Dear Dolls, Chapter One: Dante’s

Prologue: We pull up to Dante’s at 7:10. It’s 92 degrees and we’re sweating copiously from loading out of the practice space. We carry and roll our stuff back and forth along the sidewalk past the peep show window, blinded for a moment each time we step back into the dark bar. We desperately need beers. Our booking agent gives us a chain of drink tickets and tells us there’s bottled water waiting in the Green Room. “Where’s that?” I ask, greenly. She looks at me kind of funny and points to a gate and some stairs on stage left. We’ve been playing out for almost two years and this is our first Green Room. For the win!…but wait. The ceiling is so low I can only stand up straight between two floor beams. There’s a washer and dryer left over from the 80’s. Is someone taking a shower back there? So this is the Green Room. “I think Ron Jeremy was here two weeks ago,” our bassist says, “he probably sat right there.”

Dear Dolls: Anonymous Allocutions From a Portland Musician

Chapter 1:

Suddenly we have two hours to kill. We’re the second of three bands, and the opener doesn’t start until 9:30. It’s way too hot in Dante’s (ironic hey?) so we head across the street to Berbati’s and then to Ash Street. We run into this girl who was supposed to help us book shows on several occasions and continually blew me off. She asks what we’re up to. “We’re playing Dante’s” my bandmate fires back brusquely. She looks embarrassed and I gingerly duck into the bar…not a fan of awkward situations. Ok, so Dante’s isn’t the best gig ever, but it’s pretty damn respectable, and I get the feeling this girl didn’t think we’d ever make it out of the open mic circuit or something. I’m not sure if she’s even seen one of our shows.

It’s been just five days since we played a long, rowdy, boozed-up show to a packed room at The Kenton Club, where the stage is a foot off the floor and barely holds a drum kit and three amps. We’re watching the openers now and it’s a music video. The stage is so big and high up the musicians might as well be behind glass. This is going to be weird…

Our drummer and I are hanging out at the smoking section bar with our booking agent, waiting for the first band to wrap up. She’s telling us she can get us even better gigs, opening spots for national acts, etc. What I’m hearing: “Whatever you do, don’t fuck up.” Ok, no pressure here at all. I sure hope our friends get here soon.

It’s time to go! Will my new guitar stay in tune? Did I drink too much? Where are all those people who promised they would be here? No time to worry, we’ve got to pull this thing off. The sound guy tells me the mic was acting up for the first band and that, unless I can “figure it out,” I might be getting shocked. No problem, I’m thinking, I’ve been shocked by mics before. It’s not so bad…

We start into our first song, I grab the mic and an electric current travels through my entire body. I’m nearly ass over tit. Note to self: don’t touch the mic at all! The sound onstage is pretty good, but as always you have no idea what it sounds like from the floor. The lights are so bright in my face that I can’t make out who’s in the crowd. “Dolls” our bassist used to say. “Just play to the dolls.” We make it through the set, a pretty good one. My new hollowbody stayed in tune well for its maiden voyage. We thank the audience and Dante’s, turn off our amps, and as we’re tearing down I alert the last band to the imminent electrocution situation.

We’re sweating effusively by this point and still have to load up the cars, the final push before we can relax and settle in for some stiff drinks. A few trips and the deal is done. I order a beer and smoke a few ill-advised cigarettes. Then I suddenly remember that it’s Wednesday and I have to work in the morning. I order a vodka tonic. It’s been a long night and I’ll deal with work in the morning.

1:30am. I finally walk out of Dante’s, wait for my friend to get a cab and hop in my car. Much to my chagrin, there’s a parking ticket under my wiper. It seems my payment slip must have fallen off the dash while I was loading my gear. I toss it in the back seat and drive home. No one ever said being in a band was going to be easy.