Jam Night at Ruby's
Dream gig, eh? Well, mine would work out something like this:
I'd be traveling the barren lands of eastern Texas, en route to Memphis, TN, and fresh off a visit to my boy Tone's place down in Albuquerque, NM. My chops would be fresh and tight. After a long drive, I'd be looking to grab a bite, and cool down with a cold brew. I'd pull into some small 'burg well-off the beaten path, where I'd notice a slightly run-down watering hole on the far edge of town, with a rather impressive collection of slammed and chopped street rods, and a sizable herd of vintage Indians & Harleys parked in front of it. The neon sign above Ruby's door is flashing "Good Food" and "Cold Beer", and that's only part of what's peaking my attention. Even with the doors closed tight, I can make out the sound of a chunky Les Paul being pushed through a vintage amp. "This should be interesting", I comment, walking up to the door.
The air inside is thick and hazy, and I'm already feelin' the vibe of the heavy mojo. And much to my surprise, the house band is none other than . . .
ZZ Top! A wide smile spreads across my face as the waitress brings me (2) icy cold Lone Stars. "Here's your brews, darlin'" she quips, "and it's two-fur one's tonight, too, you lucky devil." Lucky, indeed! A $5 tip earns me a gratuitous rack shot, and full-on view of her lovely gait back to the bar. Snapping myself back to reality, I casually sip on my beer, and watch the band roar through the Howlin' Wolf version of "I Just Want To Make Love To You". The Beard's tone is downright filthy, and the band is tight as it gets. A bevy of delicious Texas beauties gyrate languidly in front of the stage, and I'm starting to get to the point where I'm thinking that I'll be sleeping in my truck tonight.
A brisket sandwich and several beers later, I saunter up to the stage to check out the gear. I note an early Fender Twin that shows more than a few battle scars; a vintage Les Paul sunburst with non-factory p'ups; and surprisingly, an old blonde Telecaster with a nicely "broken in" maple neck. Hiding behind the Fender amp is what looks to be an old Marshall Bluesbreaker combo - vintage of course! Suddenly, a voice comes from behind me "you a player, my friend?" I turn around. It's the Rev. "Um . . . aahhh . . . yeah," I manage to stammer out, dumbfounded that I am standing in front of my all-time favorite player. "You wanna' sit in later - I got an extra amp along." "Um . . . aahhh . . . yeah . . . OK," I reply, attempting to hide my rapture. "We usually don't play "band stuff" (as in ZZ Top songs) here, so what else you keen on layin' down?" the Rev asks me. This time, I'm quick to the draw. "How 'bout a little
Cradle Rock?" "Aaah yes -
very tasty!" he replies. "We'll call you up at the end of the set, how's that?" I just nod, not being sure that any of this is really happening. "By the way, name's Billy," he says, extending his hand. "Jon . . . or Jonny" I reply. "Jonny Guitar," laughs the Beard, "welcome to Ruby's."
As I return to my table, I become panic-stricken. What if I suck? What if I blow a chord? A million thoughts race through my head. My once-in-a-lifetime shot at playing with the Reverend Billy G., and I stink up the stage. It'd be a sad way to go. But then I think to myself how many other guys would kill for an opportunity like this? I steel myself with a shot of Jim Beam and a tall glass of ice water. I gotta' get up there, and just do it.
The third set is now in full-gallop, with the boys raging on classic cuts by Elvis, The Fabulous Thunderbirds, Chuck Berry, and then . . . it's time. Billy looks towards me, and gestures to come on up. The crowd of lovelies parts as I walk towards the stage, politely clapping for me, the estranged guitarist about to step on stage with Texas' finest. I grab the Tele, plug in, and hit the standby on the Marshall. "Good" I think, "the tubes are nice and warm". The Rev gives me the nod, as if to say "lesse' what'cha got", and I start the intro. The tone of the amp is fat & juicy, quick to break up - just the way I like it. The Tele feels like an old friend, and plays effortlessly. Frank & Dusty fall in perfectly, and we're off to the races.
I look out across the bar, and the dance floor is packed - bodies weaving hypnotically to the flow of the song. I'm in the zone. I can feel the amp behind me, and the monitors in front - every note is pulsating energy through my body to my fingers, and I'm in total cruise control. The Rev glides effortlessly through the solo section, and nods his approval at the crunchy rhythm line I'm laying down. This is his show, so I'm not in the mindset of stealing his thunder. We drag the ending out, trading fills every other measure, and then end the number to a tumultuous barrage of applause. "Ladies & Gentlemen, Jonny Guitar" the Rev announces, as I bow my head politely to the band.
As I set the Tele down, the Rev comes over and says, "That was tight, brother - nice job." "Umm . . .
thanks" I reply, still a bit breathless from playing the song. We exchange a few pleasantries before he's surrounded by the regulars, which is my cue to head back to my table. I order another beer (which again, means two), and try to sort out what just happened in my head. The surreal-ness of it all has me wondering if I will soon wake up. "Hey darlin', this is for you from Billy" says the buxom waitress, as she sets up a shot of tequila' for me. The good stuff. And then, hands me a business card. "Billy's Hot Rod Shop. You got the money . . . we got the fast." Nice.
After a few games of pool, I decide it's time to leave. I still have a lot of driving ahead of me. Walking towards my vehicle, I wonder if any and all of that just happened. I start my truck, and turn on the radio. The familiar chords of "La Grange" hit my ears. My - how fitting.
Driving into the east Texas night, ZZ Top cranked, with a big smile on my face. Priceless.
Great dream gig, man. Except, as cheap as Lone Star is, $5.00 could get ya 2 and still leave $1.50 for the tip.
