Since world famous CBGB is closing this weekend, thought I'd steal part of an old tour diary from Jimmyandtheteasers.com and post it here on MySpace. I hadn't read it since I wrote it, so I found it pretty funny. And that's all I care about, really....

Part 3. CBGB
The Brimstones, The Pits, Jimmy and the Teasers, Satan's Teardrops, New York City, CBGB Saturday April 5th, 2003

So this is where the fun begins, right? World Famous CBGB, Bowery, Manhattan, New York Fucking City. In our minds, never had a more notorious and socially retarded group of people descended on a more appropriate environment. Big, loud, stupid, punk rock. This we could do, this we could handle, on a professional level with the best of them. Chaos, lack of skill, reckless abandon, these are our tools, these things we embrace. And it would be OK here, in this place that has seen so much debauchery, so many useless fucks, so very many spilled beverages. We would be at home, welcomed with open arms and cold beers.

Welcome to New York baby

And of course it ain't like we haven't been there before. I was exaggerating above, I know damn well that CBGB IS a thing of LEGEND, and not of the moment at all. In the end, it's a bar that has managed to have the same name for the last zillion years, and never suffered the fate of being bought and subsequently called "Ralph's" or whatever the hell the new owner wanted to name it. It IS cool that all the bands we know and loved played there back in the 70s. But when you walk in, it's just another joint. I have played there several times, once just outta high school, and basically it was OK each time. Nothing great. But I truly planned on changing that.
When we got to Manhattan we (J&TT and Chris, the Pits went to Jersey) went to the apartment of Commander Joe, who is a "commander" because he's the leader of the Twin Six Army, a position surely achieved by a shrewd display of strategy while inebriated at the Gin Mill or Friend's or some similar Baltimore establishment. I have never asked, I just respect his authority, Cartman style. So Joe moved from Baltimore to New York a few years back with his girlfriend and they have a very cool pad somewhere near the Holland Tunnel. It's great to have friends in Manhattan, they know where things are, they suggest cool places to go which GREATLY reduces the wandering around aimlessly that one can easily fall into in New York, and they don't tend to gaze in awe when they walk past places mentioned in Beastie Boys songs, like I do. So after a few Natty Bo (I think that's actually plural) like I mentioned, we went to eat at Acme, a place TJ had recommended as being near CBGB, and being excellent. Commander Joe backed up this claim, and we all piled in the Teaser van and headed over. The place does kick some serious Cajun ass, and they have Turbo Dog on tap, a Naw'Lins treat for sure. In fact, a waiter spilled one in the floor behind me and I asked for a straw. No one was sure if I was kidding.
So we go to CBGB, and get a parking space right in front. Shoulda known we used up all our luck at once. We were on second, Satan's Teardrops had canceled due to van problems and the promoter, Emil, had gotten some heavy punk rock replacements, so I was glad we weren't forced into playing first. The Brimstones show up after hanging out in the afternoon with the Pits, and the Pits pull up shortly thereafter, looking amazingly healthy despite being left alone in the city. We exchange greetings and a few stories with The Brimstones, who we really dig and seldom see, and then realize there had been a false negative report and there WAS free beer for the bands. Since beers cost $6 a piece in CBGB, this was phenomenal news, in fact, it required a celebration. The Pits and Brimstones took off for some record store, the Teasers and I choose to watch the fist band and get our drink on. I made friends with an adorable little waitress and was having a fine time. Then the first band starts. It's like 8:30. What the fuck? Turns out, it works out like this: bands play on the half-hour, first band at 8:30, last band at 11:30. I dunno whose mom made up these rules, no one explained it to me, and I didn't ask. I thought it was funny that we had an hour slot. The Pits and us could take ONE slot and you'd still have time for a Pink Floyd song at the end of our set. Anyway, we went with the flow, no problem. There was also a second-string burlesque dancer to dance between sets. Seems the first-string girls had canceled, apparently they'd been offered more money. She did a good job, although there were some DAMN amusing comments made. I shall keep my reputation as a gentleman in tact by not repeating them.
So I had noticed the fucking nazi overtone of this joint from the get go. The CBGB people weren't really shitty, but they damn sure weren't nice. A LOT of people were working there though, this doesn't apply to all of them, some of them were perfectly cool. But mostly it was "You go on at THIS time, you have THIS much time, you will move from the stage in an orderly fashion... Awright, I'm exaggerating. But it wasn't... a FUN environment, how's that? But fuck it, Saturday, Manhattan, free drinks, y'all know DAMN well Jimmy Fucking Brad was havin' a DAMN good time. I got right fired up before we played, and decided I was gonna make the most of this. Actually, I was VERY impressed with the crowd, and we had MANY unexpected friends show up, including Anastasia and D.F.. So we HAD to rock, and in fact, I think we did. I was VERY happy with the show, my amp was crankin', I was stumbling around, the Teasers were super sexy and our injured drummer was continuing to amaze me with how much ass she was whoopin'. The crowd was great, everyone got onstage and danced with us, I thought it was right on.
After the dancer finished, the Pits played perhaps the best set I've ever seen them play. It sounded INCREDIBLE, they were just really locked on, to borrow a term, and everybody was getting really into the whole show by now. Disorderly became rowdy, rowdy became reckless, reckless became destructive, and then Stevie (Chris was drowning in Beam and Cokes) steps in with a plan. Earlier he had spied one of those old Vaudeville Hooks where they yanked performers off the stage, oft seen in Bugs Bunny cartoons. In hindsight, it was probably a tool fashioned to adjust the stage lights with, but at the time we were LIVING in a cartoon and it seemed like something that might be right behind Bugs' back when he needs it, like an anvil. SO, I go after it, obviously to jerk Dusty Booze off his drum throne. Despite the ridiculusness of the situation, you HAVE to see the logic in that, right? So when I touch it there's a guy with a Flock of Seagulls hairdo staring at me. So I figure this is HIS Vaudeville Hook, and maybe I better ask to use it. So I say "Hey, my man, I just wanna borrow this for a minute to fuck with the drummer, I'll bring it right back. Cool"? He looks at me like he's fucking Vin Diesel or something. So I say "No?" and he barks in my face "NO!" and turns around. Well I thought it was funny as shit that Flock of Seagulls got mad. I mean, heartbroken, wistful, WINSOME even, yeah, he could pull those off. But pissed and humorless? He needs to look into a style change; he's misrepresenting himself. So I'm laughing, several people are laughing actually, and I can tell FOSG doesn't dig that either. But now I'm possessed by the spirit of Bugs and I start going up to various people and saying "Hey, you should go get that hook so we can yank Dusty off his throne". And they all say "Hey, that's a GREAT idea!" and charge off to be turned away, empty handed, by a more and more red-faced FOSG. Ain't I a stinker?
Realizing I was risking getting someone into real trouble I turned my attention to normal beer spraying and Pit harassment in general. They were so fucking good, and there were a lot of people there to see it. I even played bass on a song called "Teaser Ranch Special". At the end, Dusty dove through his drums, and I was right behind him. Teasers onstage dancing, a cool mist of beer flying, it was glorious. You could tell we felt we were doing a fine job. Another burlesque interval and the Brimstones took the stage in matching striped shirts. It was their Record Release Party, and by god they wanted you to know. Kickasskick asskickass. And we're all right in front of them having a blast. Now somewhere along in here things start to get ugly, and some stories I am simply repeating since I wasn't standing right there. The FUNNIEST of these stories has to do with Mike Decay, who y'all might remember, from the Helloween XXXtravaganza Diary. Mike lives in NYC and had been in the middle of everything all night. So something goes on between Ryan and Mike, and they're fucking around and Mike throws a beer bottle at Ryan. Sadly for Mike, said bottle bounces off Ryan's shoulder and smacks and smashes on the ground right in front of a bouncer. Mike was quoted as saying, "Oh shit, I gotta get outta here!" and he takes off running through the crowd with two bouncers and FOSG chasing him, again in a very cartoon fashion, more Woody Woodpecker than Bugs Bunny though, with Mike still going "Oh Shit! Oh Shit!." Eventually he was caught and surrendered peacefully, and was last heard going out the door saying "OK, throw me out, that's cool, I was being a dick...that's cool..."
Damn shame, I think.
Along this time I'm leaving the bathroom and Emil The Promoter comes up to me and says the sound guy wants him to pay $280 for a kick drum mic broken when Dusty's drums went over. Damn, I've heard this story before. So, I look at the mic, and first of all it's an AKG D112 and you can buy them NEW all day long for $200, what's this $280 shit? I look at the mic, and it's an easy fix, I'm not gonna get technical, but there's really very little wrong with it. So I go out to the van, make a couple of calls to Ground Hog Tech Support Line, and realize that I don't have a screwdriver small enough to open the mother up. I look and look, but I can't find one. So some time passes, the Brimstones are finished, and Emil says to just give up. So I go up to the sound guy and ask if he has any tiny screwdrivers and he says, now get this, "Fuck that, that mic is broken, it's ruined and it's going to have to be paid for. That's it, end of discussion." I consider this pretty fucking uncool. OK, at this point, maybe the mic is broken, maybe it's not, but NO EFFORT to fix it? No attempt to save everyone involved $280? Are you doing your job looking after sound for the bands, or are you trying to PUNISH us for our (drunken, irresponsible, immature, sexually deviant) behavior? Now granted, I get a little pissed and I could've handled myself MUCH better here, but you know, fuck it, this guy is treating us pretty poorly, trying to rip us off, in my mind. So I start to tell him that he doesn't know what he's doing. The mic can be fixed. If not, why should we replace an old mic with a new one? Why is he paying so much for mics? Why shouldn't we just replace the element instead of the whole mic? Why in god's name is he USING a "$280" mic in fucking CBGB, in front of a man playing drums while dressed as a PUMPKIN? On and on, I'm babbling away (imagine that) and some asshole at the bar jumps in and says "any club in the country would make you pay for that mic." and I say, "gee I guess you're right since this is the only club I've ever played." As you can see, this was getting pretty loud and ugly. The soundman is trying to explain that he HAD to use a nice mic there because of the "bottom end" and I'd had enough technical bullshit. I accuse him of over intellectualizing (yep, that's what I said, I dunno why, I was getting bored I think) the situation, when the fact was he was trying to rip 3 bands off. His answer? "So I guess I'm intellectual because I'm from New York?" WHAT? WHAT does where you're from have ANYTHING to do with this conversation? It was then that I realized no matter how much I know about mics, how much they cost, where to buy them cheap, no matter how much I know about music, beer, chicks, NOTHING that I knew about was gonna overcome the fact that this guy was lookin' at me and hearing Gomer Pyle. I couldn't win with my "accent" (actually a dialect) because I was stupid by default. I realize there are three guys hovering over me, all a foot taller, told them to back their tall asses up and walked off. Screw it. I told them I thought this was punk rock. I was informed that it was a "Business". Damn, missed that memo.
Little did I know Valerie was having almost the exact same argument with FOSG because she heard him call me a jerk for trying to steal his Vaudeville Hook (I asked, I swear). Soon, HE was all giving her shit about how "this is New York". Y'know guys, I'm well aware of where I was, see, I came NORTH on 95 and I came through the Holland Tunnel. I ain't mistakin' this with fuckin' Tuscaloosa, dig? Jesus. FOSG probably came the closest to getting a hole stomped in his ass by fucking with Super Val, and I think that totally illustrates what a dumb fuck the "Lighting Engineer" (oh PLEASE) was. So there are 4 different arguments going on all around the club, and we were finally told, quite forcefully, to get our shit and get the fuck out. Which we did, not without some more encounters, mainly Stevie (Chris was LONG gone) asking a guy with a blue mohawk if his "look" was "working out for him", and me blowing the soundman a kiss. Meanwhile, the Brimstones FIX the mic, and the sound guy STILL won't have it. Dusty and I find ourselves on the street, yelling "Hey, we've been thrown outta better... waitaminute, HAVE WE?" Suddenly, we realize we just got slung out of the most notorious dump in the history of rock and roll for raising hell and breaking stuff? Holy shit, WE FUCKING RULE! What a show! You MUST see the beauty in it not only being an AMAZING rock and roll show, but also that there was even MORE chaos, MORE irreverence, MORE Rock and Roll BEDLAM, going on BEHIND the scenes?? YES, indeed, we HAD done what we had intended to do, we kicked that place in the ass, wreaked havoc and waged war on uber-cool, sober, no-fun, holier-than-thou HIPNESS. Right the fuck on. I won't miss not being able to go back there, there are loads of places in New York and we have plenty of friends there. Screw it, I'd rather have the story, and a truly deep feeling of accomplishment.
So, we head separate ways (did I mention it's only about 1 a.m. at this point?) The Pits take the FIXED mic and head back to Lancaster 'cause Amy (Dusty's lovely wife) has to be at work sometime the next day. And the Brimstones, heroes that they are, continued deliberations inside. Somehow, they talked the guy out of replacement money and just gave him SOME cash, and there was a little money for the bands to split. THANKS JUSTIN, sobriety can be quite helpful sometimes. We head over to Motor City, a pretty cool hot rod bar with wrenches in the floor and pistons for beer taps, where I split my time between talking Charity's ear off, and calling random friends on the cell phone to tell them the story, and either have them laugh at me, or explain to me what time it is and that I woke them up, dammit. We got back to Commander Joe's quite late, where I had an Iron City Light nightcap.

So Sin quit the band right after HRW, but that really doesn’t have anything to do with this story, so more about that later maybe. THIS story begins with our heroes in Alabama, as odd a place as we’re likely to be. The heroes in question are Us (Jimmy and the Teasers, i.e. me, SuperV and Terrible Tim) and Them (Billy Joe Winghead, the normal cast of characters with the addition of Sparky on the drums). Us and Them played a show at The Nick, which has been in Birmingham a long time and seems insanely familiar, until I realized that the familiarity comes from the fact that it just seems like someone picked up the 506 and dropped it in Birmingham and cleaned the bathrooms even less. But, anyway, it is a cool place filled with an oddly friendly staff and a big ass stage/PA. BUT, a weeknight in Alabama is a notoriously WEAK night (get it?) and we knew we’d be lucky to draw out a hand full of people on a Thursday. But, we charged ahead as normal, sat up, played pool and HAMMERED and DESTROYED the free beer (drank them out of Miller), as that was likely the only pay we’d get. Trey from the Forty Fives came by and informed me that he’d moved back to Birmingham and was a sushi chef, and therefore had to work that night. He had a couple of friends coming out though, so that was cool, and it was cool of him to drop in for a few minutes. Anyway, the show (as usual) is but a small part of the story and the bottom line is that both bands played a solid set to a hand full of people (if you have really small hands) like we both have on a million other nights and it was fun and perfectly OK. No, my story gets going afterward. So Stevo has been talking to the few people who were there and got an invite to crash at someone’s Aunt’s house, which had a pool. Pretty cool, except more investigation also reveals that there will be two large dogs, limited space, and the presence of the aforementioned Aunt. While Stevo, Sally, Sparky and Vegas were down with taking their chances, I’m not ashamed to admit I had temporarily run outta steam. The weekend before had been Heavy Rebel Weekend and I had a BLAST and neglected my sleeping duties completely. Then, we set out on this journey the Monday after, and I just felt the need for actual bed sleep, unlike the rest of the week, which had been “sleep” on floors, van seats, and a very lovely night spent on a dog bed. So, JATT, along with Manson and Dantone, decided we were getting a hotel room. I had a large stash of Millers, and only needed a place to drink them, dog and aunt free. We loaded, someone who could understand directions got directions, and we were off to a hotel a few exits away with a condemned swimming pool, a sure sign of affordability. I stumble out of the van (I never get sent in to pay for the room, I dunno why) and BEHOLD! ACROSS THE STREET! KRYSTAL BURGERS! Something in the Krystal sign has a direct connection to beer in the bloodstream. The two compliment each other perfectly and it seemed that the decision to go to a hotel was going to be even more justified by a steamy sack fulla mini-burgers. Hell yes. Now, the vans were parked and Krystal was SO close that I just said I was getting food for everyone and in a very determined manner set out for at LEAST one sack of Krystal cheeses. But the door is locked; only the drive thru is open. But surely they won’t turn away a hungry guitar player at 3:30 a.m. with a fist full of cash to spend and a desperate need for some ill-advised little hamburgers. So I walk up to the sign there where you order, and I get no response. So, there’s the little hose, or pipe, or wire, or whatever you wanna call it, which makes them realize there’s a car there. So, logically at the time, I start jumping up and down on it violently. Someone was taking notice of Mr. Jimmy Brad dammit. Someone OWES me a Krystal, by god; I could’ve been KILLED crossing four lanes of Alabama traffic to get here. So I notice headlights behind me while I’m still hopping up and down, and decide to see if ANYONE gets any service around this dump. Up pulls a goldish Honda/Toyota/Hyundai-type vehicle containing four passengers. The driver, a lovely brunette, half hanging out her window, says, “They don’t take walkups baby, no walkups!” Someone in the backseat says “Just order for the poor boy” and the brunette says, “Fuck that, just get in.” So, I did. Inside I met the party crew. There was the head brunette in charge, “Sooze” (I’m assuming Susan) driving and by far the loudest and possibly the drunkest. It was hard to tell, because there was NO ONE anywhere NEAR sober in this vehicle. Beside her was a BIG guy, about my age maybe, but maybe just losing a little hair and looking older than he was. I don’t think he liked me being in the car. Scooched over beside me was another LARGE college boy type who was the quietest and who I remember the least about, except that he was big but seemed to be drunk enough to think my presence was comical. And lastly there was Laura, a smaller blondish cutie who was really, really intoxicated. The Alabama accents were thick, and I felt REALLY out of place and possibly in a slight bit of danger since these cats were HUGE. But no way was I not getting my Krystals. So Sooze has no idea what anybody wants, all they know is that they had vodka, vodka, and vodka (they used the word a thousand times) and that the girls were hungry. So Sooze, completely unable to read the fucking menu, keeps babbling to the poor girl inside, and finally just makes up something she wants, some Krystal Chicks and some fries or something, who the hell knows? And I put in an individual order for the much mentioned and highly anticipated sack of Krystal cheeses. SO, anybody who’s ever been to late night Krystal knows that the word “speedy” ain’t gonna come into play and that while waiting for our food I was gonna have plenty of time to get to know my new friends. But they were far more curious about me than I was about them: “Why are you walking?” Staying at the hotel across the street. Try not to drive when I can barely walk. Hasn’t slowed you guys down though? “ You talk funny, where are you from?” North Carolina “North Carolina huh? Well we do it different down here Carolina (immediately becomes my new name)”. Right on. “What are you doing in Birmingham?” My band played at the Nick. “What kind of music do you SING”? Now for anyone who’s in a band you know the kiss of death of being asked what kind of kind of music you PLAY, a difficult question that’s going to paint you into a corner at BEST. But when asked what kind of music you SING? Well, then you’re dealing with a “main stream” oriented person who still thinks of “punk” as ripped shirts and a mohawk. So you try, in vain, to grab SOMETHING out of the air that they may understand, something which they may have seen on TV while ironing their khakis. So I take a swing: Do you like The White Stripes or The Hives? (Going with solid, regular rotation MTV). “The White Stripes? Why do you sing that White Stripes shit? (Again with the “sing”). What everyone wants to hear is 80s baby. EIGHTIES is where it’s at!” Ohhhhh good. 80s. Like I didn’t live through the 80s and shouldn’t that be enough? Well, not EXACTLY like the White Stripes? Too late, she’s off and running, singing something which vaguely sounds like Kajagoogoo whilst Sooze tunes the radio into a MODERN COUNTRY station and makes me wish for fucking Martha Quinn in the back seat here to switch to Culture Club and sing much fucking louder. Sooze: “We do it different, down here Carolina. WE do it DIFF-rent.” And with that she jumps out, and into the high beams and starts dancing to whatever “country” song it was that was blasting from the radio. “Can you do it like this CARE-lina? Come on, show me what you got!” So what would YOU do? ME? I ain’t gonna take a challenge lying down, especially when I’m representin’ for two whole STATES. So, I leap out and join her in the high beams intending to show her exactly “what I got”. I have discussed many times before that I should NEVER EVER dance, but it still seems like I always wind up doing so. And me and Sooze, there in the sticky Birmingham night, in the high beams listing to some godawful song that I don’t remember yet still hope to never hear again, well what do YOU think went down? Carolina and Sooze TORE IT UP. No finer late night Krystal Burger parking lot dancing has ever been achieved or witnessed, I’m quite confident. Nevertheless, it went on way too long. SOOO, I notice a pickup truck in line behind Sooze’s temporarily driver-less car and see a badge. But the guy is just looking annoyed. And the guys in Sooze’s car generally look, drunk, confused, and expecting the police any minute. And Laura is just talking. So Sooze, obviously charmed by Carolina’s dancing skilz, informs me that she’ll drive me back to the hotel. In an instant a vision flashes before my eyes of Sooze, Laura and these two hapless fellows SLAUGHTERED in our hotel room by a very tired SuperV and Tim, and their bodies handily disposed of in the condemned pool by a possibly experienced Manson. So I say “no thanks” and make sure to stay out of the car so they can’t whisk me (and my beloved Krystals) off into the middle of nowhere, Alabama, just because they can. The guys had gotten tired of me and Laura had forgotten about me when salvation arrived in a thin plastic bag. My Krystals at last. So, I said a hasty farewell and thanks, particularly to my new found dancin’ buddy, and swung toward the back of the building to cheers of “Later Carolina!” I pass the scowl of what turned out to be an off duty security guard in the pick up behind us, who was obviously no fan of dance, but who was no immediate legal threat to the crew still waiting quite loudly for their Krystal Chicks. I beat a hasty retreat back across the street where I MIRACULOUSLY remembered the room number and distributed the Krystal Cheeses to everyone, along with a few fries that I hope were intended for us? I tried to tell people about Sooze and Laura and The White Stripes and the dancing, but everyone was too exhausted to care. Jimmy Brad babble can get exhausting, so I’ve heard. The moral kiddies? YOUR MOTHER WAS WRONG. Again. ALWAYS get into cars with strangers. Especially in Alabama. Drinking, dancing and a sack full of late night burgers await you. Who in their right mind would turn THAT down?

What happened at Elvisfest? You tell me. In other words, this COULD be a exercise in fiction. It is MY memory we're trusting. Anyway... So Elvisfest was last weekend (Ed. Note: Jimmy was late with his assignment) at the 506 in scenic downtown Chapel Hill and it was quite a riot, almost literally. We decided to get there pretty early so we could get a good parking space behind the bar and not have to deal with moving the van to load or any crap like that. I suppose we showed up about 8, and I got a few drinks in quick because my injuries from the previous weekend were still buggin’ the hell outta me and I was a little…curious…about how exactly I was supposed to pull off the show. Medicine and positive thinking aside, I just decided to drink my way through the pain. Pretty early on I decided EVERYONE must be injured and drinking through some pain or the other ‘cause the bar was jumpin’ right off the bat. I think people were pretty geared up for this event, decked out and ready to spend all their cash indeed. And when I say everybody, I mean EVERYBODY. There were SO many people that I knew there that it took a couple of hours just to say hello to everybody, no exaggeration. So I’ll decline to list all the people I got to bump into Friday night, otherwise this thing is gonna start to look more like a phone book. The Butchers made it down in one piece and we all quickly get to doing what we do best and talking too much and telling anyone who would listen about our NYE weekend. I wandered over to the Sports Bar and talked to a few more people and then when the bands started playing I just floated from bar to bar, although it seems like I spent a considerable amount of time at the 506. I’ll go ahead and say musically Elvisfest kicked ass, everyone I saw had an outstanding set, and pretty much everyone does a better job of singing Elvis songs than I do. And of course there was the prerequisite Teaser Van party as well. Joint was hoppin’, I need to start charging for drinks in that bitch, and we need a big tent to hook onto the side so everyone can feel included. The lure of the Teaser Van in the parking lot is a magical thing, trust me. It’s not for the weak though, once you’ve climbed inside you've committed yourself and there’s simply no turning back, so think twice kiddies, lest you become encumbered with what many would deem “inappropriate habits”. So I remember hanging with many people, visiting with many bartenders, and listening to many guitars. As mentioned, I also spent a ton of time at the van, but I do remember a blistering set by the Spinns. I’m pretty certain we played next. Pretty sure. I think it went well, although my amp gave me some kind of problem which distracted me for a few minutes, and someone apparently paid $3 to spray a beer directly into my eyes which kinda hurt. Otherwise, the place was packed and it was fun as hell, especially when my friend Chrystal got onstage for a little impromptu burlesque moment. Yowza. More time in the van and then out to watch Bloodshot. Bill killed it, fantastic as always, so much so that Chrystal convinced me to get onstage and shake it like I mean it with her. As discussed before, I should never dance, and I’m quite certain that not only did I lose many, many cool points, some people will probably never speak to me again. You people be damned! I did it to dance with Chrystal and I’d do it all over again I tell ya. Glad her husband didn’t choke me afterward. So after a while it’s all dying down and we load up, kidnap Tigerbeat from the Butchers and head back to the Teaser Ranch. C-Bomb had given Valerie and myself a christmas present earlier in the evening, and when we got home we were excited to find it was a big-ass bag of fireworks. Those who know us know we LOVE fireworks, in a bad, bad way. So Tim and Tigerbeat are shootin’ some Roman Candles and I show them how it’s funnier to shoot them at parked cars ‘cause the ricochet off and it’s good times. Well, my candle stops shooting “flaming balls” (no report) and I turn around to talk to Tim. And SURPRISE! It goes off again, straight at Tim’s head. Tim turns into Spider-Tim and somehow manages to dodge the shiny reddish ball of flame at the last second. Being …somewhat slow by this time of night, I look down at the Roman candle and sure enough, POW, it goes off again. Straight at Supa-V and our friend Jeni-Lynn’s head. They too mange to duck the (this time GREEN) flaming ball and it hit the wall behind them. Then it happened: I was unanimously BANNED from touching the fireworks the rest of the night. If I weren’t already injured, someone would have surely kicked my ass. I was actually glad to be relieved of that responsibility, and watched the rest of the display from the safety of the front porch. Impressive spectacle, although at 4 a.m., our neighbors might not agree. Then we watched Green Day Sessions at AOL, and ate and ate and ate. I guess we slept at some point. Day 2: We ain’t gotta play, so TROUBLE is Abrewin’. We headed out for Mexican food the next afternoon, we had to be at the 506 pretty early to catch the Butchers. Thee Teasers got decked out in more snazzy Teaser attire and we made the drive, 50 minutes that seems like 5 hours, over to Chapel Thrill. Gentlemen, start your engines. A few people had shown up that weren’t there the night before, and all in all the Butchers had a great crowd by the time they kicked it off at 8:30. Another damn fine set, it didn’t even fuck them up when Tim cut Ryan’s fuzz pedal on, and the duct taped it to where it couldn’t be cut off. Alvis knocked over his farfisa, and BJ, who had gracefully managed to slam his pinky finger in the van door, added some real blood to the show. We sprayed beer and had a general good time. Went next door for drinks and caught some blisterin’ rock from Nekkid, and then the night gets fuzzy. I remember eating some awesome ribs with DQ and C Bomb, wearing an Elvis mask during Bloodshot Bill’s second set, giving poor driving directions to a friend who unfortunately got there just in time to miss a great set by the $2 Dollar Pistols, and yet another champagne party in the Teaser Van. Mostly, I remember scary monkey rock from Psychocharger, complete with very obscene actions involving bananas. Psychocharger never, never disappoints, what a blast. Believe it or not, I actually talked EVEN MORE on Saturday night and got to catch up with some people I hadn’t seen in a while. But it was a messy night to say the least. Did a lot of general joking around in the parking lot and eventually, as the night progressed, got talked into heading back to the now infamous Red Roof Inn to the Butcher’s room. Sloover had shown up and was hanging out, and then PASSED OUT in the front seat of the Teaser Van, so I hopped in the back and we split for some hotel action. I knew it was gonna get ugly when we got there. SO HERE ARE THE THINGS THAT ABSOLUTELY DID NOT HAPPEN IN THE HOTEL. IT WASN’T US. WE SWEAR: WAYYYY too many people in a tiny room, CD player blastin’ Rocky Ericson, beer cans flying, Booze hiding in his “fort” made of two chairs and a blanket, me wearing a towel as a cape and becoming Super Jimmy, able to leap small coolers in a bound and a half, invention of a game where you TRY to kick beer cans out the door, but actually succeed in hitting your friends in the head. Booze and Ryan careening across the room, over the bed and INTO the wall (literally). BEDLAM. NOPE, none of that happened at all. However, while we were quietly discussing Kafka, I knew the “noise” was gonna become unacceptable to someone. Sure enough, someone from outside said the cops might be coming and we toned it WAYYY down. Cut the music, and just sat around talking to the Spinns and raiding the Butcher’s fridge. Then, we started getting reports of people being kicked OUT?!? What the fuck?!? The cops, hotel management, whatever, went WAYY TOO FAR. Things were chilling out, obviously it had gotten loud (somewhere in the building. It wasn’t us. It was the one-armed man. We weren’t there. We have witnesses who can place us at The Sizzler), but all it took was a warning and people just started drinking and talking, pretty much a legal (and encouraged) thing to do in a hotel room. Anyway, it was time to split; I didn’t want any attention from the cops. We beat a hasty retreat and headed back to the Ranch. The last thing I saw when I headed out the door was a passed out and loudly snoring Sloover being shaken by Ryan who kept repeating “Stop! Doing! That!” And one of the first things I heard when I got back to the Ranch and played the answering machine was a lovely recording of Sloover snoring. Nice touch guys.

I'm not jumping through drum kits ANYMORE. NO MORE INTENTIONAL INJURY. Dammit. After years of drum kit destruction at the end of various Pits/Butchers/Rocket 350/Winghead shows I am officially retiring from flinging myself into (and sometimes thru) a scattered collection of plywood, pot metal and brass. Why you might ask? What would cause me to make such an irrational oath? A shot of cortisone IN MY CHEST about an hour ago. Doctor says some shit about "son, you done gone and hurt yourself, how'd this happen?" So what I'm gonna say? "Well Doc, see, after me and Mr. Miller had been hanging out about 8 hours it seemed like DAMN good fun to throw myself into a scattered collection of plywood, pot metal and brass, and then someone fell on me. I'm not really sure WHY I got hurt...". No, that would have made him scribble on his pad the words "Psychotic Evaluation" and then on another pad someone would have scribbled the word "Rehab" and a spiraling series of events would have resulted in arrest warrants being issued for The Butchers and Tonya Harding. SO, to derail this chain of events I made up a story about falling while carrying an amp, which isn't exactly untrue, but happened years ago and only resulted in some creative bruising. But he bought it, wrote a 'script, and then plunged that needle into my chest. He explained that I have essentially sprained a rib joint thing, and that it would get better, possibly before I die. And at that exact moment....well, that's a lie. I've been saying for exactly one month I was done with that particular tradition, and after finally giving in and going to the doctor and getting a shot IN MY FUCKING CHEST (did I mention that?) I am solidly convinced that this particular madness must stop. But don't worry Teaser People, see, there's JUMPING through the drum kit, and then there's FALLING through the drum kit. There's only one of these that I have any control over. jb

Awright, I’m damned unfamiliar with this “MySpace” business, and for some reason it creeps me out a little bit. Seems like we’re scavenging through each other’s rooms, looking between the mattresses, in the bottom of underwear drawers, etc., kinda like stealing your sister’s diary or some shit. And don’t get me wrong, going through other people’s things and finding out secrets and potential blackmail information is DAMN good fun, but I’m always nervous about being caught. Guess I’m not Mr. Sneaky Man, so much for my 007 dreams. But hey, I’ll post the occasional road story and announcement here ‘cause it seems simple enough, and there seems to be an abundance of freaks, which makes me somewhat more comfortable. So, with that said, on the beginning of The Big ’05. New Year’s weekend (why keep it to one day?) ’05 New Year’s Eve: Asbury Lanes New Jersey, Us, Butchers, lots of other bands. It’s a PUNK ROCK PROM! This show is different for many reasons. The main reason is THE NEW TEASER. That’s right, Lousinda Teaser made her premier in Asbury Park Dec. 31st, 2004. Make a note of that, it’s the sort of thing you’re going to want to remember one day. Jimmy Brad is NOT above the occasional pop-quiz, note taking is encouraged. But, I’m getting ahead of myself: We left The Teaser Ranch a LITTLE late, but not bad. It’s just a damned long haul to Asbury Park, about 10 hours by my guess, including that Infernal East Coast Traffic Purgatory known as Washington DC. We stopped in Richmond to pick up Tigerbeat Tony, ya’ll know Tigerbeat, since he had the weekend off and Richmond is no place to spend New Year’s ,so we offered him the classy option of Asbury Park, NJ, right? So, seems like it was a fairly easy ride except for Asbury Park itself, ‘cause Asbury Lanes is NOT an easy place to find, especially when technology has taken the place of good sense and Mapquest is taking you on a sadly thorough inner-city tour. Anyway, Tim eventually remembered the way from the last time we were there and we made it, no problem. Went in and checked out the preparations for the “Punk Rock Prom” deal, just our style with lots of garters and fishnet and beer. We loaded the GOD FORSAKEN EQUIPMENT and headed to the bar for two hours of free PBR Draft. Beggars/Choosers, blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, I go outside to find the thoroughly toured Butcher’s pulling in, with Justin Brimstone and the lovely Amanda in tow, and we do the whole howthehellyabeen? Justin was a little flushed, having played Asbury Lanes, like, five times, and still being apparently clueless as to its exact location. Supa-V also discovers our friend (the thoroughly toured) Gina, a new resident of Philly, transplanted from Atlanta, and transported to Asbury Park by the modern miracle of the train station. Lousinda has some (thoroughly toured) friends (Julia and Faye) arrive and when Garman, Lanie and Ms. Booze (you guessed it, been lost as well) finally show up, we have a full-blown gang. Not a healthy sign. AND SO, after a slow start by me, the night gets blurry fairly quickly: The Butchers played first and had a great set, I even did an impromptu dance number in front of them, delicately choreographed to be intertwined with the spinning and oddly psychedelic light show that was going on. Then Supa-V reminded me I should NEVER do the dance, and, sadly she’s completely correct. Guitar players, historically, cannot dance at all, at least not in public. Whole careers have been destroyed, and whole dance floors disgusted. Anyway, the Butchers plowed on through a smokin’ set. At one point on the movie screen behind Booze there was an image of a baby in a trash can. The only occurrence of art all weekend, I’ll assure you. We were to be third. So we waited. And waited. And…..here it comes…“you guys wanna go on next?” Mel the owner had told us we’d be flying by the seat of our pants tonight. Mel wasn’t kidding. But it was perfectly cool ‘cause the whole thing had gotten off to a late start. So it takes us some time to set up THE GODFORSAKEN EQUIPMENT. The logistics of a bowling alley are difficult, what with blind-drunken bowlers mistaking one’s legs for pins. Anyway, it’s Lousinda’s first show and she ABSOLUTELY KILLS it. No problem, no worries, she didn’t even show fear when Dusty Booze jumped on the stage in mid-song, a sight that has surely cast fear into the heart of many large, sullen and dangerous men. So, toward the end of the set things get silly, there’s a chair involved, and Dusty and I go crashing into the drumset. Nothing unusual kids, let the professionals work. So people are screaming for “Can your Pussy Do the Dog” and Justin gets up to sing it. I ask if we have time, but, well, remember the psychedelic light show? I can’t see what the sound guy says. So, me being me, I just start the song. I was told later that it was the greatest instrumental version of that song ever. The sound dude cuts the P.A. see, ‘cause apparently he hates fun, and then tries to cut off Tim’s amp. Soundguy received a DAMN good scolding for that one. “A solid talking to and one more chance” as Alvis might say (long story). So he cuts off Lousinda’s amp, Val and I are still playing, when a scheme comes to mind: As he goes to cut off my amp, I’m gonna run and cut ON Lousinda’s. How beautifully Bugs Bunny! Well, I never got to try it, ‘cause in the aftermath of the Dusty Booze induced fall, my guitar cable quit and it was all over. Perfect, in a way. Mel the owner came up and apologized and I explained it was a misunderstanding and it was all in good fun and everything was cool. We packed up quickly and the Nebulas were onstage and in their wrasslin’ mask in plenty of time to meet the Mid-Night deadline. Now the night gets REALLY unfocused. LOTS of champagne in the Teaser Van, we discovered that when it’s unloaded, you can squeeze AT LEAST 20 people in the back. I also recall a moment when BJ walks up and Ryan says “Hey BJ, know what’s funny?” and BJ says “This?” and kicks the HELL outta Ryan, knocking him on the pavement. Don’t think Ryan thought it was all that funny, to be honest, but everyone else thought it was a riot. Booze never got anywhere close to getting all the fake blood off of his face and ran around scaring the shit out of Prom goers left and right, all the while doing something close to speaking in tongues. Then he and Tony were ejected from the bar for drinking Miller Lite, which wouldn’t be problem if that bar actually SOLD Miller Lite. More champagne, Nebulas and Sasquatch and The Sick-a-billys tearing it up, plans for future destruction, possible Van or AstroVan? copulation, and one sad and misguided attempt to roll a bowling ball. All in all, quite a night. Toward the end, Mel the owner comes up to me outside and says “Look, I wanna pay the Butchers, but I’m afraid to, they’re so fucked up they’ll loose it”. I look around at the various antics and shrewdly concluded that the man was indeed correct. So he gave the money to Amy Booze, whom I figured would keep it safe. Lousinda’s friends (Julia and Faye, remember?) had a nice hotel room a few blocks away, so as The Butchers cruised back to New Brunswick to crash with Justin, I spent a while convincing Super Val that she couldn’t sleep on the couch in the hallway of the hotel. It was officially time to call it a night. New Year’s Day, Manhattan, Otto’s Shrunken Head. The Butchers, Hillbilly Werewolf, Sasquatch, and more. So we woke up in the hotel after Lousinda’s friends had already split to catch their flight. It’s a nice day and so we headed to the creepy-ass boardwalk, which is without a doubt the coolest thing about Asbury Park. Hopefully one day it will be all restored, but even if it never is, it’s still worth seeing the…I dunno what you call ‘em…ruins, I guess. Whatever. The beach was nice but we were starving so we headed out of town. We ate, I don’t remember where. Oh…it was like…Taco, Baja..Fresh..something, it was tasty, but I accidentally ate a really hot pepper and had to act cool, which is seldom successful and never productive. So we hit the turnpikes and SLOWLY, SLOWLY made our way to Manhattan, with Gina in tow, violently screaming “HAPPY NEW YEAR” at every stone-faced toll booth operator. We finally made it, but not until after Tim had already wished for cancer. So the bar was supposed to be open but it wasn’t, so Gina suggested some places she knew off of St. Marks and it was on again. The Holiday Lounge is an OLD motherfucker and a very cool bar, with the same guy that opened it in 1939 still serving drinks. He made a few bucks off us while we discussed the actual entertainment value of a night of Ice-Capades. Then we went to the oldest bar in NYC, which I can’t remember the name of, (McSorley's, ed.) but anyway it’s Irish and they only have “dark” or “light”. You order a beer, and you get two. It was super crowded but we got a table and stayed a few rounds. Fucking place even had a real working wood stove and I’m pretty sure I saw a ghost. Place was extremely cool, Teaser stamp of approval. So, after 8, back to Otto’s. Otto’s is tiny but hip, Tiki bar from hell, we really dug it. Everyone, including Scotty and J-Lo (naw, he don’t like to be called J-Lo) and Mike Decay show up, another round of howthehellareyas, and back to the bar. Also I got to meet Lousinda’s lovely sister Rosalinda. Sasquatch played 2nd I think (the whole thing started late) and were smokin’, love that drummer. The Butchers played yet another killer show despite some amp problems, and then it was our turn. Another good one for us I think, lots of jumping, skin, falling, beer spewing and general bedlam. Just what you want from a rock and roll show. Bloodshot Bill had shown up and there was a brief interlude to wish him Happy B-Day. Then we got our GODFORSAKEN EQUIPMENT out of that tiny little room and got ready for the Hillbilly Werewolf. Scotty and Josh FUCKING KILLED. It was a fantastic set, as awesome as ever, I loved every second of it. Dusty and I dove through the drumset at the end, and I swear I think I broke something. I’m not kidding. It hurt. No joke. I think J-Lo’s knee, like, broke my sternum. Oh well, it didn’t hurt that bad then, and hopefully I’ll recover. I went back in the bar and was talking to the drummer from the Sick-a-Billys and there was some disagreement around the stage that I missed. It’s usually good that I’m not involved in those, especially in New Fucking York. I talked to Sean Blind Pharaoh who had stopped by for a bit, and then we went to some joint around the corner to tell stories, harass a bartender, take pictures, and keep our butts warm by sitting on a heater. Creepy Scotty wore a wrasslin’ mask the whole time. Cool. Went back to stumble into the Teaser Van, some of us quite literally, and then worked on trying to jump off J-Lo’s van for about a half-hour before Dusty figured out that the jumper cables were bad. Damn, I have never seen that shit before. Anyway, back to New Brunswick to crash. Yet another epilogue: Got up, through out a quick round of jesuschristwhatthehellseeyasoons, took Gina to the train station and hit the Turnpike. Stopped for a cheese steak at the Molly Pitcher service area. Quality. Got revved up, pulled out on the interstate, and the Teaser Van DIED. Dead. Nothing. On the side of the Fucking New Jersey Turnpike filled with all of our GODFORSAKEN EQUIPMENT in a cold drizzling rain. I looked at my Nathan’s Famous Cheesesteak with explicit disgust. OK, a quick look and listen led Tim and I to believe it was an electrical problem, which means it could be ANYTHING. Called Triple A, did a little hoop jumping, and soon there was a tow truck driver sporting a long ponytail, hauling us down the turnpike on his rollback. The tow truck driver was a really nice guy so, as we sped ass fast down the emergency lane past all the turnpike traffic, I asked what our options were. He said he had mechanics at 8 a.m. the next day, and that even if we wanted to work on it ourselves, the auto parts store was closed for the holiday weekend. Tigerbeat had mentioned, moments before the van’s failure I might add, that he didn’t want to go to work Monday. It started to look pretty seriously like that was a wish come true. Deciding we weren’t working on the van in the wet cold with few tools and no parts, we asked the friendly shop lady which hotel we should hit. She pointed at “the lesser of the two evils” and we trudged to the Trail’s End Motor Lodge. Damn, after all these years it finally happened: We’d been towed into a David Lynch movie. This joint was scary ya’ll, no joke. In fact the whole town, if not completely scary, was at best bizarre. It had two hotels, two gas stations, the auto shop, and a diner/bar (more about that later). Being from the rural south, I thought I knew from rural, but this was fucking RURAL. The tow truck guy couldn’t even suggest a place to get ICE. I said ICE. OK, we call home to straighten things out and then watched some TV (remote, but no batteries). While Supa-V is outside on the phone she actually is accosted by this insanely inebriated little guy with a fucked up accent. The stumbling freak somehow manages to simultaneously tell her he’s a P.H.D. and ask her for money. She decided, after a brief attempt at conversation, to ignore him, even though we were all watching from the window, betting (and hoping) on a well-placed kick to the head. We haul up some spare drinks from the Teaser Van and just hang out and joke about our situation for a while. As it’s getting later, we decide to hit the diner. The USA Diner in Windsor New Jersey, joined on the side by the USA Cocktail Lounge. No finer establishment have I ever entered. The menu on the restaurant side was EPIC, covering all the continents and including the cuisine of every possible culture, past and present. Sumbitch was about twelve pages long, not including the daily specials. They wait about 15 minutes before coming to the table to let you get over the shock. We ordered drinks, coffee, and a chocolate milkshake, and then proceeded to PILES of food. Mine was damn good. The waitress, with that mobster jersey accent, was lookin’ damn nice in a tight pair of black pants, but was apparently oblivious to the many charms of Jimmy Brad. She MUST have a boyfriend. We buy $100 worth of food and head to the USA Cocktail Lounge. The Cocktail Lounge had a cool U-shaped bar, was dimly lit, and served Miller Lite. SCORE. We sat at the end with the few patrons who were already there, and spoke to the Slovenian bar waitress who almost spoke english, and who readily admitted she was a new bartender and knew little about mixing drinks. We quickly told her we knew A LOT about mixing drinks, no worries. So we order, chat amongst ourselves, and I’m sure look like fish outta water. Then the inevitable happens: I dunno how, but we’ve captured the attention of the other patrons so much that we eventually start talking. It seems they probably spend a lot of time in there together, and since we were strangers, they were naturally curious. We told them our story, JATT, Asbury Park, Manhattan, dead van, Trails End Motor Lodge and the chocolate milkshake, and with the aid of the freely flowing albeit slightly mismixed drinks, we were all soon buddies and discussed many topics, like cars, jobs, haircuts, race relations, governors, dog breeding, driving directions and the differences in/advantages of MIG vs. TIG welding. These people knew each other well, and kept giving each other loads of shit. It was hilarious. We had a blast hanging out for probably a couple of hours. A second bartendress came in and Bob bought us all a round and we stayed until in danger of going broke. Goodnightgoodlucks were passed around and we walked back to the Trail’s End. To show you how cool these people were, when Tim went back in to ask where to buy cigarettes, they each gave up two from their personal packs and handed him enough for the night. We lucked out on that place. Went back to the hotel with a bag of ice our new pals had bestowed on us, and stayed up too late. The next morning the news wasn’t TOOOO bad, $200 for a distributor cap and rotor button (most of the charge was labor), and we headed home. We forced Tigerbeat to wish for a day’s work, just in case. Outside of stopping at a mysterious diner which had no apparent DOOR, the ride home was normal: it sucked.