I grabbed another Budweiser from the fridge, popped the cap, took a long swig, ahh! Yes.
I walked back out on the deck and looked up... Not a cloud in the sky!
"Stupid ass weather people, we are golden," I muttered to Barbie, my little blond Pomeranian. She looked at me with a reassuring yawn. Barbie had stopped barking or making any kind of noise ever since she went to stay with my ex-wife for a weekend. It was super weird, all she did now was look at me sideways, but that was probably because she was thinking, "Dude, are you really gonna wear that?"
I don't know what she did to her, but I never let her babysit the dog again.
I was concerned, however. I didn't have a dime to my name, and I was going to have to drive the blue beast down to the studio to meet the guys. The beast was a faded baby blue 1970 Plymouth Fury. I bought it from a dude I worked printing with. It was a retired cop car he got at an auction, and it had been sitting in his yard forever when I got it. I'm not kidding, the thing was a BEAST! It had a six-barrel 440 that would white smoke the tires anytime I wanted, which was never, because I couldn't afford the gallon of gas it drank when you punched it or taking a chance of blowing the baloney skin tires on it.
I was always bumming rides back then, but not today. After the big show, I had a convoluted plan to get my gear back to the studio, and then I could bring it all home from there. I could get two Marshall half stacks in the back seat, I'm telling you, it was a boat!
I looked at Barbie, "You think Terry will loan me five bucks?" She nodded, yes.
Rides weren't the only thing I bummed in those days.
By the time we convened at Sixteenth Avenue Sound to meet the limo driver, ominous clouds had rolled in. I mean, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, type clouds.
Dammit, man!
I rolled into the parking lot in a cloud of oil smoke and hopped out of the beast as it did it's rumbling and knocking after I killed the ignition. It was still going as I approached the guys, all looking up at the summer soup of grey clouds and lightning in the distance.
"Looks heinous," Jamie said, pulling his rockstar shades back to keep his hair out of his face.
"It'll blow over," I said, always the optimist, "At least it's coming now, instead of showtime."
"Looks like a Simmonz show!" Easlo said. It always rained when we played anywhere.
"Let's have a cocktail!"
We did.
The mood was still celebratory, regardless of the impending storm, so we shot the shit until the limo pulled up. I was just at that line; sobriety was giving way to "loosey-goosey', which was not drunk, but definitely, no filter.
"Is that really what you are wearing?" Paulie asked me through a grin while shaking his head.
"Is that really your dick?" I said, pointing to his spandex, holding my fingers a half-inch apart.
Everybody rolled.
"YOU ARE A DICK!" Paulie yelled back, cracking everybody up big time. Total inside joke.
It shall remain inside. (Breaking balls in a band is probably in my top five of life.)
We piled in the limo and headed out to 'The 'Wood,' as it had become known over the last week. We weren't in the car enough time for me to make another screwdriver from the limo bar before the bottom fell out of the sky.
I shit you not, the storm that hit was absolutely gnarly! The thunder, lightning, wind, and rain whipped the limo around on I-24 like a Matchbox car. Dude had to slow down to a crawl because he could not see with the wipers going full blast.
Our festive mood was taking a hit. We all just kept convincing ourselves that it would be okay.
That was when the first murmurs of 'What if they don't let us play' started getting tossed around.
"No, no, NO, goddamnit! We WILL play!" I said, defiantly. "Let them TRY to keep our asses off that stage!"
We floated along the 1-24 river, in the long, black, land cruiser.
False bravado was my M.O., but I was worried. This storm could delay everything.
I'm glad I didn't know what I know now about the machinations of a big-time rock show, having been on this end of the biz for a very long time now because all hope and cockiness would have been gone.
Road crews are the backbone of any tour, they are the reason people get to see shows, period.
Sound, lights, stage, backline, all that shit runs on a tight clock with no room for bullshit and curveballs.
You know what road crews don't like?
They don't like piss ant local bands winning contests to open shows, fucking up their well-oiled machine... especially if there is an inland hurricane going on.
The cards were stacked against us more than we could have imagined, and that ain't even the half of it!
This whole "Battle Of The Bands" radio promotion for this tour had actually played out in a few other cites before Nashville. We did not know that.
So far, none of the other winners had been able to play the big stage yet.
As we pulled into the backstage entrance at Starwood, the rain had mercifully died down to a drizzle. There were small creeks and rivers of gushing water flowing everywhere. Crew dudes were running in every direction with plastic, yelling over radios, still covering gear.
Our van and trailer were parked across from the loading dock, still full. Our dudes were standing around. Fuck.
We hopped out, and Robert Eva, concert coordinator, and a dear friend approached with a concerned look on his face.
"The storm fucked everything up guys, we are behind schedule, I'm going to do everything I can, but I can't promise you anything," He said, obviously pained.
"I've got you all set up in a room with everything you could want, let's head over there, and then I'll find out where we're at."
Are you fucking shitting me?
No. No. No. No! Motherfuck! I said this to myself.
"Okay, dude," I said, and we headed backstage.
As we rolled through the central corridor, there was Jack Blades and Tommy Shaw, hanging out in a tiny alcove that looked like an office. There was a desk where Jack sat, and Tommy was sitting on a chair backward, they were having a conversation, then Jack looked up and said, "Hey! are you guys the contest winners?"
"That's us," I said, "Simmonz."
He looked at me, "Well, you boys are bad luck. Every time we've tried this on this tour, it has rained like a bitch."
"Every. Time." Tommy punctuated, with a sigh.
We all just stood there.
Jack said, "Yeah, man, this contest winner thing is bad luck. Rain. Rain. Rain." He said as he counted on his fingers.
"Rain, plus outdoor rock show, don't mix. The crew is not happy right now."
"Crew's not happy, yep," Tommy said.
I don't know about the other guys, buy the wind had just been knocked out of my sails.
Then Jack said, "Hey, you look familiar. Where do I know you from?"
I pointed at my chest and said, "Me?"
He said, "Yeah, what's your name?"
"Mike Simmons."
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