The day had begun badly, with a panic call from the lobby at 6:15. I do not do well when my fragile sleep is shattered by someone screaming into my ear.
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Huh?” (my quick-witted response).
“WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES. WE HAVE TO LEAVE NOW. YOU HAVE TO BE ON THE AIR IN FORTY-FIVE MINUTES!!!!”
“Oh. Sh*t. Didn’t get my wakeup call. Be down in five – ten. If you’re worried, leave and I’ll get a cab.”
Shaking from the sudden ugly rush of unanticipated adrenalin and barely conscious, I tried to brush my teeth, comb my hair, shave and piss at the same time. I threw on my clothes and bolted out the door.
If I have to sing at seven in the morning, I get up at five and spend the first forty-five minutes of my day sitting under a scalding shower, clutching a styrofoam container of crappy motel room coffee. Then I bundle myself in towels and do various arcane exercises for another half-hour. After that, I assemble my wardrobe, do all my personal grooming, get dressed, do a leisurely personal assessment in the mirror, and saunter out. That’s my routine.
On this particular morning, I warmed up on the desk clerk. I didn’t scream at him. I didn’t have to. When I am freshly awakened, my voice sounds like boulders grinding together in a cave.
“Why didn’t I get my wake-up call?”, I asked. Well, I didn’t really ask. I demanded, as stridently as my sleep-swollen cords would allow. The guy behind the counter looked as though Death himself had asked the question.
Running a shaking finger down a row of numbers in a big ledger, he began apologizing for the operator’s mistake. I don’t remember a thing he said. It sounded like quacking.
“You’ve screwed up my whole day,” I rasped, and ran for the waiting van. When I was in, the driver asked me if there was anything I wanted.
“Coffee,” I croaked.
The morning taping went smoothly. The large container of hot coffee on the way to the studio got me to almost human, and I struggled to contain the adrenalin overflow.
After the taping, it was off to a soundcheck for a live show later that afternoon. It did not go well. The two guys in charge of the sound must have been hired from the local deli; they looked as though they’d never seen or handled a microphone in their lives, and we had four of them. With open mics on stage, there’s always the chance of feedback, especially if your mixer’s an idiot.
This guy was an idiot.
We finally worked out some very anemic sound, but at least it wasn’t feeding back on us. It was all quite frustrating, and Mongo here was already close to red-lining.
Our changing room/holding tank was a conference room, a very impressive one, with deep soft carpeting, an enormous dark wood table and a heavy, oversized, floor-to-ceiling solid wood door. Sitting on a corner of the big, polished table were cans of warm soda and two boxes of cold pizza. Breakfast. Then it was show time.
One of the deli dudes passed out our mics as we stood in the back of the room, waiting to be introduced. He looked nervous. So did his friend standing over the mixing board, his hands hovering uncertainly as he searched for a clue to what he was doing.
“And now…Rockapella!” was followed almost instantaneously by an eldritch blast of squalling feedback that froze us in mid-step and made everyone quickly clap hands over their ears. That second or two of brain-shredding noise pushed me into a barely controllable spasm of adrenalin-fueled, testosterone-assisted bass rage, and I momentarily wanted to walk over to the mixer and beat him to death with my mic.
Intermittently throughout the short set of songs, the system would squeal out, causing all the children sitting on the floor next to the stage, and their parents in chairs behind them, to duck their heads and cover their ears. It was embarrassing, and worse, it was infuriating. When the system wasn’t feeding back, it sounded like an old AM table radio on overdrive.
The deli guys were berserk. The mixer was dripping sweat on his console as he furiously stabbed at random buttons. The other one was running around our little platform stage in circles, wiggling wires and shaking his head. My head was ready to explode.
After a short scattering of confused applause, we were done. I wanted to break something - like one of the deli guys - but they were already packing up their gear as fast as they could manage, and a crowd of genteel folk fortunately separated us.
Boiling, I stalked back to our conference room. The gigantic door loomed in front of me, an easy and instant target for my vitriol. I was too angry to notice or care that the huge slab of teak was mounted on piano hinges. I grabbed the handle. The thing had heft and moved with an ease that belied its weight, despite its flimsy mounting. With the last scrap of my tenuous self-control in tatters, my ruined day closed over me in a final chemical burst and I flung the door open. It swung inward smoothly, crashing against the wall with a satisfyingly loud whack that shook the entire room and reverberated down the long hallway. With a growing savage delight that ran from my overcooked brain to my adrenalin-fired hand, I walked in and slammed it as hard as I could, setting off another thunderclap. The groaning of dozens of tiny screws surrendering their tentative purchase in the hard wood made me turn, and I jumped back as the massive plank peeled away from its frame and crashed to the floor with the rumble and majesty of a Stonehenge stele, throwing up a huge cloud of dust from the plush carpet. As the noise slowly died, my bandmates stood motionless, framed in the empty doorway, varying expressions of shock and amusement running across their faces.
“Uhh,” I said.
“Geez, Bear,” someone finally offered.
I picked up the heavy door and leaned it against the wall. By now there was a knot of people outside the room, asking what had caused all the noise.
“The door, uh, fell down. I, uh, musta closed it too hard. Crummy hinges,” I grunted. I turned and pretended that there was something of consuming interest buried in the depths of my backpack while the people outside whispered and shot worried dirty looks at me.
“He tore that thing right off the wall,” I heard someone mutter sotto voce. “Holy sh*t. What a temper.”
When I got back to my room, there was a fruit plate, a bottle of cold wine, and a note from the manager, apologizing for their mistake, all of which did little to mollify my sonically- and chemically-abraded spirit. Just because some motel operator forgot to wake me up, I got the hellboy rap. A sliced pear and a hunk of brie and a free bottle of wine didn’t begin to make up for it. Add as favorites (68) | Quote this article on your site | Views: 4959
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