Gig Anecdotes

I frontman a trio that plays a mix of Texas Rock (think ZZ Top), Motown, Soul, and Blues. We are VERY upbeat and play alot of high energy stuff. A friend of mine who also fronts his own band called and asked if we wanted to play a "private party." The pay was very good and we had the date open so I called the number he gave me. The organizer on the other end remarked that she'd heard great things about our band and after a very brief and straightforward conversation I had the date, times, sets and pay confirmed, but had no other information. we arrived to play the gig at a country club in another smallish town. I met with the organizer of the "party" and she said she'd opened a tab for us at the bar that SHE would pay at the end of the night. Food and Drinks where on her. "NICE!", I thought. We sat up our PA and instruments and had an hour and a half before we were to start playing to go to the country club bar, have a few beers, and one of the best hamburgers I've ever had. When we reported back to the organizer we were all feeling good and ready to play our asses off. The thought occurred to me to ask the organizer while we were waiting "so what kind of party is this?" she replied "Oh, its not a party. Its CANCER SURVIVORS BANQUET AND FUNDRAISER." She walked off and the band stood there a little bewildered and thought "it's cool, we can do this."

We walked to the stage to start and were tuning our instruments and the organizer asked to use the mic. I asked her if she wanted us to sit down but she insisted we stay on the stage. She said, "before we begin we are going to watch a video that we've put together." The lights dropped and a large projection screen behind the stage began to play a 10 minute video of all the people that had died since the banquet the year before. by the time it ended the whole crowd was teary eyed, some where even sobbing, and one woman could be heard wailing from the hall, just outside the doors. the lights flipped back on and the organizer again asked to use the mic. she gave a short speech about fund raising for the local children's clinic and showed another video of kids that were being treated at the clinic. again, the lights flipped on and there were sobs and sniffs and tears all over the place. While the second video was playing the organizer left the stage, so when the lights flipped back on we stood there wide eyed and with no idea what to do. i looked to the organizer and she gave a signal that seemed to say "well, get on with it!"

i said a few short words about celebrating life and how we were here to honor those couldn't be here with us and tried to turn the momentum to the happy side. i guess it worked. we went into our set and by the 10th song people were dancing and laughing. Those that stuck around tipped us quite a bit and the organizer told me they'd raised more money that year than they ever had and even asked us to come back next year. We were happy to be involved and look back on it now with good memories, but the momentum swing was a heck of a thing to turn at a moment's notice.

moral of the story: get as much info as possible before taking a gig. 0_o.

We were a 4 piece, sometimes 5 piece “wedding” band, in the late '80s around Sacramento. I was playing bass at the time. We'd do high school dances, parties, outdoor festivals, and a bar gig here and there. This particular gig was a retirement party. We had to do it as a 4 piece, as our main guitarist traveled for his job and couldn't play the gig. Day of the gig comes around, we're getting loaded up, and discover our monitors are locked in the absent guitarists' apartment. Oops. Then our other guitarist gets his hand slammed in a car door. Double oops. Our singer says he knows a guy who can fill in, an old pro friend of his, but it'll probably cut our songlist by half. Okay, it's just a retirement party. Won't play for that long anyway, right? Little did we know...
We get to the venue, this clubhouse-type place with a multipurpose room at one end. Pretty big room with vaulted ceilings, dance floor, and a fireplace. No stage. Our “guest” guitarist is waiting for us. He's already drunk. We'd barely met the guy, and he's already bitching about the absent stage. We start to set up against the wall on the dance floor, and he notices we don't have monitors. He starts bitching again. We told him we'd just put the mains behind us, as it was a low volume gig anyway. He seemed okay with that, thou he kept grumbling.
We played a so-so first set, complete with party-goers backing into mic stands and knocking over music stands. Without monitors, it's difficult to separate the stage area from the dance area. We'd just started our 2nd set when a patron stepped up to our “guest” guitarist, wanting to ask about a song. The patron knocked over the guitarist's beer that was sitting on top of his amp, and it pours INTO his amp. The guitarist immediately righted the spilled beer bottle, but the damage was done. He twisted knobs and pushed buttons, but the amp was dead. We suggested running thru the PA, as the mains were behind us. Nope. The guitarist was enraged. He packed up his stuff, loudly cussing and cursing at band and patrons alike, yelling he'd never been so insulted or treated so badly as he stomped out. We were absolutely speechless. We were looking at our singer, asking him “thought you said he was a pro...?” Singer was equally bewildered. Never saw this side of his guitarist friend before. Needless to say, we didn't get paid. Our contact cited a MAJOR breech of contract, and we really couldn't argue...
Myself, the drummer, and the singer have stayed in touch, and we just laugh about that night over 20 years ago now. We've all agreed on one thing: we should have canceled that gig after our 2nd guitarist injured his hand. Murphy's Law was definitely in full control that night.

I was playing bass in a new 5-piece jazz band with sax, woodwinds, drums, and a very talented piano player of Iranian descent. This was the first job we played after several months of rehearsal. We had a good set of late 50s to mid 1960's jazz standards.
The club had no piano, so the piano player brought a nice Kurzweil piano, speaker and amp. We did a quick sound check and were ready to play.
Although the sound check was cool, for the first note of the first song, the piano sounded very fuzzy and distorted. The sound was breaking up, it would spit, and cut out. So, we stopped the song to investigate. We thought we fixed it, started up the song again, and again, the piano started clipping and fuzzing out.
At that time, the somewhat drunk German wife of one of the friends of the band yelled out in a thick accent: "Aw, keep on playing. You don't need the piano anyway." At that time, the piano player began to freak out. He started throwing things, cursing everyone around him, and was saying things like "I'll kill you all. You're all just worthless a**holes", and other "nice things". He was inconsolable. The woodwind player was a medical doctor, had a even temperament, and after about 1/2 hour, was finally making some headway in calming him down.
I was pretty good with electronics, PA setup, etc. So while the doctor distracted him, I walked over to his amp and noticed the speaker cord was a little frayed and that a single hair-thin strand of wire from the + terminal was arcing over to the - terminal. I cut the strand, and piano is now working perfectly.
I explained to the hot-head that the issue was HIS frayed speaker cable. He basically said "nevermind" and sat down and played the rest of the set.
By now, the crowd had backed up about 20 feet from the band.
The piano player came up to me at the break and said "now you know why there is so much conflict in the Middle East".
I never played with him again.

It was my first gig with my first band. I was 15 years old, as well as the two others in my band, guitarist and bassist; I was the drummer.

I met the guitarist when he tripped and fell on me in gradeschool, a rather portly fellow. I met the bassist some years later when I was 15. I called him one day, having gotten his phone number from a friend (who told me he rides around on a painted van halen-splatter-style womans bike), to buy a fifteen chunk of pot. I used change from a tootsie roll piggy bank, went to the store with the whole bank taped up in my backpack and exchanged it for dollar bills. We met, not even knowing what each other looked like up until meeting. We smoked in the park and he asked me if I play music, to which I responded, no. He said that I looked like a drummer and asked me if I wanted to come back to his house and jam. I was very reluctant and refused on multiple occasions. After more smoking, I said that I WOULD in fact come back to his house to play drums, having never played before.

I didn't know much about him, but we walked to his house, just a few blocks away. We walked through the driveway and into the detached garage in the back. We walked in and the jamming space was small: A horde. It was then that I discovered he was a speed user, which made his funk bass even quicker. I sat behind the drums a bit overwhelmed and somehow learned to play right then and right there.

Fast forward about a month, and we have compiled about 15 or 16 originals, no covers. The bass playing is crazy and all over the place, it's complicated and it is noodly, and funk-style, and punk style, all the while shrouded in a forced 'poppiness', with flat crackly teen vocals over it. The guitar playing was more of an apathetic accentuation of the bass playing, due to the fact that the guitarist didn't really want to play, or even be there, most of the time.

We have an older homosexual, stoner, rear neighbor who always hears us play and thinks that we are really good, most of the time. This neighbor is a several-times-a-day customer of a large coffee chain conglomerate located just 30 feet from his house, just across the street. He said that he had talked to the shop and they both wanted us to do a set, on his driveway, in mid-day, on a weekday, with the outdoor patio section facing towards us. A kind enough sentiment. We accepted.

The day of the show comes around and I get to skip school entirely to play this show. I get to the bassists house and we begin the somewhat arduous process of carrying all of our gear around most of the block in a big U-shape, or C-shape, ETC. We run everything through extension cords from the inside of this mans house. We have a big carpet set up, and everything is fine, despite the massive unevenness of his driveway. We start playing the first song and I was hoping some people would come over and stand on the driveway or the front lawn and make it feel like a real show. But no one did. Throughout the entire show. The experience felt very separated, especially since people were just coming and going.
After the first song was over some people clapped and cheered, I remember seeing a woman smiling. After the second song, less people clapped and/or cheered. After the third, no one. Fourth: stares like, "Okay, you guys can stop now... I'm trying to have my coffee and surf the web on my laptop and/or study, and listen to my MP3 player. Okaaaaay, please stop..."

After the fifth or sixth song or so, two drunk local homeless men show up on bikes, the only ones to actually watch us from a distance of 10 feet or so the entire time. They are friends of the bassist, who mind you is only 15. They wait for the break in the songs and one of them says that HE wants to play drums. I chuckle and hand the sticks over, as he had told me before that he was a jazz drummer of about 30 years or so. The bassist shoots into a little walk-around, bluesy number. The guitar improvises. And the drums kick in. Absolutely amazing. His style, his touch, his snare hand (traditional grip), bass emphasis, ride work (that really jazzy, fast, flowy, odd timing ETC.) and hi hat click all amazing. His timing: impeccable.

He and his buddy were obviously already drunk at 1 PM, and in hindsight, I think someone at the coffee shop may have called the cops on them, possibly thinking they were harassing us. After this little jam was finished, he insisted on still playing drums, so they play one more short one, where he drums a little more rock-like, definitely played in some rock bands of the 70s. After the short number, he still wants to play. But the bassist said not to be an asshole and let me play. So he did. Anyway we play another short number, and finish that off. Just then my mom and dad pull up across the street and watch us begin the next. They do not get out of the car, they just sit there, staring sideways at their second born and his band play for two homeless drunks and an annoyed coffee shop. Midway through this song, the police pull up right in front of the house, but we don't stop playing. They start talking to the two homeless gentlemen, one officer moving the bikes aside. Before we know it, the two are being searched and it doesn't take long until a bag of meth is produced from the jazz drummers friends' pocket, and he probably has some tallboys in his backpack. They pull out the handcuffs and he starts yelling at the cops and at his friend and at the people on the coffee shop patio. We don't stop playing. He is forcibly put into submission for attempting to resist the cuffing; he is horizontal, face down on the pavement, with a knee in his back and a hand pushing his head into the concrete while being cuffed. We don't stop playing. He is brought to his feet and they push him into the car. The cops close the door and get in, turning on the siren, driving off. We don't stop playing. They turn the corner at the end of the block just as we stop playing. Everyone has a laugh, the band, my mom and dad, the patio, the neighbor, and even the other homeless guy, at the thought that we just played an arrest.

The other homeless guy rides off on his bike shortly thereafter, and we play a few more. And when we are done, people clap, probably out of courtesy and anticipation of us stopping. I walk over to my mom and dad, and talk with them for one minute, then they drive away. We carry all the gear back in the U-shape, or C-shape to the bassists house, laughing still at the scenario, knowing we will always remember this.

"Hi today is the 24th. of February: The 37th. anniversary of the release of Physical Graffiti. To mark this anniversary I've written a short story called To Led Zeppelin: An Applause. Come and read and leave a comment. Or if you don't want to create an account, email me your thoughts at ch.hats@yahoo.com.

Thanks
Nellgwen"

Story can be viewed at Daily Kos

This is a story of playing "the wrong kind of blues". I was the guitarist in a 3-piece blues band about 15 years ago and we made the rounds of the clubs up and down I95 between Richmond and DC. We had just lost our drummer who was also a great singer. It was tough to find a replacement, but we eventually did and slowly started to get back into playing with the new band member. We had to rework a lot of songs - and had to drop a lot because none of us had the vocal quality compared to the drummer we lost. We found an opportunity to play a small bar in Richmond right in the downtown club area. Since it was Thanksgiving weekend, a lot of college kids were in town visiting home. The club owner said we could play for the door at $5 a head. We thought this would be a great opportunity, but we didn't have 4 full sets of material. To make up for it, we got a great keyboardist and sax to sit in so we could extend our songs with solos a little and make it thru 4 hours.
We play a lot of blues, but throw in a few R&B tunes just to mix it up.
We get through the first set pretty well. I had just seen the club owner coming out of the door of what looked like a vacant office about two doors down from where we are playing. The club owner comes up to me at the end of the set, was a little agitated, and said "You sound pretty good, but we're a blues bar, so don't play anything but blues." I said OK and blew it off.
We start the second set. I notice the club owner goes back to the vacant office down the street, and comes out a little more agitated and staggering. This set was cooking. We're getting a good crowd in there. The person at the door has a nice fist full of $5 bills. At the end of the set, the club owner comes back to me and said "you didn't hear me, I said I want you to play the blues and none of that other sh**t! We're a blues bar, understand?" I said yes, we'll do better.
We start the 3rd set and the house just started rocking. After a few songs, we played this upbeat version of James Brown's "Sex Machine" and the room just exploded. People we're being turned away at the door because it was so packed. Everyone was dancing. It was a sea of people just bouncing up and down in time to the music. It was one of those magical moments as a musician where EVERYONE was digging it. There was condensation dripping off the ceiling from the bodies and dancing.
The club owner now staggers back from the vacant office even more agitated for the 3rd time and yelled at me while we were playing. I couldn't understand what she said, but I didn't care because the room was so packed, that she had to be happy, right? Selling lots of drinks, right? Wrong.
All of a sudden, the power goes off on the stage. She had installed a circuit breaker behind the bar for when the band is not cooperating. She came up to me and said "I told you we are a Blues Bar and we only want Blues music, now pack your sh**t up and get the f*** out. And take your money!
So, we're packing up. What was playing on the bar music system while we were packing up? Crosby, Stills, and Nash.
...and we made nearly $2,000 that night!

I was in a society band in the mid-1980s. The singer was just horrible but the musicians were as good as any I've played with. I was playing bass then and we had a keyboard (Fender Rhodes), guitar and drummer. We used to embellish songs and the singer had not a clue. When I say "embellish" I mean like playing the German National Anthem behind "Hit Me With Your Best Shot". Because the singer was able to get good paying jobs, I guess that's why we stuck together.
We were playing a Marine Formal Affair at a local base. The Marines were there, along with their wives/girlfriends and parents. One young Marine wanted to sing New York, New York and dedicate it to his mother.
So we start the song: ba da, da-de-da, ba da, da-de-da, ba da, da-de-da boom...2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 "Start Spreading the news" 2, 3, 4, 5, 5-1/2 I'm leavin' today" 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3 "I want to be a part of it, New York New York", 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, "These vagabond......etc.
Anyway, the singer had the worst timing I've ever heard. When he decided to stab at the song in his unknowingly techno-poly-rhythm style, this band was RIGHT THERE. A lesser band would have been laughing on the floor or totally would have been frustrated. This band played behind him like they were the Wrecking Crew.
I really miss that band.

I was playing drums in a three piece country band in a slimy hooker/truck driver bar in Superior, Wisconsin in the early 80s. It was a fun standing gig of 4 nights a week. They pay was good and the people watching was great. The band mates were great to work with. One night we were kicking into the intro of Johnny B. Good when some guy who had been a decent local singer at one time before his mental health went away came flying out of the crowd onto the stage and grabbed the Mic. The lead guitar player, a large powerful guy, strummed a chord and in perfect rhythm, grabbed the back of the guy's shirt with his pick hand, flung him so he went sliding across the dance floor face down, and kept on playing without interruption. People who had their backs turned didn't even notice a gap in the playing. The unfortunate individual got up, ran out the front door about as fast as he could and came back an apologetic and sober individual, but not until a year and a half later.

We were playing a mid-afternoon wedding at a nice hotel. We were a pretty good wedding band and could even get the crowd dancing during daylight events. Not bad!
All was going well until the hotel wheeled out the dessert table and placed it directly in front of the band's PA system. One of the guests, a lady of about 300 pounds, ran up to the table and proceeded to make a scene yelling "turn it down, you're too loud, we can't hear" in between stuffing her face with chocolate cake and petits fours.

I guess she couldn't figure out why the band would turn up the volume just to disrupt her snack.

I was playing in a 5-piece society band in the mid-1980s that also played some clubs on the side. So, although we knew how to rock, we didn't have much chance to with all of the weddings we played. The agent called and said that he found us a rocking job, the pay was pretty good, and that the women there were beautiful.
The job was for the school for the deaf. I kid you not. The agent said to crank the bass and drums and they'll love it.
So we get to the job and everyone there is very nice, and it's true, the women were very attractive. We play very loud. Extremely loud. It's a nice JBL PA, Crown and BGW amps, sub woofer. Nice setup.
We used to introduce a slow song "Just the Two of Us" saying that "it was written by a very good friend of the band: Mr Grover Washington Jr". We said that just to be cheesy - making fun of how people are always dropping names "in the business".
In this iteration of the band, we had a very obnoxious front man from New Jersey. Thinking that the crowd was deaf, he embellished on the song introduction. He said, "we're going to do a song from a very good friend of ours Mr Grover Washington Jr." Then he went on to say very graphically that he performed a particular sex act every night on each of the band members. We were howling with laughter. I probably threw up a little bit in my mouth from how outrageous the introduction was.
At the end of the set, one of the dance coordinators came up and both signed and spoke the words and said "you know, some of us have partial hearing".