Vacation, All I Ever Wanted.......

That's right folks, I'm off on vacation for a week, so no new posts for a bit. Some of you won't know the difference since you think I lag when it comes to new stories being told. But Mary has relented due to the whining and agreed to see Primus on our jaunt into Seattle on Wednesday night. I'm pretty sure I'll keep my glasses intact with the Boss around this time, but let's hope there's a story to tell when I get back. (Newcomers to this site can see what I'm talking about in the archives under, "Making A Spectacle Of Myself In The Pit")

I'll leave you with this; watching a Cheers marathon on TV Land as I was getting ready to leave today, I am pretty sure that Rhea Pearlman and Ronnie James Dio were seperated at birth. Now in my mind, I see Carla belting out "Holy Diver" and Dio wearing a Red Sox apron and tacky dangling earrings. Demented I know, but now that's what you'll see too. Have fun with that.

Thanks for checking in and keep on coming back. More concert hijinks tales coming soon!

Dirty Divas Done Dirt Cheap

I actually swooned at a concert on Sunday, May 23rd, 2004. I became infatuated with the lead singer of an AC/DC tribute band. The vocalist sounded very much like the late Bon Scott and had moves that just shook me to the bone. I couldn't take my eyes off of this person; the long hair, the tight jeans with the big leather belt that drew my attention over and over again to the pelvic region and the swagger that just oozed "rockstar". The guitarist was cute too, but the singer had me from the first "oi" of TNT.

By the way, just so there's no further confusion, this was an all-female AC/DC tribute band, AC/DShe. I didn't want you thinking I'd switched teams on y'all.

I'd seen a listing for this show on some time ago and thought it would be a kick to see women playing AC/DC tunes. In a way, I thought it would be sort of a joke. AC/DC's music is heavily geared towards males and the thought of females playing this stuff seemed as strange as an all male Go-Go's tribute band. (After some internet research, I found out there are a couple--my favorite name being We Got The Meat from Portland, OR).

So I called around, fishing for those who'd like to see the show.
The only takers this night were Chris Brown and Steve Portela, both of whom have links to their blogs on this site. I met them down at Club Fred around 5:30. AC/DShe's site mentioned that they'd come on at 6:00pm. I thought that to be very strange but beneficial as far as getting home at a decent hour. As it turned out, there was an opening band at 6 o'clock and they weren't awful, but I would have rather spent the time talking with Chris and Steve not having to yell to be heard and not trying to fit mini-conversations in between songs. I never did catch the name of the band, but the bassist (who laid down some nice lines, by the way) did say once, "We're back". That could have been a statement to the "in" crowd or their name--We're Back--, I just don't know. They were a decent trio with some nice riff oriented rock tunes to start their set, but they degenerated into some sort of jangly pop that still was fine to listen to, but didn't hold my complete attention. The lead singer/guitarist did a fine job, but about two-thirds into their set I leaned over to Chris and asked, "Has she played a solo yet?" He simply shook his head. Now, I really don't care about guitar solos, but a really good ripping one here and there reassures me that you know how to play that thing. But hey, there she was onstage playing rock and roll, while I sat at an unbalanced table in a resin patio chair mostly concerned about a spill of the Newcastle. Who wins here? Geeky rock dude: 0; Rock Chick: 1. I score it in her favor one to nothing because that is what forfeits are scored as.

AC/DShe took the stage and won the crowd over pretty quickly. I had a feeling that they might clunk their way through AC/DC's repertoire, being forgiven by the crowd because they're attractive and isn't it cute that these girls are trying to rock out. Man, was I wrong. Dead wrong. They were nailing it solid. I was never a huge AC/DC fan, but I'm at least familiar with most of the Bon Scott catalog. AC/DShe played the hits, B-sides and even some album tracks that I never heard on the radio back in the day. I got to hear my favorite, Sin City. I blast that one every time I head to Vegas.

The guitarist, Agnes Young--a play on the name Angus Young, was wearing a variation of Angus' schoolboy outfit. Obviously, and I'm sure to the benefit of the males in the crowd, it was fitted for a more feminine figure. This gal ripped through the songs with that six-string, playing searing solos and even doing Angus Young's signature heavy metal-cum-Chuck Berry duckwalk.

Vocalist Bonnie Scott, again with the play on names--this time Bon Scott, held most of my attention. Not just because she was....umm, let's see... how do I say this? Is the term XXXXXXXX offensive? It is? Okay, how about........oh, forget it. There's no polite way to say it; she was sexy as all hell. And she could sing. She screamed, growled, moaned and sang the crap out of those songs. Steve commented to me that if Brian Johnson, AC/DC's current lead singer, were to die that they should hire this gal. I thought about that for a moment and thought it was an excellent idea, if not a groundbreaking one. Judas Priest hired a Judas Priest tribute band singer when Rob Halford left the band and enjoyed a moderate degree of continued success. So I think AC/DC would gain a considerable larger amount of press, fan curiosity and eventual respect by putting a woman out front in one of the biggest bands in hard rock history. Upon further reflection, Steve said that Brian Johnson should have a hit put out on him so we could get Bonnie in there sooner. A little harsh, but hey, this is rock and roll baby.

Three guys went up to stand in front of the very low stage (about two feet high) and they had very large hair. Two of them had the classic 3/4 length jerseys favored by early '80s rockers like myself, although I couldn't imagine wearing one now. Their headbanging in unison looked like a rear view of the Pacer scene in Wayne's World during Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. Their antics would turn my attention away from Bonnie for a moment, then that belt buckle would catch a bit of the spotlight and guide me back home.

At one point, a pseudo punker came across the dance floor trying to stir things up a bit. The Stoner Trio were not interested. While this punker, who I thought looked from a distance like that bad guy that raced John Travolta in "Grease", was egging them on to slam dance it old school, the only response I saw from one of them looked like a celebratory belly-bump. Party on Garth. Party on Crater-Face.

At times, I would look around the club and watch people react to the band. All I saw were smiles and heads nodding in time to the crashing beat. It was then that I wondered what the true attraction was. Tribute bands are a strange beast. Are people there because they love the original band and want what could basically be described as a "live jukebox"? Or do they genuinely like the tribute band itself? I once saw a Led Zeppelin tribute band and enjoyed the show. (No, not Dread Zeppelin. They go waaay beyond tribute and on into a genre that they alone invented. DZ stories to come, but they will be epics and cannot be rushed.) This Led Zeppelin tribute band was good and put on a fine show, but basically boiled down to a really good cover band because, well, nobody sounds like Zep. On this night at Fred's, I think most people were there like I was; seeking the answer to what exactly an all girl AC/DC tribute band was all about and could they pull it off?

The answer is a resounding "Oh, hell yeah". I think my only issue with the band is their name. On paper, it is very clever; AC/DShe. We all get it. But when you're telling someone that you're going to see AC/DShe tonight, sometimes it comes out AShe/DShe and they think you are seeing AC/DC and your jaw is wired shut.

Check 'em out here at AC/DShe.com!

Iron Maiden: World's Funniest Band?

schadenfreude \SHOD-n-froy-duh\, noun:
A malicious satisfaction obtained from the misfortunes of others.

Have you ever experienced schadenfreude? If you've ever laughed when you've witnessed someone step in a pile of dog crap, you've had schadenfreude. You feel a little sorry for the person and maybe even know how they feel, but you can't contain the giggles. Empathy has an evil half-brother and he is Schadenfreude.

Schadenfreude comes from the German, Schaden, "damage" + Freude, "joy." It is often capitalized, as it is in German. Don't you think that Damagejoy would make a great name for a metal band? (Damagejoy copyright 2004 Fkntony Enterprises, Inc.)

The most powerful schadenfreude experience I remember was at the end of the Iron Maiden show on Sunday, Febuary 22, 1987 at the Selland Arena in Fresno, California. Sometimes, I recall this event and laugh out loud, which can beckon looks from strangers depending on where I am at the time. Once, the memory from that night slithered it's way into my head for some reason while I was in line at the bank. I tried to snuff out a laugh and made a strange nasal honking sound. The lady in front of me in line turned and said, "bless you", thinking I'd sneezed. I coughed out some sort of thanks and squeezed my eyes shut hoping to erase the image of what I'd seen that cold winter night years before.

Iron Maiden was touring in support of their 1986 album, Somewhere In Time, which didn't bowl me over upon it's release, but seeing as how we'd still get all the classic Maiden tunes like "The Number of the Beast" and the epic "Rime of the Ancient Mariner", the guys and I would be there for sure. "The guys" consisted of myself, Eric, Chet and Randy. The four of us saw many shows together dating back to high school and we still do as often as possible to this day.

This concert was, as most were back then, a general admission show. That meant that you had a ticket to get in. After that, you were on your own to find a seat or choose to stand on the arena floor. Me and the guys had gotten there early that night and found great seats waiting for us in the loge with a perfect view of the stage. Eric lead the way into the row with Chet in tow. Randy followed and I took the seat on the aisle. Randy's not what you would call tall, so he groaned when a huge Native American fellow sat in the seat directly in front of him. Leaning over to me, Randy said, "I hope Cochese here sits down all night". I agreed; this guy was about 6'3", 260lbs and looked like Soundgarden's Kim Thayil (although it would be about four years before I or anyone else outside of Seattle would know who Kim Thayil was). Here's an idea of what the guy in front of us looked like:


Soundgarden guitarist Kim Thayil

The show was great. Iron Maiden concerts had it all back then; egregious solos from every member of the band, lasers, smoke, and the appearance of Eddie. Eddie is the zombie/skeleton/mummy "mascot" of the band that adorns the cover of every album they've ever released.



At this show, as it was at the two previous Maiden shows I'd seen, some schmuck on the road crew had to wear the huge Eddie costume and stomp around the stage as the band played the encore. I imagine it was supposed to be pretty cool, but it probably had the single highest Spinal Tap factor this side of Dio fighting a robotic dragon back in '85.

The band, about two-thirds of their way into the "Running Free" encore, now had the audience whipped into a state close to chaos. Eddie was staggering about, the stage lights were flashing frenetically and Iron Maiden were steamrolling through towards the inevitable crescendo. Just about the whole crowd was on their feet, fists pumping and heads banging. Poor Randy had to shift over towards me as I scooted a little into the aisle so he could see the action below. Cochese, not really needing to because of his size, decided to stand up as well giving Randy an excellent view of nothing except the Rush tour dates from 1981 that adorned the back of the titan's shirt.

Cochese leaned a little to the left into our view for a moment and that caught our eye. Randy and I both looked at the huge man to see that he was fishing around in his pocket. Iron Maiden was now reaching full bore and power chords coupled with ear-splitting screams from lead singer Bruce Dickenson hammered away at us. We both now saw that Cochese had gotten something out of his pocket and was looking at it. Of course, we couldn't see over his shoulder, so Randy and I looked at each other and shrugged. I was just about to turn my attention back to the stage when the Indian cocked his arm back in a throwing motion. His hand came pretty near my face and I caught a glimpse of a fifty cent piece held between his thumb and forefinger. I know it was a half-dollar because I saw the familiar profile of JKF as it caught a bit of purple light from the stage.

Oh my God, this guy's gonna chuck that thing at the stage, I thought. Randy saw it too, just before Cochese lowered his arm, perhaps rethinking this stunt. I looked at Randy and exhaled. All I could think of was the urban legend of a penny thrown off of the Empire State Building leaving a crater on the street below. Iron Maiden steered towards the end of "Running Free", hammering away with the first few of a long procession of power chords and synchronized lighting effects, creating a dazzling cacophony.

All of a sudden, the giant's arm swung back again and this time he launched the coin towards the stage. But he held on to the coin too long on his follow through. Six rows below us, a young man's head was thrust forward and his right hand snapped to the back of his head. He bent over at the waist, balancing himself with his left hand on his left knee while his right hand gripped the base of his skull. I didn't actually see the coin hit this kid, but I swear to this day that I think I may have heard it, even over the din onstage. (For the record: I believe it sounded like the Marvel Comics-esque "THOK"). What compelled that gigantic Indian to turn that kid's head into The Devil's Wishing Well, I'll never know.

Randy and I both yelled in unison, "Ohhh!!", the way you do when you see a linebacker waylay a receiver going over the middle of the field. The huge Indian immediately realized that his trajectory was off a little and plopped down and sat stiffly with his hands folded neatly in his lap. He stared straight ahead and not in the direction of the stage at all. Sitting there among the crazed Iron Maiden fans screaming and jumping around, he looked like he was waiting his turn at a spelling bee. Meanwhile, the kid was now sitting on the edge of his seat, still bent over and holding his head. His friends were rocking out next to him with no idea of what had happened. At one point, the guy next to him looked around and realized the kid wasn't standing next to him. He spun completely around to see where his buddy had gone off to before almost tripping on the kid sitting in pain. I watched as the rest of his group down the row yell into each others ears, trying to find out what was wrong. Lots of shrugging. The victim waved his arms wildly and thumbed over his shoulder up in our general direction. The friend that had noticed him relayed the message down the row to the others and they all gazed up into the rows behind us with confused looks on their faces.

The final notes crashed down and Bruce Dickenson yelled out, "Thank you, goodnight!" The house lights came on and Randy and I were starting to giggle a little at Cochese's feat and his new demeanor. I thought it was hilarious that this huge man was avoiding eye contact with some 120lb. sophomore. But now with the house lights up, we realized that we were the only witnesses to the assault. No one else had seen a thing. People were shuffling towards the exits, talking and laughing. The kid was only now starting to turn and look to see where that incredible pain came from.

Randy and I froze where we stood. Chet and Eric, wanting to get going, wondered why we were standing like statues. "Show's over, man. Go", said Chet pointing to the aisle. Eric chimed in, "Yeah, git". I was staring at the kid as he did a slow turn from his seated position. Randy muttered "Oh shit", not moving his lips a bit. The kid looked right at us with a contorted expression that emitted both pain and utter confusion. His mouth was agape and his upper lip was curled back. "Ooop", came out of Randy's mouth as we both broke his gaze by looking down. But in doing so, we caught another gander at the Indian, still sitting quietly and looking straight ahead. Oh, no. Here come the giggles again.

Now we couldn't laugh here; the kid would think it was us that had thrown whatever it was he thought struck him in the skull. We weren't scared of him or his buddies, but also didn't want to get tossed out of Selland Arena or worse, have the cops talk to us. So we had to maintain a look of innocence and not laugh.

Stifling laughter is one of the hardest things to do in this life. Muscles do not cooperate, the brain conspires against you and when someone else is also trying not to laugh, it is almost impossible to succeed. I don't think people laugh enough as it is, so it's always a shame when it's suppressed.

"Go! What the hell are you idiots doing?!", yelled Chet. I could only respond with, "Mmumumph" as I pursed my lips. Hearing this got Randy started and he let out a low, "Unnnggh" and blew a little air out of his mouth. I dared another look at the kid and he was still looking up at us, but now had one eye closed so as to maybe focus a little better. I should have never looked back, because now I was literally choking on the laughter. Randy was a wreck, suffering from what now looked like a severe tremor. I had started to sweat and briefly looked downward to wipe my brow when I saw that Cochese was now bouncing slightly in his seat. His shoulders were hunching involuntarily as he, too, tried to stifle any laughter. I was about to lose it. Tears were welling up in my eyes and my upper lip was going into spasms. Trying to hold the air that was attempting to escape my throat, I made a nasally snorking sound that made Eric and Chet laugh, even though they were getting a little irritated not knowing what the hell was going on. The kid's friends tapped him on the shoulder and told him that they should just take off.

He stood slowly and let his right hand down from his head. He looked at it, checking for blood I suppose. Randy let out a little "nnnga" when he saw that and the Indian went into a faux coughing fit to cover his guffaws. Mercifully, the kid hit the stairs and left our sight.

"Bwaaaahahahaha!!!", we cried. Randy and I fell all over each other. His knees buckled and he had to grab my shoulder so as not to go over the front of the seat. I went backwards tumbling into my seat, curling up like a baby as I held my aching ribs. We howled with laughter for a straight minute with Chet and Eric smiling in wonderment the whole time. Cochese simply stood up with a smirk on his face, turned to us and raised his eyebrows as if to say, "That was close, huh?" He then walked down the stairs and disappeared into the crowd filing out of the arena. It took us until we got to the car before we could walk straight, breathe normally and tell the story to Chet and Eric.

I still listen to Iron Maiden CDs from time to time and I even saw them live in concert again in Bakersfield in 2000. But I almost always smile and sometimes laugh out loud when I think about that night. I also think it was ironic that the kid was bonked with a JFK fifty cent piece, because he could have starred in his own Zapruder film.

guilty conscience

guilt·y con·science (plural guilt·y con·sciences)

noun

secret feelings of guilt: a feeling of having done wrong, especially something that is hidden from others or denied

Stay Tuned........Please!

Where does the time go? Dammit, I don't really have the time to post up the story I want to, but I am grinding it through the mill in my skull. This one I've wanted to write since I started this blog thingy, so I need to get my thoughts together.

Off to the coast this weekend, but if I'm in any shape to write, you'll have it on Sunday night--Monday afternoon at the latest.

Also coming up; possibly a new look to this webpage. Blogger (the place I post my stories) has updated the templates of the available page styles and Chris "Lefty" Brown's looks pretty cool. I will probably follow his lead, so don't be shocked if (If? When!) you check out this page in the next week or so and it looks a little different.

Ya ever get one of those fifty-cent pieces? They suck. You can't use them in vending machines, retailers try to dump them on you and you never have enough of them to collect and cash in for any worthy amount. Well, the next installment tells the story of one man's solution to getting rid of a fifty cent piece. Oh, and Iron Maiden is in the story too.

Hate to leave you hanging, but I thought I'd better let you know that I'm still here and still blogging. Thanks for dropping by. Y'all come back now, hear?

So This Is What Its Come To......

Just about a week ago, I bought tickets to see the reunited Sammy Hagar-era Van Halen, who will be making a stop here in Fresno on August 14th.

Van Halen
Save Mart Center, Fresno, CA

Saturday August 14, 2004 7:30 pm

Seat location: section 124, row T, seats 11-14
Total Charge: $449.35

Did you see the total for four tickets? That's about 50 bucks more than the monthly payment on Mary's Solara. It's more than half our monthly mortgage and pretty much $429.35 more than I have in my wallet at any given time. If I'm carrying more than twenty bucks cash, I'm either in Vegas, at a concert or Mary doesn't feel like carrying her purse at a baseball game.

I can rationalize the hell out of paying out to see a show, but c'mon, four and a half bills? I have all the confidence in the world that I will have an absolute blast that night and I look forward to the opportunity to let you all know about it. However, I wonder where the ceiling is on ticket prices. Now that I've paid $450 for tickets to Van Halen, how much would I pay to see some Holy Grail show like a Robert Plant/Jimmy Page/John Paul Jones/Celebrity Drummer Led Zeppelin concert? Hello second mortgage.

This is just the prelude to the actual Van Halen 2004 story. Below you'll see the ticket stub from the first Van Halen concert I saw. Face value: $11.50. Hazy Concert Memory Value: unknown---I won't stoop to the credit card commercial cliche'(priceless), mostly because I don't have much recollection of that show. (This was just my third concert and I wasn't that familiar with VH aside from the album "Diver Down" and whatever mystique that came with the mere uttering of Van Halen amongst the Rock set in school). I do remember liking the show and delving deeper into the Van Halen catalog afterwards. I still consider the David Lee Roth-era VH albums to be among the elite Hard Rock albums of all time.

Now, after paying what I have for the current tour's show, I figure I'm entitled to a guitar lesson from Eddie Van Halen and a Waborita created by and served by Sammy Hagar. I realize that many people paid what I did, and in some cases more, which will result in a longer wait in the guitar lesson and Waborita lines. But I am patient and understanding. Take your time folks; we all paid good money for this treatment, so we'll all have to act like ladies and gentlemen.

Stay tuned for the Van Halen 2004 story coming up this summer. (Wow, that feels like a movie trailer). In the meantime, I will get to other tales including bands like Dio, UFO and Iron Maiden. Thanks for checking in and I apologize for this little tease of a post.

In the words of the most inspirational Apu; Thank you, come again.

King's X '99 (Issue #3: Rockin' Porterville and Using The Lester)

Sitting in the second row of the Porterville High Auditorium, the six of us had an amazing view of the stage, even better than the view I had of the Clovis High production of Hello Dolly back in '85 at the Mercedes Edwards Theater on the campus of Clark Junior High School. And the only reason I went to see that steaming pile of dung was that I had a huge crush on a girl in the play. She was onstage in some sort of parade scene that lasted about 14 seconds. I sat there all dressed up in my best OP shirt and newest 501s, holding flowers (on my mom's suggestion--I guess you're supposed to give flowers to stage actors) and seriously considering various methods of suicide until I remembered that I had tickets to see Y&T in a few days. I would have hated to miss that show. Jeez, Dave Meniketti might have saved my life, but I never dated that girl. Something about her Dad not letting her date until she was a Senior (she was a Junior at the time), but I think it was because I had long hair and wore concert shirts.

Anyway, we talked a little to the high school kids in the first row as we poured the contents from our tiny bottles of liquor into our sodas. They watched the liquid gurgle into the styrofoam cups like a dog watches you take a steak off of the barbecue. We asked them if this was a cool town to grow up in. Short answer: "No". Long answer: "Not really, dude". But they were stoked that a relatively large act was playing right there in Porterville. On the downside, they had to see the concert on the campus of their high school, the last place they wanted to be on a weekend. They seemed like nice guys, so Chet warned them that things could get physical during Galactic Cowboys' set. They laughed nervously, but didn't seem to believe him.

All of us downed our first round of drinks. We were so happy with ourselves, that we decided to just go ahead and have the final round right then and there. People behind us probably wondered why six guys raised their Pepsis and toasted each other. Then the lights dimmed and Galactic Cowboys took to the stage. Randy, Eric, Chet and I were pretty big fans of GC and we'd seen them before when they opened for Dream Theater on a crazy last minute trip to S.F. (Now there's a Hazy Memory to write about someday). Chris and Lester had only heard of them from us.

The four of us stood up, yelling and singing along. Chris and Lester didn't know the words to any songs, but laughed as they stood up to shove us around in a mock moshpit. Let me tell you, it's kind of hard to mosh around in a row of theater seats. We ended up more like a human set of those desktop silver balance balls known as a Newton's Cradle.



One person would shove from one end of the row and the person on the other end of the six of us would get the brunt of the force. This ended when both ends pushed at once and Randy got squished and pretty pissed. Eric nudged me and nodded behind us. I turned around and saw that the theater hadn't filled in much at all. It seemed that only the first 8 rows were occupied and they weren't filled from aisle to aisle at that. I wasn't surprised but had hoped for better.

Galactic Cowboys continued onward into their set, but still had not played Pump Up The Spacesuit, my favorite track from their eponymous debut album. So I, along with Chet, Eric and Randy, started yelling for the tune at the end of every song. Keep in mind, we were in the second row of a low turnout. We also wanted to hear Space In Your Face, the title track to their second disc and let the band know it by bellowing the two song titles (admittedly) a little belligerently. The lead singer made a few raised eyebrowed faces once in a while and smiled to his bandmates every time we did this. After screaming for the two titles at the end of 5 consecutive songs, I roared, "C'mon man, play something with space in the title!"

Finally, he responded, "Jesus, guys, give us some time. We'll get there". He shook his head in disbelief that anyone would be so passionate about those tunes, especially in this setting. We got a kick out of this and high-fived each other moronically. After one more tune, we got what we wanted and got it good.

The frantic first notes of Pump Up The Spacesuit sent me bounding over the row of seats in front of me like someone had given me a hotfoot and I charged right up to the stage. Chet followed and we slammed into each other, laughing maniacally. When we looked back and saw that we were the only two up front in the orchestra pit, we then turned our energies towards the high schoolers in the front row. We thrashed them soundly, but kept it clean. It was disappointing that they did not reciprocate. I felt kind of like the Samsonite gorilla.

It wasn't long before a shell-shocked young man came up to us in mid-mosh and tapped me on the shoulder. I spun around, coiled to spring, when I saw that this guy was a little scared. He put his hands out in a gesture of "hey, it's cool" and leaned in to yell into my ear. "You guys can't be doing that in here", he said. I heard him just fine but still gave him a "Huh-wha?" and gave Chet a shot to the chest. Chet almost levelled me with a shoulder charge to my left side and as I righted myself, I looked up at the guy and asked him what the problem was. He mumbled something about insurance and I nodded, immediately thinking that this could be the guy that paid out for King's X. Chet overheard as well and we both chilled out, not wanting to ruin this guy's gig. We climbed back over the first row of seats and spent the time during Galactic Cowboys' segue into Space In Your Face shoving around Chris, Eric, Randy and Lester in our row.

After GC's set, they came out to the edge of the stage and signed autographs. They could not get enough of us. They were impressed that someone out there knew their material. Eric and the guitar player, Wally Farkas, are both of Hungarian decent and had a pretty cool conversation about that fact. I had the band sign a promo photo and got a guitar pick from Wally.

We didn't have to wait long until King's X took the stage. With the same huge Texas state flag as a backdrop that Galactic Cowboys used (both bands are from the Lone Star State), the trio busted into "Groove Machine" and most of the crowd pulled a Tony and charged right up to the stage, albiet more peacefully. The six of us from Row 2 did as well and we got pummelled by the power of the band's sound.

Staying true to form that I not give you a "by the numbers" review here, I will skip most of the commentary that I could bore the most ardent King's X fan with. But I have to say that this was among the finest performances I've seen from this band. Chet, Eric and I had run into someone travelling with the band in the lobby before the show and he commented that the setlist would feature at least four songs from the album "Ear Candy". I really thought that this was their weakest album and could not understand why they would feature such lame material live. But after seeing them perform those four songs, the album "came alive" for me. It really breathed new life into "Ear Candy". (I can only hope that this holds true for material off of the latest release from King's X, "Black Like Sunday". Peeyuu!)

Another moment that stands out for me was when lead singer/bassist Doug Pinnick noticed a man in a wheelchair down in front of the elevated stage. In between songs, he invited the guy up to the stage so as to have a better view. The guy in the wheelchair got to see the next few songs from a spot just to the side of Doug Pinnick. I'm sure it was cool for him, but maybe also a little awkward knowing that many people were looking at him instead of the band. But it was a great gesture on the part of the band. I saw this demonstrated again a couple of years later when Doug noticed some little kids in the audience and invited them to stand up by the stage (in front of guys like me). Doug is such a genuine stage presence that nobody up front blinked when these Munchkins wound their way throught the crowd and rocked out face to face with King's X.

The show ended and we decided to wait around out back and get some autographs from King's X. Seeing as this was a very small crowd, we figured it wouldn't take long. Drummer Jerry Gaskill and Doug Pinnick came out and signed a bunch of stuff, taking pictures with fans and shaking hands. We got our stuff signed and said our "thank yous" and hit the road back to Fresno.

We decided to stop and get some water and sodas for the trip back home. I was looking forward to a nap in the back seat of the van because I had to get up at 5am to get ready for work. At this time, I estimated that I would get at least five hours of sleep and I could deal with that just fine. In the gas station's mini-mart, I picked up a Gatorade while the other guys picked out their stuff. The fatigue was setting in now and I just wanted to get home. Traffic shouldn't be bad at this time of night, I thought, and we should make good time getting to Fresno.

We pulled out of the gas station's lot and got underway. We all were speaking excitedly about the night's show, laughing at my Spacesuit escapade and generally talking loudly over each other. It was then that I thought I'd heard Lester say something like, "Hmm, I'm kinda low on gas". But I assumed that he was just saying that meaning that he'd be really low by the time we got home and he wouldn't have gotten gas money out of us.

Even among all the shouting and laughing, I was able to nod off for a while. I stirred once and at that time the van's occupant's had quieted, perhaps overtaken by fatigue themselves. I only heard the faint sound of the classic rock station Lester had on and the hum of the road beneath the wheel well I sat over. This was my chance to get some good winks. I dug my shoulder into the corner of the bench seat and drifted off..........

I got some good sleep until we pulled up to Chris' house in Sanger. We said our good-byes and I thought maybe I could sleep the rest of the 20 minutes or so it would take to get to Lester's where my car awaited. I leaned back and was back in dreamland before I knew it.

My slumber was interupted by a sickening feeling; the familiar lurch of a vehicle running out of fuel. I sat up and looked out the window and saw no signs of civilization. "You've got to be shittin' me", I croaked.

"What's going on?", asked Chet.

"Well, I'm out of gas", answered Lester. "I told you guys I was low". He pulled the dead van over to the side of the road.

I said, "Yeah, low. Not out. Why didn't you pump up earlier tonight?"

"I told you guys I was low, but nobody seemed to care", he whined.

"I heard you say something", said Eric, "but I didn't think you were that low".

"See, I did say something about it", said Lester.

"Wait. Wait a minute. I heard that too. But we were just pulling out of Porterville when you said that. Why didn't you turn around and go back to the gas station when you realized you were almost out of gas?", I asked, trying to keep it calm.

"Well, I said something and nobody said anything back, so I just kept going", he explained.

I was taken aback. "You....you needed someone to agree with you to turn back? Are you five years old? What the hell.....?"

Lester said nothing. We were at a country road intersection and it was around 12:30am. I happened to have a cellphone and Chet called AAA for a tow-truck. We were in the perfect spot; too far from Chris' house and too far from the outskirts of Fresno. We'd have to wait it out.

The phone's battery was dying and Chet was trying to explain to the dispatcher where exactly we were. Meanwhile, I got out and took a walk. I could not believe this and couldn't even look at Lester. How do you run out of gas? I kept asking myself this in my head over and over. Tick-tock, I was losing a night's sleep minute by minute.

We happened to pull over at a spot where one of those haunted houses take place every October. At this location, next to a corn field in which haunted wagon rides are conducted, there was a large plane's fuselage in an unfenced lot. This wreckage was also used in the haunted house tour. It was nearing 1am and that plane was about the spookiest thing I'd ever seen in my life. It was quiet as a graveyard, but there was a little breeze which would whip a plastic tarp hanging over the doorway to the fuselage. We dared each other to go into the plane, but "fuck you" was the usual reply.

The tow-truck didn't show up until about 3am. I had to get up for work at about 4am. By the time I'd get home from Lester's, I would only have time to shower and head to work, having to do a very physical job on no sleep. On the way home, I debated on what I would do; I could call in sick or tell the truth and see what happened. I'd used a couple of sick days in Decemeber and didn't want them to pile up, so I decided that I'd call my boss and lay it out for him.

I got home and my wife was getting up for work. She was worried sick and pretty pissed off that she couldn't get a hold of me. The cellphone's battery had died. I explained to her the situation and called the boss. He laughed at the stupidity of Lester and was pretty understanding overall. But since I'd told him the truth and our company required a doctor's note for absences anyway, I'd have to use my one floating holiday to get the day off. This was January 18th; I would have to go the entire rest of the year without this personal day to use at my leisure. I was upset, but my boss was being pretty cool about the whole thing and I just wanted to go to bed. Mary went to work and I hit the hay.

To this day, whenever I use my one personal floating holiday, I refer to it as my "Lester". Need the day off after Super Bowl? No problem, I'll use my Lester. Add a day to extend your vacation? Use your Lester. Run out of gas in No Man's Land? Don't worry 'bout it..........use your Lester.

King's X '99 (Issue 2: Airline Booze and Cramped Shoes)

So we were on our way to the bustling metropolis of Porterville. Five of us met at Lester's place. It was pretty cool, I thought, that he had volunteered to drive us all in his van. Upon arriving at Lester's, we all realized that none of us had ever been to Porterville before and nobody was quite sure of the best way to get there. I had looked at a roadmap earlier that day (being the worry wort I am about getting to shows on time) and made my suggestion. But Lester had queried Mapquest.com and printed out the directions. I didn't recognize any of the roads, highways or landmarks on these instructions, but figured it must be the best route. After picking up Chris at his house in Sanger, another small town near Fresno, we headed out onto the open road.

We all had some good laughs on the way to the show, telling stories and cracking jokes. The six of us rarely had the chance to get together anymore and it felt good to take a road trip. But it was a long hour getting there. Much of the drive was on a two lane strip where passing was forbidden and we got stuck behind Sunday drivers, old beat up pickup trucks and one tractor. Going 40mph in the middle of nowhere can drive this boy crazy when there's a concert to get to.

Our plan was to find some place to eat and get a few drinks before the show. But first we had to find the Memorial Auditorium. I assumed this would be easy. Most buildings with names like "Memorial this" and "Community that" usually can be found downtown in little places like Porterville. All we had to do was find Olive avenue and keep an eye out. So as we pulled into town, we all peered out the windows of the van for places to eat and drink. It was around 6pm or so and many places were closed already. We came to Olive and turned left. Not much to see on this street going in this direction, we thought as we counted down the addresses towards the 415 W. Olive that was printed on our tickets. My theory was proving to be wrong as this didn't seem to be downtown-like at all. We approached the 400 block of Olive and all of us had our heads bobbing up and down, trying to make out addresses on buildings as we crawled by. We came upon Porterville High School and resumed our search for the Memorial Auditorium after passing it. But wait! Now the addresses were in the 300s. What the hell happened? Did we miss it? It didn't occur to anyone in the van that the Auditorium was on the campus of the high school until we'd traversed Olive Avenue between the 300 and 500 blocks 7 or 8 times. Brilliant.

Now that we knew where the concert was going to be, we set out for some dinner. We found a local restuarant that was pretty good, but they were closing soon, so we didn't hang around for more drinks after eating. We'd seen a roadhouse bar as we entered town and decided we'd get a few beers in our bellies, so we piled back in the van and drove over.

Walking in, we noticed right away that we didn't look like regulars. None of us had cowboy hats on. We crossed through the bar to find some empty barstools. I got some classic "low budget action movie bad guy-type" looks from over the hunched shoulders of the bleary-eyed barflys as I strode to the very end of the bar. It wasn't intimidating, just kind of amusing. I fought the urge to slam some money on the bar and yell "Whiskey" at the bartender like in the old westerns. Instead, I politely ordered a bottle of Coors Light and thanked the man when he brought it. A couple of the guys went over to the jukebox to see if they could bump the country garbage that was pumping out of the circa 1977, colored strobe lighted and much too loud machine. It looked more like a cigarette machine than a jukebox and I wondered aloud how many drunken cowboys mixed the two up; "Yeeehaw! I punched in 102B to play me some Waylon and got this here pack of Winstons free!"

We watched the crowd thin a bit after a while, I suppose because it was a Sunday night and the promise of hard work the next day beckoned some of them home. But those that stayed provided much entertainment. I watched one couple argue, each do a shot of something blue (I hoped it wasn't Windex) and then dance together to Patsy Cline's "Crazy". At the end of the song, they walked over to their barstools hand in hand. They each sat down and immediately started up their argument, presumably from the point they'd left off from upon hearing Patsy over those crackling speakers hanging from the dusty rafters of the place.

After a couple more beers apiece, we thought maybe we'd like to have something to drink at the show. Being pretty sure that we wouldn't be able to purchase booze on a high school campus, we tried to think of ways to get beer inside the joint. Then I had a brainstorm; we could buy those little bottles of liquor that they have on airplanes. They're small, so we could get them in with no problem. But then the paranoia got to us and we envisioned getting searched and tossed out of the place. So I suggested that we stuff the bottles in our shoes. At that time, I was hailed by my buddies as a genius.

We walked into the liquor store that shared the parking lot with the bar and went up to the counter. The shelves behind the clerk housed an array of the tiny bottles of booze. I always wondered why a store would carry those things. Who buys liquor one ounce at a time? A very patient alcoholic? I scanned over the variety of spirits and realized I had no idea of what kind to buy. I'm pretty much a beer man and never had a taste for the hard stuff. I used to drink gin years ago mixed with Collins Mix or tonic. But I once drank so much while camping that as I perspired, I took to smelling like a Christmas tree for two days. So it was back to beer for me.

After I thought about it for a minute, I realized that this was a rock concert and rock concerts call for Jack Daniels. I bought two little bottles and the other guys purchased an assortment of liquor. In the parking lot, I put my foot up on the bumper of Lester's van and loosened the shoelaces of my tennis shoes. I lifted the tongue and inserted one of the cute little bottles. I then retied the laces, put my foot down and asked the guys, "How does that look?"

"Like ya got a damn clubfoot" piped Randy.

"Or gout", added Chet.

"Nice shoe, Elephant Man", laughed Eric and as I looked down I realized that it did look pretty funny. My foot looked swollen and maybe a little deformed. I laughed along with them but added that at least I'd get my booze inside because they wouldn't bother with my feet during any kind of pat down.

"I wouldn't touch those deformities, either", bellowed Lester. More laughter.

I thought we'd better get going so I said, "Alright, alright. It's gonna be dark when we get there anyway. They're not going to even notice. Let's head over there."

On the short drive over to the campus, we all stuffed our shoes with the airline bottles. Pulling into the parking lot, we got excited when we saw the tour bus. It wasn't a hoax; King's X was here and was going to actually play a show. Lester pulled into a spot pretty close to the entrance, turned off the ignition and we all tumbled out of the van. A muted chorus of "ouch" and "oomph" was sung by all six of us. We hadn't road-tested the Bottle-Shoes. With the bottles running the length of the tops of our feet, it was impossible to walk heel to toe without intense pain. We all started doing a stiff legged shuffle towards the door. Clomping down flat footed with each step, we must have looked like extras from Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video.

"Shit, man. I don't think I can make it", said Eric.

"Just a few more steps to the door. You can't take the bottles out now, man. The dudes at the door will see you", warned Chet.

We somehow made it to the door without our eyes tearing up from the pain. The guys at the door tore out tickets and it was here that I expected the pat down. I was looking at the guys over my shoulder and winking, assuring them that the shoe trick would work. Then one of the door guys said the unthinkable at that moment:

"Enjoy the show, guys."

What? No pat down? We needlessly tortured our feet? I couldn't even turn around and face my fellow smugglers. We could have come in walking on barrels of Jack Daniels like circus bears and these two door guys wouldn't think it any different. All that planning gone to waste.

But we were inside and ready to rock. We all went straight into the restroom to extract the instruments of pain from our shoes. The first steps without the bottles felt like walking on the moon. We headed into the Auditorium to see that it was almost completely empty. I didn't know how to feel about that. On one hand, we'd get killer seats. But on the other hand, it looked like it was going to be a poor turnout and I always get concerned that bands feed off of that. We'd just have to see, I thought.

We walked down the aisle and took up six seats dead center stage in the second row. In the front row were some high school kids and in front of them was about ten feet of floor space, probably used as an orchestra pit. Chet and I eyed that space and thought that we'd most likely end up there before too long. Galactic Cowboys were going to come on soon and I told Chet, "I'm going to go apeshit if they play Pump Up the Spacesuit. I'm gonna trample these pups in front of us and just do it".

"I'm with you, man", was his reply.

"Heh heh, yeah", I snickered.

Next: The finale to King's X '99 (Issue 3: Rockin' Porterville and Using The Lester)

King's X '99 (Issue #1--Porterville Bound)

Some bands just don't hit the heights they deserve. They churn out albums year after year, tour like sled dogs and produce rock music that defies categorization, yet they get buried beneath the pablum that the masses crave. Every music geek has a notch on their bedpost for these bands that they own CDs of, seen perform live, have read about or at least have heard of. These bands tend to be of the "small, but strong and loyal following" type. So for every 10 "insert 90's band here" clones, there is but one King's X. Original, distinguished and true to their form. For the record, I saw that they placed around 80-something on VH1's Top 100 Hard Rock Acts Of All Time and Roger Glover of Deep Purple said that King's X lead singer Doug Pinnick was once asked to join Deep Purple and he politely declined. I've had wet dreams about what "Highway Star" would sound like with Pinnick blasting away on vocals.

King's X are one of those bands that frustrate music lovers. "Why aren't these guys more popular? How can it be that people don't buy their albums? Why can't they get a better record deal and tour larger venues?" I don't know the complicated answer to those questions. But I do know the easy one; people love crap. They crave it. They consume it and they dispose of it quickly so as to move onto the next pile of it. (See: American Idol)

King's X was right on the cusp of mass consumption at one time. They had some decent rotation on MTV with the early 90's single, "It's Love" and even played at Woodstock '94. I saw them live for the first time in 1994 at the very small Cadillac Club in Fresno (many Hazy Concert Memories forthcoming from the CC) and thought that they were on their way to "The Big Time". I've seen them many times since then, in venues of varying size, the strangest being The Porterville Memorial Auditorium in Porterville, CA on January 17th, 1999.

I have to say that I don't quite remember how I'd heard that King's X was going to play Porterville, but I do remember thinking, "Porterville?". I wasn't going to ask too many questions because this was the closest that King's X had come to Fresno in five years and I was resolved to the fact that I, along with the usual group of rock-geeks I hung around with, had only to make the 1-hour journey to the community of Porterville. If not just to see the show, but to also find out how in the world a podunk town like Porterville landed King's X. As a true bonus, Galactic Cowboys would be opening the show. (You wanna talk about underappreciated bands, try GC--King's X are the Stones compared to them).

Porterville is a town of about 40,000 or so in the heartland of California's farming community. This is not stated so as to lead you to believe that there is no culture in Porterville. I'm sure that the good folks in Porterville have just as much of a grasp on the finer things in life as I do, which is to say a loose one at best. But I still could not fathom how this burg got a band like King's X to play the Memorial Auditorium (wherever that was in Mayberry, R.F.D.) when the other California dates included mid-sized venues in San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego.

I had the time to run the errand, so I picked up the tickets at a local guitar shop in Fresno. I asked the clerk/amateur rock star/know-it-all why it was that King's X was to play in Porterville of all places. The word I got was that some "super-fan" had paid out and hired the band to play the little blip on the map. Pretty cool, I thought, and laid down the cash. I was glad I bought tickets in advance, thinking that this could be some intimate affair. Little did I know at the time that it would be intimate in terms of turnout, but in a cavernous setting fit for some touring production of "Miss Saigon", helicopter and all.

The Fellowship was set with Myself, Chet (co-star of past and future Hazy Memories), Randy (also to co-star in tales on this site), Eric, Chris and Lester. We set out excitedly in Lester's van late that Sunday afternoon in Janruary. We found out that Porterville is pretty far from Fresno, full of cowboys and that you can't drink on the campus of Porterville High.

Next Up: (Issue #2--Airline Booze and Cramped Shoes)