Prelude:
At some point towards the end of the third bottle of Buckfast (just before the “return” of the discount chicken filet sandwiches) the band decided on a name that was too clever by half: Special Guest. Their alcohol-logic was that it would mean free advertising on every concert poster in the country. If only the band could have spoken to any of the members of the several previously failed bands who had thought of this exact same name long before them, they would have been warned off this recipe for confusion and disappointment. But seeking the wisdom of others was not something this band was smart enough to know to do.
And so the latest Special Guest moved forward, using credit cards and money loaned from parents to book their first show in the largest venue they could get. Practices were held, posters were plastered, social media was utilized, and the concert began (against standard music industry tradition) on time and without an opening act. (They thought “irony” was what your mother did to your nice shirt before a big night out.)
Lude:
At the moment the band was huddled together in a sweaty mass of bodies just offstage in the wings. Their expensive hair, make-up, and costumes (painstakingly arranged by the front man’s sister) were now all a dripping, soggy mess. They had been aiming for an ‘80s big-hair-band version of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band with a splash of Adam Ant’s quasi-Indian facial war paint. What they ended up with, after over an hour’s set with semi-coordinated (let’s call them ‘dance-moves’) was a look best described as ‘drowned raccoon marching band, in wobbly disco boots.’
The bassist, the only member to have agreed to wear the hat (because of his crush on the front man’s sister and because everyone knows bassists wear funky hats), was beginning to wonder if the costumes hadn’t been an elaborate scheme by the front man’s sister to get back at the lead guitarist for breaking her heart. (As with most things, the bassist was wrong; the costumes had been an elaborate scheme by the front man’s sister to get back at the lead guitarist for giving her chlamydia.)
But none of that was of concern to the rest of Special Guest. They had put the entirety of their beings into this moment. Collectively, they wanted fame and accolades more than anything else life had to offer, certainly more than they wanted actual musical talent. They were soon to learn that there would be no shortcut to their success as it was now time for the first pre-planned encore. (They had planned and rehearsed three encores in total.)
The front man turned to his fellow band members and asked, “Are y’all ready, mates!?!” in his ever changing parade of Anglo-American accents. The only response was a chorus of, “WHAT?!?” in the night’s best harmony. The front man momentarily thought of repeating the question, but realized all their ears must be ringing as bad as his. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought to himself, ‘setting all the speakers to “12” hadn’t been a good idea.’ So the front man simply held up his arm with the play-list wrist-band, pointed to the color-coded encore section, and ran back onto the stage.
With a round of shrugs, the rest of the band followed. The bassist stumbled over some wires and did his best attempt at the old short-jog recovery. (He needn’t have worried; no one ever noticed the bassist.) The drummer knocked over half his kit and had to stoop down to start the hasty, panicked re-assembly process. The keyboardist appeared to have forgotten which side of the stage his instrument was on and did an awkward mid-stage spin. Only the lead guitarist sauntered onto stage with the false bravado of one who mistakes a high number of women bedded with being a real man (and not just a remarkably long streak of never getting a second date because he was as self-obsessed in bed as he was on stage). Center stage, the front man grasped the mic-stand with both hands and asked, “Are ye ready for more!?!”
In the silence that followed, the house lights came up as the stage lights went out.
His kit hastily re-assembled, the drummer raised his favorite drum sticks high over his head and let loose his much rehearsed encore-battle-yell, “WE ARE SPECIAL GUEST AND WE’RE HERE TO THANK YOU!!! One, two, th . . . there’s nobody here?”
The venue was indeed empty, except for one man. The lone sound tech, Hal, leaned into the sound board microphone and said, “Sorry lads, it’s just me.”
“How’d they all leave so quickly?” asked the befuddled front man.
“Well, to be fair,” the sound man said, “it was only ever half-full to begin with.”
“But what about the late-arrivals?” the front man asked.
“More like early-leavers, I’m afraid.”
“How long have we been feckin’ playing to a goddamn empty house?”
“Most of the show, lads,” Hal sighed.
“Why didn’t ya stop us?”
“I figured ye needed the practice.”
Postlude:
After the inevitable dissolution of the latest, if not the last Special Guest, the front man and bassist (now a four-string banjo player, because the thought of his fingers being outnumbered secretly frightened him) went on to form a folk, singer/songwriter duo that became infamous for playing the fewest number of songs per session of any act in folk music history. They were notorious for lead-in, origin stories that were easily ten times as long as the actual songs. And even those stories were routinely interrupted by the re-stringing and re-tuning of instruments. Add in all the adjustments to stools and mic-stands and lighting requests . . . audience members were lucky if they got to hear two whole songs in an hour’s set. (Bookies laid odds on the possibility of a third song, but never had to pay out.) Their first album was titled “Plenty o’ Time.” (Again the irony was lost on them, no matter how often it was explained to them.) The harshest critique of their second album, titled “The Back Room,” was when Tommy Wiseau said it would have made an excellent soundtrack to his film, “The Room.” Their third and final album was a “best of” compilation record with more songs than the two previous records combined. (Its over-hyped release bankrupted the independent label.)
The lead guitarist started his own male escort service, but eventually had to take on studio work to supplement his income to cover the child support payments to multiple women and the lawyer fees for several pending paternity cases.
The drummer eventually sobered up and went on to find success as first a stand-up comic, before becoming an actor/screenwriter/director, and finally a novelist before disappearing quietly into the night.
Finally, Special Guest’s keyboard player took up the accordion and went on a world busking tour with his one-man KISS tribute band. His last Twitter entry said he would be taking his busking across the galaxy. (He has not been heard from since. Not that anyone is looking.)