Get in the Back!
April 3, 2006
Maybe it's the sunny blue skies and warm weather, but for some reason, I've been running into a lot of people from my past lately. Some of them I stop and talk to, distilling our lives into the major talking points. Where do you live now? Are you still with so-and-so? Last time I saw you, you were doing such and such, while others garner just a moment's hesitation. Is that who I think it is? Should I stop? Say hello? Will they remember me?
I saw the bass player from my old band in the supermarket the other day. One of them, that is. As I've written before, our band had a million bass players, and I could pass nearly all of them without knowing it, but this guy stands out for a number of reasons. For one, he didn't start as our bass player, but rather as our producer.
From what I can remember, this guy specialized in mixing and remixing dance tracks and television commercials. That wasn't our style, of course, but he was a friend of a friend who was willing to record us for free. Much like the producer I wrote about a few posts ago, he liked our energy and wanted a crack at capturing it on tape.
A lost cause, some might say.
Brian, the band’s frontman, was an energetic and engaging performer, whirling around the stage, shirtless and barefoot, in gold-lame pants and a cowboy hat, whipping spit-clogged harmonicas into the crowd and screaming until he passed out with a face-plant on the plywood stage. "Capturing the energy" was a tall order and sure to wind up sounding like a mess. Ah, well, it's only rock and roll.
We came out with a surprisingly decent recording, and we used it to book a few gigs. The bass player we used on the recordings was a professional — a guy I knew from high school who had recently returned from touring with a Broadway show. He was happy to indulge in a little mindless musical fun for a change. But after the recording session, he moved to Ireland to join a traditional Irish band. leaving the slot of bass player for our band wide open once again. Our producer was gung-ho to fill it himself. "I can play bass!" he said.
I can't remember if he played one gig or two, but I do know his membership was short-lived. My personal stage presence was rather nonexistent, and this guy gave me a lot of shit over it, telling me I was boring to watch and needed to kick up my energy level. When he got on stage during our show, he demonstrated what he meant. He thrashed his long hair like a true headbanger, bounced up and down, and ran around, bashing into the rest of us. He found the hot spots and basked in the lights, pounding on his bass, oblivious to the beat. When he smacked into Brian, causing Brian to drop the microphone and fall into me, which knocked me off the stage, that was it. Brian found the mic, picked it up, and yelled into it: "Get in the back of the stage where you fucking belong!"
The bassist spent what was left of the show standing dutifully in the backline, next to the drums.
Since that was the last time I saw him, I chose not to say anything as we passed in the supermarket aisle.
