… Wherein our hero comes forth with (some of) his vulnerabilities
From the memories of former Homewreckers band front man Steven J Athanas
If female charm was something that steered my libidinous map in the ‘70s, ‘80s and beyond, it wasn’t my only vice. My carcass was ripe with shortcomings, cravings, challenges that consistently threw me off my path … see, that’s the thing about vices; you can never have too many – or so you think.
When one works in an environment where spirits (of the alcoholic variety) are dominant, where the establishment itself is maintained through the sale and consumption of said spirits … well, it’s oh so easy to fall prey to its charms.
I think we can all agree that the whole nightclub scene has always been aligned with liquor – to the point of being nearly non-existent without it. Kinda stating the obvious, I suppose.
“Oh, demon alcohol, sad memories I can’t recall,
Ray Davies, lead singer of The Kinks
who thought I would fall, a slave to demon alcohol?
To an extent, this codependency is true of rock’n’roll. Take the holiest of holies, the Catholic Church. Their summer festivals would be pretty lame if not for the pairing up of rock’n’roll and beer. I’ve been there; I speak from experience. Many’s the time that the “king pole” that holds up the tent (I had to Google that one) was transitioned into a makeshift stripper’s pole. How many “Hail Marys” to cleanse your soul of that?
So it’s quite a challenge to not succumb, when you’re in the thick of it. And to add to that, quite often we got our drinks free! At Howard’s Club H in Bowling Green, I had a signal for one of the bartenders. If I positioned my hand like I was gonna shoot myself in the head, it meant “Gimme a shot!” So easy. Honestly? There were nights I had no business driving home from BG.
As a matter of fact, there once was a time I was driving home around 3 a.m., inebriated, and I heard the sirens. The officer got out of his car, walked up to my car and asked, “Is there a reason you were going so fast?”
I, of course, was frantic. I’m not sure why I said it, but I responded “‘Cuz I got real bad diarrhea.”
He laughed and said, “Get outta here.”
A close one, for sure.
I mean, the term itself, bar band, pretty much says it all. I won’t pretend to be some sort of sociological analyst, but I would think that most musicians in that situation would be vulnerable, to one degree or another. There were some nights when the band’s bar tab came frighteningly close to surpassing our fee!
The Homewreckers once had a sax player who had a drinking problem. Our relationship went back to when I was a kid, as this guy’s family grew up next to my family in the Colony. We were neighbors. He was older than me, and I would hear him practicing in the summer when the windows were open. I was entranced.
Truth be told, Bobby was influential in getting me into rock’n’roll. He had played with Wayne Cochran and others of note, and got a lot of his chops from playing the bars in the French Quarter in New Orleans, which some might call the drinking capital of the U.S.
When he joined the band, it was sadly the old cliché: He drank like a fish. The amazing thing was it didn’t affect his playing! He was a great saxophonist in spite of his drinking. I’d never encountered anything like it. He bitched about having to play Clarence Clemons’ sax work on Rosalita. “That guy sucks,” he’d grumble, but he’d always nail it.
We once played a weekend gig on Catawba Island, and they gave us a few cabins to stay in. One day we rehearsed in the afternoon at the club. When we got back to the cabins they were unexpectedly locked and we had no keys. The sax player, already three sheets, yelled and bitched, then finally, after waiting too long, just ripped the door off the hinges.
The amazing thing was we didn’t get fired for his stunt. We chose to not let the club owner know until the end of the gig, and the repair bill was taken out of his pay (all of it).
So you might be asking: What about me?
I am not ready to spill all my beans (or grapes, as the case may be); it’s too close to the bone, the word “uncomfortable” comes to mind. Does that surprise you?
My parents were both heavy partiers. We had an in-ground swimming pool in our backyard in Old Orchard, and many a night there would be wild revelry from my parents and their friends. It’s fair to say that liquor was always around in my life.
Still, it would be misleading to put that all on my folks. The people I hung with, playing in bars for five decades, the availability of booze…it drew me in. I mean, I don’t wake up craving a screwdriver first thing in the morning, never had a DUI, don’t get sloppy drunk (anymore), but I will have a glass or two of wine with dinner on most nights.
Having said all that, yes, there was a time when I would get pretty shit-faced way too often. The question became, “What am I gonna punish my liver with tonight?” Getting it free in the bars and then going to after-hour parties, well it was pretty wild – what I recall of it.
I do recall an incident when I was with The Raisin Band. We were on the road, somewhere in the Deep South, and we had a night off between gigs. On a warm summer night, we ventured to the liquor store and picked up a bottle of Rebel Yell (seemed apropos). After consuming no small amount, a couple of the guys decided to take a ride to get some food: not the best idea. The rest of us continued partying, and after awhile the two returned and they had a stop light! They had somehow taken down an actual traffic stop light and brought it back to the room, laughing their asses off. No inhibitions there!
But here I am, still vertical to the planet, able to function as a (somewhat) normal human being. There is/was no AA, no interventions, no come-to-Jesus moment for all of this. All of those wild, wild times, putting Life on the line, all that wild abandon, just lost its charm for me. I sure as hell don’t think I’m any kind of Superman, able to leap tall vices in a single bound, it just happened, and I’m thankful for that. My therapist would probably tell me I’m full of shit, but that’s where I’m at and I’m sticking to my story.
At this stage, it goes without saying I am very lucky for all the stupid shit I got away with. They’re good stories, I think, and the reason I write this column. As we all know, some of us aren’t so lucky.
Anyway, I gotta wrap this up, ‘cuz as they always say, “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere …”
Jus’ kiddin’.
