Little Brother Blogs

John Mayer has been shamed lately for his explicit logorrhea, and perhaps rightly so, but when he played Little Brother’s on the eve of success, he was quite polite and gracious.

I had one brief conversation with John in the parking lot after the show. But in that short talk he thanked me and my staff for our genuine hospitality, said that it was one of the best places he had played and that everyone working there had treated him and his band with respect.

I was speechless that a guy on the verge of real success in this crazy music business would take the time to show such gratitude, and speechless is something I rarely am.

He may have overshared about some big-league starlets, but when he was in the bush leagues, about to get the call up to the majors, he showed real class.

“I’m a nice guy,” said punk rock star Eric Davidson, when I tried to discuss our strained relations.

“Yea, me too,” I thought. But I didn’t go into his place every few months and knock fiberglass ceiling tiles down.

That, however, was a minor inconvenience in my world. And though it usually cost a few bucks to replace two or three of them, and itched like hell when I couldn’t get Skippy, the sometimes fix-it guy to do it, what the hell. The New Bomb Turks brought us a full house and boffo beer sales.

But the night of the benefit, things got personal.

We were trying to raise money to move Stache & Little Brother’s down to the Short North, and a series of benefits were scheduled to help pay the tab. The architecture bills, remodeling costs, legal fees for the change of use and numerous variances, etc. etc. etc., ended up costing over $200 grand, most of which was borrowed from good friends, digging me into a hole that I never thought I’d get out of.

The benefit shows and those last few months at 2404 N. High raised way less than we had hoped, and I was drinking heavily, even for an Irishman like me.

But that night, I was sober. I was back by the sound board and the kids were a little wild. Tera, our soundperson, had just commented on how calm and tolerant I was being when some knuckleheads climbed up on the light truss. It was just a skinny metal pole, hung between two pieces of flimsy wood, and I was afraid that the whole rig would crash down on Eric’s “nice guy” head.

So I went to the stage and asked Davidson to hand me the microphone so that I could speak to the crowd through my P.A.  He refused to hand it over, stepped away from me and hid it behind his back. I blew up.

I hand-signaled Tera to kill the sound, and when the song was over, I addressed the hecklers in the crowd without amplification. I said something about them being pseudo-punk rockers and and that anyone feeling up to it could follow me out back for a private discussion.  There were no takers, thank my lucky stars.

I foolishly threw a beer bottle, which sailed past Matt Reber (the bass player’s) head. Somehow, he and I are still friends. Then I gave the band back the night’s take, at their request. The next day I wrote an apology to those in the crowd that I felt didn’t deserve my anger, and posted it at Used Kids Records. That note, of course, ended up in The Other Paper.

Eric later became a music critic and wrote about Little Brother’s, calling it “blasé.” Though they did play there a few times, I think they preferred Skully’s.

Eric also wrote that politics has no place in punk rock, although I think I saw his name on a pro-public option health care petition. I’m still a liberal, whose favorite punkers — The Clash, Patti Smith, The Minutemen, etc. — are all about the body politic. And Eric and I, of course, are still “nice guys.”

Lee Ving has left the building.

The lead singer of “Fear,” one of the world’s foremost anarchist punk rockers, apparently had a saliva phobia. The contract with his management neglected to mention the important fact that we at Stache’s ought to have a spit guard in front of the stage. Thus, a 45-minute show was cut short to 25, all because I failed to provide adequate spit security.

We may never know whether a beer was sloshed, a bead of sweat flicked or an offending loogie was indeed hocked, but Ving stopped the show, stormed off and refused to even encore. Mr. Ving, when asked how I could stop spitters, said “you throw one out and make an example for the rest of them.” How he transformed from anarchist to middle school principal left me baffled.

It became clear to me that he would not go back on stage, so I went out to inform the angry mini-mob that had formed stage front, still begging for a brief dessert after the slim musical meal provided.

I foolishly thought that they would turn their anger to Mr. Ving. Instead, they began to form a posse to find, capture and punish the vile, unknown mucus-hurling desperado.