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March 27 2004 Hyannis Massachusetts, 12:30 pm
I am standing on my deck enjoying an early spring concert in the sun, provided
proudly (and loudly) by a large ruby red cardinal and his muted brown (but just
as large) mate. My cell phone comes to life, vibrating, lighting up and vocalizing
a tune called Rise'N'Shine. It drives me absolutely nuts but I
can't figure out how to change it. The caller ID says ˜Dan M˜.
˜
'Sup
Danny?" I spoke. "They closed Route 95 in Bridgeport." he spit out.
"Your shittin' me!" I exclaimed incredulously. "I shit you not! A
fuel truck crashed and MELTED the road! It's closed in both directions and it's
gonna take two weeks to fix it. What time are you leaving for the gig?"
he said in one breath. "Well, I was gonna leave about six-ish, but jeez,
everybody's going to be dumping off 95 and jumping onto the Merit Parkway. It
could be traffic nightmare." I reasoned. "Oh yeah. It's gonna suck but
whattaya gonna do? See ya at the club." he said. "Save a parking space
for me. Right in front." I joked.
5:45 pm
As I hastily loaded my stuff into my truck I thought about how much abuse
this old amp has taken over the years since I bought it. Man! I threw this thing
in and out of my 1974 AMC Hornet station wagon (with three on the tree)
in the late seventies. I blew four speakers in it before producer Rick
Harte bought me a really cool Gauss speaker that was rated
at so many watts that it would be impossible to blow.
I have even taken it to
Europe. Twice. Years ago The Lyres would
actually travel in Europe with our own equipment. I remember my amp tumbling
end over end down the luggage ramp at Heathrow Airport in England. Jeff
and I used all of our strength to stop the rolling behemoth and pull it off
the conveyer. One of the transformers had broken loose from the chassis and
wiped out six power tubes. I somehow managed to get it running for our first
show with R.E.M. at the Lyceum (and
the rest of the tour.) Ya gotta love Fender amps. Can't kill 'em.
"I
gotta go pretty soon Mary Jo." I lamented to big brown eyes. "Have you
got enough money? Do you have everything? Are you gonna be warm enough? Did
you get enough to eat?" she said and hugged my neck, "I got forty bucks,
everything's in the truck, it's not that cold out, I'm stuffed." I said
and kissed her warm forehead. Soft, fragrant blonde hair all over my face. "Drive
carefully and try not to drink too much. Here, take this for the ride."
she said as she handed me a blue canvas bag out the door. "Mary Jo! You packed
me a lunch?" I said turning back and smiling, (The woman does spoil me)
"Just a meatloaf sandwich and some fruit, and two bottles of water. Do you
have the camera?" "Yup, I have it right here." I said and pulled
it out of my breast pocket. "Smile!"
7:20 pm
I love driving over Narragansett Bay. It is wicked scenic and you don't
have to make that northerly 60 mile loop up through Providence. Once
you do connect onto Route 95, you're almost into New London. From there
it's just cruise control all the way to New York City. Tonight however,
because of the problem in Bridgeport I will be making some kind of detour. Traffic
was light so I decided to simply stay on 95 to just a few miles before the trouble
spot, just past Milford, and take the marked connector to the Merit Parkway
(Rt. 15) right into NYC via the Henry Hudson Parkway. It all worked out pretty
good. I hung a left at 96th St., all the way to Central Park where I
took another left. My cell phone started dancing. It was Danny
McCormack. "Hey Rick, where are you? We have to play in about
5 minutes." "I'm on Central Park West, I'll be there in thirty seconds."
I said as I took a left onto 106th . "Excellent, see ya in a few."
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 Norton Records |
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11:30
The Ding Dong Lounge, Columbus
St. NYC.
I took a left onto Columbus and I swear, as God is my witness, there was a
parking space directly in front of the club. This is MAJOR! It
never happens in New York City. As I backed into the space, our drummer
Paul Murphy was just emerging out of the
basement/dressing room that has a bulkhead spilling out into the sidewalk. "Nice
space. We're going on as soon as you get your stuff in." he said with a
happy smile. I shouldered my bass and pushed the battle scarred amp through
the front door. The place is crowded and hot. I may have to break a sweat! I
barely made it to the stage and immediately regretted wearing this turtleneck.
Jeff saw me approach and with a wave of
his hand he dismissed the multi-talented New York guitar guy, John
Chalmers, who apparently was on 'stand-by' in case I didn't make
it.
11:40 pm
I quickly tuned up and flipped the toggle switch to ON. Old faithful sprang
to life on all eight cylinders.
Jeff had
a big red plastic cup in each hand and held them high over his head. "The
drinks are really, really good here." he said loudly over the microphone.
"I suggest the side bar. They are really GENEROUS with the pour." he
continued. Everyone was just smiling away. They must have all experienced the
side bar two or three times. Happy drunks; the best audience for a rock band.
This is the smallest stage in existence. The amps are stacked on top of each
other and I am forced to stand sideways with my back against the wall (barely
out of range of Jeff's wildly swinging
tambourine). I put my bass out of tune a couple of times by hitting the tuning
pegs against the wall. The set seems to be going well and I didn't get the customary
'turn it up' mime from Jeff. We're all having
fun here. Everyone is just whooping it up, wicked.
I was thinking that it was
just about time for a little drama. What's a Lyres
show without a little drama? Right? My little Peruvian friend, Edgar,
who was hanging out in front of me getting drunk (but basically behaving himself),
decided he would slobber over Jeff's organ
for awhile. He put his drink down on the red Continental. "This ain't a coffee
table." was the immediate response. (How many times have I heard that before?)
Fair warning. The drink didn't move and so Jeff
backhanded the large red plastic cup directly into the face and shirt of poor
Edgar who immediately retaliated by knocking over one of
Jeff'sdrinks.
The red sticky fluid splattered over my Epiphone and the brick wall next to
me forcing me to seriously consider cleaning this old guitar. (I have been procrastinating
for years) Not to be outdone, Jeff dumped
all 16 ounces of his remaining drink directly on top of Edgar's head.
Old buddy
Bill Pietch quickly sized up the situation
and grabbed Edgar from behind immobilizing his arms. Someone else grabbed his
legs and he was literally carried out the door kicking and screaming never to
return the rest of the night. Two large replacement drinks were quickly offered
up to appease The Conolly . Napkins were brought over and a tall attractive dark
haired woman fussed over Jeff's organ (The
Vox) sopping up every drop.
12:45 am
Judging by the audience response,
the set went alright but MAN, we do have to practice sometime. It's been one
year since we've last rehearsed. I'm feeling really rusty and lost. (Hello,
Earth to Rick!! You feel like that for every single gig you've ever played in
your whole wide world life!!) Thank God Conolly knows
what he's doin'. We finally ran out of songs to play.
1:00 am
I packed up my stuff and pushed
it through the front door and out to my truck. It was a cool scene out in front.
Lots of people hanging out in the warm spring air. The club owner helped me
heft the heavy Fender into the bed. "That was great Rick!! We're gonna do
it again, right?" he gushed. "Yeah! I love this place. " I said and
lit up a nice fat, Excaliber cigar. The one I've been saving for the ride home.
"Your not driving home tonight are ya? You can crash at my place." he said.
"I appreciate the offer but I gotta go and I'm really not all that tired. I
didn't even have one drink. I didn't have time. See ya next time!" I said as
I maneuvered the shifter into first and released the clutch.
I'm always in a
rush to leave this city and I don't exactly know why. The clubs are great. The
people are absolutely wonderful. Perhaps it's because I'm not from around here.
I can recall many years ago seriously wanting to live here among it's tall spires
and cavernous avenues. The appeal is clearly self-explanatory but I know that
I would be as displaced as an Eskimo in Florida.
Please little pick up truck, take me to a place where the Red Sox won't win the World Series and the finest Rock and Roll bands in the World will go unnoticed by major labels. It truly defies explanation but screw it. I love coming home. I love the Red Sox and I love Boston Rock and Roll.- RC
