Not very much actual cash perhaps--music here in Cowtown doesn't exactly make one rich. Hell, it usually doesn't even cover the bar tab, but at least this particular gig did promise free dinner, on the house, a choice of anything off the menu, and this sleaze palace had established whatever obscure reputation it dreamed it had on the relatively high quality of its Enchiladas.
Our band LIPS AND THE TRIPS was booked for four sets on the patio, playing refried ersatz whiteboy rhythm and blues cover music to an obnoxious crowd of irritating jocks, yuppies and drunken businessmen, all dripping wet from the molten midsummer outdoor environs that transforms Houston into a low rent version of Dante's INFERNO, complete with a half-witted derelict Maitre d', a shriveled, stuttering Virgil.
I placed an order for those famous Enchiladas while we set up our equipment. After an eternity of waiting they arrived, but the order was screwed up and boomeranged back to the kitchen repair shop while our first set began. Already into sweaty grunts and throbbing spasms of James Brown's I FEEL GOOD!, my food was placed on a table reserved for the band in front of stage.
Our very female lead singer, sexy and street smart, combined beauty with a Howlin Wolf blues growl and a Madonna blushing wardrobe. Not just a stage identity chosen out of thin air- at the tender age of six the name LIPS! was applied as an apt description of her wall to wall smile, somewhere between Carly Simon and the Joker. She can always be counted on to strut and fret all over stage, packing every venue with horny guys out to enjoy her unique talents. Drop dead gorgeous, she is more than enough distraction to cover any drunken inadequacies of us TRIPS.
This particular Summer night a pair of old hippie rednecks came in with four beautiful college-age women. All were in beach wear, Father Time and Alley Oop sporting Rip Van Winkle beards, oversized baggie shorts, Astros caps and extra large surfer tee-shirts creeping up their bountiful beer bellies, while those oh so heavenly angels were barely covered in micro bikinis. OO- LA- LA!
Stuttering Virgil led all six of them to the only available table, the one down front reserved for us, and they began ordering cervezas and food. LIPS!, a frenzy of go-go in her micro mini-skirt, hopped onto their table from the stage, long legs flashing through colored lights. Beer appeared and LIPS! returned to our tiny stage, but continued to focus her single minded show biz blitzkrieg with a zeal approaching zenlike intensity on those two old codgers down front. We sweated thru our set as their Feast-o del Mexico quickly came and went.
LIPS! announced our last song before break while the bison-wide bearded bulldozer waved chips back and forth across the table, scooping leftovers off everyone's plates, but by the time our last crescendo was complete, amps steaming on standby, the entire Beach Blanket Bingo crowd had split for higher ground.
I surveyed the scene of massive destruction at what had been the band's table, while a waitress worked at wiping away the damage. A dripping LIPS! came up toweling out her hair.
Her voice crackled with excitement when she said, " Dude! What do you think about that?"
My voice shook with sadness and dejection as I moaned, "One of those old farts ate my enchiladas..."
With a look of absolute amazement LIPS! gazed at me. "Don't you know who that was? Didn't you see the stretch limo out front?" She gave me her famous "How can anybody be so STOO-pid?" look. " That was Billy Gibbons! And the other `Old Fart' was Dusty Hill!"
I stared blankly into space, silently trying to comprehend the consequences of her words. My lack of response inspired her to dumb it down even further. " You know--ZZ Top!"
Enlightenment came in a brilliant flash of intuitive wisdom. I, Jack Turner, had just performed for ZZ TOP, the biggest band to come out of Houston. Ever. THE LITTLE OL BAND FROM TEXAS, that one and only exception to the local rule of absolute guaranteed failure in all things musical, that one successful finger in the eye of every starving musician who ever sweated thru another sleazy roadhouse gig in Space City and still had to borrow money from their girlfriend the next day for a hot dog at STOP AND GO.
So LIPS! had danced above their faces like a topless dancer on speed, obsessed to leave a lasting favorable impression, and the other guys performed at the edge of hysteria while I spent the whole time salting their cervezas with my sweat, and nobody bothered to clue me in to the secret?
Stardom... Warhol's "Famous for Fifteen Minutes"... My "Moment in the Sun"... Great...
Bitter, you say? Well, one dwells on such trivialities while sneaking down neighborhood backroads at 2:30 AM, drunkenly driving this uninspected and uninsured dysfunctional station wagon inherited from Grandma, a veritable wet dream for any cop still under-quota, the rear crammed with amps, drums and a cheesy PA, with no taillights, a leaking brake pad dripping a continuous trail of fluid, praying to reach our practice warehouse and then home without ever crossing the path of a patrol car.
Yeah, Bitter! That's right. Bitter as Hell! Weaving my way along an early morning asphalt depression, thinking about those beautiful co-eds, about how lonely I am, about the two old bastards those gorgeous co-eds were with, about how poor I am, but most of all about those Rich Son Of A Bitches who ATE MY ENCHILADAS!