Tales from the Rural Rock Highway

It’s fascinating how many delicacies gas stations will broil on rotisserie grills. Returning home late-at-night from a gig, I will stand before the protective, plastic-shield and behold the rows of slickly-greased sausage links, the lone bratwurst rolling in place in its groove like a faithful soldier waiting for its future glory days in a warm bun, and the unfathomable Tornados, a deep-fat-fried, edible column of pepper-jack goo.

As a member of a traveling band, frequently washing ashore in the middle of the night from miles of interstate to the well-lit banks of a gas station, I have found myself holding court before these things.

This may come as a surprise to those of you who believe the nightly schedule for a traveling band even remotely resembles the grandiose blowout fest set down in rap by R. Kelly. Most normal people don’t buy that. But, for the rural American original rock band, the truth is even farther from the perception.

For starters, the infrastructure is against us: most venues out here are something else by day: I’ve played converted motel lobbies, machine sheds, and senior citizen homes (Norfolk, Nebraska). Second, the terms are all wrong. “Groupies” in small towns consist of parents, friends from school, and a random dude on MySpace who continues to press your band to visit Pittsburgh. Lastly, the pay is worthless and there is little hope of “making it.”

Still, there are stories of fortunate bands being plucked from the sky by powers-that-be, carrying them off to fame and fortune in far away metropolises. Last summer, my brother and I had just such an encounter. We ran into members of a band called Never Shout Never at a gas station south of Minneapolis just off I-35 called “The Big Steer.” A guy named Dennison (the guitarist) liked our costumes and called us over to the hot dog stand, where he and his friend (the guitar tech) were busy filling their hands. They told us they were also in a band and had played a much bigger club that night.

“Yah, we’re signed to Warner Bros,” Dennison told us nonchalantly. He knew this would blow us away.

Still, incredulous that someone like him was interested in us, I hesitated when he asked for our MySpace and cell phone number. “Are you serious about this, man, or what?” Dennison angrily asked. I’d heard the cell phone request before—usually a dead end. But, he seemed serious about hooking us up with “some insiders.” I relented, gave his the number, and waved goodbye. I fully expected to never here anything again from them.

But, we soon found out they had been truthful. A huge black bus pulling a trailer waited behind the gas station in the diesel lots. Later that night, we checked their MySpace profile—they had approximately 50,000 plays that day--#6 on the “indie” charts. Then, the lead singer sent us an email asking about “plans.” Dennison continued emailing us and promised he would call us eventually. “Could this really be our big break,” I thought nervously?

But then everything stopped. I went on a trip to Ireland and when I returned there was nothing. They seemed to have disappeared into the rock n’ roll mist like the town of Brigadoon.

I guess this leads me to no easy conclusion about being a rural rock n’ roll original. It does make me more and more mad at this Dennison character. In the months since, it appears his intentions never extended beyond the momentary gratification of playing kingmaker to a bunch of unknown clowns in a gas station at 2 in the morning.

In conclusion, I would like to say this: Dennison, if you’re still out there (and I know you are because you update your MySpace profile 10,000 times a day—yes, I check), I hope you enjoy your comfortable seat aboard that black, tour bus of delayed teenage angst and false hopes. And someday, when you’re back in some rural Missouri town C-store, just looking for an energy drink to navigate your parent’s van back home after a late night gig where you made $17 before expenses, I hope someone from Jon Bon Jovi’s tour bus will run in and grab the last Polish Sausage off the rotisserie grill, leaving you empty-handed, alone, and resigned to eating a Tornado. And I hope you, too, are unable to decipher the contents of that perplexing entre, priced at a sinfully low-fare when paired with a 40-ounce fountain drink.

The revolution will not even begin to tell you the calorie count in a Tornado.

Senor Weiner challenges weiner dog as official RGT mascot. on 12seconds.tv

Thanks to Cousin Christopher for writing this post.

Comments

[Oil Can]

The wiener dog intends on seriously upping the anti in the RGT mascot sweepstakes after X-mas. More to follow. Can. Or should I say, "Wild Bill the Wiener"?

[followin the harvesters...]

Christopher - the G Bubbs are better off as free range rural rockers. Them city folk wouldn't respect those yellow vested pop gems as dearly as we do here amongst the corn. You are better off with us.