[Chicago Sandy]

Besides the usual run of coffeehouses closing down or clubs deciding to drop live music (after a visit from the BMI or ASCAP rep) just before my gig date? I’ve got two, albeit from long ago.

1.
In the early ‘80s I led a musical double life as both a solo folkie and one-third of an acoustic rock (two guitars, three voices) trio. The first time, we were about to enjoy a fun evening watching the Venetian Night boat parade when we got a frantic call from a club owner asking us to fill in for his regular Sat. night act who’d called in sick, and the gig paid $400 (big money for us back then). So we drove out to the exurbs to a club with a “no colors, leave guns at the door” sign in the vestibule. Not promising, but at least no chicken wire. We asked where we should set up, and the bartender pointed to the downstairs room. So down we went and were amazed to see a P.A. already set up, with even a foot-operated bass pedal keyboard (yup, an octave, with sharps & flats). We set up, sound-checked, and were barely into the first verse of the first song when we heard an angry bellow:
“GET THE F… OUTTA MY GIG!”

We turned around to see…an Elvis impersonator in full regalia. Our leader said, “But the owner said you called in sick and asked us to play!” Elvoid replied, “Well, I’m here now, and I’m playing.” We called the owner, and he said the club had two levels and we should just alternate sets all night, and would still get our money. So we hauled our gear back upstairs, set it up, and started up the minute Elvoid finished his first set. Except for once or twice when he decided to give himself an unsolicited encore, it worked out pretty well. At 4 am we walked out, exhausted but fully-paid—with the bartender telling us she’d reported how well it went and the owner told her to offer us two more gigs, on Friday nights, when we’d be the only act. Hot dang!

So we drove back out the next Friday night, played till 4 am, and was told by the bartender we’d get our $800 after the following Friday. Our leader’s arm was so sore his wife & I had to give him ice massages before he could manage to crawl into bed at 7 am. The following Friday, we walked into the bar…and there was a different bartender. And Elvoid setting up downstairs. “Never heard of you,” the bartender said. “The boss didn’t say anything about a band. Or money.” So we never went back, and were out the $400 we’d earned the previous week and another $400 we were supposed to have earned that night. Poetic justice: the club got raided a week later for illegal gambling by a motorcycle gang.

2. Earlier that summer, one performer who’d alternated with me as a soloist and at open mics at a local LGBTS (yup, all orientations welcome—way ahead of its time) folk/cabaret bar called me up and told me she was moving to Nashville and asked if I’d like her regular Sat. night gig at a bar on the far Northwest side of town. I replied I’d be honored, but the two of us should meet with the owner first to make sure I’d be acceptable.

So we all had lunch the next day, and the owner, who had a heavy Eastern European accent, said I came highly recommended and if I was okay by Becky I was okay by her—could I play four one-hour sets? Sure. All covers? Yup. Did I have my own P.A.? Well, my leader said I could use the band’s, since we didn’t have any group gigs booked for the next few Sat. nights. And would $300 be acceptable? (For a solo folkie, that was huge).

So I put together four hourlong set lists, heavy on the (then) classic rock and folk-rock with at least a dozen current covers. Practiced my keister off, loaded the P.A. into my little Datsun along with my 6 and 12-strings, and off I drove. Pulled up to the bar an hour before showtime and loaded in.

First sign that things were about to go awry: there were several women in scanty lingerie circulating among the crowd selling what looked like raffle tickets. Then they got up on to the bar and paraded around, then drew ticket stubs from a fishbowl and tossed various items of lacy undies to the lucky winners. And then it was my turn.

So I set up and began to play. The crowd quieted down and began listening…and more importantly, ordering drinks. Sometimes they sang along. I even interacted with them, telling them if they could identify the artist who originally did the semi-obscure Sixties cover I was about to play I’d buy them a beer at the break. (And one did). So the break came, I was handing out my business cards like crazy and writing down requests.

Then the owner stormed in. “Vere is your bass pedal? Vere is your drum machine? Nobody ees densing. You steenk. Get outta my club! I vill call rock band now.” The bartender shrugged and slipped me a twenty. I had played exactly one hour. I gathered my stuff and people kept coming up to me aghast, asking why I was leaving. “Ask the owner,” I replied.
One couple told me that they wished I could come out to their suburb’s coffeehouse and play. I slunk home in defeat.

A week and a half later I got a call from the manager of that coffeehouse. He said a couple had come in the Friday night before and raved about me. So he asked me if I’d be willing to come out and play a 3-person showcase that Friday. I did. Then he offered me my own night a month later. I’ve been playing at that coffeehouse ever since (including some of its “favorites” sets at a local folk festival), even though it’s been so popular over the years that artists are booked on a 2-to-3-year rotation.

As a friend once put it, “When God closes a door, someone else jumps out a window."