Props to the Old School
Wheeee! Look at us, slingin’ urbanista terms like props and old school, but you know how we roll! It won’t be long til I’m axin some biyatch to break with the digits or bustin a cap in yo ass—these are good things, correct?
Shizzle, mo zizzle, innit that what the kids say? Hey, this is fun! Hollah!
Get back in the fuckin trunk or I’m gonna chop off your motherfuckin head wit dis machete, white devil!
What? Too much?
Lately, we’ve gotten several inquiries here at the Channel 3 tech support center about how we land so many choice gigs. We’re aware how strange it must seem–you look in the goddamn OC Weekly and there’s yer boys, playing some glamorous show at the Forum or the Greek Theatre, and then wha the…? you see us listed 3rd at SaltyMcNutty’s Hotwing House on Tuesday…..
How is this possible, you ask? Well, simply put, left to our own devices we can only manage to bring twelve to fifteen people to come out and see us play.
The glory days are long behind us, when just the mere rumor of CH3 showing up to pick up a 12 pack at the liquor store would bring 200 kids out with their instamatics.
You really have to look at the demographic of the CH3 fanbase for an explanation. Although we seemingly never age, our audience is growing older, and naturally they have other things to do with their time than to follow the band around. Let’s look at data we’ve collected through extensive research:
As you can see, the average Channel 3 fan can’t be bothered with, oh, I don’t know, actually coming out to see the band! but that’s the way it goes. If we have to play Manzanar for the twelve-thousandth fucking time in front of 6 people at the Doll Hut, so be it! We’re troopers!
Oh, now we see–the phone’s ringin off the goddamn hook hittin us up for guestlist action now! But what about last week, when we headlined Bart’s Pub on Wednesday?
You see, these huge punk acts have to throw a bone to us old timers now and then, just to appease the punk rock gods. It gives them a measure of street cred to have the dinosaurs along for the ride, and besides, it amuses them to see us creak around onstage while they share a plate of caviar with their guitar techs in their dressing rooms.
Well, that’s fine by us. It gives us a chance to be big shots around our kids, but we mainly gratefully take these gigs for the backstage spreads. A little more lavish than the accomodations our booker Ron usually guarantees us with our backstage rider:
We leave these shows heavier than we arrived, backpacks and guitar cases filled with deli rolls and Red Bulls.
And so we go along, in this weird dual existence. The lonely nights in the damp bars, paying our dues alongside the adolescent bands right out of the garage. And then there we are, on a stage bigger than a regulation volleyball court, playing to an appreciative though unfamiliar crowd. The Pasta Puttanesca sits waitng for us in a chafing dish backstage, next to the Terrycloth towels and the Bohemia on ice.
It’s great fun, but tomorrow morning it’s back to reality, gotta get the kid to school and see if we can’t fix that goddamn press brake at the shop….
And as we wheeze our way off the stage after our set, we may brush past one of these modern day Punk rock gods in the darkened hallway. We exchange Good Set!, and have a good one!
But we can recognize what we see as we look them in the eye.
That mixture of pity and respect, amusement and fear: It’s as if they’re looking at their own future.