Volume 9 – #7 – July 2006

Brave Combo is so busy, traveling and playing and sleeping and traveling, playing, sleeping that we don’t even know what part of the country we’re in, not to mention, town. Can someone help me construct that sentence differently? Anyway, we’re right in the middle of some intense stuff. And it’s all a combination of working very hard, using down time constructively, constantly adjusting to unbelievable discomfort, and performing in every imaginable situation and weather condition. Of course, we also get to play our music almost every single day for people who apparently really like it. And, we each have the promise of our own motel or hotel room every night as well. I love walking into that room, knowing that this will be my personal sanctuary for the next seven to fourteen hours. My first impression, as I open the door, is almost always good. Driving around the map for over a quarter of a century can really strengthen your intuition about places to avoid, so we try to have a pretty good idea about what we’re getting ourselves into (literally). I immediately check out the smell of a room. Then I look at the curtains or drapes (usually the most neglected area) and close them. The lighting is next. Harsh is bad. Soft is good. Although I’m not delighted with the recent trend in energy-saving alien bulbs, I’m willing to do my part. Next is the bathroom, which I approach with trepidation. Is the toilet clean and does it work well? Is the tub clean? Does the tub drain? And, most important, does the shower have good water-pressure. It usually doesn’t. Don’t assume, dear friends, that a big, expensive hotel will necessarily have a perfectly working bathroom with good water pressure. As long as the towels and washcloths are clean, I don’t care if they’re extravagantly plush. Once my examination of the bathroom is complete, I turn my attention to the bed. If it’s firm to sort of firm, I’m cool with it. The sheets, blanket and bedspread, though, are another story. Thin sheets are a downer. Sheets that don’t stay tucked are a bigger downer. And, no matter where I stay, I always fold the blanket and bedspread far away from my face. And I definitely do not want one of those forensic investigator guys barging in with a special light that shows up semen stains. According to something I heard once when I was dozing, all hotel and motel rooms, dumpy to chic (and not just fantasy suites), are practically painted in semen. And, you know what? Maids don’t change bedspreads anywhere. So, in the case of our night’s lodging, too much info is not, let’s say, a restful thing. I prefer to stay a little ignorant and dwell in my “perfect world” fantasy, which makes my room a wonderful retreat. However, the TV needs to work and so does the alarm clock/radio by the bed. Concerning things like the ice bucket and glasses, I prefer real glass glasses, but few motel chains have them anymore, which means we’ll put a plus in the nice hotel column (if you’re ever at a hotel, not a motel, and they’re using plastic cups instead of real glasses, get out cause something’s not right). After checking to see if the air conditioner/heater is working and is not too noisy, I glance around the floor to see if it’s clean. And I examine corners, too. Just before I actually unpack and start to move in, I pick up the all the little cardboard ads and info sheets scattered around the room and pile them next to the television. I won’t need help cluttering up the place. Now it’s time to put my stuff in it’s proper spot and enjoy being alone. I don’t have a laptop and actually dig the escape from emails (sorry if it’s taken a couple of months, or years, to get back to you) and, in some ways, I can even forget that work is piling up at home. It seems that after just a few days on the road, the band settles into a vibration that controls us and blanks out our normal life. Time stands still. Things happen when they happen. Yet, no matter what, we have to do a good show. We may be hitting a stage full of crappy rented gear, with no time for a sound check, having driven for hours in bumper-to-bumper traffic through a thunderstorm, after flying in from Texas, rough landing alongside a tornado where tornados never occur (true story), with no time to eat, or even take a deep breath, but we still have to do a good show. There are no excuses. And, somehow, often-enough, the music does it’s thing and makes us focus and, hopefully, we become the musical Brave Combo. And, due to the nature of this particular beast we’ve created, every gig is different. Sometimes it’s an afternoon at a polka event. Sometimes it’s midnight in a downtown Chicago club. Sometimes it’s a private party in a remote village in Connecticut. Sometimes we’re the third band, out of four, at a big eclectic music festival in Michigan. Sometimes we kick off a summer concert series in a small town in California. And on many occasions, these worlds collide. It’s not unusual to see a group of volume-sensitive polka fans gathering next to young hipsters, who like it loud and hard and are gathering next to a group of ballroom dance enthusiasts that only dance a cha cha if it’s played at 120 beats a minute. Mix these fans with long-time BC folks that want to hear, “Shopping at the K-Mart” and “Three Weeks” and newcomers who saw us for the first time three months ago and want that same show. So, usually what we do is make everyone get into a big cauldron and we fill it with vegetable stock and carrots and onions and potatoes and simmer over a medium heat until everyone’s evenly tender and tasty. Then we drain the broth and spin everyone around like tops (or dreidels) and dry them like jerky. All of this is done to music, of course. By the end of the night everyone’s crispy and we have to empty the venue fast before people start chowing down on each other. Polka lovers attacking punks in club parking lots and gnawing on their arms is not a pretty sight. Also, are you aware that regulation ballroom tango tempos are quite fast but sambas are incredibly slow and there are three distinctively different acceptable waltz tempos? But, you know what? This is what Brave Combo is all about. Mixing the unmixable and making confusion even more confusing. Often, it seems, there simply isn’t a right and wrong and there’s no real need for an opinion. Que sera sera, Baby. There’s a lot more territory to cover this summer and the worst thing any of us can do is set our expectations too high. Plan well and then just go for it. Why not? And if you don’t come out and see us, we’re sending the cannibals straight to your house for a late night snack.

Speaking of worn out horror stories and poor planning, the party in the Middle East seems to be getting a little out of hand. Now, whose side are we on, The Hatfields or The McCoys? That said, I believe it’s time to write a song about weaning Stacie (my office cat who now lives at home) off canned food. This is a real struggle in my real life that I actually know something about. God help everyone if I ever decide to run for public office.

Brave Combo is starting to think about our next album. What formats shall we offer? What do music lovers out there prefer? Are CDs still desirable? Should the songs just be available on certain cell phones? The world is one big beautiful melting pot, huh? I mean, it’s literally melting, according to some authorities. Is music still important to enough people to matter? I wonder. I’ll do some research. Check with me later for the answer. Until then, meditate on something pleasant, like Stacie the cat happily scarfing down hard pellets (more on this later, as well). Okay, look at our itinerary and make your plans.