Frenchy's Rant

What happened to guitar solos? Remember them? There aren’t any to be found in the mindless drivel that is today’s popular “music.” Doubtless some evil record company executive found a way to squeeze more money out of music without solos.

A late night commercial for “Heavy Metal Ballads from the 80’s” or some such K-Tel Records crap made me think about guitar solos. (Seriously… stick with me here…)

Back when music was good, the guitar player was the singer’s right hand man. David Lee Roth had Eddie Van Halen, Jon Bon Jovi had Richie Sambora, that singer from Poison had that weird looking guitar player, whatever his name was. Hell, the Scorpions singer was so bad, he needed TWO guitar players!

But they soloed. At some point in the song, the mediocre vocals would take a rest, and there would be a minute or so for some melody, for the guitar to take the spotlight. And now, all the cookie cutter bands that look the same and sound the same and act the same just… sing. Cut and paste, music-by-the-numbers, manufactured formula songs that are squeezed out like so many turds. It’s sad, really.

And what of the sidekicks? Those guitar gods… The ones that, according to that late night commercial “taught us how to love”? Where are they now? Ritchie Sambora just got dumped by Heather Locklear after many years of marriage. Eddie Van Halen also got dumped AND had a hip replacement. That Poison guitar guy? Who the hell was he? He can’t even get on a cheezy reality show these days.

Sad but true, once the soloing stops… and cookie cutter manufacturing takes over… you just end up… solo.

Wally’s Cafe Jazz Club in Boston is one of my all time favorite places. Located a few blocks from Berklee College of Music, there is never a shortage of top notch musicians playing any night of the week. Every time I’ve been, I’ve always left inspired, and determined to practice the drums more (sadly, it never helped…)

Back in the days BT (before television) the hour long pilgrimage to Wally’s was a weekly event. We’d meet up early, around seven or so, grab dinner, then drive up to Boston. Parking was a little tricky, but sometimes we’d get lucky and find a spot right on Massachusetts Ave. Other times we’d have to squeeze into some alley blocks away and hike over. It never mattered, as long as we went.

Wally’s is the definition of a ‘hole-in-the-wall’ club. Space is VERY limited, and it usually fills up fast. As long as we were in the club by 9PM, we could almost always get a table. Once the band started ripping, it didn’t matter how crowded it was, everyone had a great time.

Last night my friend Stu and I decided to make the trip once again. We got a late start, and didn’t make it to Beantown until after 10:30. Not a good way to begin the night. However, I managed to score an excellent parking spot almost right next to the front door. Things were looking up.

There was a line of about fifteen people waiting to get in. We could hear the band playing whenever the door opened, but since nobody was actually leaving the club, the line wasn’t moving. After about fifteen minutes standing on the sidewalk in the freezing cold, it was pretty obvious that we weren’t going to get in anytime soon, if at all. We decided to find someplace to warm up, and maybe come back later on to see if the line had moved at all.

When I got back to the Jeep, I saw an offensively bright orange official Boston Police parking ticket on my windshield. Apparently, my sweet parking space was reserved for people that actually live on Mass Ave. (Nevermind that the sign that should have been attached to the pole was missing, I still got a ticket, because I guess I just should have known better than to presume it was OK to park in an available parking space.)

Those evil little meter maid douchebags must work 24 hour shifts, probably living in the nearby sewers like the rats they are, making millions for the shitty city of Boston. It cost me $40 to park for fifteen minutes, and we never even made it into the club.

However, thanks to those industrious meter maid rats, Boston has made it into the exclusive GFY club. Congratulations!

The reason I haven’t posted much in the last few days is I have been finishing up a riding journal of a trip Abi and I made to Little Rock in September (yes… September… that’s called procrastination…)

Anyway, it’s finally finished. If interested in a copy (in Word .doc format) drop me an e mail and I will get one out right away.

Thanks for reading!

Some days, travel goes smoothly and everything works out just right. Those days are very few and far between, and are to be appreciated. Then, there are days like today.

The WWE ended a two day run in Columbus, Georgia (another place I can happily tick off my list of “places to see just once”) Columbus has a very small airport, and departing flights are limited. You can either take the 6:10 AM, the 10:48 AM or the 1:15 PM flight to Atlanta, the only other option being to get stuck in Columbus.

My alarm blared at 4:45 AM. Still rubbing sleep from my eyes, I went to the lobby to get a cab and start the familiar routine once again. A beat up looking cab, really just a converted station wagon, bounced to the curb, and five of us piled in.

The driver apologized for being late, saying he’d just woken up. He claimed he tried to call the other cab driver (evidently the metropolis of Columbus only needs two cabs) but the other guy was too drunk to come to work.

Every time he hit the brakes, the whole cab shuddered, and a horrendous grinding metal sound filled the air. He accelerated on the highway, and the cab shimmied and shook alarmingly. Fortunately we didn’t have that far to go. As we crunched to a halt at the curb of the airport, I said, “Thank God! We cheated death again!”

He replied, “I ain’t gonna let a little thing like bad brakes stop me! Now everybody pay up!”

About forty of the WWE crew and a few unfortunate ‘civilians’ were on the flight. Check in and security was the usual routine. As we were all sitting in the gate area waiting to board the thirty minute flight to Atlanta, the PA system crackled out this message:

“Folks, sorry, but ASA (which stands for Another Shitty Airline, I just know it…) regrets to inform you that the 6:10 flight to Atlanta has been cancelled due to a dead battery. Please report back to the ticket counter, we have some vans lined up to drive you to Atlanta.”

The herd stampeded back to the ticket counter as two beat up vans pulled up outside. I was impressed at how quickly two twelve passenger vans, one complete with a luggage trailer, were rounded up, since just fifty percent of the town’s cab drivers were sober enough to drive. Maybe I am too cynical, but I am pretty sure somebody’s brother is making some money on this scam of cancelling the first flight of the day and driving people 120 miles to Atlanta.

Most of the WWE crew was grumbling and being typically obnoxious. There was an elderly couple in line in front of me, staring with a little concern at the unruly WWE mob. The woman turned and made small talk, saying that she and her husband were flying somewhere to celebrate their fifty-ninth wedding anniversary. I’m not sure, but I’d be willing to wager they’d never spent a wedding anniversary surrounded by characters like us before. Then she said, “You know, in fifty nine years, we’ve only had one argument.” The husband muttered, “Yeah, and it’s lasted for fifty-eight years!”

Maybe we weren’t so out of the ordinary to them after all.

The more self centered and impatient of the WWE crew forced their way outside and quickly filled the two vans to capacity. The rest of us watched as the two battered and cramped sardine cans left for an uncomfortable hour and a half ride to Atlanta.

The pilot walked by the remaining crew and was greeted with a hearty round of “Boooo!” Someone shouted, “You guys should try running planes on gas instead of batteries!” The pilot laughed and said, “Yeah. I know.”

One of the brighter ones at the back of the line had the foresight to call our bus drivers and see if they were still in town. Fortunately, two were, and they agreed to come pick us up and drive us to Atlanta.

While we were standing around waiting for the busses, I witnessed something I have never seen before. The luggage train pulled around from the gate area and parked at the curb in front of the airport. People grabbed their checked luggage right off the cart. Small town baggage claim at its finest. A few bags remained, no doubt owned by the impatient knuckleheads that stuffed themselves into the two departed vans. Oh well.

I was really happy to see our tour busses pull up. I mean, how cool is that? The ticket agents even came outside to see us off. Everyone piled in. Some people hit the bunks and slept, we made coffee and watched the morning news in comfort, while the selfish van riders sat knee to knee in their full vans. Needless to say, we had to call them a few times to rub it in.

Getting on the highway, we realized we had a stowaway on board. A guy that nobody recognized had somehow gotten on our bus along with us. He said that he was told by the ticket agent to board van three when it showed up. When he saw our tour bus pull up, he quickly climbed on and went to the back lounge, saying to himself, “Damn, van three is definitely better than those other two, this is my lucky day!”

Any day that you can get out of Columbus, Georgia, no matter how you do it, is a lucky day in my book!

Earlier this morning at the Wachovia Center in Philadelphia, a new king was crowned. All hail King ‘Chestnut’, new King of the Wing(nuts)!! He was coronated today at the Fourteenth Annual ‘Wing Bowl’.

Essentially, the Wing Bowl is an eating contest sponsored by a local radio station, and sanctioned by the IFOCE (International Federation of Competitive Eating… yes, there really is such an entity…) Through the years it has grown from a contest with an audience of 150 into a festival of the bizarre with over 20,000 in attendance, held at a major arena. The Wing has become the definition of ‘Morning Zoo’.

Qualifying heats are held at the radio station. Chestnut qualified by drinking a gallon of milk in 42 seconds. Other contestants qualified in a similar manner, a pound of chopped liver in two minutes, a whole large pizza in one minute, and my personal favorite, a pound of cod tongues (I know… I didn’t realize that cods even had tongues, much less where you would go to buy a whole pound of them… Imagine eating a food that could taste you back!)

The doors to the Wachovia Center open at six AM for this annual Pre-Super Bowl kickoff party. Fans prepare for the event by spending the night drinking beer in the parking lot.

After the parade where the eaters enter on home made floats, the contest begins. There are two ten minute rounds, then a two minute “Lightning Round.” Evidently, the “you heave, you leave” rule was enforced in the second round, keeping Chestnut comfortably (or uncomfortably…) in the lead.

He won by consuming 173 chicken wings in 22 minutes. For that feat of gluttony, Chestnut won a brand new SUV.

I don’t think I have eaten 173 chicken wings in my entire life.

This is the second time there has been an ESPN NBA game scheduled on Wing Bowl day. The Wing Bowl is over by 10 AM, and the basketball game starts at 7 PM. That gives the arena crew time to clean up all the unappetizing “remnants” of the contest.

Last time, things started getting a little rowdy towards the end. The ESPN crew showed up at 9 AM. We were warned by worried looking security guards, “Whatever you do, do NOT go in the arena. They’ve started throwing bottles at each other!”

Yup, its that fun.

And tonight on the menu for our post game meal…. Wings.