Featherless Bipeds (17 page)

So, everyone is guardedly optimistic as we leave the restaurant to head back to the bar on the edge of town. After we pay our bills, I am the first one through the door, and I notice a handbill taped to the glass. It reads:

Y'all come out to the
THEODORE
BUTTERMILK FESTIVAL!
August 28, 29, 30
Displays!
Beer Tent!
Games!
Great Food!
Beer Tent!
Live Entertainment Nightly!
Beer Tent!
Everyone will be there!

The Theodore
Buttermilk Festival
?
This
weekend? Live Entertainment Nightly? Everyone will be there? Great. We're doomed. We are going to be playing to the cockroaches all night.

No wonder the barmaid was so grumpy — she has to work in an empty bar on the evening of the hometown social event of the season.

I hold the door open as Tristan, Akim, Lola and Jimmy T file out of the diner, smiling and chattering. I position myself in front of the news-of-doom poster — there's no sense in ruining their collective good mood.
That
will happen soon enough.

As we make the short drive toward the single stoplight intersection of Theodore, Akim is struck by the lack of cars parked along the street and people on the sidewalks.

“Jeeze! It's nine o'clock on a Saturday night . . . where the hell
is
everybody?”

“They're probably all up at Ray ‘n' Jay's Superstar Bar, waiting for the Featherless Bipeds to hit the stage!” says Jimmy T, cheerfully.

Tristan, who rarely ever swears, suddenly blurts, “Holy shit!”

He is looking through the passenger-side window at the facade of a huge old building that appears to have once been a movie theatre. His eyes are locked onto the large marquee, surrounded by blinking lights, which reads:

SATURDAY — ONE NITE ONLY
JIMMY T
AND
THE FEATHERLESS BIPEDS

Above the marquee, on the wall, in glowing, rainbow-coloured letters two feet tall:

RAY ‘N' JAY'S SUPERSTAR BAR

“
Shit!
” yelps Akim.

“
Shit!
” Lola screeches.

“
Shit!
” hollers Jimmy T, “
We set up at The wrong friggin' bar!
”

Akim slams on the brakes.

Jimmy T, who never wears a seatbelt, peels his face from the windshield, then barks, “What the hell are you
stopping for?
We've gotta go get our stuff and get back here right away!
Shit Shit Shit!”

“Um,” Akim growls, “Since we're right in front of the place and all, shouldn't we maybe stop and tell them what's happened?”

“
No!
” hollers Jimmy, “They'll think we're a bunch of
idiots!
What kind of
losers
set up at the
wrong bar?

“ Akim shrugs and steps on the accelerator, launching Jimmy firmly into the back seat.

“Besides,” says Jimmy, “my stage clothes are back in the Mercedes, and my Mercedes is at the other bar.”

Akim speaks through clenched teeth.

“Maybe you should have been paying more attention to where the actual bar was instead of worrying about your damned
stage
clothes,
Jimmy T!”

Jimmy T, sensing that he is in danger of getting his lights turned out by Akim, lowers his voice somewhat.

“Now, let's not get irrational, Akim. Everything is under control.”

This makes Akim even angrier.

“We've got less than half an hour to tear down at the place we're
currently
set up at, then set up again at the place we're
supposed
to be set up at, then do a sound check . . . and you think that everything is
under control
?”

“It'll be tight, but we'll pull it off.”

“No wasting time with your fairy-costume changes, then; you'll be helping carry the equipment in with everybody else!”

“Of course I will, Akim.”

“Damn right you will!”

Now Tristan speaks up.

“And what the hell is the deal with the ‘
Jimmy T
and the Featherless Bipeds' back on that marquee?”

Jimmy T's face flushes deep red.

“The bar must have made some kind of mistake! Honest!”

We race into the bar where we accidentally set up, and the shadow-eyed waitress remains as indifferent to us as she had been earlier. Under normal circumstances, Jimmy doesn't carry much equipment other than his own guitar and amp, but this time he struggles with the big bass amp, as well as both of the PA speakers. Poor Jimmy T! All sweaty
before
a performance!

As we approach Ray ‘n' Jay's Superstar Bar from the opposite direction, we can all see that the
other
side of the marquee reads:

SATURDAY
JIMMY “T” BAND
SUNDAY

MALE STRIPPER

Jimmy T sinks even lower in his seat.

“I suppose that's a mistake, too, eh Jimmy T?” Akim says. “Maybe later I should climb up there and take the words ‘band' and ‘Sunday' off the sign, mail a picture of it to your bigwig father. Jimmy T — Male Stripper! Wouldn't he be proud?”

“Please don't do that,” Jimmy T says. “Just beat me up later.”

Akim wheels the van up to the curb in front of the bar, and we all rush into the building, each carrying some equipment. There is no time to lose. We run through the old movie theatre foyer into the main part of the building. The place is
huge
. There must be close to thirty big round tables, with a swarm of wobbly chairs around each, a dozen pool tables and as many air hockey games, and an array of bleeping, pinging, blinking video games and pinball machines.

“Wow,” Jimmy T says to me, quietly enough to avoid being overheard by Lola, “I bet it'll be Babe City in here tonight.”

The glassy look in his eyes reminds me of one of those starry-eyed, airbrushed children who appear on Christmas cards, except instead of sugarplums, it's visions of squirming nineteen-year-old girls in tight T-shirts dancing in Jimmy's head. He'll have to be careful, though. Since Lola is at this gig, he won't be able to ogle the chicks without facing major repercussions.

“Can I get you fellas something to drink?” comes a John Wayne voice from behind the long bar. The stocky bartender wears a red and white checkered Western-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a string tie, and a brown cowboy hat.

“Hi, there,” grins Jimmy. “We're the Featherless Bipeds — the band for tonight.”

“Thought you guys were gonna be no-shows,” the bartender says. “So you guys are a
rock band
, eh?”

“Um, yeah,” I respond, “Isn't that what you usually get?”

“That's what
Jay
usually gets.”

“Oh, I see, and, um, what sort of band does, uh,
Ray
usually book, then?”

“Well, I'm Ray,” says the bartender, “and I don't like rock ‘n' roll.”

With that, he steps back from the bar and hooks his thumbs into the enormous embossed silver buckle of the leather belt that holds up his loose-fitting jeans. He crosses one of his road-apple-stabbin' boots over the other, and says, “I'm a country music fan, myself.”

Suddenly, an old hippie-type comes rushing toward us from the other end of the room. His braided ponytail and long, haphazardly maintained beard bounce as he runs. His Birkenstock sandals skid to a stop in front of us. He runs his hands over the front of his Hawaiian-print shirt and cut-off jean shorts. “Don't listen to him,” he says, “we love rock ‘n' roll here at the Superstar Bar.”

He's got the same bulbous nose and squinty eyes as the guy behind the bar, and it occurs to me that this must be Jay, Ray's brother.

“Hi! I'm Jay,” the hippie guy says, extending his hand. “Welcome to my bar!”

“
Our
bar,” the Roy Rogers clone behind the bar grunts.

“So,” says Jay, vigorously shaking each of our hands “do you folks play any Grateful Dead?”

Ray leans forward against the bar, turns his cowboy hat from side to side.

“Rock music is crap,” he says.

Jay, the Jerry Garcia clone, gets right in his cowboy brother's face.

“The only people who want to listen to that hurtin' cryin' country
crap-ola
you listen to are those cheap-ass buddies of yours, who never pay their freakin' tabs! This bar makes its money from the rock ‘n' roll crowd!”

Ray shakes his head again, and his voice deepens.

“Rock bands bring in young hooligans who fight and smash things and throw up all over everything. They ain't worth the powder to blow 'em all up.”

Jimmy T interrupts.

“So, Ray, Jay . . . should we set up our stuff, or not?”

“No,” says Ray.

“YES!” says Jay. Then he turns to his brother. “Look, the only people in town who will want to roam around in the muck at the fairgrounds for the Buttermilk Festival are all the country music losers. The rock ‘n' roll crowd will be into something better

. . . this here rock band!”

Jay crosses his arms and smiles with saccharine sweetness at his brother.

Ray crosses his arms. “They better know some country songs.”

“We know an Eagles tune.” Jimmy T says.

Ray stomps away.

Jay turns to us. “Well, get your asses in gear, you're on in half an hour. Oh, and when you're onstage tonight, could you mention tomorrow night's male stripper? The women go nuts for that stuff, drink like sailors all night.”

“Uh, sure,” says Jimmy T. “No problem.”

“Maybe I'll stick around for that,” Lola says.

Jimmy T looks hurt. “I need a smoke,” he says, sulking towards the back door.

“Oh no you don't!” Akim barks. “You get your ass to the van and help carry the gear in!”

While lugging equipment in through the back door, Tristan sighs, “Look how big this place is. I'll bet the acoustics suck.”

“Not after we get the place filled up with bodies!” Jimmy T says.

“Whatever, Jimmy,” Akim says. “You heard the guy. There's some big fair or something going on. We'll be playing to an empty house. Again.”

Despite the bar itself being the size of a commercial aircraft hangar, the stage is deceivingly small. The drum riser is not nearly large enough to hold my drum set, and cannot be removed from the stage.

“Excuse me, sir,” I call out to Cowboy Ray, “Have you got an extension or anything for this drum riser? It's not quite big enough for my drum set.”

“It's big enough for a
country
drum set,” he grumbles.

I scrounge around in the storeroom behind the stage, and manage to find a bunch of two-by-fours, which I stack up in front of the drum riser to precariously perch the front legs of my bass drum on. I leave half of my kit lying lifeless in the van, and set up only the bare essentials — bass drum, snare, two toms, high hats, a ride and a crash cymbal. Even with this skeleton kit, I'll have to get behind the kit first and then move the floor tom into position — it's that tight, and
still
I'm hitting my elbows on the wall behind me.

Great. This is going to be
so
much fun.

S
ATURDAY
N
IGHT'S
A
LRIGHT
F
OR
F
IGHTING

(Warm-up)

W
e haven't even played our first song yet, and already someone hates us.

 “Do you guys do ‘Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting' by Elton John?” the bottled-blonde in the undersized mock-velvet gymsuit asks me.

“Nope, “ I respond, while tugging the floor tom into position “Why not?” she says, “It
is
Saturday night, after all!”

“We don't know it,” is all I will say.

This statement is not true, of course. We used to play a real kick-ass version of the song, but the last time we played it on a Saturday night, at a place called
Doctor D's
, it caused several fistfights to break out. None of us want to push our luck by playing it again “C'mon!” Ms. Fuzzy Jumpsuit persists, “Play ‘Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting'. For me, sweetie?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Well, screw you, then!” she says.

“Thank you very much,” I reply.

Within the massive space of this bar are, at most, two dozen patrons. Our one-night-only show has not exactly packed the place. So far, it seems like the Theodore Buttermilk Festival is the biggest draw in town. The few customers scattered throughout the massive space of Ray ‘n' Jay's each fit into the following watering hole archetype categories:

The Pool Table Pec-Flexers.
These are the half-dozen testosterone-addled goons gathered around the pool tables, striking poses that make their muscles bulge like somebody's shoved air hoses up their butts. Even from this far away, they smell like an overturned cologne truck. I'm guessing that these dudes are the proud owners of the souped-up Honda Civics in the parking lot with the “IMASTUD” and “BIGDK” license plates. When we start playing, these guys will act as if they're too cool to even notice.

Their posing is mostly for the benefit of . . .

The Dance Floor Enigmas
. These are the handful of pouty, bored-looking teenaged girls, who are seated as far away as possible from the several pouty, bored-looking middle-aged women. When the band starts playing, some of them will dance, but they will not look at the band or make eye contact with anyone nearby; they will simply stare blankly through everyone and everything. They think of this as playing “hard to get”, and that this act is extremely sexy.

These women pretend not to notice the squint-eyed leers cast toward them from . . .

The Barstool Critics.
These beer-bellied bar fixtures will proclaim loudly that we suck, and that they themselves could get up onstage and play better music than the “crap” we're churning out. Since we play a lot of original songs now, it doesn't help that they despise anything they haven't heard on the local radio station a hundred thousand times. And, since we're a rock ‘n' roll band, it also doesn't help that each and every one of them has had the radio on top of the beer fridge in his respective garage tuned to the same Country/ Western station for the past twenty years.