In 1985, when my first band, Montserrat, was starting to make the scene in South Bend, Indiana, we quickly found that there was no real scene to be made.
Quite frankly, we newbs from a few towns over were stunned.
How could the home of Notre Dame freakin' University, one of the most Irish AND Catholic universities in the world, not have tons of nightclubs and a burgeoning live music scene? Even to this day, there has been no logical explanation for this stunning void in one of the lamest college towns I have ever seen.
Despite no scene, there were two popular rock bars: "Chips" on one side of ND's sprawling campus and "Cheers" on the other. Sure, other rock bars would come and go, but, for a good decade, those two dives were pretty much it for venues.
My logic at the time was that if you wanted to be a "known" band in the area, you had to play these bars, but the fact was that, to play those bars, you had to BE a known act. Oops.
Also working against us was the fact that these places hired mostly Top 40 cover bands. The only exceptions were those local favorites whose followings were rock-solid. In other words, if Duke Tumatoe & His All-Star Frogs, the Kinetics, or Stencil Forest wanted to play one of their own tunes, well, who was gonna stop 'em?
So, even after swearing that we'd never go that route, there we were learning some covers for the express purpose of getting into those clubs.
After weeks of working up material, we "road-tested" them at the local Moose club, where our guitarist's dad was Grand Poo-Bah.
Only after winning over that crowd, would we allow ourselves to move on to the next level. Going over well in an Eagles, Moose, or Elks club does not come easy, even if your dad is the Big Kahuna, so if you ever get a chance to bring your skills to such environs, be ready to find out exactly how you "play in Peoria".
Back then, if you and your bandmates could escape such environs with Bono mullets and Chess King outfits intact, trust me, you'll do just fine in a bar packed full of underage students.
Wanting to make ourselves presentable to whoever was doing the booking of bands for such establishments, we printed up the obligatory song list on some fancy paper, borrowed a camera from my dad, snapped some shots out in the woods, and put in our order for glossy prints at Rexall's drug store.
Five days later, our po-dunk press kit was complete.
After flipping a coin - heads we go to Cheers first, tails we go to Chips first - the whole band piled into the bass player's car and drove straight to Chips nightclub.
The place was so nondescript that we drove past it three times.
Upon deciding that this pink building with no signage had to be the place, we parked the car, and began searching for a door into the establishment. Before we can do that, though, our bass player punches my arms and points to a woman across the street at the Farmer's Market.
She's in the middle of trying to unlock her front door with a set of keys while juggling two large melons.
Needless to say, I yell "Hey, nice melons!" and we fall to the ground laughing.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the woman was laughing too.
Seconds later, we walked into the first unlocked door we can find... in the middle of the day...completely unannounced.
The ONLY person working was the bartender. Big, lumberjack of a woman; young, buxom, and probably able to kick my ass.
You can imagine all the salesmen and scammers who must open that door unannounced every day, so she had her "no" face on as this young bunch of greenhorns sauntered into her establishment.
We had no real expectations beyond dropping off our shit and waiting for "Chip" to get back to us, but, as it turns out, we were talking to the very person who booked the bands.
Before we could even get situated on our bar stools, she grabbed our demo tape, walked down the end of the bar, and popped it in a tape deck. By the time she'd served up a couple drinks to some customers down at the shadowy end of the bar and made her way back over, our own rendition of "Summer Of '69" was blasting over the club's P.A.
Without saying a word, she took a half-glance at our fancy self-shot promo pic before tossing it aside and then read our song list. At one point, she actually laughed out loud.
"Who the fuck are Platinum Blonde?"
Top 20 in Canada, I replied.
"I've never even heard of this Huey Lewis tune!" ("Walking On A Thin Line")
Guitarist's idea.
"Oh, you guys do originals, too?"
Yes, we say loudly and proudly.
"I love them. Unfortunately, our crowd does not. Have you guys thought about Stepan Center? They sometimes book bands and --
"Ahem, if I may," I said, spitting some ice cubes back into my cup.
"I didn't come down here to get a gig at the Stepan Center, I came down here to get a gig at YOUR club because we're the best rock band to ever happen in this area and there was just something different enough about YOUR club that we came here FIRST. Next stop, Cheers!"
She looked at me stunned. Speechless.
"How old are you guys?" she asked.
We didn't lie and told her that we were all 19 and 20.
"Wait, you guys aren't even of LEGAL AGE to drink in Indiana?!"
And yet Michael Jackson still got gigs, I replied.
"Boy, you got some balls on you. What's your name?"
I told her.
She disappeared for a few minutes and came back, serving us free soda and motioning over to a table by the stage, where we sat and talked for probably a good hour after that.
She asked more about us, told us about all the other bands that did well in her club, and when she left for a minute to assist a delivery guy, my two fellow band mates punched me on the arm and said "Dude, that woman WANTS YOU!"
Wha? Don't be silly.
I mean, she was foxy, but twice my size. Plus, based on her attire (flannel shirt over beer logo t-shirt, jeans, hiking boots), I wouldn't have even guessed she played for our team.
So, over the course of the rest of our pow-wow, my band mates were just watching in awe and horror as I stumbled, fumbled, and missed all the signs.
Even so, we had walked into that bar as boys and, when we came out, we were a professional working rock band with a three-night stand on the books, signed contract in-hand, $1200 guarantee vs. % of the door.
And every few nights, the phone would ring late at the family house and it would be her calling from work, saying, "I think you should really think about getting your cute little ass down here tonight."
Flirtatious fireworks aside, I think every club up to at least the level of Chicago's Metro, Austin's Stubb's and L.A.'s Troubadour should book bands that way: If you wanna play there, go meet the booker in person, hash it out while they BLAST YOUR TAPE to your face, and you either get the gig or you don't.
Maybe they fuck your brains out, maybe they don't.
TO BE CONTINUED...