Building the Band

Part Three:
Building the Band

“It’ll take you three years,” said Melody Palmer, the pretty blonde vocalist from the local band Heimlich and the Maneuvers. We were standing in guitar player Kevin Moran’s backyard, where the Maneuvers were playing his birthday party. The Maneuvers had been together for ten years, and she was offering sage advice. “Three years until you start to gel -- then you’ll take off.”

I wandered away with my margarita, thinking three years was too long to gel. I wanted gel now. The Mood Swings had returned from New York’s Mamapalooza ready to work hard and start lining up gigs. But how to break into the Dallas gig scene?

I turned to veteran club owner David Card, owner of Poor David’s Pub, for help. Over lunch I plied him with tacos and questions about the nature of playing clubs. Although he offered plenty of advice, and a chance to play at Poor David’s on a future weeknight, the best bit of advice he gave was this: Do it for fun. When it isn’t fun anymore, it’s time to quit.

We started putting feelers out for any venue or event who would have us. We played a running marathon at Bachman Lake -- great exposure, except they had us play at the start of the race -- once the starter gun went off, the crowd ran away.

Then we landed a Mother’s Day gig at Biker Hall (not it’s real name), which is located in a part of town known for dicey people, druggies and new urban pioneers. Biker Hall is a small joint with a torn felt pool table in the front room and a dimly lit, sweaty-walled back room. A handful of people showed up to hear us play (some friends are angels); one customer with recent beer experience sized us up and gurgled, “Wow! Ten breasts and a guitar!”

We had brought along some of our family members for support, which may not have been the best idea -- my ten-year-old daughter burst out in tears because that large man at the bar looked at her (“Which one, honey? The one with the skulls tattooed all down his neck and the spike through his nose?”).

In the meanwhile our big weeknight gig at Poor David’s had arrived. It happened to coincide with a milestone birthday of mine, so family members from Illinois and Arizona flew in for the big occasion. My brother, who had taught me how to play guitar when I was 12, came up on stage and sang “Janie B. Goode.” It was a send-up he wrote for my 80-year-old mom, Jane Goode, who had flown in from Tucson. It was a fabulous night! The band was coming together, songs were starting to sound tighter, family and friends encouraged us, and we were on our way: We started lining up regular gigs at clubs, festivals and private parties.

And yet...I had an itch I needed to scratch. I had always, always wanted to write a song but could never pull it off. Chords and melodies came easily enough, but the words seemed stuck, locked away. If ever there was reason to write a song, it was now while I was living out my dream of playing and singing in a rock band.

It was time to make a music pilgrimage to my hometown, to my brother’s house in Danville, Illinois. Jack would show me the way.

Next: Walls Come Tumblin’ Down
www.merryandthemoodswings.com
Copyright 2008 Mary Guthrie