CHAPTER 3

"The Sweetwater"

Outside the Sweetwater, the smokers posed with their cigarettes, like a convention of James Dean impersonators. I nodded to them, their cigarettes hanging loosely from their lips as they leaned against the wall. They nodded back in acknowledgement between dramatic inhalations, which said to the world. “I am inhaling now. Look at me damn it! I am about to inhale. There it is. I just inhaled!” The look of concentration and the way their brows tightened up, as if deeply concerned, was only a small part of the act that is smoking outside the Sweetwater.

It was already filling up, as I clumsily pushed through the doors my guitar hitting everyone, as it swung in my wake. I apologised politely to disapproving looks. I felt like a drunken elephant unable to control his protruding trunk. I quickly navigated my way through the crowd to the dressing room behind the stage. I say dressing room, but that’s slightly misleading. It was, in fact, an old kitchen, which hadn’t been used in years. We used old pots and pans as mirrors and tuned our instruments, while sitting atop a big old stove. The kind of stove you could picture old Grandma Hillbilly using to cook some of her famous old hick pie.

Don’t get me wrong though, it was by no means some dive music joint. It was as steeped in tradition as skinny-dipping in the Irish Sea on Christmas day. We prepared in the kitchen, as every musician who had ever played there before us had. The Grateful Dead once checked out their long flowing hair in the very pot, that I checked mine in. Lead Belly, the famous blues guitarist, had also graced the Sweetwater, and if it was good enough for those guys it is certainly fine for me.

I left the kitchen and took a seat at the bar. The place was filling up quickly. There was barely a seat left in the whole place.

“Shane, how are you?” John, the barman, asked.

“Great, thanks John, and you?”

“Ah you know, same old shit different day. What are you drinking?”

“A pint of IPA please.’’

“Sure thing.”

John began pulling my pint with a content smile on his face, as he whistled to the music playing in the bar. This is the same guy who, when asked how he was, answered: “Ah you know, same old shit different day.” I swear to god. He is a closet happy person.

“Here you go. One IPA. So, what are you playing for us tonight?”

“Come on now John, that would be telling. I have to keep some surprises.”

Both of us knew, that I was going to play my usual stuff. John liked to ask me anyway, on the off chance his dreams finally came true and I played the Backstreet Boys, or some Michael Bolton power ballad. God love him. He didn’t have much of a taste for music, even though he worked in the Sweetwater. He was the owner’s nephew. That is the one and only reason he was able to get a job in a place where he would usually be hung, drawn, and quartered the second he walked through the door.

I began to sip my pint, when the stage lights came up. Justin De Bard, the owner, was standing on stage holding his hand in the air, requesting some hush from the crowd.

“Good evening to you all, and welcome to the Sweetwater!”

The audience clapped obediently to the introduction. Most of the crowd had been there many times before and they knew how Justin ran the place. He bought the Sweetwater in 1988 with the goal of creating a sanctuary for music and performance in all its magnificent forms. In his words it would be:

“A place where you could come and sing out your goddamn ass, if it sounded good. Hell, you could get up on stage and play with yourself, if you did it with some passion.”

The beautiful thing about Justin was that he wasn’t a music snob like most people, who have been involved in the music scene for too long. He looked more at the person and what the art meant to them. If he respected what you were doing, then he would give you a chance to perform. It tended to be mostly music, but often Monday nights would attract a range of performers from musicians, comedians, to poets, and actors.

“I hope you are all comfortable and looking forward to the wonderful evening, we have ahead of us. I must remind you all of how we do things down here at the Sweetwater. The only thing I ask is that you respect the people that get on stage tonight. I don’t care if you like them or loathe them, you should all respect them, while they are on stage and listen in body, if not in mind.”

Justin spoke with an affectionate smile, but everyone knew he meant it.

“If you need to make a phone call or if you see a hot girl or boy that you want to talk to, please wait until the performance is over to have the conversation.”

He moved across the stage, like a lion stretching his legs. He was wearing cowboy boots, jeans, and a shirt open low enough to reveal his full chest of silver hair. I always thought he should have banged his hands against his chest King Kong style, just for added effect.

After he finished his introductory warning and left the stage, the first band of the night set up their gear. I noticed that one of the other regular performers, Tom, was sitting at a table alone.

“How’s it going Tom?” I said, as I pulled up a chair.

“Shane! How are you? Pull up a seat there.” Tom ushered enthusiastically, despite the fact that I had already grabbed a chair and was already in the process of sitting down.

“Cheers Tom. How have you been?”

“Ah, you know, nothing to complain about I suppose.”

Another bloody closet happy person, I swear to god they were multiplying. They must all have caught some disease that does not allow them answer the question “How are you?” with a positive answer.

“Well that is GOOD news.” I said with a big grin on my face, just to show him how happy I was, that he had nothing to complain about. I then knocked back the rest of my pint and called for another one.

“What are you drinking Tom?”

“A JD and Coke please … actually … make that a Diet Coke. My wife is trying to get me to lose some weight.”

“Ah Tom, sure you’re as fit as a fiddle.” I said with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek.

Tom was a 65-year-old man of ample proportions with a big white beard and rosy red face from years of enjoying Jack Daniels. He did a comedy slot once every couple of weeks, which generally consisted of him talking for half an hour about his fetish for processed meats. On stage, he looked like a big American Santa Claus with a very strange fetish indeed.

“I know I am fit, but try telling that to my wife! She has me walking two miles everyday and eating nothing but goddamn sun flower seeds!”

We both laughed at his misfortune, as the waitress came over to take our drinks order.

By the time the first act finished, Tom had already bought and drunk two more JD and Cokes. Sorry, I mean two more JD and DIET Cokes. He would be very annoyed with me, if I didn’t make that clear. He was starting to look a little tipsy. His eyes were beginning to droop and he was starting to ramble on about things in which nobody in their right mind would be half interested.

“Did I tell you my wife got my dog’s hair cut?”

“No, Tom you didn’t.” I said dejectedly.

I realised another diatribe was on the way, so I decided to try to escape by climbing through my pint of beer. Unfortunately, I could only fit one hand into it, so I was stuck listening to another story. Not only that, but I now had to listen to it with a wet sleeve.

“Yeah, she took my beautiful St. Bernard dog, all 100 pounds of him, and got his hair cut like a goddamn poodle. His whole body was shaved apart from the end of his tale, his paws, and a streak down his back, which she gelled into a Mohican. I couldn’t believe it! I nearly jumped on her and shaved her hair off there and then. She said she did it, because I refused to let her get a poodle!”

“That’s terrible Tom.” I was stifling a laugh, as I tried to console the poor old guy.

This diatribe was actually turning out to be relatively amusing. I can just see him now, walking his recently sheared St. Bernard through San Francisco.

“Not only that, but she said that she would dye his hair pink next week, if I don’t allow her get a poodle … I am screwed.”

“Why don’t you just let her get one then?”

“A POODLE?! Are you mad?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No family member of mine is ever having a poodle. It isn’t a real dog. It’s a … it’s a … it’s a travesty of nature. That’s what it is.”

Tom was now waving his fist in the air and getting visibly agitated. His cheeks had gone from rosy to fiery red and he looked like he might well pull a Mount St. Helen and blow. I decided not to delve any further into Tom’s poodle phobia. You must remember that this is a man with a fetish for processed meats and therefore is clearly not a guy to be messed with.

The next two acts went by without a hitch and Tom seemed to have relaxed, after his poodle rant. I knew I was up soon, so I left Tom and made my way to the kitchen to tune up.