It’s important, when attempting to book a band, that one understand the politics of rejection. It’s not necessarily that the club-owner in question dislikes your music or you personally…it’s just that maybe he or she doesn’t feel like it right now, or prefers less interesting music, or in fact wouldn’t know good music if it bit him or her on the ass. Etc.

Let’s face it, to most bar or niteclub owners, the music they present is pretty much equal to the lights that hang from the ceiling – a necessary part of doing business, not much more.

In San Francisco, there was a club called The Blue Lamp. It’s gone now, but when I lived there, I wanted to book that room. It had a real greasy vibe; it was a blues dive, the kind that you hear about or read about but rarely get to experience.

                                      (Not me)

The booker at the time was a musician named Patrick. Patrick was a dick.

I did all the usual stuff you have to do to book your band. I paid to record and produce a bunch of songs, put them on a cassette, got pictures taken and artwork made up for the insert, paid for duplication and printing and shrink-wrap. Got an 8×10 and typed up a blurb. Put it all together in a nice envelope, and dropped it off. Followed up with Patrick, who acknowledged that he had received it, and that he did his booking on Tuesdays from 5 to 7pm at the club, and I would need to stop by to set a date. Apparently, this could not be done on the phone or via the then-nascent email process.

So after work on a Tuesday, I drove into the city at rush hour, fought my way to the club, found a parking spot (a true miracle any time of day) and strode into the club around 5:30pm to Make It Happen.

Patrick:  “I don’t feel like doing this right now.”

He didn’t last long as the booker there. The owner took it over, and before long I had a monthly gig at the Lamp – they loved me. Patrick would stop in occasionally to glower. Dick.

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Mon 1/23, 3:47pm. Venue: local ski resort that does summer shows on a veranda beside their mountain. I tried this place last year…I think I called in February and they were booked through Thanksgiving or something.

Result: Actually got the booker on the phone. She provided me her email address so I can send her a link to my professionally-produced and stone-awesome video. She is “booked for the season” but has not booked summer yet.

Status: Encouraging

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Mon 1/23, 4:06pm. Venue: river-side bar & grill, somewhat upscale. Tried to book this place last year, could not get owner on the phone. After repeated calls, asked how to speak with him. Was told to stop by on specific time and date. Did so, press kit in hand, only to have hostess look down her nose at me.  “Oh, he’s a very busy man. He doesn’t have time.”  I returned to my car with my 30 years of experience as a musician, while she got back to her job serving cokes.

Result: “Oh, he’s not in on Mondays.” Told to call him at a different bar on Tuesday.

Status: Bleh.

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Mon 1/23, 4:11pm. Venue: Irish bar in 19th-century PA backwater. New to me, but my rhythm section’s hometown. They would appreciate not having to drive 40 minutes in the PA winter once in a while. I aim to keep them happy because they’re the best.

Result: “She’s not here right now.” They don’t know her email address, suggest I message her on Facebook.

Facebook messaging. I saw some guy send his condolences after a friend’s mom died, on that friend’s Facebook wall. I…don’t think that’s really the way to do it.

Gonna think about this. Ideally, I would be knocking on their doors and meeting them face-to-face; any salesman will tell you, it’s by far the best way to sell your product. Phone call is 2nd. Facebook? Hmm.

Status: Non-committal.

And that’s all we have time for today. Thanks for playing. We have some lovely parting gifts for you.

Here’s what I once thought the lyrics to “Born To Be Wild” were:

Interestingly, Google tells us that there are several Oliver Grundys out there.

Great site. A lot of helpful information here. I am sending it to some buddies and also sharing in delicious. And of course, thanks in your sweat!

It was always my intention to use this blog to chronicle the futility of  “starting a Band!”. In the new year, it is my intention to try that again.

To do that, we will recap the year past…but first, let’s go back in time even further.

When I debarked in San Francisco in November of 1994, I immediately started auditioning with bands. My source for most of these auditions were the classified ads in the local free alt-rags, like the SF Weekly and the SF Bay Guardian. In my first couple of years in the city, I would say I went to roughly 100 of these, exactly 3 of which led to subsequent music-making, and only 2 of those 3 led to actual gigs.

Highlights:

The bassist who led me upstairs in his apartment to his bedroom/practice space, where he immediately kicked off his nasty, mangy sneakers to share the overwhelming stank of his nasty, mangy socks. Couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to come back a 2nd time.

A group of slightly younger guys who blanched when, responding to their question about what else I was doing musically, told them I was working in a cover band. Uproar! Consternation! I was genuinely surprised at their purist reaction…I mean, Jimi Hendrix played in cover bands, as did probably every other successful musician in the world, at one time or another. I guess this blew my shot, but I did stop by their CD release party a few weeks later. It was very poorly attended and I never heard their name again. Quite possibly one or more of the members are now…well, you can guess where I’m going here…

A short time in a Castro apartment playing originals I had worked on for hours…I was told that they had never sounded as good as when I played on them. It seemed like a sincere statement. I never heard from them again.

Two auditions at a rehearsal space on Mission St. across from Guitar Center. The first one, they played their originals and I played along as best I could. They asked me back, and told me they’d changed their minds, they wanted to start a blues band with me. I taught them a few blues tunes. They then called me back and said they’d changed their minds again, and weren’t interested in me.

A trip to Berkeley, where the guys told me they were pioneering a new type of music called “Slam-swing”. Swing, but with a backbeat! Errr…ok. I told them that was not possible, it had to be either slam, or swing. They did not like to hear this. I later saw them billed as holding a “Titanic party” as the Great American Music Hall, and then they disappeared. (Or did they? Google says look here…apparently, they sided on the swing.)

A trip to Oakland one evening after a long day at work. Unfortunately, they had told me to go to some-number-some-name Avenue instead of Street. This lead to a great deal of driving around lost, which is not among my favorite activities, especially in the butt-end of Oakland. Remember, this is pre-cellphone. I finally figured it out, only to be told on arrival that they had decided against hiring a guitar player – they were going to go with a keyboardist.

I answered an ad for a vocalist. What did I have to lose? I can sing OK. At least I thought so. After a song and a half, the two folks present suddenly remembered they had an appointment to get to.  Did I suck that bad? Yes. Apparently.

Most of these auditions took place on weekday evenings after I had put in a full day of driving around the city doing van deliveries. The last thing I wanted to do was get back in that van and drive some more, but being young(-ish) and stupid, that’s what I did. Eventually, a couple of these did pan out…grist for the next post.

When I was 20, it was a very good year. No, scratch that, it sucked. I’d just been kicked out of college as a sophomore – a story for another time – the folks were steamed at me (for good reason, yes), I was quite poor and doing the various stupid things that stupid people do at that age. And yet, I soon landed a full-time job that related directly to my “studies,” such as they were: I got a gig working the overnight shift at an AM radio station in downtown York, PA.

So…this was 1980. I remember well the hit songs I played over and over and over that year: “Good Times” by Chic, “I’ll Never Love This Way Again” by Dionne Warwick, “Let’s Go” by the Cars, and so on.

I’ve been fascinated by music my whole life. As a kid I went to sleep and woke up with the radio tuned to the local Top-40 station. Any piece of music I heard, I really listened to, even the crap fascinated me. (Less so today, because the crap is so utterly crappy.)

In the dormitory, I would often be found standing outside the door of an Iranian student, listening to the weird middle-eastern pop music he played and trying to figure out what the appeal was. I never did.

Anyway, anyone who is familiar with the radio industry knows what the word “payola” means – paying a DJ (or other radio station cretin) to play a particular song. The payoff could come in the form of cash or…whatever. Let your imagination run wild. I, as the lowly overnight DJ, was never offered payola – apparently, the 5 or 6 listeners I had at 3am were not desirable. Yet, one song in particular came along that convinced me that one of my betters at work – the Program Director, or the Music Director, or one of the two idiots that owned the place – was getting something under the table.

It was a terrible, horrible 3 minutes of music, poorly written, dreadfully produced, and sung indifferently by a woman I had heard of and a man I had not. It was, to quote Leonard Pinth Garnell, truly, deeply bad.

I’d come across the name Suzi Quatro in the various rock magazines I’d favored as a teen – Creem, Crawdaddy, Rolling Stone…and apparently she was considered a fine rock-and-roll chick. I’d never heard any of her music, but judging by her album covers and print ads, she possessed the requisite poor posture, side-of-the-mouth sneer, leather outerwear, and dangling guitar for rock-chick stardom.

So, one night as I started my midnight shift, I noticed a gray-labelled 45 with the song title “Stumblin’ In.” It was credited to Suzi Quatro with Chris Norman. Never heard of him, but it was rock goddess Suzi Quatro! I bet this song kicks ass! And so I played it.

Disco beat. Wimpy acoustic guitar strumming. Production values that suggest the song was cut in a wet paper bag and mic’d across the street. Neil Diamond impersonator. Generic “I love you baby” lyrics. Tinkly LA keyboards. Ugh.

And here we are, 30 years later, and the song lives on – recently used on one of those CSI-whatever autopsy programs so beloved by Mrs. Beverage.

Wikipedia also informs us:

The song “Stumblin’ In” appears in the 2002 film “National Lampoon’s Van Wilder”. It appears playing in the background of a scene where Taj Mahal Badalandabad (Kal Penn) is attempting to have sex but instead sets his back on fire.

I find that oddly reassuring.

mp3

Surfer Girl demo…with Dog.