Rocking Out With Vietnam Vets

by George Ziemann -- May 5, 2009

In the middle of last week, I was informed that the band (Hurricane Alley) was supposed to play at the north end of Tucson, at a bar called the Branding Iron North. The rest of the info was a little vague, though, like the time we were supposed to play. I think I advertised it here as from 2-5 p.m.

So I loaded up my gear and headed south with an ETA of noon to 12:30. When I got to the club, I almost drove past it because I thought it was a motorcycle dealer. Slowed down to see that it was, in fact, the Branding Iron. The parking lot was packed with cycles, which meant we were playing for a group of bikers.

This is almost always a great thing. Bikers always treat the musicians well. They party hard; they like to rock out. As long as a fight doesn't break out at the end of the night, it's always fun.

So I pull up closer in an attempt to find a place to load into the club. One guy comes up, asks me what I need. I tell him and a space is immediately opened for me to get in. Loading in was painless. The stage was empty, giving me an opportunity to stake out my section of real estate before anyone else got there. I started setting my gear up, when some guy I had never seen before shows up with an amp.

Well, he doesn't know a lot of details, but he's sitting in with a band that's playing from 2-5. Or maybe it's from 1 to 4. He doesn't know Carl, Tim or Manny; I don't know anyone in his band.

It's important to mention here that I had already discussed with Carl months ago that I was having this series of dreams involving playing out where I'm in a band and there's always a major obstable that prevents us from actually playing anything. Lately, it has especially involved the guitar. The guitar and amp never both show up.

So I've got the keys and the amps and the guitar, all the proper connecting cables, pedals, etc. My stuff is even on the stage. But another band has shown up, scheduled to play in the same time slot. I briefly question reality.

The rest of the other band shows up. My stuff is in the corner of the stage, they put a speaker in front of it and tell me, "No problem."

I decide not to worry about it until they get done playing, which will be hours away. So I hang out outside and meet up with a guy named Buzz, who seems to be in charge. He's a little unclear on what's going on, too. Doesn't remember me as being one of the guys he talked to (which makes perfect sense), but he's a little unclear on whether he hired us or the guys that were setting up.

It was in this waiting period that I studied the crowd. This particular group of bikers consisted of Vietnam Vets from the Tucson area (I'll put in the correct name of the club as soon as I find out and link to their website), making me just barely too young to have been a member -- and I'll officially be a senior citizen later this year. The odds of an alcohol-fueled gang fight breaking out suddenly seemed slim.

The other aspects of a biker party were pretty much intact, lots of beer and several scantily clad women -- and that was just the bartenders. Then the well-endowed bikini girls showed up to pose for photos on the bikes with the guys, all probably in their 60s. Their wives seemed almost as entertained and amused by this as the men were. Almost all of them (the vets) either still had long hair or long beards. I'm looking at these guys, trying to imagine the shit they went through, both from being in Vietnam and then by the treatment they got when they came home. I don't know how long the motorcycle club has been around, but it's probably been at least 45 years and the gatherings obviously hold some long and deep friendships together.

About that time, Carl and Manny show up. Tim is the one who booked the band, so he's the one who needs to talk to Buzz. We decide that the only logical thing to do is have a beer and wait. We're standing at the bar, admiring the bartender's "uniform," and I explained the situation as I knew it.

"Wow," says Carl. "It started out almost like one of your dreams."

"I'm surprised you made the connection, but yeah, it had that vibe going on until you guys showed up. Of course, we haven't start playing yet."

Buzz finds me to let me know that the bar had hired the guys currently occupying the stage and he had hired us. We "came highly recommended," he said. We were going to play whenever these guys (who hadn't started yet) were done. And I hate to say "these guys" but I don't think I heard the actual name of the band, or if I did, the jukebox was too loud to understand it. They were a very good country/light rock band, and they'll be back at the Branding Iron next weekend.

They hadn't started yet because they were having a problem with their PA head, which they figured out right about the time Tim showed up. So Tim let them use ours, preventing the other band from experiencing my recurring dream.

Fast forward to a few hours later. Carl, Manny and I have been sitting around in a bar for far too long, but at least Carl and I have already switched back to water. I last played with these guys in January of 2008, but was just recently inducted as a member, as opposed to just their producer. So I've got a list of songs they did then, which was sadly outdated, meaning that they've been learning new cover songs for the bar gigs in addition to the originals that we have been recording. I had brushed up on a couple that I was weak on last year, but there were still a few surprises on the list that I was totally unprepared to play and would probably lay back on those songs.

Just before we started, I ran into Buzz again. "You guys are going to play loud, right?"

"We are now."

"Good, because I already told the club owner not to bitch at you for being too loud. We want it loud."

Of course they did. That's why the biker parties are always so much fun. So we opened with "Born to Be Wild," which kicked the party up a few notches from the first measure. About an entire four measures or so later (we hadn't even got to any vocals yet), we blew out the stage power. But at least we had their attention. In fact, we figured out pretty quickly that we had actually started out a little too loud for the room and had to back off a little. Not that it matters whilst playing Steppenwolf.

Early on, I decided to press my luck, on a personal, neurotic level and strap on the guitar for "Nothing to Hide." Carl showed me the intro lick, and I kind of caught it, but not really, so I played quietly or not at all. The next song was Tom Petty's "Last Dance with Mary Jane." I didn't know that one, either, but I saw Carl go through the pattern once, so by the time he got to the lead, I was holding down the rhythm pretty well.

Later Carl told me, "I was thinking, 'Man, George's keyboard really sounds like a guitar tonight. That's a good setting.' Then I turned around and you were playing guitar."

The only reason this was important to me was that I've had this guitar for somewhere between 10 and 12 years and have never been willing to play it onstage until this last summer, when I figured out how to set the intonation. I spent the previous 10 years thinking that it was just fucked up and wouldn't stay in tune, which is probably the deep source of my dreams, like a subconscious warning not to attempt it.

I've known Carl since 2001. He had never heard my Les Paul, or seen me play guitar onstage, and rarely during a rehearsal or recording session. So I'm sure it was as weird at first to see me doing it as it was to be doing it again. Playing keyboards, you're glued to one spot all night -- with a guitar, you can at least move around a little. And it's a different musical perspective.

Anyway, I got a positive reaction from Carl, especially because he knew I didn't know that song when it started. I would play it a few more times during the night, but any mental barriers had already been disposed of.

Our first set was followed by a wet t-shirt contest. Fortunately, this was done on the dance floor, since all of the water eventually ended up everywhere except the little wading pools it started out in. Unfortunately, this was the main event for a lot of people. Even worse, the lighting was bad. Any further explanation would be useless without photos, which I do not have. When it was over and the bikini girls left, about half of the crowd would disappear with them. Well, they didn't go with the girls, at least as far as I know.

I think we all spent some time talking to some of the vets and thanked them for what they did for us before I was even out of high school, which has been a long, long time. But generally, we were just trying to make new friends and try to turn them into fans. Gave away a few CDs.

The second set started with something the band doesn't usually do -- namely let people come up and sit in for one song. A woman who seemed to be connected to the vets group stepped up and did a superb job of "The Star Spangled Banner," followed by another female singer (a friend of Tim's) doing "Drift Away." She sang well, but wasn't kicking out enough power to be heard. Carl and I helped her with harmonies on the chorus and by the end, she was singing stronger. Naturally, I don't remember the names of either of these women, but I do remember the guy Carl and I brought up to play blues harmonica on "Stormy Monday."

That would be Choo Choo, who got his nickname because he was (still is?) a train engineer. I guess that your nickname is given to you by the club president when you're inducted in and then that's your name within the club forever, probably whether you like it or not. "When the club president gave me the name, he acted like it was a stroke of genius, and I'm thinking, I drive a train. You're going to call me Choo Choo. I was good with it, but it wasn't exactly a big stretch of the imagination."

Anyway, Choo Choo came highly recommended by a woman wearing a club jacket with his name on it, he talked to both Carl and I (which is how I got his back story), and he was a member of the group that was paying us to play. Tim issues another reminder, "Like I said earlier, we don't usually do this..."

It took Choo Choo a few measures to find the groove, but he wailed after he slipped into it.

Finished that set and played a third one, much of which kind of flashed past because every song was a test. Even if I knew it, it had been awhile. The last song we did was "Comfortably Numb," and the whole time I'm playing it, I'm thinking, They've been doing this without keyboards?

The rest of the crowd hung with us right up to the late hour of 8 p.m. and it seemed like they had a good time. The band certainly did, myself included. Most fun I've had in years. Performing is always self-actualizing because each night gives you the opportunity to play better than you ever have before. Every single time.

I'd also like to throw a shoutout to Wheels, who managed the parking lot area and made sure it was easy in/easy out for both bands, the ice truck, mechanical bull, dunk tank, whatever else came and went, and, when I left, he was just finishing managed a small team that took down the outdoor canopy that had protected the beer all day and loaded it into his truck.

All in all, a great party.

I'm leaving a lot out, but that's pretty much how it looked from my corner of the stage. Most fun I've had in years. Performing is always self-actualizing because each night gives you the opportunity to play better than you ever have before. Every single time. By all metrics, this was a very good day.

Old dudes rock.

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"stolen" from AzOz.com (George Ziemann)