…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column

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

“Blowin Snow”

As I write this latest missive, it is January, and the Northeast is about to receive a full-frontal assault by the biggest storm system since Bing Crosby invented the snowflake. And as we prepare for our impending inclement demise, I am reminded of winters gone by when the nimbostratus clouds had their wintery way with our region, and club bookings dropped off the calendar like iguanas in a 50-degree cold snap.

Canceling a gig is an absolute anathema to musicians. Coughs, colds, bleeding eyelids, typhoid, dead uncles, a “what is that?” on your what-cha-ma-call-it, frogs raining from the sky … we play. The story goes that the last group to voluntarily cancel a gig was the family trapeze act booked to open for Lincoln at Gettysburg, and they would have absolutely been there if their van hadn’t broken down. (Now that I hear that out loud, I’m not sure that it’s true.) At any rate, the Flying Rebels missed out on a great opportunity for exposure eight score and some odd years ago. (P.S. When you’re told that a gig is gonna be “great exposure,” that means you’re not getting paid.)

But the point I’m belaboring is, we will do anything to not cancel a date. Drive an unreasonable distance with way more bodies in a vehicle than it was designed to carry. Set up a five-piece band with a B-3 and a Leslie in a space that would be a tight fit for an accordion player with splash cymbals on his knees. And well, physical ailments simply don’t appear on the Doppler in this climate.

I once played a show with Chaser when I had a staggering case of food poisoning. We never even discussed canceling. Instead, the road crew placed a large plastic garbage pail behind our oversized PA system (we all had them in the ‘80s). Periodically, in the middle of a tune, I would give Rod Choppy the high-sign and he would break into a guitar solo while I hopped off the side of the stage and hurled behind the speakers, unbeknownst to our adoring fans. If that ain’t rock & roll, I don’t know what is.

But a true act of God, like the 18-24 inches we are about to receive, well, ya can’t chuck that up into a garbage can. No, that much muck and mire sets off a chain of events that would make Rube Goldberg green with envy. Usually, it begins with a panicked club owner calling the band leader. “Whatta ya think? Should we cancel?”

Now, band leaders will almost always take a “Let’s wait and see” stance. The thinking here is that if we get there and set up, he has to pay us … right? Wellll …

Most of the time, it will come down to “Let’s Make a Deal.” You play a short first set to no one, and the negotiating round-robin begins.

Club Guy: “We booked you for three sets, and you played one, so I’ll pay you a third.”

Band Guy: “We want at least half because we drove here in the storm and set up and have to tear down …”

Club Guy: “A third and I’ll tear up your tab.”

Band Guy: “What about … wait, you were gonna charge us for drinks?”

And so it goes. Now mind you, this only applies to regular, garden variety, run-in-the-mill, you’ve-seen-one-you’ve-seen-’em-all, snowstorms. Not this bombastic, colossal, Orson Wellesian, Lizzo-before-the-surgery, monstrosity we’re about to have rammed up our collective keisters. No, this is a true act of G-O-D, and you can’t mess with that. Schools, churches, yoga classes, AA meetings, and yes, even gigs (admittedly, sometimes there’s some crossover with those last two) are all canceled. It’s time to stay home, hunker down as it were, and plot your strategy for digging out of this mess so you can get to the next gig. And once you’ve finished ruminating on all the exciting things you could have done, the exotic places you could have seen, the famous and interesting people you could have met if only you had made that $75 from that canceled snow gig, you can move on to the next engagement.

As I said in my preamble ramble, I am writing this in January. Sunday the 25th, mid-afternoon, 2026 to be exact. So, when you read it in the March addition of the Xperience Monthly, this storm will be but a snow-blown memory. A wince-inducing thought when brought up at your next gathering of weather-obsessed friends. But right now, it’s all anyone can talk about, so I figured I’d immortalize it on the pages of this publication so we can all relive the crap-a-palooza that it was and commiserate again ’cause godammit we earned it.

Because with the new season upon us now, bands can once again fill the airwaves and club-waves with song and spirit and all that other jazz we do. Free from the worry of Jack Frost taking a dump on our good time and earning potential. Free from snowy roads, whiteout conditions, your parents’ constant weather updates, because sure, you have a TV and internet in your house, but they have the weather Doppler Radar app on their phone, which you taught them how to download and use in the first place. Free from zero-degree temperatures, windchill factors (wait … your mom is calling again with another update), and runny-nose, red-cheeked shoveling sessions.

Yes, in spite of all these things, we’ve all survived yet another Northeast winter. Unless by the time this comes out, I’ve succumbed to the elements, or worse, moved to Florida. But wherever I land after this flaky fete, I will be there hopping on the nearest stage and counting in the band in all kinds of stormy weather with a count that’s a jam for all seasons, 2…3…4…

 

 

More from Chris Busone…