Thursday, May 15, 2003

Thee only bad thing about last evening's Steve Earle gig was his lame-o attempt at a combover. Shouldn't such a perfectionist with off-stage guitar tech with a Kentucky Waterfall to beat the band (a mullet to those of you in the Middling City), exemplary songwriting and just the proper mix of balladry and intersong political banter be able to swoop the last remnant of headtop hair in a better way? Just a thought. Trying to lure one of my boy colleagues, Marky, into the Earle fold, as he's missing something I know he'll be digging.
Approached stage from the left side and, as I made proper media ok's previously, attempted to take my spot in the mini-pit, next to the other guitarist's guitar tech (and I've never seen one work this hard, in addition to non-stop tuning of about 10 he slargled a Rolling Rock, smoked, jumped onstage to play guitar and for one song, a synthesizer), when I was stopped by a ball of security flesh.
Badass: Where do you think YOU are going?
Me: Over there (pointing at Steve Earle's beat-to-crap cowboy boots)
Badass: No, YOU are NOT.
Me: Well, the promoter said it was ok.
Badass: Well, he's right over here and I'll ask him.
Me: (internally) you do that, fattie.
Badass: Go right ahead.
So about half an hour into the show I ask him
Me: So what should I call you besides Badass?
Badass: Excuse me?
Badass: I'm a Dynamic Bouncing Technician. Nick.
(joy! at ever discovering hidden comic talent)
So it turns out this Nick/Badass is not only a security guy but a Harley tech, a body tech (masseur) as well as a former Teamster and pipe-fitter. I find him fascinating.
On the other side of me was a goofball Canadian (no Kentucky Waterfall/Hockey Hair) who holds blues concerts in his living room in Barrie, Ontario.
For someone who claims the role of promoter he didn't know a thang about shows.
He had that wide-eyed Canadian charm, that interesing sonic attack of all things vowel (and, as always, apologies to dear Canadian pal Georgie-san) but he didn't understand via my body language that at some point I was no longer interested in explaining the Middling City music scene to him when Steve Earle was in the room - and that, given a choice, I'd rather speak to a squat polymath who could fix my body, sweat my pipes and repair my Harley, should I ever acquire one in a foolish midlife purchasing frenzy.

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