Chapter 4: Where Beer Is a Way of Life
The slogan for the Barley House is "where beer is a way of life", and it's located just across 75 from the SMU campus. That's all you need to know about the last venue we played and things pretty much went down as you would expect - loud and sloppy. At least that's what I'm told, because my impression of that evening is somewhat suspect, due to a potentially deadly combination of Jack Daniels and my little brother on a tear.
Let's start at the beginning. We've performed at the Barley House a bunch of times and the place has been around forever. It's very much a college hangout, which is good and bad. The good part is that college kids are typically very loyal to the places they choose to frequent and let's face it, loyal to going out. This venue always has a plentiful, responsive crowd - our favorite variety. The bad part is that college kids tend to roll on a little different time schedule than everyone else, which usually means that things get cooking a lot later than usual - not so good for us old guys. So, the key is to pace yourself. I for one, am usually pretty good at this pacing; a practice that is second nature to me now after countless years of playing the Brandon Walsh character to numerous Steves, Dylans, and Kellys. Unfortunately, Brandon took the night off on this particular occasion and the wheels of fate are burning rubber.
My younger brother, we'll call him Cole('cause that's his name and I seriously doubt he'll have a problem with me mentioning him in this blog), has become a big fan of the Revival; he and his lovely wife Lisa come to our shows fairly regularly. Although we are indeed blood related, we could not be more different. He is the reincarnation of Augustus McRae, living by the code of the Old West with a Harley-Davidson as his preferred mount(you can't customize a horse with skulls and flames) and a bearing somewhere between a Grizzly and a Peterbilt - needless to say, intimidation is always a viable solution where reason is in short supply. Most of the time he's surprisingly reserved, but tonight... restraint got sent home with Brandon; Cole has an old college buddy with him, the beer's flowing and... well, you get the picture - the bear's gonna roar!
As I said earlier, the Barley House operates in a bit of a time warp, and being the headlining act, it's close to 12:00 before we finally get on stage. That's a good amount of preshow drinking(considering we've been there since 9:00), especially for Trae, who's on the tail end of the flu and God-knows-what-all to treat it, the least potent of which is the alcohol he's generously indulging. I think it's safe to say that nobody is jittery. To further complicate the situation, enter Jayson's shot- slinging brother-in-law. He's possibly the most regular of the Barley House regulars(which is saying a lot) who believes in rewarding good performance with booze... and he's a Johnny Cash fan... and the third song on the set list is "Folsom Prison Blues"... and here come the little pink drinks.
Now let me take an aside here to expound on the gift shot. I'm not much of a shot person(I learned my lesson long ago with a girl of questionable morality sporting bandoleers of liquor filled test tubes - yeeesh!), and neither is anyone in the band; in fact, I'm pretty sure I've never met one shot person in my whole life. Everyone says that they don't like shots but what's the first thing they buy for someone on a special occasion, to say "thanks" or "hey, I think you're hot" or whatever? A friggin' shot! That's messed up. I mean, it's like "I personally avoid these at all costs but here, it's your birthday and I love you, dude - bottoms up!" Then of course, there's the defeating sense of obligation to drink the shot. You don't want it, you don't know what's in it, it will make you drunk(er) and possibly sick(er), but your buddy just spent his/her hard earned cash on it and it would be a slap in the face to decline it. So, as I was saying, I slam down the little pink drink(trying not to gag) and pray that we're done playing before the liquor ignites all the beer I've had.
Meanwhile, back on the Lonesome Dove, Cole/Gus has taken it upon himself to help out with the email list... or to be more exact, ride shotgun over his wife Lisa, who is helping out with the email list. This is a job that was originally assigned to Trae and Trae, being Trae, decides Lisa's easy-on-the-eyes personality will be much more effective at getting email addresses(a surprisingly accurate assessment), not to mention freeing him up for harder rocking(always looking for ways to maximize his impact). Apparently, the new approach is working a little too well and Cole/Gus feels obliged to chaperon... and apply the occasional pressure when a lack of support threatens the effort. All in all, the results are predictably successful, a few complaints of extortion notwithstanding. Sometime during all this band promotion, my brother is moved sufficiently by our efforts onstage to send up a round of shots(?!) - Jack Daniels to be exact. I immediately see the look of panic in the eyes of Jayson and Greg; Trae's eyes are mere slits by now, impeding any emotional interpretation. I feel a sense of family obligation to lead the charge, so-to-speak, only to realize, post shooting, that I am alone in this endeavor(it's possible that Trae might have downed one as well, but the haze was getting thick at this point) - so much for band solidarity. I'm beginning to experience a palpable delay between thought and action, but we make it through another song or two only to come face-to-face with... you guessed it, round two of Jack Black - damn! Just the mere sight makes my stomach lurch a little and I realize that I'm officially drunk, and my brother must be absolutely wasted to be spending this kind of money. This is the point of the evening when the thrill and speed of riding a runaway horse gives way to terror and holding on for dear life - must focus on strings! Amazingly, I get through the show with what I firmly believe is a minimum of collateral damage, and I admit that I'm feeling a little cocky about being able to hold my own with a loaded bottle pointed at me... that is until I talk to Greg the next day.
Greg is the dad of the Revival. From the outside it may appear that Jayson is, but trust me it's the G-Spot. He is consistently the calm in the eye of the storm - Jayson and I are usually whirling around on the outside tearing off roofs and Trae is typically snug in the storm cellar. Greg is arguably the most life experienced and is able to maintain his composure, and to a large part, that of the band when the situation(of which he's never the culprit) is rapidly disintegrating - the proverbial captain going down with the ship. But, rest assured, there will be detailed discussion to follow; most likely in that disappointed tone your father uses when you hit a telephone pole with the station wagon(another story, another time); the quiet, steady delivery that leaves you feeling ashamed and utterly appalled at your own lack of maturity. Greg defines our Barley House show as the worst gig we've ever played, due mostly to ill timed, irresponsible drinking; in short, we let ourselves and the audience down. Wow. Given my lack of clarity at the time, I can't mount much of a defense, so I just hang my head and slink into a corner... over the phone. Way to go, Brandon. At least we don't get grounded.
In the end, it's the Barley House philosophy that saves the day; the reality is that despite the Revival's stumbling in the alcohol management department, 80% of the people in attendance completely failed in that regard and are none the wiser. I think that's what's known as leveling the playing field. For those who subscribe to beer as a way of life - we salute you.
The slogan for the Barley House is "where beer is a way of life", and it's located just across 75 from the SMU campus. That's all you need to know about the last venue we played and things pretty much went down as you would expect - loud and sloppy. At least that's what I'm told, because my impression of that evening is somewhat suspect, due to a potentially deadly combination of Jack Daniels and my little brother on a tear.
Let's start at the beginning. We've performed at the Barley House a bunch of times and the place has been around forever. It's very much a college hangout, which is good and bad. The good part is that college kids are typically very loyal to the places they choose to frequent and let's face it, loyal to going out. This venue always has a plentiful, responsive crowd - our favorite variety. The bad part is that college kids tend to roll on a little different time schedule than everyone else, which usually means that things get cooking a lot later than usual - not so good for us old guys. So, the key is to pace yourself. I for one, am usually pretty good at this pacing; a practice that is second nature to me now after countless years of playing the Brandon Walsh character to numerous Steves, Dylans, and Kellys. Unfortunately, Brandon took the night off on this particular occasion and the wheels of fate are burning rubber.
My younger brother, we'll call him Cole('cause that's his name and I seriously doubt he'll have a problem with me mentioning him in this blog), has become a big fan of the Revival; he and his lovely wife Lisa come to our shows fairly regularly. Although we are indeed blood related, we could not be more different. He is the reincarnation of Augustus McRae, living by the code of the Old West with a Harley-Davidson as his preferred mount(you can't customize a horse with skulls and flames) and a bearing somewhere between a Grizzly and a Peterbilt - needless to say, intimidation is always a viable solution where reason is in short supply. Most of the time he's surprisingly reserved, but tonight... restraint got sent home with Brandon; Cole has an old college buddy with him, the beer's flowing and... well, you get the picture - the bear's gonna roar!
As I said earlier, the Barley House operates in a bit of a time warp, and being the headlining act, it's close to 12:00 before we finally get on stage. That's a good amount of preshow drinking(considering we've been there since 9:00), especially for Trae, who's on the tail end of the flu and God-knows-what-all to treat it, the least potent of which is the alcohol he's generously indulging. I think it's safe to say that nobody is jittery. To further complicate the situation, enter Jayson's shot- slinging brother-in-law. He's possibly the most regular of the Barley House regulars(which is saying a lot) who believes in rewarding good performance with booze... and he's a Johnny Cash fan... and the third song on the set list is "Folsom Prison Blues"... and here come the little pink drinks.
Now let me take an aside here to expound on the gift shot. I'm not much of a shot person(I learned my lesson long ago with a girl of questionable morality sporting bandoleers of liquor filled test tubes - yeeesh!), and neither is anyone in the band; in fact, I'm pretty sure I've never met one shot person in my whole life. Everyone says that they don't like shots but what's the first thing they buy for someone on a special occasion, to say "thanks" or "hey, I think you're hot" or whatever? A friggin' shot! That's messed up. I mean, it's like "I personally avoid these at all costs but here, it's your birthday and I love you, dude - bottoms up!" Then of course, there's the defeating sense of obligation to drink the shot. You don't want it, you don't know what's in it, it will make you drunk(er) and possibly sick(er), but your buddy just spent his/her hard earned cash on it and it would be a slap in the face to decline it. So, as I was saying, I slam down the little pink drink(trying not to gag) and pray that we're done playing before the liquor ignites all the beer I've had.
Meanwhile, back on the Lonesome Dove, Cole/Gus has taken it upon himself to help out with the email list... or to be more exact, ride shotgun over his wife Lisa, who is helping out with the email list. This is a job that was originally assigned to Trae and Trae, being Trae, decides Lisa's easy-on-the-eyes personality will be much more effective at getting email addresses(a surprisingly accurate assessment), not to mention freeing him up for harder rocking(always looking for ways to maximize his impact). Apparently, the new approach is working a little too well and Cole/Gus feels obliged to chaperon... and apply the occasional pressure when a lack of support threatens the effort. All in all, the results are predictably successful, a few complaints of extortion notwithstanding. Sometime during all this band promotion, my brother is moved sufficiently by our efforts onstage to send up a round of shots(?!) - Jack Daniels to be exact. I immediately see the look of panic in the eyes of Jayson and Greg; Trae's eyes are mere slits by now, impeding any emotional interpretation. I feel a sense of family obligation to lead the charge, so-to-speak, only to realize, post shooting, that I am alone in this endeavor(it's possible that Trae might have downed one as well, but the haze was getting thick at this point) - so much for band solidarity. I'm beginning to experience a palpable delay between thought and action, but we make it through another song or two only to come face-to-face with... you guessed it, round two of Jack Black - damn! Just the mere sight makes my stomach lurch a little and I realize that I'm officially drunk, and my brother must be absolutely wasted to be spending this kind of money. This is the point of the evening when the thrill and speed of riding a runaway horse gives way to terror and holding on for dear life - must focus on strings! Amazingly, I get through the show with what I firmly believe is a minimum of collateral damage, and I admit that I'm feeling a little cocky about being able to hold my own with a loaded bottle pointed at me... that is until I talk to Greg the next day.
Greg is the dad of the Revival. From the outside it may appear that Jayson is, but trust me it's the G-Spot. He is consistently the calm in the eye of the storm - Jayson and I are usually whirling around on the outside tearing off roofs and Trae is typically snug in the storm cellar. Greg is arguably the most life experienced and is able to maintain his composure, and to a large part, that of the band when the situation(of which he's never the culprit) is rapidly disintegrating - the proverbial captain going down with the ship. But, rest assured, there will be detailed discussion to follow; most likely in that disappointed tone your father uses when you hit a telephone pole with the station wagon(another story, another time); the quiet, steady delivery that leaves you feeling ashamed and utterly appalled at your own lack of maturity. Greg defines our Barley House show as the worst gig we've ever played, due mostly to ill timed, irresponsible drinking; in short, we let ourselves and the audience down. Wow. Given my lack of clarity at the time, I can't mount much of a defense, so I just hang my head and slink into a corner... over the phone. Way to go, Brandon. At least we don't get grounded.
In the end, it's the Barley House philosophy that saves the day; the reality is that despite the Revival's stumbling in the alcohol management department, 80% of the people in attendance completely failed in that regard and are none the wiser. I think that's what's known as leveling the playing field. For those who subscribe to beer as a way of life - we salute you.
posted by Johnny Ferrell at 8:51 PM
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