Confessions of an amateur rock and roll star.

Like last night, I do not feel like writing tonight. After working at the newspaper all day writing at night seems like a busman’s holiday, but I’m going to give it a shot.

By the way, when I was much younger, a band I was in—“Those Guys”—opened for a touring band called Busman’s Holiday. Our singer intentionally told the crowd “Stick around for Busboy’s Holiday” just to rile them up. It worked.

That gig was at the Drumstick Lounge in Lincoln, Nebraska. The Drumstick was a legendary place, right up there with the Zoo Bar, also in Lincoln. I had the privilege of playing both places. Don’t ask me how or why we played at the Zoo Bar which is a blues bar, but we did: A three-piece punk outfit.

The Drumstick, though…wow, what an honor to say I played there. What I remember most about the Drumstick is that the dressing room contained the locally famous “autograph wall.” Touring bands, many of whom went on to become huge, signed the wall. I remember seeing REM’s autographs, Soul Asylum, and I think even the Clash might have played there and signed the wall. Hell, my signature was there. The wall bore hundreds of autographs and I often wonder what happened to it. Did the owner salvage it? Or was it leveled with the rest of the place? Regardless, what stands on that legendary spot now is the Golden Arches.

If there’s anything in my brain that is my ticket to riches it’s my band memories. Seriously, I’ve got 20 years worth of gold sitting in this brain. Did you know that yours truly worked with Matthew Sweet—semi rock star—in the studio? It’s true. Sweet hails from Lincoln, Nebraska and apparently my guitarist went to high school with him. Sweet produced a song for us at Master Tracks studio in Lincoln. I remember that we were freaking out given that it was our first “real” studio experience, and Sweet kept saying “Be cool guys: Just be cool. It’s all going to work out.”

My best story surrounds my first and only experience in Percival, Iowa. Someday I’ll recount it in detail, but I’ll give you a synopsis now. Again, it’s a classic case of our band being booked out of its element. What better place for a three-piece, angry punk band from Lincoln, Nebraska to perform than at Percy’s Bar in Percival, Iowa?

It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, it was far worse. We performed for two people maximum—including the bartender—and he kept pointing to his ears in a vain effort to have us lower the volume. Finally, he told us to pack up and leave early. As we did so, the town’s softball league players started entering the bar in droves. Drunk, burly farm boys started harassing us, demanding that we set up our equipment again and play for them. It got ugly and threatening and I vividly recall grabbing a broken pool cue to defend myself if need be.

We hit the road, utterly defeated, in our guitarist/singer’s large white van. We discovered to our dismay that a fuse had blown and we had no headlights. Therefore, we drove the winding, narrow Iowa roads using nothing but the hazard lights for illumination. It was maddening; the Iowa countryside flashed around us as if bathed in a strobe light. About halfway home we pulled over so Darren—or “Shmoo” as he was known—could rest his eyes.

I sat in front of the van on the shoulder of the road with Pat, the drummer. Darren dozed in the driver’s seat and except for the faint tick-tick-tick of the hazard lights all was silent on the deserted country road.

Then, on the horizon: Headlights. Pat and I looked with interest, given that this was the first vehicle we’d seen in ages. As it approached we saw that it was a bus. And not just any bus. As it sped past we saw the sign in front bearing what would usually be its ultimate destination, and it read “Rockin’ and Rollin’.” Children of the 80’s will recall this from rock music videos, because this was none other than supergroup Journey’s tour bus on its way to who knows where from a gig that night in—ironically—Lincoln.

I pictured what must be occurring in the bus; professional musicians having just performed for 20,000 screaming fans, retiring to a plush motorcoach, drinks flowing and music playing, groupies succumbing to their every whim. It must have truly been a jubilant scene; a stark contrast to the situation I found myself in.

The roar of the bus engine faded quickly. The dust and gravel whipped up by its passing settled, leaving just the ticking of the hazard lights to break the silence once again.

The strange thing is that even given to oddity of the situation Pat and I remained silent. You might have expected us to jump up and down screaming “Did you see that? That was Journey!” Instead, we simply looked at each other with a look of…well, of resolve, I suppose. Resolve to keep trying to succeed in music despite setbacks like we experienced that night. Resolve to keep polishing our songwriting and performances so that eventually our signatures on the wall of the Drumstick might mean something. But most of all, we resolved to go home.

Without a word, Pat and I roused Shmoo to continue our journey, pardon the pun. I don’t recall a word being said for the remainder of the trip. All I remember is the hum of the van’s engine, Shmoo’s intense look as he tried to navigate within the limited, sporadic glow of the hazard lights, the smell of Pat’s omnipresent marijuana, and the thought of how for a fraction of a second the lives of two very different rock and roll bands converged on a desolate Iowa road. Looking back, it was almost the cliché crossroads written about for time immemorial, and I often wonder what might have happened if I'd gone a different way.