…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column

…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column. by Chris Busone.

Throughout my illustrious musical career (so, so much luster), I have played many gigs on many special occasions: birthdays, holidays, one wedding, and the subsequent divorce party, which was a wildly festive affair. They all had their own unique celebratory ups and downs. But by far the most intrepid waters there were to navigate, both musically and in terms of crowd sway, were always New Year’s Eve gigs.

Yes, that end-of-year auld lang zany time, when all our past indiscretions and missteps in the last 365 days and nights are forgotten (365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes on a leap year). A magical time when our Gregorian slate is wiped clean, and the sweet smell of fresh starts permeates the midnight air. So, I thought that with the onset of the recent new year, we would take an inebriated journey through the passages of the past four or five decades’ worth of New Year’s eves, and ring in this new year with a serving of nostalgic remembrances of the ghosts of New Year’s Eve gigs past, topped with a healthy dollop of snark-casm. (Ahhh, Baby New Year, thou art a fickle little tot …)

Now I’ve had many, many, great New Year’s experiences through the years, but the bad ones are exceedingly more humorous, so let’s concentrate on them. I’m sure most of you have heard it referred to as “amateur night” at some point, and that is an aspect of the occasion that can weigh heavy on the head that wears the musical New Year’s crown.

I have shown up early to New Year’s Eve gigs over the years to set up (set up, mind you, we’re talking 7 pm) and, with amp and guitar in hand, had to hula dance around played-out, part-time partiers who had not even made it to the start of the evening before their pickled departure. For them, the midnight ball drop will only appear when they tell the story of their night’s exploits in exaggerated terms to those who did not witness their early hour self-inflicted expulsion from the night’s merriment.

My first actual paying gig (at 17) was a New Year’s Eve party at a VFW Post, and I’m here to tell you, those veterans of foreign wars knew how to throw a bash. There were drinks all around to be sure, and loads and loads of fun with great people who treated us like family. At my vulnerable age, I was left with the impression that all future New Year’s gigs – hell, all gigs in general – would follow this format. Nope.

As the years and New Years flowed by, there were changes in the year-end celebration that mirrored the changes in societal mores and norms. During the years of excess, there was a stretch when bars/clubs would obtain an “all-night license” (I’m not even sure that’s legal anymore). So, we would either play all night from 10 pm – 6 am in one club, or play from 10 pm – 2 am in the first club, then tear it down and set it up at a second location, and play from 3 am – 7 am. Now, any good criminologist will tell you the hazards of being taken to a secondary location, and your plummeting odds of survival should that unfortunate happenstance occur. But we happily submitted ourselves to double jeopardy in those days, partially due to the folly of youth, but also because the promise of huge financial rewards at the end of the evening superseded any potential musical mortal danger we may encounter.

One year in particular, we entered the secondary venue around 2:30 am, where we had signed on to play the late, late, early shift, only to find a sudsy supply of beer on the floorboards, bodies strewn about like the broken dreams of losing tickets at the track, while cocktail-fueled chaos abounded. The stout-hearted survivors splashed and shimmied their way about the soggy, saturated dance floor, in spite of the fact that there was no music playing. It was like the first 20 minutes of “Saving Private Ryan” in there. (If you haven’t seen it by the way, oh my God, I don’t want to give anything away, but Spielberg does it again.)

At the other end of the New Year’s spectrum, cities and municipalities have their own sanctioned “First Night” celebrations on New Year’s Eve, in which bands are hired to play designated well-lit venues at a low, respectable volume (he says, while waggling a finger of warning). It’s all very upright, uptight, and family-friendly, which has absolutely nothing to do with New Year’s Eve or Rock & Roll. In addition, they are traditionally dry events, which has even less to do with New Year’s Eve and Rock & Roll … or me, for that matter. But I did play one, one year, and upon learning of the boozeless nature of the event, myself and some members of the other band on the bill (a local rockabilly giant who shall remain nameless) went to a gas station and got a 2-liter bottle of Saratoga water, poured it out in the parking lot, and filled it with vodka. I can’t describe to you how much that enhanced the experience. (This, of course, was prior to everyone’s obsession with staying hydrated.)

And so, year after year, the thrust and parry continued until the money lessened, the clubs got fewer, and the crowds got surlier. At its staggering height, I had an astoundingly inebriated fellow come up on stage one New Year’s evening and tell me if we didn’t play “We Built This City” by Jefferson Starship that none of us would leave the building alive. As I told him where he could go and the most direct route on which to get there, he was abruptly escorted from the premises by two bouncers who may have actually been cement trucks in tee-shirts by the looks of them. Also, I think I’d rather risk death than play that tune.

But ultimately, for me, incidents like that one equated to the career equivalent of the swallows returning to Capistrano. They signified an end and a new beginning. A renewal and a homecoming of sorts, inasmuch as I decided I would stay home on New Year’s Eve. I’d like to think that it was because I had such good memories of years gone by that I couldn’t reconcile them with the current state of affairs. More likely, it was because I was simply getting older, and playing until 7 am is a young man’s game.

Whatever the reason, I happily threw in the metaphorical towel some years back and passed the torch on to the next generation. It was now up to them to fight off the masses, play through to the wee wee hours of the morning, and somehow decide what song to play right after the ball drops; a true musical conundrum, trying to find just the right tune for ringing-in purposes. Clapton’s “After Midnight” always seemed a little too on-the-nose for me, and I can’t stress this enough – F**K Auld Lang Syne!

I won’t lie, not playing on New Year’s Eve was an adjustment. First of all, did you guys know that Dick Clark is dead?? Yea, gone for a while now. Crazy. (But seriously, if you’re bored with the cheesy NYE network celebrations, there’s always “Saving Private Ryan.” It’s on, like, every streaming platform.)

The good news is, now I get to ring in the new year by kissing my beautiful wife, which is better than all the gigs on any night. And, knowing that there are bands out there carrying the musical torch on December 31^st and deep into the next day does my heart good. Go get ’em, you guys. Play your hearts out all night and all morning, and just in case, learn that Starship song, ‘cause that guy may still be out there, and you’re gonna wanna be able to pull that one out of the hat as you count down the seconds to midnight, 4..3..2.. (I did a thing there).

Happy New Year!

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