Icey Weather in McKinney

Saturday
February 18, 2006
Hank's Grill
McKinney, Texas

This was definitely one of the worst gigs that I have ever had for equipment failure/malfunction. I start the show off with ‘ol Faithful, my main gun, “Muffin”, a long-standing friend in the arsenal, the 5-string jazz. I had been playing quite a bit with “TL”, the newest 5-banger, and I thought that this trip would be a fine time to reacquaint myself with my old axe.

Everything seems to be running like snot off a 2-year-old’s nose when my 9-volt battery runs dry in the middle of a tune. I mean almost a complete loss of sound through the mix, a drop out like a early twenty-something following Tim Leary in ’68. So after the said song I ask for backup.

“”O’Neal, my #$%&@! juice is dead; do you have an extra battery?”

I see him digging pretty hard and I start worrying because for the first time in a while I actually left the backup behind in P-town. Not a good idea after all, I think.

“Here”, I hear.

As I shuffle off to the back room to run the screws off the back of the beast, I notice that CC sees the sense of urgency in my eyes and affords his efforts to help solve my dilemma. We make balls to the back and begin our task.

Work fast.

Efficiently.

“Thank you”, as I leave him in the back room and back to the embarrassment that I left behind on the stage.

“Ok”, I think.

“My shit’s relatively in tune and it’ll all come out in the wash here pretty soon.”

Wrong.

I’m going through the motions of hiding in the corner of my amp and the drum set when I decide that I have finally saved enough face to once again show mine to the folks in the front. I wait until the “meat” of the song will require a little more push from my end of the stage and then I decide that now is the time.

I take literally two steps.

Snap!

A broken E-string, and more broken pride.

“#&@!”, I think.

“Maybe I’ll trip on my shoe laces next!”

I just shoot the, “I can’t believe it’s not butter” face to my boys, stretch that evil-shit-of-a-string out as far as the arm can carry it, and yes, head for the back again, axe in hand yet again, head hung, and now with far more work than before.

I’m thinking, “Cripes! Perhaps one day I won’t have to fuss with shit like this anymore. Once the emergency sirens go off, I’ll just shift the panic face to stage-right and my buddy will have a fresh implement of destruction to take the fallen one’s place.”

Thought turns to action once again in the room that suddenly seems like my surgical clean-room for the evening.

Once again, I find myself exiting the door to retake the stage.

I think, “Jeebus, I hope my shoes are tied tight; I might just trip over the rotten bastards and finally find my face in it’s place on the floor in front of these folks!”

God awful night for my gear.

Freezing cold outside.

Not too many people packing out the room.

Wouldn’t change a damn thing.