So, the big gig has come and gone.The hangover has receded, and I�m left with just a slight ringing in my ears and a mental fog regarding the location of a few personal possessions. They�ll turn up eventually, or they won�t, and that will be all right, too. Yesterday morning, I dragged my ass out of bed, and, no Advil handy, shook a Vicodin from a vial near the bed, and bit off a corner, washing it down with some cold coffee before crawling out the door to go to work.

It had been quite a night. Outfit considerations and misplaced perfume aside, I was relatively nerve-free until a few moments before soundcheck. I sat in the empty club, looking at the sunlight on the floorboards and felt sudden terror at the realization that we were playing a Real Club. The terror kicked into full gear moments later as I listened to the giant sound put out by the headliners, the Snobs, who soundchecked first (see illustration).

ILLUSTRATION

(That�s the Keelhauler, fixing my guitar while the Snobs set up.)

Soho, the club in question, has a great sound system, and a soundman working the board. There was a world of difference between this giant sound and our usual blown-out PA lo-fi wonder. I was not confident that I could fill the gap. I looked over at the case full of autographed photos of bands who�ve played there. Calexico, Cat Power, Loudon Wainwright gazed down from the wall, and I hoped that some of their magic had infused the stage with awesome powers that I could tap into, powers that would cancel out any downer vibe left over from David Crosby or Kenny Loggins. Because when you can�t rely on talent, go for the magical thinking.

Sweetheart and I changed in the girls� room, like we were getting ready for the class play, and ran down the street for extra necklaces, perfume and eyedrops before meeting some friends for glamorous sushi, because we are rock stars, yo. We were all,�What would Jack and Meg do?� And the answer was: �Go out for glamorous sushi, a-doy-EEEEE!� because that is how rock stars talk, it is, too.

So, to cut out the boring details (too late!), I�ll just say that we had a damn good time, up there under the lights. The magical powers of artists past kicked in after all. Thanks, guys! No, really! It was a sonic bombast-fest, with lots of screaming and requests for a drum solo and "Godzilla." Rocksteady sent two cymbals flying, giving the Keelhauler the chance to race onstage, all stealthy roadie-like, to repair the damage and get some stage time himself. He makes us look so professional.

Here are some of the lies I told while onstage:

• Our drummer, Rocksteady, wrote the song �Godzilla� for the Blue Oyster Cult.


• If everyone in the audience turned to the person nearest them and kissed them on the lips, they would not regret it.


• Our band just completed an extended tour of Brazil.


• I would make out with every single audience member, if someone would only bring me an Absolut greyhound. (That�s vodka and grapefruit, you, and someone did bring me one.)

As for the lies I told offstage, that is another story altogether.

Thanks to everyone who showed up, and to the Snobs, the ever-fabulous Snobs, who were kind enough to invite us to play the gig, and whose bluesy guitar-fest sounded fantastic. You have to love a band who sings about a girl who �only wants to fuck in the car.�

By the end of the Snobs set, I was sitting out on the patio with another Absolut greyhound, smoking cigarettes and planning our first music video with Wilson, our self-proclaimed Number-One Fan, and yelling �You are gae!� at Rocksteady, down in the parking lot.

I have come to recognize my Four Stages of Drunkenness, which are as follows:

1. Pleasantries and gossip


2. Lies, heavy-metal high notes


3. �Let�s drive to Mexico!�


4. Smoking cigarettes with Wilson

It was definitely a Stage Four night.

Star of the day. . .Shooby Taylor