5.

Over the next few weeks I'll attempt to do my best in telling you about my 5 favorite shows that I've ever been a part of. Hope you enjoy.

Sugar Plum Dandy –American Legion - Chicopee, MA circa 1993

The now irrational owner of the Chicopee VFW had turned on all the lights on. She was screaming at everyone that the show was over. One Poison Idea cover and two Sugar Plum Dandy songs does not a set make in my blurry, floating eyes. Why is she shutting us off? It’s still early. We’re no louder than the other 6 bands that played tonight. There are still people here listening to us. Well, all 60 of them are kinda pinned against the back wall. Watching something that they can’t quite make sense of. They understood the concept but just couldn’t figure out where this fit in their world. Which was good, ‘cause neither could we. And we all took great pride in being the most violently unsettling. I don’t think any one of us truly cared about anyone’s physical safety at shows. If you were there, and close to us, you might get hurt. We held this rite of passage very close to our hearts. Violence was an unfortunate side product of intense passion. That sounds slightly criminal. And we didn’t even remotely give a shit.

The rest of the bands playing this show were straight edge hardcore bands from various places. Worcester, Albany, Boston etc. All young, shaved-head, combat boot wearing tough guys. The reason we went on last is that the singer in the band from Worcester (whose name escapes me) insisted that they were going on before us. They felt it was their right because they drove 45 miles to get here. We only drove 10. He was pretty belligerent about it. Luckily for us (and unlucky for them) they said they’d still be willing to stick around while we were playing so we could borrow their drum set. We didn’t have one. Never did, I don’t think.

During the course of the evening, while the other bands were rigidly re-interpreting every cliché of the late 80’s hardcore scene, we were approached by several (not one, mind you) but several under age straight age kids. One at a time they would start to lecture us. About how we shouldn’t be drinking. How it would ruin our minds. So enthralled in their beliefs they were that one of them made a motion to take a beer out of one of our friend’s hands. After this something-teen year old was threatened with having his spleen removed with a spoon (an actual quote from that evening) the harassment died down. I guess this justified our anger. Why should we be treated like misanthropes in our own musical community? In a community that was fragile and neglected by most of all of the musicians in the area? One that we helped build for kids (much like the aforementioned ones) to help them connect with new people from all different walks. To not judge and not to be judged. To be freed from your daily stasis that was known to be filled with judgmental dictators. Bullshit. Unacceptable. It was time for us to react.

Jamie (Bloodbath, Hatebreed) manned the drums, Karl (Bloodbath, Pushbutton Warfare) grabbed the guitar, Rob (Home) grabbed the bass and Dave (Briteside) and I grabbed the mics. We tore through Poison Idea’s “Getting the Fear”. All I truly remember was rolling around on the floor with 5 or 6 other people in some crazy gang vocal gone awry. I was bleeding from the forehead and from somewhere else that I never found. Rob had essentially removed the entire headstock from his bass somehow. As the cacophony of the first song came to an end we were received with complete silence from these 60 or so kids. I then sat behind the drums and Scott grabbed the guitar (which continued to howl in feedback pain) from Karl. Rob stayed on his mangled bass and Louis grabbed the blood soaked microphone. We played 2 songs of our (Sugar Plum Dandy) own and it was during the second one that all the lights came on in the basement of the Chicopee American Legion. I saw this little, very pissed off old lady screaming at everyone to get out. As I stood up behind the drum set I noticed that two of the drummer’s cymbals were cracked. The hi-hat stand bent. The snare drum had a softball-sized hole in it. The floor tom was literally on the floor after snapping two of its legs. The kick pedal was imbedded in the torn head of the kick drum. And there were nothing but chards of sticks laying everywhere. In the chaotic shuffle of the aftermath I remember very little. I’ve been reminded of these forthcoming things by people who were there. See, I tend to lose control when playing music. Only sometimes. When things lift beyond the grounded normalcy of G major. These are the times that I live for. People in bands from earlier in the evening (specifically the drummer of the band that let me borrow his drum set which I just returned to its natural state of metal and wood) were being held back by random Legion patrons. They were trying to kill us. Or maybe it was just me that they were trying to kill.

Supposedly I screamed something about hating everyone and then managed to rifle (I have a pretty strong throwing arm) two beer bottles into the scuffling crowd. I was grabbed by the back of the neck and the next thing I knew Rob and I were running down the street in the rain. Through the blurry lights and the electric haze we see roughly thirty ATF people with shotguns screaming and rushing into the building across the street. Turns out there is a massive drug bust going on right next door. Simultaneously, there are four cop cars with screaming lights and sirens screeching to a halt in front of the hall that we just left. Looking for us, I presume. In the chaos some of the ATF people get spooked and turn their guns on the cops that are there for us. They begin screaming at each other and a handful of the completely armed and prepared ATF guys follow the sprinting police into the legion. We drive by slowly. In my friends ‘78 Grenada. Sweating. Bleeding. Chests heavy with fear and elation. We get about 4 blocks down the road and someone says “When do you think we should call them back about another show?”
Awesome.