Hole in the Wall, Sunday, June 2, 2002

What can you say about the death of a legend? In our case, we can say we were there and we helped it die - or maybe that's not a good way to put it. The Hole in the Wall had been a terminal case long before our little nuit de la musique, but in some small way, I'd like to think we eased its suffering on the way out.

They say desperate people do crazy things, so when Debbie Rombach called me for the first time and asked if I would put together some bands for a Sunday night as part of the "Thirty Days in the Hole" benefit, I was both flattered and a little scared. It wasn't as if I hadn't talked to Debbie possibly hundreds of times over the years, it was that she was actually calling me. I guess if you live long enough a certain amount of weird shit is bound to happen - maybe that explains the bumper sticker, but a phone call from Debbie is something straight out of the Twilight Zone - sort of like a tap on the shoulder from Jesus. I was totally freaked out, jerking my head around looking for the Candid Camera crew, trying not to giggle uncontrollably yet maintaining a semblance of earnestness just in case she was actually serious. She was.

So I called some people, but first I walked down the hall and asked Bobby if he would like to be a part of this deal because first and foremost, Bobby parties like a porn star, and short of moving back to Oklahoma or maybe Alabama, I don't get to hang out with hellions and degenerates much anymore unless I actually invite them to the party. Bobby gave me a thumbs up and assured me that he and his rock band, "The Silent Treatment" would gladly uncork for such a worthy cause. Cool. Once I got Bobby on board I knew things would fall into place, which they did. I called my close, close, personal friend Paul "of Fame" Minor who said that only an act of God would keep him from playing. Then I rang up my bizzoi Kevin from the Cosmic Dust Devils who assured me they were a lock, and lastly I called Erik Conn and asked if he and Michael Wane and their God shaking band Covert Operation would come rock the paneling off the walls. He said, "mos def."

So I called back Debbie and was shocked again to not get her answering machine. When I actually heard her voice I paused for a few moments like some sneaky telemarketer just to make sure I wasn't talking to a tape, then I rattled off my list of top-notch bands. When I was finished, she asked, "Isn't your band going to play?" I hadn't actually thought about it. She said, "Your band should definitely play. You haven't played here in a long time." My mind immediately raced back to the 1am Monday (technically Tuesday) slot we played back in the fall. Beads of sweat were forming on my forehead. "Sure, anything for the Hole" I said.

Indeed.

Since the evening was supposed to be a benefit for the Hole, I busied myself with setting some fundraising goals for the evening. In order to stay in business at its current location, the Hole needed to cough up roughly a million dollars to buy the building before the end of June. I don't know about you, but when I sign on for something like this, I like to aim high, so I figured we would try for the whole enchilada. $1,000,000 split between five different bands meant that each band would have to raise $200,000 during its set in order to make the deal work. That meant that the first band would have to meet it's goal or it would place an undue burden on the remaining bands to take up the slack. So really, all of the pressure was on Bobby's band, The Silent Treatment. If they couldn't get their fans to cough up 200K, all bets we off. Sure, it was quite a bit of pressure, but that Bobby can be pretty damned persuasive when he sets his mind to it.

In retrospect, I probably should have restructured the goals so that The Silent Treatment wouldn't feel so much pressure, but I figured, "Hell, they're young. They can handle it." They did handle it in fact, just not in a particularly healthy or productive way. I got to the Hole in the Wall a full hour before the gig, and as I was walking through the parking lot in back, I heard someone whisper to me from a car window. "Pssst, dude, come here."  It was Bobby. He and Craig were sitting in a cobalt blue American-made sedan. "Dude...$200,000 dollars? That shit's impossible. The Hole only holds a couple hundred people, and even then you'd have to pack 'em like cordwood, Amistad style. Now let's just suppose we come across a fifty gallon drum of Vaseline and manage to squeeze that many people in there - it still adds up to a thousand bucks a pop. Only serious players carry that kind of hack, yo, not the booze weasels and slackers that frequent the Hole."

I had to admit, he made an impressively lucid argument considering the number of empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans littered beneath his door, but just because something is impossible doesn't mean you shouldn't attempt it, right? I decided to get tough. "Look motherfucker, if you didn't think you could handle this gig you shouldn't have signed on in the first place. OK, I'll admit the odds are stacked against you, but I hand picked you dudes precisely because I knew you wouldn't back down in the face of a serious challenge. Maybe it can't be done, but maybe it can...so we have to try. That's all I'm asking. Where would the world be if people - good people like you and Craig here - never attempted the impossible? Would Columbus have discovered the New World? Would the Wright Brothers have launched their glorious glider? Would Edison have invented the phonograph? Would Oppenheimer have created the atom bomb? OK, scratch that last one, but you get the idea. Now I want you to go in there and rock every last penny out of the pants of every last patron of that dying yet venerable establishment, you hear me?"

"Sure thing dude. We just need to burn a couple of bowls and we'll be right in."


Craig and Bob deal with the tremendous pressure of having to
raise $1,000,000 to get the Hole out of the hole. Actually, their
fifth was only $200,000, but musicians aren't particularly good at math.

In all honesty, Craig and Bob's stress management technique, while proven effective by all manner  of performers throughout history, was the cause of a certain amount of concern. However, their car was parked between the lines and even though there was a disturbing about of cat fur and feathers in their radiator grill, I could see no reason to harsh their buzz. I was swinging around to head into the club when Craig grabbed my arm, "Hold on there buddy, you need to try this shit. It's totally hydroponic. My neighbor has a degree in Botony and he grows it in his garage. He's got it all tricked out. The buds are the size of cucumbers"

Normally, I'm not much of a doper, but I was feeling a little guilty about saddling Craig and Bob and the silent treatment with the pressure set, so, just to be hospitable, I took a hit. It was crazy smooth. I barely even coughed. Alrighty, no harm no foul I thought and turned to go inside once again. I felt Craig's hand on my arm again. "Dude, you can't make any serious qualitative analysis on a little debutante puff like that. You need to light the bowl dude. You need to make it glow like the afterburner of an F-16." This time he handed me the lighter and winked. "Make me proud, dude." Call it spinelessness or a lack of self esteem, but I've always been a sucker for peer pressure, so I took the lighter, torched the bowl and inhaled a monster hit that singed my eyebrows and nearly made me crosseyed. Craig slapped me on the back and I doubled over coughing. "That's some wicked shit, yo?" Bobby cackled from the drivers seat. Craig handed me a PBR and in between coughs, I drank it down like Gatorade. After finishing the beer, I figured I had better hustle inside before the pipe made its way back around to me. I was already feeling pretty glossy anyway.

It's a good thing I went in when I did because as soon as I walked through the door I the buzz hit and I was completely lost. A few more seconds and I would have been wandering up and down Guadalupe in a state of abject catatonia. I managed to summon enough concentration to order a Guinness and then stumbled down the stairs to the back room. I probably sat there for about an hour and a half making a little tinfoil pony out of a juicy fruit wrapper I found on the floor. The pony turned out pretty cool, but tragically, I missed the Silent Treatment's entire set.


A freakishly skinny Social Studies editor from
Holt, Reinhart Winston snatched my camera and
took this picture just before I pitched onto the linoleum.
I think she also took my tiny tinfoil pony, but I can't be sure.

To my credit, I think, I did manage to pull myself up off the floor and maintain - at least until I realized that my tiny tinfoil pony had disappeared. At that point I am a little embarrassed to admit that I became a bit of an emotional wreck. Maybe I am just not a happy stoner, but it's a good thing Sam found me and bought me another Guinness or I think I might have begun sobbing hysterically. Sam at least did me the favor of guiding me into the front room where The Silent Treatment was packing up their equipment. The room was pretty full of people, but I noticed that the tip jar only had about a buck-fifty in it. I was still a little testy from the pony incident so I grabbed the tip jar and shoved it into Bobby's chest. "What the fuck is this? Is this $200,000 dollars?" Bobby just raised his eyebrows all innocent-like and shrugged his shoulders. I became even more enraged. "It looks like a buck-fifty to me! You know what that means? That means that now the Cosmic Dustdevils have to raise three hundred ninety nine thousand, nine hundred ninety eight dollars and fifty cents...in a 45 minute set. You guys totally dropped the fucking ball!" Bobby looked at me all excited. "Yeah, I know, but dude, we rocked." Sam looked at em and nodded. "Yeah, they did. They had them eating out of their hands"
"But where's all the money?" I screamed.
"Well, we sorta forgot to put out the tip bucket until after the set."
I was incredulous. I slammed the tip bucket down on the stage, stalked off to a table in the corner and sat down with my arms folded, sulking. Luckily, the Cosmic Dust Devils began playing and my mood lightened considerably. I even ordered another Guinness. I was about halfway through the beer when Steve came over and screamed in my ear that I should go apologize to Bobby for being such an asshole. I agreed, but told him I wanted to at least listen to the rest of the song. Kevin and the band were really smoking and the crowd was going wild. It was getting to me. I was starting to feel bipolar.


The Cosmic Dust Devils jam the Hole (figuratively).
They were so overwhelmingly fun I couldn't wipe the smile off my face.

After the song ended I was euphoric and up on my feet with the rest of the crowd. We were all hooting and hollering and slapping each other on the backs - or at least I thought we were until I realized that Steve was smacking me on the back, pointing towards the door. I was confused for a moment until I realized he was trying to get me to go apologize to Bobby. I managed to careen across the room and caught up with Bobby and Craig by the front door. I grabbed Craig by the shirt, spun him around and gave him a big hug. "I'm sorry dude! I fucked up. It's not about the money. It's about the love, the love!" He looked genuinely confused, but I already had Bobby in a bear hug by then. "You're right Bobby! You guys rocked." Bobby smirked "How would you know, you weren't even here." I pointed at my chest "No, but I was here, here." Bobby laughed "You are lit, dude. Maybe you should slow down."
"Not until you say you still love me."
"No fucking way."
"Say it"
"No."
"Come on."
"All right" Bobby screamed, "I fucking love you. Now go outside and get some air."


Kevin Higgins of the Cosmic Dust Devils turns around as Bobby
screams "I love you right in the middle of his song." Needless to
say, another apology was in order.

Outside I ran into Erik and Michael from Covert Operation. I must have still been staggering a bit because they greeted me with a look of pity and disgust. "Dude, you look totally baked." Michael said, "Are you planning on playing tonight?" "Yes," I said, "We are going on right after Superego and it looks like were going to have to raise around five hundred ninety nine thousand, nine hundred ninety seven dollars and about thirty five cents, looking at the tip bucket."
Erik looked amazed. "Your spatial ability is impressive, considering the size of your pupils, but I have some bad news Sport. Paul Minor just called and said that even though you are his close, close, personal friend, he isn't going to be able to make it -something about a third degree sunburn tubing down the Comal. Looks like you're up next." 


The boys from Covert Operation were disgusted with
my irresponsible behavior, but impressed that I still had a head for math.

"No way" I said, "I am waaay too toasted to go on next. Minor is just going to have to nut up and get down here."
"Not going to happen. He said he's completely encased in gauze and Aloe Vera ointment. He also sounded like he had some sort of speech impediment, but he was in excruciating pain, so I didn't pry."
From what I can piece together, I had a mild to possibly moderate anxiety attack at that point and went running back into the club. My memory is a little hazy but I seem to recall Steve finding me in the back room again and asking me if it was cool if Covert Operation played our slot.
"Good news" he said, "The Cosmic Dust Devils kicked ass, so they only have to raise seven hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred ninety six dollars and seventy five cents."
I was confused. "Wait a minute...seven hundred ninety nine thousand?"
"You remember...Paul couldn't make it?"
"Oh..."

We went back into the front room and found an empty table behind Donovan and Sarah. Gretchen and Sam joined us. They looked concerned. "Are you sure you're going to be able to play?" Gretchen asked. Just then Covert Operation opened up with their amps set on thirteen. I felt the skin on my face ripple and my eyeballs sank deeper into their sockets.
"What?" I screamed. Gretchen screamed something back, but the sound waves were making her lips flap to such a degree that I couldn't tell what she was saying. I just nodded back, but it's difficult to say whether my head was moving up and down or side to side. In a very touching gesture, she rolled a couple of earplugs across the table. I managed to get them in my ears just as the first song came to an end. She leaned over again and mouthed something, but I had my earplugs in so I couldn't hear what she was saying.


Covert Operation rocked me so hard that I was unable
to breathe through their entire set. If Gretchen hadn't
loaned me some earplugs I'm not sure whether I would be alive today.

One you get desensitized to the monstrous levels of volume, you begin to realize that Erik and Michael are incredibly skilled musicians. The same could be said of the bass player, but I couldn't hear his name. His bass amp was so large they had to move a couple of tables to fit it near the stage. Michael played through an huge orange amp that was pointed directly at my forehead - or so it seemed. By the time they launched into their final song, my skin felt tender. Then again, that could have been the pot.


Michael Wane hits a tasty lick while drummer
Erik Conn beats a black hole into his snare drum.

After Covert's set, I went outside to get some more fresh air. I was right in the middle of listening to the crickets that seemed to have taken up residence in my inner ear when our intermittent violin player Steph roared up with his girlfriend on his new crotch rocket. Amazingly, they had been able to store his fiddle on it somewhere  - very possibly under his jacket. I asked him if he intended to play. "Man, you are cooked." he giggled, "Can you play?"
"Of course I can, I just have to shake these infernal crickets out of my ears. They're bleating like the Dickens. It's driving me mad."
Steph cocked an eyebrow. "OK, I'm in."

We got on stage at about 1am Monday morning. The only one of us who could tune by ear was Steph. The rest of us had to rely on our quartz tuners. For me this was quite a challenge because the lights were kind of all blending together. I think I did OK, because once we got started nobody screamed an ran out or anything.


Sam Gretchen and me tune our instruments tortured by the deafening bleats of crickets.

We finally got our mojo working and lit into one of our classic hour long power sets. We were a little nervous at first but that was understandable given that it was up to us to raise nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred ninety five dollars and twenty five cents. After a while, the crushing reality of the situation settled in and we made the best of what in all of our minds would definitively be the last night we ever played at the Hole in the Wall.


Still roughly a million dollars short of their goal, Fingerpistol rocks the Hole for the very last time.

After all I had been through that evening, it was difficult to keep from becoming too emotional about our last night at the Hole. I took a moment and looked out at the folks at the bar and thought, "Will this special place ever be replicated?" I looked down at the tip bucket and counted about $4.75. Not likely.


With just short of a fiver in the tip bucket, Hole in the Wall Patrons ponder
the fate of their beloved  drinking establishment.

Even though nearly a month has passed and the Hole is now history, I look back with pride that Fingerpistol was a part of that history, no matter how small. My memories, like those of countless others, will ensure that the Hole lives on long after its shell has been scraped clean and converted into a Starbuck's or pricey condos. In fact, there are many images from the Hole that I doubt I'll be able to shake as long as I live. Most of them were on the men's room wall, but there were others and I'll cherish them too.


A brief sampling of the always colorful
men's room graffitti at the Hole in the Wall.
Misty water color memories of the way we were...


I guess that about does it.
Dan

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