Who doesn’t remember the amazing buzz you get the first time your band lights up the crowd and everything comes together? Nothing beats the experience of notes flying off your fingers magically—it’s like you’re floating on pure musical energy. That’s the feeling I’ve chased my entire life, and I know I’m not alone. Then there’s another kind of gig story—one that transcends the music, where you’re lucky to walk away with memories deep and transformative. Or, at least, that are good for a laugh in hindsight. Here’s mine:
When they returned home from vacationing in Miami, Toad’s parents walked into all of it. The place was a wreck, and the cops were waiting. Somebody had redecorated the massive oak front door with Day-Glo spray paint, and Boom-Pa’s liquor locker had been cleared out. The affluent Chicago suburb of Winnetka wasn’t immune to teenage hijinks, but by any standard we’d really messed up. The band had been loud, and the crowd of kids spilled out of the house and into the street, swilling French wine and expensive scotch. Trey and I left the party just before things got real, leaving Toad to face the music. Trey drove our borrowed Sunbeam Alpine convertible and drove it over to the Indian Hill golf course where Bill Murray worked—the one that probably inspired Caddyshack. We took turns doing donuts on the fairway. It was all good, clean fun. We got out of there before the cops could show, but we didn’t head back to Toad’s house, because that would be a bad trip. It was my turn to drive; I jammed the Alpine into first and dropped the clutch—in the mirror I could see two deep ruts in the soft green grass, illuminated by moonlight.
Yeah, Toad got grounded, and we weren’t allowed back in his parent’s house. So the next day, we just met up at Gillson Park, which was pretty close to where Trey lived. His brother Rob was just back from Stanford, where he seemed to be majoring in dealing weed, so we were pretty blasted. “Don’t do too much,” Rob warned. He was looking out for little brother, and I knew he didn’t trust me. Our buddy with the Sunbeam wasn’t talking to us after we’d returned his car covered in mud and golf course turf. His father had heard us drop it off at 2 A.M. and put it all together after the fairway destruction went public. It’s a small town. The park provided minimal action, so we headed on foot over to the train station in Wilmette where things might be more interesting. By Monday morning we were legends at both New Trier and Evanston Township. Of course, the adults blamed me because I was from Evanston, the North Shore’s equivalent of the wrong side of the tracks—practically Chicago! It was soundly pathetic. The shame.
“Even the worst gig can be amusing later.”
Conversely, the gig had gone well. Our band was a loose and ever-changing lineup called Sir Francis Drake and the Deadly Bees. I’d borrowed somebody’s Vox AC100—overkill for a small gig in a suburban home. That amp pushed an indecent amount of volume thanks to its four 12" speakers and dual Midax horns. I kept my (inverted) input jack-mounted Boss Tone fuzz at the ready for feedback drenched “solos” on the three-tone sunburst Strat I’d recently bought from Toad. Who knows what songs we played—I certainly can’t remember. In fact, I don’t recall exactly who was in the band, as membership was fluid in those days. Chances are fair that the drummer was Goose, who lived down the street from the party. His real name was Jeff, but everyone called him Goose because his dad was a local TV host who co-starred with a goose hand puppet named Garfield. And it’s just a guess, but I’m pretty certain that Toad was in the band for a minute.
The place was packed with kids sweating beer and dancing like the images they’d seen on TV shows like Shindig! and Where the Action Is. Bedrooms were being utilized. This was just after Hendrix at Monterey Pop, so a lot of my playing leaned heavily on whammy bar abuse and screaming feedback. It was the first time I realized that you could just make it up as you went and attitude was almost everything. I was loving it—the neighbors, not so much. At some point, Toad shouted, “bring on the Deadly Bees!,” which was the signal for every guitarist in the room to grab a guitar and plug in for the three-chord finale, “Gloria,” the ending of which required everyone to fire up their fuzz box and wail. It was hilarious, but probably the last straw for the neighbors.
Too bad Toad got grounded for a month, but I bet he still remembers that gig.
I hope all of you have a gig story that makes you smile. Remember that even the worst gig can be amusing later—and don’t forget to switch on that vintage Boss Tone for the finale!
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