A PA break down right before one gig and had to have the singer go through a guitar amp.
A Roadhouse style brawl break out in front of the stage in which the band was showered with broken glass and beer spilled all over my pedalboard.
At least once a week I have a gig in a restaurant setting and invariably some customer comes into the place, can clearly see that musicians are playing live music, sits down right next to us despite the fact at there are other tables open on the other side of the room, and then has the chutzpah to ask us to turn down. One particularly cantankerous old lady wearing a hearing aid (can't she turn it down?) as well as a Karen mom who didn't want her little rugrat "triggered by the overstimulating sounds" (can't she go to Chuckie Cheese?) comes to mind in the course of the last month.
A superfan/manager showed up at a gig dressed like me, with a wig and fake beard, my brand of cigar dangling out of their mouth, holding a cat carrier! It's kinda flattering, but also oddly unsettling to know that you've obtained the level of becoming a caricature.
This guy was chewing on my beard:
And speaking of beards, at least every other show somebody yells out from the audience or literally comes up and stage and demands to know whether my beard is real. They usually don't take my word for it, or even the word of the entire band for that matter, but insist on pulling, yanking, and otherwise stroking the fanny duster as proof that it is the genuine product of my own follicles. What's surprising is that as many men as woman do this.
In attendance at one show was a very rowdy crew of contractors from Indiana who travel around the country installing drainage ditches. I assume that every night for the duration of their job they drink every bar dry and defrock every maiden within the vicinity of their hotel. Total rock stars. One of them was a dead ringer for Bono. I think these guys might have gang banged my manager that night. Good for her. She needs it and hopefully it will keep her hands off of me.
Another guy kept insisting that, "Anyone with a beard like mine has to know how to play some blue grass." I kept insisting that select cuts off of Led Zeppelin III was the closest I could come to that, but he refused to believe me and stood right in front of the stage the entire night hounding me about it.
The van that carries our gear blew the transmission on the interstate, then broke loose of the first tow truck and coasted into the oncoming lane (unbelievably without disaster). Our van and gear finally arrived in front of the venue on the back of a flatbed. We had to start the show an hour late.
Beyond this point you are entering Spinal Tap territory:
Last Friday night a 300 lb, mentally unstable semi-pro wrester from Alabama who had just pounded seven shots at the bar decided he didn't like me and was going to use me to demonstrate his signature body slam. Had to get the police involved in that one. Same old story, his girlfriend said something about me he didn't like.
There's probably more, but I've blocked it out. Gotta let this stuff roll off you like water on a duck's back. But I will say this one more thing, and I quote Mr. Mackie . . .
"Drugs are bad, M'kay."
But last Saturday night was a good gig. Pro house sound and lights. No fights. No gear malfunctions. Appreciative audience, nobody threatened to kill me.
