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Biker Rally Gig before/after "What's yer' name?" the burly tatooed biker carrying a 9mm glock on his hip asked me. He wore a bandana on his head and his biker gang "colors" on a patch on the back of his black leather vest. "Arg." I said. He turned around to a table behind him and whipped around with a shot glass full of Jim Beam. "Satan. Nice to meet you." He grabbed my hand in the typical biker handshake. I knew immediately this was not the real Satan because the real Satan would've given me a shot of Jack Daniels. It had been a whirlwind week. 2 job interviews, a poetry reading, class, and now this. And there I was, at the end of a lonely, dusty trail, waaaaay out in the woods, in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere. "Satan?" I asked "Yeah, Satan. Like it says on my arm." he turned his arm over and showed me, amidst swirling serpents, a naked woman and sundry other tattoos was his name. Satan. "Pleased to meet you." I replied. "No thanks, I dont drink." They all looked astonished. I was there to play a gig. Straight money. Biker rally. I had thought that it was going to be credit card bikers. You know, slightly aged people, grasping for a new identity, putting everything on credit, bike, helmet, ass-less chaps. The whole nine. Oh, no. These were actually bikers. I thought we stopped making these. And here they were, in the middle of nowhere. Christ, I had no idea really where I was so much in terms of familiarity. I knew relative directions, and how far to go to get certain places. But that meant nothing in terms of where I was. Or the situation I was in. "I hope you play good. Because if you don't, we're gonna' shoot you. " one guy piped up. "Oh. Well. I dont want that to happen." I said, drolly. They were trying to rattle me, in biker terms, but were having no success. They knew it. Didnt stop them from trying. I had gotten a call earlier from Mick. "Hey man, where are you?" he asked. He knew where I was and when I was coming up. He sounded a little rattled. I told him I would be up soon, that I was on my way. Which I was. Taking my time, but on my way. "Good," he said, "Because the natives are getting restless." And then the call got dropped. So I loaded up the shit kickers, put on a pair of jeans and an old faded black t-shirt and went. I felt strong, virile. Like I was projecting power of a sort. It would've taken a whole lot to have scared me. And they just didnt have the juice. I got out my equipment, my twelve string and my six, set it up. Apparently they had been making aaron and mick play all day long, since they had gotten up there. Aaron is nineteen, and still easily rattled. They got to him, and knew it. They kept at it, like animals that smell their prey. The politics of fear. We played, and played well. We played for hours, and they got drunk as hell. Like pigs in a rut, they were way out in the boondocks, getting their swerve on where it would bother no one. Good people, part of a national biker gang, the @utlaws, but good people. (Yeah, I doubt they use the internet, but just in case, the @utlaws) They tried to accomodate me as they could, offering me booze, then food, then soda, then "whatever else I do". They had real trouble coming to terms with the fact that I dont drink and do drugs, and I guess, as such, found it difficult to relate to me. I find that a bit. It seems like peoples vices become their lives in some fashion or other. And it is often how they relate to each other and choose friends. Which makes my seeming team-switch even harder for some to swallow. They dont see or have come to the realization that I have, that fullfillment isnt at the bottom of the bottle, end of a joint, or whatever. That, and the utter lack of productivity that lifestyle afforded me. I suppose if it had kept me pleasantly happy I would still do it. But there was no panacea, no golden land, no lasting high that for which I was looking. It ended up being wasted hours. It ended up not being any fun. I ended up not even getting high any more when I did drink or do drugs. When it becomes a dry socket, it becomes time to move on. Some people dont realize that, dont come to terms with that, and just grip the bottle tighter. This is fine. I am not here to proselytize. I am not an example for anyone. Unlike Uncle Joe, who struck me as the sort of character that was full of shit. Not a real member of the gang, he had the waggly jaw of a coke addict, and the bullshit yammering of a self involved asshole. And he liked to talk. Apparently Uncle Joe has had two heart-attacks caused by cocaine. This no-necked vacant eyed motherfucker, with pallid skin tones and obesity issues goes through an eight-ball a weekend. Personally. And doesnt share. The last heart attack was a large blood clot going from his lungs to his heart. And still he does cocaine. Well, in this instance, maybe its a good thing. Uncle Joe doesnt seem to have a whole lot in his life. He has a wife, though, and after the gig invited me to sleep in the bed in his trailer. "I dont have to sleep there. Hell, I already hit the old lady three times today." Personally, I think he was bragging about having sex with her three times that day. But anything is possible. There was random gunfire throughout the night. Satan would lift his gun to the sky and fire off several round for no real reason. Just bad violence with no target. Just trying to scare people. Probably try to scare us. He fired off several rounds. "Lets hear some music or I'll shoot ya'!" he crowed. Mick got behind the microphone, looking rattled. "Okaaay! Guess break-time is over!" I started playing on the twelve string with my slide. One of the bikers made a comment about the movie Crossroads. "Yeah, all I need is to find Satan and sell my soul," I said, trying to emulate Robert Johnson, who purportedly sold his soul to the devil to play guitar well. Really well. Really, really well. (which was mentioned in the movie) And a buzz went through the crowd as they called to Satan. "Be careful! He's right over there! He just might have a contract on im'!" one said. And they sat around in chairs, gnarled and tatooed, getting soused, listening to us play the blues. They'd been drinking since eight in the morning. Older women having seen hard miles, yammering on, getting stinking drunk. Men the same. A few of the younger crowd, too. All hospitible for the most part. Except for the continuing white trash attempts at intimidation. We played another long set. In the middle of it, Satan came and stood in front of Aaron two feet away from he and I, and stared at him. Satan lifted his pistol to the sky. He cracked off several rounds, scaring the shit out of Mick and Aaron. They stopped playing. Aaron would later say that a shell casing hit his arm. Me? I didnt miss a beat. That's right, I played through fucking gunfire. That's a talent of a sort. It would serve me well if I played weddings in the middle east, I guess. One of the bikers, the one who booked us for the gig noticed. "Damn, you guys stopped playing, but Arg didnt! He didn't miss a beat!" Someone took Satan's gun away. Two women escorted him to his camper, where he whined the rest of the night that he wanted his gun back. I leaned into Aaron and said, 'Dude, this may be the craziest gig we ever play'. The night wore on, and they got more drunk. We played until it got too cold, then we finished it up. They had clung to us all night, filling our ears with bullshit and nonesense. I listened to their stories, some of them outright lies, with the same sympathy that I listen to most people. Why not. We are all people, and most of us are worthy in some respect. They really wanted me to stay the night, but I demurred, citing several false reasons. I looked at the group, said my goodbyes. The guys walked me out to my car. We had a real sense of bonding over this moment, but I didnt verbalize anything. Intesnse experiences draw people together. Maybe I should have verbalized my feelings. Maybe I should verbalize much more than I do. But I didnt. And the milky way stretched out in full aplomb across the untarnished sky, away from the muck and haze of modern day life, and I felt like I had been on an adventure. I drove down the trail, looking for the right CD to listen to after all of this, but there wasnt one, really. On I went, thinking about things, life, people, all on the long drive home.
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