Oh, Now I Remember

A few weeks ago I was asked if I would play drums again for a gig. It was with a band that I had played with for some years, so rehearsals would be minimal. I was also told that we would be starting at eight and only playing for about an hour. With these things in mind, even though we were not getting paid, I agreed. After all, I have been known to enjoy playing.

As soon as I arrived, I regretted my decision. The party was in a very rural part of the state and was a biker party. I was the only person not wearing a black t-shirt. There was a decimated hog (animal not motorcycle) on a large table with people standing around picking at its flesh. There was a large pole-barn shop with a loft (where we would be playing) with typical white-trash furnishings strewn about with folks draped over them. In the background cow pasture was a small tent city (I had brought a tent just in case). These things are, in and of themselves, are not necessarily bad things. I did know that it was a biker party and I have played them before. However, these bikers were not the ones I have typically associated with in the past. Most everyone was wearing their colors. And on many of these colors were emblazoned Aryan Nation symbolism.

I would keep to myself.

It was hot for this time of year, in the 80’s. I found an isolated piece of the cow pasture and set up my tent. It was about five o’clock and the other bands that would precede us were slated to begin at five. There was three other bands playing for an hour each; okay, we would start at about eight. This did not happen. We were the headliner, the closing act, the coup de grâce if you will. But I should know by now, at this level of performance, the dregs of the music world, playing last means you will have no audience.

Well, to make a viciously long story short, the first band did did not start until 7:30. It took each band almost an hour to set up after the last. This put us on stage at way-the-fuck-late o’clock. Hoist your gear up to the ten foot high loft, climb the ladder to the stage and play.



It was a nightmare. It was freezing cold by then, I was exhausted by the time we started playing, the sound system sucked, and the only ones left up were the hard-core drunks. We played about forty-five minutes before I said, “fuck this, I’m done.” Hoist the gear back down the ten foot high stage, pack up, and find my fucking tent so I could sleep an hour or two before sunrise.

I have played way too many gigs like this in my life. No, not exactly like this. And there were some fun times (although I am loath to recall any at the moment). But this seems to be a fitting capstone concert death knell for my drum playing days. It exemplified everything I hate about playing. Drums used to be fun. But they have turned into being a serious pain in the ass for me. So I am done. Do not ask me to play them again.