Every one knows now that every night now will be Steven's last night in town.

In Which A Young Drummer Grows Up, Sort Of

If anyone ever told you that touring with a band was a good idea, they were probably lying; looking to screw you out of an exuberant amount of money.  It took me one botched tour to come to this truth.  Granted, if it had never happened, I’d probably still be some disillusioned drummer in a band no one cares about, desperately yearning to recapture the lost opportunity so easily granted by the freedom of my youth.  I have Worcester, Massachusetts to thank for all of this.

It was drawing close to my seventeenth birthday during my junior year in high school when an old friend asked me to drum for an already established band, InnerCombustion, based out of Atlantic City. Needless to say, I was pretty thrilled.  Pat Mc*******, the front man, was one of the most talented musicians I knew, and he only surrounded himself with the finest.  We were doing pretty well for ourselves, playing the bar and bowling alley circuit in South Jersey, with the occasional basement show or local showcase.  By April of 2007, we had planned a mini tour around the northern East Coast, and were preparing to headline several of the shows.  However, one by one, venues began to call and cancel.  “It’s too risky,” they’d say, “bringing bands from out-of-state no one’s ever heard of isn’t exactly good for business.”  Slowly but surely, most of our shows had been dropped.  Shows in New York City, Cleveland, Philadelphia, and Michigan fell like statues of has-been dictators.  If this was a sign to call it quits for the summer and try again in a year or two, we missed it.  Finally, we had one show left; a Fourth of July show at The Lucky Dog in Worcester, Mass.  We decided that we would play this show, to at least justify all the work we had put into booking the other failed engagements.

On July 3rd, everything was packed and ready to go.  In my car, was Pat, Erik A*****, our pothead bass player, and myself.  The other car had our two Joes.  Joe G******, our guitar player, and Joe F****, our manager.  We set off at noon.  After our car got lost in Harlem, we found ourselves in a Taco Bell in Connecticut.

The Joes had already made up a decent amount of time, and decided to take a scenic route without tolls.  We sat there eating our gorditas and burritos, knowing full well that the rush hour traffic of 495 lay not far ahead of us.  Erik pulled out his computer, and stole some Wi-Fi from a nearby McDonalds.

“Uh-oh” was the only thing that came out of his mouth, as he checked our band’s Myspace account.  In our inbox was a message from the manager of the club we would be playing.  He had decided to cancel the show, citing that “No one goes to bars on the Fourth of July.”  “Bullshit!” Pat was furious.  It was a pretty bullshit excuse, seeing as the 4^th has generally become an excuse to drink at nine in the morning.  Patriotism, I think it’s called.  After much debating, we decided that we were going to continue to Worcester and confront the guy, convinced we would get our show.  In retrospect, it seems a bit presumptuous to assume that we’d “un-cancel” the event, but our ego had gotten the better of us.  We weren’t about to walk away with our tails between our legs; we had spent too much time planning, and had already driven a considerable amount, so our journey continued.

We met back up with The Joes once we got to the Days Inn.  After cleaning up a bit, and getting the room organized (or as some would call it, smoking weed), we made the journey into downtown Worcester.  What we saw was absolute chaos.  People ran in the streets.  Cars were backed up for blocks in the second hilliest city in the country.  We got stuck downhill as the car in front of us emptied to blast small fireworks at houses.  Two house parties down the road had gathered on opposite sides of the street, staring each other down, almost as if to fight over whose wife beater was more stained. The main stretch was worse; like Mardis Gras on Crystal Meth.  People ran in front of cars, spilling whatever was left of their drinks in novelty containers.  Street vendors sold light up toys on what appeared to be childless streets.  Both of our cars parked behind an industrial building, and after reasoning that there was no way anyone would break into a car to steal thousands of dollars of musical equipment, we began to walk. We finally arrived at the club, where we had to wait outside to speak to someone.  It was a 21 and over night, which none of us qualified for, but the door opened and closed enough to tell that that night’s entertainment was as revival burlesque show.  Finally, the man we had been in contact with came out to speak with us.  We were smart enough to lie, and say that we hadn’t received his message until we got to the hotel, and he was surprisingly apologetic.  He told us to hold on a minute, and went back inside.

Twenty minutes passed before he came out again; it apparently takes a while to get a windbreaker.  He signaled for us to follow him, and we did, walking through what can only be described as a gothic Camden; ancient crack houses with broken brick sidewalks.  Many of the buildings appeared to be abandoned.  He led us to a dive bar called The Rusty Nail, although there was no sign to confirm that, and brought us inside.  He and the owner exchanged formalities and went to the other room.  When they returned, they announced that our show would go on, just now in the backroom of this bar.  Upon further inspection, the room was built to look like the hull of a ship, and served as a speakeasy during Prohibition.  This little fact would later be steeped in irony. When we questioned the guy from The Lucky Dog about microphones and a drum kit (all of which we were told would be provided) he simply told us that it was on us now, and left the bar.

The following day, we woke up to a much different Worcester.  It had begun pouring rain overnight, and the streets were all but abandoned.  Any signs that the previous night’s orgy had occurred had washed away with the precipitation.  The owners of The Rusty Nail invited us to a preshow barbeque the previous night, and that was the first stop we made.  We ventured into the alley behind the bar and found the owner, head bartender, six fat, fifty-something women, and an older man in high heels and a tiara.  They cautiously slipped us booze, and paid Erik ten dollars to eat a whole stick of butter.   Still without most of my drum equipment, or a proper sound system, we began to question how this show would play out, exactly.  Around that time, a man in his mid twenties strolled around the corner, playing an acoustic guitar with 5 stings.  After establishing that he was a regular at the bar, he began to ask us questions about our show, our band, and where we were from.  After explaining the predicament, he told us that he too was in a band, and had everything we needed, including a full drum kit.  He’d let us use all of it too, if his band could play.  We agreed and we were all set.

Having already made a series of judgmental errors during the previous 24 hours, Erik and I decided it would be a good idea to drive with the guitar player, who we learned was named Steve, to his apartment on the other side of town.  His place was scarcely decorated, with graphic depictions of Jesus’ crucifixion accounting for most of the ‘art.’   We were lucky he didn’t kill or rob us, looking back on it, but we got our equipment and that was all that mattered.

The owner of The Lucky Dog was right, no one goes to bars on The Fourth of July, at least not in Worcester, anyway.  We played a show for the same six women and transvestite from the barbeque, and I’m not completely sure they understood our music, clapping awkwardly after several seconds of silence following each song.  We wrapped up the set with an Elliot Smith cover, and got off of the stage as fast as possible.  As the other band played, one of the very drunk women tried to gives us a bottle of booze, and when the owner saw that, in his speakeasy, we were promptly told to “Get the fuck out, and never come back.”

I can’t say that I’m completely happy we played the show, wasted a ton of money, and associated with people who are better suited for trailer parks than major cities, nor can I say it was a complete loss.  It gave me a better handle on the music industry, to say the least.  Touring is better left to bands with record labels that will cover the expenses.  Nothing about traveling out of state for long periods of time really makes sense for a band largely confined to Brunswick Zone bowling lounges.  It did, however, solidify my faith in the basement scene, and justified my existence as a local musician.  It also taught me that I really, really fucking hate Worcester.