“David, hold that door open” I shout as I move from the van to the entrance of the small coffee shop. I’m hauling my guitar case in one hand and my guitar amp in the other. I step awkwardly sideways with the weight of the amp pulling me over at a 45 degree angle. My guitar amp is half my size - although that’s not as impressive as it sounds given that I didn’t gain weight or height until I was well into my twenties. I’m about ten years away from that on this particular golden light November night. My twin brother David is loading in his drum set while Chad (our bass player/second shouter) and I take turns carrying in our gear through perfectly timed flings of the entrance door with one of our feet. It’s just the three of us, our best friend Donald, and the coffee shop staff here. This is our punk band - Haywire. I can’t remember any of the details of actually booking this gig, but we’re loading into a small town coffee shop, but not a very “artsy” coffee shop. It’s right along the interstate in a new development a few towns over. It’s clean and nice and my curious mind is starting to wonder if they’re aware of what we sound like…
“Where do you want us to set up?” I ask whoever seems to be the most in charge of the place. “Anywhere over there is fine” as the manager/whoever points over towards the back wall with some tables and massive floor to ceiling windows. A few tables are pushed out the way to make room for our gig. The place can probably hold 50 people in total. I doubt we’ll be popular enough here to bring in a crowd that would cause any concerns to the fire marshal.
It’s uncharacteristically cold outside, even for November in the midwest. It’s getting dark already in the late afternoon as we finish setting up, get some Diet Cokes and sort out tuning our instruments. I can’t remember if we’d used tuners by this point or not. We were still in high school and, not owning much equipment of our own, relied pretty heavily on guitar ams that we “borrowed” from the schools music room…
The band has always been just the three of us. Myself, David and Chad, but Donald, my best friend since grade school, is always around us too. If we ever had a fourth member, it was him. Every band needs “a guy.” Someone to collect money at the door, or video tape the gig, or help us move tables in a small town coffee shop on a Friday night. Donald is NOT musical, but he understands punk rock. He feels it the same way we do - and that’s always been enough for me.
It’s the very last remaining light of the afternoon and the temperature has dropped even more as familiar faces are starting to pile into the shop for our set. There are no other bands with us at this gig, so we’ll end up playing for a solid two hours, with a few short breaks in between. Hopefully it’s long enough to give people their two dollars worth - if we charged anything at all.
“Donald - how’s it sound out there? Can you hear the guitar? Can you hear the vocals? Does the bass need to come up? Is my guitar loud enough? Are you sure my guitar is loud enough?” - Donald is also our makeshift sound guy as we fiddle with the knobs on our amps and too-large PA system, and play for a few seconds at at time, before more knob fiddling. My guitar amp is always stationed a few feet from my head, but we trust Donald’s ear out in the house. Like I said - he gets punk rock. Donald knows that the mix isn’t quite right until my guitar is loud enough. “Loud enough” usually means that you don’t want to be standing within 30 feet of my amp, or your brains may rattle rhythmically around in your head. None of us could care less wether or not you can hear our vocals. We don’t really sing so much as holler and strain and waver towards a key, often in unison. I’ve never cared about my own singing at all. I always viewed singing as an afterthought. Something we had to do to complete our songs. I have however always cared a great deal about my guitar playing.
“The mix sounds good here” Donald confirms as he moves from section to section of the space. “What about back there by the doors? Can you hear enough guitar back there?” I shout from a hundred or so feet away. We learn that unless you’re standing right in front of me and my amp, the mix is good enough for tonight. Soon we’ll be blazing through a fast paced set and assaulting the ears of those in attendance - and let’s be honest, no one here will be worrying about the intricacies of our mix. We’ll all just be a part of what is happening. One loud sound through a crowd in a room. This is just how we like it.
Once we feel that a sufficient crowd has assembled (probably thirty people) we begin our set fast, Loud, and abruptly. I’m usually tasked with opening our sets by talking to the crowd. I’ve never been much of a wordsmith, so I likely tell the crowd to come and stand up closer and curse at them if they don’t. I’m not a mean spirited person on the inside, but on stage, I never know what might come out when you give me a microphone and a room of my peers to show off in front of. We once got asked to stop cursing into the mic’s so much during our set at a small town summer street dance put on by a local church. We didn’t know that it was put on by a local church, but would it have made any difference?
It’s still pretty bright in the shop during our set. This coffee shop has two options for lights - on or off. They’ve opted to leave them on, and it’s bright enough that none of us are quite certain exactly how to behave. In a dark basement we’d be jumping all over each other. On a dark stage, our friends would be running up and taking their turns diving off the monitors, but in this nice shop, we all feel exposed. The lights are in strong contrast to the dark of the night as cars whip past on the interstate off in the distance. From where I stand, I can see everyone here. I find myself very aware how well they can see me, and in a strange way this boosts my confidence a bit more. Now you can hear, and see, my loud guitar parts. At a certain point I look over to my right side and I can see our reflections in the shops floor to ceiling windows. This side view of our three-piece band boosts my confidence even more. Throughout my youth, it’s these moments where I’ve always found my confidence. With a guitar on, I’ve always felt utterly comfortable. It’s around this time of yoga-like inner-self reflection that I spot a pretty girl in the crowd with long dark hair who I’ve never seen before in my life. I hope that Donald was right, and that the guitar is loud over there.
We play our fast songs for about forty-five minutes and take our first break. As I sit near my guitar amp catching my breath and wishing that I could light up a cigarette, I spot another girl that I know in the crowd named Amy. Donald knows Amy too. Donald likes Amy. Donald has liked Amy for a few months and it’s really not hard to see why. She’s tall and slender with long blonde hair. She’s very pretty and surprisingly sweet. She looks downright preppy here compared to the rag tag bunch of misfits that usually come to hear us play. As I wave and nod to her from near my guitar amp, I’m simultaneously forming a plan to talk to her about Donald later on tonight. For everything Donald is to our band, the least I can be is his matchmaker.
I see that Amy in standing with the mystery girl with long dark hair and brown eyes. She’s dressed equally as preppy in a nice expensive looking fancy sweater. Meanwhile I’m wearing blue work pants and a black Operation Ivy shirt with at least two holes in it that I’m aware of. I’m also wearing a longer than necessary chain wallet and a black baseball hat backwards that I haven’t taken off in several months. Maybe this mystery girl is the type that likes to take band guys home to mess with her dad? I tested this exact theory a few months earlier at a graduation party for my friend Marnae. Wearing basically this same outfit, strutting through her nice house and cutting a path through her parents, aunts and uncles. Four or five of us rolled up and piled out my buddy Skip’s car - demanding to know where the “good” snacks were. Her dad was NOT impressed.
Our first break is coming to a close and we (Donald) starts to collect the people who have gathered outside during our intermission. Our crowd is talking and smoking cigarettes in the cold when Donald let’s them know that we’re going to start again soon. The familiar and smoke smelling people file back in for the rest of our set. Another forty-five minutes or so of loud, fast noise buzzes through the place and rattles the windows. I make eye contact a few times with the mystery girl before we’re wrapping up. It’s close to 10:00PM now and nice places like this don’t want us hanging around in here this late. The gig is a success however, and the crowd seems pleased enough with their Friday evening entertainment. Three skinny punk teenagers playing adult-sized instruments.
As the crowd and Amy (and the mystery girl with long dark hair and a nice sweater) disperse outside into the now frigid night, I grab my black zip-up hooded sweater and make my way outside to get some details about this girl. Maybe I’ll tell her that I spent the better part of our second set playing my guitar solos to her in my mind.
We can all see our breaths now as we’re sitting at a few tables with center awning right outside the front door of the place. Traffic on the interstate has slowed down and the night calms. Amy and her friend are at a table over from me, so I simply walk over and plop myself down with them. After saying a few friendly words to Amy and thanking her for coming tonight, I sit right next to Amy’s friend and ask her her name. ”Nicole.” She tells me with a smile. Of course it’s Nicole. What else would it be? Nicole suits her and her sweater perfectly.
Donald has gotten Amy’s attention as the four of us sit at the table when Nicole tells me what high school she goes to (a preppy school a few towns over) and I ask if she’s enjoyed her night. My assessment of her neighborhood, her school and her clothes lead me to to (correctly) assume that she’s not a fan of punk rock, but I’m about to find out if she’s a fan of punk rock boys.
I’ve never feared rejection at all. I grew up poor, to where most things were not obtainable to me by most normal, rational means. It lead me to a place early on of truly feeling simply nothing to lose in most any given scenario. I plainly ask Nicole if I can have her phone number. Something about just finishing a gig in a mostly unfamiliar town with a pretty girl with long dark hair that I’ve never met before makes me feel extra confident. As I said, what have I really got to lose?
I feel a buzz through me entirely as Nicole tells me that she was actually invited by Amy specifically to meet me, and she was really happy that I came over to talk to her. She compliments my guitar playing (but not my singing) and excitedly gives me her phone number on a small piece of paper. This was before cell phones, so I folded up the piece of paper and stuck it in my cigarette pack. Cigarettes were like currency to me, having no financial means whatsoever to actually obtain my own, my friend Skip was alway generous with his carton and gave me a pack to get me through the night of the gig. I wasn’t going to lose this pack of cigarettes and I wasn’t going to lose her phone number that’s now tucked inside of it.
To be continued…