Sordid Tales of Uncle SCotchy - the Beginning

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.

Day Three: Working a Double on the Rocks

​Day 3: My Miami Music Fest triathlon concluded yesterday with a two-part event: the Miami New Times stage at Bayfront Park in the afternoon, and Charcoal Studios at night.

I was looking forward to both because we got to share the stage with the likes of King Bee and the Auctioneers from New York. The funny thing is that Juke was cofounded by myself and Auctioneers guitar player Erik Broberg some years back when we met at the Titanic Brewery's blues jam. He was a frustrated University of Miami blues disciple. Those jazz kids really frown on the blues.

Shortly thereafter, Ryan Gregg, another UM music school rebel, joined Juke as a keyboard player. Both Erik and Ryan graduated and then moved to New York, joining the Auctioneers. So while most of the jazz-snob graduates are playing in '80s coverbands and teaching untalented 12 year olds guitar in the back room of some lame music store, Erik and Ryan are touring the country and doing what they love.

But I digress ... The Bayfront New Times stage was apparently on the highest point in Florida. As we pulled the van to the base of "Mount Miami," the confusion and frustration was almost palatable.

It is obvious that an event of this size and magnitude will have some logistical issues. Parking, load-in times, and backline are issues that need to be addressed. Also, the treatment of the bands could use some work. The New Times events we played certainly provided food and drink for the bands. But I believe this wasn't always the case at other shows, and the MMF should provide the basics to all these bands that are playing for free. Some sort of gift basket, perhaps, can go to all musicians They can be filled with snacks, coupons, and musical gifts provided by MMF's sponsors. Just a thought.

Nevertheless, the Bayfront Show, though poorly attended, was superfun. The sound crew was friendly, able, and helpful. (You have no idea how hard that is to find.) I had a blast sitting in with King Bee before my set, and the Auctioneers after my set. That really is more harmonica than anyone should be allowed to hear.

A little later, it it was time for the night shift. And anyone who's been to Charcoal Studios knows that the neighborhood looks like something out of Grand Theft Auto. But the inside is about as cool, serene, and Miami as you're ever going to find.

We played first this time. And there was barely a soul in that huge, spotless cavern of a club. I didn't much care. I was pretty tired and hungover. It was actually kind of cool to play a more mellow, loungier set.

I was all set to go home, but the Auctioneers insisted that I sit in. The tequila I was drinking out of my water bottle during my set seemed to creep up my spine and into my brain. The room began filling, and all I remember is smiles for the rest of the night.

All in all, I believe the Miami Music Fest can work. Look, I am tired, hungover, and broke as a joke. I didn't get paid a cent this weekend, and I feel like I got into three little car accidents. To my knowledge not one connection was made this weekend to benefit my band. But I will play it again next year.

If everyone backs off now and throws rocks, we'll only have a shell of a live music event in Miami, proving us a big town not quite ready to be a real city.

MMF not only can work, it has to work. 

Day Two: "It's like deja vu all over again"

Day2:
"It's like Deja vu all over again"
I'm back at the same venue, The Stage, for my first real crack at the whole Miami Music Festival experience. Tonight, however, they have added an outdoor stage to accommodate all the rocking that is planned to go on. 
Actually, the lineup is pretty good. Most of the bands know each other, and there is a smooth ease to loading in as musicians shake hands, half-hug, and decide who is going to share who's equipment.
Entering the gates to the club, however, was the most difficult task of the evening. There was an awkward squadron of MMF volunteers at the gate who couldn't seem to get their heads around the fact that me and my girlfriend didn't have wristbands. I said to the head of the short-bus castoffs, " I'm playin... We start at 11... I need to get in." He looks at the others in disbelief, as if this scenario could not possibly have been forseen. "But you don't have a wristband. If you have a wristband, you can get in Anywhere!" I tighten my grip on my amp and take a breath. " I don't wanna go 'anywhere' dude. I just wanna go here. Where am I supposed to get a wristband? Can you give me one?" He proceeds to tell me with a straight face, "No, you can pick them up at the Hyatt, downtown." There is nothing for me to do at this point but stare at him and hope that even he absorbs what he just said. It took about 8 seconds till his eyes relented, and we walked past him towards the stage. I told my girl, " I can't believe I almost didn't get into my own show because some volunteer who works at Starbucks has a protocol fetish."
I start drinkin Jaeger for my throat that I damaged last night by singin too loud. I don't even like Jaeger. It makes me funny... And not clown funny... But I gotta do what I can to make it through the set. 
People are actually filling the place. All kinds of different people too. That's a good thing. Looks like the public seems to be drinking the MMF Kool-aid. I'll know for sure tomorrow when I play at Bayfront Park.
Our set is starting, and the crowd seems eager.
I decide to start off with an old spiritual called "Get to Heaven on My Own." I'm not a Lordy guy, but there is nothing like gettin all Lordy right out of the gate.

Day One of the Miami Music Festival: Live and Dead Music

​Day One: It's called a "soft opening" of Miami's newest live music venue, The Stage. An optimist might say that the seeds of culture are beginning to sprout as these new clubs see the light of night.

It's also New Times' VIP kickoff party for the Miami Music Festival, and the two seemed to make a good match for this sophomore event. I'm standing here with my favorite shoes on, all set to play four shows in three days and ready to sing my heart out with Juke for free. Hopeful for new opportunities, yet skeptical from experience.

The usual crowd of smoothly dressed brunette people with a blonde or two (they must be from Ohio) begin to fill the club. I order my free Jameson and ginger (open bar rocks), and remember that when I arrived for my ridiculously early load-in time, there were still forklifts and construction guys putting the final nails in the walls.

Photo by Eric Garcia

​Two bands have already played now, and I'm really not sure how many more there will be before I go on. I only know one thing: We are last. The closing band on a multi-band bill is the theme music for club employees and drunks who don't know when it's time to leave. Just my demographic.

A couple more bands play. I'm meeting a surprising number of interesting people, but I'm really getting tired of describing my music to people who I know won't stick around long enough to see us even if I did the show with carrot ruffage hanging out of my ass.

Photo by Eric Garcia

​ What makes this night especially surreal is that I had to put my dog of twelve years down this very morning. I spent the afternoon digging a deep grave in the limestone, and then building an elaborate grave. I cried for days just today. If I could leave, I would. If I could rent another "me" for tonight, I'd pay anything.

Time to play and the crowd is just as I had predicted, but somehow had an awesome time. The sound on the stage was decent. The lights in my eyes made me only see silhouettes. And the head bartender, Ben, seemed to like the cut of my band's jib and expressed it frequently delivering me Jameson's shots.

Photo by Eric Garcia

​All is not lost; except maybe my voice. I'm actually playing The Stage again tomorrow for a "real MMF event." We have a much better timeslot. I guess tonight was a boozy dress rehearsal. Anything is better than staying home with the fresh ghost of my four-legged friend.

Tomorrow can't come fast enough.