Audience Participation.

Live music shows are always an adventure.

Today, we had 3 - count' em - 3 people walk up and start talking to us. Mid-song.

It's a new record for us.

It started during our first song when this guy wandered up and started talking to Steve. Mid-song - did I mention that? He said that he was a musician, too. And played the guitar. And he had a song that Steve should learn. It was a song for kids. Kids love it. Could he play it. Now?

Steve, as always, was polite and professional and explained that we had just started our show and maybe the guy could come back later as there were a bunch of people sitting there, watching us play. Then the guy told Steve that his name was Steve, too. And he told him his website address and his facebook site, again mentioning that he was a children's musician. He then suggested, in a clear, ringing voice, that one of the audience members was "probably retarded".

How could this guy NOT have a Grammy for his children's music act, yet?

Hi. We're kind of right in the middle of a show here, buddy.

Steve eventually convinced Steve 2.0 to take a seat so we could continue. We plowed forward and, if I do say so myself, we sounded pretty good.

Later in the show a guy came up to the gazebo where we were playing, slung his arms over the railing and spent an entire song staring at me as if he was trying to take over my mind. Which he might have - I'm still not sure. He was covered in festive neck-tattoos that had a distinctively home-made feel to them. As the song wound down, he started hooting, "Do a drum solo! Do a solo on the drums!"

Steve, naturally, is disinclined to let me perform long, complicated drums solos on the flimsy pretense that I am so awful at the drums that I would drive the audience, screaming from the show.  I politely declined the fellow's offer and he yelled "A Metallical drum solo!" before wandering off toward the corn-dog stand.

Freed from his hypnotic gaze, I performed with my usual ineptitude through a few more songs. As Steve was announcing one song, a kid, maybe 13 years old wandered up to the front where Steve stood and handed him a frisbee.

"Wanna frisbee?" he asked, interrupting Steve.

"I love frisbee," Steve answered, ever the gentleman and consummate performer. "Thank you so much."

The kid lumbered back to his posse of friends, who staggered around for a moment, convulsed with laughter at their brilliantly witty idea of giving a frisbee to Steve mid-show.

Before anyone else could rush the stage, the show ended. Joe and I began packing up instuments as quickly as we could, fearing that if we didn't, people would rush the stage and begin playing them.

Sure enough, Steve 2.0 sauntered up and said that he was going to play his song now.

"Noooooooooo," Joe hissed. "Steve - Just say NOOOOOOO."

I cringed and awaited the inevitable moment when Evil Steve would start pointing out more audience members who  he thought might be "probably retarded".

"Hey, Steve," Joe said, in a brilliant attempt to stave off the horrible end that loomed over us, "They cut off the power, already. Sorry."

Evil Steve commandeers the guitar and sings his song. Our Steve high-fives a young fan.

Evil Steve looked at my drum set. "Drums don't need power," he said.

I quickly yanked the snare off its stand. "Sorry," I mumbled, "Set's already torn down."

"I can play without power," Evil Steve said, heading for Steve's guitar.

"Noooo," Joe hissed again.

Steve, however, has his own set of guidelines for interacting with deranged lunatics - to wit - he is amazing with them. He smiled and handed the guy his guitar and stood back as Evil Steve sang his song about a class clown.

The lyrics that I caught, in my race to break down my drum set before the Metallica drum solo guy came back, went like this:

"Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown."

Repeat until entire audience rises as one and leaves.

Steve - our Steve, the good, kind, patient Steve, stood there with a genuine-looking smile spread across his face, clapping along.

Joe and I marveled at Steve's cool, calm equanimity.

Eventually, Evil Steve wandered off, probably headed to play songs at some kid's 5th birthday party - a party he hadn't been invited to.

Our Steve wandered over to us with a blissful smile on his face. "That was fun, wasn't it?" he asked, slipping his guitar into its case.

"Are you mental?" I asked. "He said that that kid was retarded! Out loud. On stage!"

Steve smiled again. "Awwww, he was a fun guy, wasn't he?"

"Steve?" Joe asked. "Did you practice patience with a monastery of Shaolin monks?"

He claims not to have, but I'm not sure. All I know is, he does a hard job well, and makes it look really, really easy.

Now, if I can just convince him to let me do a Metallica-style drum solo during the act...

I'm A Rock Star, Baby.

This whole rock and roll lifestyle thing isn't all glitter and glamor and unbridled debauchery.

Sometimes there is also pizza.

Last Saturday we had our second big show at Tupelo Music Hall. It was a noon show and we were scheduled to begin loading in and setting up equipment at 10 a.m., so naturally I went to bed nice and early Friday night and slept for almost 30 seconds before my wife developed some sort of Exorcist-style stomach bug that had her spectacularly sick for the rest of the night.

At 8:30, well rested from a night of tending to my sick wife, I loaded all my drums into my rock-n-roll, heavy metal Toyota Camry and headed to the show.

Setting up for a show is easy if you're a bassist like Joe. You stroll in with a bass and an amp, plug in and you're all set.

A rare glimpse of Joe setting up.

Being a drummer requires lugging endless loads of heavy equipment all over the place, setting it up, adjusting it, fixing it, and then hitting each drum 6,000 times so the sound guy can make sure that each thump of the bass drum is loud enough to make people in the front row lose control of their bladders.

Personally, I don't enjoy all that lugging and setting up stuff. It reminds me too much of work. So, rather than spend my valuable time doing my own work, I grabbed Noelle's daughter, Isabelle and asked her if she was interested in a high profile career in the music business as a roadie. I talked it up and explained that being a roadie is sort of a short cut to fame and fortune. "Beyonce was a roadie for Iron Maiden," I explained. "And look at her now."

Isabelle was thrilled with the opportunity I was affording her. In an effort to help her gain some valuable life-experience, I allowed her to haul all my equipment from my car and set it all up for me. Because I care about children.

Isabelle has a bright future as a roadie. Please note that Joe is already set up and is sitting there playing while Isabelle hauls my heavy drums all over the place. I am back-stage in the drummer jacuzzi. Steve is showing off his posterior for the camera.

Isabelle adjusts my drums as Joe pretends he's practicing. We all know that he's so good he doesn't need to practice. I am back-stage getting a massage. Steve continues to display his back-side to the camera.

After Isabelle finally got my drums set up the way I like them she told Noelle that she didn't want to be a rock star anymore. She explained that she wanted to be something fun and exciting. Like an accountant. Noelle, naturally, was heartbroken.

Isabelle breaks the news to Noelle. Joe has now settled in with another cup of coffee. I am backstage getting a foot-rub and Steve has moved his derriere to another part of the stage. 

Soon, the doors opened and people started filing in. That's when Steve announced that he had a few new songs that we had never played before that he had added to the set list. I was unfazed, as Steve does this at every show. Joe didn't even hear Steve's announcement, because he was slurping his coffee. Plus, he's so good, he can play new material while slurping coffee.

Noelle didn't hear Steve either, as she was still wallowing in self-pity that her daughter has decided to chuck the steady life of a roadie for something as frivolous as being an accountant.

We spend the next 20 minutes milling around on stage watching Joe drink coffee as the audience filled the place.

Then, it was showtime.

To look like awesome professionals, we walked backstage (actually a small closet, located directly to the side of the stage and fully visible to the audience) and strode onstage in true, dramatic rock star fashion: tripping over cables and hissing "What song are we starting with again?"

Steve, the consummate professional, opened the show by explaining to the audience that he has a huge booger stuck on his finger. At least, I assume that's what he was talking about. I was desperately trying to remember what song we were about to play.

Then we started to rock.

Actually, Noelle started to rock and the rest of us just stared at her because we weren't even playing anything yet. We do love her enthusiasm.

It was a pretty full house and we did have fun.

The crowd included some of my very good friends who traveled a long way to see the show.

Steve leads us all in a game of "Let's Eat This Gum From My Shoe."

The Grand Finale of the show was the much anticipated dueling ukulele version of Steve's song, "I Love Ukulele". I sat behind my set, giddy with the promise of fire and explosions in this ukulele death match.

I was slightly disappointed that the promised pyrotechnics didn't happen, but it was probably a wise decision, given the flammable nature of small children. If any of the kids in the audience had been engulfed in flames and run onstage, it could have ruined some of our equipment.

I took a moment during the show to snap a few quick pictures to show you the awesome view from onstage.

This is what a show looks like from behind the drum set. The only thing that isn't obscured by the blinding lights is Steve's butt.

And a slightly different view of Steve's butt.

After the show, we hustled out back and were swamped by throngs of fans, clamoring to buy stuff from us.

I signed books slowly to give Isabelle plenty of time to break down my equipment and load it into my car for me. She's only ten, after all.

Once the equipment was all packed up, we headed out for pizza. Steve and Joe ruined the meal for everyone by ordering a pizza with anchovies, green olives, and onion. The waitress actually made gagging noises when they ordered it.

I was going to take a picture of it, but the noxious fumes wafting around it like a miasma made it difficult to focus. We suggested that they might like to eat it outside, but they declined. Steve's wife, Sheila sat next to him for the meal and was a delicate shade of green by the end of the meal.

When we were finished eating, I headed home to wash the stink of anchovies off me and bask in the glow of rock and roll fame. And to explain to my kids that unloading my stuff from the car is the pathway to fame and fortune.

(Click here to see a short video that our good friend, Laura made at the show.)

With Friends Like This, Who Needs Giant Dancing Cows or Body Cavity Searches?

It happens more often than I care to admit.

People stop me on the street and say, "Wow. Do you really live the life of unbridled excess and hedonistic debauchery that you describe on your blog?"

To which, I am forced to reply, "You bet."

Because, otherwise, how could you explain this?

You cannot explain this.

Face it. You're jealous.

You see me and you think, "Wow. That guy is so lucky. He gets to go to the food court at a mall and play the djembe drum while a giant cow in a tie-dye shirt hops around."

And you are correct.

And, while it is not technically my job, it is as close to a job as I have at times. As an author/illustrator/back-up drummer, my life is a thrilling, non-stop adventure of thrilling, non-stop adventures.

Let us take, for example, last Thursday, a fairly typical day in my life:

6:10 a.m. Slap vigorously and impotently at alarm clock for several seconds.  Attempt to convince Kerri to get up and put the kids on the bus for school. Fail. Get up. Get kids on the bus.

7:20 a.m. Drink coffee while sitting on the couch, reading over the manuscript of the chapter book I'm working on. Decide that the insane, brainwashed squirrel sub-plot may be a bit esoteric for fourth grade readers. Substitute mushroom fart sub-plot. Laugh until coffee spits over my computer keyboard. Lament the fact that, at 40, even the thought of farts still makes me laugh out loud.

9:30 a.m. Answer some emails. Arrange two school visits. Update my calendar. Do some boring business stuff. Lament the fact that I am doing business stuff and not writing about farts. Laugh out loud, because I thought about farts.

10:00 a.m. Answer phone. Hope it is a telemarketer because I am dying to try to convince one that he has just called a murder crime scene and, as a result, is now a prime suspect. It is my buddy Steve. Try to convince him that he has just called a murder crime scene. Fail. Resort to telling him about the fart scene I wrote in the book. Steve pities me and laughs in a patronizing way because he doesn't want to hurt my feelings. Steve tells me that he is playing some music at the food court at the mall at 1:00 and invites me to join him. Ask Kerri, and she gives me permission to go out and play. Then she gives me a list of things to pick up at the mall, "since I'll be there anyway." Curse life. Curse the mall.

11:30 a.m. Make a delicious lunch.

11:45 a.m. Eat delicious lunch, though deliciousness is dulled by the thought that I will be digesting it at the mall. Curse mall again.

12:00 Leave for mall, second only to Wal-Mart for places I never go. Continue cursing mall. Also curse Wal-Mart simply for existing.

12:15 p.m. Pass NH Women's Correctional Facility en route to mall. Rubber-neck to make sure that there are no exciting prison breaks underway. Spot sheriff's van in rear-view mirror. Stop rubber-necking.

12:15:30 p.m. Notice that sheriff's van has lights on. Pull over to let it pass.

12:15:40 p.m. Sheriff's van pulls over behind me.

12:15:42 p.m. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. Loudly. Curse mall while I'm at it. Also Wal-Mart.

12:17 p.m. Watch as two sheriffs exit their van and walk warily up to my extremely threatening 1993 Toyota Camry. Become extremely nervous as one sheriff posts himself at my passenger window, while the second approaches my window and says, "License and registration."

12:17:30 p.m. In state of extreme nervousness, hand sheriff my Visa debit card as I lean over to get registration.

12:18 p.m. Laugh in lighthearted way as sheriff returns Visa with witty comment, "I don't take Visa."

12:19 p.m. Attempt to exit vehicle when sheriff explains that I do not have a rear license plate. Am told in a firm manner to, "Remain in my vehicle." Remain in vehicle. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. Quietly.

12:19:30 p.m. Wonder who stole my license plate while sheriffs return to their van and chat about me with headquarters.

12:22 p.m. Watch as both sheriffs once again flank my vehicle. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. Silently. Prepare for extremely unpleasant body cavity search. Listen politely as sheriff explains that I should report my plate missing to my local police department. Thank sheriff for not searching my cavities.

12:45 p.m. Arrive late for show with Steve.

12:46 p.m. Walk into mall food court and experience chaos and pandemonium in toddler play area, where we will be playing. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. In my head.

12:46:30 p.m. Attempt to weasel out of show by feigning own death. Fail.

1:00 p.m. With no idea of what songs we will be playing or what I will be doing, we begin show.

1:01 p.m. 18 month old kid begins rooting through my backpack as I play song. Smiling mother watches child poke through my belongings.

1:06 p.m. Toddlers begin to dance and twirl to Steve's hypnotic grooves. They spin and jump and slam into each other as all the parents sit along the periphery, texting people who are not at the mall.

The audience gets a rare chance to be close enough to step on the performer's toes.

1:07 p.m. Same 18 month old finds my car keys. Mother smiles contentedly and tell girl, "Good job." I think that this kid may have stolen my license plates. Check my pocket. Wallet is still there.

1:16 p.m. Steve tells audience that we will now play a song that I have never even heard before. I do not even bat an eye, because Steve does this to me all the time and I am a professional.

1:18 p.m. 18 month old kid begins collecting spare change from my backpack. Mother says, "Good job!"

1:35 p.m. Gurt, the giant tie-dye clad cow appears and crowd of toddlers is absolutely terrified. I am terrified, as well, but I wear a brave face.

I know Gurt will not harm me, but still, I am fearful.

1:37 p.m. 18 month old has now taken my camera and is taking pictures. Mother says, "Remember to watch the composition, sweetie."

Toddlers are generally fairly lousy photographers. This is just awful.

1:40 p.m. Toddlers begin getting braver about giant, dancing cow in their midst. Steve reminds audience that Gurt does not need to be milked.

"Please don't milk Gurt!"

1:45 p.m. We play final song. Gurt goes away. Young audience members are sad to see Gurt leave and wander disconsolately back to their texting parents, who are completely unaware that a show has occurred.

1:46 p.m. Steve asks me if I'd like to join him for a post-show cocktail at a chain restaurant in the mall.

1:46:03 p.m. Steve and I are considering the many choices of libations available.

2:45 p.m. I begin to see poor judgement in my decision to partake of a cocktail before attempting to drive home with no license plates on my vehicle. Curse mall.

2:50 p.m. Ask mall security guard if he might have string or a zip tie so I can put my front plate on the rear of my car. Am told that they are forbidden, by their lawyers, to supply motorists with anything, lest the supplied item fail in some deadly manner, rendering them liable. Curse mall security guards.

2:50:15 p.m. Steve makes hilarious, snarky comment about security guard and his daily meeting with his lawyers.

2:55 p.m. Despite the security guard's reluctance to help, I have gathered the necessary supplies from my car and have managed to secure my license plate using a small length of speaker wire and my pen knife.

3:30 p.m. Arrive home safely.

3:32 p.m. Phone police to report stolen license plate. Give them a description of the 18 month old at the mall. Demand an immediate arrest.

4:00 p.m. Spend the rest of the afternoon drawing pictures for chapter book.

6:00 p.m. Tasty dinner. Then more drawing.

9:30 p.m. Go to bed.

6:10 a.m. Wake up. Await the day's phone call.