Storyteller

A renegade singer risks the wrath of the bar owner by playing original music.

I plugged my Stratocaster into my Vox AC30, strummed an open chord to make sure everything was in tune, and stepped up to the microphone. The drummer clicked his sticks four times, and we launched into “My Own Worst Enemy.” I hate the song. It’s horrible bubblegum; pop pretending to be punk. Yet as dumb as it is, people like it. It’s a convenient opener, as the music is simple. You don’t have to be warmed up to play it. Usually the crowd likes it, too. Today? A few heads lifted, but they promptly returned to their dirty pint glasses.

If it had been up to me, I would have stated out with “I Fought The Law (And The Law Won). It turned all the same virtues into an all-time classic. Alas, the bar owner is paying us to play stuff from this century. Even Lit is borderline “too old.”

Well, I’ll spare you the rest of the setlist. Safe to say it was generic watered-down post-grunge where every singer wants to be either Layne, Eddie, or Kurt and nobody plays a guitar solo. We made sure to throw in some Tool so we didn’t bore ourselves completely. Safe to say if a band has the word “Three” in their name, we were stuck covering them.

Maybe the crowd fed off our apathy? Maybe they just didn’t care? Either way, we strummed into the void. There’s a feedback loop with live music where the band feeds off the crowd’s energy, which in turn feeds off the band’s energy; well, this was the reverse. A negative feedback loop, if you will. Their apathy fed our apathy which in turn fed their apathy.

This sounds like a bad thing but in a way I don’t mind. It gives the band freedom to do whatever the fuck we want. We were supposed to play all covers, but I didn’t see the owner around, so it was time to sneak in an original. I strummed an A, then a C#m, and sang:

         Need to borrow a dream, I don’t have one anymore
         I’m lonesome, ornery and mean, and rotten to the core
         Rescue me highway

The song was called Rescue Me Highway, and it’s one of my favorites. Who doesn’t love a great road song? I’d borrowed the chords from ZZ Top’s Hot, Blue, and Righteous, but they’d been changed enough that nobody would hear one song and think of the other. Yes, “lonesome, ornery and mean” was a tribute to Waylon Jennings. Mine wasn’t a country song, but country acts tip their hats to their idols all the time. This was no different. Likewise, the “rotten to the core” was a tribute to Overkill. That sort of tribute never really happened in thrash, but so what? They fucking rule. I’d kill to break into Hello From the Gutter and have a pit form up. Alas, not with this crowd. We’d probably all be taking back pills for the next two months.

While my mind was wandering to a long-gone era, the opposite was happening at the bar. Here I was, thinking more about thrash metal than I was about my song, while in front of me a grey-haired biker and his old lady heard the bluesy ballad and seized the opportunity to have a dance. I knew the guy – in a previous life he probably would have been a cowboy. He rode a hog instead of a horse yet was still bow-legged from all the years in the saddle. He had the requisite bandana hanging from his jeans pocket, and yes, the color did match the insignia on the back of his jacket.

He held her tight and they swayed more or less in time; just a couple in love without a care in the world. They didn’t seem even remotely self-conscious about being the only ones dancing. I gave him a nod of approval, but otherwise looked out at the room, lest I intrude upon their moment. During the solo I passed word to the band, and we repeated the first verse so they could have an extra minute together. We are entertainers after all. Of a sort, anyway.

As I looked around the bar my gaze settled first upon the bartender. She might have been pretty once. Sadly, in her fight with the world, the world seems to have won. She's got a steady stream of customers keeping her busy. Fortunately, it's a beer-and-a-shot-type place, so she's not having to waste her time mixing weird yuppie drinks with eighteen different ingredients. Girls, don't do that. The barmaid could sling ten beers in less time than it takes her to make your margarita. Or worse, your fru-fru shots. If it's got more than three ingredients and there's a line at the bar, don't order it. Just don't. The barmaid secretly hates you, and only partly because you look down on her.

There's a guy at the bar in skinny jeans. Not sure what brought him in here. He's not harming anyone but I'm pretty sure if you snuck up behind him and yelled "boo," he might shit his pants. He's trying to hit on the only two unattached women in the bar. Judging by how full their ash tray is, they're far more interested in burning through Marlboros than they are in talking to skinny-jeans. They're both at least a decade older than him, and only their fathers ever thought them pretty, yet he still isn't having any luck. Wrong bar, fella.

The bikers are in their usual corner of the bar. They look intimidating. Truth is, they're just some guys who want to go someplace where they can have a few drinks and be left alone. I've seen these guys finish a couple fights, yet I've never seen them start one.

Before I knew it, we finished Rescue Me Highway. Then it was back to regurgitating tired Shinedown licks. We almost lost this gig a few months ago because I just couldn’t endure anymore Shinedown. I’d introduced their hit song by name but instead played Even Flow. It was a glorious respite from mediocrity. The whole band picked up. The snare seemed to have a sharper crack. The bass player started jumping up and down despite being sixty years old. The lead guitar ripped the solo like he just got out of prison. Hell, even some of the customers started singing along. Alas, the owner did not agree. Philistine. I suppose it could be worse. At least in this bar, nobody will dare request Taylor Swift.

I’m sure there was some Breaking Benjamin in the set too. Some of you out there think this sounds great. For me, it’s torture. Yet it is what the people want to hear, and this is what we get paid to play. I get to go out and dress up in weird clothes and go be the center of attention for a couple hours and play music for people. It really is incredible that I can do this and get paid for it. Yet what most people fail to understand is that once you're getting paid, it's a job, and who doesn't bitch about the parts of their job that suck? It's not all bad, of course. If it were, I wouldn't do it. I mentioned that feedback loop between the audience and the band. When it's good, it's a better high than any drug on the planet. Trust me, I've done them all. Having a room full of people rocking out and singing along with you and your band? Nothing touches that feeling. It's why we still do it. Nobody ever quits rock & roll. We do it until we die.

So why the hate for this era? Rock and roll as a form stopped evolving in the early 2000s and gave us this bland, soulless dreck. There are a million reasons why and we’d still be here next week if I started going into the details. The worst tragedy of it all is that Rock reached a period where it sucked right before it died. It’s the soundtrack to people’s lives, and it reminds them of their younger days when they still felt immortal; but that doesn’t mean it’s good. Nostalgia is not the same as quality. Maybe this was why I didn’t care if we got fired from the gig? My wallet would care, but I sure wouldn’t.

If it was up to me, I'd love to be in a band where I could sing like The King. Elvis. In fact, I've done it. Too bad we couldn't get any gigs. People don't want to hear that sound anymore. If not Elvis, I'd love to just play in a straight-up old-school blues band. Play some T Bone Walker. Find a hot-shot guitarist who can rip like Stevie Ray. Again, that's the sound of the past. It might be the past, but the sounds of the past are why I got into this in the first place. I'd even love to do weird, experimental shit. Get a band with a tuba and some cat blowing the bagpipes and another guy on the steel drums. How crazy would that sound? I'm sure it would horrify small children. Yet it might be the most glorious train wreck ever. Meanwhile I just fucked up the words to the song because I was daydreaming when I should have been singing.

I smiled, just in case anyone at the bar noticed the mistake, but I doubt it. The band and I may as well be having a rehearsal. The club owner is still in the back. It’s one of those nights where the music is just background noise for people who are too lazy to think. I may as well entertain myself if nobody else is listening.

With that, I’m going to try to sneak another original into the set. I just written this one last week and the band has only rehearsed it a couple times. We’ve never played it live before. Yet on some level I know it’s good. It’s not going to move anyone to shake their ass, but I’m much more interested in shaking someone’s soul. I want you to turn your brain on, not off. Which is probably why I never became famous at this. If the owner realized I was about to do a second original, there’d be hell to pay. He’ll let one slide if he’s in a good mood, but two? No way. He’s not paying to hear originals. Originals don’t sell booze. Well, fuck him.

         “This is a new song. It’s about a boy who was a natural storyteller. That was his gift. Were they true stories? Hell, even the ones that were true stretched things. It didn’t matter. It was who he was – he just told stories about the world around him. Yet the people, even his friends, didn’t really like it all that much. They grew tired of it. They said he talked too much. They shunned him. Yet he kept telling stories. He kept making new ones. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. He’d meet new people and make new friends, and they’d drift away too. Television and movies didn’t help any. Then the internet and social media came along, and nobody had time for that shit anymore. One more example of the old style fading away. Then finally, he died. And for the most part, nobody cared. Yet there was something missing in all their lives. They weren’t self-aware enough to know what it was. It was their stories, no longer being told. Well, speaking of long winded, I think this introduction ended up being longer than the song. Anyway, this is about that kid…”

I then strummed an open G chord, let it ring, and followed with an A♭ to build some harmonic tension. Then I blew a mournful D on the harmonica, blending the three notes into a somber G minor. The chord usually had B♭ but changing it to A♭ added a melancholy twist. An educated audience would know what I did, but I'm not sure such an audience even exists anymore. After further establishing the melody on the guitar, I approached the microphone and crooned,

         Perpetual eclipse
         A failed kiss that missed her lips
         Everyone acts
         Like they were never there at all

I could feal my entire head resonating as I shaped the baritone sounds. Just like Frank Sinatra and Jim Morrison, I thought, a real crooner. It wasn't true, of course. If it was, I'd have a hell of a lot better gig. Still, my voice sounded as good as it ever had. I could tell even if nobody else noticed.

Well, I suppose I hoped everyone would hear the song and stop what they were doing and reflect and erupt into spontaneous applause. After all, the song was good. I damn well knew it. But that's not how people are. They just went back to ignoring the storyteller singing about another storyteller. Those beers aren’t going to drink themselves.