The Gig
Greg M. Hall
Copyright 2010 by Greg M. Hall
For more information, visit www.gregmhall.com
This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form and proper attribution is given the author.
“Wow! This is a little nicer place than we’re used to, huh?”
Mike said this as he lugged a plastic garbage can laden with cymbal and microphone stands through the back door of the Black Rock Club. Ahead of him, Frank stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, looking all around at crystal chandeliers and polished woodwork. Most of the bars where they set up to play were decorated by beer posters, neon signs, license plates, animal heads; the usual American drunkard bric-a-brac. Such ornamentation was not only unnecessary on the warm oak paneling of the place, it would have been barbaric.
“You sure this, ah, is a good fit for us?” Mike set down the garbage can, its contents clattering against each other, and stood by his bandmate. Soon both heads tilted upward, scanning left and right.
“The guy said he saw our website and thought we’d be perfect. Maybe this is ‘slum-it’ night for them.”
Nick finally came through the back door, guitar case in either hand, ballcap pulled low to his eyebrows. He regarded the other two for a minute, then scanned around for the setup area. Seeing no stage, he made his way over to a spot opposite the bar that looked like it had been cleared off.
Frank continued to goggle around the room, and finally shook his head. His hair was longest of the three, Cobain-style according to Nick, but to Mike it seemed more like Gish-era Corgan-style. A stray lock flopped into his eyes, but he didn’t seem to care. “Hopefully we get to see him pretty soon. I don’t think he was the guy that let us in.”
“Yeah, I hope not,” responded Mike. “That dude didn’t look like he was all there. If he’s running a club like this, I need to look for a CEO job somewhere.”
Nick had gone back outside for another load without a word. It was as if he’d fully expected this fine, eighteenth-century country club atmosphere at every place they played. The other two didn’t take things in stride as easily, especially Mike, who’d been wondering if it was time to give up on the whole band thing. He was afraid to tell Frank, who fully embraced the life. The bass-playing singer looked like a musician, acted like one, certainly lived like one, right down to the ramen-noodle and Milwaukee’s Best diet, but Mike had just begun his senior year in college and still had a legitimate shot at a real career. A professional life presented a siren’s call of stability, but Mike realized that if he got an actual career started, that would be it for music. No more Tuesday night gigs where they didn’t get back in until four in the morning; certainly no more skipping class for a mid-day rehearsal or to get a jump on a long drive for a gig on the other side of the state.
But this night wasn’t the time to face that conundrum; another gig beckoned, and the next night was Saturday, so he could go the rest of the weekend without confronting his future.
At least he’d been smart enough to stay unattached, faking like he didn’t understand what was implied by the playfulness of some of the girls he ‘hung out’ with. The last thing he needed was a wife and a kid like his brother had collected by his senior year.
Nick hefted a PA speaker through the door, heaving it up every three or four steps with his thigh. “You two having a nice nap over there?”
They turned to face him, Frank a little annoyed at the barb, Mike amazed at Nick’s refusal to acknowledge the finery that surrounded them. But, hey, he was Nick, always a little oblivious. And besides, he had a point. This was a gig, and one of the best-paying ones they’d had, and it didn’t matter if they were doing it in a church or a nursery—they still were a long way off from having a road crew.
Mike was still tweaking with his drum set when the club owner came in. Or maybe he was the manager; either way the guy was obviously in charge. He had on a pair of dark slacks and wore a golf shirt under a sport jacket; the combination probably qualified as ‘casual’ for him. His black news-anchor hair sat over a face that betrayed both age and youth. His impeccable, thin black goatee looked like an attempt to tip the scale back toward youth.
The man nodded at the other two and approached the drums, probably because Mike had the shortest hair on his head and none on his face. He reached out and greeted the musician with a handshake, pressing a cold, dry palm into his. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said directly to Mike, “I’m Mister Stephenson, the manager.” He pronounced it Steffen-son, but an aura of phoniness about him suggested his forebears had pronounced it the right way. “You must be Mister Patten?”
Frank straightened up and approached the stranger. “I’m Frank Patten.” He didn’t offer his hand, but reciprocated when Stephenson offered his. Mike was relieved that the bassist didn’t slip him the fish. A well-paying gig, and the potential for others, took precedence over being a smartass to authority. “I was the one you spoke with about the booking.”
Stephenson recovered nicely. His smile, as genuine as the wood dashboard of their van, sent eels of unease slithering up Mike’s neck. Maybe the incongruity of the band in this club wearing tee shirts and jeans projected an insincerity on Stephenson that didn’t truly exist. There was, however, something a little off about their host’s appearance. His eyes, almost black, might have been tinted to match his hair and goatee.
The proprietor continued, oblivious to it all, going over details and particulars that were usually so obvious that they didn’t need to be discussed. They’d go from nine to one, taking a ten minute break every hour, keeping the good stuff in reserve until ten-thirty or so, being certain to pull out a couple of slow songs around a quarter to one to get everybody in the mood to quit drinking and leave. Mike couldn’t get over how well Frank listened and nodded like every bar owner needed to iron out these ‘critical’ details before a gig. Usually the bassist would at least let a little sarcasm creep into his responses, but he was abnormally forgiving tonight. Had to be the money.
Finally Stephenson was done, and Mike found himself relieved that the odd little man didn’t ask Frank to repeat everything back to him, like his mom made him do when she sent him to the convenience store for stuff. Instead, he nodded professionally and concluded the exchange by taking a couple of steps backward and extending his arms magnanimously. “I have a great feeling about tonight. They’re going to love you for certain!” He ended this declaration with a little Broadway half-shuffle, which he swung merrily into a looping, bouncy gait toward the doorway behind the bar.
The bandmates watched the guy leave, and as the door closed, Mike expected Frank to go off. Instead, the first to pipe up was Nick, who had been intently re-stringing his Les Paul during the entire exchange. “Weird little guy, ain’t he?” he asked his fretboard.
That seemed to defuse Frank, who broke out in a goofy smile. “Yeah, it’s gonna be interesting to see who actually shows up to this.”
They set up, did a sound check, and ducked out for a quick bite to eat. Mike hated putting more miles on the van, but walking was out of the question; the place was a good five minutes from the nearest town, which wasn’t exactly a metropolis. Luckily there was a Runza there, and they were already feeling flush with the money they were going to get in a few hours. Frank even got a double cheeseburger, and had them add bacon to it. Mike, whose metabolism hadn’t yet slowed, was confident he’d be batting cleanup. He doubted Frank had tried eating a real meal in a long time.
“So how you think they’re going to make money off us?”
Frank looked at Mike like it was the craziest question he’d ever heard. “Does it matter? I’m mor
e worried about how we’re going to make money off of them.”
“That’s exactly my point. They pay us a grand, let’s say they even charge a five-dollar cover. Figure thirty, forty people there, that’s about what we average for a bar show, and they pay the cover then buy thirty bucks worth of drinks, the guy barely clears enough even if he’s not paying for booze.”
Frank looked at him for a second, maybe trying to crunch those numbers, but giving up quickly. “Yeah, so, that’s why bars go out of business all the time.”
Mike had to agree with that statement. He pictured a row of dominoes on a table. Every time somebody opened up a new bar, wanted to be their own boss or get free drinks or whatever, it was like another domino got put on the table. Eventually, the table got full, but new dominoes keep coming in, so one falls off the edge, and it’s a never ending cycle; one goes in, one comes out, the circle of life, baby. Usually a band was asked back because of the people they brought in: friends, family, maybe even some actual fans, perish the thought, could swell the ranks of a Friday night crowd beyond what a jukebox or DJ could do. Unfortunately, this was one of those other-side-of-the-state gigs that was too far away for