entity, though. Paul is the brains, Super Dave is the heart beat, JC is the back bone, Tim is the imagination, and I am the voice. And like a living being, the band has ups and downs, peaks and valleys. There are times when the band is on all cylinders and just unstoppable… and then there are days when the band cannot get it’s act together to save it’s damn life. Sometimes, the peak and the valley are on the same damn week.

10th Anniversary Cancerian poster

One of our favorite gigs of the year…

The band has never had a period where it could just cruise, rest on its laurels and enjoy the view – the band has always been in some kind of transition. Before Paul brought me onboard, the band experimented with having two female back up singers. This did not work, mainly because the females in question used a little too much liquid courage to psych themselves out enough to perform in front of a crowd. Not long after they ladies were cut loose, I arrived… so technically, I was brought on to be the ladies’ replacement, singing the pretty back up.

It was unthinkable that we would need to replace Patrick, the drummer… and then suddenly, we did. Seven kids with a vicious recession on was too much stress on Patrick and the entire family, so the band had to go. JC was brought in, and even though he was half the age of the rest of the crew, he got along great… until we had to replace JC, who had decided to move to Los Angeles. Patrick came back, life got too vicious again and he left, and then JC moved back to Texas and he rejoined the crew.

Jon co-founded the band with Paul. Jon is brilliant. Jon is an amazing bassist, with a jazzy kind of interpretation of classic songs. Jon also had very definite ideas about the direction he wanted to go with the music the band was doing; when that didn’t happen, he decided he just wanted to show up and play… but soon, he didn’t want to do that, either. After not returning phone calls or emails for weeks, Paul brought in Super Dave so the band could start booking dates again. Jon found out he’d been replaced by social media, and we haven’t heard from him since. Not our finest hour, and whether he admits it or not, it still haunts Paul.

When Gary’s carpal tunnel took him out of the band and Tim came on board, the only original member of the band Paul created 12 years ago… was Paul. The brain was intact, but everything else in the body had be replaced with a transplant.

The band at Chaser's

The crew and Little Brother, taking care of business. Photo courtesy of the wonderful Michele Moore.

It sucks when you lose a band member, even if it happens with a minimum of fuss, as in Patrick and Gary’s cases. The upside is, though, with the infusion of new blood comes new song ideas. When JC settled in and became THE drummer, the band got a lot better. When Super Dave came in and brought a new wealth of songs, the band got a lot better. When I discovered the meaning behind the songs and found my voice, the band got a lot better. Now that Tim is on board with his tenor harmonies and lead guitar licks, the band has gotten better once again.

With all the transplants in the band, with all the improvements the band has made over the years, The East Texas Garage Band is poised to make a big leap.

There’s a line no one can see, but everyone who deals with any kind of creative, artistic pursuit knows it is there and it is real: it is the line that separates amateurs from professionals. A lot of times, the division is really easy to see: go to a comic convention and take a walk around the art show, you will see a definite difference in quality between the amateur work and the working professional’s art. Some times, the division is almost impossible to see: go online and read some of the fan fiction out there, some of it is as good – if not better – than some of the published novels on book shelves. When you are really lucky, you catch an amateur actor or dancer just before they hit the big time, and you get to say “I saw them when no one knew who they were.” Well, a band faces that same line. It takes a certain amount of time and energy to get to the top of the amateur level, to be the best an amateur can be… and then you stall there. Because the difference between the “extremely gifted amateur” and the “working professional” is incredibly small, yet almost impossible to bridge. A lot of the time, it’s the X factor that separates the two categories, that indefinable ingredient that you know when you see it or hear it. The real bitch is it’s a band – nearly all the members have to have that X factor or be so close to having that X factor before the band as a whole is ready to make that leap to The Show.

With my singing, with Tim’s leads, with Super Dave’s playing, with Paul’s leadership and showmanship, and with JC’s outside the box syncopation, as of just a few weeks ago, The East Texas Garage Band was knocking on that line, poised to make the jump. Which, in our case, being a cover band in DFW, meant potentially leaving the B-level of acts and joining the A-level tribute bands. Also meant doubling our fee, and being able to get that. We’d need to have a serious conversation about where the band wanted to go at that point: being an A-level act in DFW means either being a tribute band (which we don’t want to be), adding dance and party music to the repertoire (a possibility, just not a strong one), or create some original tunes and try to go pro (my preferred choice).

JC wrecked his truck.

me at Chasers

Trying to see where the hell the guitarists are going with this song… Photo again courtesy of the lovely Michele Moore.

Just days after our last gig, just over a week until our next gig, and JC lost control of his vehicle while heading home from a concert down in Deep Ellum, woke up in ICU with two broken arms, two broken wrists, some broken ribs, and a cracked bone in his playing foot. One wrist required surgery, his playing foot required surgery. He is laid up for weeks, possibly months, and until he heals up enough for physical therapy, JC has no idea what effect this will have on his ability to drum: could have no effect at all, which is the hope; could be done drumming for the rest of his life, which is a panicky worst case scenario, but is still a possibility.

I took JC flowers from the band a couple of days after they moved him from ICU into a private room. His foot was still swollen like a grapefruit then, the doctors hadn’t gone in after that bone they were worried about. It was the first time I had been to a hospital since Sherry had died almost two years ago, and I was not digging the sensation at all. As his singer, I’m pissed as hell that JC has done this to himself… but as his friend… damn it all… I am just so grateful he’s still alive. Had he been going just a little faster, had the wall he hit been just a little taller, and that might not have been the case. When I couldn’t force out any more words of encouragement, I got the hell out of there… I was wiping away tears by the time I got back out to my car.

I’ve just buried too many people lately. This cut it a little to close for comfort for me.

My brother, Kelly, drums for a local cover band and knows most of our songs; more importantly, he’s all about the playing and doesn’t have time for any drama, his real life is dramatic enough as it is. Paul quickly gave him a call, we scheduled an emergency Friday night rehearsal, and we went out to the middle of nowhere to play the private gig that had been on the calendar for months. We weren’t as tight as we’d been the couple of weeks before, but Kelly is a pro, Paul and Time are pros, and with Super Dave keeping everybody in the mix, we were still pretty dang good. Two weeks later, we showed up at Chasers and did it all over again with the same result.

We just don’t know what’s going to happen with JC, so Paul made the executive decision to go on hiatus for the foreseeable future, which means Chaser’s gig was probably our last of 2016. He and Tim have been getting together to mesh their guitar grooves; hopefully, I’ll get a call soon saying they guitarists are ready for a vocal rehearsal, work on some harmonies. As for what I’m going to do to get my performance fix, I haven’ decided yet. Upside to all the drama the last month? Lost ten pounds. Say what you want about the stress diet – it works.

It also means that invisible line we were just brushing up against has retreating out of reach again.

A Study In Contrasts, Part Two

Main Stage

The Crater Rally main stage after dark

Even you haven’t read Part One, start here.

The second half of the week:

Planning outdoor events in Texas requires choosing the lesser of two evils. Summer in Texas is almost always dry, almost to the point of drought, from mid June through early September; the trade-off for the dry weather is that it is hot. Damn hot. You have got to be kidding me HOT: June is traditionally in the upper 90’s, but it is not uncommon to have 100º days; July and August are routinely in triple digits. Add in the humidity and night not happening until about 9 pm, and summertime outdoor events in Texas get pretty miserable pretty quick.

Spring and Fall temperatures, however, are delicious: upper 70’s to low 80’s during the day, 60’s at night. The problem is there is always, ALWAYS the chance of rain; and not just rain, but Holy Freaking Hell Is This The End Times? thunder storms, softball-sized hail stones, and freak tornadoes. When it rains here in Spring or Fall, you count yourself lucky if all it did was drown your plants – a couple of months ago, my buddy opened up the closet door he’d thrown the family into after the alarms started blaring only to see the night sky – his ceiling, along with the rest of his house, was somewhere else.

So you either schedule your outdoor event in Summer and plan on having medics on hand to deal with the heat strokes and dehydration cases; or Spring or Fall and pray to all the gods new and old that it stays dry. The absolutely no one under 21 allowed Crater Rally in Mt. Enterprises opts for Curtain Number Two, which is why out of the seven times the band has been out there, it has rained four.

Paul

My band leader, Paul, doing what he does best…

Last Thursday was no exception. Ownership of the rally itself changed hands, as these events often do. The new owners didn’t know anything about us as a band, but had at least heard decent things; after months of hemming and hawing, they finally booked us to bookend the event: we would be the opening act on the opening Thursday, and we would be the closing act Saturday night, with vendors and guests leaving on Sunday. Mt. Enterprise is twenty minutes East of Henderson, which is twenty minutes South of Kilgore, which is just over two hours from Dallas – being the opening act on a weekday means taking the entire day off. Normally, it is a nice drive – East Texas is lovely, with tall, piny trees and lazy hills – this particular drive was a white-knuckler, however: the further East you went, the harder the rain came down. Texas highways are full of semi-trucks hauling anything you can think off East and West across the country; and there is nothing like the special terror of driving along side one of those behemoths with your windshield wipers on full boogie to deal with all the water the truck is kicking up off the pavement along with the thunder shower you’ve been dealing with for the last sixty miles. Your bootie puckers up enough to suck your underwear into your sphincter.

In Texas, the speed limit is the speed limit… unless everybody else on the road with you is either driving significantly faster or slower: in that case, you are required by law to match everybody else’s speed so you are not a hazard. In the summer when the weather is clear, this means hauling butt at 85 mph is not only allowed, it is mandatory; in the middle of a spring thunderstorm, however, when you are in a Mustang with a light tail, rear wheel drive, and a tendency to aim for the ditches when the road is slick, it means you stick to the speed limit even though you’d give a body part to be driving 10 mph slower.

It also means your normal 2.5 hour road trip is now closer to 3.5.

JC, our drummer, getting into the groove...

JC, our drummer, getting into the groove…

I’d been shooting to get out of town by noon, but after conversing with the lovely Lady Fair and stocking up on Red Bulls, it was coming up on 1 pm before I got firmly on the road. I spent the next three plus hours cursing Peterbuilts and trying not to end up in a ditch with the other poor souls who’d lost it on I-20, of which there were multiple instances. Nothing like seeing the barest hint of the top of the semi’s cab from the other side of a highway embankment to make you want to rethink your priorities… like just how bad do I want to get to the gig on time? That kind of thing. I kept up with the saner portion of traffic, stayed off my brake as much as possible, and made decent, though not great, time to the rally.

The first thing you do at a rally is check in at the front gate. I parked the Mustang, tossed my hat on to keep the rain off my coiffure, and ambled over to the gatehouse. I flashed the rally worker my band pass, signed the release form stating if I fell down and broke my leg it was my own damn fault, and got my wristband making me legal. After confirming that I did know my way to the main stage, I climbed back into the Mustang and slowly made my way back to the crater.

One of the reasons I like playing this gig is the main stage – it is awesome, as big as a pro outdoor event, with a large Texas flag-decorated wood wall behind you, and a roof about two stories or so above your head. Sound depends on the vendor, but the times we’ve played the main stage, sound has been great, with good monitors and decent stage volume. The main stage is open on three sides, though, so anything above a light rain shower and you are risking electrocution – forecast was the drizzle we were dealing with should be over by 5 pm. We were scheduled to take the stage at 5:30 pm. As band members arrived, we unloaded and set up best we could. Lo and behold, at around 4:45 pm, the drizzle came to a stop. Temperature topped out in the upper 60’s, it was gray skies as far as the eye could see, but the rain was over – we would be going on as planned.

Lil Devils

This was the cleanest photo I took…

Another one of the reasons I like playing this gig is bikers are not dainty. They don’t care about rain, mud, bugs, or anything else the outdoors may throw their way – bikers just want to have a good time. So even though it had been rainy all day, when we hit our first down beat, a crowd was there to listen and enjoy; the longer we played, the bigger the crowd became. The size of the stage threw the guys a bit – being spread out changed the way the guys sounded to each other – so the first couple of songs were good, but not as tight as we had rehearsed. Once the band got used to the stage sound, however, the boys nailed it, better than my birthday gig back in March and they were fantastic then. We played the first set, took a quick break, then decimated the second set. As it came time to close out our portion of the night, I looked over to the left: waiting for their turn on the stage was a small gaggle of young women in lingerie, all dressed in varying degrees of red, some with horns, some with spiked tails, and at least one with a small pitchfork. I didn’t know what was up next, but they were dressed perfectly. I grabbed the microphone and addressed the women:

“I see some lovely ladies off to my left. We have the perfect song for all of you, so come on up and join us on stage – this is the one you’ve been waiting for all afternoon.”

Tim started into Highway To Hell, the ladies all caught the clue at the same time, and as Paul growled out his vocals, the lovelies began to dirty dance on the front edge of the stage. It was amazing how fast the audience began crowding around. We ended our opening night on a fantastic high note, thanked the crowd, thanked the lovelies, and exited Stage Left.

Since all I had to personally load as my tambourin and cow bell, Paul sent me back to the front gate to get us paid. Easier said than done – the new venue owner had the envelopes to pay the band, and he was nowhere to be found; he was dealing with his wife, who had fallen down and more than likely broken her ankle. I spent the next half-hour reassuring the gate staff I had no problem standing around, doo-doo happens and I certainly didn’t expect the boss to drop everything to bring me my cash when his spouse was down for the count. Just as we cleared the half-hour mark, I got a phone call from Paul just as the staff heard from the boss – the boss was at the main stage, Paul had the cash. I thanked the front gate staff for their pleasant company, headed back to the main stage, got a hug from Paul and my cut of the night’s work, and I heading back home. After a blessedly uneventful drive home, I grabbed a shower, I filled in the lovely Lady Fair on the gig, and showed her the photos of the band and the hotties off my cell phone. I also took a pair of scissor and cut off my wrist band – I don’t sleep wearing jewelry, so if I was to get any rest the next two nights, my bona fides for the rally had to go.

Tim

Our other guitarist and vocalist, Tim, enjoying himself…

The rest of the weekend was forecasted to be bright and sunny. I spent most of Friday either filling in folks on how the last night went or running errands with the lovely Lady Fair. The initial question about Saturday night’s gig would be what time did I want to get there. Sitting around for hours on end waiting to go on stage is not a lot of fun, especially when you’re outside in the heat and bugs; driving three hours in the dark, trying to recognize landmarks with no light to go by is also not a lot of fun. I decided to compromise: I’d leave around 5 pm, hope to get there just as the sun was going down around 8 pm. I’d still need to sit around and wait on starting the gig for four plus hours, but at least I wouldn’t be driving after dark. Added bonus – Paul would know where the hell I was, have one less thing to worry about as band leader.

The drive back to Mt. Enterprise was a breeze. I stopped in Henderson to fill up the gas tank so I wouldn’t need to break for gas at 4 am on the way home. I pulled up to the shack at the front gate and motioned to the outside staff member I needed a new wrist band. I sauntered up to the gatehouse, slapped my band pass on the counter and grinned. “Hi! I’m with the band!”

The lady in the shack was not the same lady as my pleasant half-hour wait Thursday night. She looked at the band pass, then looked back down at her clipboard. “That means nothing to me, that is not one of ours, so I don’t care what it is. There’s no need to slap it down on the counter.”

My neck stiffened, but I kept smiling. “Okay.” I pulled my band pass off of the counter. She kept looking at her clipboard. “What band are you with?”

I raised my band pass with band’s name and logo displayed across the top. “The East Texas Garage Band.”

The lady eyed my badge, eyed me, then put her clipboard on the counter. “Sign in.” I printed, then signed my name on Saturday’s sheet. I held up my left arm so she could put on my new wrist band. “Can you lower your arm?”

I dropped my hand down in front of her. “Anything to help.” She got the clasp fashioned. “Thank you, ma’am.” She looked over at another staff member, thought better of it, and said. “Let me get you a guide.”

I frowned. “Do I really need one?” I asked. “I’ve been here about six times, I know my way to the Back Stage.”

She frowned, eyebrows furrowed. “Everybody gets a guide.” I decided not to mention I hadn’t needed a guide on Thursday.

“Okay. I would love a guide.”

“Hey, if you don’t think you need a guide, drive you own self down there.”

I held up my hands in the universal sign of surrender. “Ma’am, I am not trying to be difficult. I just didn’t want you to waste a resource on me if it wasn’t necessary. I’ll take the guide.”

Dave and Tim

Super Dave, our bassist, getting some love from Tim…

She didn’t reply to that. She pointed at a staff member, then pointed to me. I walked over and fired up the Mustang, watching my “guide” get into a nearby staff golf cart. He looked back to see me pull in behind him, and we slowly made our way up the hill and away from the front gatehouse. Now, at the Crater Rally, once you get up to the top of the main hill, there is a fork in the road. If you are coming from the front gate, the road forks to the Main Stage on the left and the Back Forty Stage on the right; if you’re coming from the Main Stage, the road forks to the left to the Back Forty Stage and to the right to go to the front gate; and if you are coming from the Back Forty Stage, the road forks on the left to the front gate, and to the right to the Main Stage. All the forks come together to form a triangle, and it is the closest thing to an intersection the Crater Rally has to worry about. I’m following my guide when my guide takes the left fork to the Main Stage. I stop the Mustang and wait for him to notice I’m no longer behind him – nothing. The dude had left me.

I waited a moment, Mustang running, parked just down the hill from the triangle intersection. I picked up my cell and called Paul.

“Me Bruddah.”

“Hey, Boss. We are at the Back Forty stage tonight, right?”

“That is correct.”

“And the Back Forty stage is where it’s always been, right?”

“That is also correct.”

I frowned. “Well, my guide just left my ass and headed down to the Main Stage.”

Paul didn’t miss a beat. “All righty then. Come on back.”

“Be there in a minute.”

I dropped my cell, put the Mustang in First Gear, and made my way to the right and the Back Forty Stage. I quickly spotted Paul’s truck hauling the band’s equipment trailer and pulled in beside him and the new stage. I bounced out of Mustang and joined the group. “What happened to the old Back Forty Stage?” I enquired.

Paul shrugged. “Old owner tried to sell it to the campsite, campsite wouldn’t pony up for it, so he hooked it up to a trailer and hauled it away.” Perfectly reasonable response, we all thought.

The new stage wasn’t as long as the old, but was much deeper, practically forming a square; with the right placement of the instruments, amps and speakers, there would be plenty of room for all the performers to move around. Halogens were mounted up front, with two pole lights illuminating the world behind the stage. Only real downside was no roof – there was nothing above the stage but empty air. Would have been a deal breaker had the weather been bad, but luckily for us, we had clear skies as far as the eye could see.

rear view

The view from the back of the Back Forty stage as the crew sets up… full moon… should have known…

I’d been there less than five minutes when a golf cart bearing the lady from the front gate and an extremely hairy biker came pulling up to the stage to apparently talk to a couple of regulars. My girlfriend had her foot elevated so I could her walking cast – I quickly added two and two together and realized she was the owner’s wife… which meant the grizzly bear sitting beside her was her husband, the owner of the event. As I was finishing my arithmetic, I saw the lady stop her conversation just long enough to point at her husband, and then point at me. She went back to conversing with her buddies as her husband left the golf cart and motioned me over to him as he walked a way from the group. I moseyed up beside him and raised my eyebrows.

“I don’t appreciate you disrespecting my wife.”

All the oxygen in my brain took a powder. The whole reason why the band agreed to do the opening night and closing night with nothing in between was because this guy owns two other rallies we’d like to play, this was our one opportunity to show him what we could do – he’s now pissed off at me because I have pissed off his wife. Brilliant. Yay Keith.

This was running through my head while he was still talking:

“We don’t know you. You weren’t on the list for today. That badge doesn’t mean anything to my wife….”

That would be the band pass our contract stipulates we wear when we show up at gigs, so the venue owners not only know we are who we say we are, but they don’t get ripped off my somebody claiming to be us sneaking in for free. That band pass.

“This is my event, and if I say everybody gets a guide, that means everybody gets a guide….”

That would be the event guide no one offered me on Thursday, the event guide that drove to the wrong stage and never noticed he had lost me. That event guide.

I was stunned, flustered, and upset that my nerd personality has turned off a potential employer. I didn’t argue, and I didn’t say the things that were running through my head. “It was not my intention to be disrespectful to your wife, I was not attempting to be disrespectful to your wife. I just have a sarcastic sounding voice. I apologize if she took me wrong.”

He gave me a hard stare, then walked back and climbed into the golf cart beside his wife and her broken ankle. I briefly entertained apologizing to her directly, replayed my stammering reply to the grizzly bear in my mind, decided I was too discombobulated to attempt such politeness with any chance of success, and went back to stand next to my friends. A few moments later, the owner and his wife drove off. I looked over at Paul’s wife, Margaret. “The owner of this event just chastised me for dissing his wife.”

Margaret did a double-take. “He did what?”

“Chastised me. For being disrespectful. To his wife.”

Margaret stared at me. “What happened?”

I relayed the events of barely ten minutes earlier, including the part where the guide had left me and I had called Paul for instructions. “Well, damn.” Margaret replied. She softened a little. “She did break her ankle. She’s probably hot and tired and needs to take much better pain meds.”

“Can’t argue with you, there.” I agreed. “Hey Paul,” I called. “If we don’t get asked to do the September rally, it’s probably my fault. The owner’s wife thinks I’m an asshole.” I relayed the story I had just told to Margaret to him. “I’m sorry, bro. My standing smart-ass voice fucked me again.” My band leader shrugged it off. He still had a midnight-thirty gig and a missing band mate to worry about, so my dry, sarcastic delivery wasn’t his problem at the moment. Kind of loved him for that. He spent the next four hours working out how to get the best show out of what we had to work with, while I tamped down my rising anger – me being me had probably blown a golden opportunity for the band, which was bad; but two people who had never met me had decided I needed to be talked down to as if I was still in junior high, which was not sitting well with me. I was finally getting past my annoyance when Tim arrived around 11 pm. With the crew finally all in attendance, Paul put the finishing touches on the equipment.

All night, we’d been telling people who pulled up we’d be starting sometime between midnight and 12:30, and no, we couldn’t start any sooner than that – contractually, we had to wait until the Main Stage had shut down before we could fire it up. Unless we got a heads up from the owner, we’d be starting at 12:30 and no later. We kept explaining that to the crowd that started to gather around midnight, who kept egging us on to get on with the show. At 12:15, Paul announced “We are now allowed to do a sound check.” We tore through Long Trains Running, getting a big response from the crowd. “More! MORE!” the crowd yelled. “Can’t do it. 12:30. Ten more minutes.” We started counting down.

“Eight.”

“Five.”

“Two.”

“Thirty seconds.”

Paul’s son, Aaron, raised his hand and counted down from ten. When he hit one, he dropped his hands and pulled up the fader on the sound board. Paul played the first chords of American Girl, and it was on. We tore through our first three songs, not missing a beat. “How ya doin’, Crater!” I yelled out to the crowd. “We are the East Texas Garage Band, it’s the closing party on the Back Forty Stage, and it is time to get WEIRD! Make some NOISE, CRATER!” And the crowd yelled and clapped as we made our way into White Room. Halfway through one of the early songs, a curvy lady in a shear body stocking and high heels jumped up on stage – I kept singing while I motioned for her to get back down. Once the song was over, I address the crowd. “We want you to get as wild as you want, just keep it off the stage. I don’t want anyone taking a header off the front of the stage and hurting yourself. I’m pretty sure I’m the most sober person here.” That earned me a couple of boos, but all was forgiven as we threw ourselves into the next song.

Every time we ended a song, if I didn’t hear enough applause, I’d say “I can’t see you, so if I can’t hear you anymore, it’s time for us to shut it down. So if you’re not ready to call it a night, make some noise.” Yelling, screaming, whistling, and clapping would then boom out of the darkness, and we’d kick into the next song.

Around 2 am or so, a tanned woman with huge breasts, a pair of high heels, and nothing else begged Paul to let her come dance up on stage. “One song, Darlin’.” And up she came, showing us and everybody else what her mama had given her while we jammed to Keep Your Hands To Yourself. She did her best to distract Paul and JC, our drummer, who wisely chose not make eye contact with her. When we were done, she asked if she could stay for a second song, but Paul nixed that, so tanned chick left the stage with a huge smile. The crowd was quick to show their appreciation, though whether it was her dancing skills or her lack of clothing they were cheering for was open to debate.

Keith Crater May 2016

The picture of a vocalist who is tired of being misunderstood… and tired of being rained on…

At 2:30, Paul yelled over at Aaron to pull the faders down. Paul exited the stage, so I started saying our goodnights. The crowd as having none of it. “One more song! One more song! Encore! Encore!”

I looked over at the guys. Tim was slinging his guitar back on. “Hell, let’s do TWO more,” he grinned. Paul had returned from the tree line – he needed a pause for the cause – and was slinging his guitar back on. “I don’t care what the second one is, but the first song I want Scary Snare.” Paul called over to JC. “Scary Snare!” and JC started into Surrender – we nailed it. Super Dave the bassist then called out “Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers.” I addressed the crowd.

“Do we have any Beer Drinkers!” Screams.

“Do we have any HELL RAISERS!” Even more screams.

Super Dave counted it off and we roared into ZZ Top. At the start of the guitar solo, two very happy and very naked women jumped up on stage and started dancing next to me. I turned to the side so I could face the women on my left, the woman on my right got behind be, and the three of us started to dirty grind together, a poor man’s Lambada Ménage à Trois. The ladies were still grinding up on me when it came time for me to sing, so I just went with it, turning my head towards the front of the stage so I wouldn’t smack one of my new fans with my wireless microphone. We finished up our dance as we finished up our song. “Give it up for our Solid Gold Dancers!” I called out. Just as I was about to give our goodbyes yet again, JC went into the drum intro for Led Zeppilin’s Rock and Roll. I grabbed my tambourin, and off we went. JC beat his drums like he was trying to tear holes in them during his final drum solo, and Paul sang out, “YEAH! Rock and roll all night! We are The East Texas Garage Band! We love you! We will see you next time, Crater! GOOD NIGHT!”

We all hit the last beat, and Aaron dropped the volume on all the speakers and monitors. It was a quarter hour until 3 am – we’d played for two hours and fifteen minutes, the equivalent of three sets back to back. And the crowd was still calling out for more.

Over the applause, I yelled over at Paul, “Call 911! ‘Cause we KILLED IT!”

Paul grinned from ear to ear.

I jumped down from the stage, unlocked the Mustang, threw my tambourin and cow bell into the back seat and replace my sun shades with my everyday glasses. I went out into the crowd to thank folks for staying so late. One of our longtime Crater fans, Bunny, asked if I was going to stay and party with them, she hadn’t had her chance to corrupt me yet. I smiled and shrugged. “I would love to, but I am married to a very possessive woman who can’t sleep when I’m not home – I need to head back and keep her company.” Bunny made a pouty face. “I will do what I can to get her out here in September – if we’re asked back for September – and we’ll see about that corrupting.”

“You bring her!” Bunny shouted. “That’s our anniversary and we want you here!”

I hugged Tim before he headed off to DFW. Paul paid me, so I assumed The Boss had been down. I hoped that he’d made it while we were still killing it to see we were worth every penny we’d been paid. I hugged the guys, kissed Margaret’s cheek, promised Paul I’d text him as soon as I made it home safe and sound, and I made my exit. If I hurried, if I didn’t stop for a very late dinner, and if I could avoid the local constabulary, I could make it home before dawn – I ended up beating sunlight by about a half-hour.

I spent the drive home and most of Sunday thinking about the snafu at the front gate and my getting chastised, comparing my Saturday night experience with my Tuesday night experience. The band was tight all weekend; as great as we did on the Main Stage, we were even better on the Back Forty stage, and nothing compares to the feeling of being in a group that is firing on all cylinders, especially when the crowd is showing their appreciation. But the people who own the event talked to me for less than five minutes and came to the positive conclusion that I’m an asshole and a troublemaker; I talked to a young man for less than five minutes on Tuesday, and he hugged me for showing him kindness and compassion, for seeing him for who he is. Tuesday night, I never once felt I needed to check myself before I wrecked myself; Saturday, I forgot to keep my enthusiasm in check and immediately got on the last nerve of a woman already having a lousy weekend.

Saturday night, the only time I felt like I belonged was when I was singing. Tuesday night, I felt at home from the moment my lovely Lady Fair got in line to enter the club until I left for the rally Thursday afternoon.

If Paul wants to keep playing rallies, we may need to consider having him take over as the front man – I obviously don’t have the right personality for the crowd.

A Study In Contrasts, Part One

Hank Green Dallas Poster

I wish I could get away with doing this kind of venue poster… ’cause this rocks!

I am still looking for a daytime gig. Lately, my search has been hampered by my schedule: I walk into a job interview, and good manners dictates that I warn my prospective employer that if they hire me, the first thing they have to do is give me a couple of days off. Without pay, of course – no entitlements here, I don’t expect to be paid if I don’t work – but the dates I need off have been on my calendar for weeks, and I can’t bail on contractual obligations. This is the kind of confession that makes for awkward interviews – I’m glad that last week is now last week and firmly in my rearview mirror.

Last Tuesday, my wife and I had a concert date in Dallas. Last Thursday, The East Texas Garage Band was the opening act for the now-named Crater Rally out in Mt. Enterprise. Last Saturday night/Sunday morning at 12:30 am, The East Texas Garage Band was the closing act for the now-named Crater Rally out in Mt. Enterprise. So last week was one extremely busy week.

The first half of the week:

My lovely Lady Fair and I are big fans of John and Hank Green, collectively known as The Vlog Brothers. Long story short, years ago they attempted a social experiment on a then unknown new media platform called YouTube: they would only communicate to each other through video chats (video blogs, or vlogs for short) for a year; no phone calls, no emails, no letters – just over YouTube. Vlogs had to be less than four minutes (unless explaining something academic) and messages had to occur everyday, or the offending brother had to perform a punishment, usually picked by the viewers. Back when nobody knew what YouTube could be used for, this concept was revolutionary; given the parameters, Hank and John were forced to be as original and creative as possible. Their experiment soon became one of the Must Watch channels of the fledgling media platform.

John went on to become a very successful writer of Young Adult novels, with two of my favorites (The Fault In Our Stars and Paper Towns) being adapted into fantastic movies. Hank took his knowledge of the World Wide Web and YouTube in particular and started producing new content, my favorite being the web series The Lizzie Bennett Diaries (a retelling of Pride and Prejudice using only vlogs to forward the story). Nearly a decade later, they still chat to each other via YouTube – still under four minutes, still can’t miss a day, but now only on Tuesdays and Fridays – and it is still Must Watch for me and the lovely Lady Fair.

Hank Green

Hank Green, photo courtesy of US News

During the initial run of The Vlog Brothers, John convinced Hank to give songwriting a try, which resulted in the wildly entertaining Accio, Deathly Hallows,” a song about how Hank wanted author JK Rowlings to hurry up and finish Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows so he could read it. That video of Hank singing his first song ended up being so popular it appeared on YouTube’s landing page, netting The Vlog Brothers thousands of new fans. Soon, John and Hank had dubbed this community The Nerdfighters, with a simple and glorious mission statement: we were here to stop world suck. To that end, they organized a charitable institution, challenged the Nerdfighters to make videos promoting their good cause of choice, and gave money to the charities with the most votes during the annual Project for Awesome. Last year, twenty charities collectively received over $1 Million in donations from Project for Awesome and The Nerdfighters.

It kind of goes without saying… my lovely Lady Fair and I are proud to be Nerdfighters.

Over the years, Hank’s songwriting has morphed into a singing career. He writes and sings delightfully goofy and rocking songs called The Universe Is Weird and I Love Science.” When he isn’t busy producing and starring in videos and running the Nerdfighters’ warehouse of swag (known has the DFTBA Warehouse, DFTBA being the initialism of The Nerdfighters’ motto, Don’t Forget To Be Awesome), Hank records songs, produces CDs, and every so often goes on a tour. Somehow, the stars aligned just so, and Hank and his merry band of musical cohorts decided to visit the middle of the country, with stops in Houston, Austin, and Dallas.

I saw that one of the stops was Dallas. I saw that the date was on a Tuesday night, before my lovely Lady Fair’s day off on Wednesday. I still didn’t have a job to wake up for. The tickets were stupid cheap. I told the lovely Lady Fair, “This is too good of an opportunity to pass up. I don’t care if we are broke as hell – we have to go. This might be our only chance.” Just so happened my Mother-in-Law felt bad she hadn’t taken me out for dinner on my Birthday, and wanted to make amends – she bought the tickets. The show would be in Deep Ellum, which meant we only needed to drive about twenty minutes to get to the club.

Deep Ellum is an amazingly eclectic area taking in Pacific Avenue, Main Street, Elm Street, Commerce Street, and Canton as they lay West of Exposition Avenue and East of the 1-75 overpass. Deep Ellum comes from the mispronunciation of “Deep Elm Street” by the early African-American and European immigrant residents in start of the 20th Century. Henry Ford’s first Model T factory was in Deep Ellum, stayed there until the 1930’s. Adams Hats housed their headquarters there for a time. In the 1920’s, Deep Ellum was the place to take in Jazz and Blues, with Robert Parker, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Bessie Smith, and Leadbelly Ledbetter as frequent performers. From the 1980’s to its heyday in the 1990’s, Deep Ellum was the place for new music, with 57 bars and nightclubs hosting local and up-and-coming bands. The Toadies, Old 97s, Tripping Daisy, The Butthole Surfers, and The New Bohemians could all be found honing their craft in venues like Trees and Club Dada 20-25 years ago. A reputation for being crime-ridden and dangerous almost put the area out of business when the recession of the 2000’s hit; and by 2006, most of the bars and nightclubs had closed – here in the last few years, however, there’s been a small renaissance in Deep Ellum, with new music venues seemingly opening up every week. Storefronts, restaurants, coffee shops, tattoo parlors, art galleries… the area just has a groovy, arty vide that appeals to folks who prefer to be just a bit left of center. A musical buddy of mine took in the music scene in Los Angeles, Austin, and Deep Ellum, and decided to relocate to Dallas – out of the three destinations, Deep Ellum had the highest concentration of venues, thus more opportunities for a musician to make some cash.

Harry and The Potters

Harry and The Potters, photo courtesy of their website

I wasn’t surprised Hank Green and his tour landed in Deep Ellum. We got there about an hour before the venue, The Door, opened at 7 pm. Before long, my introvert wife was chiming in on the conversations around us, because one must always chime in when someone asks “Which house were you sorted into?” regardless if they were speaking to you or not – it is a moral imperative. One of our line mates, a Potterhead who may or may not have pre-loaded before heading to the gig, talked about how he and his cohorts had a couple of songs up in YouTube, songs they had shot at various location guerilla-style. Once we got inside and settled, I made it a point to catch the young man’s attention and ask him more about his side-project indy band, which he happily gushed about. Later in the night, after visiting the bar more than once, my new friend came and found me – after raving about how good all the bands were, not just the band he was here to see, he pulled me in close. “Can I ask you a question?”

I put my hand on his shoulder and leaned in so I could hear him. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Why haven’t you offered to take me home yet?”

I stared at him for a second, then gestured to my lovely Lady Fair with my chin. “Because my wife is sitting right there beside me.” His eyes didn’t register what I had said. “I just don’t swing that way.”

His eyes welled with disappointment. “That’s all you had to say.”

I kept my hand on his shoulder and leaned into his ear. “My oldest friend in the world was as queer as a three dollar bill. I went to my first gay bar at 18, didn’t make it to my first straight bar until I was 21. It’s all good.”

He looked miserable. “Then why can’t I find someone? I drive to Memphis just to have breakfast, I have seven brooms on my wall ready for Quidditch – where are my gay nerds?” He looked at the ground, swaying a little. “Why am I alone?”

I looked him in the eye. “I don’t know. I thought you were fascinating the minute I met you, and I would love to know you better. It will happen for you, but it will happen when you stop looking.” I put my free hand on his heart. “All I can tell you is, in the meantime, you’re gonna have to learn to love you.”

I kept his gaze as I watched to see if that sunk in. My new friend pulled me into a light hug and kissed my cheek before wandering back off into the crowd. My lovely wife looked at me with her patented WTF? look. I shrugged. “I was just hit on.”

Driftless Pony Club

Driftless Pony Club, photo courtesy of their website

She laughed and made a comment about only being seen as a beard for Gay Guys. I just smiled and said, “Watch your step – evidently, I have options.”

Other than Hank, the only other band I had heard of before was Harry and The Potters, Probably the best known band of the mostly unknown music genre of Wizard Rock (Wrock for short). Wrock is bands and songs based on the books and movies devoted to Harry Potter, pure and simple. Draco and The Malfoys, The Moaning Myrtles, The Whomping Willows – all Wrock Bands. Harry and The Potters are known for putting on amazingly fun shows, as videos of their gigs at LeakyCon can attest. Their mastery of the audience coupled with their surprising musical skills made for an incredible set.

Driftless Pony Club is Craig Benzine’s band. Craig is better known as Weezy Waiter on YouTube, another early pioneer of the platform. Back when you could count the number of original content creators on YouTube on one hand, those content creators often contacted each other, helping promote each other’s endeavors, and thus a core friendship developed. Craig is often on Mental Floss’s YouTube channel, substituting for John Green as host; he also hosts the Government addition to Hank’s educational web series Crash Course. Drifless Pony Club was new to me, but I enjoyed them immensely. Craig stated that Weezer was a big influence on his songwriting; listening to the band perform, though, I got the feel of more of a marriage between Kings of Leon and The Knack, and in the best of ways.

Rob Scallon Andrew Huang

Rob Scallon and Andrew Huang, photos courtesy of their YouTube channels

I’d never heard of Rob Scallon or Andrew Huang, two musicians with their own very popular YouTube channels. After hearing them perform, however, I am rectifying that, as they were both incredible. Scallon played an 8-string guitar with a heavy reverb and major delay, creating almost hypnotic instrumental melodies; Huang took a sampler and looped the sound he made from balloons, boxes of quinoa, and cans of chickpeas to create backing tracks for the songs he sang. Both blew me away.

Hank was surprisingly sweet and awkward. It still amazes him that the skinny kid who planned on growing up and going into ecology and web design is singing original tunes in front of screaming crowds, and it shows – he is extremely polite and almost embarrassingly humble. Watching him perform with his backing band, The Perfect Strangers, is to watch pure joy; he doesn’t just dance on stage – he POGOS to his infectious, ridiculously catchy songs tinged with the punk and ska influences of his high school days. With seemingly thousands of words crammed into every lyric, his songs can only be described as Nerd Rock, and honestly, I am now jealous as all get out he gets to perform Nerd Rock and I do not.

Hank Green and The Perfect Strangers

Hank Green and The Perfect Strangers, photo courtesy of Shelley Jones’ YouTube channel

The most amazing part of seeing Hank Green and The Perfect Strangers was how my lovely wife and I felt being in the crowd, standing in line, then finding our place in the club, and eventually joining the masses near the stage: we felt at home. Welcome. Wasn’t uncomfortable being in a crowded venue, didn’t feel out of place surrounded by kids half our age. Everywhere we looked, we say Harry Potter neckties and DFTBA t-shirts; quotes from The Fault In Our Stars and the Titansgrave web series; and most of all, we saw people being un-ironically enthusiastic about the fun they were experiencing watching their favorite bands. Nobody was trying to be too hip for the room, nobody was trying to be too cool for the proceedings: everybody was loud and dancing and just loving being in the moment. Everybody was nerding out.

This was the sensation that the lovely Lady Fair – and, to and certain degree, I, too – had been missing at my band’s shows. We’re not Bikers – we’re Nerds. We’re proud to be Nerds. For the first time in a very long time, we were with our people – this was our tribe, and we could be who we are with no worries. We left the club exhausted but invigorated… our feet were tired, but our hearts and souls were full.