Rock Report - Saturday 31st March

There are some enduring myths in rock and roll: the self destructive artist, the feuding band, the meddling girlfriend/wife. These and many more populate mass consciousness in the stories we tell each other about the heroes, villains, contenders and has-beens from Robert Johnson onwards.
Some of these myths are known by all, and some are limited to the brave, the few, the idiots who pile into vans with banged up gear and which they drag onstage to kick out the jams in front of a few dozen inebriated souls. A common one for the novice is the magic gig. As a new band, you believe that you can play one concert where the right people are in attendance who not only recognize your unique genius, but are in the position and mood to spread it to the masses. They take you under their beneficent wing and guide you to the promised land. That gig is the one that will propel you from the van to the limo, the bar to the arena, into the arms of supermodels and piles of designer drugs where you rightly belong.
It is, of course, bullshit. Success is a process, quick for some, slow for others and elusive for many, one that involves lots of fake smiles and broken promises, handshakes and arm twists, sweat, faith, connections and luck. Obviously, there are better shows than others and opportunities which present themselves in different circumstances, but rare is the one show that changes it all.
I'm glad I know this because it allowed me to take yesterday in stride. We had been invited by a record label to play the album launch of one of their bands. This, we believed, showed their interest in working with us, and as such, we wanted to make sure that we put on a spectacular show. Now that nobody buys albums, small labels are more interested in your ability to deliver the goods onstage.
We dutifully practiced multiple times a week, not only perfecting the songs, but working on our stage presence and timing. We wanted our half hour in front of a crowd to be as transcendent as possible. By our last rehearsal on Thursday, we were sounding good and feeling confident.
On Friday, the day before the gig, I came down with a mild case of Ebola. My insides decided they would rather be outside and spent the following twenty-four hours actively trying to escape.
On Saturday morning, I dragged myself to our rehearsal space to help load gear, feeling like John Hurt in Alien. It was a beautiful day, the sun mocking my misery. We got to the club, carried our equipment to the stage, then did what one most does when in a band - we waited.
The headlining act took forever to soundcheck. That's fine and completely understandable. It was, after all, their launch party and they wanted to sound right. Soundcheck is my least favorite part of any day, and it was made worse by my digestive disease.
Allow me to briefly explain why soundcheck sucks:
Outside the club:

Inside the club:

When both bands had finally finished working through the feedback and volume issues that are an integral part of any soundcheck, I jetted home for a brief rest, a quick shower, an intestinal incident, another quick shower and was back to the club, ready-ish to rock.
The show itself was a blast. We had a responsive, enthusiastic audience and all our rehearsing paid off. We need to tighten up our pacing onstage. My banter is still somewhat awkward. Victor needs to look up from his guitar from time to time and move his feet. Carlos should start singing back-ups since he sings along to the entire show anyway. Nevertheless, Les Fat Jones is feeling more and more like a five fingered fist of rock and we're ready to swing. Hopefully the label president liked it, and it will just be a matter of time before the limousines and supermodels.