The Worst Gig

by Jon Niccum

  As her blindfold was removed, instead of the anticipated reaction of laughter, Laura turned white as a ghost (pun intended!) and whispered, her voice trembling audibly, “Get that fucking thing out of here right now!”

  Disappointed that our gift didn’t go over well, we scrambled to get the gravestone back outside, crashing into amps and drum sets in the narrow hallway on the way outside.

  After that, the headstone seemed to put a curse on everything that happened.

  Our gig that night was terrible—maybe the worst of the tour, plagued with more than our usual share of technical difficulties. The boys we were flirting with didn’t respond the way they usually did, the audience was a bunch of dullard cowboys and we didn’t sell any merch.

  As we loaded up the van in a dense fog, it began to drizzle. Laura’s purse somehow disappeared from the parking lot. The whole band searched for ages both inside and outside the club (as well as in our van), but her purse had vanished without a trace. Then, dead tired and with no speed or even coffee, because it was so late that even rural convenience marts and truck stops weren’t open, Laura and I drove the van through pouring torrential rain for three and a half hours before discovering we’d gone in the wrong direction. Usually, we chattered endlessly on our late-night drives, but tonight we were both quiet and grimly introspective. Practically crying, we finally figured out the right way to go.

  Back on course, we were speeding through Kentucky at daybreak, desperately trying to get to St. Louis on time for our gig that night, when of course we got pulled over.

  Laura was driving, and since her purse was missing, she had no license. We both looked completely terrifying—in our previous night’s sweat-caked stage makeup, with remnants of glitter crusted around our eyes, we looked like carnival corpses from a cheap fun house. Laura was wearing a decomposing vintage beaver-fur coat over long johns, and I looked like a dead clown: orange hair with rags tied into it, a man’s 1950s pajama shirt, a huge torn-up net petticoat, boxer shorts, striped stockings and turquoise Converse high-tops. Everyone else was passed out cold, and we were hoping the van wouldn’t get searched, because if it did, we’d probably wind up on a rural chain gang!

  The cop didn’t even have to say, “Y’ain’t from ’round heeere, are ya?”

  You could see the diabolical, inbred glint in his eyes. Miraculously, he didn’t seem to notice the scores of empty Budweiser cans that littered the floor, along with stray fishnet stockings, crumpled cigarette packs, NoDoz, rolling papers, battered cowboy boots, and an empty bottle of Everclear.

  He screwed us up pretty good, anyway: Not only did we get a $75 ticket (an astronomical amount in those days, especially for us), but he held us up for almost forty minutes as he made a huge deal of having his dispatcher call Los Angeles to make sure that Laura didn’t have any arrest warrants. The fact that it was confirmed to be her birthday held no sway with him, and even though we explained our predicament—her stolen purse, being late for a gig and the fact that the road we were speeding on was completely deserted—he still almost gleefully wrote us the ticket.

  Finally arriving in St. Louis, we sent our entire band fund back to LA by money order. Our reasoning was that because of the way things had been going, we were scared to keep a big amount of cash with us, in case it got lost or stolen. Plus, our gig that night had the largest guarantee of the tour, so we’d be flush in a matter of hours.

  When we got to the club, the booking agent who’d hired us had apparently been fired recently and the new manager was like, “Screaming who?!”

  We sat in the parking lot forlornly, with grim reality setting in. We had only sixty-odd dollars left to share between seven people—counting our personal monetary stashes—and no gig for three days. As it began to snow, we made repeated attempts to contact the promoter of the next show, in Kansas City, by pay phone, but no dice. Boy, were we bummed.

  Pretty soon, the guys in the top-forty house band showed up for their gig that night. Somehow, they found out that we were a stranded all-girl band from LA, and, interest piqued, they smuggled beer and popcorn out to us. We shared our last shreds of pot and told them our tale of woe.

  They excitedly told us that Supertramp was playing the Coliseum down the street and that the after-party was being held here at the club—like we cared! Supertramp? You must be kidding! We were so “alternative” that we had no idea what Supertramp’s hits were—and we didn’t give a shit anyway.

  But those top-forty guys were being nice to us, so we were nice right back, acting suitably, charmingly impressed with this “amazing” news.

  We borrowed a couple of bucks from them, promising sincerely to send it back from our next gig, and went out to a dismal Italian birthday dinner at the Spaghetti Factory, all of us sharing plates of food, drinking communally from the decanter of hellish cheap red wine. Laura blew out her one candle, and we split a stale chocolate cupcake as though it were manna from heaven. We barely had enough to pay the bill and left someone’s key chain and a punk-rock badge as a tip.

  We drove back to the club’s parking lot (where else were we gonna go, after all?) and figured that since it was really starting to blizzard, and we didn’t want to risk driving or running out of gas in a snowstorm, we’d spend the night there in our unheated van.

  As if on cue, the top-forty guys came out again with more beer, and we joked around. Even though they were “normal” and we were punk-rock scum, we were still chicks, and chick musicians no less—which really was a novelty in those days. They were intrigued by us because, though we were broke and stranded, we were living out a rock-and-roll dream. And besides, we were from Hollywood!

  The guys went inside and convinced the manager to let us play a set on their equipment. They were insanely delighted when we emerged from the bathroom, looking all fresh and newly made up with our garish Ronettes-style eyeliner and Wet N Wild ninety-nine-cent lipstick. I have to say that we always cleaned up very well, even on tour, with hangovers and no showers. The top-forty guys kept bringing us pitchers of beer before we went on, and while they played, they announced to the entire club that it was Laura’s birthday and told our whole sad, crazy story onstage.

  Pretty soon the entire club was singing “Happy Birthday” to Laura. We played a wild set, with audience members sending trays of shots to us. Construction workers in plaid shirts were jumping right up onto the stage to shake our hands, steal a kiss, or do a shot with us. The audience was going crazy; they’d apparently never seen five girls in torn-up lingerie and biker jackets jumping around, sweating, cursing and playing well!

  Right when we finished, the guys from Supertramp started congratulating us, buying us rounds of cocktails and giving us tons of blow in the dressing room, yelling in English accents about how “Fakking greht!” we were. Then they played and, in between songs, took up a collection from the audience so we could have gas money. We’d played with a wild assortment of bands in our career, from The Ramones to Rosanne Cash, but never thought we’d ever open for Supertramp!

  By the end of the night, our roadie had gotten in touch with the promoter in Kansas City and had arranged a place for us to stay that night, which turned out to be his mom’s house (soft beds, home-cooked meals, cable television—yee-haw!), so our luck had completely turned around.

  It’s been decades, but to this day, if you mention the word birthday to Laura, she winces in pain and changes the subject right away.

  Chapter

  -2-

  INSANE FANS

  Performers never know if the crowd will feature crazed stalkers, jealous rivals, hostile listeners or apathetic partygoers.

  Rush

  Credit: Andrew MacNaughtan

  Rush has sold more than forty million records worldwide and garnered untold legions of devoted fans. The Toronto trio was formed in 1968 by high school friends Alex Lifeson and bassist-vocalist Geddy Lee. After an album of basic guitar rock in 1974, the pair
brought in replacement drummer Neil Peart, who added his cerebral lyrics and technical prowess to the band’s gifted musical mix. In that span, Rush has entrenched its reputation particularly among other performers. Lifeson’s densely textured guitar work and eccentric solos, Lee’s virtuoso bass riffs and Peart’s intricate polyrhythms have influenced the talent of several generations of musicians. Rush was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2013.

  • • •

  “It was a long time ago, the first tour, in fact, in 1974. We were playing at a university in Baltimore. We got to the gig; the crew was setting up. It was just before the show, and we came out to sort of peek around to look at the audience before the doors opened and they came in. And we saw that the girls were dressed in little white socks and long skirts and all the guys had greaser hairdos. It turned out to be one of these ’50s sock-hop kind of things. We went on and were wearing satin pants and big high boots. And we started with ‘Finding My Way’ from the first record. They just sort of stood there and stared at us. Then by the second song they started to rumble. By the fourth song it was ‘Booooo! Get out of here! Get off!’ So, of course, we turned everything up a little bit and continued to play. Then finally the promoter said, ‘That’s great. Thanks guys. You’re done.’ But they were nasty. They were really pissed off. I’m sure if we would have kept going they would have thrown their greasy combs at us.”

  —Alex Lifeson, Rush

  Mutemath

  Credit: Matt Bechtold

  Led by the formidable voice and acrobatic keyboard playing of Paul Meany, Mutemath is revered for its engaging live shows. But the band is equally praised for its innovative videos, such as the hit “Typical,” a visual gem shot in one unedited take while the group delivers the performance in reverse. Mutemath—often Mute Math, MuteMath, or MUTEMATH—began as a cross-state collaboration between former Earthsuit frontman Meany and drummer Darren King. Eventually, the group expanded into a quartet that settled in New Orleans. The alt-rock act cites numerous influences (many of them British) and has found success ranging from a Grammy nomination to witnessing its material performed by contestants on American Idol.

  • • •

  “What is it that makes a worst gig? One of the things that’s usually a common thread is if you happen to find yourself playing in front of a crowd that does not have any interest in you being on that stage at that particular moment—which is usually when you take opening gigs. Or it’s just that gig you need to get from one to the other—it’s that middle gig that you have to do. In the early days we found ourselves every now and then getting the chance to open for a very heavy band, which we learned early on is not a good fit for us. If there’s too much testosterone in the room, we wilt. I remember we did a gig once in London opening for a band called The Used. To make it even more specific, it was a private party that they were doing for their most diehard fans. So it was the most exclusive, diehard Used fans—there shouldn’t have even been an opening band for this kind of thing…I just remember being heckled the whole time. It was just basically high school locker room all over again. The only thing is it was with heavy British accents, so we couldn’t understand what was going on. But we knew that they did not like us, and they wanted us to get off the stage as soon as possible…We didn’t win anyone over. But we did not relent. We did not just leave the stage. We played our set, as painstaking as it was. We didn’t patronize the crowd, either. I don’t believe in doing that. We just took it like men, and we moved on and promised ourselves to never open for The Used again.”

  —Paul Meany, Mutemath

  Juliana Hatfield

  Originally coming to prominence in the underground Boston trio The Blake Babies and as bassist for The Lemonheads, Juliana Hatfield went solo in 1992 with Hey Babe, the album that first led to her widespread critical acclaim and numerous national magazine cover articles. Subsequently picked up by Atlantic Records, Hatfield issued Become What You Are, which showcased her “girlie” singing voice, blistering guitar playing and contemplative lyrics via the standout singles “My Sister” and “Spin the Bottle.” By the 1995 follow-up Only Everything (featuring the amiable hit “Universal Heartbeat”), Hatfield had seemingly cornered the college-rock market of radio and MTV.

  • • •

  “One thing that comes to mind is the show The Blake Babies did in Clemson, South Carolina. We had all cut our hair in a video, then we all shaved our heads just to even it out. We played down in Clemson, and the crowd was giving us so much hell. It was packed with frat guys and drunk people. They were so obnoxious and rude, yelling ‘dykes’ at us. It was just constant antagonism. But there’s something invigorating about fighting against injustice. I think I dumped a beer on some guy’s head. We were such snotty punks—not punks in the traditional sense—we just were pretty tough about it. We forged ahead and realized there were at least a few people who got it.”

  —Juliana Hatfield

  After the Fire

  Credit: Chris Cooke

  “Don’t turn around, uh-oh / Der Kommissar’s in town, uh-oh.” London’s After the Fire notched a top-five hit with their 1983 cover of Falco’s “Der Kommissar,” with English lyrics crafted by the band’s singer-bassist Andy Piercy. The song proved inescapable during the fledgling days of MTV and catapulted the act to stadium tours with Van Halen and Queen.

  • • •

  “We were playing in a small cellar club in the West Side of London. We’d played there a few times, and we thought we’d built a good clientele and interest. We were on one night, and it was quite late. People had been drinking. We’d been doing these songs and playing our hearts out. They were cheering away. But when the cheering died down, they’d start chanting, ‘Rub-bish. Rub-bish. Rub-bish.’

  “It really upset us. So we’d play the next song harder and faster, and they’d cheer like crazy, then the shouting would start again, ‘Rub-bish. Rub-bish. Rub-bish.’

  “We were getting really mad. We played the last songs to finish the set, and the shouting kept getting louder each time. We were playing harder and faster to try to win them over. The more we did, the more they shouted.

  “We got to the end, and we were so cross that we cut the last song short and left the stage. We didn’t have a crew in those days—this was the late ’70s—so we had to go out with a sound guy and put everything away in this club. The crowd was still out there.

  “One guy said, ‘Why didn’t you come out and play more?’

  “I said, ‘Well, you were shouting “Rubbish.”’

  “He said, ‘No we weren’t. We were shouting Rapid.’

  “What was happening was they loved it when we played fast. So they just wanted us to play faster. ‘Rapid’ was some little foible they’d developed that they thought was real fun.

  “We were so mad. One of the best gigs we’d ever done we thought was the worst gig we’d ever had. We were furious.

  “The funny result: This was in the old days where After the Fire was a prog-rock band with lots of time changes and long pieces and fiddly stuff. We set up our own indie label and did an album. We called our label Rapid Records.”

  —Andy Piercy, After the Fire

  INXS

  Launched in 1977 in Sydney, Australia, INXS went on to sell thirty million albums. While in the 1980s the dance-friendly rock band dominated MTV and commercial radio with hits such as “Don’t Change,” “What You Need,” “Devil Inside” and “Never Tear Us Apart,” it enjoyed a more contemporary boost in 2005 as the centerpiece of the CBS series Rock Star: INXS. The reality competition show provided the members (Jon Farriss, Tim Farriss, Andrew Farriss, Gary Beers and Kirk Pengilly) an opportunity to find a permanent replacement for frontman Michael Hutchence, who died in 1997. Canadian J. D. Fortune was crowned the winner, and his good looks and brooding antics helped INXS return to the charts.

  • • •

  “I do remember in the mid-’
80s we supported Queen in Europe for a bunch of shows at Wembley Stadium. We were one of the opening acts. Throughout the whole performance the Queen fans were very ‘devout.’ They threw all sorts of things at us: cans to bottles to loaves of bread. We had to have our wits about us to dodge the stuff. Even the bread.”

  —Kirk Pengilly, INXS

  Mike Watt

  Credit: Carl Johnson

  Mike Watt has earned the tag of the hardest-working man in underground rock. The punk-rock legend is responsible for the booming bass guitar and voice that has powered Minutemen, Firehose, Dos and numerous solo projects for more than three decades. He’s also lent his four-string skills to live tours with Porno for Pyros and the reunited Stooges. But those are just a fraction of the collaborations enjoyed by this jovial performer who is known for his blend of punk energy and working-class earnestness.

  • • •

  “There was a Minutemen gig where we got booted from the club during the soundcheck. It was the Cuckoo’s Nest. There was a new owner or some shit—we had played there before. We were soundchecking with ‘Joy,’ a song that’s not even a minute long. This owner looked around and said, ‘You guys sound like that? I thought you played the Roxy?’ Then he just started laughing at us and said, ‘Pack it up, boys.’