Gus Hate Me
Friday night I had the pleasure to sit in with a friend's band at a nice
room in the old section of Prague. Our first set was sitting down, playing
acoustic - doing some Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Jimmy Rogers stuff.
Great fun. After that, we cleared the chairs and took a quick break before
coming back amplified with the horn section, etc. Rather than carrying my
chair from the crowded stage, high over my head to avoid the drums and
keyboard rig, I instead lowered it to the dance floor, figuring someone
would pull it over to their table to accomodate a friend. Oops.
After the break, we played a pretty strong second set with the full band,
ending with "Sweet Home Chicago." About halfway through, Gus appeared. You
know who I'm talking about. That's right, the dreaded Gus, complete with
drunken stagger, "blues guy" hat, and crusty harp. He swayed below me on the
dance floor, waving a harmonica. I just looked down and nodded "nope." It
wasn't my gig, I was just sitting in, so I wasn't about to let Gus come on
stage (actually, I'd never let him up, even if it was my gig). But I'd
forgotten about that chair I'd left down there. Before I knew what was
happening, Gus used the chair to climb onstage, right in front of me,
blowing like a madman (one who can't play). I stood up closer to him, trying
to crowd him, to block him from advancing on one of the vocal mics. So he
cut to my left, trying to go around me. Seeing how easily he could knock
over my little amp, the keyboard, or one of the guitar amps, I grabbed him
by the arm - hard - and kept nodding NO. The harder I pulled, the harder he
pulled back. He broke free and darted finally to the vocal mic. Pissed that
security was nowhere to be found, and not wanting to make "too much" of a
scene, I just grabbed his "blues guy" hat and tossed it into the crowd. One
of the sound guys finally appeared and had to strong-arm Gus off the stage.
As he did - in the words of Tennessee poet Charlie Daniels - I just couldn't
resist the fun: I planted a size-9 wingtip right in his ass. Gus added to
the ambiance of the moment by remaining on the dance floor, cussing at me in
Czech, showing me his middle finger, and blasting as loud as he could.
As I said to the rest of the band backstage, why the hell is it always the
Tired of spam? Get advanced junk mail protection with MSN 8.
This archive was generated by a fusion of
Pipermail 0.09 (Mailman edition) and