Tiger Stripes: An American Spirit Unfiltered

I once I had an audition to play with a famous pop singer, who we will call for our purposes “Ms. M”. A friend of mine in the music industry found out that Ms. M was looking for some new band members and got me in the door to try out for the drum chair. I wasn’t working at the time, the money they were offering was pretty good and the exposure of touring around the world to sold out arenas wouldn’t have been too bad either so I decided to go for it.

I drove for an hour or so out to the Valley (that’s the San Fernando Valley for those of you folks not from L.A.) and waited in the parking lot until about fifteen minutes before I was supposed to show up. Grabbed my cymbal bag and headed in the door. Sitting on the couch inside was my competition for the gig. Let me tell you, they were a crew right out of Spinal Tap. There was enough spandex and hair gel on that couch to provide enough jet fuel to the moon if I lit a match the wrong way.

“’Sup?” Tiger Stripped Bandana Wearing Contestant #1 nodded his head and said in my direction as I walked by.

“Hi.” I smiled and put my bag down against the wall.

“So, who you been on the road with guy?” Tiger Stripes leaned back into the cushions spreading his arms out on the back rest and crossing his legs. I don’t think he noticed the remnants of white powdery courage left on his nostrils. Or the half empty bullet not quite shoved all the way into the front pocket of his leather jacket.

“Nobody special” I lied to get him to shut up and pretended to text someone very important on my cell phone. He rambled on seemingly not caring if I or anyone else was paying attention about metal bands from the 1980’s that he played with and something about a crazy tour of the Philippines that his band just got back from a few months ago. Fortunately the door opened and his name was called next.

While he whisked his ponytail back and went to set up his gear, I stepped outside for a smoke. I lit my Marlboro Light and squinted up into the sun allowing myself to relax. A man with blond spiked hair who was as tall as an NBA center came through the door shortly after me. He was a little out of breath and seemed a bit nonplussed that someone else was already outside before him. He glowered at me and I nodded in the universal guy sign language that apparently means “Hey.”

He took out a pack of unfiltered American Spirits and lit one up. As if he were breathing for the very first time, he took the longest drag of a cigarette I had ever seen, held it in for close to ten seconds and exhaled through the words, “You here for the auditions?”

“Yeah.” I said. “I am.”

“Drummer?”

“Absolutely.”

“Shit. Here we go again.” Still lit and smoking, he threw his American Spirit towards the trash can as he spun toward the door and went back inside. I had no idea who he was, but needless to say it kinda got under my skin. As if the pressure of an audition for an international tour and the possibility of recording an album or two with a major label artist wasn’t enough.

I ground out my cigarette and now somewhat reluctantly, went back inside. The tall asshole wasn’t there and I could hear the muffled sounds of music coming through the door of the partially sound proofed rehearsal room. There were only two other guys left waiting to go before me, so I wouldn’t have to wait this uncomfortably for much longer. Soon I would be at home in the comfort of a drum throne letting my hands and feet soothe and relax my troubles away. At least that was the plan anyway.

Torn and Coffee Stained Iggy Pop T-Shirt Wearing guy with the jeans tucked into his faux alligator skin boots was called in next as Tiger Stripes cockily swayed out of the room and out of our lives. All that remained now were me and Mr. Wearing a Black Wife Beater Two Sizes Too Small to show off his three hour a day workout at Gold’s Gym physique.

A few minutes into Coffee Stain’s audition I went back out for another smoke and some quiet. About half way through my Marlboro the door opened and a short guy with blonde dreadlocks walked Coffee Stain to his car. On his way back in he came over to me a asked if he could bum a cigarette. I gave him one and lit it.

As it turns out he was Ms. M’s keyboard player. We got on pretty well talking about music and how much of a pain in the ass auditions were. I think he was even about to ask my name when they called him back for Wife Beater’s turn. He waved and headed back in to the fray. I almost felt as if I had an ally at that point. I may have found someone who was rooting for me to get the gig.

With my spirits higher and my confidence a little bit stronger, I grabbed my gear and went to get set up as soon as Wife Beater’s turn was through. I guess the band had decided it was time for lunch just then because other than the instruments, the room was barren of any live souls. It was so quiet that I felt rude and intrusive every time a screw squeaked when I was mounting my cymbals. I thought the ceiling was falling in on me, but it was only my stick bag leaning back against the floor tom.

One by one they all started to come back into the room. First dreadlocks took his spot behind the rack of keyboards talking on his cell phone. Then the guitarist slowly walked in the room, refusing to make any eye contact with me while he strapped on his Les Paul and tuned it up. The tour manager came in next. He was younger than I’d expected, but just as sweaty and nervous. I had to wipe my hands after shaking his moist palms so that my sticks wouldn’t go flying all over the place.

Everyone seemed to be in place and we were about to get ready to go when Mr. Shit. Here We Go Again ran into the room and grabbed up his bass. He didn’t even look my way or check to see if anyone else was ready. He didn’t even call out the name of the tune. “One… Two… Three… Four…”

Fortunately for me I was pretty familiar with all of the tunes already, so I caught on to what we were playing within a few bars. Dreadlocks looked over at me and smiled a little. Even the guitar player turned his torso in my direction and nodded.

We went through a few tunes like that without any major train wrecks and then they pulled out one of the hits. Keep in mind that we were playing all of these sans vocals. Ms. M was not there and none of the band members was singing either. While we were playing I was singing along in my head and I noticed that the keyboard player went to the bridge when we should have gone back to the verse. Not knowing if they changed the arrangement for the live show, or if he simply made a mistake, I followed him.

As soon as the song was finished Mr. Shit was shaking his head slowly while his eyes burned a hole to the back of my head. “You can go now.” He grumbled. “Shit.”

“Sorry?” I replied.

“You fucked it all up man.” He striped off his bass and all but threw it to the floor. “You went to the bridge instead of the fuckin’ second verse!”

“Yeah, I know.” I started to get a little defensive at this point. “I was just following the keyboard player.” I pointed towards Dreadlock who waved his hands in an innocent signal of protection as if to say, “Not Me!”

“Look dude, you fucked it up okay? Just get the fuck out of here and stop wasting our time!” With that Mr. Shit stormed out of the rehearsal room along with my hopes of getting the gig nestled comfortably inside of his unstable and misdirected temper.

Maybe I should have played the tune as I was singing it in my head instead of following the keyboards. Maybe I should have been a dick right back to Mr. Shit when I had the chance. Maybe I shouldn’t have let it bother me when I saw Ms. M performing on a late night national television show a few months later with Wife Beater playing drums and exchanging smiles with Mr. Shit.

Some people just don’t like you and there is nothing you can do about it. No matter how friendly you are, not matter how good you are at what you do they just don’t like you. It could be the way you look or the way you talk or even the way you smell. Something sets them dead against you and your future together is hopeless. I don’t remember doing anything to Mr. Shit to have him dislike me so much. Maybe it was the fact that I smoked Marlboro Lights. Or maybe I just plain screwed up the audition. I don’t know why it still bothers me, but it does.

/>