A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || October 29, 2001 || 12:38 am

You ever play a gig where you do three songs, break for a couple wrestling matches, do three more songs, break for a couple more wrestling matches, and to throw the crowd off do a nifty little ditty DURING a ‘wrassler’s’ intro, entrance and part of the match?

No?? Okay, then, it is just me. And to all you aspiring musicians out there….I’d say that you should pass on anything remotely resembling last night’s Slam’n'Jam….*sigh*

So after we broke and posse’d up in the purty little Saturncar, Maxim and I headed further into Birmingham to eat, drink, be merry and drink some more. After a couple of hours lingering over nine-layer black bean dip and countless pints of microbrewwwww, Maxim declared,

“My face is numb. We ought to head home.”

I agreed, and we travelled the six blocks to our car, laughing foolishly and unencumbered.

An hour later, closer to home, we stopped for milkshakes at a late diner. On the way up the mountain Maxim was in the midst of one of his radio-ADD surfing fits when I heard the familiar strains of “Fat Bottom Girls” begin. I jacked the volume knob around to the right and let out a whoop worthy of a redneck mating call.

“FAT…BOTTOM…GIRLLLLS!!!,”

I cried, and Maxim looked puzzled.

“Whaaaa….??”

“Fat Bottom Girls!” I exclaimed gleefully,”You mean you don’t recognize this song?”

“Monkey, I have never even heard of this song….”

Before you even say a word, I’ll see your amazement and just raise you one big DAMN, I KNOW, and tell you I felt much the same way as you do now upon finding out that he had no earthly idea who Styx was. I immediately made him sit down and listen to the ‘Paradise Theater‘ album in its’ entirity. Also included in the tutorial were ‘The Grand Illusion’ and ‘Pieces of Eight’. I’m a great partner like that.

So anyhow, I beseeched him to just listen as I cackled wildly. About half a verse in, he said, “Waittadamnminute….is this Queen??” I nodded vigorously, baring all manner of happyteeth, and he moaned, “I haaaaaate Queen!

“Just listen, whinerpants! This song is a HOOT!” And I commenced car-dancing and loudly accompanying Mr. Mercury as his back up vocalist, and eventually Maxim did actually seem to be enjoying the song. He especially liked the bit where I powered open the sunroof just in time for the bridge/change where lovely Freddy shouts out “Get on yer ______ and riiide!”. At that precise moment, I was torso-out, arms flung wide, singing to the Appalachian chain while shakin’ my booty in his face. Too much merriment.

Lucky me, ’twas a two-song set, and ‘Another One Bites The Dust‘ was up next, bringing back a fond childhood memory.

When I was a kid, we had music class every fucking day. Tuesdays were ‘Music Share’ days, which was the musical equivalent of show and tell. You got to bring in your own music on LP and the class would give it a spin. Apparently our musical minds were expanded via this sharing of aural tastes and textures. Okay.

Well, one Saturday morning I had decided that if I heard another lame 45 of do-si-do, nursery rhyme horseshit, I would lose my everlovin’ third-grade mind. I gathered my change, plunked down something like $0.37 plus tax and secured myself a little ole Queen single. I bore that bad boy carefully to school on Tuesday morning and EAGERLY awaited third period. When the call for fresh music went out, my hand shot up eagerly and I sat stiff as a board while Ms. Clary’s eyes crawled the risers for a worthy candidate.

You should know a few things about Ms. Clary. First of all, she was the first person I had ever known in my freakin’ life to use the prefix Ms. in front of her name. This kind of threw me for a loop, especially given the fact that she was married with a small child and a teacher, nonetheless. She looked like a china doll with her porcelain-hued, flawless skin, piercing blue eyes, dark tawny-colored lips and thick mane of pale strawberry blond. She was a beauty of the highest order, but holy fuck, was she ever a stone princess. She was very conservative and demanded the highest regard when teaching us the theories and intricacies of music. ( I must note that although we clashed MUCH, I really owe her for sweeping me –fighting– under her wing and instructing me, free of charge, in the music disciplines….I learned much about technique and presence from her. I can still hear her beating on the music stand, shouting, “Give…me…FACE, Elizabeth! I NEED MORE EMOTION FROM YOU!!!”) She was a hardass and a bible thumper.

One of the priveleges of being picked was being allowed to run the stereo as your music played. Clary sat most of this Tuesday class hour behind her desk, observing. On this fated Tuesday, I was miraculously chosen from the masses to bring forth my offering. I clutched the wax-covered paper jacket closely to me, fearing that I would be found out before even one bar, nay–one beat could escape the speakers.

The little black record came out of its’ paper sleeve with a whisper, and I felt positively electric. I seated it on the turntable, pulling in my breath and I waited for their cumulative reaction. Oh, for JOY!

Two or three other kids had older siblings or hip parents and they expressed their happiness with my choice and dismounted the risers to dance (an accepted practice on Tuesdays). There we were, a knot of happy little third-graders, bebopping away Peanuts-style to the raunchy strains of Queen and loving every minute of it. The more reserved of our minions attempted to hold back, but by the last verse they were up tooling around the room as well.

And much to my closet amazement, Ms. Clary didn’t pull the plug on Mercury, May & Co. I got to play that song FOUR times by popular demand and I’d bet my kneebritches that if a vote was taken, that particular Tuesday would rate as number one on everybody’s list of Music Share days.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)