Yesterday, I mentioned the bad soundman at a recent out of town gig. Today, I would like to explain further. Besides the fact that he leaves his soundboard to either go to the bar for a drink or go to the back kitchen to play grab ass, he likes to "wire" things up himself. At the end of the set you can smell the electrical burn that occured to the speaker cab stage left. Sure, during the load in, he was big man on campus, showing his little troll friends the wiring job he'd just completed. But alas, in the end he was left with a fried cab. Now you might be saying to yourself, "Butch, don't be a girly man. Why should you care if he choses to burn his equipment?". Well, besides the fact that I think we'd sound better if the speakers weren't full of fuego, there's the issue of me feeling like Sean Penn in "Dead Man Walking". See, his "wiring" also must've screwed up the grounding on the wall socket my amp was plugged in to. Basically, once I was touching the strings on my electric guitar, and my mouth was touching the mic (mixed with spit, of course, to make a better connection), I saw Jesus. It was a flash of pure white that surrounded my eyes, my brain, my entire being. Pure white, almost angelic. I thought I heard the voices of my dead relatives telling me I had to go back, that it wasn't my time yet. Besides that, it hurt. Not like I was shoed in the nuts, but more like I was stuck in the microwave with the cat and the popcorn. To top it off, after my date with ol' sparky and the flash of lightning, I look up to find an empty sound booth. He was back in the kitchen trying to score some free yum yum sticks (luncheon meat with ginger). Here I am feeling like Bruce the shark at the end of the JAWS attraction at Universal Studios, and sound ass is stuffing his face with yum yum. But enough of that. I'm glad I got it out. I needed to. It's good to purge. I feel better, thanks for listening. Take care. Later, Butch