THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, December 29, 1995 TAG: 9512290076
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY BILL GREEVES, SPECIAL TO THE DAILY BREAK
LENGTH: Long : 235 lines
Editor's note: Bill Greeves was the hard-driving drummer behind a popular local band called Legend. In its prime, the group packed the area's hottest clubs.
Legend was formed in Greeves' parents' garage in July 1993. In November 1993, they played their first gig - open-mike night at Cogan's. That night, they were approached by a person who they thought was a record producer but turned out to be a local sound engineer. The band learned an important music industry lesson: If it sounds too good to be true, it is.
This is Part 2 of Greeves' account of 18 months of growth, pain and coming of age in a rock 'n' roll band.
A FEW WEEKS AFTER Cogan's, we hired a music student with recording equipment to come to rehearsal and make a demo tape for us. We produced it ourselves and made jackets with pen-and-ink drawings and photos copied on colored paper. It was not of the highest quality, but it was appropriate to our financial standing at that time.
We passed out tapes to our friends and club owners, hoping someone would take an interest in us. We created a promotional pack, which included a tape and band history (with a few minor embellishments to hide that we had no history.)
Our hopes soared when we listened to the music of other emerging bands and found faults and mistakes. It was a very direct relationship: The better the talent of the band in question, the more we found fault with their abilities.
It was the law of the musical jungle, survival of the wittiest. Whoever could make the most fun of other bands and steal their audience would be successful, or so we thought at the time.
Jealousy and egos reigned supreme as we struggled to find our niche in the club circuit of Hampton Roads.
The little-big time
By the spring of 1994, we were well-seasoned stage veterans. We had played Hampton's Nsect Club, two shows at Norfolk's Vampire Room, two more shows at Cogan's, The King's Head Inn and clubs in Virginia Beach, including The Machine, Scully's, Outlaws, Jamaican Johnny's, Xenik's and an acoustical set at Planet Music to promote our new album.
We had sold more than 150 copies of the album, and our bumper stickers adorned the cars of more than 150 fans. We had T-shirts and hats circulating, and ``Looking Glass,'' one of the more popular songs on the album, was being played on a local radio station.
We had our own sound engineer, a lighting engineer, a drum technician and two ``roadies'' who set up and took down our equipment.
And we were finally getting paid. In the beginning, we played for exposure and the lure of the crowd. All of the money we made was poured back into promotions, album production and purchasing new equipment.
I had been dubbed the unofficial manager, bookkeeper and promotional director for the band. Much of my time was devoted to booking shows, getting our material aired on the radio, communicating with other musicians and concerned parties and hawking our material to record labels.
We practiced three nights a week for three hours each session. I was also finishing up my junior year at Old Dominion University and working full time at a store in the mall.
It was a crazy life. At 9 a.m., I was sitting in my desk in Spanish 311; at 3 p.m., I was standing behind the sales counter at work; at 9 p.m., I was sitting behind my drums at practice.
The local big time
We were in control and ready to take our next big step: The Peppermint Beach Club. It was the place where hard rock bands in limbo between well-known and famous played on a daily basis. Bands like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Alice In Chains and Pantera had played there mere months before they broke into the mainstream.
On a Friday evening in April, I stopped by the Peppermint to drop off a promotional package. We were playing at a tiny bar at the Oceanfront known as Xenik's. The Peppermint was about 10 blocks down the strip, so I walked down there before our first set.
As I opened the thick glass double doors leading into the dim nightclub, a burly bouncer with a shaved head and foot-long goatee stepped across my path - the Incredible Hulk without the green skin. He stretched out a huge and calloused palm and uttered in a bearlike growl: ``Two dollars and your ID.''
``I'm just here to drop off a promotional pack for my band,'' I said.
He directed me to Cisco in the DJ booth. Cisco was leaning back in a desk chair against the wall, hands propped behind a head of thick, curly hair that hung down his back.
``You Cisco?'' I asked him.
``Sure am. What can I do for you?''
I explained who I was, what I wanted and gave him our stuff.
``I'll give it a listen this week. I have been trying to convince the boss to get some more local music in here, drum up some local support.''
``Great, thanks,'' I said. ``My number is on the tape. Call me if you're interested.''
``Not a problem. So what do you think of them?'' he asked gesturing toward the stage, occupied by four men who made up a Swedish heavy metal band, complete with leather and makeup.
``Well, um, I didn't get a chance to listen to them yet,'' I replied, watching them swing their golden locks in synchronized fury.
``Yeah, I don't like 'em much either. Oh well, maybe next time, right?''
``Yeah. Well, call me when you listen to it,'' I said.
``OK, baby, will do.''
Cisco called me back the very next day. He loved our tape and wanted to get us in there as soon as possible. I couldn't believe it. We were actually going to play on the same stage as Queensryche and Flotsam and Jetsam.
At practice that night, I casually asked the band members if they would be interested in playing at the Peppermint Beach Club. Disbelief was their first reaction. The cycle of our local shows had come full circle. We had started at the lowest hole in the wall, and now we were going to perform at the biggest hole in the wall in the Hampton Roads area.
Playing the Peppermint
We got to the Peppermint at 6 p.m. to set up. Cisco was there to greet us at the back door.
At 7 p.m., we were ready for our sound check.
At most of the places we had played, I had always had one 8-inch or 10-inch speaker placed behind me so that I could hear everyone else and stay in tune. On this stage, I had six 15-inch speakers built into a wall behind my drum riser.
As I pushed down on my bass drum pedal, the soundwave from the speakers behind me literally caused my hair to blow in its wake. When I played through a few measures of ``Come to Me'' for a sound check, the sounds coming from the monitors behind me pushed against my back, and I felt them in my stomach and through the soles of my feet. I was thankful that I had remembered my earplugs.
By 11:45 p.m., Dirty Mary, a mixture of rock and blues and pyrotechnics, had finished its set and vacated the stage. We made some last minute sound adjustments and then the stage lights went out as we prepared to begin. I rubbed rosin on my face, neck and hands to prevent my sweat from causing me problems when we played.
There were nearly 350 people, most gathered beneath us at the front of the stage. We were all very nervous about being in front of such a large crowd, but as the first licks from Gary's guitar intro to ``Thirst'' rolled over us, reflex took control and we responded as a tight unit. A bar of red lights directly behind me flashed in time with the beating of my drum. Every time they came on, they were so intense and so close that they felt like torches at my back.
We rolled through our first 40-minute set with mistakes so minor only we could notice them.
During the 20-minute break between sets, we took advantage of the bathtub full of free, longneck Budweiser left for us by the club in our dressing room. We discussed the transitions we would use between the songs in our next set, and reflected on the high and low points in the first set.
Looking at the faces of Gary, Shannon and Phil, I could easily read the excitement and contentment they felt as they lounged on the ratty, stained couch. They spoke of nothing else but our future as a band.
``We could definitely play here again. We rocked!'' said Phil.
``Yeah, did you see the chick headbanging right in front of me?'' asked Gary. ``She was going off!''
``I was going to stand up on the monitor in front of me and come down slammin' during `Thirst,' '' said Shannon, ``but I didn't think it (the stage) would hold.''
``If we make a lot of money, we should get more copies of our album produced,'' said Phil. ``My brother knows some people in New York that could get us in with Geffen. We'd be set! Full studio, three-album contract easily.''
``No, we should hit Elektra,'' replied Gary. ``They'd like us better.''
``When are we playing out again?'' asked Shannon. ``This chick I work with said our demo rocked. She wants to come see us live.''
I, on the other hand, began to realize that for all of its glory, the stage life, as it became more attainable, had become less desirable.
I was going to graduate from college soon and I hoped to be a writer. The music was fun and I loved performing, but backstage at the Peppermint I began to realize that my dreams did not parallel those of the other band members. I began to think back over our career and success and realized that this was not what I wanted to do with my life. But for now, I was content to make music with Legend.
Back on stage, everything went smoothly until just before our last song when our vocalist, Shannon McPeek, introduced us one last time and said good night to the crowd below. Chris, my drum technician, had handed me a pitcher of ice water to cool off with and as he jumped off the side of the stage, his leg caught the speaker cable running to my monitors and pulled it loose.
I didn't see this happen and he didn't know that he had disconnected the monitors. But when I started our last song, ``Come To Me,'' I realized that my drum intro was not filtering through my monitors, and that meant that I would not be able to hear anyone else through the monitors either.
The speakers that guitarist Gary Spear and bassist Phil Hess were playing through were pointed out toward the crowd, away from me. The sounds of the band playing together extended across the club, bounced off the opposite wall and came back and hit me again, roughly a note and one-half later.
Stage monitors allow musicians to hear a note or chord at the same instant that they are actually played. So if I was to play along with the guitar and bass that I heard bouncing back to me, I would be playing a note and one-half behind Gary, Phil and Shannon, creating a tremendous time displacement that would be evident to even the most novice of music enthusiasts in the audience.
So, before the bass and guitar entered the song, I yelled for Phil through my microphone. He turned and I motioned with my head to the monitors behind me and he instantly understood. He turned to his side and exposed the front of his bass, putting his fingers in clear view for me. I was forced to block out the sound bouncing to me and concentrate on the movement of his fingers from note to note to keep in time with the rest of the band.
It was difficult to block out the sounds coming at me, but I counted off the notes in time with his fingers to keep myself in sync. Twice we fell out of time as my concentration weakened, but only for an instant. We finished the song and walked off the stage to tremendous applause. As we left the stage, a black bra, apparently thrown by an over-enthusiastic crowd member, spun its way over the heads of the crowd to land at our feet.
Afterward, when we reviewed the night's performance, Cisco approached with our night's earnings: $200
``Hey, baby, got the manager to throw in an extra hundred for the crowd you brought. Nice set. Had a little trouble with the monitors?'' he asked, passing me a wad of cash.
``Just a little,'' I said.
``Nice recovery. How about you guys coming back again in about a month?'' he asked.
``Sure,'' I replied, ``we'd love to.''
Full Circle
So we went from an inexperienced garage band to seasoned stage veterans within a year. We spent roughly 700 hours composing, rehearsing and writing music in my parents' garage. We earned more than $2,000. Our names had not become household words, but we had gained a substantial local following and elevated ourselves beyond the amateur level into the murky haze of semi-professionals.
We played together for two years, through 40-odd shows. In the end, it was our differing goals for the future that had began nagging at me on the tattered and stained couch backstage at the Peppermint and serious differences of opinion that later developed that led to our breakup.
The end of a legend
Legend no longer exists. Shannon is a hairdresser at Waves, Etc. Hair Design in Norfolk. Gary graduates next April from ECPI as a biomedical technician. Phil is working on his bachelor's at ODU.
I graduated from ODU and am currently working at Life Net, a nonprofit regional medical service. I have begun working toward a master's. Next summer, I will marry my girlfriend.
I still and will probably always play in bands. But when I join, I immediately explain that it is only a hobby. When I look back at band photos or listen to our tapes, my emotions rise. I feel pride, sorrow, excitement, pain, but never regret. I can still remember some of the songs we wrote, note for note.
Legend taught me about playing music for the sake of playing music, not for money and fame and MTV videos. It taught me that the most important thing is not technique or style, but whether you enjoy your music.
Now, when I sit in my parents' garage, I can almost hear the echoes of feedback from Gary's guitar and the resonance of Phil's bass notes. I smile, content that I was part of it. by CNB