Why taking your shirt off to meet the band seems like a good idea until you actually do it...

After seeing the Bloodhound Gang in my hometown of Nashville and thoroughly enjoying the show, my friend and I decided to dupe some poor sap with a working car into taking us to the Memphis show. The poor sap in question happened to be my friend Christy. Having never heard the band we played all three of their major releases on the way down and after three hours in the car we finally reach Memphis, home of Elvis, the Blues and damn good Bar-B-Que.

This is where things start to take a turn.

See, we used Mapquest to get directions which has never failed me in the past, but this time...we got screwed. We wandered aimlessly through downtown Memphis, trying to find roads that no longer exsisted due to construction and realizing that we've been taken the most ass-backward way possible. The most commonly heard phrase in the car was, "Fuck a whole bunch of Mapquest!" Finally, we wandered our way into Beale Street and found a place to park...8 fucking blocks from the venue! After walking through the freezing cold (it felt 10 degrees colder than back home) and being accosted to come into every restaurant and club on the strip, we found the New Daisy Theater. We were simultaneously relieved and annoyed that Bloodhound Gang had not yet started. Relieved obviously, because we had not missed the band we had driven three hours to see and annoyed because we still had to sit through two of the three opening bands. The first band, A, sucked, but they tried hard. On the other hand Caviar, the band that had also opened for them in Nashville, was a bunch of no talent, pretentious bastards that made me want to vomit blood out of my eyes!

I digress.

We started drinking heavily and waiting, we were pissed to find that it was about one hundred degrees in the club and there was no coat check. We did however find a very nice (and very cute) doorman who offered to watch them for us. (which he did without incident) After Caviar finished up their set, we made our way as close to the front as possible. Our friend Christy being a tiny woman was then briefed on what to do should a pit ensue.
"Stand your ground. Never let your feet come more than an inch of the ground, shove back as hard as you can and try to make your way foward. Grab the barricade and hold on for dear life. Remember, STAND YOUR GROUND!"
As we were waiting for the multitude of roadies to finish up their sound check I ran into a guy that had been with Evil Jared (a member of the band) earlier. They guy was now wearing his underwear on his head. I asked him about it and he said that "Regis", (if that IS his real name) the assistant tour manager (and generally weasely guy I had seen with the band at the Nashville show), had told him that if he wore his boxers on his head for the whole show that they'd give him free passes to the Birmingham show. As "Regis" walked up to him with a video camera, I asked him what someone would have to do to get backstage.

"Well this guy's wearin' his underwear on his head for the whole show...What ya' got?"

"I got a big ol' pair of tits!"

"So you'll take off your shirt and your bra off and wear only your overalls for the rest of the show?"

I contemplated this and realized that I was pretty much covered by the overalls, so I said,"HELL YEAH! It's go time, motherfucker!" And proceeded to disrobe.

"What about your friend there?" At which point she puts her hands up and started shaking her head.

"C'mon Christy you're gonna' show your tits to a bunch of people that you don't care about that you'll never see again! What's it gonna' hurt?"

And so her shirt and bra were removed for the enjoyment of all. "Regis" informed us that he'd be back to check on us and took his video camera elsewhere. Less than 3 minutes later this bouncer descends upon Christy like an unholy plague and screams, "This is a club not a fucking titty bar, PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON!" Which she did. She got much props from the people surrounding us for trying.

The lights went down and the crowd surged toward the stage. At which point I was seperated from my friends and this guy took it upon himself put his hands on my hips, which I was okay with, as I couldn't move to get him off and I assumed that's where they were going to stay. Unfortunately for me (and him) that is not where they stayed. My arms were pinned to my sides so I couldn't do anything but push his hands down with my forearms. Eventually I got enough room to elbow him in the gut (which there was much of), but not before every guy around me had managed to cop a feel. I spent the rest of the show relatively uncomfortable about my partial nudity and paranoid that Captain Gropey would return. I was also getting a little peeved that I had not seen "Regis", who supposed to check up on me. The band left the stage, they returned for their encore and still no "Regis". The show ends and people start to filter out, still no "Regis". The roadies are breaking down the stage, cleaning up...STILL...NO..."REGIS"! Finally after almost an hour of waiting, wandering around back stage to no avail, Christy busting in on the guys on the bus and getting kicked off and generally getting more and more pissed off, I found "Regis" again. He had heard about Christy almost getting bounced and that I was pissed at him and swore that he would make amends. He was then called backstage for an "emergency" and that was the last I saw of him. Eventually Bry and Christy got fed up and dragged me out of the club to go eat. We had a lovely dinner and headed home.

In a way I'm glad that I did it. I was never one to do outrageous things when I was younger (I'm 23 now) and it was kind of liberating. I can't lie, I think the Vodka Tonics had something to do with it, but I felt little like a hero for doing it. I had made a memory not only for my friends and myself, but for the folks around us. I can't deny that it was cataclysmically stupid and lame, but I'm still getting a kick out of it, so I guess it wasn't all bad.

At least I wasn't wearing my underwear on my head...