Sometimes Things Just Don't Seem To Go Your Way

You may have read the abridged version in our last blog post.  Now, the beginning of the rest of the story.

After promoting the show, bugging our friends, and speculating about fanny count, the Saturday for Summertime Music at Shine arrived.  The good news was that The Bee had listed the show in The Lineup page.  The bad news was that the show was scheduled for the Saturday of Labor Day weekend and was smack dab against three or four music events which were sure to siphon folks away from Shine.  Throughout the day, emails or text messages arrived with “sorry can’t make it, something else has come up” or “we’re going to Harlows to see Gene Loves Jezebel” or the like.

Were we about to have the gig which every musician or band eventually faces where we were going to play only to our loved ones and the staff of the venue?  Cliche after cliche flashed like a slide show through my brain.  The show must go on.  Play every show as if it was your last.  Play to an empty room as you would to a packed room.  Blah.  Blah.  Blah.  Blah.

By 6:30, one car was packed with amps, guitars, and related stuff.  Two plastic tacky tiki masks were included to hang on Robert’s and Sue’s music stands.  Shine wanted us to load in at 7:00, set up, and run a sound check for an 8:30 (“Summer Hours”) start. 

Drums and hardware were stacked by the front door of the Doghouse, and I paced while waiting for Glenn.  The pacing was a manifestation of my innate impatience but provided the benefit of burning nervous energy.  Glenn arrived -- almost on time.  We packed the drums into his car and headed off to Shine to face whatever lay ahead for the night.

The normal 10-minute drive from the Doghouse to Shine took 15 minutes.  How can a taxi park at a green light?  Why are the lights synched so that we hit only reds?  Just how many ambulances are racing about at 6:45 on a Saturday night in downtown Sacramento?  Why is Chalk-It-Up or Gold Rush Days on the route to Shine?

By the time I parked in front of Shine, any semblance of cool had succumbed to the aggravations of the sequence of inconveniences.  As we took our gear up to the stage, the coolness factor totally was gone.  The tiny stage accommodated the drum kit only.  A rat’s nest of cords hid the plugs to the PA. 

I asked, “Should we mic the amps?”  The reply was quick, “Yes.”  The good news was that we brought instrument mics and stands.  The bad -- really bad -- news was that we would have to undo the pile of twisted, tangled cords.  “Can we just unplug and separate them out?”

“You better not.  Rena knows all about the PA but she is at the Gene Loves Jezebel show.” 


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