On a whim, we started a Godsmack cover band, our schtick being we only played Alice In Chains songs. We toured extensively after we learned to play our instruments, hitting the bars in Tempe and Old Town Scottsdale. We developed quite a following, fans asking for autographs, drumsticks, selfies with us in the background. We added an opener soon after our debut, three guys and a lady drummer who billed themselves as an Alice In Chains cover band, their schtick being they only played Godsmack songs but in the Ska Punk style of early Goldfinger, before Darrin Pfeiffer left the band to play with Sum 41.
Together we played birthday parties, junior high proms. We entered a Pearl Jam cover band contest--The Battle of the Pearl Jammers!--and took first place. The previous year's winner--a 82 piece orchestra which exclusively played songs off the Yield album (1998)--said our rendition of "Jeremy," which was actually "Down in a Hole" with a 16 minute trombone solo, which we stole from our opener after they switched their aesthetic to nu metal and we added their horn players, was the best they ever heard.
That contest's afterparty was something else. Our drummer--who was the Alice In Chains cover band drummer, but who quit during their performance of "I Stand Alone" from The Scorpion King soundtrack (2002) and replaced our original drummer, that no good hack, after he bailed due to creative differences on how we should approach "Man in the Box"--disappeared with the cellist from the Pearl Jam orchestra to do blow and bang in the bathroom. This was at the Masonic Temple in Phoenix. Maynard from Tool was there and ordering drinks for his friends. We said, Maynard, oh my god, Maynard. Where's Danny Carey, Maynard? Where's Justin Chancellor? Where's Adam Jones or Paz Lenchantin? Where's Troy Van Leeuwen or your pals from Puscifer, Maynard? And Manyard said, ha ha. He said, are you serious? He said, I'm 6'5 and 300 pounds, I'm not fucking Maynard. And we said oh, Maynard, you're so dark and mysterious. Take us astro-projecting through the stars with your lyrics, Maynard. Take us to the deepest depths of the human condition. And Maynard said, what the fuck is wrong with you? We said, play "The Pot," Maynard. Pour us some of your wine, because everyone knew Maynard owned and operated a winery in northern Arizona. Then our drummer returned from the bathroom, and she added a fresh coat of lipstick and said, "oh, glorious singer of 'Lateralus,' make my body your terroir," which is the original French for the soil, topography, and other climatic factors in which a particular wine is produced. Maynard's eyes got real wide, and he handed his beer to the girl next to him--his wife or sister, who knew?--and said "I, uh, gotta go use the bathroom real quick, honey."
Our band broke up after that. In the parking lot as we loaded our van after the show. We had a small fight over what we were going to name our first album, when we wrote and recorded a first album, then a large fight over who got to take the trophy home for winning the contest. Years later I heard our new drummer earned a PhD in robotics and actually married our old drummer, that talentless sonofabitch. Together they own and operate a house painting company in Apache Junction. Our bassist apparently joined the Pearl Jam Orchestra as the third seat bikelophoner, and our backup guitarist became the GM of our local Bashas grocery store. Our lead guitarist taught high school band, providing children erudition on the unbound freedom of personal expression through the art of playing Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train" and/or Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" every Friday night to dozens and dozens of screaming high school football fans.
I lost track of our lead singer altogether. Hadn't heard from him in years. Then one night I went to see an Outlaw Country tribute show at the Rhythm Room near 10th St. The Waylon Jennings impersonator sang all of Jennings' heartbreaking standards, "Just To Satisfy You," "Lukenbach, Texas," "Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys," going so far to even pinch his nose when he sang Willie Nelson's parts. With the stage lights in my eyes, it was easy to forget Jennings died 20 years earlier, and it wasn't our own lead singer up there at the mic, his hair long and greasy, a toothpick dangling from his bearded mouth, his button down shirt so sweaty it was see-through under his leather vest, his Tele Squire painted black and white like Waylon's old custom which Nicole Kidman had bought at auction for $98,000 in 2009 and gifted to Keith Urban for his birthday.
After the show, when the house lights were up and the venue was just another empty room, I meandered over to our lead singer tossing back shots with the groupies and stragglers and hangers-on. He smiled the instant he saw me, and I smiled, and he put his hand on my shoulder and shook me, and we laughed and toasted our water-downed tequila.
"So where's your pen?" he said, and pointed to someone so they would take our picture. He repeated the question and called me "hoss" when I didn't understand, then signed a coaster and handed it to me. "Well, thanks for coming out," he said, and "you get on home all right now, you hear?" before asking the bartender for another round.
In the parking lot I stood at my van, the coaster pinched between my fingers. I debated storming back inside and making a big scene, a big fuss so he would cut the shit and remember, no, acknowledge those times we had. Those songs we played. Or at least ask if he needed an addition to his rhythm section. An understudy if someone got sick, maybe. Instead, I drove home. I went to bed. My students would be on the field early in the morning for practice, and I had to teach them "Joy to the World" before next Friday's big game against Saguaro High.
