August 15th, 2009 - Paducah, Ky:
“Either y’all are gonna fight or shut the fuck up!” hollered one irritated Cycle Knight at Grimes and Derek, bassist and guitarist of the Duck Luckies. Those two had been drinking and yelling and cussing each other since their two song set and the mob of punken drunks were sick of their bullshit, too. Either there was going to be a fight or there was going to be two dudes hollering at each other like they’re married.
It was the end of the evening, the show drawing to a close as Gemini Lounge packed up their gear when the meaty smacks of two musicians finally came to be, an endcap to the endless drama.
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The trouble with the Duck Luckies is that this is a normal scenario. The first time I observed the band in action was the night Bawn in the Mash played the Irvine Cobb, meaning the show over at Cheers was utterly dead (Brown Chicken Brown Cow/3/8ths/Duck Luckies). Grimes was so wasted that he stopped in the middle of a song, walked over to his pitcher of beer on top of the amp, took a drink from it, then tried to find his way back where he was playing in the song. Derek stopped and asked him “What the fuck are you doing?” where the two proceeded to act like they were going to fight. The crowd was an orderly bar crowd and stepped in to keep the police from getting called. I thought I was watching part of their stage act until they started packing up equipment.
I asked Grimes if he needed a hug. “No, I don’t need no GODDAM hug!” he said, throwing his amp into the back of his car. “The Duck Luckies are OVER!” he repeated over and over again for everyone to hear, everyone knowing damn well they’d kiss and make up by morning.
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The poor Al Bundys got stuck with the worst slot to play where the sun had yet to dip behind the building, let alone behind the horizon. Their set was reminiscent of Terrapin Hill in the early Saturday evening, blazing sun and murderous humidity plus the hangover of whatever substance you took part in the night before. I’d drank a half pint of Jim Beam out in the County and was still feeling the after effects. The way the Bundys jam session floated across the grass was almost enough to make someone trip without having the drugs to get in the way, even if Tony says he sucked and needs a new asshole. It’s not the best show I’ve seen them play but the humidity was to blame.
Following the Bundys was Donald Phillips, a side project between 3/8ths bassist Doug and Grimes playing guitar. Their set, while intense, was understandably short. They only had four practices before their one and only show together, according to what’s been reported since.
All minor varieties of hell broke loose as the Luckies took the stage. Grimes was already trashed by the time Donald Phillips played their set, wobbling as he laid into bass lines. By the time the Luckies took the stage, he was beyond trashed and firmly headed into the abyss of wasted. When their first song was cut short, the little red flag of trouble reared its head as Derek shot fierce ugly looks at Grimes. Grimes was wobbling around like the world had come unstuck, fucking up bass lines like a professional. Half way through the second song, the music suddenly stopped and the two started to argue oh-so-professionally over their microphones.
Cameron and I were distracted and busy talking bullshit out by the campground when the mayhem started. “God, prove that You exist by making them shut up,” was my offhand comment as we made our way back to the stage.
By the time we’d made it across the field, their drummer was already packing his shit up and putting it away in his car. “Dude, fuck you! Your side project upstaged our set!” was Derek’s issue with Donald Phillips, apparently, and decided that the entire world needed to know what his problem was.
Pause for a moment to consider: If you argue and get into each others faces like you’re going to fight at a bar, you’re going to get broken up because no one wants the law to fuck up their good time. On the other hand, if you’re going to get in each others faces at a biker club, are the bikers going to stop you? Uh, no. Are they going to go call the police? Fuck no - they are the police under these circumstances.
Rather than doing something about their pent up frustration, the remaining Luckies just yelled in each others faces until they realized no one was going to stop them from fighting and proceeded to trash talk each other - but neither of them left - to anyone willing to listen.
About the time that the Luckies were to take the stage, notable socialite Sam Hook rolled up to the show, packing a writerly sized bottle of Jameson, taking shots and chasing with Coke. He tried to offer me some of his scotch but the Jim Beam from the evening before still had me by the gut. “No thanks, man, not unless I want to get into a fight,” was the polite reply, my stomach slowly turning at the thought of more alcohol.
In the meanwhile, 3/8 drive took to the stage and turned out the magical musical crack that they’re consistently known for. Joe the drummer stripped off his shirt ‘cause “Man, my shirt was sticking to my arm pits,” signaling that the humidity was still a rotten asshole hanging around long after dark. Guitarist David and Fret Chatter bassist Chris hollered back and forth at each other while working the sound check, hurrying to play to distract the crowd from the Luckies and their mayhem, still yelling like fools and not exchanging blows. As soon as 3/8ths started their set, a curious sight took place. Every Cycle Knight in the building made their way out of the clubhouse and off to the side to watch them play. Prior to that, the bikers were only interested in the pool table and beer on the inside of the building.
The Cycle Knights were a great bunch, truth be told. They mostly stayed off to themselves in the clubhouse and were marvelously well-behaved. Out of respect, there aren’t any photographs of the inside of the clubhouse but the most charming aspect was the yellow legal pad sign taped to the bathroom door that read “Guys Piss Outside”.
It is fitting that a punk and hard rock show was booked at a biker club. Punks, Hippies, and Bikers all operate on the same philosophy of ‘We don’t give a fuck, leave us alone and let us do our thing’ and it’s perfect to see how music makes for very strange bedfellows.
The Devil and Miss Jones and Gemini Lounge only are lumped together because they always play together - they split Jeremy the drummer - but their sound is pure metal that gets better every time both bands play. My only reasoning for backing away from the stage during Miss Jones set was out of necessity from extended exposure to loud music and not as an insult to the band. From the back of the campground, though, the sound lived up to the band’s pornographic name - dirty, dark, and ready for action.
Gemini Lounge’s two moments of utter awesome was lead singer Brett’s striptease prior to the start of their set - the humidity was still utterly ridiculous, one crowd member urging him to “Take it off!” The other moment of zen was one of the Cycle Knight’s children wanted to stage dive and crowd surf. Despite what the rest of the world wants you to believe, leather and bikes does not make bad parents. Like professional badasses, the crowd assembled at the front of the stage, Jeremy counted off for when the kid needed to jump, and the crowd hoisted this kid far into the air and passed him around like king of the world.
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Once Gemini Lounge started to pack up their equipment and make for the partying in the campground, the Luckies were at it again. They’d talked shit, started shit with others, kept drinking, and generally were two grumpy bears who would exchange insults and yell, then back away from each other.
The Cycle Knight that brought the issue to a head looked like he’d been around the block a few times. He wore glasses reminiscent of the birth control military issue variety, his long white beard half way down his chest, wearing a well worn and patch adorned vest. The Knights had circled around at the sound of raised voices yet again, growing irritated at the lack of punches being exchanged.
Cameron was camped out in a folding chair and proceeded to holler “Either you’re gonna fight or fuck! Get it over with!” the final time Derek and Grimes started exchanging insults.
“Either y’all are gonna fight or shut the fuck up!” retorted the Cycle Knight.
Somehow the issue turned from bad musicianship to lack of family when push came to shove. Derek finally landed some blows, their meaty smacks ringing out against the building wall, where the fight then became a wrestling match in the dirt and rocks in clear view of the highway. Knights and punks alike circled around, observing the less than spectacular mayhem.
“He hit me!” said Grimes after they’d peeled themselves off of the dirt.
“Well, no shit,” said a show goer in response, “it’s about fucking time someone did.”
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