A few years ago I worked as a sound technician for a small time band. Some of you may know this already and some do not. However, I have always stayed away from the story of why I left the band. It is not a favorite memory for me. The real tale is more about the person I am and not about my differences with band. So let me bring you up to speed.

It was a cold December evening in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.  Christmas was right around the corner.   I was 24 years old and I had been a member of "NailDrivers" for almost a year and a half.  In the 17 months that I ran sound for them, we played a number of different bars and fraternity houses across the country, including the "Whiskey-A-Go-Go" in Los Angeles. We became a fairly tight-knit group of friends. Things changed that brisk evening at our home bar, "Arenas."

The show started out as shows at "Arenas" typically did, with a good sandwich and some locally brewed beer. This night ended up including a bit too much beer as it progressed. Being a sound technician is fun but difficult, and sometimes stressful, work. You must make sure all the sounds "mesh." Does there need to be more bass guitar? Is the high end too high on the microphone? Should I bring up the volume of the kick-drum? Questions like this constantly need answers. Anyone in the bar would see me running all around with my ear turned towards the stage. That night, however, I should have just kept my seat, grabbed a beer, and relaxed. This was to be my last show with them.

The first set went on as per usual with a fair amount of energy. Unfortunately, because we knew everyone in the bar, the relaxed state allowed judgments, in my view, to slip among the band members. As the show went on, the beer continued to flow towards the stage. Maybe I took my job too seriously or maybe I should have had a bit more beer myself, but as the night went on, the job of getting a good sound out of the speakers became virtually impossible.  It was apparent just how drunk they were getting.  That is when I lost my cool.

The show was all but over and by the time I had got angry, the performing members were "drunk as hell." The sounds that emerged from the instruments sounded more like "a bunch of pissed off alley cats" and, midway through the last set I finally gave up. I stood up, grabbed a cigarette, and walked out, leaving the sound board running.  I was so angry at them for embarrassing me so deeply. If the noise coming out of the speakers is my responsibility, then that night was an utter failure of my own doing. And, to me, it was my failure because they were "too drunk to give a damn just how hard I had tried to work that show." I was disappointed in their lack of professionalism and the fact they seemed to not care that I was hurt by their actions. Sitting outside the bar under an umbrella, I waited for them to finish "killing the cat" so I could go in, pack up the gear, and get the hell out of there. I did not even wait for them to finish packing their gear before I was already headed home via foot power. We only lived about three miles from "Arenas" and the cool night air felt calming as I began my 30 to 45 minute walk home.

I had almost reached the halfway point when I heard the rumble of a diesel engine approaching. As I suspected, it was the band van on their way home as well. They slowed to let me in, but instead, without looking in their direction, I thrust the middle finger of my left hand in the air and very plainly stated the definition of the gesture I was making. They got the point and continued past me, down the long street, and made the expected left turn onto Crazy Lane where the house was. I continued my stroll home, allowing the fresh air to clear the rage from my head with each breath. I had to be calm when I got home so I spent the remainder of the trip the letting go of the anger.  Besides, what was done could not be changed. I knew my time with the band was ending.  I just had to make sure they knew why.

By the time I reached the house, I knew it was not going to be easy. It seems that an after party sprung up at our place between my departure from the bar and my arrival home. I opened the door, ignored all the people in the kitchen, and headed up to my room. When I got there, Chet was waiting for me with a beer in hand for us both. Unhappy with the night's issues, I reluctantly accepted this peace offering. We sat down and I let him know just how I felt. I told of the embarrassment I felt from the horrible sound that I heard. How I felt as if everyone in the place, all my friends, were simply just shaking their heads at my pathetic attempts to create an enjoyable sound for them to listen to. I told him how I thought they were "completely unprofessional" and that they made me look like an ass. He just sat there and listened. Thinking back, that probably saved our friendship. When I was done exploding, we decided it was best for all involved if they found a new sound technician to replace me. It turned out to be our roadie, Ron, who stepped up and took my place.

I went on living with the band, helping Ron learn the job, for another year and a half before getting my own apartment. Over time, the "Arena Incident" faded from our emotional memories and things got back to normal. I was no longer working for them, but with the absence of a professional relationship, our personal friendships took over and bygones were bygones. I think back and sometimes curse myself for not just enjoying that night and for not getting over it before I lost it. Other times I praise myself for standing up for myself and what I believed in. If I had it all to do again, I would probably do it the same. I am stubborn like that.  The worst was that I really disliked the feelings I had that night. But I have found, like so many other moments in my life, that this was a moment of change, like all previous ones, that was inevitable. It had been time to move on and, as George Thorogood says, "get a haircut and get a real job." I guess it was time to shave the beard as well.

I still talk to Geno, the guitar player, and Scot, the drummer, every few years or so, but we have all moved on. I had a great time with the band and was sad to see it end, especially in the manner that it did. About five months after we dissolved our working relationship, the band split. I like to think it was because they lacked what I brought to the table, but I knew the truth. Everyone just simply grew up. I even grew up as well, if you can believe it. I am still a bit of a hot head, but now I have full control over how I express those feelings. At least, I hope I have control.