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LA Stories cont’d…Tales from the mosh pit…

Back in the day I subbed for a drummer in a punk band called Rubber Sherry.It was a 90 minute set in a West Hollywood dive bar. (You weren’t expecting an upscale bar were you?). We were guitar/vocal, bass player (cute Asian female who strung her bass with 3 strings instead of the standard 4) and me, the drummer with snare drum, bass drum and one floor tom…and cymbals too. I was pretty nervous as the regular drummer was very popular plus we only had one rehearsal. Oh yeah, I was a also freaked as I’m not a punk drummer. So, I said fu** it, “I play hard rock and some metal so I’ll just be me.” Besides, they asked me and ya can’t scare me with a good time.

moshin' baby!We were three songs in and the singer stopped mid-song. I was bummed as we were playing my fave song. He seemed pissed as he looked down at his feet…or perhaps foot pedals. He turns to me with pissed off look. My eyes left his to notice a big blood splotch on his chest. (He was shirtless). I’m thinking ‘great!’ my first punk gig and the singer gets shot. Then he bends down and picks up what looks like a bloody heap of meat. I’m now out of my seat. He goes back to the mic and shouts’ “what the fuck is this?” as he holds up the ‘meat’.

A mohawk’d dude in the front row shouts and proudly I might add,”They’re chicken hearts dude, chicken hearts!”

“Dude you fuckin’ threw chicken hearts at me?” Our singer says.

“Yeah dude, you rock!” he replies.

“That’s awesome! Jonathan count the song back in dude, lets go!”

And so like the dutiful hired sub-drummer I counted the song back in ecstatic that our singer did not in fact get shot, but rather was the victim of an endearing mosh pit fan’s chicken heart(s) hurling. Ya gotta love L.A.

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