Part II of The Misunderstood Musician

(In case you missed Part I, see it here - obviously it's changed from FLASH to full on FICTION.)

Semicolons Make Tears has been a band for eight years now. Well, not actually eight. They've all been playing music in different bands for the past eight years; bands called Misery Loves Your Mom, The Feng Shuit , Hot Docta Peppa, My Sweet Little Baby Heart, Puking Up My Low Self-Esteem and Reality Gone Rancid (obviously a Rancid cover band). At this point, I'm not sure which bands were considered talented, or found local notoriety, who was in which band, how long the stint of that particular band name (or band) actually lasted, or if a realized album (be it EP or full length) ever came out under such a title/line-up. And so is the summation of a musician's adolescence: throwing together a grouping of semi-competent performers, coming up with a band name, loathing the band name/line-up/musical genre, changing the band name/line-up/musical genre, brutally offending members/friends/fans by breaking up, repeat.

Semis have been a band, the three of them, with me at the helm, for the past two years. A well-funded independent label picked them up about six months ago, and here we are. The label likes and trusts me, as do the guys, so I get to fill all the roles -- manager, tour manager, cop and confidant. I work hard; musical skill-deficient folks like me have to. Don't get me wrong, the guys take this opportunity seriously and recognize their true luck, father time's blessing, but they also have a fucking ball. Extraordinarily Awesome Day Job: Just another perk of being a rock star.

Sifting through the spilled out media cabinet of DVDs and board games stacked upon my makeshift desk (which is just a Formica table top that folds down from its secured position on the wall), I find my clipboard. This night's show science is on top. So as to not look like a raging idiot, I have researched and written out all pertinent venue information for quick reference. Every detail is included, down to the capacity (should the fire marshal show up). The alcohol policy of the venue and its corresponding state's laws are noted - especially for all-ages shows. I know how many staff security, who owns the venue, who manages the venue, who manages the bar, who is working the door tonight, how many tables we will have for merch... I know how fucking high off the ground the stage is (so as to purposefully warn Ike NOT to do a stage dive or give him the green light to risk it). I know everything, it's part of my job to know.

Plus, I'll be honest, some dicks have a problem dealing with a woman - so I have to be extra on top of it. The sexism is rare and even then rarely overt, and usually only happens in places like Bakersfield or Cleveland. But I have a responsibility to women who want to be a real face in the music business. My shit's together, no one can question my hard-earned position. In fact, any who have dared to try, got the bitch. Of course, the beauty in that? They didn't know the bitch came out.

We've been on tour with the band, The Deep Pockets, and there is always a booked local band to help bring in the purist, local scene-kids. Tonight's local favorite is Da Doo Run Run. My clipboard also offers the venue is Slim's, we are in San Francisco (I always remind the team which city we are in) and the venue's booking manager is Tom Carerra.

I pass by the tiny bathroom where Lowell is trying - without much luck, as the mirror is five feet off the ground and the size of a vertical standing toaster oven - to check out himself in his tiny pants, and to hopefully justify their lustful appearance on stage this night. Immediately recognizing the scream of a cartoon hooker, I predict Bruce is playing his fave video game of all time "Grand Theft Auto". Without surprise, I see that I am correct. The 46-inch about-to-be-bloodied prostitute begging to take a ride never ever makes it.

Outside the bus, Ike is smoking a cigarette and talking on his cell phone. Poor kid, by sheer force of will, superseded convention and avoided carrying a cell phone for years. "A part of the sociopolitical machine I will not indulge" is what he used to say. Rapidly dwindling pay phone locations coupled with death glares from the rest of us in response to the repetitive "Can I use?" finally sunk him deep into the preverbal mainstream landscape. He hated it at first, but now he's always on that fucking phone. It's not clever, and lamely obscure, but I borrow an insulting characterization from the movie Scream 2 and call him "phone head". He often lovingly rolls his eyes at me.

The venue is empty, except for a scattered bevy of employees and band folk. This is how the few hours before a show always look. Although the bodies are few, the collective bustling energy and anticipation could power a whole music festival. Only the promise of live music can bring such electricity. It's one of those undiscussed, unstudied chemistries melding people to sound. I still feel it every time, every venue, no matter how tired or hung over or depressed I am.

No one hassles me at the door, which mildly bothers me. In fact the two metal-head geeks working the entrance, who barely look eighteen and who are too busy discussing the finer points of Mike Patton side projects to even notice I've just walked in, seem oblivious as to what "working the door" entails. I back up.

To Be Continued…