The Rocker

I’m a rocker. I can’t help it; I grew up in the 70’s… when Kiss ruled the world. In fact, you could say that I’m the Ace Frehley of local band, Jayson Bales & The Charmers... sans makeup… and the Dom Perignon habit. But it’s okay because these days, everything rocks, is being rocked or is rock star – even church rocks.

I’m not a fan of contemporary Christian music and my small town, southern Baptist upbringing frowns on drums and git-tars in the service – sorta like wearing white before Labor Day, it’s just not done. And, honestly, it could compromise my carefully constructed artist mystique. But despite my lofty position on the matter, I get an opportunity to fill in for a vacationing guitarist at Jayson’s church and my curiosity (or ego) is sufficiently piqued - before you can say kumbaya, I’m gigging for God on the next Sunday.

I have to be there for my first (and only) pre-service rehearsal, coiffed and loaded by 6:30… a.m. Are they kidding?! They are not. So, I prepare myself accordingly… except for my digestive system, which inexplicably decides to stage a sit-down, and the resulting inner pandemonium keeps me up all night, which causes me to oversleep, which gives me 15 minutes to get ready… and a negative 15 minutes for the trip there. Round 1 to the stomach.

I’m literally jogging into the sanctuary, guitar and amp in hand – apparently my time deficit and sleep deprivation have combined to give me Hulk-like strength. But before I can catch my breath, I’m stopped dead in my tracks by the icy, disapproving glare of the sound guy. Did I forget my pants… is it my pillow-sculpted, Jim Morrison hair… am I dreaming?!

“We don’t really use amplifiers here – we go direct. (heavy sigh) Just put it on the stage and I’ll figure something out…”

As he turns to go scourge some assistant sound guy for allowing this blasphemy, I lift my weary eyes to the heavens… and pray he gets electrocuted.

Minutes into rehearsal, it’s clear to me I lack two crucial elements: a UNT music degree and my brain. The other guys are real musicians, my head is spinning and all the solo practice I did with the mp3’s has flown right out the window. Even my meticulously handcrafted charts look like Chinese. The situation is getting desperate - I start to consider just turning my guitar volume off and feigning disbelief when no one can hear me… although, by the lack of any reaction to my playing, it’s quite possible they’ve already taken me completely out of the mix. After our run-through, the music director squeezes my shoulder, tells me how much he appreciates me helping them out and points outward to the left third of the now empty seats.

“You’re responsible for this area of the congregation – you need to play to them, engage them, pull them into the worship experience. And if possible, don’t use your charts – focus on what’s going on around you.”

What?!! Another shoulder squeeze, assurance that I’ll do fine and he’s off to the pre-service meeting. I head to the Green Room, for coffee, donuts and reverent reflection… but because of my stupid stomach, I settle for water, nothing and chart cramming. The other musicians are cordial, but I suspect they smell the fear on me and keep their distance… like wolves abandoning the weak. Is it getting colder in here?

It’s almost zero hour, and I know this from the countdown clock (seriously?) at the front of the stage. Should I be strapped in? Is my amp on? I should’ve gone to the bathroom again… 3… 2…1… blast off!!

All in all, not too bad. Once I see the smiling faces around me and feel the surge of congregation and music becoming one, it becomes clear my individual contribution is rather insignificant – it’s about the spirit in which it’s delivered and that whole “big picture/grand scheme” thing. I let go and just flow with the current. It feels… good.

Finally, winding down with Jayson and his family at our little Mi Cocina afterparty, I overindulge Mambo Taxis while watching the kids construct bean and rice sculptures. I allow myself a slight pat on the back… and a big sigh of relief, before heading home to sleep off the remainder of the afternoon. Yeah, I’m a rocker…

Chapter 7: Exodus(Part 2)

Welcome to The Jungle. Tonight the band is off, and Jayson is treating everyone to dinner at the legendary(so he claims) Tonga Room, a tiki restaurant in the bottom of the San Francisco Fairmont Hotel. He began singing the praises of this place weeks before we left on the tour and insisted on making it a stop on the itinerary. As it is somewhat of a classy joint, we all don our individual versions of appropriate attire(i.e. expensive jeans and collared shirts, maybe a jacket); I tastefully lighten up on the bling. Mindful of the sneaky effects of rum-laden, fruity cocktails which will undoubtedly be overindulged, we wisely elect to take a cab instead of setting sail in the USS Rental Van, now shamefully bearing the battle scar of a little altercation with an Escalade in the hotel parking garage(courtesy of yours truly). We can walk back to our hotel afterwards... or fly back, if three-sheets-to-the-wind can generate sufficient lift. And let me tell you, when we roll out of that cab at the huge-ass front steps of the Fairmont, there should be James Bond music playing, because you have never seen four more suave, sophisticated, rockin' on the lowdown dudes, ready to turn it out upscale style(at least in our minds)... and no paparazzi to be found. What a tragedy - heads will roll in our P.R. Department.

This Fairmont is massive, sitting at the top of a big hill and looking more like a state capitol than a hotel. It's deathly quiet inside(9:00 on a Sunday) except for the irreverent clomping of our shoes, and I keep a watchful eye out to make sure Travis doesn't knock over some priceless vase. But as soon as we reach the downstairs entrance to the Tonga Room, it's like we just landed on Skull Island and I inconspicuously fall to the back of the group, sure that the first one in will be grabbed by overzealous, superstitious natives and handed off to a big gorilla. But to my relief, we're greeted cordially by a very hot native girl... well, more like a hostess, who shows us to our table - I am digging Skull Island! Jayson wasn't exaggerating when he described it and it's definitely a place you have to experience to believe. As we are simultaneously seated and ambushed by a waiter armed with drink menus, one has the distinct feeling of dining on a tranquil wooden pier, surrounding a tropical lagoon(swimming with Plesiosaurs, if we're sticking with the Skull Island theme), complete with a moored ship, colorfully strung tiki lamps and reoccurring rain storm(with thunder and lightning). Moments after our first round arrives, a boat/stage containing the evening's musical entertainment floats quietly into the lagoon and cranks out what I can only describe as sequenced disco lounge - where the hell are the Plesiosaurs when you need them?!

The food surpasses even Jayson's oversell and as predicted, we are on the fast track to Intoxication Station; if not by rum then by the cornucopia of fruit juices. Jayson pays the tab and we all adjourn to the bar where we can do some serious drinking and annoy respectable customers. Admittedly, the pickin's are a little slim, it being Sunday night and all, when in walk two gorgeous women who are conveniently seated across the dance floor from us. I can tell you right now, despite all our familial convictions, high morals, respect for the fairer sex, etc., etc., the one thought that is roaring through each brain is, "what happens in Frisco, stays in Frisco". These girls are at the Playboy level(extraordinary looks and class) and believe me, they are well aware of the slaying effect they are generating, which immediately intimidates me to the point that I intentionally forfeit and remove myself from the playing field(mentally, of course). I'm pretty sure everyone else does the same... all except one... Mr. Jayson Bales. Well sir, apparently aloofness breeds confidence... or a total disregard of humiliation as he self-assuredly leans back in his chair, casually jiggles the ice in his glass and announces that he will ask one of these sirens to dance.

"Are you crazy - they are totally out of your league! Girls like that eat guys for hors d'oeuvres with their cosmopolitans, you'll be chewed up and spit on the beach... or dock, as it were."

But as I explained previously, that type of response only fuels the fire(see Part 1: Yosemite 500) and before we can grab and slap some sense into him, he's already launched a full scale assault across the lounge to his doom. Greg, Travis and I hold our breath... secretly wishing for failure, because we don't have the cajones... and nearly fall out of our seats as Jayson gingerly escorts the hottest of the two out for a few graceful twirls around the lagoon. Bravo... her elbows are in the unlocked position and I don't see any white knuckles! And oh my God, you have never seen one self-satisfied person more dripping with smugness as he struts back to our table. I must admit that my overall rating of Mr. Aloof reluctantly climbs up a few notches; of course, in a matter of minutes, he drops it back through the floor with his conversely juvenile, after-dinner performance.

Skillfully choosing our exit on a high note, we all head back to the hotel... on foot. Once out of the jungle, it becomes annoyingly clear that Jayson is quite inebriated - big shock. To be honest, I tried to get there myself, but with all the heavy food I've consumed, I'm disappointingly marooned in Sober City. We've got a good 20 minute trek ahead of us and whether energised from his previous coup over Ms. Skull Island or his body is too stupid to realize its brimming with a chemical depressant, Jayson decides he will entertain us all with feats of athleticism. From my position at point, I see the handwriting on the wall and I set my pace at "full ahead" in an attempt to distance from the Revival Flying Circus, returning the confused looks of hapless bystanders and late night travelers with a reciprocal rolling of the eyes. I can't tell you the details of this one man competition, other than it involves Jayson running/stumbling up and down flights of parking garage stairs at full speed while screaming "time me!" I refuse to look back and chance any association with this clown, not to mention possibly witnessing a drunk singer/songwriter splattered all over the streets of San Francisco. Nevertheless, I'm haunted by the ridiculous clip-clap of dress shoes slapping the concrete and echoing through narrow streets all the way back to our hotel. Through a clear case of divine intervention, we all make it home unscathed, ironically flying in the face of the Proverbial warning, "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall." I whisper an apology to the Guardian Angel that drew this overtime destined shift.

Sign of the Gypsy Queen. We stayed in El Paso last night, and we're dragging into a Starbucks this morning, trying to revive ourselves sufficiently for the last piece of the trip - the dash for Dallas. No one in this band is much of a morning person on a good day, and the looming prospect of driving across West Texas after being on the road for two weeks does not a good day make. We dropped off Travis in Phoenix yesterday, into the custody of his soon to be in-laws - unbeknownst to his girlfriend(of about 10 years), T-Rav is planning to pop the question... despite the rest of the band recounting numerous(and likely exaggerated) "glory of single life" anecdotes throughout the trip. In fact, today is the actual day and I say a silent prayer for him... and giggle inwardly at the horror of wedding planning that awaits him. Outside of that dark thinking, I'm just looking forward to a decent cup of coffee, a muffin and some quiet time to enjoy the pleasant morning before being beaten within an inch of my life in a cramped rental van. As I peruse the always tempting pastry selection, I catch her out of the corner of my eye, seated on a sofa talking to what I assume is a friend. Immediately, there's something slightly askew - possibly her not-quite-vintage-Goodwill look or the oversized, costume-prop flower she's holding... or maybe it's the faux-friendly, Moonie vibe she's sending out. Whatever it is, I choose to ignore, cradle my tasty loot and head out to the patio area. I'm no more than halfway through my first cup, when beyond the protective wall of Jayson's newspaper, I see her again and... oh dear, she's headed for our table. Now, I must tell you, I have a "zero tolerance" policy towards uninvited solicitation; even the detached Mr. Bales regards my tactics as brutal and unwarranted when it comes to shutting down interlopers, especially sales people. I am fully prepared to unload my furious disinterest on this victim, amidst her flurry of "blessings" and "sharing her happiness", but before I can give her both barrels... Mr. Aloof breaks ranks and engages her in conversation. Damn it! She smiles victoriously, and unleashes the most insane babble you've ever heard... top ten, for sure.

I don't remember her name, except that it means "Black Panther, White Dragon"(how P.C.) - we'll just call her Delusional for short. Apparently, she is a reincarnated Egyptian Queen(of course) and has mystical clairvoyant powers. Now, if you'll permit me an aside here, I really must say something about reincarnation. I'm not one to criticize other religions and related beliefs; I mean, in my opinion, all denominations have some metaphysical qualities that can be interpreted as far-fetched by the outsider. But whatever faith, philosophy or whathaveyou that claims reincarnation needs to get on the stick! Every person that I've heard or read about, claiming to be reincarnated, was once a king, queen, duke, duchess, etc.... or at least in the upper crust of said society. Nobody ever claims to be spiritually descended from a trash collector, delivery guy, maid... you get the picture. Everyone cannot be an ancient ruler; there should be way more "indians than chiefs" - do the math. With all due respect, management really needs to take a look into this glaring oversight, if they want to be taken serious... and maybe rethink having Shirley MacLaine as their spokesperson.

Now that we're on friendly terms with an insane Egyptian Queen, she insists on reading my palm, and sensing a Kodak moment, Jayson grabs the video camera. I'm sure it will come as no surprise that I put absolutely no credence in fortune telling, palm reading or any other related shenanigans, and I don't even find it mildly amusing. But here I sit in an El Paso Starbucks, an escaped mental patient poking at my hand with grubby little fingers that have been God knows where, while my friend videos and encourages her... and I haven't even finished my coffee! She rattles on about the hidden meaning behind the lines in my skin(most of her analysis is way off), as if the universe is intimately involved in how I open and close my fingers, ending with the big revelation that I'm about to meet my soulmate and my search for true love will be over. Hmmm... pretty startling information considering I've been married more than a year and I'm wearing a wedding band - I guess I need to have a little talk with my wife. I'm beyond tired of this ridiculous game and her gypsy eau de toilette - her sleeveless blouse is revealing way more than I want to know concerning her grooming habits... or lack thereof; I thank her and move to the far(upwind) corner of the patio. The other guys continue to take turns having their futures revealed and videoing for a little while longer before it's finally time to saddle up, and then the real truth is unveiled - Queenie needs a ride! I smell this coming a mile away and before Jayson can roll over and expose his soft, democratic underbelly, I swiftly unsheathe my stalwart sensibility and smite the cursed White Dragon, banishing her to the next naive Starbuck's customer. Of course, I get the "how can you be so heartless" glare from the band and I simply defer to the "B.O. from Hell" episode of Seinfeld, confident that my quick reaction has once again, kept this doomed expedition out of the ditch.

Later that evening, we make a pit stop at some nameless convenience store. I'm returning to the van, the cool bite of Red Bull bringing me back to life, when I see Greg standing by the front wheel, staring motionless at the ground. As I get closer, what I assume is a novelty, coiled, rubber snake someone is by now laughing uncontrollably over, rears up and rattles! This is the first time in my life I've ever seen a rattlesnake up close and personal and I gotta tell you, it's a little intimidating; but like a bad car accident, I can't look away. After the initial shock subsides, I'm filled with a mixture of fascination and concern... for the snake. I realize that between sitting in a busy parking lot and most people's irrational fear of all things crawly, this reptile is dangerously close to extinction. Jayson and Travis join us, along with the store cashier, who announces no need to worry, she's just called her boyfriend who's on his way over... with a gun. Now you can call me crazy, but this innocent snake has done nothing to deserve the firing squad, not to mention the potential mayhem that could ensue from a trigger-happy boyfriend in this neck of the woods, so we have to move now... actually, the snake does. So, armed with a trusty mic stand, we very carefully encourage our now quite irritable friend grudgingly back into the desert - no harm, no foul. Again, I am awed by the speed and dexterity of this animal, and make a mental note to be more careful where I step in the future. As we hit the road running, once again, I can't help but think back to the Gypsy Queen in El Paso, and how my negative reaction to her request for a ride must have elicited at least some off-the-cuff curse mumbled out of earshot... and a snake is loosely in the dragon family.... right? There's probably a rogue mountain lion waiting at the next stop... at least a very aggressive stray cat... I wish I'd payed more attention during "Serpent and the Rainbow".

Epilogue. In the end, our westward pilgrimage does little for our overall standing in the music world... or music state, city and neighborhood, for that matter. We're still hustling for gigs, fans and cash(cause hustlin' ain't free, yo). California is an experience and ultimately will be measured by the timeless bond we've melded through shared victory and defeat in a strange land. Honestly, it has been one of the most emotional experiences of my life, ranging from genuine love to clandestine murder plots... and everything in between - shaky ground in the world of men, my friends. But we are now a band in the true sense of the word, an impenetrable ring, and make no mistake, we are contenders. In my opinion, that's all you can really ask for. History alone, decides the winners.

Chapter 6: Exodus(Part 1)

Every musician, whether poised at the brink of getting signed or rocking out in the bedroom with a tennis racket and strobe light, dreams of going on tour. The Revival is no different, and we want it so badly that we're not waiting for the record label(which quite honestly, in our case, would be a long wait) - we're doing it ourselves. Now obviously, we don't have the budget of a big label, so some things will have to be scaled down. The tour bus will be a 12 passenger Ford van(generic white) courtesy of Avis and piloted by us; catering provided by Jayson's wife Amy(Rice Crispy Treats and Oreos) and various convenience stores and burger joints along the way; exotic destinations will be limited to the western part of the country(which can be frighteningly exotic, in some cases) and accommodations will be one room with two beds, queen size if we're lucky. Not exactly first rate, but it's really about taking our music across the country and enjoying the somewhat claustrophobic camaraderie of the road. After almost two weeks, you can well imagine that we've had some adventures and amassed some stories. Here are some of the highlights:

The Yosemite 500. It's Thursday, the third day of very uneventful travel. We left Dallas late Tuesday afternoon and drove to a crappy little town northwest of Amarillo. Day two was driving all day to another crappy little town outside of Las Vegas. So here we are now, just this side of crappy, severely road worn and we have to make it to Sebastopol, CA by 4:00 this afternoon for our first show with The Trailer Park Rangers. No problem, according to the Navi-Jayson Directional Computer and to ensure our timely arrival, he elects to traverse through Yosemite National Park; it's the shortest route(as the crow flies... and therein lies the rub) and we get to witness some of the nation's most beautiful country - double bonus. Shortly after entering the park however, it becomes horribly evident that we've made a grave error: the road is narrow, winding, mountainous and full of vacationing tourists puttering along at 25 mph... plus, my stomach doesn't feel so hot, due mostly to hours of sitting in a crowded van and eating questionable food. I have become a living testament to the philosophy that the human body is designed for motion and a lack thereof can severely slow one's inner workings, if you get my drift. Anyway, the chance of us making the show on time is shrinking by the second. At this point, if it was up to me, I would bail; a short phone call to the venue to explain our impossible situation would meet with understanding and sympathy, especially since we're the opening act. But Jayson Bales never met a hopeless situation he wouldn't risk life and limb(his own and others) to overcome; the surest way to get him to do something is tell him he can't, and since he's in the driver's seat, here we go. My only regret is that no one is keeping official time because I am quite convinced we are setting a record, if not for fastest trip through a national park then surely for scaring the piss out of the most people in a national park(including ourselves). You've probably witnessed a stuntman wannabe motorcyclist flying down a highway at 100 mph, slaloming in and out of traffic within inches of other vehicles with little or no regard for his own life, let alone anyone else's. If you replace the motorcycle with a big-ass van full of equipment and the highway with a snaking scenic trail, you've got a pretty good picture of us... I think we actually "get air" a few times. Capt. Ahab is mad with obsession, glazed eyes glued to the road, rigor mortis hands locked to the wheel, lead foot stomping the accelerator and laser-honed mind blind to all reason - "Come on lads, full speed ahead to Sebastopol, the Great White Whale!" I'm finding it hard to look out at the blurred scenery flying past, because it's blurry... and the exaggerated motion effect isn't helping my lack of digestion issues. I fear that the breathtaking beauty of Yosemite will be somewhat diminished in our haste.

"Hey, there's El Capitan!"

"Where?"

"Back there about a mile... 2 miles... 3 miles... "

Sadly, the high point of this little excursion(for me) is finding the one and only rest stop in the whole park, because we know we're about halfway through and we all need to deliquefy... urgently. As I'm falling out of the van, I'm instantly defeated by the realization that there is only one small bathroom for about 300 people... many of which are currently engaged or recently adjourned from eating greasy fast food. As I stare vacantly at the hopeless situation before me, the thought of taking a number in this potentially aromatic herd engages my survival instinct - I throw social etiquette to the wind and determinedly set off into the wilderness. Some may see this act as a vile disrespect of nature; I like to look at it as paying my respects in that most natural of ways - the circle of life, if you will, returning to the land that which came from the land. It's also my pathetically weak attempt to wreak some ill-conceived vengeance on the national park that's ruining my day, and at this point, peeing on Jayson or the van is out of the question.

The good news(for everyone except Yosemite tourists) is that we do make it to our show in Sebastopol, albeit late; but as the saying goes, "Better late than bear food, pinned in a crashed van somewhere in the California wild." Just happy to be alive, we rush on stage, do our thing(or a very close approximation), proceed directly to getting hammered on Ace Pear Cider and narrowly avert WWIII between exausted Jayson and grumpy(still intestinally challenged) me. Special thanks go out to The Trailer Park Rangers and the Ace in the Hole Pub for their latitude and tolerance... and liberal dispensing of cider.

Berkeley Co-op Groupies. Not what you think... unfortunately. The Revival is playing in Berkeley tonight, at a little place called Beckett's Irish Pub. We're slightly annoyed because we have to bring our own P.A. and play quietly for 3 sets - they normally just have acoustic acts, so Jayson will play several songs solo and then the band will join him... quietly. However, it soon becomes clear that someone has failed to inform the rather boisterous clientele of the "quiet policy", and we're pretty much rocking full throttle before it's over. The crowd loves us, which makes tearing down and loading all that equipment somewhat more bearable, and while Travis and I are patting ourselves on the back, the usually reserved and ready-to-call-it-a-night Greg sidles up with a rather shocking request. Apparently, a small group of young, mostly female UC Berkeley students think we're the cat's pajamas and are insisting that we further imbibe with them. At the mention of young and female, my inner B.S. Alarm goes off - there's got to be an angle. I take a look-see for myself and indeed, Jayson is surrounded by 4 slightly inebriated girls that look more the high school variety(but at my age, anyone under 30 looks like a child to me) that immediately begin introducing themselves and raving about our awesome sound. They know a great place to go, but being poor college students, they lack transportation and require a ride. Now despite what you might believe, I'm against the idea right off; I cannot carry on a conversation with a 21 year old, sober girl for more than about 15 minutes, and I cannot carry on anything else because I know my limits... oh yea, and I'm married(I meant to say that first). Jayson(so he says) is on the fence about it and Travis also seems a little lukewarm. But the G-Spot is adamant that as the objects of their worship, it's the least we can do... just one drink(famous last words). So, with my better judgement laughing its ass off, we all load up in the already crowded van to cruise with the kids... I mean coeds. After twisting and turning through the dark backstreets of Berkeley with two giggly girls navigating(a different but equally unreliable directional system), we pull up in front of what looks like a condemned apartment complex, but in reality is a co-op at UC Berkeley. Now for those of you who don't know what a co-op is, it's a type of cheap dorm where all the residents share the chores - cooking, cleaning, etc. Needless to say, they attract certain... we'll call them liberal minded, communist type of individuals and if this place is any measure, are complete dumps. I'm afraid to touch anything, let alone sit down and wonder why on earth I didn't listen to my better judgement - I immediately start forming an escape plan. We all head out to the patio(loose term), pull up rickety chairs around a wobbly table and are served an assortment of (bargain size)cheap tequila, warm gin(I guess whoever had ice-tray duty fell down on the job) and flat soda water... oh, and limes(classy)... in old coffee cups. Tempted as I am by this bounty, I plead designated driver and abstain; when offered water instead, I just assure them I'll go stick my head under the kitchen faucet if I get thirsty. I'm failing miserably at keeping up my party spirit and try to just maintain my sanity long enough to qualify for tolerant bandmate. The other guys have adapted the "when in Rome" philosophy and are actually engaging these girls in deep discussions about nothing. I haven't seen Greg this giddy on the whole trip and Jayson, leg crossed and thoughtfully pulling on a cigarette(he doesn't normally smoke), presides at the head of the table like a 60's psychology T.A. over a rap session. I feel myself slipping and once the clove cigarettes come out, I am out! Greg gives me the "relax dude, everything's groovy" look in between puffs, but it's too late - Adult Johnny has assumed control. I storm quickly out to the van before I start lecturing students about putting their studies first, or bringing strange men home... or cigarettes stunting their growth. Travis is the next to follow, but not before being accosted by Commie Co-ed #1 as he's attempting to use the facilities - apparently these gals take the concept of sharing very seriously. Fortunately, Travis is able to foil the attempt(politely, I'm sure) and makes it to the safety of the van unscathed(physically, at least). I am now starting to (briefly)reconsider my stance on leaving immediately as Greg and Jayson amble out reluctantly, amused at the situation and inwardly wondering why the bass player is getting all the action, despite their hip smoking display. I now have to play the dad character, making an untimely appearance at an unauthorized party to collect my prodigal sons, who must endure a long, tense drive home while I fume over their irresponsibility and decide what punishment to dole out - Karma will have its day.

The sad thing is, somewhere out there, a young college girl will probably be forever scarred by having her innocent, though admittedly amorous advances rejected by a musician of all things... on tour, no less! Just more destruction in our ever-widening wake... and another devastating blow to our waning coolness rating.

Chapter 5: The Battle of Shreveport

Now that we've made our presence known in Texas, it's time to conquer the surrounding states. Right. We're headed to Shreveport, LA or "The Next Great City of the South"(according to their website). I don't know who's waiting in the "Great Southern Cities Line", but I'm fairly sure Shreveport is not next... unless they cut... or paid another city to hold a place in line for them. Shreveport is that guy in the 80's who showed up at the Stark Club in an acid-washed duster, day-glo "choose life" t-shirt, plastic high-heeled boots from Journeez, mousse-caked mullet and a chandelier hanging off one ear, swaggeringly convinced that his slamming look will get him picked from the crowd. But alas, the velvet rope is always just a liiiiiitle too high - DENIED! Nevertheless, Jayson has been playing there regularly for several years and always goes over well, so great or not - here we come.

Original bass player/backing vocalist Trae Bon Jovi is regrettably no longer with the band, and filling his very big, pointy shoes is Travis Behl, formerly of the recently defunct Transcenders(although they've played at least two last shows since). Travis spent several months subbing for Trae(along with a good friend of mine and musician extraordinaire, Gerard Dirkx) and we were convinced from the very beginning that Travis was the perfect fit, but it took Travis a little longer to convince himself of that(perhaps he had read my blog). After weeks of careful consideration and relentless ass-kissing by us, he finally came around. So, without further adieu, my signature hacking shall commence.

At first glance, you might mistake Travis' bass for an axe or deer rifle - he looks like he just walked out of a Jack London novel; full beard, longish, shaggy hair and worn, earthy clothes(I doubt he owns anything with ruffles). But if you look a little closer, he's more of a Matt Hooper(Richard Dreyfuss' character in Jaws), especially with those little glasses he wears and a slight pseudo-intellectual hippy vibe he exudes; he's way too civilized for a mountain man and I'm not aware of any affinity for wolf-dogs(or sharks for that matter). Besides his groove-locking bass work, Travis is a very talented and classically trained singer, which is perfect for the temporary void in backing vocals left by his predecessor. But in my opinion, Mr. Behl's real strength, at least as far as the Revival is concerned, is his bridging ability. By that I mean that he fills the gap between the two factions in the band - Jayson and me(Greg is omnipotent and in both factions). Like Jayson, Travis is very interested in pushing the envelope musically and exploring the new and different; they both are huge Wilco(and other much stranger indie bands you've never heard of) fans, thriving on the unknown and revelling in the impromptu. At the same time, Travis and I share a strong dedication to rehearsal and appreciation of detail; traits that require a certain adherence to repetition, which is the surest method of destroying an aloof lead singer. Also, Travis is now the new guy, a position I just recently graduated from and so we have that very special bond. I guess you could say that a loss was ultimately the band's gain, and a shark expert brought the ocean and the coastal town closer together... (what?!!)

This trip, we're playing at a club called Flannagan's, which squats obscenely along Kings Hwy.(king of what?) among several other seedy bars and the like. Apparently, this is the entertainment district, outside of the casinos. It's relatively close to a small school, Centenary College, which is of course out for summer, placing us in direct violation of Band Booking Rule #1(learned in Stephenville): never play a college town during the summer unless you're a fan of natural reverb - the kind you get in big, empty venues. Fantastic. And Flannagan's is a big venue, with two full bars, a billiards room, a competition size stage complete with 3' drum riser and ramparts(?) on the front to presumably repel a respectable invasion force(which explains the diversionary fog machine). Confident in our strategically defensive position, we haul up the equipment and dig in. In addition to our impressive fortifications, Flannagan's has generously supplied us with provisions, in the way of a free case of beer - "If it's war they want, it's war they'll have!" All this talk of battle is making me thirsty, so Travis and I dig into the provisions, while Jayson and Greg try and explain to the bartender(the one that's not sound asleep - swear to God) what Maker's Mark is. Fortunately, reinforcements arrive in the way of Shreveport Revival fans, and though they're a small, ragtag outfit, every person counts. I'm starting to smell victory.

The hour draws nigh and we take up our positions on Fort Stage. I have to admit, that looking around at this massive emplacement, I'm having a bit of a Spinal Tap moment and my imagination is flooded by multiple scenarios of me leaping off that drum riser, legs splayed in mid-air, landing on the downbeat of a ripping guitar solo while screaming girls throw themselves mindlessly at my feet... sorry... I grew up in the 70's. We charge into the first two songs of the set and things are going well. Gradually more and more people trickle through the front door until we actually have a respectable crowd... and they're digging it. And then, the enemy attacks; not enforce, from behind or above, but from directly in front of us... a most unexpected lone assailant, in the form of a buxom brunette - diabolical! She is innocently sitting alone at a table up front, and as we play on, her reactions become increasingly more animated; what starts as an inconspicuous, rhythmic head-bop slowly morphs into a full-on, exotic pole dance... sans pole. I've just worked my way to the edge of the stage for a better look, when to my delight... I mean shock, she lifts her skirt and gives us her broadside. Now I don't mean to imply that she's not attractive; she is... for her age and I'm sure she was quite a dish in her day, but regrettably that day has passed... at least for showing your ass to a club full of people. But I can't help admiring her moxy and I have to admit that I'm somewhat fascinated by trashy older women, hell-bent on revealing their well used wares. With most people, modesty is conversely relative to age; that is, the older you get the less you show... and for good reason. However, some people obviously subscribe to the opposite equation, or maybe a different equation altogether where lack of modesty is a constant in the formula... from birth until death... yuk. Possibly this particular lady's efforts have nothing to do with math and she just wants to score in the biblical sense. We'll never know for sure because shortly into her performance, Flannagan's has (surprisingly)had enough and escorts her out of the establishment. Over the course of the evening, several other girls try to pick up the banner so to speak, but with age(apparently) comes conviction and the younger fill-ins are found lacking... good effort, though. We finish out our tour of duty, and the night is ours; I can't contain my elation and allow myself a victory-flaunting, last guitar solo perched on the ramparts - my own little coup de grace... or cheesy Spinal Tap move, depending on your point of view.

One of the cool things about playing Flannagan's, is that they have a band house located nearby to accommodate bands from out of town, thereby eliminating the expense(and harrowing experience) of a motel stay. The last time we played there, we had two bedrooms with 2 full beds in each, and our own bathroom. This time however, the band house has taken on some permanent borders and our accommodations have been reduced to one bedroom with 3 full beds crammed in. As the suddenly defeated Revival surveys our disappointingly downgraded situation, several immediate issues must be addressed:

1. 3 beds/ 4 musicians - an obvious lopsided ratio. Jayson and Greg never have a problem doubling up in this department(secure or creepy?) - Travis and I have a big problem with it. Two adult men in a full bed? I don't sleep that close to my wife. Travis slickly takes the martyr route and volunteers to crash on the faux leather sofa in the living room - pretty wise move for the new guy.


2. None of the beds have a top sheet and all have unidentifiable stains on the well worn pillows and spreads. How do I lay down without coming in contact with said stains? I'm somewhat comforted by the fact that my bed stain is way too large for any overflow from carnal recreation, so it must have been some type of spill... a glass of wine perhaps... an intoxicated bladder... a leaky amputation wound... it's also crusty. I am no longer comforted.


3. Jayson snores like a chainsaw and I have forgotten my earplugs. It's really more than a snore - more like lycanthropy. I'm convinced that he transforms into a werewolf during the night, but I'm too afraid to open my eyes.

Tragically, the results are inescapable - very little sleep. Except for the Wolfman.

But tomorrow is another day... that's here now, last night is just a wakeful memory forever stained in my mind, and we need food. Our objective now is to find a decent place(that's open on Sundays) to get some breakfast. Fortunately, Jayson, Travis and I are able to muster the fortitude to override Greg's sad love affair with IHOP(International House of Pathetic) and the swill they call coffee, which after the night I've had, is not to be skimped on. I cannot figure out how a guy with such reasonably good taste in everything else(his house looks like a West Elm display) totally misses the boat on food - we have actually debated El Fenix vs. Mi Cocina! Anyway, we dodge that bullet this morning and after a somewhat lengthy search, turn up a little diner that's not half bad - the coffee is consumable and they've got interesting, vintage bric-a-brac on the walls(like a Lone Ranger puzzle I had as a kid). After sufficient refueling, unloading and reminiscing, we're road worthy again and hit the homeward highway. At this point, a return to Shreveport seems doubtful - not enough bang for the beating. That is, until Jayson spots a tiki bar on the way out of town; at the risk of further derailing the band's already teetering image, yes, our lead singer is a tiki aficionado(see Trader Vic's). Keep an eye out for Jayson Bales & the Coerced Coconuts, live at the Tiki Tavern in Shreveport, LA, "The Next Great Luau of the South".

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.

Chapter 3: Picture Day

Today is picture day for the Revival. It takes me back to my school days when one(or a combination) of two things would happen: I would totally forget and wear a dorky shirt my mom picked out or have a bad hair day(the prevailing look for me with the lack of good hair products and the humidity). On rare occasions, the planets would align and the fashion gods would take pity on me only to have the photographer manage to capture the absolute worst angle possible – not good times. Any way, a photographer friend of Jayson’s, who’s trying to beef up his unknown and under appreciated band portfolio, has agreed to take pictures of us for free. I’m not sure it makes much business sense to do a pro bono shoot for musicians who inherently have little or no money, but what do I know… and we need the pictures. I’m getting tired of people telling me I’ve lost weight since the cd photo and I look really different without glasses. Originally, we were supposed to rehearse today and we need that also, so Jayson decides to combine the two... okay. As if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Aloof is just coming off poorly scheduled knee surgery(just two weeks before the big NYE bash) and will be on crutches - you couldn’t plan a better disaster.

Panic immediately sets in: where in the world are we going to shoot and what do I wear. The band practices at the warehouse of the place I work. When I say warehouse, I mean that in the dullest, most uninteresting, void of any character way possible… with fluorescent lighting. I’m not sure I can look rock star in that setting. As far as what I will wear, my choices are immediately thinned down to what I have clean – very little. Also, this being my first modeling session with the Revival, I’m not sure how seriously it will be taken. Normally, I would bring several outfits along and be prepared to change at different points for variety. However, I cannot envision anyone else in the band taking this much care and preparation(except Trae) and rather than risk certain ridicule, I decide to play it safe and just take an extra shirt; plus, I’m wearing a denim jacket which can be added or removed for a different look – genius. Unfortunately, at the slightest mention of camera, my hair decides to lay down on the job… literally; a clever ploy since I’m usually prepared for the opposite, far fluffier follicularity(made-up word). For those of you who don’t know me very well, my hair has a life of its own and delights in tormenting me; much of my life is spent wrestling it. Over time I have lost most of my resolve and given in to its wild whims, but on occasion I get my grit up and prepare for battle… and usually get my ass kicked.

As band members arrive at the warehouse, it becomes frighteningly clear that I have totally underestimated the occasion. Everyone has brought several complete changes of clothes, except Brian who rolls lean and mean like myself(or doesn’t really give a shit) and only has the attire he’s wearing. Trae has more accessories than any male should be allowed(scarfs?) and I’m beginning to look for his make-up girl – it’s an absolute crime he doesn’t have a sponsorship from Friction or Metropark. The photographer immerses himself in finding the perfect patch of drywall to serve as our backdrop and crippled Jayson hobbles around like Captain Ahab madly shouting out orders for equipment placement. As I feared, the fluorescent lighting lacks a certain Je-ne-sais-quoi, and camera guy hauls out the umbrella lights. Okay, here we go… lights… camera… nervous chuckles… awkward poses… snap! Damn it, I blinked. There are few situations in this world that make me more uncomfortable than having my picture taken, especially the artist promo shot. I’ve discovered that I am utterly incapable of looking natural and unposed once the camera comes out. I always feel like I’m supposed to project some kind of look, but exactly what that should be persistently eludes me. At the risk of going a little Herman Melville on you, allow me to illustrate and layout some preferred choices:

1.) The Run For Your Life, I Am Evil Incarnate look – reserved primarily for Heavy Metal, Goth, Punk and the like, this look is composed of heavy shadows, downward cast faces with upturned eyes(often eerily glowing) and predictable grimaces. The statement here is that “You should fear me while hopefully enjoying my music.”

2.) The I’m Having the Time of My Life Struggling in the Music Biz look – you see this a lot with solo artists. Wacky camera angles and blurry, motion effects strive to create a very spontaneous, journalistic feel, while the subject has this ecstatic smile painted across the face; the eyes are almost always closed and you get the distinct impression they are twirling around and around in carefree, mindless bliss… or high as a kite.

3.) The I’m So Cool/Brooding I’m Ignoring You Even Though I’m Very Aware That You’re Shooting My Picture look - pretty self explanatory and also a big player with the singer/songwriter. I have actually tried this one myself with mixed results – it usually just screams narcissist amateur.

4.) The I Am Sooo Sexy look – Prince made it popular; moist lips, soft focus, open shirts, cucumbers and a come-hither stare. It whispers, “I will rock your audio and visual world”… unless it’s an obvious self-portrait via cell phone camera… then it just cries for help.

5.) There is no name for this last genre because it is more of an absence of a look – an anti-look, if you will. This poor, clueless soul merely poses head-on to the photographer with his or her guitar(s) and related equipment in some random setting(frequently a basement) as if to say, “I have no idea what I’m doing but get a load of my cool stuff.”

I could go on and on but will spare you the beating. The photo session continues for about an hour, moving from the chummy group shots to the full blown in concert(in a warehouse) series - yes, we actually plug in to make it look authentic, although the sound leaves something to be desired. Playing and posing is apparently quite a challenge for everyone but Trae, who predictably delivers several candidates for Tiger Beat fold-out posters that will no doubt find their way to pubescent bedroom walls across the Southwest. The rest of us inconsistently hit and miss, barely managing a handful of usable frames(you’ll be seeing them on promotional stuff ). Well, I don’t think Janice Dickinson or Tyra Banks will be calling, but at least people can see what the current Revival looks like. Next time I’m going to bring more clothes and get drunk… and not stand by Trae.

Chapter 2: Road Revival

Roadshow. Just the sound of the word gets the blood pumping. Now don't get me wrong, I'm no virgin to the road; but this is a gig in Austin, arguably the center of the music world - at least Texas thinks so. If you've ever been there for SXSW or Austin City Limits, it's difficult to deny. Besides the roadshow thing and the Austin thing, it's also a CD release thing, which puts it into a whole other thing category - the high pressure thing. By that I mean it's our opportunity and responsibility to make an impression; new look, new songs, new sound, and new guitar player who still hasn't logged much time with the group. On top of that we've got to get press and draw a crowd - no easy feat for a Dallas band. Shit, now I'm just scared.

Keyboardist Brian Girard won't be making the trip with us. His other band, the Transcenders, already had a gig booked for this night, thus he will be spared my stinging commentary(temporarily). Not as fortunate, bass player Trae Doss has to work till 3:00 and will be cruising down solo later in the day. He's a hair stylist training to be a colorist, and to do so you apparently have to sell yourself into salon slavery for a year or more. Typically, slave masters aren't very understanding when it comes to taking time off, especially on the busiest day of the week, so out-of-town shows are always a little shaky. That leaves Mr. Aloof(Jayson), G-Spot(Greg) and Prince(me - I'll explain later) to blaze the trail; a fitting analogy since Jayson's SUV is about the same size as a covered wagon, and every available square inch is crammed with equipment and animals. The trip is pretty uneventful in itself, except for the merciless verbal thrashing I receive for not being able to work the ipod properly(this band should be called Dog Pile).

The first rule of thumb after a long day of trail-blazing is to find shelter, which proves to be somewhat of a challenge since someone aloofly left his directions at home. However, his trusty cell phone comes to the rescue and a half hour later we're pulling into the Somerfield Suites Hotel, a quiet, extremely well hidden, former apartment complex(circa 1984) that will function as Austin HQ for the night. Jayson goes to workout(allegedly) while Greg and I flip through the myriad of nothing on TV and make fun of the room decor - very rock 'n' roll! Jayson returns (very)shortly and we get dressed and head out for the ritual pre-show meal. Now let me take a moment here to toss out a little gratuitous imagery for your reading pleasure; allow me to borrow stylistically from Brett Easton Ellis a la American Psycho and describe the look everybody's throwing down for this pivotal occasion. El Jefe de Revival and focal point, Jayson Bales has boldly chosen to go with the edgy faded, plain black, long-sleeved t-shirt with jeans and scuffed Justin work-boots, strangely familiar yet remarkably the same as he wore to the Dallas CD release - I believe understated continuity is the theme here. The G-Spot, true to his creed, has elected to go with what I call the top-half look; that is, wearing a trendy shirt(in this case faux-western by Ross) with little or no regard for the bottom half since he's sitting down behind the drums - practical, frugal and let's face it, if you can get a drummer to wear any more than a pair of running shorts, you're ahead of the game. Finally, the diamond among stones, I am going beyond a fashion statement and making a fashion holler; I mean come on, this is Austin and this is a CD release, right? I ceremoniously don my signature purple, 70's ruffled tuxedo shirt(untucked of course) with black jacket and vintage cowboy boots, tastefully accessorized with various bracelets and necklaces... okay, insert Prince jokes and Purple Rain selections here... and here... oh, and here... Truly, a more motley crew you've never witnessed. We dine, debate over whether or not our hot Asian waitress(who thought my shirt was cool) is wearing a bra, ponder the heretofore absence of our bass player and go to Jovita's.

It's about 9:30 P.M., opening band Household Names is on their last song, and we're all standing in the Jovita's parking lot wondering where Trae is. Well, that's not quite accurate; we know where he is(his car), we're really wondering if he'll make it here in time to play the gig with us. Jayson is nervous, which is rare, considering all he has to worry about. Also, the crowd is a little thin - thank God Household Names drew pretty well. It's beginning to look like one of those nights when, despite all your planning and preparation, things are slowly beginning to unravel and your fear is transitioning from the qualitative will something go wrong, to the quantitative how wrong will things go. I'm starting to have a deja vu moment, as if I'm in a cliche movie about some made-up rock band and we're all poised at the critical juncture in the story, the audience holding their breath and choking throw-pillows. Then, the distant rumble of a 1973 Datsun 240Z and a familiar headlight pattern(I don't know how) slowly come into focus; now the throbbing crescendo of Trae's Spanish inspired theme song(Conquistador by Procol Harem), "Conquistador your stallion's waiting..." and he pulls into the hot lights of the parking lot. We all exhale simultaneously like air brakes on a semi, the long door swings open and up pops the Trizz, smiling ear to ear like there was never any doubt of his celebrity-timed entrance, basking fully, if only briefly in the warmth of communal relief. He coolly takes one last pull on his cigarette, flicks the butt and heads for the back door mumbling something about a big accident in Waco. While Greg and I keep Jayson from murdering our prodigal bass player, Trae hits the john, the bar and is on stage with a drink and freshly lit cigarette ready to roll - and rock and roll we do. Despite the disappointing crowd size, we play a blowout show and make the most of the evening. I'm beginning to believe that I actually play better to smaller, less attentive audiences; obviously a situation I've long grown accustomed to in my lengthy and less-than-illustrious career - amazing how the human body adapts.

I'd like to tell you that the much heralded(mostly by noted party-monger Jayson) after-party was equally amazing, but that would be a horrific lie(no offense to accompanying participants). The fact is, we'd had a long day, are getting(already there in my case) somewhat long in the tooth and were plumb tuckered out. But, being the veteran showmen that we are, we mustered our last ounce of strength and adjourned to the legendary Donn's Depot - think much smaller version of (original)Gilley's with wood paneling. Needless to say, my Prince-look attracted some undue attention, but besides a few bewildered stares, the occasion was disappointingly sedate. Kudos to Mr. Bales who, though denying charges of alcoholic influence, sprightly climbed onto a loft over the ladies restroom in a valiant attempt to save our reputation... and for a unique photo-op. Donn(yep - two n's) was not amused and curtly invited Jayson to get down or get out. And thus ended the Revival's storied sack and pillage of Capitol City - Austin will never be the same... neither will Donn.