The Boiler Room: Owensboro, KY

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

“What…the fuck…ya’ll?”

____________________________________________

As we arrived I called Nate, The Promoter:

“Hey Nate.  It’s Jason.  We’re here.”

“Good, good.  Just hang tight and I’ll come get you.”

We hung tight outside at the cabana.

I have been thinking about this night and struggling for weeks as to how to describe the clientele of The Boiler Room.  It’s tough to describe a group of people, especially these people, without sounding judgmental.  I end up sounding judgmental because, well, I am.  We all are.  We all do.  Even the people that insist they are simple folk and don’t do that type of thing do exactly that by claiming they are a simple folk and don’t do ‘that type of thing’.  Judging folks because of their clothes is something that everyone does at least in some small part because it is what we consciously or subconsciously hope people do when we wear said clothes.  We throw out these social identifiers by wearing or not wearing a certain color or band logo, a certain pair of sunglasses, or a certain shoe (or gold spurred boot, naturally).

These guys weren’t wearing plain T-Shirts.  They did not wear polo shirts or dress shirts.  They were wearing the awful hyper tribal designed T-Shirts that are popular in this post-Photoshop world.  They are supposed to convey hip rebellion but they merely convey confused epilepsy.  The guys wore at least one or more likely two Sparkly Shiny Earrings accommodated by a matching necklace.  Males and females alike generously wore hair products complimenting the split ends, tragically bleached. They had good, even color to their cheeks, the kind of color you don’t get from mowing lawns or volunteering for Habitat for Humanity.  I suppose since thirty is the new twenty, the girls wanted to add on ten needless years to their young fresh faces and spent their summer stipends indulging on copious amounts of make-up.  Note to self: Say a silent prayer to Tammy Faye, Patron Saint of Mascara.  They wore sequins.  They had well manicured fingernails and well combed and conditioned hair.  They were all rock stars, yo.  Daughtry Rock Stars.  Rock Stars™ brought to you by Mountain Dew.

I don’t think the people at The Boiler Room were Middle America though they may insist that they are.  To me, there was a certain whiff of affluence.  They gave off a bouquet of Cancun.  It was a Z-28 crowd.  It’s funny/tragic: if ten years ago I would’ve walked into The Boiler Room with two earrings, bleached conditioned hair and a tribal shirt, these then flannel wearing BroBoys would’ve called me a fag and then kicked my ass after looking at me with the stink eye…

…the kind of stink eye they are giving Red Collar right now.

I went inside The Boiler Room.  The Bro-Rock is cranked.  It’s a sports bar-esque atmosphere.  I spot two more Red Shirt Security Guys.  In addition to the ones at the door, that makes at least six.  Six Security Guards.  Really?  I can’t help but think this is going to be the worst place Red Collar will ever play.  This is a very bad idea.  I wondered who the hell booked this show and then remembered.  For this particular swing of dates, we got some help from our friend Jeff in the great band Restorations.  We played with them for a weekend trip and he offered to help us book a few places that his band had connections with.  Jeff, buddy, you should’ve let this particular connection go dead.

Inside, there is a band setting up.  Finally!  Silver lining on our cloud.  This is good.  There is a PA system.  This is good!  The band has their name printed on a dry erase board next to them: Rockin’ the Bells*.  Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t say ‘This is good!’ but at least I am no longer saying ‘This is bad!’.  I’ll just say ‘This is mediocre!’.  Rockin’ the Bells is made up of four members.  Each is a grotesque caricature of every decade of rock since and including Black Sabbath.  There is a Skynyrd.  There is a Bon Jovi.  There is a Limp Bizcuit.  Rockin’ the Bells is like Faith No Moribund.  This is why people go to dance clubs.  I like rock music and I want to crawl under a rock, no pun intended.  The Crayola Shining Silver has suddenly dulled to more of a Turd Brown.  I went to the bartender.

“Hey!  My name is Jason.  I’m in Red Collar.  We’re playing tonight”

“What?”

“I’m in a band!”

“A band?”

The BroRock is still CRANKED.  I sincerely hate playing clubs where the in-between music and the stage music are too loud.  This is another reason why people flock from the rock club to the dance club: if you are to hear music this loud, you want to shake your ass as opposed to doing the dance so popular in the rock clubs: The Crossed Arm.  For a brief moment, I would love to be transported to the heyday of rock clubbing, twenty or thirty years ago to see what the equivalent of this club is.  PA systems have gotten cheaper.  Louder.  Annoying.  Got to compete with the Dance Clubs though!  Kids are leaving us in droves!  Turn it up!  Got to compete with the bass!  More kids are leaving!  Turn it up louder!  Note to soundman: what you do is an art.  You are a SOUNDman.  You are not a LOUDman.  Recognize.

There is no way for me to mime the information I need to get to this bartender over this shitty music.  The conversations I have to mime in this business are fairly ridiculous.  I once complimented a gal’s Dirty Little Heaters shirt and meant to say ‘Nice shirt’ but when I mimed this with my two hands gracing the front of my shirt, she perceived it as ‘Nice boobs’.  I told this story to a soundman friend of questionable morals and he said that it happened with him as well. Except he meant to say ‘Nice boobs’ and she thought he just said ‘Nice shirt’.

Back to The Boiler Room.  I want to tell the bartender this:

“I am in a band called Red Collar and we are supposed to play tonight”.

The information I undoubtedly am actually conveying with my lame sign language is:

“I…play guitar…here…in my pants”

She understandably doesn’t get it.  I think that if I exaggerate my mime, it will make sense though what I communicate is the name of some Backwards 21st century Native American Warrior:

“ME TINY GUITAR STRUM LOUDLY IN PANTS!!!”

I write ‘Red Collar’ on a bar napkin and show it to her.  She doesn’t get it.  I shout:

“I’m in a band and we’re playing tonight”

“Tonight?”

“YES.  TO-NIGHT”

“Were you supposed to play this afternoon?  Steve is pissed!”

“No.  TO-NIGHT.  Red Collar.  Who is Steve?”

“You know, Steve?”

“No.  I’m looking for Nate”

“Who?”

“NATE!”

“Steve is the guy you want to talk to”

“Fine.  Where is Steve?”

“There is no Nate!”

“STEVE!”

“He’s not here.  He left when you guys didn’t show this afternoon”

Queue the longest sigh in the world.  I walk outside to the Cabana part of hell where I am trailed by a well-groomed, sequenced group of five girls that say at the same time:

“Are those spurs?”

“What…the fuck…y’all?”

“Gold spurs?”

“whatthefuck?”

“Y’all?”

They sounded and smelled like a Gaggle of Turkeys corralled in a circular perfume counter at the mall.  Gobble goggle…y’all.

I call Nate:

“Nate?  It’s Jason again”

“What the hell man….no man, you go to hell…yeah whatever.  YEAH WHATEVER. Okay, sorry man.  Just got to try and deal with these annoying people”

“So should we load in?”

“Let me get the band started and I’ll come right out to help you”

“I’d really feel more comfortable if we can just load in.  Tell me where to go”

“I’ll meet you man.  Don’t worry”

“Fine”

Outside I saw Jon, Beth and Mike, a marooned island unto themselves.  The natives have cautiously distanced themselves North East South and West by one table and then it’s an ocean of bad retail, self-bronzing bottles and dead hairspray canisters.  The DJ in the outside Cabana announces that we are going to get this party started and get it started right.  And how do you get a party started? It takes two to make a thing go right.  It takes two to make it out of sight.  It’s Rob Base, the man who knows about things that make you get weary.  Mister Base, I don’t need you to tell me about those things because I know about them all too well.

Me: “I have a bad feeling about this”

Jon: “It is a little strange”

Beth: “Did you talk to Nate?”

Me: “Yes.  He’s getting the band started.  The bartender didn’t know who the hell he or we was”

I duck inside and hear Rockin’ the Bells starting to play ‘Iron Man’.

Me: “I have a really bad feeling about this.  This is going to be awful”

Mike: “This is going to be awesome”

To be concluded.

—-

*names changed to protect the guilty

Jason