THE GIG FROM HELL

Copyright 2004 Nick Amoroso

This is a completely honest recollection of the worst gig of my life.

Have you ever looked forward to something so much, only to see it spiral into the most unbelievably horrible experience of your existence? The following account is completely true; if anything, it's been censored a bit. It's also a bit long, so go get yourself some food. Perhaps a beverage.

I was scheduled to help out a friend of mine some time ago, by subbing for him in his band, over 2 nights that he couldn't make it. The gigs were originally to be in Phoenix, Arizona. The pay was good and in my household diapers and kat litter were of supreme importance at the time, so I figured it would be cool all around. I was to have my own hotel room and a ride to get me to the gig and back home. What's more, I wouldn't have to deal with my own drums; I was to use my friend's really nice kit, and the band had a guy who set up and tore down all the equipment. Definite plus, because I've been known to sweat some.

So, on the Friday morning I'm supposed to leave for Phoenix, I get a call from the band's manager, Ken, telling me that the Phoenix gigs have been canceled, but would I be interested in doing the same thing in Sacramento, CA? The hitch is that I have to drive there myself (an almost 7-hour trip by car). I say "sure, OK."

Stupid me.

So, after a fairly uneventful (read: boring) drive in a truck with waaay too many miles on it already, with one too many stops for food and pee pee breaks, I get to the club, only to find that there are no drums. They've been left in Phoenix. How convenient.

After about 20 minutes of frantic phone calls and throwing around a phone book like it's a diseased chicken (I'm not gonna keep calling, you do it!), the manager or the roadie or somebody finds a rental service. The rental service delivers what is possibly the crappiest drumkit we've all ever seen, sets it up, and then attempts to charge the manager Two Hundred Dollars. After some argument, we realize we don't have a choice, so we keep it. After all, we have to go on in like 8 seconds.

A sequencer is an interesting piece of electronic equipment. It plays sounds at specific times during a song (recordings of background vocals, keyboard parts, sound effects, etc.), so the band can basically sound bigger than they really are. The trick is that I have to play with headphones, listening to a metronome clicking away, so that when the sounds come up, they'll be in the right place. Click. Click. Click. Tock. Tock. Tock. Needless to say, the Excedrin is out in large quantity that evening.

So, when the click dies smack-dab in the middle of a song (because of course it's gonna, I mean, why not?), I frantically try to get the attention of the sound engineer, because I know I'm not a perfect time clock so I know I'm gonna go off a bit and I know the sequenced sounds will come up at the wrong time and everyone's gonna look at the idiot drummer who can't play along with a simple click click click because nobody except me knows that the click isn't tocking anymore. The sound engineer is picking his nose or staring at women or something; In any case, he doesn't notice me (and do you know how difficult it is to wave at someone and play the drums at the same time?)

So, after a few seconds I stop trying, assuming that the sound guy knows and that the sequencer's probably down too.

Nope.

The sequencer keeps on, well ... sequencing. All kinds of sounds come up, like, at all the wrong times, because of course, I'm not a perfect time clock and I speed up ... er ... some. The whole band looks at the idiot drummer who can't play along with a click because nobody except me ... you know the rest.

So, we manage to eke out the rest of the 1-hour set (did I mention that Mr. Click decided to kick the bucket during song #3?), and then another, because we couldn't be let off that easily. At the end of set #2, the club manager or promoter or something, Mel, walks up to us and he's pretty pissed, because he's basically sure that we suck. After a rather impassioned explanation from Ken (with multiple use of a plaintive F word), Mel's pissdom turns to pity, and he asks us if we'd like to go to his house for food.

"Sure, OK."

Stupid us.

We arrive at the House. First, let me say that there are two ways to decorate a home with a 70's vibe: A)The cool 'retro' beanbag and lava lamp and incense thing that makes people feel comfortable, and B)the slippery plastic sofa cover-meets-Brady Bunch living room-meets-your great grandma's apartment that smells like dust and yarn and arthritic cat. This place is solidly adorned in mode B. You would never guess it by Mel's homage to Miami Vice attire. But anyway.

Mel is a big, loud funny guy with a hearty laugh. Until he walks into his house, that is. See, Mel's married to a four-foot-six 986-pound land mass named Esther. Esther apparently hates the fact that she's married to Mel. Well, she apparently hates everything, and she makes it clear to him. In front of us. All the time. She's also insane, and I don't mean that in an insulting way. This woman has a twitch that shakes her whole body. She also likes cleaning. She does it the whole time we're there. Don't know why - everything's plastic-wrapped. She follows us as we go to the bathroom and so forth, cleaning the carpet behind us. Cleaning the furniture. Cleaning everything. And she's loud. Really loud. And I'm a hearing-impaired drummer.

So, Esther brings out this stuff that one might call food. If one were in a prison camp. Actually, she refers to it as spaghetti. Now, I'm an Italian, raised by a woman who makes pasta from scratch. I have fond memories of waking up at 5AM to the sounds of my mother throwing pots and pans in the kitchen, cursing my father because "he doesn't WANT store-bought pasta." Needless to say, to refer to this bile as spaghetti is an insult to all I hold dear. To put it best, it's Campbell's tomato soup with spaghetti noodles swimming around in it. And the noodles are, let's say, not fully cooked. Actually, some of them are still straight. I'm not kidding.

As we're politely trying to force this chum down our throats, Esther starts trying to make conversation with us. That is, when she's not cleaning everything in sight or degrading her husband. And here's what the beast says:

"Yuh know, I'm so glad that none a yoo ur niggers. Uh hate when Mel brings them niggers home."

And on. And on.

This woman uses the "n" word more times than I've ever heard someone use it in my life. Apparently, since we're all white, we're all racists. I've met more ignorant folk, but not lately.

By this time, I'm pretty distressed. It's 2 a.m., I'm 400 miles from home, with a bunch of people I really know, sitting in a house that would make an excellent David Lynch story, eating food that no one should have to suffer the misfortune of tasting. Ever. And, I have to look forward to sharing a room with some band member I don't know, since my private hotel room is now a closet with 2 beds at the Sloppy Pig Motel.

I. Wanna. Go. Home.

At about this time, Esther asks us if we want some more to eat. Don't know why - our bowls are still full cause we can't stomach the stuff. Except Mel, who hasn't said a word and is wolfing like it's his last meal. And yes, she serves spaghetti to us in bowls, obviously because the sauce is red water. We politely say "no thank you," at which point the huge volcano erupts and starts yelling at us about how we're ungrateful towards her hospitality and we're all a bunch of nigger lovers anyway. She then walks into the kitchen, still yelling. When she walks out, like, 4 seconds later, she ever-so-sweetly asks us if we'd like some dessert. I'm hearing the theme from Psycho in my head. If there's any doubt to this woman's level of freakdom, it's long gone now.

So Ken turns to Mel, who hasn't said a word this whole time, and starts talking to him about all the hideous things that happened to the band at the club.

"Hopefully we'll have it all ironed out for tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night?"

"Yeah. You know, when the band plays again."

"What are you talking about? I only booked them for one night."

So this raging argument ensues in the Shady Acres living room. Mel is a liar. No. Ken is a bad businessman. No. Mel is a liar.

At the same time, the band has decided how we're gonna get out of this freakshow nightmare.

"Hey Nick, wanna go get drunk with us?"

Not "Hey nick, wanna go to a club?" Not "Hey Nick, wanna go out for a couple of drinks?" Not "Hey Nick, wanna go get some real food?" Not "Hey Nick, wanna go with us to get our stomachs pumped?" It's "Hey Nick, wanna go get drunk with us?"

Here's where I come to a complete understanding of the term The Last Straw.

I walk up to Ken in the middle of his knock-down-drag-out with Mel, and I say, "Ken, I'm leaving."

"OK, Nick, I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Nononono... I'm LEAVING. I'm going to the room, I'm getting my stuff, I'm packing my truck, and I'm going HOME."

"But, Nick, it's 2:30 A.M. and you're 7 hours from home."

The whole band is laughing. They feel for Nick, the poor schmuck. At this point I don't care how far I am from home; I'm getting there. I have snapped.

I go to the store, by some Vivarin and any soda I can find that has caffeine. Can't find Jolt, unfortunately.

I'm on the 101, driving home. It's now 3:30, and even though I've done everything short of injecting caffeine directly into my bloodstream, I'm falling asleep at the wheel. I have the windows rolled down (it's around 45 degrees outside), the A/C on, and the radio up extremely loud (although where I am the only stations that come in are Mariachi music), and I'm still falling asleep at the wheel.

zzzzzzzzzzzz...

OmyGodomyGodomyGodi'mgonnadie!!

zzzzzzzzzzzz...

OmyGodomyGodomyGodi'mgonnadie!!

I do this for about 2 hours, because I am, of course, an idiot. I finally decide I can take no more, and I that have to find a bed. Only by this time, it's 5:30, and all the motels are full or their offices are closed. I keep looking for about an hour.

At 6:30, I find one that's open and has vacancy. I stagger in, my mind swimming. The guy behind the bulletproof glass tells me that if I check in now, I have to be out by 10 A.M. or pay another day. I've got barely any money, and my payment for the gig is, of course, a check.

I start to blubber like an idiot. "Oh please, oh please. All I want is to sleep." He takes pity on the poor fool and says, "Well, technically, if you check in at 7 AM, you don't have to check out until 10 the next day. It's 6:30; I'll give you a break." I would kiss this man if we weren't separated by 3 inches of armored glass. Motel 6 forever.

I walk into the motel room and fall on the bed. However, there is so much caffeine in my body that my heart is racing. I don't fall asleep for about half an hour. The last thing I remember before drifting off is wondering what city I'm in.

10:20 AM. The phone rings. Some 16 year-old at the counter. "Sir, you were supposed to check out 20 minutes ago. Is there a problem?" I groggily tell her about the guy who gave me a break earlier that morning. She says that they have no record of that, and that I have to leave. Now.

The nervous breakdown approaching, I yell into the phone ... well, actually, I don't remember exactly what I yell into the phone, because I'm still half asleep. I would kill this girl if we weren't separated by 150 feet of phone line. Motel 6 never. I hang up. She apparently talks to the guy, because she never calls me back. I, however can't sleep anymore. I roll around until 12:30.

I jump in the shower (no hot water), I pack up and leave. It's now 1:30 P.M.

So I'm on the 101, about 100 miles north of Santa Barbara. Home is only about 3 1/2 hours away. I'm driving along, happy as a clam, when the 101 comes to a complete stop. And stays that way for 3 hours. There's a forest fire, and traffic can't move. I see all the smoke in the distance. and the planes dropping red stuff on it. There's a dirt divider between the northbound and our southbound lanes, and people by the dozens are 4-by-ing through it to turn around. Cars are getting stuck. People are pissed. The northbound lane soon gets crowded, and no one goes anywhere. The news says that traffic is backed up for over 5 miles. Somebody just kill me now.

After a while, the atmosphere begins to get festive. Everybody's out of their cars. Cooking with hibachis on their car hoods. Playing Frisbee with their dogs. It's like the parking lot of a Grateful Dead show, only no hemp salespeople.

At about the 2 hour and 30 minute mark of this colossal traffic jam, I decide that I really have to pee. I'm parked in the fast lane of a 2 lane freeway. To my right is a hill that descends about 20 feet, then there's lots of trees, then there's ocean. Other people are doing it, so I decide to.

I get out of my truck, and start down the hill, on which I promptly trip and tumble end over end down the remainder. I get up, brush myself off and keep walking. I don't care anymore.

I'm relieving myself against a tree when I start to hear honking. Then yelling. More and more and more. I, uh, finish up, walk up the hill and find that people are honking and yelling because everyone in front of my truck has moved ten feet, but my truck, of course, hasn't. These people are so tightly-wound that they're pissed that they can't move 10 lousy feet. I get in my truck, move 10 feet, shut it off and wait for another half-hour before we finally get moving. Through clouds of smoke and fire. Someone apparently feels that flames licking our cars would be considered a safe driving environment. Being allergic to everything, having to drive through this smoke-filled, ash-encrusted wasteland makes my nose and eyes feel like I've been sleeping on a pillow made of house insulation. I finally get through it, and I limp my way the 2 and a half hours home.

I think (aloud) "what else can go wrong?" "Mr. Amoroso, your apartment burned down and your cats committed group suicide." I'm supposed to have gotten home at 5:00 PM or so. I pull into my garage at 8:30.

What have I learned from all this, you ask? Absolutely nothing. Except that if I ever have such a bad experience, I want to have it with people that I care about.

And I'll never go to Sacramento again.