David Kelsen

Month: January 2009

  • Our Life’s in Jeopardy, Baby, oOOo

    Situation Normal All Fouled [sic] Up

    Wednesday night.  Typically not considered Party Night, but when you’re a band on a mission, every night is party night.  Tina was menstrual, which usually isn’t a problem, but this was another day.  Another day brings another thing.  We never know what another thing is until it comes.  Another thing is open to interpretation.  Another thing can mean anything in the universe.  It’s rather broad, on purpose.

    The agency sent us out on this gig and as usual, we had no idea what we were getting into.  Judy at Jam (the agency) gave us an address and a contact, Jim.  In the 80’s, you had to use instinct and judgment to ascertain an idea about things that were about to be thrust into your life.  You didn’t have Google.

    We arrived early, unusually early, because it was a strange club and we wanted to have plenty of time to set up.  Besides, we didn’t have anything else going on.

    We’d played shithole dives before, and this was no exception.  It had the same smell, state of disrepair and half-assed attempt at legitimacy as any club we’d played.  Interestingly enough, we didn’t analyze it beyond that.  I wish we had.

    Jim wasn’t there yet, but we set up anyway, sound checked and then waited for the throng of appreciative patrons to fill the rafters and cheer us on in triumphant regalia.

    Let’s understand something.  We were an 80’s Top-40 band.  We played Madonna, Prince, Cyndi Lauper, Culture Club and Thompson Twins.  Each of these groups are annoyingly pop and dated, but at the time they were the shit.

    What We Didn’t Know

    The club, The Silohuette, was a biker bar.  A stone cold biker bar.  A STONED, serious-as-a-heart-attack, ex-con infested,  drug-dealing in the back room biker bar.  The patrons were armed.  They had to be.

    The Animals Sat and Stared

    Hairy monstrous masses of men sat in bar stools deciding whether to stay or hurl half-empty glasses of domestic swill at the Annoyance emanating from the familiar corner where music once lived.

    Music is interpretive.  So many factors in one’s environment determine whether or not one will enjoy a piece of music.  One thing was clear on our first set that night, no one was enjoying it.

    Aghast and disheartened, we stepped out on to the front landing and took in the 100+ Harleys parked in impervious union.  It was our first clue that maybe the 80’s pop wasn’t going to carry us through the night, let alone the weekend.  Jim, our contact, gave us the death-stare as we passed by him collecting cover charges from tattoed and large prison muscle dudes entering into the blissful atmosphere we were paid to provide.

    We couldn’t change our 80’s costumes, but we could change our tune.   So we did.

    To Be Continued…

  • Rabbit Finally at Rest – Goodbye John Updike

    Author John Updike passes away of lung cancer at age 76

    The literary world may be at odds regarding the writing talent of  John Updike, but who cares?  Reading his books are fun.  Run, Rabbit Run was the first Updike Novel I read.  Finished it in two sittings, which was pretty good for an active, bordering on A.D.D. 18 year-old.

    Fluid style,  vibrant and exciting imagery, passionate and tender.  That’s what I remember.  After finishing one book in the series I couldn’t wait to continue on with the next, which is exactly what I did, with fervor.

    His prose dances elegantly and eloquently across the pages and I was inspired after each read to emulate or capture that essense in my own writing.

    I could close by saying “We’ll Miss You”, but fortunately for us, your thoughts, ideas, humor and insight lives on through the rich body of work you left behind.

    Thanks John,

    John Updike - Rabbit finally at rest
    John Updike – Rabbit finally at rest

  • Nickel Beer Night

    Inebriation Isn’t Just an Adventure, Its a Career

    Some of them do it once in a blue moon, some every now and then.  Some of them do it regularly, and some do it all the time.

    Wednesday’s at Close Encounters. Yes he did, the Persian owner, Ezra, named it after a popular Spielberg flick.  I say owner, but in truth, his mom owned it.  He runs it so he can meet chicks.  Problem is, it’s in the middle of suburbia.  If you’re a stag female, sucking down brews in a mid-suburbia dive on Nickel Beer Night it means you’re married, overweight and angry.

    Tina, the singer, designed and sewed costumes for everyone in the band.  Nobody asked her to do it, nobody ever hinted at it, but they arrived on Nickel Beer Night with high expectation.

    The costumes consisted of long-sleeve beige turtleneck shirts and beige pants.  Each horrible shirt was hideously amplified by “artsy” themed-designs made of misshapen, sloppily sheared rayon sewed in random patches. A unique fluorescent color scheme for each band member.  The seams were bulging and some of the thread matched.

    We started the set as usual, with a medium energy pointless pop number but there was magic in the air.  Although that might have been someone smoking pot.  It was the 80’s in California.  You could still smoke indoors in those days and the foul stench of sour smoke encrypted on your clothes when you went home at night was an added bonus.  Sticky floors, stained chairs and someone always passed out on the bar.  Ahhh, just like home.

    There was a lovely “one big happy” family sitting in front of the stage, just off the dance floor. Frequent toasts and gulps, joyous laughter, crackling guffaws.

    Beer is 5¢ a glass, and a dollar a pitcher from 8PM – 915PM.  If you’re a bartender, you know what this means.  People with only a dollar to their name come in and drink 20 beers in an hour and fifteen minutes.  Probably the worst drink promotion ever conceived.

    By 10PM the initial friendly buzz of carbonated domestic swill has worn off and the violent uglies begin to emerge.  At the friendly, loud, squinting smile “one big happy” family table in front, all of a sudden the mom, late 50’s, and daughter-in-law, early 40’s, furiously jump to their feet.

    Fire bellowing from all four eyes, in a blink clenched fists pummel wrinkled skin cheeks, smearing foundation and blush.  Arms swinging and flailing, profane screams of fierce acrimony released.  Strikingly more terrifying and vicious than ultimate cage fighting.  A couple of the men at the table get up seconds too late to pull them apart, but manage to rush them outside.

    The band plays on, doesn’t stop, doesn’t miss a beat.

    Mock Manager Mark is the self proclaimed manager of the band. A friend of Mark, the drummer, Mock Manager Mark professes to be the bands manager in an attempt to get free drinks whenever he attends one of our gigs. Never one to miss an opportunity, Mock Manager Mark goes outside to inspect and possibly wager.

    Seconds later Mock Manager Mark and one of the female pugilists’ escorts fly through the door, tumbling across the dance floor.  Toppling tables over, flinging half empty glasses through the air, flipping the torn vinyl chairs upside down and more fists recklessly swing with abandon or poor drunken aim, you pick.

    The band plays on, doesn’t stop, doesn’t miss a beat.

    The two bleeding drunk strangers are pried apart, but two more fights break out across the room, people fighting about the fighting.  Enraged suds soaked patrons turn on each other in riotous dysfunctional union. Enraged fractious anarchy right here, in the middle of a bedroom community in sleepy South Orange County.

    By the time police arrived, shattered glass was swept up, stained bent chairs and wobbling tables were put back in place and all members of the “one big happy” family had escaped.

    Tina was pissed and a little hurt. Not one word about the new threads.

    Another freaky night in the life of the working musician.

  • You Wake Up Suddenly, You’re a Glove

    Part 2

    When we left off, Tina was coughing, I was drinking and the unknown drummer was doing alright.

    The odd assemblage of players in the band was a tribute to tolerance.  Tina was a washed-up waitress from Buena Park with a kid.  Lots of gumption, but no goods.  Paul was the keyboard player who gigged with us when he wasn’t touring fairs with 70’s bands.  Henry the sax player, was big, black and really black.  An okay player, but great charisma, we always put him center-stage.  Mike, my guitar playing brother and myself, well let’s just keep us out of it for now.

    The fill-in drummer was a Basque.  If you’ve never met a Basque then I apologize.  There isn’t enough space in this story to adequatly describe the psychological complexities of the Basque heritage.  Suffice to say that the tension was high and the behavior erratic.  This does accurately describe every drummer I’ve ever worked with, but being Basque adds an entirely new dimension to the equation.

    The night wears on, the drunks get braver and the room stinks.

    The dust and scum filled corners of the 34 year-old building hasn’t seen a sober broom since 2 months after inception.  The gum stopped urinals are stained and just plain nasty.

    The frequenters of this establishment are locals.  There is nobody at home they want to hang out with, so they come here.  The bartenders and waitresses are their family.  The clientele choose to soak their heads in alcoholic splendor rather than have an actual life.

    That’s where we come in.  It’s our job to encourage and incite the rabble and boost sales.

    We think we have it.  The people are dancing and smiling and getting it on.  The staff are bobbing their heads and nudging their neighbors in excited, useless conversation.

    People are buying rounds, the manager is smiling and nobody has been arrested or died.  It’s been a good night.

    The last song is played and I expel a sigh of ouzo drenched relief as the evening seems to come to a close without incident. But of course, it’s never over until it’s over.

    We’re packing up, carelessly swinging the heavy equipment through the thin doorways and tossing it into our cars.  The Basque wants a beer, but the place is closing and the bartender and the manager are anxious to leave.  The answer is no.

    The Basque does not accept this answer and waits until no one is looking and while the competent staff are busy restocking for the following day, the Basque steals a 6-pack off the top of the bar and runs out the back door.

    None of the band members are new, but we are a new band trying to break in to the club scene.  We start getting regular work and BAM, it’s gone.

    Welcome to Rock-n-Roll

  • Everytime You Go Away, You Take a Piece of Meat With You

    PART I

    The Rendevouz Room, 1988

    A young but frivolous group of slightly stupid musicians mount a stage covered in rotting orange plush carpet and old duct tape.

    Their mission:

    Entertainment.

    It’s the first time the group has attempted to crack this smelly crowd of regular suds swaggers and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be pretty.

    A cloud of stale cigarette smoke hangs face level and Tina, our singer, releases a dry, lung-damaged cough, buy it’s okay.  She’s a smoker.  She can’t sing that great anyway.

    There’s a twist in my pre-gig martini and in the night.  Our regular drummer is double booked.  He took the higher paying gig, just like the rest of us would have.  The keyboard player, Paul, asked one of his friends to sit in.

    He assured us the guy was good and we all believed him because, well… we didn’t have anybody else.

    The guy, we’ll call him the drummer, was alright.  That was, until the end of the night when things started getting freaky.

    We’d been on freaky gigs before, like when Andy, the 60+ year-old owner of the Bunkhouse would do a complete striptease in the middle of the dance floor.  A gay, 60-something, overweight man suggestively removing all of his clothing in middle of biker bar in Garden Grove.  Freaky.

    I could tell this was going to be exactly the same, but different.

    Stay Tuned.