Jan. 10, 2013 - Issue #899: The games we play
The Get Down
The Get Down has had its fair share of time on the road, and a backlog of stories to go with it. Prior to its next gig in Edmonton, frontman Ted Wright shared a story of a roadtrip gone wrong.
I knew we never should have taken the gig.
I had to beg this promoter to get a show in Lethbridge, and he wanted us to play two sets. That should have been my first clue. The Get Down dutifully and miraculously came up with two 30-minute or so sets comprised of originals and obligatory (if shaky)covers. Come the day of the show, we attempted to leave early, which never happened, or ever happens. It rained the entire way to Lethbridge and the wiper linkage on the van screeched the entire time. Since we're running late, someone phones the promoter to let him know where we are. He replies with, "You guys don't have to play if you don't want, you know." Yeah, just what we want to hear after leaving Calgary.
We get to the bar, a pitcher of beer or two is quaffed and we proceed to play the most god-awful 70 minutes of music ever. "Dead Flowers" should have been buried. We are so fucking loud that people are leaving, which is OK, because we can't hear anything either. By the time the two sets are done, there's about three people left in the crowd, to whom we request a place to stay if possible. A young couple offers us a place to stay, with the caveat that there's no furniture to sleep on. No big deal, right? We get there, and true to their word, there isn't even a fucking throw rug on the floor. It's solid hardwood as far as the eye can see.
One of the more inebriated members of the band decides that a pile of wadded up plastic next to a heat vent looks promising, so down he goes to The Land Of Nod. Two minutes later, this band member turns over, stands up and pukes directly down the heat vent. Yup, no hesitation whatsoever, just blows lunch into the grate.
Now, a more uncivilized band would have left said vomit in the vent, but the members of the Get Down are gentlemen. Since that band member was so shitfaced he couldn't wipe his face, let alone mop up his own steaming vomit, yours truly is left with that particular job. Yes, folks, wiping hot puke out of a floor register is on my resume. As I recall, old newspaper and dirty washrags were about the only things left around to do the deed with.
After settling down and drunkenly tossing and turning on an icy hardwood floor, another band member goes outside, "liberates" some patio furniture cushions from the next door neighbors, and we lay down and pass out into oblivion. And we haven't played Lethbridge since. V
Fri, Jan 11
With Russian Fingers,
the Fucking Lottery
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