RUDIMENTS 270.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 270

-Maple Tree, pt. 9-

I was never one for just having

music as entertainment. Having

a fair amount of advanced musical

education behind me, it was more

an example of theory and process

at work. Funny how it goes, but

it takes a long and laborious study

of music to begin to appreciate

what otherwise sounds as hateful

music. Dissonance, abstracted

tonal leaps, disharmonious

transitions, and the rest  - yes,

including pauses and silences.

By this context, the usual bar

music, juke box or live, was

mostly laughable. The processes

of an eager third grade level

overflow into an advancement

of noise and tempo on a

three-chord grid. In addition,

putting it with couplets and

rhymes only made things worse.

But, that's what bars and cover

bands brought out. A kind of

music for people who don't

particularly want music around.

Background redundancy, and

something familiar and hummable.

We had one guest, a female with

a strong voice, who for a while

was the solo non-event night's

music  -  I forget her name, and

I'm sorry if she's here. But, as an

example  -  and she was pretty

good  -  to my mind there's nothing

worse than someone laboring over

a guitar and song thing, their own

arrangement and words or someone

else's, while in that room no one

really cares about it either way.

And, truly, it's hard to care for

what is not really music. Emoters

and whiners, that's one thing. The

screech and the faux-tenderness

gives all that weakness away

quickly. It's the lack of anything

going down that breaks it. Music

needs a progression and a development,

the secreted moments between notes

and the relished growth of sound, to

reach a point of completion or at

least a point of deliverance where

the composers stops it. Mathematics,

and storm-sense. That's music. You

don't get that in bars. In the Maple

Tree and with these biker parties,

one of the hardest things was meshing

the band with the  crowd. Bikers

have music tastes that are basically

the equivalent of mustard and

mayonaisse. One against the other,

and neither one worth much  -  except

maybe the expensive mustards, which

we didn't get. We had a few really

solid bar-bands, and one or two

individuals who shone. Solo or

not. The problem was the endless

repetition, ad nauseum. Allman

Brothers,  Lynyrd Skynyrd, all

that Biker vein tough stuff, and

then the road guys  -  Petty, etc.

Everyone did serviceable and fine

jobs with those, keeping the crowds

happy with set lists and mixing it up.

Two times I hired a real mixed-up

group of noodle-heads calling

themselves 'World Within.' They

were actually good  -  they had

some girls, some guys, two drummers,

but all they played was a strict, very

mimicy Grateful Dead set card. They

were a little big on the Deadhead

road circuit, had some credits. But

no one liked them at all. Somehow

the Avenel and area Bikers did not

fit well with the twirly-whirls and

extended jams and stuff of Deadheads.

Plus, they brought in their own

festival like crowd, well 20 or 30

people anyway, and that mix wasn't

the greatest anyway. Girls and guys.

I used them twice, had to watch

carefully for nothing breaking out,

they were more expensive than usual,

and by 45 minutes in they were

stoned out of their heads. Ok, then,

I tried. I wasn't rigid and, because

of that I was always willing to try

thing of this nature, flop or not;

live and learn. For my own tastes
here, the best were Dirty Pool,
and Counterfeit Cowboys. Their
also was a bunch of Lynyrd Skynryd
guys called 'The Whiskey Band.

-

When I said 'Avenel Biker' crowd

just before, I guess I didn't really

mean that. The whole thing was

more county-wide, Union and

Middlesex. In Avenel itself,

there were maybe 30 or 40

bike people, only three or

four really badass hardcore,

The rest of our draw was

from all over and other places.

And they're still out there, but

far-flung now, and older too.

Way older, or dead. There were

always 40 or 50 people for sure

you'd know would show up; the

rest was hit or miss  -  sometimes

depending on jail-time, parole,

or ankle bracelets. It was

nothing; after a while you learn

to talk to people, even the most

hardcore. Biker to Biker, it's

a weird respect thing, with a bit

of fear, I guess. The higher up

in these club echelons you go,

actually, the better it gets. It's the

bottom level, prospects or new

guys, who were the toughest,

nastiest, and most brutal. I guess 

trying to make their rank, their 

way in, or their name. Into the

Maple Tree they most all eventually 

dribbled  -  fantastic packs of club 

colors very occasionally. Making 

a showing, as if to say, 'Don't forget 

about us, because we're always 

watching.'  You had to be careful. 

It was all problems.

-

Some of the clubs were crutch clubs,

meaning their best membership was

old, grizzled vets, old-timers who all

remembered older, other days. Everyone

was slow, creaky, wounded. Then there

were the newer identification clubs,

just getting started. They  were pesky 

too, because they were nothing. Blue 

Knights were cops who rode. It was

club by identification  -  Firefighters

had one, EMT's, all sorts of small

divided military groups, etc. They

maybe came off as tough, but they 

wanted comfort. They had kids and

mortgages and big cars, and wives

who wanted jewelry and vacation

destinations worth it all. Riding

was their relief valve. A lot of it

was play-acting; so I play-acted

back. I always liked just the regular,

general slob-riding friend type.

Guys I knew. No pretense, none 

of that attitude crap either. They all

knew a lot more than me about

their engine and machine stuff, and

I knew that  -  they rebuilt cars and

bikes on a weekend or two. They

built decks and dormers as easy

side projects. These guys were

gold, and friends. We had fun.

-

One time there was a guy named

Curly. I don't know his real name. 

His wife was tough as nails. He was

kind of goofy, and got really angry

when drunk. Didn't understand 

much, but was a good guy. He 

lived, they lived, just off St. George,

and on the end of Woodruff Ave., 

I guess it was. There were a few

Sunday mornings, riding out, we'd

wait for him in the lot of a Jiffy Lube

or something right there, across from 

the bank. We were usually heading 

south. Curley was always late. We

could see his 2nd floor window from

the street, and his signal to us that

he'd seen us and that they were almost 

ready, was to open the window and

moon us  -  so the big signal of the

morning was his bare ass sticking 

out the window. One time we were

at the Maple Tree, and Curly, already

a little toasted, went around the bar

inviting everyone to his 50th birthday,

in a week or two. Whatever. This

went on, and I guess in his mind 

he'd had a big party planned. All

of a sudden his wife comes over.

'You're off by a year, asshole. That's

next year. Your gonna' be 49, now

sit down and shut up!'