Part 1. Back to the Motherland (a brief bio)
I return home… back to Miami, a metropolis of culture and flavor. My early years here were fairly simple; born in the Gables, then off to the saw-grass plains of Kendall where the U-Pick strawberries cash crop dug in for their final stand against the evil super-mall imperialists. I had had enough of this old town and decided to make my own way, pursue the dream. After over a decade of every job imaginable (mostly in the bar and music industry), I return home in my mid-thirties, without significant other, without music junky jr., ready to fulfill my responsibilities to the parents who raised me and whisked me across to the frontiers of greater Miami at an early age in only a hard-covered Wagoneer.
One constant in my life has always been live music. At seventeen I stepped into the Brickell Tavern for open blues night, got served a beer without any interrogation, and fell in love with live music…. I was smitten. The Tigertail Lounge was another favorite in my formative years where I could awaken with the foul stench of the dock rats on my clothes, and the sweet sounds of Fleet Starbuck’s Blues Band resonating in my head.
Don’t get me wrong, I am no blues snob with the Ralph Macchio chest-high Wranglers still looking for the crossroads. That was just my start. In time I moved away from the sounds of the south and especially those so loyal to it. A music without change is simply a music without change… or new changes.
To be as brief as possible, my travels always included live music management, bartending, bookings and actual performance. I came to realize that the culture of a city is usually represented by its music scene. Now coming full circle, I’d rather just have a good drink or few and watch the magic happen. When I left Miami things were happening. Manchild was picking roses on the beach, Washington Square wasn’t, and I could only imagine in my booze preserved brain what had become.
Part 2. Footloose and Fastballs.
I open the paper, “ Okay, we got DJ Slappy over here…. DJ Getlaid over here… DJ Herpes over here… Where the hell are the bands?” It’s like an Elvis impersonator guidebook in Vegas for DJs but I can’t find a power trio if my liver depended on it. I finally find the section but I don’t know any of these goddamn clubs. It’s early in the week, but there has to be SOMETHING going on. I call on the old school, the left behind the guys who never made it out of this place…. “C’mon losers. Stick some gum in your septum for five minutes. I’m back and let’s ROCK!” I am told that we are going to a place on the beach named after a very polite Frenchman currently residing in Tijuana. That’s the spot tonight. “That’s the spot?” The spot indeed.
Over the causeway’s concrete rainbow I go with three recycled amigos and they even brought a girl for their old buddy, batting crow’s-feet-framed eyes at my ugly new ass already. We’re opening our beers with our seatbelts and I get a little misty-eyed, “You can still drink and drive in this town?”… “Christ! They were playing this same Zeppelin song on the radio when I drove outta here!”
As we walk in, the old-fools are well recognized and the cover is waived. Nice. Until I order a drink and get charged an hour’s honest work. “must tip fat… new in town… must tip fat… next drink will be acceptable… mere initiation…”
Being the new guy again, I need to learn the scoop, recognize the hierarchy, shut up and watch. My underachieving companions begin filling me in:
The promoter of this night and several local band nights in this area is quite a fella. Apparently the descendant of the more sensible and attractive faction of the 3rd Reich who was quoted in the early 40’s saying, “Fok zis chit.” on the way out of Europe wearing only camouflage Speedos.
Drinks happen…
I hear about the triumphs and failures (well, mostly failures), of the rest of the old-fools not fortunate enough to be with us on this glorious night. Crow’s-feet is still batting, must be allergic to smoke. I start observing this crowd of music lovers at half past midnight as they assemble for some real South Beach rock and roll… “Who the hell are these people?” I ask myself as one of the loser musketeers drones on about pregnancies and divorces. I see beautiful, disinterested women, ugly disinterested women (nothing worse), college boys, tattoo model wannabes, and more guys who are apparently musicians but don’t have a gig and seem to have forgotten their “I am in a band” sign. “Where the hell is that bastard bartender I over tipped?” is all I can muster.
With my liquid Zoloft in hand I am introduced to the soundman for the night/musician in another successful band. Real nice guy with a cute girlfriend and air of cockiness about him which I don’t find offensive. I figure he does sound and plays in a band so he must have musical stuff going on up there that he’s working on. Everyone has a great song for the world don’t they? (Except Jorge Moreno… “Babaloo”??? Jesus.)
The crowd forms an invisible barrier in the shape of a semi-circle in front of the stage. I am amazed and even mention to Crow’s-feet that no one looks like they are about to see a show but they clear out into formation instinctively. It is as if the dance floor has been cleared and all awaits Kevin Bacon to break the social chains, and show everyone how to get footloose.
Before I can kick off my Sunday shoes, enter:
One pinheaded hippie with two forgetful friends.
This freakin hippie is like 6’5” with the Phish shirt, baggy-assed pants, scraggly “is it getting longer?” hair, and one tiny fuckin head.
Pinhead is clearly past the point of being served and I would pull him over on a tricycle if I wore the shield. He came in with a bad case of lazy-eye too. No doubt a result of weed and Sierra Nevada to the point that I don’t know if he was staring at Crows-feet’s vagina (she was smoking camel and didn’t have a light) or the men’s room door.
Pinhead is feelin’ it now and is ready to forget the easy childbirth followed by the hard life. He starts with that horrible, spinning, hippie dance in front of the stage as the band continues to set up like extras from Cocoon.
Pinhead is now rocking out in the middle of the dance floor, opposite the soundboard manned by my new nice friend who nervously sips his bottle of beer.
Now, as much as there should be height/gangly person requirements for this unholy dance, there are none. Despite the fact that the PA blares The Red Hot Chili Pepper’s “Under the Bridge,” rendered undanceable by most major polls (obviously recorded after the Peppers had their funk surgically removed), Pinhead is spinning like he’s trying out for the Ice Capades. I desperately need another drink but cannot tear myself from this and even the indifferent are beginning to take notice. Just before the triple sow cow the toxins are taking effect and all that hippie-mass is going down somewhere. Pinhead deep-sixes, face full of tie-died glee, and careens off of the soundboard; making it rock slightly as he is laid out on his back, feet facing the board, as the song ends. My new, nice friend immediately steadies his equipment, hauls back with bottle, and fires a cut fastball high and inside at prone hippie’s pinhead. Dontrelle Willis minus the high kick. The shatter produces perfect quiet for a split second as the indifferent gasp with difference. For some reason the old Miami in me resurfaces and all I can do is laugh as Crows-feet squints at me with disgust. I am back home…
Blood drips from Pinhead’s ear as they escort his confused lazy eye out of the bar. He was just missed. Just a shard from the shatter cut his drunken lobe. All I can say is, “Good thing for his tiny head. Who would have thought that would come in handy?”
After much deliberation the matter was resolved. The worst band I ever saw went on. And good fun was had by all…
It can only get better.
