Dusty trophies: One night as the other Beatles

Dusty trophies: One night as the other Beatles

Posted on March 15th, 2011 by Chris Matarazzo

I remember a deucedly long van ride to Binghamton, New York. The various discussions among the band blur together now, but I distinctly recall sharply differing opinions as to whether one needs to actively wash one’s feet in the shower or whether the time said feet spend sloshing in the soapy water at the bottom of the tub does the hygienic trick. I also remember our soft-spoken and usually ironic lead guitarist, Jimmy, weighing-in on the debate, during a lull: [long silence] “Questions . . .” he said, languidly.

We were to play an open-air show to several thousand people, right next to the Susquehanna river, outside of a big hotel. As we came into radio range of Binghamton, we began hearing advertisements:

One night only – the King Richard Band; one of the hottest bands on the East Coast – don’t miss it! Some tickets still available. Free tickets to the twentieth caller . . .

We looked at each other. Us? We laughed and uttered a slew of WTFs. Sure, we had played our share of good venues on the Jersey Shore circuit. Sure, we were proud of our playing. Sure, we showed an audience a good time and had a decent following, but, if you went from the flamboyant radio ads, we were, like, the Beatles.

I saw them last year, a caller said, excited about having won tickets. They rocked!

So, okay, we were big in Binghampton. Go figure.

The closer we got to the city, the more frequent the ads chirped about our classic/modern rock prowess. This was a big event in the city, this outdoor show, so we chalked it up to the excitement — hyperbolic praise for the unknown cover band that was going to be at the (like it or not) center of it.

We checked in to the hotel and then took the stage for set up and sound-check. Adjusting the boom-arm on a cymbal stand, I surveyed the scene. There was a lot of open space, which meant there could be a lot of people there that night. It had the potential of being the biggest crowd I had ever played to. My heart-rate went up a bit, I’ll admit. (I hadn’t been with the band the previous show, so this was new.)

I was facing an experience I had dreamed about as a teenager: playing in front of a huge crowd. Sure, this wasn’t exactly how I had imagined it. I wasn’t the next Billy Joel performing my own music to an adoring packed house — playing hometown hero at the Spectrum (may it rest in pieces) in Philly. But, this was still going to be really cool. Thousands of eyes would be on us; thousands of people cheering (or, let’s face it, booing, if we stank).

We had a massive speaker system rented and the sound check went well. The drums sounded great. (I’ll never try to describe musical sounds. If I have to read one more review explaining how the throbbing bass locks in with the thunderous drums to hold down the groove for the soaring guitars, I’ll beat myself to death with a slipper.) The King Richard Band (a.k.a., in the greater Binghamton area, “South Jersey’s answer to the Beatles”) was ready to rock.

That night, we showered (each choosing his own, personal foot-cleansing option, as you might imagine), changed, and made our way through a throng of a few thousand and onto the stage. People were jammed shoulder-to-shoulder between the river and the stage and they snaked off into the distance.

We were all pretty pumped. Even our lead singer didn’t have the same casual tone behind his nightly announcement: “Tell you what. I’m tore up.” This was always in reference to his voice, which never, ever winds up sounding “tore up,” in the end.

The local radio station announced us with the same hype as earlier, only much louder on the PA. We played. People cheered; people danced. When had them going.

For three songs, it was fantastic — it was new and the adrenaline flowed. My sister, the keyboardist at the time, looked over at me and mouthed the words “Holy crap,” after a glance at the audience.

But by the fifth or sixth song, I wound up seeing only the first ten rows. The massive crowd became an abstract, like a theater backdrop that you quietly agree to believe in and then completely forget by scene two. Before long, I started thinking the same things as usual: What song’s next? My count-off or a guitar intro on the next one? Are we in the first chorus or the third? Did I just screw up that ending or did Kurt? (Nah, it was Kurt.)

By song nine, I smiled to myself. I realized that benchmarks are not the payoff — doing is the payoff. Musicians play; people listen. We play, to paraphrase Neil Peart, because it is what musicians do. For me, at that moment, I realized that art isn’t about destinations or recognition. It is not about an adoration that only emanates from great numbers. Nothing is ever as cool as you imagined it to be, once you get it, so what you are left with in the end is yourself, a pair of sticks, and yet another attempt to play better this time than you did the last.

I like that. The rest is just trophies on the shelf collecting dust while we go back to work. Working. That’s the reward, in my book.

Chris Matarazzo’s ARTISTIC UNKNOWNS appears every Tuesday.

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Chris Matarazzo

Chris Matarazzo is a writer, composer, musician and teacher of literature and writing on the college and high school levels. His music can be heard on his recent release, Hats and Rabbits, which is currently available. Chris is also the composer of the score to the off-beat independent film Surrender Dorothy and he performs in the Philadelphia area with the King Richard Band. He's also a relatively prolific novelist, even if no one seems to care yet. His blog, also called Hats and Rabbits, is nice, too, if you get a chance...