RUDIMENTS, pt. 270
-Maple Tree, pt. 9-
I was never one for just having
music as entertainment. Having
a fair amount of advanced musical
education behind me, it was more
an example of theory and process
at work. Funny how it goes, but
it takes a long and laborious study
of music to begin to appreciate
what otherwise sounds as hateful
music. Dissonance, abstracted
tonal leaps, disharmonious
transitions, and the rest - yes,
including pauses and silences.
By this context, the usual bar
music, juke box or live, was
mostly laughable. The processes
of an eager third grade level
overflow into an advancement
of noise and tempo on a
three-chord grid. In addition,
putting it with couplets and
rhymes only made things worse.
But, that's what bars and cover
bands brought out. A kind of
music for people who don't
particularly want music around.
Background redundancy, and
something familiar and hummable.
We had one guest, a female with
a strong voice, who for a while
was the solo non-event night's
music - I forget her name, and
I'm sorry if she's here. But, as an
example - and she was pretty
good - to my mind there's nothing
worse than someone laboring over
a guitar and song thing, their own
arrangement and words or someone
else's, while in that room no one
really cares about it either way.
And, truly, it's hard to care for
what is not really music. Emoters
and whiners, that's one thing. The
screech and the faux-tenderness
gives all that weakness away
quickly. It's the lack of anything
going down that breaks it. Music
needs a progression and a development,
the secreted moments between notes
and the relished growth of sound, to
reach a point of completion or at
least a point of deliverance where
the composers stops it. Mathematics,
and storm-sense. That's music. You
don't get that in bars. In the Maple
Tree and with these biker parties,
one of the hardest things was meshing
the band with the crowd. Bikers
have music tastes that are basically
the equivalent of mustard and
mayonaisse. One against the other,
and neither one worth much - except
maybe the expensive mustards, which
we didn't get. We had a few really
solid bar-bands, and one or two
individuals who shone. Solo or
not. The problem was the endless
repetition, ad nauseum. Allman
Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, all
that Biker vein tough stuff, and
then the road guys - Petty, etc.
Everyone did serviceable and fine
jobs with those, keeping the crowds
happy with set lists and mixing it up.
Two times I hired a real mixed-up
group of noodle-heads calling
themselves 'World Within.' They
were actually good - they had
some girls, some guys, two drummers,
but all they played was a strict, very
mimicy Grateful Dead set card. They
were a little big on the Deadhead
road circuit, had some credits. But
no one liked them at all. Somehow
the Avenel and area Bikers did not
fit well with the twirly-whirls and
extended jams and stuff of Deadheads.
Plus, they brought in their own
festival like crowd, well 20 or 30
people anyway, and that mix wasn't
the greatest anyway. Girls and guys.
I used them twice, had to watch
carefully for nothing breaking out,
they were more expensive than usual,
and by 45 minutes in they were
stoned out of their heads. Ok, then,
I tried. I wasn't rigid and, because
of that I was always willing to try
thing of this nature, flop or not;
live and learn. For my own tastes
here, the best were Dirty Pool,
and Counterfeit Cowboys. Their
also was a bunch of Lynyrd Skynryd
guys called 'The Whiskey Band.
here, the best were Dirty Pool,
and Counterfeit Cowboys. Their
also was a bunch of Lynyrd Skynryd
guys called 'The Whiskey Band.
-
When I said 'Avenel Biker' crowd
just before, I guess I didn't really
mean that. The whole thing was
more county-wide, Union and
Middlesex. In Avenel itself,
there were maybe 30 or 40
bike people, only three or
four really badass hardcore,
The rest of our draw was
from all over and other places.
And they're still out there, but
far-flung now, and older too.
Way older, or dead. There were
always 40 or 50 people for sure
you'd know would show up; the
rest was hit or miss - sometimes
depending on jail-time, parole,
or ankle bracelets. It was
nothing; after a while you learn
to talk to people, even the most
hardcore. Biker to Biker, it's
a weird respect thing, with a bit
of fear, I guess. The higher up
in these club echelons you go,
actually, the better it gets. It's the
bottom level, prospects or new
guys, who were the toughest,
nastiest, and most brutal. I guess
trying to make their rank, their
way in, or their name. Into the
Maple Tree they most all eventually
dribbled - fantastic packs of club
colors very occasionally. Making
a showing, as if to say, 'Don't forget
about us, because we're always
watching.' You had to be careful.
It was all problems.
-
Some of the clubs were crutch clubs,
meaning their best membership was
old, grizzled vets, old-timers who all
remembered older, other days. Everyone
was slow, creaky, wounded. Then there
were the newer identification clubs,
just getting started. They were pesky
too, because they were nothing. Blue
Knights were cops who rode. It was
club by identification - Firefighters
had one, EMT's, all sorts of small
divided military groups, etc. They
maybe came off as tough, but they
wanted comfort. They had kids and
mortgages and big cars, and wives
who wanted jewelry and vacation
destinations worth it all. Riding
was their relief valve. A lot of it
was play-acting; so I play-acted
back. I always liked just the regular,
general slob-riding friend type.
Guys I knew. No pretense, none
of that attitude crap either. They all
knew a lot more than me about
their engine and machine stuff, and
I knew that - they rebuilt cars and
bikes on a weekend or two. They
built decks and dormers as easy
side projects. These guys were
gold, and friends. We had fun.
-
One time there was a guy named
Curly. I don't know his real name.
His wife was tough as nails. He was
kind of goofy, and got really angry
when drunk. Didn't understand
much, but was a good guy. He
lived, they lived, just off St. George,
and on the end of Woodruff Ave.,
I guess it was. There were a few
Sunday mornings, riding out, we'd
wait for him in the lot of a Jiffy Lube
or something right there, across from
the bank. We were usually heading
south. Curley was always late. We
could see his 2nd floor window from
the street, and his signal to us that
he'd seen us and that they were almost
ready, was to open the window and
moon us - so the big signal of the
morning was his bare ass sticking
out the window. One time we were
at the Maple Tree, and Curly, already
a little toasted, went around the bar
inviting everyone to his 50th birthday,
in a week or two. Whatever. This
went on, and I guess in his mind
he'd had a big party planned. All
of a sudden his wife comes over.
'You're off by a year, asshole. That's
next year. Your gonna' be 49, now
sit down and shut up!'
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