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 Audience of bikers? Better play to the crowd |
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| Audience of bikers? Better play to the crowd |
   
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A California Hells Angel named Todd spent half the evening on stage with the band Ball 'n' Jack on Saturday night at Marshall Mountain, freely picking up any instrument he wanted and screaming into the microphone. Photo by JAMIE KELLY/Missoulian
When a member of the Hells Angels grabs your guitar, you smile and let him play it.
That wasn't our first lesson of the evening on Saturday at Marshall Mountain, where my band, Ball 'n' Jack, was hired to provide musical entertainment for the world's most notorious motorcycle gang.
But it's certainly the one that stands out.
His name was Todd, and though I also learned his last name, I'm not foolish enough to print it. Todd is a California member of the Hells Angels, and so he traveled more than a thousand miles to join us on stage this night, freely grabbing our guitars and pounding randomly on my piano as he free-style rapped and screamed about his broken heart into our microphones.
Marley's ?Could You Be Loved? never sounded so ... different.
We didn't object, of course. Only when Todd grabbed my lead singer's prized - and pricey - acoustic, was there any sort of resistance on our part.
?Hey, please, I've had that guitar since I was 18,? said Mark Chase. ?It's really ... please be careful.?
What are you gonna do? The Hells Angels' compound at Marshall is secluded, and absolutely no outsiders are allowed in. You're never more acutely aware of that than when you're being called a ?retard? in front of a room full of large, leather-clad bikers and you have to nod your head in agreement. That again was Todd, who stared me down while I ordered a drink for my wife. I left without that drink.
I must say that Todd was the exception to what otherwise turned out to be a pretty tame gig. When the band first arrived at 5:30 p.m., we were escorted through an iron gate that was surrounded by a dozen Angels, some of them armed. At that point, there were hundreds of Hells Angels milling around, eating and sipping bottled water and Red Bulls. A few packed themselves into a small car and attempted to drive up the weedy face of Marshall. The night before, we were told, some of them were racing up the mountain on their Harleys.
Gig time was 8 p.m., so the band and the two ladies we brought with us - my wife Lena and Mark Chase's wife Lori - had a couple of hours to mill about before we performed.
The Hells Angels were gracious and generous.
?Anything you need,? said G.D., our Hells Angels contact, ?just let us know.?
It wasn't just talk. They helped haul our equipment and run the generator. They cooked us full-course steak dinners, and filled a tub full of beer, soda pop and bottled water for us.
They readily engaged in conversation, talking about where they came from, how long they've been in the gang and their love of the outdoors.
When asked about the police presence in Missoula during their stay, one answered: ?This is nothing. We're used to it. It's way more intense in other places.?
The compound itself was unbelievably clean - not a scrap of garbage. We were told to drive slowly to reduce dust pollution. The Hells Angels recruits, mostly young guys, wiped down tables in the main lodge and emptied the trash on a regular basis.
Under a tent by the stage, an older Angel was playing music from his laptop through the P.A. Now, we had assumed there's a certain style of music that most Hells Angels would find repugnant, so before the gig we revised our set list and dropped, for example, an Elton John tune. I had joked that we'd better not lead off the evening with the Carpenters.
So it was a little more than amusing when this old, leathered dude, tattooed to the hilt, started playing the dance remix of Cher's ?Believe.?
As the gig approached, most of the Hells Angels began to roar off on their Harleys to Missoula, and also to the Testicle Festival. G.D. had told us to expect that - that we weren't much of a draw compared to what these guys could get in Clinton.
In fact, only about 40 remained at Marshall, and most of them stayed inside the main lodge. We were banned from the lodge, told that there was a good chance there would be some illegal drug use. The last time I peeked in, there were several men hunched over at the bar, and I don't think they were inspecting the wood.
We played for four hours. As the sun settled, it got uncomfortably cold. Todd joined us on at least a dozen songs. He sidled up next to me and started hitting random notes on my piano during ?Can't You See.? Since I couldn't grab him by the ear and drag him off the stage, I figured I better make the best of things. So I pointed to some notes he could play that made musical sense.
Todd did just fine, and I told him so. ?Good job!? I said enthusiastically. Emboldened by the praise, he smiled and began pounding on the piano.
A half hour later, he was screaming incoherently and hitting his head against a metal pole, before throwing some folding chairs up on the tent roof.
The gig ended almost exactly at midnight. The four or five Hells Angels who remained outdoors gave us a golf clap. We tore down and loaded up the gear.
The old, grizzled man who had played Cher from his laptop stayed the entire night and watched us. He walked up on stage and shook our hands.
?You're a good band,? he said. ?I really liked your music.?
?Thank you,? I said, sensing a bit of loneliness in his wrinkled eyes. ?Good luck in your travels.?
http://www.missoulian.com/articles/2008/...cal/znews03.txt
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05.08.2008 16:54 |
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