You were practicing for months – got kicked out of every garage you set up in. Too loud.
Finally pooled your money and rented a rehearsal room. Padded walls, mildew and ten year-old cigarettes.
You had a plan – talent show was coming up – every Senior with a guitar or set of drums wanted to be in it.
You were going to blow them all away. You were going to be Kiss. You were going to dress for the part, even down to the makeup.
Favorite band in the world – wanted to be just like them. Wanted those platform shoes.
So you practiced – finally got King Of The Night Time World note perfect after a month of trying.
You could only do two numbers – you all voted on Flaming Youth for the second one.
Sounded okay but didn’t sound right. You needed bigger amplifiers – like really big.
Friend’s cousin’s brother worked for a rental house – Marshall stacks and a promise you’d hand over a Kidney if they came back with a scratch.
Signed your life away.
Girlfriend took you shopping. Spandex, platforms and a months worth of bagging groceries at Safeway to pay for it.
Bass player’s sister did makeup. She was into it but she kept making you look like The New York Dolls. Kept showing her album covers to get the idea.
Called in every favor of anybody you ever went to school with to help lug equipment to the auditorium.
Day of the show – curtains draw back – audible gasp from the audience – then shouting and loud applause.
Suddenly you are scared shitless – you forgot how the song started – platform shoes make you look five feet off the ground. Spotlight hits the bass player – blinds him and he trips over the mic stand.
Lands face up on the floor and can’t stand up. Stage crew lifts him upright. Tries to act cool, but . . .
Show must go on.
Everything starts and its not the way you imagined it. Nobody can hear the vocals. They can hardly hear the drums. The Marshall stack is drowning everything out.
If it played the song that would be one thing. The Marshall Stack and the Fender it’s attached to are on another planet.
You pretend nothing is wrong and you keep going – even though what you’re playing and what the lead guitar is playing are not the same song, not even the same key.
Nobody seems to mind since nobody can hear what the rest of the band is playing anyway.
You more or less stop. The front row gives you a standing ovation, for no particular reason.
One more song and you have nothing left to lose.
Midway through you get in a fight with the guitarist, trying to get him to turn down his amp. Nothing doing.
Finally, you run over to the Marshall Stack and in your best Pete Townshend launch your guitar straight into the speakers.
Ripped speaker grill – shredded speaker – no more sound and you forgot the promise you made about no scratches.
It turns into a free-for-all with sticks, cymbals and side-toms flying. Guitars and amps splintering, strewn all over in electronic debris. The Boys Vice-Principal runs on stage to stop the carnage followed by the Student Body President.
When it was over, the band broke up, the repair bill for the Marshall Stack was for more money than you’d make all year. None of your friends are speaking to you – you traded your Kiss albums in at Rhino and managed to get $10.00 for them.
Your Rock n’ Roll days have come and gone – you decided being a spectator was the safest thing.
Your imagination is confined to your radio – gazing at it and wondering if things were different.
In your mind you’re Jimmy Page – in reality you’re the forever bag-boy at Safeway.
Here’s an hour’s worth of KTNQ from March 1977 to listen to and wonder about.
