The Prairie Rider

On the Road, in search of peace, healing, contentment, and hash browns. Come along for the ride...

Subject: Guitarist - Rock Bottom

Garner's, Roodhouse IL Saturday, February 18th

I received a last minute call from my daughter’s softball coach that they were to practice at an indoor facility in Livingston, IL, south of Litchfield. Now, I love watching my daughter’s softball skill develop, and she’s doing so very well. So, I arranged so I could attend that, then travel from Livingston to Roodhouse to the show. Of course, I got wrapped up in the session, and left about 20 minutes later than I’d planned, but if everything went well, I’d still be alright to make it on time (have I documented about my “luck”?).

I forced myself to leave the softball facility right before 7PM, and it become very dark out. Something I’d forgotten about, and had I’d counted on that, I’d perhaps had left while it was still day light. Travelling through the dark night through unfamiliar territory can cause unwanted anxiety, I feel. You feel sometimes like your sitting still, out on the prairie, and nothing hardly seems to move, or change around you.

After glancing at a Yahoo map at home, I’d made a mental picture of the route I’d take, and made my best estimation at how long this journey would take me, and what time I’ll end up there. We started at 9, so I wanted to be there at 8, no later than 8:30. Of course, this was across small town Illinois, so no telling how long it will really take.

After filling up with gas in Livingston, I wound my way across the Illinois prairie. With my trusty radar detector to protect me, I cautiously scooted through each small hamlet and village. I saw no less than three cops on my journey! That radar detector probably paid for itself on this trip alone!

It was a long journey across the pitch black heartland, westward through sleepy towns like Benld, Gillespie, and Shipman to the larger city of Jerseyville, where I cut north through Carrollton, White Hall, and finally Roodhouse. I pegged my arrival at 8:20, later than I intended, but still enough wiggle room to be on time.

I loaded in to greet Craig setting up his drum cage, and soundman Jeff stringing cords. No sign of Chuck or Steve. The cavernous “bingo parlor” setting was populated by a modest gathering of people watching slides projected on the wall. The whole area was decorated with “happy birthday” streamers, and helium filled “over the hill” foil balloons. Hmm, I sensed that this bunch wasn’t staying for the festivities afterwards…

The room was mammoth. Bigger than Diamonds/Side Pocket. The sign outside the bar noted this building’s dual purpose. One entrance said “Garner’s Archery”. The other just said “Garner’s”, and sported a caricature of a martini glass. I came to realize that his place was one and the same…

“Hey, Craig,” I chirped as I unpacked my gear. He paused from his duties and shot me a glance. “Archery range by day, night club by night! Gotta love it!”

Craig flashed a wry smile, and added “lets hope they don’t get the two confused!”

I chuckled.

“And if they request Ted Nugent, we’d better play it!” I replied.

Upon the course of discussion, I learned that Chuck was in town already, had booked a room in White Hall, but his van was broke down, and no one was quite sure how he was arriving, or when. I finished setting up my rig, and noted that I was on time, but we were no where near ready to start.

Chuck rolled in not long thereafter, and with a small entourage, he was loaded in and set up with a quickness. Some gentleman with a ladder went around pulling down the streamers from the party, and quickly all clues that someone was “over the hill” had vanished. The overhead fluorescent house lights were killed, and our dimmed lightshow cast a rock and roll glow across the rows and rows of empty folding tables and chairs.

Steve checked in on the cell phone; he was passing New Delhi, which placed him about 8 miles south of Jerseyville, or over a half hour away. Splendid! It was already ten after 9, and this put us on starting here in the neighborhood of, oh, quarter to 10? That’s not going to be a big hit.

In the back bar area, a group of what I deemed regulars had gathered, and I’m not sure if I’d considered them big “80’s hair band” nostalgia types. More like Waylon Jennings nostalgia types. As I passed towards the bathroom to change out of my “Softball Dad” sweatshirt into my “rockstar” shirt, a kindly old grey haired gentleman surprised me with a “hey, how’s it going” in a warm, friendly tone.

“Oh, just fine, thank you!” I cheerfully declared.

What the hell was that all about? Well, small towns. People are just more friendly, I suppose.

I swapped out the sweatshirt (that I knew I’d need later to load out in this frigid cold), and peeled off my ball cap, mussing my hair, trying to look like some kind of Rock God. It wasn’t working, really.

On the way back, I was stopped by a very attractive young woman in probably her early thirties. Always nice to catch the attention of the attractive locals!

“Can I ask you question?” she asked.

Ah, breaking the ice is she? A little flirtatious banter?

“Sure,” I said, sizing her up. Very attractive brunette. Her eyes were soft, and inviting, and she flashed a coy smile as she spoke.

“Is that guy," she asked, "in your band, is his hair real?”

Wow! Shot down again right out of the box! She was referring to Chuck and his Nikki Sixx haircut. Visions and flashbacks swirled through my head of smoking hot young girls running up to me in the days of Kulprit and Nassty, talking to me and getting my hopes up only to pepper me with questions about our heart throb drummer, Kevin, and if he had a girlfriend. I’ll never be more than an errand boy!

I assured her it was, and slinked off from the bar with my can of beer towards the stage.

We decided to kick off the night without Steve, and I had the ignominious honor of kicking off the show with Metallica’s Enter Sandman. It’s not like we had many choices to pick from. We're still feeling our way through songs. On the surface, this seemed like a safe choice. It’s a good danceable song that guys like too, and usually works quite well. But, as an opener, I think it gave off an air that we were a hell of a lot heavier than were actually are, and everyone seemed to stay all the way in back, alienating us.

After Chuck sang a Kiss song, Steve arrived, set up his mic, and joined the fray. Breaking the ice seemed really difficult with this crowd. A decent size gathering formed in the back, but all of them seemed afraid to venture out into the seats, towards us. Steve wasn’t feeling his best, and began complaining about a cold he’d been suffering from for a few days. I honestly couldn’t tell though, as he belted them out as he always does. Chest cold or no, Steve knows how to kick ass and deliver.

We took a break after a modest set, and I wandered up to the restroom, and then over to grab a beer. A few patrons shot glances at me, but they seemed friendly enough, actually. As I went to get a beer, a guy motioned, and bought me one. Tough read on this crowd! They seemed amicable enough, but they weren’t overly friendly.

And, it became apparent to me who the old grey haired gentleman was. He was Garner. This was his place. Glad I wasn’t cold and aloof to him when he greeted me! And I noticed that they left the birthday cake out, so I grabbed a couple pieces. I was starving!

Mmmmmm. Birthday cake. (I know what you’re thinking, Paul, but that’s another story for another time…)

We rolled onto the next set, and the response was lukewarm yet again. When I started Talk Dirty To Me though, the flood gates opened, and every woman in the bar poured out onto the dance floor. Wow! Now we’re talking! But, as soon as that was over, even though I tried to keep it flowing shooting into another song, they all trailed back to the back bar. Odd! I shot Craig a puzzled look, and he just shrugged his shoulders. Craig's wife Chrissy and Steve's girlfriend Theresa kept dancing, but the rest of them ran for the hills.

We did manage to bring them out again, and again, and started to keep them out there. The flow began to roll, and we were feeling our way again, much like we did at 501. Now, by no means was it as electric as that weekend was, but it was satisfying to know that we were starting to connect with this foreign crowd, and doing our job. More and more blank faces became illuminated with pleasure, and I could tell we were growing on the increasingly younger crowd that was beginning to stroll in. Several of the young girls were quite attractive, and most of them had some young beau they were attached to.

During the second break, where we played a mixture of dance and country on our break music, the mood was pretty jovial. Everyone complimented us, and some told us they plan to drive down to Wood River and see us next time at 501. I noticed that, while there were a good number of cute, young girls, every single young male was wearing a ball cap! I began to rethink my strategy for taking off my cap and trying to salvage my coif. It was like a “Larry The Cable Guy” festival in here! Git ‘er Done!

Garner looked very pleased, and Craig told me that while this crowd seemed small, this was as good a crowd as they’ve had in there when they’ve played there before. Perhaps this was becoming a success? He assured us we'll be back soon. Hey, the money's good, and they seem to enjoy us. I'm all for coming back!

With our new found confidence, we tore into the final set. My guitar was sounding particularly good, in fact I almost think someone turned it up! The amp just seemed to sing, every note and tone I played flowed from my soul to my fingers into everyone's ears. My playing over the past few weeks has really been gelling with the set list, as I’ve become much more comfortable with the songs, and what I can do with them, and add to them.

While I miss the familiarity of Paul Joseph and the flexibility that comes with our 20 some years of association, I’m starting to feel really comfortable with my playing, my rig, the setup of both my Les Paul, Black, and my newer Ibanez, Violet. Perhaps playing with Paul for so long, it became somewhat of a crutch, a high, a fix. Now, I depend more on myself than I ever had in as long as I can remember.

In short, I’m starting to enjoy this again, looking forward to the challenges every weekend, and improving my playing. I haven’t felt that way since, well, for probably 15 years or more. We’re discussing practicing, learning some new songs, and I’m relishing the opportunity to do that. This is getting fun, and I wasn’t sure I’d have fun without Knucklehead, because I don’t think I’d have fun just concentrating on my playing. But I am.

So much of the enjoyment of Knucklehead was the camaraderie between the four of us, and the challenge of playing as a group, pushing our limits. Turn goat piss into gasoline, as we used to say. What songs could we pull off? What strange tune, floating through our transom would emerge? The crowd was often secondary, to be honest. Our rehersals, when we had them, were almost as fun as the shows.

The challenges I’m driven by in Rock Bottom are more related to pleasing the crowd, and creating the flow, with more focus on my playing and singing. And it’s very rewarding in its own right. It may seem slight to those outside, but I can sense the difference.

At one point in the final set, a large commotion erupted at the bar in back as a fight must have broken out. The crowd piled towards the door, following the commotion, and we glanced puzzled looks towards one another on stage. Cleared the bar out, pretty much. It seemed the crowd never really did return after that, and the night kind of fizzled from there.

Before long, we were done, my gear was packed, the money paid out, and I was rolling southward down the long, dark highway US67 towards home. The highways were fairly empty, passing one or two cars on the long ride home. Each town I passed was a ghost town; their sidewalks rolled up, businesses vacant, and homes cloaked in darkness.

I made it into Granite around 3:20, and decided to stop in at Waffle House. The birthday cake did little to satiate my appetite, and I wanted to stop and rest, unwind a bit before hitting the homestead.

Karen set me up with the usual, and I dug into my hash browns covered “all ways”, and smoked a Backwoods cigar. While there were only a few patrons when I arrived, the diner gradually began to bustle with activity as other joints around were closing and boisterous revelers stumbled in.

I ran into Roy and Carol, old time friends and Knucklehead fans. Roy was pretty talkative, but I was worn out from a long weekend and a long trek. I tried to engage out of courtesy, but I didn’t have the energy to keep up with Roy.

As I cleaned my plate, savoring the sting of the jalepenos, and the rich flavor of Bert's chili, I finished a few drags of my cigar and rolled out as another rowdy crowd of Saturday night drunks rolled in.