A friend and I went to see G. Love & Special Sauce at the House of Blues this weekend. Tristan Prettyman opened for them. She is, by the way, very pretty, man. I know, I’m sorry. You saw that coming and I said it anyway. You should know me by now though. Anyway, we were packed in there like fresh little sardines (maybe that’s not the best analogy because they don’t smell very good – but wait, never mind, maybe that’s why I chose it), all bouncing together and all the normal audience reaction you get sucked into. G. Love totally owned the place. Well, after Bob Dylan got through with it. We had to wait outside for quite a long time because Bob ran over. He’s obviously forgiven for it, though I’ll probably have a word with him about not at least inviting my friend and me in to hang out.
Anyway, a good time was had by all. We stood in an inch of beer and sweat – quite literally. Girls’ purses were soaking wet. The cuffs of my jeans were soaked. Pretty nasty stuff. I’m of the opinion that places like that with standing room should have gratings on the floor. Or make the entire floor from a grate. That would be grate. Oh God, I’m sorry.
But I learned something this weekend. Tristan was badder than all hell. She was really talented. Very good vocals, very good guitarism. They had it together. I’m actually going to buy her album. You know me, I love the chirps. But even though everyone was hooting and whistling, they all kept calling for G. Love to get his ass on out there. Totally disrespectful. When she’d say something like, “You ready for G. Love?” Everyone would be like, “Hell yeah! Hurry up!” And I say, screw that. We’re having fun for now. Let G take his time. What, do you people want to cut the night short? Did you not bring enough weed to last? That’s your own problem.
So I’m wondering, how does a band get going with this clear blockade in their path? I can go hang up a thousand fliers around town promoting our next show (this Saturday, Lakewood Bar & Grill, by the way – seven o’clock, be there) but no one is going to show up because they saw the flier. No one. They have to already have an appreciation for our music before the flier does anything for them. No one cares about bands they haven’t heard. And furthermore, people who go pay to see some band never care about the opener. Even if the opener is just on fire.
I have, therefore, come up with a plan to remedy this. People like free shit, right? Well I’m going to start putting free shit on our fliers. Well, we haven’t really ever done fliers. We have the word-of-mouth following and it’s about a hundred and fifty strong. But we don’t use fliers. Maybe we should. If we use my new idea. You know how you see garage sale fliers and they have the little tear-off tags at the bottom of them? We’ll do that. But the tags will be sticks of gum. Or fortune cookie strips. Or bra tags.
You like that shit? Hell yes you do. You walk up to a Copperwound flier and see a stick of gum hanging off the bottom, you’re going to take the gum and you’re going to come to the show. Chewing that stick of awesome chewy delicious gum. Feel free to use this idea for promoting your own bands.
And maybe we’ll make them different every time. Like one time we put thousands of fliers up and the little tear-offs are coupons for a free drink. So we buy thousands of peo– wait… Okay, maybe not free drinks. Maybe like a free uh… I don’t know. Maybe we should scratch the coupon idea. Or make it where it allows them one free look at their breasts if they present the coupon. “Hi, I got this from your flier. Will you look at my boobs please?” Sigh. I guess. Let’s see ’em. I mean, it’s a pain in the ass, but we do want to be the band that gives something back to the people.
Assuming none of this works to promote our band, I guess we’ll just have to go old school and just rock the hell out. At every show. And the grate thing (ha! see what I did there?) is that we now have the personel to ensure the delivery of this rocking. Our new drummist and guitarer are slicker than whale snot.
But yeah, uh Tristan? Give me a shout, baby. On the back of the bus it’s a make-out session, cuz she got the salad, and I got the dressing.