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Friday, November 10, 2006


As Mad Jack finished up our last song, the superhot blond chick returned to likewise bless my brother with her welcome attentions. Sister-in-law wasn't there to witness the fun. "You saw it -- I didn't do anything to make that happen," my brother said to me. My reply: "What COULD you do to make that happen -- kidnapping and torture?"

Maestro had a piece of classical music on CD that he gave our sound guy to play for The Burners' opening. Brinie, Bad Bobby and Johnny were instructed to hit a "G major crescendo" at the appointed moment. Maestro had to explain to my brother what a crescendo was. The gimmick worked well.

The moment The Burners began playing, I knew I was in trouble. The singer's performance-killing nemesis -- lack of vocal monitor -- was back with a vengeance. It turns out that The Burners' stage volume was, to put it mildly, a lot louder than Mad Jack's. In fact, my brother thought his bass amp was turned off at first. He had to crank it up just to hear himself. As I told him later, "The only (expletive) on that stage who can't turn up is the singer." Since we were playing it as a two-hour-plus set -- no break -- there wasn't time to discuss or correct. So it was a brutal couple of hours for Yours Truly. I couldn't croon. I could only make an educated guess as to what I was putting out there. I listened to it later on video. Though I didn't go sharp or flat too often, I can tell I'm straining instead of crooning. Heartbreaking. Don't get me wrong; we put on a great show. It's just that I got little return on my three months of rehearsal.

We broke down the stage after the show. Brinie, Maestro, Mrs. Maestro, Karch, Nephew and myself went to a diner on the White Horse Pike for omelettes. We were right across the street from the good old Galaxy nightclub, the very same place that launched the careers of Cinderella and Britney Fox. I played there four times; Brinie and Karch played there dozens of times; Maestro no doubt played there -- all in the '80s, when you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a honey in a black leather miniskirt, high heels and teased-up hair.


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