Forgotten Lyrics

Not every gig goes as planned.

“We are EZ Cheez and we play rock and roll!”

I’d nicked that line from Motörhead, but they’re not using it these days. With it, the drummer launched into our first song of the night. The crowd, anxious as always, came alive at the first chord. To be honest, we sounded ragged. Yet the crowd was eager to hear the music. They’re force-fed a steady diet of milquetoast on TV and in stores; we offered a respite from that.

Meanwhile the drummer steadily increased the tempo to a breakneck pace. The crowd might enjoy hearing us play that fast at first, but the sound turns to mud and one chord is indistinguishable from the next. Even punk needs to breathe. I turned around, motioning him to slow down, but to no avail. He sat back there bashing away, maniacal grin on his face, practically knocking over his snare with each bash. I walked back to the drum riser and looked closer. His pupils were dinner plates.

Jesus Christ, I thought, he’s gakked to the gills. No wonder!

We made hash of the song but got through it. I mouthed “slow down” at him but he couldn’t. Then he counted off the next song. Again, way too fast. We only had one song in our catalog that actually belonged at that tempo. So, I changed things up on the fly and hoped the band would follow.

“Something ain’t right!” I yelled into the microphone, “Hermaphrodite!”

I’d written the song in 10^th grade and it made our first album. Back then people got a good laugh about it. Yet the song did not age well. We hadn’t performed it in over a decade, and hadn’t rehearsed it for the tour. We hadn’t even jammed on it in soundcheck or rehearsals. I wasn’t sure if the bass player even knew the song; he wasn’t in the band back then. I looked over. He looked lost, visibly stoned, and was only playing half-time. I suppose it was that or do finger gymnastics trying to keep up with the drummer.

The crowd wasn’t into it at all, either. Their initial burst of energy had subsided. My band-mates would call them “dead” or “lame” after the show but the fact of the matter is we were shitting the bed. We weren’t even in the pocket. Pro Tip: that’s the easiest lesson in the world. If you have no idea what you’re doing and can’t play worth a shit, but you’re at least in the pocket, your band will still sound halfway decent. It’s hard for the band to be tight when the rhythm section aren’t using the same drugs.

We wrapped up the song to polite applause. I needed to win over the audience.

“Are you guys ready for Post Natal Drip?” Name-dropping the headline act is a cheap way to rally the crowd. The audience gave the Pavlovian response. “We’d like to thank them for taking us out on the road with them.”

That was a lie. The whole tour had been a disaster. Just two more gigs to get through and then there’d be wholesale lineup changes. “Musical differences” would be cited.

A flash out of the corner of my eye. The guitarist, who I’d seen eating mushrooms before the show, had something in his hand and was doing a windmill windup like Pete Townsend. The object went careening into the crowd. I couldn’t tell what it was but it looked like one of those aluminum lunch boxes grandpa used to carry. The guitarist stared at it, mesmerized. In a great show the crowd would react and do something. Maybe they’d destroy it, or throw it back onstage, or pass it around the audience like a trophy. Tonight? They just parted and let it clatter on the floor. Then awkward silence. A stream of people left the audience and making their way to the bar; or worse, the exit was back there, too.

At least our set was only 24 minutes tonight.

The guitarist still stared off into the void above the crowd’s head; his expression vacant and his senses experiencing things no one else would perceive. There was nothing to do but start another song and soldier on. Maybe a familiar cover would rally the crowd? Again, it wasn’t on the set list, but at least we’d rehearsed it. I strummed an E and an A and we were off:

“Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go! I wanna be sedated!”

At least that much was true. I know I’ve complained about the band’s various drugs but I’m no saint. I’d been downing a fifth of Jack Daniels a night just to numb my vocal cords. That was bullshit but it’s what I told myself. I didn't like to admit it but the tapes proved that I slurred the lyrics. At least the audience was re-energized. The Ramones never fail!

Then a loud clatter, awkward silence, and droning low-end feedback. I looked to the noise, dreading what I might see. The bass player lay in a heap. He’d fallen off the stage. The sound man cut his bass to save us the feedback and instead we had more awkward silence. Just when the gig was starting to improve! Our lone roadie picked him up and helped him climb back onstage. He limped, noticeably.

I went back to the microphone, looked at the crowd, and said, “ladies and gentleman, rock and roll.” It was the lamest excuse ever, and it wasn’t even original, but it was all I could think of to fill the void. It’s a good thing Post Natal Drip had just as many problems as us, or we’d likely get kicked off the tour.

One more song and we’d finish this shit-show. It was our “hit.” I use that word loosely. The band started up, I grabbed the microphone, and I blanked. No words came out. I'd performed this song hundreds of times, yet my jaw hung slack. Forgotten lyrics!


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