Holiday on the Lonesome Highway

It was late December, 1988.

I was in the Ozarks for just a couple of days. For four months I had been playing in one of those cover bands that do not exist anymore. The kind of band that would take a stab at most anything that the audience requested but not play any of it very well. We would play a Marty Robbins tune then one by Poison. We had a bass player from Germany who would sing Waylon Jennings songs with a thick accent. It was screwy but we worked all the time. It was a lot of hotel lounge gigs, Ramadas and such.

This band was pretty bad. One night at a place called Toad’s Lounge in Alliance Nebraska a guy yells “play the “Rodeo Song”". Toad, the club owner had already warned us that we be canned if we used any profanity so, our girl singer/piano player says politely, “We can’t play that song sir, if we do we will get fired”. From the back of the darkness, I hear a solemn voice say, “go for it, then”.

This type of band usually had a lot of personnel changes. The players would always be on the lookout for another gig that paid better. Nothing was blowing my way so, when the drummer gave his notice, I talked the rest into hiring an old buddy of mine.

Bob was a guy I had played with a lot in the past. He was tall and gangly and a few years older than I. I always thought he could have been a character actor in movies like Dennis Hopper. We clicked on a musical level. He was an intuitive musical genius. By that I mean, he had no formal training, couldn’t read a note but I swear he could play anything and give it soul. He was also a bad drunk. When he drank, he would be alternately rude, hilarious, and dangerous. We shared a penchant for living on the edge.

We left here in my beat-to-hell Oldsmobile on a sunny, cold, Christmas morning, headed back up to Nebraska. Ten hours driving and not a restaurant was open, not even a Hardee’s. Gas station burritos for dinner, Christmas on the road. We arrived at the hotel in Grand Island and set up the gear right then, even though we weren’t to play until the next night.

I asked the lonesome desk clerk if there were any bars open in town. She called around and found a pool hall down the street. The snow was turning to ice as we entered this joint and there were about thirty other boozehounds in attendance. It was like the island of misfit toys. There was an immediate kinship between strangers. Draft beer, Irish whisky, singing songs with dirty lyrics, laughter and food. Most of the folks we met that night came to see us play for the rest of the week we were in town.

The next night we hit the stage and something magic happened. Man, Bob could groove. There were songs we had been playing for months that I had never seen anyone dance to that suddenly packed the floor.

My band mates thought the week went well. We had a built in crowd every night with the misfits from the pool hall, the music was grooving and there was a party atmosphere. It culminated with a New Years Eve after party in my room, packed with around 40 people, that the cops shut down around four in the morning. The only negative was a phone call from the all-knowing, all-seeing booking agent who was concerned about the massive bar tab that Bob had piled up. We played it down, saying that he had bought the house a round several times to promote the festive atmosphere. The rest of the band was aware of the history Bob and I shared, playing in a fist fighting, hard drinking, anti-new wave, anti-MTV generation, by God steamroller of a rock and roll band and they were of the opinion that it was going to take a while for Bob to get accustomed to being in a lounge act.

I however, had a different take. I spent several late nights during the week drinking with Bob where the discussion turned dark, almost morose. It had been several years since the glory days. I realized that he was not in a good place. I was also reluctantly becoming aware that I was not leading such a charmed life myself. Looking back, I wasn’t well equipped to deal with reality and my solution was to put out the feelers and look for another gig; to run.

We packed up the gear on a cold Sunday morning after the New Years bash. We were on our way to Watertown, South Dakota for a gig that started on Wednesday. We stayed the night in Sioux Falls and had an impromptu party with people that various band members had met on previous road trips. We arrived in Watertown about noon on Monday. The owner of the hotel was kind enough to put us up even though we weren’t officially playing yet. Since we had a couple of days ’till the gig we procrastinated on the set-up.

I was wrecked from the past weeks excess so I headed straight for the room and bed. Bob and the bass player did not pass go and headed straight to the hotel bar and opened tabs. My phone started ringing around five o’clock, Bob and the bass player in high spirits wanting me to join the fun. After the third call, I rolled out, showered and gave in. By the time I showed up, they were slurring a bit and had seemed to have passed from joviality to antagonism.

I said things like, “You got to cool it; we need to be professional in the club we will be working.” I suggested we get a cab and go elsewhere to show our asses. The logical response was that no other bar would let us run tabs. They were loud, making lewd comments to the waitress and I could sense growing irritation with the clientele. Most of it was harmless. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bass player pouring a full glass of red wine that offended his European sensibility on the carpet, while muttering something uncomplimentary about American vineyards. I had a sense that I could not stop this ball from rolling so I headed back to my room and made a few more calls to see if any other bands were hiring.

The phone rang early the next morning, always a bad sign. It was the booking agent; he was vehement. He was screaming something about “never in twenty years in the history of this agency has a band been fired before the even set up their gear”. The stuff of legend I suppose.

Here is what happened from what I know, gathered from talking (shouting) with the agent and hotel staff.

More lewd and loud comments followed by complaints from the waitress. More red wine spilled on the carpet. A threat to call the cops. A sincere apology from Bob and the bass player with a promise to resume acceptable behavior. And, one final act, a story that was passed around for years among lounge bands as an example of what to do if you wish to get the axe before ever playing a note.

There was not a bathroom in the bar but there was one in the hotel lobby. It was one of those separated bathrooms, the sink and mirror in one room with a doorway leading to the urinals/toilets. Bob entered the sink area and I wonder went through his drunken mind. Evidently, he didn’t see the door, or thought that it required too much effort, he decided to relieve himself in the trash can. At least it wasn’t the sink. As luck would have it, at that very moment, the mild-mannered hotel owner walked in and witnessed this tall, gawky, unkempt, longhaired, tattooed, rocker violating his Best Western and everything it stood for.

The band actually stayed together after this incident although without me. I had located another gig and headed south that day.

Eighteen years down the line the holiday season is a lot more conventional for me, thankfully. I am grateful for what I have and I don’t miss the hotel lounge days. I’m glad it’s past but glad I was there as well. It wasn’t all bad, honest. I think that it’s probably not good to dwell on the past but you can’t change it anyway, or be afraid of it.

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