I can see for miles, if I wear bifocals

Was it Halloween on Sunday?  I could swear I saw the reanimated corpse of Pete Townsend at the Super Bowl.

I was once a fan of The Who for many reasons:  “The Who Sell Out” was an ahead-of-its-time look at the confluence of art and marketing; “Who’s Next” was a collection of songs so breathtaking that I grew up thinking it was a greatest hits collection; Rock opera is an absurd concept on its face, but they went for it anyway; and, not least, they had an attitude so aggressive that they were the only classic rock band the punk movement embraced.  But unlike the Stones, who at least make an attempt at relevance by putting out a new cd each time they tour (a terrible cd, to be sure, but new) the Who haven’t been a functioning band since 1982, at best.  Trotting out the oldies as a ’safe’ choice for the entertainment at the halftime show would likely have made young Townsend want to smash something, a guitar probably.

Of course, we’re the morons for even allowing them to call this “The Who”.  Why are people so desperate in their nostalgia that they will pay obscene ticket prices to see a few (or a couple) of the musicians from a band they loved when they were kids pretend to play the same old songs, while the musicians in the back carry them?  (See Eagles, CSN, Billy Joel, et al.)  It would have been GREAT if they had played “My Generation”.  By embracing the irony they could have flipped us off, hilariously, something that band was the best at once upon a time.  “I hope I die before I get old,” Daltry would have sung, thinking, “Moon and Entwistle DID die, and none of you idiots even noticed.  Here we are shoving crap in your ears, letting our kids do the actual playing, and you all cheer because you remember how ‘Teenage Wasteland’ made you feel thirty-five years ago.  And that’s NOT EVEN THE NAME OF THE SONG.” Instead, the crowd just sang along to the other hits, unthinkingly, and Pete sold a ton of “Pinball Wizard” downloads on iTunes today.  Would “The Who Sell Out” refer to artistic integrity today, or just to the fact that there’s never an empty seat?

Free Christmas song!

Back in 2006, I recorded a Christmas cd with my choir at St. Luke’s Church entitled “Rejoice Tonight.”  For a limited time (!) I’ve made the opening track “Angels We Have Heard On High” available here.  Totally free, and it rocks.  If you like the track, check out the whole cd at http://rejoicetonight.com, or head straight to iTunes.

The bucket list

“Hi guys, I’m Melanie!  Janie’s best friend, yknow?!!  We’ve known each other, like forever, and I know everything about her.  I mean it!  I wanted to tell everyone what a great girl she is, and what a total BEST Stephen is, and I thought of the funniest story ever!

“So.  You all know they live together, right?   Sorry Father Joe!!!  Didn’t mean to be the one to tell you they were living in sin and all!!!  Anyway, the house they bought is like this total mess, and the bathroom is disgusto.  Steve was like, ‘I can fix it!’ and Jane was like, ‘OK!’  So he did that thing where you rip all the walls down, and it was unbelievable!  Like, there was nothing there not even a sink or a toilet or a shower or a towel rack or a box of tissues.  Or a ceiling.  He did SUCH a great job–except for the part where you have to put the new stuff in, ’cause it stayed empty–and everyone was ‘how do you go to the bathroom’? and they wouldn’t tell because it was all mysterious!!  But it was really simple!  They had a bucket.

“Ya gotta go, ya gotta go, y’know?  I always had questions about it, though.  Like, did they have two different buckets for number one and number two?  Or his and hers?  Who emptied it?  Was it a household chore?  ‘Honey, don’t forget the milk tonight!  And empty the poop bucket on your out!  WHERE DID THEY EMPTY IT?  Did they bring it to work and flush it there, or do the neighbors have a lot more fertilizer than they bargained for?  I sure hope they kept it separate from everything else in the house!  ‘Hey, where did you marinate those steaks?’

“So, as maid of honor I’m supposed to toast the newlyweds!  I love them!  I thought of something they might need though, so here’s a little present to send them on their way.  JOE GO GET IT.  A new bucket!  OK, it’s more of a Tupperware container, but it’s only symbolic since you guys called that contractor!  Aw, Janie, don’t look so pissed!  That’s what the bucket is for!”

No bedtime story if you stay up too late, young man

There’s a function facility in South County that we’ve done a few weddings at over the past year and a half, and it’s a beautiful, unique location right on the water.  (Of course, there is no such thing as ‘South’ county in Rhode Island but we are not even slowed by cartographic misnomers.)  Two little old ladies work there; they watch the door, greet visitors and point to the elevators to show them where to go.  I’m not sure that they do anything else, actually, but they seem very nice in a grandmotherly way.  Also, they consistently attempt to cut us off early so they can go home.

The first time it happened, we thought there was some sort of mixup with scheduling.  It can happen, since sometimes there are three different time lines going:  ours, the function coordinator’s, and the caterers.  And so when they came to us during a wedding with an 11:00PM end and told us that we were supposed to be done at 10:30, we panicked.  There was a lot of back and forth with the caterer and the father of the bride before it was resolved, and I think we did in fact end that night at 10:45.  We were there again recently and hadn’t even started playing before one of them tottered over to the band (we had no idea they ever left their posts by the door) and started in.

“Now, you know you’re supposed to be finished at 10:30, young man.  Make sure you time the last dance so that we can put the lights up and start letting people out!”

“Our contract says 11:00 ma’am,” said C.  He was ready this time, and was already pulling the contract when she replied, “Oh, now that sounds like a mistake to me,” and sauntered away, audibly clicking her tongue.  We were finishing our soundcheck a few minutes later when the photographer came over, visibly upset, and asked, “why wasn’t I informed that we’re ending at 10:30?”  Sneaky little sweet-looking grandma was trying to undercut us.   We had to bring in the father of the bride, the mother of the bride, the groom, the bride, the photographer and the caterer to sort it through.  At the end of the night we did the last dance and then, right as they put the lights up, C shouted “let’s do one more song!”  I’m not really certain what it says about us that we wanted to stick it to the old ladies, but I’m sure it’s an unrelated coincidence that the van had a flat tire the next day.

Every girl crazy for a sharp-dressed man

Recently, our drummer stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts on the way to a gig for a little pick-me-up (drummers, as a rule, need large amounts of caffeine and sugar.  It’s like having a large toddler around, especially because they’re always hitting things.)  He was running late, and so was already wearing his tux to save time once he got to the gig.  (Yes, he was running late –but still stopping for coffee.  See toddler comment, above.)  There was a teenage girl behind the counter who stared at him for a second, then instead of asking for his order said,  “So.  Which is it?”

Confused, M answered, “excuse me?”

She replied, “dressed like that, you’re either going to a funeral or to a wedding that NOBODY wants to see happen.”

Momentarily stunned, he finally answered, “Actually, for a funeral I might spring for dry-cleaning…”

DJLB live at CBGB

My old drummer (and great friend) John Andrade Jr posted a compilation of the D.J. Lauria Band performing live at the late, lamented CBGB.  I think this was in 1997, when we were in NYC (what seemed like) every other week.  Obviously this predates the wedding band, since few brides would consider a song called “(How Does It Feel) To Be A National Joke” appropriate for their reception.

I’ll try not to take it as an editorial comment that he cut out all of the guitar solos.

Ew.

Imagine for a moment that this guy:

is attending a wedding reception with this woman:

Since they’re sitting at a table together, it’s easy to assume that they aren’t actually TOGETHER together. You might think that they’re family, or that she’s the daughter of an old friend.
Then they start dancing.  Hmm, could still be harmless.
Then they start grinding.  OK, maybe he’s a dirty old uncle.
Then he puts his hands all over her behind.  Also, as he does it he looks straight at the band, as if to say:  “Yep.  She’s with me.  THIS IS THE WOMAN I’M AT THE WEDDING WITH.”  So.  Is she:

A) A Trophy wife
B) An escort (A and B assume that he’s got lots of money)
C) Nuts

Let me make it clear:  this girl looked SO MUCH like Denise Richards that until she passed us on her way to the bathroom, DC thought it WAS Denise Richards.  The old guy wasn’t as good-looking as Hal Holbrook, though.

Your dress is lovely, Mrs. Hatfield! Wait, I mean, Mrs. McCoy….

• Our 4th wedding for this particular family/friend group – yes
• Bartender refused to serve me a glass of ice water because the “bar was closed to get ready for the introductions” – yes, and by the way the introductions don’t start until the band is ready.  Jerk.
• Chicken Football – yes

A lot of nonsense comes out of my mouth when I’m trying to whip a crowd up into a frenzy (or to get them off their lazy butts), but I usually avoid embarrassing episodes like this or this or this, or, well you get the idea.  Read the blog.  Recently, though, I had one to make even C himself proud.  He and the photographer were discussing that the bride and groom had a lot of college friends at the reception, and the bride wanted to make sure that she got a group shot with everyone from Boston College before the night was over.  They agreed that the best time to do that would be just before we started our next set, and moved on to other topics.  After dinner, the band voted me into starting the set with “Sweet Caroline” to wake everyone up and get them on the dance floor.  Why this even works is beyond me, but I squared my shoulders and headed out to the empty dance floor:

“OK, kids!  You’ve had your dinner; probably a few drinks, too; and quite a few of you have been sitting for a while talking over old college stories.  In fact, I just saw Laura and all of her old Boston buddies take a picture in back!  Let’s hear it for Boston!  Let’s hear it for Fenway Park!  Imagine it’s the middle of the 8th at Fenway and none of you have early classes at Boston College tomorrow!  Let’s go Eagles!  Let’s go Red Sox!  Sing along to Neil Diamond just the way you did back then!”

It was working until I mentioned ‘early classes’, and then the roar from the crowd turned into a kind of confused, “um?”  Things sort of petered out, and I turned to look at the band.  C was whispering something to H and had a sheepish look on his face.  Suddenly I got it and yelled at him, “it was Boston UNIVERSITY, wasn’t it you dumbass!”  He started laughing and looked away just as a stunningly beautiful girl in an orange dress came over to me and whispered, “um, actually we all went to Boston U.”  She did not add, as she should have, “dumbass.”  Now I’m stuck, and did the only thing I could think of:

“Did I just say Boston COLLEGE?  I did not just say Boston College!  The only way I would have mentioned that lousy, stinking school would be that I can’t imagine that ANY of the fabulous, intelligent, attractive people at this wedding would have gone to a second-rate crudhole like that!  WHERE’S MY BOSTON UNIVERSITY CROWD?  WHERE ARE YOU?  LET ME HEAR IT!”

We managed to get everyone on the dance floor, screaming along, and they stayed there the rest of the night.  But, for at least half the set I couldn’t shake the feeling that the father of the bride was going to take me aside, mention that he went to Boston College, and tear up our paycheck in my face…

This was the whole toast…

“Uhh, ok. Everybody shut up. Yeah. Alright, so I’m the best man and I just want to say to Ronald and Nancy… Uhh, you made your f^(kin’ bed, so drink up.”

[total silence]

“Yeah, ok. Just kidding.”

[total silence]

“Ok, so everybody f^(kin’ drink up.”

[drinking noises]

C walks out to the center of the dance floor and says, “Hey everybody, how about a nice hand for the best man and a wonderful toast tonight!”

[total silence]

TravelGate

D & H were on their way to a gig in Monroe, CT which, according to Mapquest, is about a two-hour drive from Providence. Traffic was heavy but not stop-and-go, and they left with plenty of time to be early for the soundcheck at 6:00PM. Directions were provided by C.

5:00PM – 1.5 hours into the commute…

D continued, “the theory is that there are four levels of civilization, at least on a planetary level. Humanity is still at Type 0, which means that we’ve tapped our resources but can’t actually control anything.”

H interjected, “what do you mean, control? We have cities and travel and instant communications!”

“But none of those things require command of the earth itself,” he explained. “If we truly controlled the planet we’d be able to stop global warming, for example. In addition to the scientific progress needed, the countries of the world have to be able to work together effortlessly.”

“Hey, what exit do we take?”

“The directions say exit forty-two,” she said. “Which one are we on now?”

“Fifty-three. It should be about ten minutes or so until we need to get off of the highway. So anyway, they say that most civilizations probably don’t make it past splitting the atom because the science gets so far ahead of social maturity…”

Ten minutes later:

“…all you have to do is examine the contrails! Some people say that they are actually ‘chemtrails’ and are being used by the military for either weather manipulation, or population control. Or both!” said H, “I heard it on George Noory’s show last week.”

“What exit did we just pass?” she asked.

“Umm, forty-two. Guess I shouldn’t have been staring at the contrails,” said D. “We’ll take forty-one and turn around.”

“We’ve got plenty of time,” said H. “Why not just see where the exit goes? Besides, it’ll be a minor miracle if M beats us to a gig. Hey, Why are drummers always losing their watches?”

“Because they have so much trouble keeping time,” answered D.

They took exit forty-one and tried to follow the highway but the road headed off in a different direction. Disappointed, they got back on Route 95 north in order to take the correct exit, but soon realized that the north and south exit ramps led to two different roads. It took a few three-point turns across traffic to get to the place where their directions would again be valid.

“West Hartford,” said D, “has some pretty tough areas. I don’t think we have to drive through them to get to Monroe, though.” They pulled up to a traffic light where a homeless-looking woman was holding a sign which, since she wouldn’t stop moving, was impossible to read. H locked the doors.

“It’s great how you wait to do that until they can hear you,” said D. “Let’s roll down the windows and talk about how scary-looking she is.”

“Funny,” said H. “Are you sure this is the right road, Mr. King-of-the-Highway?”

“I have no idea,” answered D. “Didn’t the directions say to go a mile and a quarter after the turn?”

“Yup. How far have we gone?”

“About three miles,” he said. “I’m guessing we missed the turn. Nice scenery, tough.”

“You mean the crackhouse we just passed,” said H. “I think it’s time we call for some help.”

There was no cell service in the area, so they continued on. After driving over a few curbs they eventually got headed in the right direction.

5:30PM – On the outskirts of town

“How far down this road?” asked D. “I’ll bet C never even looked at these directions.”

“That GPS he bought is making him Dumb and Dumber,” replied H. “I think he turns it on to back out of his driveway. Have you noticed that no one remembers anything anymore? I mean, things we used to memorize easily. Who remembers appointments, when they have a PDA? Who learns phone numbers anymore, when there’s speed-dial? Who remembers..”

“…directions when there’s GPS? I get it,” said D. “Speaking of forgotten phone numbers, do we have cell service?”

“Yeah, but we’re all set now. Nine miles on this road, left on Main St., then five more miles and over the dam.”

“Dam?”

“Yes. Dam. It says here: ‘Dam’. Just as I always say at gigs, right before I have to sing ‘I Will Survive’. Dam.” She continued, “do you ever wonder if they have disco on other planets? I mean, forget intelligent life – that must be out there somewhere. In an infinite universe there are probably even other people that look like us.”

D interrupted, “so you’re certain that there is life on other planets. Intelligent life, that looks human, even. And you’re most curious as to whether they’ve been through the ’70s yet?”

“Well, what would you want to know?” she asked.

“I want to know if their Red Sox have won the World Series too,” he admitted. At this point, the road took a sharp turn to the left, but a smaller road continued straight. Unprepared, they continued down the smaller road which led to a dilapidated shack on the water advertising “Clam Strips! Lobster! Wi-Fi!” After backing down a dirt driveway and narrowly missing a mailbox shaped like a World War II-era submarine missile, they made it back to the main road and continued on over a wooden bridge.

5:45PM – I’ll bet the beavers could have found it

“Why does he always complain about playing songs in F Sharp?” asked H. “He’s a professional musician. He went to music school, for Pete’s sake. He plays lots of songs in lots of styles at lots of tempos in lots of places at lots of times of the day. Remember that ‘Monty Python’ sketch? ‘How to DO it!’ It was a learning show parody where they would teach people skills, only the explanations were always like: ‘How to Play The Flute. Put your fingers here, and blow here.’ THAT’S WHAT I FEEL LIKE DOING WITH HIS BASS. Play it in G, but move down ONE FRET! And where’s the DAMN DAM?”

“I was just wondering that myself,” said D, relieved at the opportunity to interrupt the tirade. “We’ve already gone six miles, and I haven’t seen anything other than that small bridge we went over. You don’t think that’s what he meant by a dam, do you?”

She responded with a non-sequitur, “How do you know when the stage is crooked?”

“When the drool is only coming out of one side of the bass player’s mouth,” he answered. “Right. He probably messed up about the dam. Let’s go back and take the main road at the intersection we just passed. It’s getting pretty late, though.”

They reversed course, turned onto Route 34, and continued west for about a mile and a half. At that point, they came to a service station/general store/pharmacy/donut shop, and D got out to ask for directions. The store was run by an elderly gentleman, who had a disturbing resemblance to the actor that played Lucille Ball’s boss at the bank. He was wearing headphones while watching a rerun of “Charmed” on a brand-new iPod.

“Excuse me? Sir?” asked D. We’re just having a little trouble finding…”

“The country club?” finished the man. “You and everyone else. I swear, they made it impossible to get to that blight upon civilization. No one can find the thing.”

“Can you give me directions?” asked D, politely.

“I’ll bet Piper and Phoebe could scry for it,” he added.

“It’s just that we’re in a bit of a hurry?” asked D after a minute or so.

The man sighed loudly while pressing pause. “You need to head back out to the main road…”

“Yes?”

“I love football,” the man suddenly exclaimed.

“What does that…”

“Go four miles north. Then cross the dam, and…”

“Yes?” repeated D, crossing his fingers that Mr. Mooney might actually finish a thought.

“Too bad the Patriots didn’t move to Hartford,” the man drifted off. “That Bledsoe can really wing it.”

At this point D began to cough violently.

“Parking lot like a damn football stadium!” declared the man, as he pressed play on his iPod and adjusted his headphones.

“Ok,” whispered D, “I’ll let myself out.” He slowly backed out of the store while keeping his eyes on the old man, who was now busy screaming at his iPod that Cole was the Source of All Evil.

“So? Are we on the right road, finally?” asked H, “and what was he yelling about?”

“I was almost… just…. murdered…” stammered D.

6:10PM – Finally, Black Canyon

Four miles later, D & H were starting to think that a major local conspiracy was keeping them from making it to the gig. As they followed the Housatonic River past what felt like the twentieth direction change, D wondered if the lateness of the hour meant that calling C would now be a bad idea. Suddenly Route 34 climbed to the left, over the river, and ahead they saw the road continue over a large, gated concrete structure that created a lake below. The Stevenson Dam.

“Um.” said D. That looks like, a…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Ok, but it really looks like a …”

“Just drive. Please.” pleaded H. “There IS a road going over it, right? We don’t need a barge?”

The road continued through a densely wooded area, winding up and in, until they came upon an enormous clearing with enough lighting for a Whitesnake concert circa 1987. Or, perhaps, an NFL stadium. They pulled into the parking lot, unloaded the gear and made their way to the lobby. There were security guards at the door, who stopped all progress with one simple question:

“Which wedding are you here for?”

(Just as an aside: you’d think we’d know. We’re professional musicians and we take this work seriously; people pay a lot of money to have us entertain their friends and family, and we often spend hours learning songs for specific brides. It’s just that C is the one that deals with the couples personally, and if he doesn’t remember to include the newlywed’s names on the faulty driving directions then we have no answer to the above question.)

There were two ballrooms, each of which was hosting a reception; it was clearly cocktail hour in both locations; and there was someone playing jazz piano in the background for both parties; presumably, DC was at ours.

“Right or left?” asked H. “Take a guess. We’re due.”

“I’m flipping a coin,” said D. “Enough of this nonsense. Heads is left.”

The coin came up tails, so they turned right and began politely pushing through the guests to get to the ballroom area. Halfway through they came upon a pianist they’d never seen before, and a Disk Jockey team unpacking an elaborate collection of Village People-looking costumes. They turned around and headed for the other ballroom. Finally with the PA in sight, C tsk-tsking while he glared at his watch, N busily checking microphones by himself, and DC off in the corner entertaining the guests with “Route 66″, they could take solace in one thing:

They still managed to beat the drummer.