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It's Amateur Hour at Doc Watson's on Tuesday NightsJun 21 '01 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line If you like to watch goatee-sporting hipsters spout poetry and play covers of Camper Van Beethoven songs on their acoustic guitars, Doc Watson's is a great place to go. Where are Duende and Eggs when I need them? Part 1: Prelude to Disaster Doc Watson's, located at 216 S. 11th Street in Philadelphia, hosts an open mike night on Tuesday evenings starting at 10. If you like to watch goatee-sporting wannabe hipsters spout poetry and play covers of Camper Van Beethoven songs on their acoustic guitars, it's a great place to go. But the real reason you should go is to check out the reception that Doc Watson's has to offer a band that models itself on the anti-talented aesthetic of the Presidents of the USA and the Violent Femmes. Only remember that Doc Watson's won't have Salty Dog to kick around any more. Part 2: Background Info. Essential to an Understanding of the Disaster I play drums for what is incontestably the least talented musical outfit in all of Philadelphia. We call ourselves 'Salty Dog'--reluctantly. The name is a compromise that we settled on to keep Perry (the lead guitarist) from quitting. The band used to be called Schmok, which was close enough to 'schlock' to give people an idea of what they were in for if they were foolish enough to give the band a listen. But that was before I joined, before we got a new singer (Ken) and a new bassist (Walt). Because our singer has decided to spend July backpacking by himself through western China (which frankly makes him cooler than I'm accustomed to singers being), we thought that it would be a good idea for us to get one performance under our belt before he took off. But since we don't really have enough material for an official gig (or enough talent to improvise for more than a few minutes at a time), we decided to sign up for the open mike night at Doc Watson's. We spent Monday night rehearsing a twenty-minute set of four songs (all of them longer than they should be, which is sort of what we like about them). After we whipped the set into shape, Boylan, the rhythm guitarist who has occasional flashes of unjustifiable optimism despite an otherwise oppressively gloomy perspective, asked what song we would do if the audience wanted an encore. "That's not gonna happen," we all said. "But what if it does?" he asked. "We should have something ready just in case. I think we should do 'Just a Girl.'" 'Just a Girl' is a Hendrixesque bit of rambling, experimental indie-rock that only Boylan and Ken know the lyrics to. It's a song that we always get carried away playing because the middle works so well. But the beginning is a complete mess. And the ending is a shining testament to Valery's assertion that great artworks are never finished, only abandoned. "That's a terrible idea," I said. And I spoke for everyone but Boylan. "We've never once finished that song within four measures of each other. If the audience wants an encore, it will be because they liked us. Playing 'Just a Girl' will be like punishing them for their support." "I think it's one of our best songs," Boylan replied. "Listen to me," I insisted, "you always want to leave the audience wanting more." "You can go into 'Just a Girl' if you want," said Perry, "but we'll walk off the stage when you do." Part 3: Dreading the Disaster N___, the host at Doc Watson's, told us to show up at 8:30 so that we could set our gear up before the 'crowd' started to assemble at 9. The use of 'crowd' was an instance of hyperbole. We showed up and set up our gear and went through an embarrassing soundcheck throughout which Boylan looked sullenly at the ground and kept whispering that we sucked into the microphone. The singer was late, which prompted N___ to observe that he was probably a prima donna. We chuckled absently, finished the soundcheck, and went downstairs for kamikazes (because it turns out that none of us can stomach the drink for which we're named). When we returned upstairs for the 'show' at 10, we found that virtually everyone in the audience was sporting an acoustic guitar. One notable exception was a karaoke rapper named D___, who went on immediately after N___ 'warmed up' the audience with a song that featured over two minutes of whistling. N___ would certainly have continued with his spellbinding performance had it not been for a broken guitar string. One can only assume that he didn't borrow a guitar from any of the three gentlemen seated directly in front of him because God's mercy is truly infinite. Did I call D___ a karoke rapper? That was misleading. He's more of a sing-along with Public Enemy rapper. He didn't have instrumental versions of the rap songs he wanted to perform, just some favorite CDs that he brought to sing along with in precisely the same way that we all sing along with our favorite CDs while doing chores around the house. His methodical gyrations reminded me of my own movements when I'm screaming "F*ck you, I won't do what you tell me" along with Zach de la Rocha as I sweep the kitchen floor. The next person to take the stage was the first in a series of eight acoustic guitarists, all of whom played three songs. Invariably, their first song was a cover designed to deceive us all into thinking that they had talent; and the other two were originals calculated to disabuse us of that notion. They all liked to tell the stories behind their songs. They also liked to dedicate their songs, particularly to dead songwriters. And most astonishingly, they all talked about how large the crowd was, which was strange, since there were only about forty people present--twelve of them holding acoustic guitars, the other twenty-eight either members of Salty Dog or friends of the members of Salty Dog. At first, N___ kept telling us that we were next, but he was no fool. There were 28 people buying drinks who were going to leave Doc Watson's as soon as we finished playing. So N___ finally decided that the thing to do was to call us the "featured act" and to make us wait until the end of the night. Our friends, who showed up at 10 for what was supposed to be rock and roll, were forced to endure an endless series of folk acts. Not to mention Security Officer F___. Security Officer F___ is a prop comic whose props consist of a plastic bush, a clip-on tie, and a dinosaur action figure. He had a heckler planted in the audience who yelled, "You suck," so that he could respond, "Well you're not a very good heckler either." A great time was had by all. Through it all, we struggled heroically not to fall asleep. Part 4: The Disaster I can only assume that N___ had a bad experience with a prima donna singer once upon a time. I don't know what else could have motivated him to hate Ken so profoundly. When we finally went on stage, Ken took copies of the lyrics out of his pocket and unfolded them on the stool. He hasn't fronted a band since college, and was justifiably nervous. The lyrics were there to jar his memory if he needed them. "So," N___ said, as he approached the stage to adjust the microphones, "the singer shows up at long last." Ken had been there since 10. "Are those the lyrics to your tunes?" N___ asked. Ken gave him a puzzled look. "The microphone's off," N___ said, "you can tell me." "I don't think I'll need them," Ken replied. N___ immediately turned on the microphone and gave us the most malicious introduction I've ever heard: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we're proud to present Salty Dog--a band that, as became painfully obvious during their soundcheck, hasn't played anywhere ever. But that doesn't keep their singer from being a prima donna who feels like he can show up at the last minute, even if he has to read his lyrics from a sheet of paper!" When we got together after the performance to discuss what we could and should have done differently, we had many ideas. None were quite as good as Ken's: "We should have thrashed that m*therf*cker N___ on the spot. Beating the snot out of him should have been our show." In addition to playing rhythm guitar, Boylan sings backup vocals on most of our choruses. The words to the choruses were the only words our audience heard, as Boylan came through loud and clear. But Ken could not be heard, not even by the people who were right up front, because N___ mixed things at the sound board so that he was entirely drowned out. After our four-song set was over, there was no way that any of us were going into 'Just a Girl.' All of the acoustic guitarists whose performances we had suffered through had taken off. The audience had been reduced entirely to our friends, and they were puzzled because they couldn't hear the lyrics. Then Boylan did something that I had to respect. Without warning, he plunged into 'Just a Girl' by way of sending a 'F*ck You' message loud and clear to N___. We did the longest version of the song we've ever done--featuring two solos that consisted entirely of feedback. The only people left were our friends, N___, and the waitresses, one of whom asked to be excused (a fact which N___ would later announce over the PA). After the song, Boylan snarled into his microphone, "Well Mike, it looks like we left them wanting less."  |
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