The Rock and Roll Haircut

Well, here’s the story of our first club gig, many moons ago: ............................................................ ...................................................It’s the Uptown Bar, more than an hour before I go on stage before a paying audience for the first time with my band, the Rock and Roll Haircut. The bar is pretty crowded, but there are more people on the other side of the glass...by the main bar...than there are on the side where the bands play. The opening band is called Sluthumper, and though they have not started yet, I can see that they have t-shirts, because more than a half-dozen attractive girls are wearing t-shirts that say “Sluthumper” across their chests. No guys are wearing the shirts. I am wearing a Ramones t-shirt. ............................................................ ....................................................I am the lead singer of the Rock and Roll Haircut. I brought the lyrics to all my songs with me--just in case I feel myself needing to look something over before the gig begins. It is just then that Matt, the drummer, mentions to me that you never look at the lyrics or the music the day of the show; it makes you more liable to freeze up. I’d spent a good part of the day reviewing the lyrics. “Good to know,” I tell Matt. Sluthumper goes on stage. The lead singer of Sluthumper is much better-looking than me; he is using a music stand, and staring at it intently; he doesn’t know any of his own lines. Despite the name, they are a mellow, folk-rock sounding band. The bass sounds way too loud; but you can hear the singer’s lyrics, which is what I care about most. About a dozen people are dancing to the music; half the hot girls in t-shirts that read Sluthumper right over their breasts, and five or six guys who take the opportunity to be near them. I feel a little condescension about the Sluthumper singer using the music stand; at the same time, I also wish I’d brought my own music stand. I use one of my drink tickets for a free beer, which I badly need. We’re the middle band; we go on next. This is a weekday show, so that’s actually an advantage; it means we will get to play when there are the most people in the audience. My Dad hasn’t shown up yet, so I can still smoke. I smoke like a chimney. ............................................................ ....................................................I work the crowd; I say hello to friends who are at the show; I drink. My Dad shows up, and I get him and my stepmother seated at a table with a friend of mine, and a girl he’d just met. Dad has had hip and knee problems...he wouldn’t want to stand for a show. Sluthumper stops playing. They tear down their equipment and we set ours up. MY equipment is simple: A microphone, and a set-list, which I tape to the floor, which lists the songs, and beneath each song, the first line. The sound guy introduces himself to us. He says he’s gone to so many shows he’s lost half his hearing. ............................................................ ....................................................Frighten ing news. It’s like a bad joke; it reminds me of the old Tom Waits lyric, “The piano tuner’s got a hearing aid, and he showed up with his mother.” This brings on the Fear. We’ve played a few private parties, but this is the first time we’re playing for people who actually paid to see a show. I had been sweating, a little. But I suddenly feel like I’m freezing in the tropically warm room. I cannot, I realize, think of a single song lyric; I cannot even think of a song title. I mention this to David, the guitarist. “Don’t worry,” he said, “They’ll come back to you.” Sure, I think. A half hour after the show is over, I’ll be just fine. I get two beers, so I’ve got something to wet my throat between songs. I let Matt beg one of them off me. ............................................................ ...................................................We get on stage. We begin. It’s dimly lit in the audience, but I can make out all the faces...the lights on the stage make me feel very, very hot. I have an athletic band attached to my glasses, to keep them from slipping off my face as I sing. The first song we play has a guitar intro; David butchers it. Suddenly less concerned about embarrassing myself, the lyrics come rushing back into my head. I’m feeling good. To my amazement, I see that the girl across from my Dad is smoking, and he isn’t saying anything; he doesn’t look upset. He HATES cigarette smoke. Greater love hath no man, I think. ............................................................ ....................................................The set goes off mostly without a hitch; we have less people dance during our set than the first band: Between six, and, well, none. The only problem is my beer runs out before my set does. Singing the last four songs, with nothing to wet my throat, becomes an experiment in increasing degrees of pain. Once I stop singing it’s fine for the rest of the night, but I speak in a croak the next three days. ............................................................ ...................................................When I get off the stage, I learn that the bass was too loud, but no one could make out what I was singing. The sound guy with hearing problems had not done the world's greatest job...what a surprise. I think of the show as a disappointment until I learn that four of the people who went to see us hooked up for the first time that night...and getting people laid is, after all, the job of a rock band.