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Day 4: The Original Song Contest
George Thorogood interrupted band practice for a little meet-n-greet — a daily occurrence at rock camp, where famous musicians drop in for quick autographs and photo-ops. Over the course of the week, we met the likes of Joe Satriani, Dr. John, Dee Snider (Twisted Sister), Levon Helm (the Band) and Jon Anderson (Yes). My SBABACO bandmates almost tittered when Thorogood entered the room; I was less enamored with the celebrity handshakes, but I still got my picture taken with George.
SBABACO broke for the day to meet up at the Original Song Contest, recorded live in "the fishbowl" at the Sirius Satellite Radio studios near Rockefeller Center. We drew number twelve out of twelve in the performance-order lottery, making us the last band of the night. Slaughter warned us to "hold off on beer o'clock."
Campers and press packed into the Sirius lobby, plus two judges: a dude from a music publishing company, and Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad. The two of them sat in the front row of seats facing the glass box, waiting expectantly. Throughout the week, people who had been watching SBABACO rehearse told us we were a head above the other bands.
It felt thrilling to have people pulling for us, but it wasn't as if we had a reputation on the line. I wanted us to do well, of course, but for different reasons than I used to want Isotoners performances to go well. Here today, there were no club owners or rock critics to impress — only ourselves. We were a band without a history or a future, playing in a five-day vacuum with our breakup scheduled and imminent. It was strangely liberating.
One at a time, bands entered the glass studio to perform. The show dragged a little until Beauty and the Beasts, a band of mostly older guys led by Skunk Baxter of the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan, played their song, "Don't Treat Me Like That." With an octave-jumping, sing-along hook and a tight
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On the other side of the glass, our audience erupted in silent cheers.
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performance, Beauty and the Beasts, as Tyra Banks might say, brought it. It looked like they had the contest all wrapped up.
Our turn. The chatter on the other side of the soundproof glass disappeared as we moved into the fishbowl. I stood beside the drum cage and plugged in my Mustang bass. Behind the glass, the people seemed like they were in another universe: fully animated bodies, lips flapping, making no sound at all.
Bill struck a bright, strong chord on the organ and slid down and around. Mark shrieked, "SBABACO!" My hips felt the groove. I instinctively slapped the Mustang and slid down the neck to bang out the funk.
So many times you've walked out on me
Slammed the door, and I set you free
Now I'm wandering around, a dog without a bone
Walking in circles until you come home
On the other side of thick glass, our audience erupted in silent cheers. As we took it to the chorus, I could see the fists pumping and hips shaking.
We ended the song on five full-band hits and: out. Someone opened the studio door, and the crowd's cheers came flooding in. Then everyone hushed as Mark Farner began to announce the winners. Third and second place went to other bands. Then: "The winner is — you all guessed it — SBABACO!"
The band exploded with glee. Except, of course, for Bob. "That was pretty cool," he said, the corners of his mouth barely edging north.
Day 5: Battle of the Bands
Glory and triumph behind us, SBABACO was confident going into battle on the final night of rock camp. Again, we drew the final slot in the performance lottery, which meant we would be closing the show at B.B. King that night in front of a capacity crowd.
After rehearsal, I realized I'd left my notebook at the studio, so I went back to get it. I found Bob outside smoking a cigarette. I asked him if he was excited about the show, and that's when he told me that he wasn't going to show up.
I was shocked.
"I've had enough," he said simply.
"Is anything wrong?" I asked.
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For the first time since I'd met him, Bob smiled.
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"I'm just ready to get home. New York City isn't really for me." A taxi roared by doing fifty, driver leaning on the horn.
"But we need you," I pleaded. "You're part of the band!"
"I've had a fantastic time," Bob said, poker-faced, "but I don't go in for performing much." He was intractable. To me, a born performer, his rejection of our impending public glory was incomprehensible. But I'm a poseur. Unlike Bob, I was getting out of Rock Camp exactly what my psyche desires: an audience, a band and an official badge printed, ROCK STAR.
But then, for the first time since I'd met him, Bob smiled. An actual toothy grin. With his characteristic silence, he stuck out his hand. We shook, and I went on my way.
Bob had been so quiet all week that most of SBABACO hardly noticed his absence. But Larry later told me that amid the hubbub of rehearsals and songwriting, he'd made a real connection with Bob. In fact, Bob was the one who came up with the initial riff for "You're My Woman," the song that won us the contest at Sirius. "I just played off of his lick," Larry said.
That night, B.B. King was packed. Our biggest competition, Beauty and the Beasts, drove the crowd wild. One of the Beasts was a bald dude in his
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| The men of SBABACO. Clockwise from back row left: Tim 1, Howie, Larry, Bob, Tim 2, Bill, Mark Slaughter and Ben. |
sixties suited up in a Catholic-school uniform, shorts and a blazer, complete with a School of Rock badge on the lapel. Mark gathered SBABACO together moments before we took the stage. We were ready, and on Mark's cue, we stepped up and plugged in.
The audience was packed against the stage, and the lights were hot. My friends in the front row yelled, "Ben! Ben! Ben!" But halfway through Steely Dan's "Reeling in the Years," tragedy struck: half the band broke too early. A consummate pro, Mark vamped convincingly, covering it as best as anyone could, and the audience mostly forgot all about the flub. We closed with "You're My Woman," joined on stage by the CBS Orchestra's horn section. The crowd went nuts, more than I'd seen all night. But the damage was done.
As they began to announce the results, I suddenly realized how much I wanted us to win. We'd worked hard on our set, and the pride I felt in our songs and in our band surprised me. But Beauty and the Beasts played a tight set — they had a beautiful electric-fiddle player as their frontwoman, and the hotshot kid-drummer/guitarist-father combo from Kansas City. Narrowly edged out, SBABACO took second place in the Battle of the Bands. Each band received a "gold record" as a parting gift. I was disappointed, and there was some buzz from around the club that we were robbed, that since we'd won the Original Song Contest they didn't want to give us first place here too.
It was a bit of a shock to find myself caring. I'd entered rock camp thinking it would be a burlesque version of the band experience, just a campy anecdote to laugh about with my "real musician" friends. But by the time it was over, I'd realized that maybe what was wrong with the Isotoners was that the fantasy of playing in a band is exactly what we'd lost sight of during the course of our rise. Personally, I'd become so inured to constant bickering that by the time we were finished, I was wallowing in our failures while barely even registering our triumphs. Perhaps a little fantasy is exactly what every troubled band needs, with the din of any internal conflicts drowned out by the music itself. n°
©2006 Ben Lerman and hooksexup.com
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