Usually, there’s no Contact.  There’s no name of a guy that you’re supposed to talk to.  Believe it or not, most of the time we show up and say “We’re Red Collar and we’re playing tonight”.  It’s the opposite of what normally happens at places like hospitals.  To wit:

“I’m Jason and I’m here to see someone”

“Whom?”

“I don’t know”

“At what time?”

“I don’t know”

“For what?”

“I’m not sure”

It’s one of the luxuries of being in a band at our level.  You don’t have to worry about the details.  It’s nice to get the details.  It saves a lot of headaches to get the details.  Most of the time though, it’s not a huge deal.

Most of the time.

Most of the time, shows start at 10.  Most of the time, the bartender or the sound guy are aware you are coming.  Most of the time, we get two free drinks per band member.  Most of the time, a 40-minute set will do.  Most of the time, the bartender or door person pays you.  It is really, really nice when all of this is established beforehand.  Unfortunately very few clubs send out a Check Sheet with all of this information: set-up times, set times, drink tickets, food tickets.  Very few send out this information.  It’s nice when they do.  It’s great when they do.  Most of them don’t.  Most of the time, it’s not a big deal.

Most of the time.

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We left St. Louis a little late.  My Sister and her family live there and we were on the last stretch of a tour, enjoying the luxuries of A Home.  I called the Kentucky Promoter, Nate, to let him know that we would be just a little late.  Nate is one of the few promoters that gave us his number.  He told us that if we got into town early, he’d feed us at his place.

“Nate?  This is Jason from Red Collar”

“Oh!  Hey man, how’s it going?”

“It’s going well thanks.  Look, we got a little bit of a late start coming out of St. Louis but the GPS says we’ll there around eight thirty”

“That’s cool.  Call me when you get into town.  The place can be a little tricky to find”

An honestly true Southern Gentleman, this Nate.  As I’d find out, Nate is Old School.  He toured punk rock clubs for years and understands that bands are barely breaking even and that at times food is a luxury.  Great guy.

We made great time and arrived in Owensboro Kentucky at 8:15.  I called him back.

“Nate?  Jason from Red Collar”

“Hey man.  You in town?  Okay.  Pull up to the side of the building and you’ll see Boiler Room out back by the load-in dock”

We did as told.  In fact we did as told twice because we couldn’t find it on the first pass.  Nate was right.  Tricky indeed.  We drove around the building and asked a young couple where The Boiler Room was.

“Keep on keeping on.  It’ll be right around the corner”

It was.  I immediately thought that The Boiler Room is a strange venue unlike any we’ve ever played.  Most of the time, venues that we play don’t have tiki torches.  It doesn’t mean I’m not going to have a good time.  They also don’t have a cabana theme.  But hey, we’ve played far stranger places, far worse places.  Though we’ve never played a place that had four bouncers at the front tiki.  Four security guys all wearing red shirts with white SECURITY on the back.

Sheee-it.  They must have a time out here.

There was no need to show ID, one of the SECURITY guys assumed we were in the band.  In this profession of ours, some folk like to dress in, um, colorful attire.  Maybe they dye their hair or shave it in non-traditional ways.  Maybe they have their heads pierced.  Tattoos.  Whatever.  One thing that I never understood was when these alternative types dress alternatively and then someone in Middle America stares at them, they object:

“WHAT ARE YOU LOOKNG AT, MAN?  Why does every one keep on staring at me?”

It’s because you are wearing a tutu with leopard print chaps.  You have a full sized microphone surgically impaled in your forehead.  Now regrettably I don’t have any piercings or tutu’s or leopard print chaps, I do have gold combat boots with spurs.  People stare.  Not a big deal.  I have no rationale for wearing them other than I like them.  Elvis liked side burns.  People stare.  They are supposed to.

People stare but they’ve never…seethed.  They’ve never…boiled.

Not until Owensboro.

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There was an immediate sense of we-don’t-belong.  As we went inside the fence and onto the deck, past the fire pit, Beth said that she liked walking behind me, Mike and Jon because all she hears from people sitting under Panama Umbrellas is this:

“What…the fuck…ya’ll?”

(part 2 coming soon)