MOJO 8/1/96-10/25/04 

Nigel Tufnel Would Be Proud: George Thorogood '04 Part Three

Mary returned to Tony D and I waiting in our little space with another round of beers. She timed it well as George Thorogood's band came onstage and blasted into a patented John Lee Hooker-cum-Bo Diddley shuffle. Thorogood himself followed a moment later to a huge cheer. He still wore that same hairstyle, parted right down the middle and hanging just to the collar. He looked about the same as he ever did on album covers and press photos, but carried a little more weight around the middle and his toothy grin was framed by a bit of an extra chin. But hey, who among us looks like they did in 1982? Besides Carol Channing, I mean.

The sound was great. Clear tones emerged from each instrument in a perfect mix from the house P.A. It was because of this that I first noticed that Thorogood's rhythm guitar player, Jim Suhler from the Texas band Monkey Beat, had played the solos in the first two songs. I was a little disappointed, thinking that what we were going to see was a performer past his prime, going through the motions, and living off of past successes. What made it worse for me was that while Suhler ripped through the solos in the shadows near the amps, the house spotlight washed over Thorogood as he mugged for the crowd, standing center stage getting cheers and whistles. In my mind, it was as bad as lip-synching because the drunken idiots in the crowd probably thought Thorogood was playing those solos, what with the way he grimaced and posed while simply strumming the chugging rhythm parts. I tried to put it out of my mind and just enjoy the show, but I felt a little ripped off.

Mulletman and the Old Broad returned early into the show. He was now really rocking out, nodding his head and holding his little flashlight aloft. For every minute he watched the stage, he spent two leaning over to the Old Broad, yelling into her ear and putting his arm around her shoulder. She would stiffen and lean away from him. She was obviously not interested. What they did while they were away was up for speculation among Mary, Tony D, and myself. D thought maybe they went and smoked a little dope or maybe did a line or two. Mary and I agreed that they shared something and now she was suffering early symptoms of The Morning After Syndrome. Once or twice, she even had to physically remove his arm from around her shoulder. It was detracting me from the show, but he was so pathetic in his attempts that I had to watch this bizarre ritual to its end. Animal Planet had nothing on this guy.

Thorogood and The Destroyers plowed through his catalog of rollicking hits. We were having a great time, although now I was really focused on what each member of the band was doing and was wondering if George was ever going to take a solo. We were about a third into the show at this point and I zeroed in on the bass player. This guy, while a fine player, was as rigid as a mannequin. His road weary face drooped a little around the mouth and he had deep, dark eyes that reminded me of a shark's. He scanned the crowd without expression, reminding me of a Terminator. If the Old Broad's name was Sarah Connor, things could have gotten ugly.

I felt a little sorry for Jim Suhler. Here he was, playing some great solos in obscurity, while the crowd was all eyes on Thorogood. I was waiting for Thorogood to acknowledge Suhler with at least a nod or maybe pointing at him at the solo break, but he never did. I guess a paycheck is a paycheck, but Suhler did not look like he was enjoying himself at all.

The drummer was a big burly guy that looked like he just got off of a Harley. The boogie shuffle beat that makes up a good bit of The Destroyers material doesn't seem all that challenging and this guy backed up my theory. The Human Drum Machine: Now with even less personality! Pick yours up today at all Walgreen's, Rite-Aid, or Guitar Center stores. Also available in black.

The saxophone player was a hoot. Obviously the oldest of the band, he had a Santa Claus Starter Kit beard and wore dark sunglasses most of the night. He wailed away when the songs called for it and had some tasteful fills during the driving beat of other tunes. He walked offstage for a couple of numbers when he was not needed. Thorogood, during band introductions late in the show, told the audience that the horn player was 62 years old and the crowd roared. The three of us bumped into him outside after the show and he told us he was actually just over 50. "He does that every night and the crowd always cheers. I guess I look pretty old", he said. He was a pretty nice guy, and I almost told him I wanted a fire truck for Christmas.

At about the half-way point of the show, Thorogood finally took a solo; a blistering slide workout that had the crowd taking a step back as if hit by a hurricane. It was now obvious to me that I was wrong and that he could still indeed play. Song after song from this point on, Thorogood ripped and sliced through songs like he was wielding a Tommy gun and not a guitar. I was humbled with my early determination of his skills. While I had kept my fears to myself and did not boast like some know-it-all that he'd lost it, I still felt like the playground loudmouth who gets socked in the kisser by the quiet kid who's finally gotten tired of being picked on. All due respect to you, Mr. Thorogood.

Mulletman was finally told by the Old Broad to back off. It was actually audible over the grinding guitars and moaning sax. He stood back, shaken. He tried to lean in and plead his case one more time, but she held up her index finger and said, "No", like a mother to a child. He visibly staggered, but I don't believe it was because of his inebriation. He really thought he had this gal wrapped up and was dumbfounded that she was shunning him. Kind of like when you're petting a hamster and it shits on your hand. Mulletman walked away and his pal Ruddy reluctantly followed him to the back of the room. The plump gal rejoined her friend and they exchanged stories and laughed.

Thorogood finished off the set with another hit song and the crowd went crazy. The obligatory wait for the encore was loud with clapping and whistling. The crowd was really drunk and they were calling out for songs that had already been played. The band came back on without Thorogood and broke into a 12-bar blues number. George came on after a moment wearing a fedora pulled down over his eyes. He took the hat off, twirling it in his hands and putting it back on, all the while spinning in circles on his heels. He was smiling more now and obviously enjoying himself. He threw the hat backstage like a Frisbee. I was fixated on his hair, which by the end of the main set had become soaked with sweat and matted down on his head. But while backstage, he had slicked it back with a part just off to the side. It struck me that it looked just like Ronald Reagan's hairstyle and I actually laughed out loud at myself. Mary looked back at me and asked what was so funny. I told her I'd have to tell her later. How could I explain that the Great Communicater was up there singing Bad To The Bone?

Right near the end of the show, a couple of very drunk college aged girls were trying to push their way up front. That's always bad form; people have been up here all night, sweating, getting drinks spilled on their shoes, enduring the likes of Mulletman, and someone wants to get right up front when the show's about to end. These two Hilton sister wannabees were stopped cold just in front of us--really in our personal little bubble--, unable to go and further towards the stage. They briefly tried to move laterally to the center of the crowd, but that path was even more treacherous. The girls turned around and looked at Mary and I as if to say, "Oh well, I guess we'll just stand here". Mary tapped Paris on the shoulder and told her to move back where she came from. The bimbo's dilated pupils stuggled to narrow and focus on Mary. The other chick just looked lost and stupid. Paris started to turn around, ignoring Mary and I said, "Uh uh. Back there", thumbing in the direction over my shoulder. "Whatever", she mumbled as she started to navigate between Mary and I. She was having a hard time negotiating the various legs and feet on the way and basically was leaning on my chest for second. I took her under one armpit and lifted her up off of her feet and placed her behind us. Her friend ducked into the opening and disappeared. Paris was not pleased and was loudly protesting, "Hey, hey, hey! Take it easy!" I didn't manhandle her at all, but her shrieks could have brought the wrath of chivalrous drunks coming to aid of a damsel in distress. Looking over my shoulder, her boyfriend (or whatever) was looking at me. I took a step in his direction and said loudly, "What? What!" His eyes widened and he took as step back. "That's what I thought", I murmured to myself and turned back to Mary and the show.

Just then, someone gripped my shoulder from behind and I braced myself for what was sure to be a sucker punch, but it was just a guy patting me on the back and saying, "Don't let that drunken-ass bitch ruin your show, man".

"Yeah, you're right man. Thanks", I said and I shook his hand. "Rock and Roll, brother."

"Rock and Roll" he replied with a nod and a smile.

I don't cut an imposing figure at all, coming in at 5'9" and a buck sixty-eight, so I must have looked a bit insane to the chick's boyfriend. I laughed at myself. That's me, Mr. Tough Guy.

The show ended and the band took a bow. The house lights came up and the crowd started to file out. We decided that since we were walking home and in no hurry, we'd hang around and let the crowd thin out. We walked up to the stage in the usual hunt for guitar picks and setlists. The beautiful dance floor was a cesspool of spilled drinks and discarded items such as lighters, cups, bottles, and the occasional undergarment. One full pack of Marlboros lay squished in the moisture like a tobacco sponge. I strolled up to the stage and spied a piece of paper taped to the floor right at the foot of Thorogood's mic stand. Ah, a setlist, I thought. And no one around seems interested in it. I flagged down a stagehand and asked if I could have the paper. "You want this?", he asked. I leaned over the edge of the stage a little to see why he was surprised and I tried to read the lettering upside down. There, on the paper in bold letters, was written:

Tuesday
Modesto,CA
The Fat Cat

"Oh my God", I said under my breath. It was so Spinal Tap. The old Rock and Roll cliche' of not knowing what town you're in or what day it is come to life. I chuckled and told the guy that I did want it. He carefully pulled it from the stage and handed it to me with a shrug. I couldn't contain myself. Tony D and Mary walked over. "Whatcha got?", D asked. Mary chimed in, "Setlist?"

"No. Check it out", I said with a big smile as I unfurled the paper. "Oh, Jeez", Tony D said. "How old-school is that?" Mary actually covered her mouth as she burst out with a laugh. As far as I was concerned, it was better than any guitar pick or setlist ever.

Unlike most venues, The Fat Cat staff didn't rush us all out of the place right after the show. We went over to the long bar and got another round of beers. There we talked to a guy who worked there, but was enjoying a night off. We asked him where we might get a couple of the really nice posters that were put up promoting the show. He walked behind the counter of the soundboard and handed us four of them. Score!

On the walk back to the apartment, we took a detour to the Denny's that we'd seen on the drive into town. At that time, we joked that we'd end up there later and here we were, trudging towards the front doors. Is there anything better than Denny's at 1:30 in the morning? Mulletman might disagree, but I think not.

We finished up the meal and headed up the last couple of blocks back the crash pad. It was about then that Mary and I remembered that I had the key that Tony D had dropped at the restaurant earlier that night. We grinned and nodded to each other as we headed up the walk and saw Tony D fishing around in his pocket for the key. "Ah, no", he mumbled. Mary and I feigned wonder and asked him what was wrong. "Guys.....I think I lost the key. I know I had it.....where?.....shit", he said dejectedly. "I can't believe this".

I felt bad for him right away as I watched the wheels spin wildly in his mind. A look of embarrassment and desperation fought for dominance on his face. I never could watch the victims of my pranks squirm very long and I tossed him the key. A look of amazement won the battle for expression on his face and he asked what the hell had happened. We all had a good laugh walking up those shallow stairs on the way to a nightcap.

Holy Shit! He's Writing Again!!

Yes dear, faithful readers, I'm back. After some family losses and other stresses in life, I've gotten back to the keyboard. Sorry for the delay. I really do appreciate the fact that you check in from time to time. Let's hope that I'll stay on it this time.

Part Two of the George Thorogood story can be found below. The third and final installment will take a few more days as the wife and I embark on a three night tour-chase of Gov't Mule. We'll catch them for two nights at the famed Fillmore in San Francisco and then make the insane trek to L.A. for a one night stand at the Wilshire Theater. The S.F. to L.A. stretch is challenging, especially since we actually pass through (or close by) our hometown of Fresno on the way down. But there's no time to stop if you're gonna make the show. In L.A., we'll be sitting with Lefty Brown (his blog can be found on the sidebar to the right). I'm sure we'll have reports to be found right here in the days to follow.

So scroll on down and check back here soon.

The Adventures of Mulletman and Ruddy: George Thorogood, Aug '04 Part Two

After dinner, we wandered over to the door of the Fat Cat. At this point, Tony D was ready to simply eat the extra ticket, but asked the doorman if he knew of anyone looking for a ticket this late. The guy told D that he could buy back the ticket and sell it himself, but not at the $50 face value. Tony D got $35 for the ticket and losing just $15 on the deal was a good trade for hanging around like a scalper while missing prime people watching inside the club before the show.

We walked in and looked around a bit. The place wasn't all that full yet, so we decided to go upstairs to check out the lounge. As expected, the chairs on the rail of the balcony were all taken by chunky, middle-aged classic rockers. Beer bellied bikers wearing faded Harley shirts with grey pony tails sat beside feathered-haired matrons with massive secretary spreads jammed amazingly into circa 1982 Rag City Blues. Sprinkled about were the Hawaiian shirt and sandal wearing dorks that apparently show up at every classic rock concert. They must have a strong union.

We got a few beers and admired the lounge for awhile. The only drawback to hanging around up in the plush velvet chairs and couches was the fact that the stage could only be seen from the rail. Otherwise, it would be like seeing a concert from the set of an off-Broadway production of The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. We decided that we'd better head downstairs and grab a bit of floor space to call our own. We walked by the Rail Sitters and they looked us over, smirking as if to gloat over their great seats. I felt like tapping one of them on the shoulder and whispering, "Yeah, congratulations Tiny. You got off of your ass at home early enough to get down here and.......sit on your ass. What'dya do, TIVO Judge Judy?"

As we hit the last step of the stairs, we started looking for a nice spot to stand. The wooden dance floor was starting to fill up, but mostly right up front and we really weren't in the market for pushing and shoving. We chose a spot just to stage left that would give us a nice view but still give us a balanced sound from the P.A. We chatted a bit while we people watched. I think Mary saw him first.

Standing right in front of us was a guy sporting the most meticulously coiffured mullet I've ever seen in real life. David Spade's Joe Dirt must have been inspired by a trip to Modesto. He wore it clipped close up top and really close on the sides. But as your eyes traveled to the back of his skull, you saw the Ol' Kentucky Waterfall in all of its glory. Starting out as simple waves of hair, the follicles expanded downward and outward like a sponge dipped half-way into a dish of water. Spreading out over the back of his neck, the 'do reminded me of a Spartan helmet. For an accent piece, this guy grew the fluffiest fu manchu mustache this side of a Saturday Night Live skit. It actually seemed to sway in the breeze caused by someone walking by him. I swear, I was looking for the hidden cameras. I did not think this guy was for real. He was both wired and drunk, animated while slurring and annoying most of those around him. Normally, behavior like this by anyone would get on my nerves, but I was so fascinated by his mullet that I was now rooting for him to do something like when you're watching some animal at the zoo. Oh look, he's hitting on that chick! Cooool!

The dance floor was filling up now and soon the lights went down and the opening act took the stage. I'd seen a couple of the young looking band members walking among the crowd in the time before the show and wondered to myself if they were performers or just there for Thorogood. I should have bet my hunch because they all sported that "check out my cool, worn out t-shirt with Coors/Atari/insert retro logo here on the front that looks like I got it a thrift store but actually picked up on sale at Target last night" look complete with moppish hair and a trucker hat tilted just so. Among the aged classic rockers, they stuck out like I do at the ballet.

These guys broke into a slow, moaning blues beat that had full, rich sound. At first, I thought that they were an instrumental outfit, but then a dark haired young buck charged out to the mic and the band changed tempo into a somewhat generic bar band type of rock. Frankie Perez was the singer's name and he took control of the stage. He had a sort of growling vocal style and stood legs apart in a manner that reminded me and Tony D a lot of Born In The USA era Springsteen, complete with guitar slung under his arm and behind his back. I have to say that after a tune or two, Perez had won over the crowd, the three of us included. He definitely had a commanding stage presence and the songs got a bit stronger as the set carried on. The band impressed me more than I'd like to admit, given their Blink-182 appearance, especially the guitarist and bass player. The keyboard player was a bit too emphatic on one note background tones as he gyrated and headbanged, obviously over-compensating for his lack of contribution to the actual songs, but he was loving every minute of being onstage and I can't blame him for that.

As they ended their set and waited a moment for what was an obvious call for an encore, I leaned over to Mary and Tony D to comment that this band struck me as the type that would pull out a cover tune for an encore. Its a popular tool used by bands of this caliber, touring on their own music, but knowing that they'll get a huge response from a song everyone would know and appreciate. Frankie Perez and his band strode back out on stage and played the first notes of a tune that, while not exactly the same, shared the same full and rich sound from the instrumental intro at the beginning of the set. Tony D looked over at me and squinted, trying to think of the name of the familiar song. Mary looked back at me over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows as if to say, c'mon, let us all know what it is. I glanced at the ceiling as if the answer were painted there by Michelangelo and blurted, "Whipping Post!" Tony D shook his head, disappointed that he hadn't gotten it first. We all nodded our heads in approval while the band drove us down that road again. Perez's voice got a bit smoother and more soulful. Without any pandering on the part of the band, the crowd actually sang along with some parts, impressing Perez to the point where he took the mic from his mouth and rested it on his knee while he listened and grinned. The band stretched it out for a while jamming away and showing off their chops. I was really impressed and told Mary to remind me to do an internet search on this guy.

At the end of Frankie Perez's set, we got some more drinks and got back to some serious people watching. Mulletman was in full bloom. During Perez's set, he lifted a keychain flashlight in the absence of a Bic lighter. Was this his part in protecting the environment? It was hilarious, but I was a bit embarrassed for him. He had a ruddy faced, dumpy looking buddy with him that seemed to become a bit aloof at times like this. It may have been an autonomic defense mechanism that deployed in case there were people around that may have thought that they were there together. At the break, they got more booze and chatted up two ladies in the vicinity. Mulletman took the lead here and really moved in on the thinner, albeit much older, of the pair. Ruddy was left with the plump one, but I could not discern a look of disappointment on his face. Obviously, his role was to let Mulletman do the fishing and take whatever was left of the haul.

Mulletman and his new friend left for a little while, leaving us with just Ruddy to watch. He had no moves and made the shortest of small talk. The plump one smiled and nodded politely, but continuously looked back towards the entrance to see if her friend was on her way back. Meanwhile, the crowd was getting more and more drunk as a collective and the space in which to stand became more and more precious. Like animals before a natural disaster, a drunken rock crowd gets a bit frenzied when waiting for a show to start. Swells of shouts and foot stomping rise and fall, only to be followed by whistling and tribal chanting. The Fat Cat echoed with whoops and hollers and the faint but steady chant of Thor-o-good was gaining strength. This was a good time to get a drink to carry us through the headliner's show.

Its also a good stopping off point for the story. Coming up: Thorogood lulls, wows, and proves to us all that he can read.

Next: Nigel Tufnel Would Be Proud; George Thorogood, Aug' 04 Part Three