Rocked the house in Chicago last night. 

We debuted another new tune, Straight to Hell, a song I wrote in about ten minutes one day at the cabin in Rural Newfoundland.  I was listening to a blues dude on CBC radio and we were singing one of the million tunes about the famous Johnson story of selling your soul to the devil in exchange for the gift of maestro guitar playing.  All of those tunes tell the tale of the depressed walking damned whining his way through life waiting for Satan to collect his debt.  I figure that if you sold your eternal soul in exchange for a mortal life of Rock and Roll, you should frigging well live it up and get the most out of it before the horned dude comes calling.

It was cold in Chicago yesterday.  I needed a hat.  I wandered into a store and the only one in there that fit was this:

Funny thing about wearing a hat with SECURITY written on it.  It turns out, that’s all the credentials you need to go almost anywhere.  I was walking past a theatre, just down the street from the Riviera where GBS played.  The theatre was surrounded by tour buses and high school aged fans waiting to catch a glimpse of someone famous to them. Apparently, the event was a big multi-band traveling show headlined by 30 Seconds to Mars.   As I strolled by one bus, with my SECURITY hat pulled down over my ears to protect them from the chilly wind, a tour manager (they all tend to look alike) stepped from the bus and grabbed my arm.

-Hey man.  Can you help me get Billy?(not sure) to the Stage Door?
-Sure.

So this fella steps from the bus with his hoodie up over his head and the biggest pair of shades hiding most of his face.  He takes my arm and I lead him down a path between the curious onlookers to the Stage Door.  He turns to me as he enters and makes a fist.  I assume he wants to do one of those knuckles to knuckles baseball handshakes, so I make a fist as well. I was almost right.  He did one of those fist stacked on top of fist shakes and says just before disappearing into the theatre;

-Thanks man, you’re the best.
-No sweat.

The Tour Manager turns to me and asks me where to find catering and I quite honestly say in as thick a Petty Harbour accent as I can muster:

-Dunno, b’ye.  I’m not working here.  I’m playing down the street.  Have a good one.

He was about to lambaste me when he remembered that the whole thing was his idea.  He looked embarrassed and grinned;

-Have a good one, yourself.

Maybe I should get a hat that says Police Officer or Surgeon General and see where that gets me.
Happy Paddy’s Day.

Cheers,
Alan