SATURDAY NIGHT’S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING

(Warm-up)

We haven’t even played our first song yet, and already someone hates us.

 “Do you guys do ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’ by Elton John?” the bottled-blonde in the undersized mock-velvet gymsuit asks me.

“Nope, “ I respond, while tugging the floor tom into position “Why not?” she says, “It is Saturday night, after all!”

“We don’t know it,” is all I will say.

This statement is not true, of course. We used to play a real kick-ass version of the song, but the last time we played it on a Saturday night, at a place called Doctor D’s, it caused several fistfights to break out. None of us want to push our luck by playing it again “C’mon!” Ms. Fuzzy Jumpsuit persists, “Play ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’. For me, sweetie?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Well, screw you, then!” she says.

“Thank you very much,” I reply.

Within the massive space of this bar are, at most, two dozen patrons. Our one-night-only show has not exactly packed the place. So far, it seems like the Theodore Buttermilk Festival is the biggest draw in town. The few customers scattered throughout the massive space of Ray ‘n’ Jay’s each fit into the following watering hole archetype categories:

The Pool Table Pec-Flexers. These are the half-dozen testosterone-addled goons gathered around the pool tables, striking poses that make their muscles bulge like somebody’s shoved air hoses up their butts. Even from this far away, they smell like an overturned cologne truck. I’m guessing that these dudes are the proud owners of the souped-up Honda Civics in the parking lot with the “IMASTUD” and “BIGDK” license plates. When we start playing, these guys will act as if they’re too cool to even notice.

Their posing is mostly for the benefit of . . .

The Dance Floor Enigmas. These are the handful of pouty, bored-looking teenaged girls, who are seated as far away as possible from the several pouty, bored-looking middle-aged women. When the band starts playing, some of them will dance, but they will not look at the band or make eye contact with anyone nearby; they will simply stare blankly through everyone and everything. They think of this as playing “hard to get”, and that this act is extremely sexy.

These women pretend not to notice the squint-eyed leers cast toward them from . . .

The Barstool Critics. These beer-bellied bar fixtures will proclaim loudly that we suck, and that they themselves could get up onstage and play better music than the “crap” we’re churning out. Since we play a lot of original songs now, it doesn’t help that they despise anything they haven’t heard on the local radio station a hundred thousand times. And, since we’re a rock ‘n’ roll band, it also doesn’t help that each and every one of them has had the radio on top of the beer fridge in his respective garage tuned to the same Country/ Western station for the past twenty years.

And that’s pretty much it. Nobody in this whole colossus seems to be here to listen to a rock band play, except maybe the few unobtrusive, geeky-looking kids playing video games and pinball.

They’re the reason I will still play hard, even when everyone else is oblivious to what we’re doing. If there is a single pair of ears listening, I will give them as much as I can.

(Round One) “Well,” says Akim, draining the last mouthful from his beer glass, “Let’s get going, I guess. I’m sure it’ll warm up in here.”

Tristan twiddles with the controls on his bass amp, Akim plugs in his freshly-tuned Strat, Lola tugs her microphone from its stand, and I click my sticks together, “One, two, three . . . ”

Our first four songs pass without incident (or applause).

“Hey, Lola, honey?” Jimmy T says, “Is it okay with you if I sing the next song?”

“Yeah,” Lola says, surveying the nearly empty room. “Knock ’em dead, sweetie.”

We coast into the beginning of this Doors tune that Jimmy T loves to sing, when a lone, bristle-faced, barrel-shaped drunk rises suddenly from his table. Seconds earlier, he had been slumped over in a semi-comatose stupor, but now he’s on his feet, hollering “I wanna be in this band! WHOOOOOOOO!”

Everyone in the band simultaneously looks back at me, savoring the irony that we’re finally being appreciated — by this guy. We stop grinning, though, when the guy charges, like an angry bull, directly toward the already-crowded stage. He wedges his solid girth between Lola and Jimmy, somehow managing to knock my kick-drum back so far that my foot begins cramping while I try to continue playing.

“Well I just got into town about an hour ago . . . ” Jimmy sings.

The drunk grabs Tristan’s mike, and croons along, “Relli jiss gaa inna tonna button a-ago!”

The incomprehensible accompaniment disappears almost as soon as it began. Jimmy, who never takes kindly to anyone stealing the spotlight from him, has spun the boor around, grabbed him by the face, and launched him shot-put style from the stage. But, for a guy who could hardly keep his head off the table one minute earlier, the drunk is pretty quick to get back on his feet. He lumbers like an accelerating freight train toward the stage. In the short seconds it takes for all this to happen, I am sure I see steam coming from his bullish nostrils.

“Took a look around, see which way . . . ” Jimmy T manages to sing before the drunk reaches the stage. Jimmy quickly removes his guitar and, in a single, fluid motion, swings it around over his head like a sabre. The body of the guitar crashes against a cymbal, deflects off the headstock of Tristan’s bass, but unfortunately misses the man’s head by six inches. Jimmy sets the guitar down then leaps from the stage to meet the charging attacker.

For the first few seconds of the conflict Jimmy T holds his own, locking his left arm around the head of the man, his right fist pounding his opponent’s big belly. But Jimmy’s fist only connects a few times with the drunk’s concrete abdomen before the man uses his considerable weight advantage, and tosses Jimmy T onto the dance floor.

Akim, the ever-focused songsmith, takes over on vocals, warbling out the words, “City at night . . . city at night . . . ”

This all happens faster than the speed of sound. We continue playing, on musical autopilot. The full realization that the drunk is preparing to crush Jimmy between the hardwood dance floor and his own cement-truck body has not fully imprinted itself on my brain.

Now what the hell am I doing?

I have jumped over my drum set, sending a cymbal stand crashing over in the scramble. My feet skid across the floor as I land on the dance floor, my face inches from the snarling mug.

For the first time all evening, all eyes are upon us. Even the Pool Table Pec-Flexers are standing upright to see what’s going on.

I jerk my wallet from my back pocket, remove a yellow card, and wave it an inch from the man’s bloodshot eyes.

“You’d better think twice before doing that, buddy!” I holler.

“Huh?” comes the expected response.

Tristan and Akim are still plunking away on their instruments behind us, and Lola has taken over the vocals.

“This is my certification card, pal!” I bark, my mind racing forward, “International Karate Federation. Black belt. Third degree!”

“Ball-shett!” he burbles, his hot breath reeking like a distillery disaster, “you vulla crrrap, ash-allll!”

He pushes me aside, and prepares to throw himself on top of Jimmy T, who is too stunned to get the hell out of the way. I poke the beast’s round, sweaty shoulder with my finger.

“Listen, buddy,” I say, “with my karate training, I can collapse that little thing that sticks out at the front of your throat in one quick shot. Believe me, suffocation is not a fun way to die.”

The man folds his tree-trunk arms across his chest and grunts.

“Or, with one quick upward jerk of my knee, from right where we’re standing, I could put your nuts up into your lower intestines. You’d have to wear a plastic bag to piss into, and, of course, you would never be able to do . . . it . . . again . . . ”

This, of course, captures the big man’s attention more than the threat of actual death. He takes a step backward, away from me, and away from Jimmy T, who finally takes the opportunity to scramble to his feet.

“But, you know, I’d rather not have to permanently disable you if I don’t have to,” I say, the bastion of goodwill, “so, howsabout the band buys you a beer, and we forget all about this little misunderstanding, okay?”

He nods, upping his hand over his crotch. I bring him a beer which, within a minute or two, will push the level of alcohol in his blood up just high enough to cause him to pass out and fall spread-eagled on the dance floor.

I climb back behind my drums, and say into the mike, hockey-announcer-style, “And Jimmy T, of the Featherless Bipeds, is back after serving two minutes for roughing.”

A few of the formerly expressionless young guys at the pool tables, and a couple of the old lumps on the barstools begin to clap.

On cue, our disgruntled nemesis hits the floor. We receive the first smattering of applause we’ve heard all night. Akim strokes the opening chord to our next song.

“Hey, Dak,” Jimmy says, as he straps on his guitar (which now has a battle scar just beneath the tone control knob), “You really saved my ass. I didn’t know you were a card-carrying black belt!”

“Library card,” I explain.

(Round Two)

Things have picked up. A few of the Flexers are now nodding their heads along to the rhythm of our music; they have decided that we may be cool enough to warrant their attention, since we were able to emerge victorious from the conflict with the big drunk during our first set. This sort of thing impresses Flexers, I guess.

Also, Tristan surprised all of them at the pool table during our break, but he bought a round of beer for the losers anyway, as a goodwill gesture. Buy beers, win friends.

However, not everyone shares the Flexers’ newfound interest in the band. At the other side of the bar, the Barstool Critics are scrunching their faces into expressions of increasing hostility. “Play some country!” one hollers.

“Hey!” says Akim, into the mike, “You know how they say that when you play certain rock records backward, you hear hidden messages? Well, when you play a country record in reverse, you sober up, you get your girl back, your pickup truck starts running and your dog comes back to life!”

Silence. Then, another call of “Play some country!”

We continue with the rock ‘n’ roll.

Now that we’ve won the attention of a few of the Flexers, several Dance Floor Enigmas are wriggling around on the floor in front of us. One particularly well-proportioned thirtyish woman in a tight black dress is breaking the Rule of Indifference by dancing directly in front of my drums, facing me. She locks her liquid, boozy eyes onto me, swivels her torso, thrusts her hips, runs her hands over the contours of her breasts and hips as she dances. She blows me a kiss, which causes my rhythm to momentarily go off-kilter.

Of course, I suddenly understand what’s really going on, when a guy the size of a lumber truck strides up beside the flirty dancer and encircles her slim waist with his massive paws. As they dance, she says something into his ear and points at me, and the bruiser’s face flushes red. Yikes! I’ve been trapped in the Make The Boyfriend Jealous game! I drop a drumstick in panic, but I quickly grab another one before Tristan can shoot another incredulous look at me.

What am I going to do if this guy decides to come up onstage and pummel all the fluids out of my body? Whip out my library card again?

Luckily, the woman in the black dress vomits a rainbow of semi-digested fruit-flavoured vodka beverages all over the front of her thug boyfriend’s muscle shirt. He shoots a sneer at me, then throws her over his shoulder and carries her away. Whew! Saved by vomit!

Wow — we’re two-for-two on the Not-Getting-Our-Asses-Kicked scoreboard! This fills me with a sudden renewed sense of optimism. Women are dancing, nobody has thrown anything at us — maybe this gig is going to turn out okay after all.

“Sorry about going off-time there, Tris,” I say, grinning stupidly.

“You went off-time?” Tristan grins, “I just thought you were playing Jazz!”

(Round Three)

An hour ago, we could barely muster a smattering of applause; now the capacity crowd is hollering, stomping, pounding beer bottles on tables, chanting, “We want the band! We want the band!”

I wish I could say that our fantastic musicianship that has brought all of these people in, but the real reason for the sudden population is explosion is the weather. A sudden storm has hit Theodore, with wind so powerful it blew down the beer tent at the Buttermilk Festival, and rain in such volume that the fairgrounds became an instant mud bog. It’s a storm that the residents of Theodore will talk about for months to come; a torrent that sends everyone, and even a few of their dogs, running from the fairgrounds, funneling into Ray ‘n’ Jay’s Superstar Bar.

“Boy, are we gonna kick ass this set,” Tristan says, placing his video camera on the ledge behind the drum riser. “We’ve got to get this on tape.”

I sit down behind the drums, and the boys strap their guitars back on. Lola clears her throat and gets her singing voice ready to rip. The noise of the crowd gets even louder when we appear on the stage.

“Play some country!” hollers a Barstool Critic.

“Play something we can dance to!” shouts an Enigma.

“Show us your tits!” one of the Flexers yells at Lola. She gives him a one-fingered salute.

“Play ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’!” screams the bottled-blonde in the undersized mock-velvet gymsuit. I can’t believe she’s still here.

Jimmy T is in a panic. His eyes dart back and forth between Akim, Tristan, Lola, and me.

“What are we gonna do? What are we gonna do?” Jimmy chants.

“What the hell,” says Tristan, “let’s play the Elton John tune.”

“You sure?” Akim says.

“What the hell,” barks Jimmy T, “They want it!”

“Are you guys sure?” I ask.

Everyone nods.

“Here’s a request from earlier tonight!” Lola calls out to the crowd.

Feeding off the energy of the crowd, I count the song in faster than we normally play it. The band ERUPTS!I hunch over my kit, crack-crack-cracking my snare drum at assault-rifle speed. Tristan’s bassline throbs along like a monster’s heartbeat. Akim’s guitar is spitting buzzing chunks of sound all over the place. Jimmy leaps around like a young Pete Townsend, while Lola screams, “Saturday night’s alright for fighting, Saturday night’s alright!”

A couple of the Flexers-turned-dancers start slam-dancing, their bodies careening off each other like pinballs against bumpers. Rockers and Cowboys are jostled by the Dance Guys, then cowboy hats and baseball caps begin flying through the hazy air, bodies are airborne, curses are hollered, fists are swinging, shirts are being torn off. Beer bellies swing forth, unrestrained. A large Country Momma rips open the blouse of a Dance Floor Enigma as another girl tosses the contents of her glass into the face of a Rocker Dude in a Metallica shirt, who up to that point had looked pleasantly dazed by the sight of exposed breasts.

All of this happens within the twelve seconds or so of the warp-speed chorus.

I try to slow the tempo to initiate a groovin’ little blues jam, and Akim tries to segue into some subdued, cool-drink-on-a-riverboat slide guitar playing, but it’s too late. It’s like pulling the handbrake to stop a speeding train that’s already careening over a cliff.

A muscle-shirt-wearing Flexer is on Ray’s back like a bronco rider, his hands cupped over the cowboy’s eyes. The old cowboy throws wild punches everywhere but in the direction of his assailant. An Enigma, possibly the Flexer’s conquest of the evening, lands a kick squarely upon Ray’s Family Jewels, and he keels forward, sending his cowboy hat, along with the Flexer, flying directly into Jay, who is knocked right out of his Birkenstocks.

People are shoving, hitting, kicking, and punching. The air is full of flying glasses, bottles, and chairs. A beer bottle smashes against the wall just inches behind me; I can feel the warmth of blood trickling down my face from where a shard of glass has cut my cheek, just under my left eye. Stinging sweat creeps into the cut as I duck behind my drums to avoid further injury.

A guy mounts the stage and starts tugging at Lola’s shirt. She blasts him with a solid punch to the face, and he falls limply from the edge of the stage. Akim and Tristan grab their guitars and run for the back door. Inexplicably, as a whiskey glass streaks past the tip of his nose, Jimmy T stops to say, “Thank-you very much, Goodnight!” into his microphone. Then Lola grabs him by the sleeve and tows him through the back door, which is hit by a barstool half a second after the door closes behind them.

I crawl on my hands and knees behind the shelter of my drums, behind the stack of PA speakers, then through the stage door into the parking lot. I look back just long enough to see a mixed group of Cowboys and Flexers mounting the stage and throwing our equipment into the fray.

The others are sitting on the back bumper of the rental van, shaking their heads.

“Shit,” says Akim.

“Shit,” adds Jimmy T.

“Shit,” says Lola.

“Yeah,” Tristan concurs, cradling his shattered video camera in his palm. “Shit.”

As I mop the sweaty blood from my face with my sleeve, I agree with them all.

Shit.