Dance Floor Fiasco

Dance Floor Fiasco

The vocalist had a case of early water breakage. She wasn’t due for another two weeks. The little arrival was on his or her own schedule, though. Seems we were the only replacement band they could find on such short notice that didn’t already have a gig for this Friday night.

I had been people watching from my stool at the end of the bar. I manage the band that would be on the stage for this event at the Regency Hotel. Our usual venues were more of the hoi palloi variety, a step down from the fancy nature of this gig. The band had finished setting up their equipment and had gone upstairs to the room they had been provided with to wait until it was time to play. The guys had to change into a more presentable attire than they were used to for this event.

“I haven’t worn a tie since my grandmother’s funeral.” Billy was not happy about the expected attire. “Drummers don’t wear ties.”

“You’ve got your Jerry Garcia tee shirt on under that shirt.”

“I know. Yeah, got to remember what we’re getting paid for this crappy gig.”

We couldn’t have been their first choice, or even the second or third. We were definitely what they had to settle for. The band plays classic rock and roll, blues and few funky originals. The kind of music this affair wanted was a little timid for our taste. The pay is good, though, so we jumped at the chance to make a few bucks, even though they wanted us to play a pretty lame set. It’s some dinner event they wanted music for after the meal, a retirement party for some corporate big wig. Most of the people I’d watched come in so far looked to be at least eighty. All of them, even the younger ones, were wearing dark suits and ties, colorless. The ladies were carbon copies, dressed in the same conservative shades carrying black purses with matching pumps or heels. Yeah, my people-watching was a bore.

That was until she came in.

I thought back on the couple of days before we got there. We only had three days to practice.

“These are the lamest songs I’ve ever played” complained Wayno the bass player.

“Think about the money” I told him. I had to remind him every time we rehearsed another lame song.

“Good thing everything’s just a 4 4 beat” John observed as he re-tuned his guitar.

Larry had a handful of pages with lyrics of songs that had been suggested.

“No way I can remember the words to these. I’ve never heard of most of these songs.”

“Just mumble the words you can’t remember” I suggested, reminding them all about the money again.

Billy the drummer yawned. “I’ll probably fall asleep on my hi-hat in the middle of one of these. And yeah, I’m thinking about the money.”

She had walked in with a group of those mundanely dressed people. It wasn’t until later that I learned she hadn’t arrived with one of the bland couples, had just happened to come in at the same time through the same door. She was wearing a blue jacket. Not the dark, drab navy blue that was endemic to the other attendees. It was more like the blue of a robin’s egg. It was an aggressive blue that jumped up on the table, grabbed its crotch and shouted “hey, I got your blue right here”. A bright yellow scarf adorned her neck and shoulders. When the coat and scarf were checked with the attendant, a sleeveless, low cut blouse was revealed. The colors on her blouse had hues that ran the gamut of the visible spectrum. Not the basic reds and greens and blues of the color wheel, but cerulean, alizarin crimson, chartreuse, magenta and saffron on an indigo background. She wore a camel-colored skirt. And those red shoes! They were redder than the long flowing locks of strawberry blond hair that swayed across her shoulders. The room had looked to me like a black and white photo. Now there was this luminous gypsy princess photo-shopped onto that colorless backdrop.

I was the other inappropriately dressed member of that congregation. Black Levis and cowboy boots, a green hemp shirt and a bolo tie. My leather jacket was hanging from a hook on the wall at the end of the bar. I was unobtrusively sitting there, nursing my second pale ale. That’s when I started thinking we could throw in some rockers to shake the jar a little. The band’s usual repertoire includes Credence, Steve Miller and Stones covers. We had just added some Black Sabbath to our mix. Why not liven this crowd up.

At the meal, she sat at a long table with other members of the group. I wondered how she fit in with this clan. It wasn’t until later that I found out she was in charge of the company’s IT department, the only one who could keep the computers running. Graduated from BU with a computer science degree. Most of the geezers there don’t know the difference between and laptop and a lap dance. She was also the rebel grand-daughter of one of the founders. Anyway, that’s why she didn’t fit the mold here, the proverbial round peg amongst a bunch of square holes. And yeah, these holes were hella-square. The rest of the attendees looked like they had come straight from a funeral parlor. A few of them looked like they should have stayed there. The conversations between bites did not seem to interest her. Toward the end of the meal one of the drably dressed men gave a drab speech about what a pleasure it was to be associated with that drab organization. He introduced another drab old guy and there was some applause. I tried to listen but just heard a bunch of blah blah blahs.

Before the guys hit the stage, I caught them to suggest the divergence from the original plan.

“You guys don’t expect we’ll ever get invited back to this place, do you?” I asked. I already knew the answer.  

 “You book this place again and we’ll need a new manager” they all agreed. “I don’t need the money that bad” Billy said, while pointing a drum stick at me.

“OK, then let’s have some fun.” I filled them in how the colorful lady inspired my devious plan.

“Black Sabbath. I love it.” Wayno was smiling now.

“Honky-Tonk Women has to be in there somewhere.” Larry suggested.

We were in cahoots with the scheme. Good thing the check for the gig was already in my pocket.

The drab guy was back at the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome tonight’s entertainment.” He neglected to mention the band’s name, the Proverbial Misfits, even though the name was prominently displayed on Billy’s bass drum. John plunked a few strings for an intro to one of the lame songs on the play-list. Larry took the mic and uninspiredly sang ‘Moon River, wider than a mile’ with a few glances to the music stand to remember the words. One drab tune after another got a few drab dancers onto the floor dancing uninspired steps as most of the crowd paid no attention at all.

After a few of the dismal songs, I signaled to Wayno and a grin lit up his face. He whispered to the others. The guitar began a rock and roll lead. Larry didn’t need the sheet music for this one. His voice rose to the enthusiastic timbre he was used to.

“When I was just a little boy, standing to my daddy’s knee, my poppa said son don’t let the man get you and do what he done to me. ‘Cause he’ll get ya.” The three couples that were on the dance floor retreated to their seats.

Her eyes sparkled after the first few beats. She jumped up, nearly knocking her chair over in the process, grabbed the closest to the dance floor gray suited colleague, almost had to drag him to the floor, and put her moves on display. She was a wild one out there. Red hair cascading down her shoulders. The older gentleman she had coerced from his chair was visibly uncomfortable. Her shake and shimmy paired with his barely moving feet and distressed expression. When ‘Born On The Bayou’ ended, the older gentleman escaped back to the safety of his colleagues. She scanned the darkened area beyond the dance floor. As her eyes targeted one charcoal suit after another, heads turned away and eyes were diverted to avoid her gaze. The suits were saved from becoming her next victim as the ensuing tune retreated into the easy listening mode the crowd was more comfortable with. A disappointed look found her face and she went back to the chair she had kicked out of the way.

I was still at my seat at the bar, away from the general view, watching with amusement at the fear she was inflicting upon those who don’t dance, at least who don’t dance to her frenetic fandango style.

Three songs later I nodded to the bass player again. He whispered to the others and they broke into the Steve Miller Band’s ‘The Joker’.  After the guitar lead, Larry stepped up to the mic.

“Some people call me the space cowboy. Some call me the gangster of love”, the lyrics began, and after a few guitar licks, continued,” I’m a smoker, I’m a joker, I’m a midnight toker. Get my lovin’ on the run.”

Her eyes lit up again. She seemed to have already spied a mark in case another rocker came up. She reached for a hand. His head shook, he pointed to his knee and gave a very lame excuse for not leaving the chair. She finally did find one of the gray suits that didn’t know how to say no and led him to the floor. He was a little more animated than the first, but still seemed relieved when the song and her gyrations ended. She bowed to the band and blew them kisses. The repertoire retreated to the more comfortable lameness.

A few more tunes of that easy listening drivel went on with nearly no one on the dance floor. That’s when Larry stepped up to mic with that shit-eatin’ grin of his. Billy hit the drum intro and Larry began the vocal.

“I met a gin-soaked bar room queen in Memphis” he began and worked through the verse. Then the rest of the band kicked in for the chorus.

“It’s them honky-tonk women, gimme gimme gimme the honky-tonk blues”.

She was up again. This time she didn’t need a partner, she was out on the floor by herself shaking everything she had. Eyes were now following her every step, thankful that she was soloing.

“That was for all you honky-tonk women out there” Larry stated. “You know who you are.”

She laughed and curtseyed. At least someone here was having fun.

Three songs later, after more of the easy listening stuff and the mostly empty dance floor, it was time for my coup d’état. I raised my arm and got the attention of the band. It was nearly time for the last set to end. Larry stepped up to the mic.

“Who’s ready to ride the Crazy Train?” he asked.

The crowd was dumbfounded, looking back and forth at each other. Obviously not a Black Sabbath fan among them.

“I am” came a voice from the bar. My voice.

I set my beer down, slowly stood, and ambled toward the floor. She gazed my way. I met her gaze.

“All aboard” Larry began. The rest of the band joined with their best rendition of Ozzy’s wild laugh. The drums and guitar kicked in. I took her hand and twirled her twice.

“Do you swing?” I asked.

“I’m more of a free-style gal” she replied.

“Well then, hold on tight” I told her and proceeded to lead her with underarm turns, fifth position breaks, embraces and every swing dance move I knew. I promenaded her around the floor with her hips shaking. She was a pretty good follower for a free-style gal.

The eyes that had been diverted from her antics were now following our every move. The drab crowd actually seemed entertained, even amused. The song ended. The band led right into “One Way Out” the old Sonny Boy Williamson blues standard, later made popular by the Allman Brothers.

I whispered in her ear.

“You grab one of these guys, I’ll grab a lady and we’ll dance the bejesus out of ‘em.”

She laughed. We walked toward the drab attendees, selected our victims and led them to the floor.

We’re dancing again tonight. Not at the Regency or any fancy place like it. Her outfit is on the wild side again. I’m in my usual Levis , cowboy boots and a Hawaiian shirt. We’re at Smity’s Pub where the Misfits are the house band on Saturday nights. The dance floor is a space where a few tables have been moved from the front of the tiny stage that barely fits the band. This is our third Saturday there since the fiasco at the retirement party. Looks like there are more in our future.