This one time,
back with the Irish
band, we played at
at the anniversary of
some bike gang.
They paid us in rolls
They said lewd things
to the violin player.
One time she was sawing
away, and a beer-gut biker-guy,
his helmet on, his chin strap swaying,
his tummy wobbling out from under
his Motorhead t-shirt, shouted, “faster!
She raised her eyebrows over her fiddle
and said, “I can’t or I’ll fall off”
“Not if you were on me babe!” came his
I had blisters on my fingers. We played for five
hours instead of the usual four (and I’d been at
a rehearsal with another band earlier that day).
They refused us the chance to stop. Asking how much
to play for longer. And our singer joked that they’d need
to pay us another $400 at least for an hour or so.
Over to the bar in their headquarters and more rolled up
The instruction to play for two more hours was barked
And we did. We played Drunken Sailor about six times that
night. And we played 500 Miles at least twice. And Dirty
Dirty Old Town was fucking right.
Best crowd I reckon I ever played to. They were super-invested.
Almost literally, I guess.
Best pay-day too.
My drums had been stolen earlier that week. My
car as well.
A mate sat outside waiting for me – and then we
loaded the hire kit into his car, sometime around
2am or 3am.
A good gig.
A good mate.
A good crowd.
I’d turn up to that dirty old place and
see those dirty old faces and play
the shit out of Dirty Old Town for
those rotten old clowns any fucking
day of the week.
Let it rain a shit-ton of twenty-dollar
Let it rain from the rafters.
Good weed money.
From people that
liked to party and knew how to and
valued it on all levels.