Last night, I was taping up my favorite motorcycle boots with gaff tape during the end of a reggae show, talking with one of the world’s greatest bartenders/world’s greatest motorcycle customizers who once used to be one of the world’s scariest drunks. The band who was headlining had been scheduled to perform at the club eons ago before I had even begun to work here, but there had been a deal-ending complication through no fault of theirs which had kept them from our stage until this night. My partner-in-conversation and I were talking about how over and done things in the past can be, and about how different the present is and future will be. After punching the clock in the dead of night in the middle of winter, people tend to get thoughtful.

We are now about a month past the winter solstice, the time of the year when the day is darkest and longest in the Northern Hemisphere. The new year has settled in and some storms have come and gone. There is one storm that I thought about last night. It was the worst show that we had ever had, one that had broke out into violence. Two of my guys went down bloodied when the crowd decided to work together to take out our security, for kicks with kicks. It was a punk rock show which tend to be some of the most fun we have, but this one was a nightmare. I couldn’t believe that it had happened the way that it did.

Miles away during the worst part of the night, my mom woke up from a bad dream. In her dream, I was thrown into a pit with wild animals and torn apart. I don’t even know if she knew what a mosh pit is or even if she knew we had a punk show that night, but she prayed for help as soon as she awoke. I came through the night without a mark, but after the show was over I cried for two days because guys who I was responsible for had been hurt. They healed up quickly and didn’t seem bothered a bit, but I was. I’ve always felt that punk rock was more than entertainment. I thought it was necessary, essential. Sometimes, blunt anger has to be unleashed to get truth into the atmosphere. Punk rock tends to take hold in places where there are economic problems, injustice, and the pain that comes from those fights. But the jerks who came after my security that night weren’t the disillusioned and impoverished. These ones happened to be spoiled rotten wealthy brats from the suburbs who thought it would give them thug credibility to draw blood. After that night, we insured that this group of snots won’t be back not only to the club but into the area. But the peace and authority that I had felt on the floor during the shows was rattled. I felt off my game. I was especially concerned about what would happen at our next punk show, if we would attract a crowd who would come only to fight.

Right around the darkest part of the year, we had our next punk show. And it wasn’t just any punk show. Our headliner was legendary for causing a live broadcast of Saturday Night Live to go dark when the crowd rioted during their performance. For days, I went over every detail of every part of every variable that could be thought out, doing everything possible to avoid any surprises.

But I still had no idea what the night would hold. I was surprised.

It began with a call to our landline letting us know that the band had arrived to load in their gear. I walked up with one of my security guards who would help with the heavy lifting. I was expecting to find a roadie. Instead, I was surprised to find the lead singer, world famous, waiting patiently by himself for us to arrive. We introduced ourselves to each other, and he made it a point to shake the hand of my guard and thank him ahead of time for his help with the heavy lifting. As we walked into the venue, every person who gathered around him was greeted with enthusiasm and kindness. I introduced him to my bartender, and he told her that he used to be a bartender in New York and that it helped him take care of his family obligations before his career took off.

During the show, the giant washing machine that is a mosh pit began to open up and swirl. I sat back and watched the punks enter into that current, and it reminded me of salmon who swim upstream. The jerky rocking rhythm was the same, except for one young woman with an epic Mohawk at least a foot tall and shaved up the sides. Watching her from the outside, there came a point when I could only see the top of her hair weaving in and out of the circle like some kind of sea creature in the waves. After awhile, I realized that two of our local police officers had joined me on the steps that rose just above the main floor. These were the same officers who had stood ready to rush in and stop the violence the last time to protect even the perpetrators, willing to put themselves at risk in the process. This time, we just watched as people entered the pit, swirled around for awhile, and came out clean and smiling. I turned to one of the officers and said, “This is what it’s supposed to be like.” The music that filled the room was frightening and important, funny and stupid and epic. It was everything it should be. At the end of the night, I talked with one of the musicians about some deep life things, and then he very respectfully asked if he could take me to dinner sometime. Never had said so before, but this time I said yes. And the band thanked us for letting them come and play for us. One of them even said ”Bless you.”

Once all of the civilians had left the building, I was walking across the main room to get my register tapes and start my books. Exactly in the middle of the floor where the center of the mosh pit had been, something small and white caught my eye. I walked across to see what it was. There, all alone in the middle of the place where once upon a time a nightmare had occurred, was a tiny white teddy bear. It was perfect, impossibly clean with a little heart-shaped tag on it. I picked it up, and carried it back to my office with me.

No one has called yet to claim it. I took a picture of it for this article, just in case anyone recognizes it and needs it and misses it. It’s okay to ask for it back now.

    Haiti Update

Below is a link to Charity Navigator’s profile of organizations involved in relief and recovery efforts for Haiti. It can help you make informed donation choices and is a great tool! Check it out:

http://www.charitynavigator.org/index.cfm?bay=content.view&cpid=1004

Quote of the Blog: From Ed (of course), beloved Dude of Light and Fog: “Drugs are no fun if your doctor gives ‘em to you.”

—
Whitney runs a rock music venue in L.A. She has an M.B.A. and no one cares.

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