Friday, February 25, 2011

B is for Band

We were offered, one night in a small small town, a home in which to stay the night. This is always a generous offer and in this particular small small town, the offer was particularly sweet for multiple reasons.

One. All the obvious reasons: space, pillows, air conditioning.

Two. Good people. The Pettys were still awake and kickin when we finally showed up at four AM, post show, to their home. Amy and Tom. Yes, we stayed at [a] Tom Petty’s house.

Three. Bunk beds. Put a grown man on a top-bunk, equipped with electric guitar-themed bed sheets, a shaky ladder to climb up, and a fan spinning no less than 200 RPM no less than 2 feet above the bed, and you’re bound to awake with a story the next morning; if not a decapitated guitarist.

Lastly, we were fed. Probably overfed. Biscuits and gravy for breakfast, BBQ chicken and bake potato and homemade cake for lunch. … Then no room but for rock and roll for dinner.

The show the next day was in another small town. Turns out small town folk know how to party and the venue ‘Roots’ made us believe theirs were grown in alcohol. We introduced JMSMC to Roots and at this very moment there might be a lynch mob awaiting the Mayer tour bus to roll through. But since the newest verse has a (constantly changing) line praising the coolness of the peanut butter bruisers, we hope the inevitable encounter goes smoothly, at least for Bruiser One, Bruiser Two, and capo.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011


In a strange twist of events, we ended up on a rather grimy--yet worn and comfortable--couch on the Mayers’ side of backstage with the bruisers. Mistah Mayaz not in attendance.

Nice guys actually. Well, fun guys. Never before has any one human ingested that much peanut butter and ecstasy in one sitting. Bruiser Number Two’s black-on-black attire now donned dandruff, sweat, and saliva from where he would drop peanut butter, swipe it up with a finger, lick clean that finger, and then swipe again. Impressive and scary and disgusting and “I think we’re gonna be goin’. Have a good one fellas.”

Full of peanut butter and short one magical capo, we were forced to hit the road to make our next show in Cincinnati. The whiteout blizzard was nearby, according to one of those genius meteorologist, so we double-timed it after one more desperate “idiot check” around the stage and backstage for the capo. Nope. Stolen. …prick.

We allotted two and a half hours for our drive through the whiteout. Instead we made it in just over an hour. Now, pissed at Mayer and the Dayton local weather team, the guitars came out and the JMSMC song began. It has since received many edits, additions, and “fuck you”’s, but that first sugar- and anger-infested jam led to a loud bar-chords concoction …

May your nights be short/ May your day be dull / You claim naive/ May your presence lull
Coming to tear down/ Don’t go up a step/ May your run end with me/ Every step to get you back
Your chords are mine/ licks for sure/ Fuck you (fuck you) (fuck you) John Mayer