Frenchy's Rant

Sometimes having two days to get ready for a show isn’t enough. After flying from the lovely Newark airport to the equally lovely Indianapolis airport, getting a cab ride from a driver clearly practicing for Indy 500 qualifying, and checking into yet another anonymous hotel, setup began once again.

All TV trucks are different, but they all have one thing in common. They need electricity, lots of it, to work. From all the delicate digital equipment to the air conditioners and lights, modern TV trucks are power hungry beasts. And when those little electrons stop flowing, well, it makes work a lot more difficult.

For the whole set day, we noticed the lights would dim slightly every so often. Nobody paid much attention to it. Day of the show, the lights continued to sporadically dim. Then, we noticed a problem with the system used to communicate with the on air announcers. Every time the lights would dim, the IFB system would buzz and hum. The power source the truck was on was clearly unstable, and could possibly shut down during the show. This was a bad discovery. That it was discovered with only an hour to air was worse.

With the threat of a power failure possibly taking our show off the air, a quick discussion ensued. Minutes later, an unbelievable decision was made. With twenty five minutes (!) until our game was to be broadcast live to millions of eager NBA on ABC viewers, the truck would be switched to a new, untested power source. Of course this would mean shutting the entire truck down, and blind faith and trust that every setting created over the past two days would be saved, and restored in time.

Had it been fixed the day before, it wouldn’t be such a big deal. But with less than an hour until air? Risky. Either way it was a gamble.

New power cables were quickly run and connected. With eighteen minutes to air, the truck whirred back to life on it’s new power source. Settings were hurriedly reloaded.

With no rehearsals, no time to check anything, a deep breath, fingers and toes crossed, time ran out, and we were on the air.

The gamble paid off, and our show remained on the air. Basketball fans nationwide were delighted, but not nearly as happy as those that took the gamble.

WHICH WAY DO I GO!??!?!

(Somehow I know I’d get a ticket on this street…)

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!