Coworkers: Part 41 - Sixty Fans Can't Be Wrong

    Todd and I had quietly, callously, eased Rob out of the Backroom.
    Rob wasn't blind and he was none too happy.
    "Pair of fuckers. Act like you're gods back here!"
    He was correct, but that was the Sound Warehouse attitude.
    The Backroom was pretty much my domain now. Todd helped out on Shipment Day, while The Boss kept suggesting new helper jumble-heads. None of those worked out. Rob wasn't booted or anything so blatant. Todd and I simply worked well together and were very fast. Often, as Robster cruised in at 2:00, we had already polished off his Accessories. We then returned to C and E Chart boxes, and D Catalog from vendors, leaving Rob with nothing to do. We shouldn't have hopped over to Accessories before all CDs were processed, but ... well ... bastards.
    Now, arrogant behavior was rebounding back in my face.
    Todd still worked, yet he wasn't "there."
    The Toadies, while still struggling, were beginning to break out. Beyond Cowtown, beyond DFW, beyond Texas.
    Seemingly overnight, the band found themselves in-play in the music industry.
    Josh's persistent self promoting aside, the group still had no manager. Todd arranged bookings, scheduled events, entered competitions, negotiated on the telephone. Todd was still a major player on the Camp Bowie team, but the record shop had dropped in his priorities. On Truck Day, I was frequently the lone god. Rob heckled me, but he helped. For Todd, more employees picked up the slack and carried the weight. We wanted to help. From the beginning, we had wanted to support the group.
    Now, everyone could almost sense it.
    The Toadies, Todd, Lisa, Mark, and Darrel, they were about to become famous.
    Sure as hell hadn't happened overnight, though.

                 

    "Brought in a batch of new Toadies tunes this morning."
    Todd strode into the back Office / Break Area and plunked down a jam box. The store wouldn't open for another half hour. I clocked in with Greg, Trina, Diana, Dan and Todd. I was still a new hire, so I listened to be polite. I had never heard of The Toadies. Didn't know Todd had just created the group with Lisa and Charles. (Guitarist Charles had departed Camp Bowie as I joined.)
    Anyway, I'm sitting on the couch with Greg and Trina listening to noise.
    I didn't like it. Sounded like crap.
    Not the music, not the group. The recording. Todd had found an empty warehouse, car chop shop, slaughterhouse for practice sessions. The cassette was awash in feedback, echo, distortion, overload. Rehearsals of a raw band torturing instruments. Todd, howling away in a muddy mix, Lisa still learning how to play bass. Charles himself would laugh if someone called him a precision style guitarist. The drumming? Wasn't Mark, wasn't even Matt (Madison).
    Todd snapped off the the tape deck. Looked about.
    Greg and Trina gushed that it was great. Maybe I was just fucking old. Those two were 10 - 12 years younger than I.
    Todd looked at me.
    I shrugged. "Kinda murky, Dude. Hard to hear through all that distortion."
    Todd stared, expressionless. "Distortion is what this group is all about." If he was insulted, irritated or annoyed, he didn't show it. Todd had a good poker face.
    Over the months, everyone heard more taped rehearsals. Band technique improved significantly, slaughterhouse acoustics did not.
    They began making and selling cassettes. Todd turned to coworker Dan for artwork. Those cassettes, by the way, professionally recorded at Crystal Clear, didn't sound like amateur hour floundering.
    Club gigs were becoming realities.

    Week night.
    Zelda and I paid cover, bought drinks, then sat near John, Pat and Little E. Greg, Amster and Layla were in a booth with Dan and James. Behind us, Gilda, Rob, Trina, João and Josh yelled. There were other people, all friends of the band, and not a lot. The venue was cozy.
    We were at The Hop, a small bar on Berry Street.
    Weekends were for "name" bands, week nights for nobodies. Correction, nobodies never got bookings to begin with.
    Toadies were performing and celebrating Todd's birthday. Combination event!
    The Hop manager leaned across the bar and smoked, appraising the band and tables. Weary and jaded. Clearly, he'd seen it all. Young punks clawing their way up, has-beens sliding down. New acts that turned a profit earned repeat chances for the weekend slot. Groups that lost money ... they tried their luck at Axis or Joe's Garage. Tonight's audience numbered twenty five or thirty. Period. Sound Warehouse coworkers dominated, along with buddies and fans.
    Matt, long haired and shirtless, pounded away on drums.
    Tracey shifted around near the back, layering rhythm.
    Lisa stood anchored in front of her amp, over which she'd masking taped FUCK FUNK.
    Charles rolled around and hammered away on a hapless Gibson.
    Todd wailed, screamed and dodged a constant artillery barrage. Fans tossed flour tortillas, Frisbee like, throughout the set. Remember, this was his birthday.
    Receipts must have passed the mark. The group was invited back. They also began opening in clubs in Dallas, Denton and thereabouts.

    After a certain level, local music brokers began to notice.
    Club owners and radio personalities.
    Sometimes they could help, other times ...
    There was an influential radio personality. A deejay. Aired local bands and major alternative acts.
    Never placed The Toadies in rotation. Never cast one song.
    "Man, those guys are really angry," was one his responses.
    Another excuse, usually quipped after an on-air request, "Oh yeah, The Toadies. For who, their sixty fans?"
    Didn't know if he was referencing Elvis, Ochs, or just being cute. No matter. The celebrated radio host never played the group.
    Cassettes: Slaphead, Dig A Hole then Velvet, were sold at concerts and in the Camp Bowie store. Dan had designed covers for the latter two.
    Radio stations would not broadcast the band. Corporate rockosaurs - college stations - the influential alternative joint.
    Program Directors couldn't be bothered. There were a couple of newspaper columnists, several club managers, and those pesky sixty fans.
    Then bookings tanked.
    Suits offered to "manage" the group. For a percentage. Venue performances were denied ... unless ... the band signed that management agreement.
    Financial coercion, all too typical on the Rock N Roll Highway. Shysters and hustlers, greedy for a cut or a slice here and there.
    Casual graft, the perils of success.
    Reference Badfinger.
    The band retreated to home turf in Fort Worth. The Hop, Mad Hatters, Engine Room.
    Even in Cowtown, however, betrayals occurred.

                          

    Zelda and I were barred. We were at The Hop again, trying to pay cover. Under orders, the bouncer was carding everyone. Zelda had not brought identification. Last time Zelda had been ID'd was at the Whisky in the 70s. My drivers license showed I was 37. I blurted out that Zelda was older than I, which earned me a swift kick. We still didn't get in. The doorman wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was only following orders. A majority of clubbers were turned away. Guru hustled out and tried to argue us inside. Then Todd tried. No good.
    The group was being squeezed again. The less fans got in, the smaller the band's take.
    Once again, the "management offer" had been extended.
    The percentage skim.
    There were late night phone calls from all strata of personalities, reminding the group how much simpler life was with a little compromise.
    Cooperation.
    Most of us at Camp Bowie offered stupid advice. We were clueless, but we wanted to help.
    Dallas was a hot scene, I suggested to Todd he might talk to some of the other bands who had "made it." See if they had any tips.
    He thought that was a good idea. Whether he contacted anyone ... I don't know.
    This was a difficult period.

                       

    After South By Southwest, the band's fortunes improved dramatically. They had wowed the audience, and caught the gaze of several labels. Contracts didn't happen, however. Don't know whether this was the group's reluctance, or the music machine was wary of Dallas. A few years earlier, a dozen Dallas groups inked deals. Only one had scaled the charts, and they had already faded.
    Most of those wheeler dealers extended offers over the telephone. Todd was in and out of the Backroom a lot. Very distracted.
    Deciding on which label to represent them was monumental.
    Of course, coworkers aired their suggestions. Restless, BMG, Reprise, Def American, RYKO, Sub Pop, Epitaph.
    To be honest, we knew shit. Plus, it wasn't our future at stake.
    One rep who actually walked into the Backroom was from Grass Records, a branch of the Dutch East India Trading indie line.
    They gave the band national exposure and distribution. Moreover, Grass delayed the band's decision about a major label awhile longer.
    During this period, the group lineup shifted.

                       

    The only time I remember Todd actually asking for my help was for a Grass tribute album the band would participate on.
    Chairman Of The Board - Interpretations Of Songs Made Famous By Frank Sinatra.
    Every large music store had at least one resident Sinatra buff. At Camp Bowie, that was me.
    I brought in a pile of CDs that Todd listened to during several weeks.
    Eventually, he chose "Luck Be A Lady: because of the lyric, " ... A lady doesn't wander all over the room, and blow on some other guy's dice ... "
    He found that funny as hell.
    The Sinatra tribute came out. Pleather came out. The original artwork on Pleather was not Dan's. It was special, though.
    By now, local club doors were flung wide for The Toadies. Paradoxically, seeing them became increasingly difficult. The fanbase had exploded into an avalanche. Theaters and clubs were mobbed. Hundreds upon hundreds of followers packed sweaty joints. For many of the original Sound Warehouse crew, those who clocked out at 11:00 or past midnight, club doors were locked. They couldn't get in. They'd arrived too late. Shows were sold out and fire marshals enforced crowd limits.
    In a way, that was for the best. This was the end of an era.
    The Toadies didn't really need us any more. The sixty fans.
    Audiences were growing. All too soon, the group would leap from ballrooms to amphitheaters to arenas.
    You want your friends to do well in this world. To succeed.
    The Toadies had succeeded. It had not been easy, had definitely not happened overnight. The group had worked tirelessly, they had persisted, they had endured. They navigated through minefields, swerved shysters, found their voice, slammed their way into the light.
    Now and then, one of us might spy another early fan in the vortex of the concert hall.
    There would be that flash of recognition, then we'd exchange a knowing glance.
    Sixty fans can't be wrong.

                                   





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Customers: Part 10 - Hotmom

     She was a Regular before I began working. Shopped once a month, primarily for Rock. Maybe some Country artists, if their music sounded like Skynyrd or ZZ Top. Groups that wore cowboy hats, but were otherwise rockers. Half the staff knew her name, chatted with her, then forgot about her once she hit the exit.
     Had at least one child that we were aware of. Didn't focus on her, either.
     Then the daughter started senior year, high school.
     About the time, our Regular got that name, Hotmom.

     The daughter began showing up with jeans hitched low and snug. Panties were replaced with string undies. Tops rode higher. She wasn't what we'd call a Regular at our store. More likely, she was a Regular at the tanning salon. Mid December, she'd cruise in, skin stained mocha. Her teeth were professionally whitened and she had either enrolled in gymnastics class or gotten a gym membership.
     Hotmom also lost weight. Her blouses were cut low and open, better to display who had the biggest cleavage of them all. Also hit the tanning beds. Over her jeans she flashed the new tattoo. Tramp stamp.
     Behavior reminded us of an eternal competition. Mother vs. daughter. Youth vs. experience. Cougars who sometimes eat their young.
     Most of the girls at Camp Bowie noticed and exchanged comments.
     "She's too old for that tattoo."
     "Was that Japanese or a butterfly?"
     "Those pants haven't fit her since eighth grade."
     "Ow! My eyes."
     "She looks good to me. I want to see her wearing that leather jacket, and only that leather jacket."
     "No way that is her real hair color."
     "Hey, heifer, bull riding's yonder."
     "Last weekend, I saw her at the same club I go to! Grinding away."
     "How can she parade in public like that?"
     "Look! Wait ... If she ... just about ... One's loose."
     "I say, are they real, or are they Memorex? I'm not saying, I'm just saying."
     Several of these in-store critics were Hotmom's contemporaries. Also tattooed and pierced. Also preferred flattering attire. And hadn't they stalked the same clubs? It was also none of their business, but that rarely curbed opinions. If girls sought support from male coworkers, referencing blonde rinse or silicone, males generally confessed, "Huh? Like we know the difference? Like we care."
     That response didn't fly too well.
     Tell the truth, I liked Hotmom. She was funny, and in the best light she might be considered ... oh ...

    What was that question again?
    Gents treated Hotmom, like we treated fellow male customers who had become old-guy-at-the-club. We pretended they were whatever age they acted like. For years, we heckled wrinkling guys who strutted about with their shirts open, exposing sexy gray haired chests, or boasted tanned foreheads designed for widescreen viewing. It was easy for men to kick other men. With women, it was tricky.
     One staff member, whose name I have conveniently forgotten, started needling Hotmom, asked her about wildly popular boy bands, adolescent girl singers, Radio Disney.
     That Radio Disney was a mistake.
     Hotmom was not amused. She was noisy, too.

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Coworkers: Part 42 - Ambushed‏

     "This Backroom is a complete catastrophe!"
     I was processing the DC shipment when Dan walked back with Greta, the newest District Manager. She was conducting a Gotcha Inspection. Greta was DM Numero-4. I had already served under Karn Evil, Karn II (aka: Karn the Bastard), Fran. Each of these types inspected. Karn Evil often popped in monthly. Yet, those first three came in, on appointment or by surprise, when The Boss worked.
     Greta preferred to strike on The Boss's day off.
     Here she was, and she had been giving Dan the third degree.
     Now it was my turn.
     "Why isn't the Backroom organized?"
     "It is organized," I countered. All my life, I advised guys to never argue with women. That afternoon, I was as crafty as an egg sandwich.
     "How? Show me."
     "Stack of A-Chart here, next to that AA-Chart. Then New Release, and New Additions. Then B - C - E. Finally, the label drops. The Accessor -- "
     "And why isn't the floor marked off with tape?"
     Because that was a stupid idea only used by dimwits, I instantly thought. Instead, I made a face.
     "When I was Backroom Manager I always ... "
     There it was, the wisdom of a chronic masking tape wacko. Spare me, please.
     " ... taped the floor so that Inventory stayed within specific boundaries ... "
     Like I told her. We had stack A, stack NR, etc ... Single digit IQ's weren't hired at Camp Bowie. Tape on floor always became tape jamming the pallet jack. Grief.
     " ... so that my guys, and I had a crew of ten -- thank you -- ten very troublesome Backroom guys who needed direction at all times, and if I didn't -- "
     "Uhh," Dan broke her rant, "Worthy only has a crew of one, not ten. We don't have that kind of budget, remember. On Truck Day, Rob and Todd -- "
     "I don't see any other help. I don't see any tape!"
     Greta had the mindset of a freight truck.
     "Rob won't clock in until two. In about five minutes, he'll -- "
     "And what about this Todd person? Where is the famous Todd, Rock Star?" she asked, sarcastic.
     Todd was preoccupied. The band thing was going nuts. Label reps dropped in weekly, there were calls, letters, appearances. The Toadies had no real manager, Todd dealt with everything himself. Sometimes, after a call, he'd say, "I'll be back," then clock out and be away for hours.
     Like today.
     "My God! What is with all those posters?" Greta cried. "Gator Bait?"
     Ours boasted one of the biggest Backrooms in the District. The long wall had been smothered in posters over the years. Rock groups and exploitation films.
     "Pretty cool, aren't they?" Dan laughed. At least Greta was no longer interrogating me.
     "And these carts!" She began counting. "Do you honest to God need twenty - - I can't believe it - - twenty shopping carts?"
     Damnit.
     "Yes. We do," I answered. "Maybe not today, but when Christmas season slams us, every one of those carts will be packed."
     "This store is completely out of control!"
     Drama queen in pissy pants.
     "Hello, fuckers."
     Rob.
     "Excuse me!"
     More screaming.
     Dan stared at the floor, I gazed towards Louisiana. If so much as a chuckle escaped ...
     "Oh, sorry. I was referring to Worthy and T -- "
     "Robert. Could you watch the Floor while I accompany Greta?" Dan threw him an escape hatch.
     "Straight away." Rob backed out smoothly.

     Greta decried extra CD bin racks, the shrink wrap machine, the wall of Returns and Defectives. Crap that had been sorted there since the Peaches era.
     Greta had missed her calling. Prison warden would have suited her better. Bare walls, shackled inmates.
     Finally, she wheeled and marched out, turned down the hallway toward the Office. I overheard yowls of outrage. The hallway wall was plastered with posters, prints and flats. Most were autographed by musicians, famous and obscure. Years of In-Store events. Greta didn't recognize the chaotic imprint of the music world. Only litter on pristine walls.
     Next stop, the Office, which always looked like a dump truck had capsized.
     James had chosen, of all times in the week, that afternoon to reorganize his desk.
      Several other employees were eating lunch.
     And hurling french fries at each other.
     After awhile, I believe Greta damaged her vocal chords.
     At least it was quieter.

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