The Rolling Stones, the baddest rock and roll band on the planet, rehearsed this week in Los Angeles for their upcoming North America tour. These concerts commemorate the band鈥檚 half century of existence.
A photographer caught Keith Richards and Ron Wood smoking ciggies outside their L.A. rehearsal studio 鈥� perhaps the most evil act one can commit these days. They looked (dare I say it) 鈥� cool.
In my teens, I dreamed of being a rock star just like the Stones. Alas, those adolescent fantasies (and the one about Farrah Fawcett) came to naught.
The closest I鈥檝e come is playing with local bands in Victoria pubs. This is as far removed from rock stardom as one can get 鈥� unless having a guy in a soiled April Wine T-shirt repeatedly yell 鈥淢ustang Sally!鈥� while gazing intently at you seems glamorous.
There are no limos, no Christal-stocked green rooms. Venues reek of eau du beer. The bottom-feeder bar musician makes $8 an hour, a fragile wage that can vanish with a single parking ticket. When the show concludes at 1 a.m., the Mustang Sally guy will lurch repeatedly into your path as you 鈥� lacking roadies and perhaps the will to live 鈥� hump your equipment out into the late night drizzle.
Still, there are valuable life lessons to be learned from being a bar-band warrior.
At one time, having late-night conversations with the inebriated seemed amusing to me. I鈥檇 ask a weaving patron: 鈥淗ey, have you sampled the beer yet?鈥� I even told one woman I played keyboards for Little Richard on the nights he was getting his hair permed.
Yet such teasing is dangerous. Overly refreshed people can turn nasty quickly. In fact, some folk in this condition like to top off their evenings with an exhilarating punch-up.
To stay out of misfortune鈥檚 way, I鈥檝e learned the key is to always agree with boozed-up patrons, no matter what they say.
Drunk man: 鈥淎re you going to play Mustang Sally again?鈥� You: 鈥淵es, an excellent notion. We will attend to this matter immediately.鈥�
Drunk woman: 鈥淗ey, bub. Can my girlfriend sing some Shania Twain/M枚tley Cr眉e/Celine Dion with your band?鈥� You: 鈥淵es, a wonderful idea. Let me share your thoughts with my musical colleagues.鈥�
The life lesson: Losing one鈥檚 dignity and self-respect is preferable to getting smacked in the head.
One Halloween, we played a neo-hippie commune just outside Duncan. Ushered by a Star Wars-costumed guy wielding a plastic light sabre, we drove down a scary-looking logging road. It was a dark and rainy night. There was a homemade outdoor stage. Its roof, made from clear plastic and gathering gallons of water, sagged dangerously above our electric instruments.
Hippies, no doubt high on life and other things, were pouring cans of gas onto bonfires. Others wielded Roman-candle fireworks like hand cannons; one fireball sizzled out on a band-member鈥檚 car tire. As we played, a crowd gathered around and regarded us blankly.
I kept waiting to be electrocuted, burned to death or murdered by what I鈥檇 decided was a West Coast death cult. At night鈥檚 end, we dashed to our respective vehicles, tires spraying spectacular plumes of mud. But at least we were alive.
The life lesson: Any day one is not electrocuted, burned to death or murdered is a good day.
Years ago, we were booked at a pub in Nanaimo called The Cambie. As our van entered the Hub City, we weren鈥檛 quite sure of its location, so we asked a guy on the street.
As this man turned around, blood seeped from what appeared to be a head wound.
鈥淵err!鈥� he said, grinning hideously. 鈥淚鈥檝e just come from there. It鈥檚 that-aways, boys!鈥�
Perhaps they鈥檝e since improved The Cambie鈥檚 decor. But back then, it was one of the dingiest dives I鈥檝e ever seen (and that includes The Penthouse and The Cobalt in Vancouver). As we set up our gear that afternoon, patrons drinking a mix of tomato juice and beer heckled us. Fortunately our singer, not a timid sort, established alpha-dog dominance immediately by leaping onto a table and howling out the first song with demonic zeal. Which seemed to please everyone.
The life lesson: Beware the Ides of Monsieur Head Wound.
