I'm not sure how many of the folks who read the news, culture and assorted items up here in the Planet's lead pages also peruse the Arts & Entertainment coverage at what's colloquially known as "the back of the book," and vice versa. (We're aware of the fact that you really only pick us up for News of the Weird, thanks.) But for those who weren't aware, I'm this particular free tabloid's music critic as well as the guy afforded this page in a bid to further frustrate humorless armchair politicos for whom any alt-paper space not invested in hard news is, by default, frivolously squandered at the expense of our great nation.
Which means I go to a lot of live-music shows. And most of them aren't large-scale concerts headlined by household names, but rather small-venue gigs where both the bands and the crowds are made up of local musicians who don't — and in all likelihood never will — earn much more than a return on their gas/flyer/website/self-produced CD/alcohol investments. Beyond the musicians themselves, the circle of supporters of local original music at large is a relatively small (if welcome and enthusiastic) one. Unless the bands in question are still young enough to press their entire school for attendance, or closely associated with a burgeoning mainstream trend, a crowd of a couple hundred is a coup. Every new face, every handshake, every single homespun record sold is a cause for celebration.
I'd long been circling the idea of using Field Trip to entreat readers to take a field trip of their own, and go check out some local talent, but had trouble finding the right vector. Until earlier this week, when a friend (and local musician, naturally) unknowingly provided the insight I needed when his quest to sneak into a sold-out show inspired unmitigated genius. He noticed that the wristbands given to ticket-holders at the door were a certain shade of yellow, and went off in search of a reasonable facsimile; ironically, he found it in a length of glaring police-issue CAUTION tape strung up somewhere in the neighborhood. He "borrowed" a bit of it, fashioned his own wristband, and into the club he went.
Now, as someone who's played more than one show only to discover afterward that the band owed more on our bar tab than we actually made for the gig, I certainly don't think that the masses inherently deserve the right to screw musicians out of a night's pay. At the same time, as someone who'd rather see a bad band play live than stay home and watch TV, I can't help but wonder if the only reasons more people don't take chances on original music they've never heard before are financial. That's gotta be it, right? Indulge my naive idealism, and admit that the reason you're not coming out is, basically, you don't have five bucks.
What follows are a few methods for obtaining entry to venues wherein the local music you can't afford to see is playing. Attempt them at your own risk. And while some club owners, bands and promoters might take offense at the information divulged, let me say three things in my defense:
1. These are all old hat. Anyone in the live-music industry worth his or her salt has dealt with them before, and will deal with them again.
2. My unconditional faith in humanity's good nature insists this information will only be used by parties who would otherwise not be attending the show. The band and club are not losing money — they're gaining attendance.
3. Nature rewards adaptability.
THE BACK DOOR: The oldest, the simplest, the most obvious. Different environments call for different methods of attempted, er, rear entry. Thresholds located behind fences or concrete trash-collection areas are often unguarded, and a well-timed up-and-over might be all it takes. Or if you don't mind making the scene a little (or a lot) early, just chat up the band as they're loading in. Beware: bouncers both cagey and ill-suited to the elements who will lurk just inside, rather than out.
THE LICK 'N' STICK: It's single-handedly responsible for a serious decline in the use of markers and stamps by doormen worldwide. You'll need either a friend with enough money to get in, or to be impossibly charming. Somebody gets stamped on their way in, comes back out, applies moisture to the back of their hand, and transfers some ink to the back of yours. Those of you suffering from hypochondria or Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder will need to carry a Wet-Nap, or quit whining and lick. Beware: large or wordy designs loudly advertising the fact that your stamp is now reversed.
THE TOTEM POLE: The cartoons are wrong. Two short people in one long trench coat never, ever, ever look like one tall person. However, the door guy just might find appreciation in your obvious desperation, and let you in anyway; never underestimate the sympathy quotient inherent in looking like a driven but woefully misguided idiot. Beware: low ceilings.
THE HALF OF A PAIR: You have to get inside, just for a minute, because your buddy/girlfriend/probation officer is in there, and they've got your wallet/ money/urine sample. Offering your driver's license as collateral is never a good idea, not only because it's going to sit in front of the ticket-taker's face — reminding him how long you've been in there and familiarizing him with your features — but also because, well, the ruse might just make somebody in authority angry enough to keep it. For larger, more crowded venues, offer up a whole, empty wallet; they're gonna open it up eventually, and you're gonna need a throng to hide in if you want to last past the opening act. Beware: At some point, you will be located and discharged. Live fast.
THE PROVINCE OF PROFESSIONAL RESPONSIBILITY: Another classic option, though one that takes an excessive amount of preparation. First, listen to every record you can get your ears on for 10 or 15 years. Try to pay attention in all of your reading and writing classes in school, but have trouble with other studies because you play in a band at night. Help put out a 'zine. Then, get a job as the music critic for your local free weekly, rationalizing the ensuing lack of upward mobility, sleep and popularity by focusing on the fact that you get to see a lot of great bands for free.
Contact Scott Harrell at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or by e-mail at scott.harrell@ weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Feb 19-25, 2004.
