The Worst Band Ever
I’m not one to criticize anyone’s taste in music, some folks like hippity hoppity music, or uninterruptable screaming, even violins by candle light. Myself, I like most music, if I can understand it, but I can care a tune in a bucket or even in a saddlebag. Nevertheless, that one night a long time ago, I played with the worst band ever.
In high school I started playing the drums in a local rock & roll top forty band. The music was usually no more than three chords and the girls liked drummers, hence a large part of my enthusiasm. We did pretty well and played almost every week end at a dance or party of some kind. After a time the entire band moved on to lives and different parts of the world, but we remained friends at Christmas dinners and an occasional birthday party.
Then one night Arnie called. Arnie Bigler had been the guitar player and after all these years was still always finding one place after another to perform. This night he had found a new singer, a woman we’ll call Shirley, sang country western, her husband played the bass guitar. I never minded playing this type of music, it’s pretty simple, but Shirley gave heartache a new meaning.
After a couple of nights of rehearsals, we loaded up the van and drove for an hour to a dusty old building where pick-up trucks were lined up in the gravel, like trophies on display.
The owner was nice enough, a big man with a gentle smile always at the corner of his mouth. He looked at us for a moment, I could see he was sizing up the “group” he had never heard. He invited us in and pointed to the corner where we could set up. Looking at the crowd, noticed a lot of cowboy hats and shiny belt buckles, I knew we were in trouble. They knew country music, and I knew we didn’t.
I set up my drums and we began to play as the crowd anticipated a fun filled festive evening of good old country hits about mom, jails, and heartache. One by one, they stopped stomping their feet and even quit singing along. After about 30 minutes, we had played all the songs we knew and began to repeat them. Two by two the crowd began to leave, and the nice owner, a little embarrassed, ask us to stop playing. In fact, he asked us to leave. Our two week booking had lasted about 75 minutes.
The worst band ever, surely was Shirley and the boys.
I’m not one to criticize anyone’s taste in music, some folks like hippity hoppity music, or uninterruptable screaming, even violins by candle light. Myself, I like most music, if I can understand it, but I can care a tune in a bucket or even in a saddlebag. Nevertheless, that one night a long time ago, I played with the worst band ever.
In high school I started playing the drums in a local rock & roll top forty band. The music was usually no more than three chords and the girls liked drummers, hence a large part of my enthusiasm. We did pretty well and played almost every week end at a dance or party of some kind. After a time the entire band moved on to lives and different parts of the world, but we remained friends at Christmas dinners and an occasional birthday party.
Then one night Arnie called. Arnie Bigler had been the guitar player and after all these years was still always finding one place after another to perform. This night he had found a new singer, a woman we’ll call Shirley, sang country western, her husband played the bass guitar. I never minded playing this type of music, it’s pretty simple, but Shirley gave heartache a new meaning.
After a couple of nights of rehearsals, we loaded up the van and drove for an hour to a dusty old building where pick-up trucks were lined up in the gravel, like trophies on display.
The owner was nice enough, a big man with a gentle smile always at the corner of his mouth. He looked at us for a moment, I could see he was sizing up the “group” he had never heard. He invited us in and pointed to the corner where we could set up. Looking at the crowd, noticed a lot of cowboy hats and shiny belt buckles, I knew we were in trouble. They knew country music, and I knew we didn’t.
I set up my drums and we began to play as the crowd anticipated a fun filled festive evening of good old country hits about mom, jails, and heartache. One by one, they stopped stomping their feet and even quit singing along. After about 30 minutes, we had played all the songs we knew and began to repeat them. Two by two the crowd began to leave, and the nice owner, a little embarrassed, ask us to stop playing. In fact, he asked us to leave. Our two week booking had lasted about 75 minutes.
The worst band ever, surely was Shirley and the boys.
At least you did something! And got a dang fun story out of it. :)
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