TEASERS / PITS SHOCK AND AWE WEEKEND or HOW WE GOT BANNED FROM CBGB

Prelude, Greensboro NC, New York Pizza with the Spinns, April 3rd 2003

So this was originally supposed to be a short Teasers/Spinns tour but fate had conspired against us, "best laid plans" and all that, and this was the only show remaining from the original three we had planned. It was very cool, anyway, to be back at New York Pizza, Tate Street in Greensboro having been my stomping grounds years ago. It's good to see bands playing down there again, since 5 years ago the only sure things you could get on Tate were a slice of pizza and stabbed. So NYP has started having bands, on a tip jar basis, and you get a pizza and some beer and it's a pretty cool weeknight gig only 20 minutes from the Ranch. The other cool/scary thing about this particular night was it was Valerie's first show since what's become known as "the pinched nerve breakdown". For those of you who don't know, a few weeks ago Valerie woke up to find that she couldn't use her right hand, period. It was basically paralyzed and flappin' in the breeze. To make a long, slightly panicked story short, she had A. exhausted her arm working too much and playing the drums and B. slept on it wrong and pinched a nerve. It's called a "radial palsy". So basically, the cure is to take a bunch of medicine and don't move your arm for two weeks. So we canceled some shows and had Tiger Beat Tony fill in on the drums for a St. Pat's gig. We had practiced for about 20 minutes two days before the NYP show, but we basically were just hoping that her arm would hold up through the show.
So we get there and we're not on the flyer and I was temporarily worried that we weren't on the bill. The whole thing was very casual though, and soon the Spinns showed up and said we were on the bill, and we set our shit up and got busy drinkin', seein' as how NYP has Red Oak on draft and I like that shit. Someone had to go find a PA, apparently there was a SMALL oversight, so the show started a bit late. But that was OK, 'cause TJ had shown up (check out our recording story to hear all about TJ) and he had never seen us live even though he recorded our record. So, we switched from beer to Jack and Cokes and babbled
about recording, and working for the state, and Val's arm, and of course, Seinfeld. Eventually, a good crowd of people had shown, including our buddy Nate who is about to move to Chicago, Savannah Dave,
Kyle and Philip, some Burlington homies. When they asked us to please play I sorta felt like they were interrupting the party. But, dammit, it IS what we came here to do, right? So we kicked it and it felt GREAT to be playing again after three weeks. I dunno WHAT it sounded like, but I had a DAMN good time playing, and there were a good handful of people who really seemed to dig it. And mostly, the good news was Valerie made it. Her arm had (and has) to be iced after she plays, but I swear no one would've ever known she was hurt in any way. Face it: Super Val rocks your ass.
So then the Spinns just kicked ass. Fresh back from a tour, scaled back to a three piece, (so long Lawrence, we barely knew ye) they were just fucking great. These guys are the shit, stop what you're doing and go see them now. So after their set most people wandered off and we (me, the Teasers, Ground Hog, Philip, Kyle and Savannah Dave) were doing our best to teach that bar a lesson. The Spinns, who were working on their own lesson plan, were very enthusiastic about an after party, so we all went
except Thurn and C Bomb who had to drive back to Chapel Hill. We get to the party and were presented with Milwaukee's Best ICE for our efforts. It wasn't bad, so I knew it was time to go, 'cause it IS bad and my judgment was obviously a little beyond impaired. Despite the fact that we were going to Mobtown the next day, we still didn't get back to the Ranch 'til around 4. Clever, huh?

Part 2: Charm City Madness.
Jimmy and the Teasers and The Pits @ Mum's, Baltimore Maryland, Friday April 4th, 2003

If anyone ever tells you driving to Baltimore sucks, they also think the ocean is "a little salty". Because the drive sucks OUT LOUD. And blows as well. We picked up Thurn and Charity around two in Chapel Hill and pounded the 85/95 corridor for what seems like the millionth time in our lives. For this trip, it was just Jimmy and the Teasers, no extras, Ground Hog having other obligations and the extra seat already promised to The Reverend Stevie St. 666 (Chris for short. Or sober.) for the trip from MobTown to NYC on Saturday.
Despite the crappy ride, after all the cancellations from the weather and the pinched nerve breakdown, it was great to be back in the saddle and cruising down the road toward certain oblivion again. And speaking of certain oblivion: You see some crazy shit when you spend so much time driving, and you try to learn to anticipate these things. So when I saw three ol' boys get onto the interstate around Henderson, NC towing a car behind their little pick 'em up truck WITH A CHAIN, I knew to stay the fuck back. They surely thought they were safe, as they were only going one exit. But they did have time to get up to about 65 and when they started to exit, it was all over. The car in tow swerved to one side, and then it just went fucking apeshit. And it was dragging the pick 'em up truck right along with it. Every one was screaming and cars were swerving left and right trying to get out of the way, at 70 mph mind you, of what had become a Tasmanian Devil style clusterfuck in the middle of I-85. Funny thing was, after two cars chained together did a full 360 across three lanes of traffic, no one hit them. Fellas sure did look scared when we drove past them though. Probably shoulda thrown them a roll of Official Teaser Toilet Paper.
So we arrive at Mum's and are directed into a private load-in spot (sweet!) and find the Pits already settled into the club and in position: Dusty at the bar, Morbid at the Jukebox, `Lanie slightly tipsy and buzzing around in red fishnet. Of course, it's on. Having learned our Mobtown lesson well the last time we were here, we start a tab. Now mum's is NOT a big place. They have to move the pool table and stuff for us to have a spot to play, and it's a TILE floor. I would come to regret this particular feature of this bar later. A coin toss to see who would play first yielded no results, because if you win, you still probably wanna play first so it doesn't cut into your drinkin' time so much. Finally it's decided we'll play second since we're playing earlier the next night. The place gets pretty damn full, Lancaster being so close to Baltimore, the Pits had many friends down, and our usual gang of idiots (i.e. The Twin Six) was well represented. The Pits played a BLAZING set, with some new songs, and since Mum's was so small, we TRIED to keep from spraying beer all over them. We were...sorta successful. By the time they finished, there was still plenty of beer on them, and most importantly, on the fucking floor.
Our set was pretty damned chaotic, as I remember it. Probably too loud for that club, but my enthusiasm for playing shows again, coupled with the growing bar tab, was somewhat overwhelming. I was pretty off the hook I guess, pushing my way into the crowd, jumping off a little unfortunate bench beside the "stage", basically being my goofy self. So the beer is flying while we're playing and that damned tile floor is SLICK AS HELL. Despite their innate coolness, Chuck Taylors AIN'T known for their traction and I'm totally unstable, more so than usual, the whole time we're playing. Somewhere toward the end of the set, I took a pretty big leap off the aforementioned bench. Good execution, but to say the least, I did not stick the landing. To be honest, it was very confusing. I know I slipped in the beer, but it seemed like I fell for around 45 seconds, bouncing off people, really out of control and trying my DAMNEDEST to keep playing. Then, the monitor is there and I just flipped over it and did one of those falls where you hit and then your head snaps back and cracks, audibly at least, on the floor. I was a bit stunned, and noticed I had quit playing. Ever confident in the athletic abilities of Jimmy though, the crowd of people collectively hoisted me back on my feet and back onto the playing surface. Within' a couple of minutes I was OK, but afterward I knew it was bad because people asked me if I was OK before they commented on the set, a SURE sign of an outstanding fall. Once my head quit spinning, I was damned proud.
So the night keeps going like they tend to do. Due to it's size and the three-dollar cover, the money was low but they really hooked us up at the bar, and overall it was a great show. We went back to Chris', and bullshitted and talked about people who weren't there. Slowly everyone passed out; Morbid in a horrifying position that looked like it would cause a spinal injury at best. I know better than to fuck with a sleeping Pit though, and Chris and I decided to take the high road and intentionally go to sleep, which made us both feel tough for the second time in our lives.
I slept a bit and woke up to take a shower. Now, I was damned sore, getting up the morning after a show always makes me feel a bit like Evel Knevil or Indiana Jones or some shit, but this was especially bad.
Chris has a big ass mirror in his bathroom and when I'm changing clothes I catch a glance in the mirror and HOLY FUCKING SHIT do I have bruise on my thigh. In fact, bruise nothing, this is what the word CONTUSION was invented for. It looks like someone hit me in the leg with a baseball bat, feels like it too, and it's about the size of a softball. Just...black. I guess I hit the monitor? I dunno. Something that ugly made me feel the scant need for some sort of medical attention. I drove to New York City and had a Natty Bo instead.

Part 3. CBGB
The Brimstones, The Pits, Jimmy and the Teasers, Satan's Teardrops, New York City, CBGB Saturday April 5th, 2003

So this is where the fun begins, right? World Famous CBGB, Bowery, Manhattan, New York Fucking City. In our minds, never had a more notorious and socially retarded group of people descended on a more appropriate environment. Big, loud, stupid, punk rock. This we could do, this we could handle, on a professional level with the best of them. Chaos, lack of skill, reckless abandon, these are our tools, these things we embrace. And it would be OK here, in this place that has seen so much debauchery, so many useless fucks, so very many spilled beverages. We would be at home, welcomed with open arms and cold beers.

Welcome to New York baby

And of course it ain't like we haven't been there before. I was exaggerating above, I know damn well that CBGB IS a thing of LEGEND, and not of the moment at all. In the end, it's a bar that has managed to have the same name for the last zillion years, and never suffered the fate of being bought and subsequently called "Ralph's" or whatever the hell the new owner wanted to name it. It IS cool that all the bands we know and loved played there back in the 70s. But when you walk in, it's just another joint. I have played there several times, once just outta high school, and basically it was OK each time. Nothing great. But I truly planned on changing that.
When we got to Manhattan we (J&TT and Chris, the Pits went to Jersey) went to the apartment of Commander Joe, who is a "commander" because he's the leader of the Twin Six Army, a position surely achieved by a shrewd display of strategy while inebriated at the Gin Mill or Friend's or some similar Baltimore establishment. I have never asked, I just respect his authority, Cartman style. So Joe moved from Baltimore to New York a few years back with his girlfriend and they have a very cool pad somewhere near the Holland Tunnel. It's great to have friends in Manhattan, they know where things are, they suggest cool places to go which GREATLY reduces the wandering around aimlessly that one can easily fall into in New York, and they don't tend to gaze in awe when they walk past places mentioned in Beastie Boys songs, like I do. So after a few Natty Bo (I think that's actually plural) like I mentioned, we went to eat at Acme, a place TJ had recommended as being near CBGB, and being excellent. Commander Joe backed up this claim, and we all piled in the Teaser van and headed over. The place does kick some serious Cajun ass, and they have Turbo Dog on tap, a Naw'Lins treat for sure. In fact, a waiter spilled one in the floor behind me and I asked for a straw. No one was sure if I was kidding.
So we go to CBGB, and get a parking space right in front. Shoulda known we used up all our luck at once. We were on second, Satan's Teardrops had canceled due to van problems and the promoter, Emil, had gotten some heavy punk rock replacements, so I was glad we weren't forced into playing first. The Brimstones show up after hanging out in the afternoon with the Pits, and the Pits pull up shortly thereafter, looking amazingly healthy despite being left alone in the city. We exchange greetings and a few stories with The Brimstones, who we really dig and seldom see, and then realize there had been a false negative report and there WAS free beer for the bands. Since beers cost $6 a piece in CBGB, this was phenomenal news, in fact, it required a celebration. The Pits and Brimstones took off for some record store, the Teasers and I choose to watch the fist band and get our drink on. I made friends with an adorable little waitress and was having a fine time. Then the first band starts. It's like 8:30. What the fuck? Turns out, it works out like this: bands play on the half-hour, first band at 8:30, last band at 11:30. I dunno whose mom made up these rules, no one explained it to me, and I didn't ask. I thought it was funny that we had an hour slot. The Pits and us could take ONE slot and you'd still have time for a Pink Floyd song at the end of our set. Anyway, we went with the flow, no problem. There was also a second-string burlesque dancer to dance between sets. Seems the first-string girls had canceled, apparently they'd been offered more money. She did a good job, although there were some DAMN amusing comments made. I shall keep my reputation as a gentleman in tact by not repeating them.
So I had noticed the fucking nazi overtone of this joint from the get go. The CBGB people weren't really shitty, but they damn sure weren't nice. A LOT of people were working there though, this doesn't apply to all of them, some of them were perfectly cool. But mostly it was "You go on at THIS time, you have THIS much time, you will move from the stage in an orderly fashion... Awright, I'm exaggerating. But it wasn't... a FUN environment, how's that? But fuck it, Saturday, Manhattan, free drinks, y'all know DAMN well Jimmy Fucking Brad was havin' a DAMN good time. I got right fired up before we played, and decided I was gonna make the most of this. Actually, I was VERY impressed with the crowd, and we had MANY unexpected friends show up, including Anastasia and D.F.. So we HAD to rock, and in fact, I think we did. I was VERY happy with the show, my amp was crankin', I was stumbling around, the Teasers were super sexy and our injured drummer was continuing to amaze me with how much ass she was whoopin'. The crowd was great, everyone got onstage and danced with us, I thought it was right on.
After the dancer finished, the Pits played perhaps the best set I've ever seen them play. It sounded INCREDIBLE, they were just really locked on, to borrow a term, and everybody was getting really into the whole show by now. Disorderly became rowdy, rowdy became reckless, reckless became destructive, and then Stevie (Chris was drowning in Beam and Cokes) steps in with a plan. Earlier he had spied one of those old Vaudeville Hooks where they yanked performers off the stage, oft seen in Bugs Bunny cartoons. In hindsight, it was probably a tool fashioned to adjust the stage lights with, but at the time we were LIVING in a cartoon and it seemed like something that might be right behind Bugs' back when he needs it, like an anvil. SO, I go after it, obviously to jerk Dusty Booze off his drum throne. Despite the ridiculusness of the situation, you HAVE to see the logic in that, right? So when I touch it there's a guy with a Flock of Seagulls hairdo staring at me. So I figure this is HIS Vaudeville Hook, and maybe I better ask to use it. So I say "Hey, my man, I just wanna borrow this for a minute to fuck with the drummer, I'll bring it right back. Cool"? He looks at me like he's fucking Vin Diesel or something. So I say "No?" and he barks in my face "NO!" and turns around. Well I thought it was funny as shit that Flock of Seagulls got mad. I mean, heartbroken, wistful, WINSOME even, yeah, he could pull those off. But pissed and humorless? He needs to look into a style change; he's misrepresenting himself. So I'm laughing, several people are laughing actually, and I can tell FOSG doesn't dig that either. But now I'm possessed by the spirit of Bugs and I start going up to various people and saying "Hey, you should go get that hook so we can yank Dusty off his throne". And they all say "Hey, that's a GREAT idea!" and charge off to be turned away, empty handed, by a more and more red-faced FOSG. Ain't I a stinker?
Realizing I was risking getting someone into real trouble I turned my attention to normal beer spraying and Pit harassment in general. They were so fucking good, and there were a lot of people there to see it. I even played bass on a song called "Teaser Ranch Special". At the end, Dusty dove through his drums, and I was right behind him. Teasers onstage dancing, a cool mist of beer flying, it was glorious. You could tell we felt we were doing a fine job. Another burlesque interval and the Brimstones took the stage in matching striped shirts. It was their Record Release Party, and by god they wanted you to know. Kickasskick asskickass. And we're all right in front of them having a blast. Now somewhere along in here things start to get ugly, and some stories I am simply repeating since I wasn't standing right there. The FUNNIEST of these stories has to do with Mike Decay, who y'all might remember, from the Helloween XXXtravaganza Diary. Mike lives in NYC and had been in the middle of everything all night. So something goes on between Ryan and Mike, and they're fucking around and Mike throws a beer bottle at Ryan. Sadly for Mike, said bottle bounces off Ryan's shoulder and smacks and smashes on the ground right in front of a bouncer. Mike was quoted as saying, "Oh shit, I gotta get outta here!" and he takes off running through the crowd with two bouncers and FOSG chasing him, again in a very cartoon fashion, more Woody Woodpecker than Bugs Bunny though, with Mike still going "Oh Shit! Oh Shit!." Eventually he was caught and surrendered peacefully, and was last heard going out the door saying "OK, throw me out, that's cool, I was being a dick...that's cool..."
Damn shame, I think.
Along this time I'm leaving the bathroom and Emil The Promoter comes up to me and says the sound guy wants him to pay $280 for a kick drum mic broken when Dusty's drums went over. Damn, I've heard this story before. So, I look at the mic, and first of all it's an AKG D112 and you can buy them NEW all day long for $200, what's this $280 shit? I look at the mic, and it's an easy fix, I'm not gonna get technical, but there's really very little wrong with it. So I go out to the van, make a couple of calls to Ground Hog Tech Support Line, and realize that I don't have a screwdriver small enough to open the mother up. I look and look, but I can't find one. So some time passes, the Brimstones are finished, and Emil says to just give up. So I go up to the sound guy and ask if he has any tiny screwdrivers and he says, now get this, "Fuck that, that mic is broken, it's ruined and it's going to have to be paid for. That's it, end of discussion." I consider this pretty fucking uncool. OK, at this point, maybe the mic is broken, maybe it's not, but NO EFFORT to fix it? No attempt to save everyone involved $280? Are you doing your job looking after sound for the bands, or are you trying to PUNISH us for our (drunken, irresponsible, immature, sexually deviant) behavior? Now granted, I get a little pissed and I could've handled myself MUCH better here, but you know, fuck it, this guy is treating us pretty poorly, trying to rip us off, in my mind. So I start to tell him that he doesn't know what he's doing. The mic can be fixed. If not, why should we replace an old mic with a new one? Why is he paying so much for mics? Why shouldn't we just replace the element instead of the whole mic? Why in god's name is he USING a "$280" mic in fucking CBGB, in front of a man playing drums while dressed as a PUMPKIN? On and on, I'm babbling away (imagine that) and some asshole at the bar jumps in and says "any club in the country would make you pay for that mic." and I say, "gee I guess you're right since this is the only club I've ever played." As you can see, this was getting pretty loud and ugly. The soundman is trying to explain that he HAD to use a nice mic there because of the "bottom end" and I'd had enough technical bullshit. I accuse him of over intellectualizing (yep, that's what I said, I dunno why, I was getting bored I think) the situation, when the fact was he was trying to rip 3 bands off. His answer? "So I guess I'm intellectual because I'm from New York?" WHAT? WHAT does where you're from have ANYTHING to do with this conversation? It was then that I realized no matter how much I know about mics, how much they cost, where to buy them cheap, no matter how much I know about music, beer, chicks, NOTHING that I knew about was gonna overcome the fact that this guy was lookin' at me and hearing Gomer Pyle. I couldn't win with my "accent" (actually a dialect) because I was stupid by default. I realize there are three guys hovering over me, all a foot taller, told them to back their tall asses up and walked off. Screw it. I told them I thought this was punk rock. I was informed that it was a "Business". Damn, missed that memo.
Little did I know Valerie was having almost the exact same argument with FOSG because she heard him call me a jerk for trying to steal his Vaudeville Hook (I asked, I swear). Soon, HE was all giving her shit about how "this is New York". Y'know guys, I'm well aware of where I was, see, I came NORTH on 95 and I came through the Holland Tunnel. I ain't mistakin' this with fuckin' Tuscaloosa, dig? Jesus. FOSG probably came the closest to getting a hole stomped in his ass by fucking with Super Val, and I think that totally illustrates what a dumb fuck the "Lighting Engineer" (oh PLEASE) was. So there are 4 different arguments going on all around the club, and we were finally told, quite forcefully, to get our shit and get the fuck out. Which we did, not without some more encounters, mainly Stevie (Chris was LONG gone) asking a guy with a blue mohawk if his "look" was "working out for him", and me blowing the soundman a kiss. Meanwhile, the Brimstones FIX the mic, and the sound guy STILL won't have it. Dusty and I find ourselves on the street, yelling "Hey, we've been thrown outta better... waitaminute, HAVE WE?" Suddenly, we realize we just got slung out of the most notorious dump in the history of rock and roll for raising hell and breaking stuff? Holy shit, WE FUCKING RULE! What a show! You MUST see the beauty in it not only being an AMAZING rock and roll show, but also that there was even MORE chaos, MORE irreverence, MORE Rock and Roll BEDLAM, going on BEHIND the scenes?? YES, indeed, we HAD done what we had intended to do, we kicked that place in the ass, wreaked havoc and waged war on uber-cool, sober, no-fun, holier-than-thou HIPNESS. Right the fuck on. I won't miss not being able to go back there, there are loads of places in New York and we have plenty of friends there. Screw it, I'd rather have the story, and a truly deep feeling of accomplishment.
So, we head separate ways (did I mention it's only about 1 a.m. at this point?) The Pits take the FIXED mic and head back to Lancaster 'cause Amy (Dusty's lovely wife) has to be at work sometime the next day. And the Brimstones, heroes that they are, continued deliberations inside. Somehow, they talked the guy out of replacement money and just gave him SOME cash, and there was a little money for the bands to split. THANKS JUSTIN, sobriety can be quite helpful sometimes. We head over to Motor City, a pretty cool hot rod bar with wrenches in the floor and pistons for beer taps, where I split my time between talking Charity's ear off, and calling random friends on the cell phone to tell them the story, and either have them laugh at me, or explain to me what time it is and that I woke them up, dammit. We got back to Commander Joe's quite late, where I had an Iron City Light nightcap.

Epilogue: The drive home

Outside Baltimore there is a sign that says "Decoy Museum". Must be there to attract attention so the real museum can get away. Other than that joke, the ride home sucked. 11 hours later, I went to bed. The end.