The Story of DANOTI - Part V

Fizzy, Fuzzy, Big & Buzzy

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Start at the beginning of the Story of DANOTI here.

Go to Part IV here.

Those indie CD packages of Wheelie sent by our band to the folks in the industry did their jobs.

Because of them, professional people in the music industry contacted us. We were invited to play music festivals. We won a nationwide battle of the bands contest. With the help of these avenues, we landed a record deal with a major label. We were guaranteed two albums to be promoted at the national level. We were given cash up front and tour support, which meant we would tour the country and perhaps beyond. We would have a shot at hit singles and MTV coverage.

This was the holy grail of rock band achievement at the time. I couldn’t believe my luck. Every band I’d ever appreciated in my life had come to me via a record deal. It was what every musician at the time strove for and few achieved. The great bands out of Tempe—Gin Blossoms, Dead Hot Workshop—had achieved it. My band was next.

That said, getting a record deal also felt inevitable. People had liked us and our music since our first gig. There was a crazed element to our ascension in Tempe. We were a rock foursome made up of guys in our mid 20s at a time when these types of bands were getting signed and seemingly doing well for themselves on the national stage. A dream of mine was coming true. We’d already been scraping by in Tempe. This record deal would catapult us further.

The band would make and release those two guaranteed albums, one in 1996, another in 1997. We would tour the country several times over those years — in a van, then in a bus. Our music would climb singles and album charts. Our faces would appear on MTV with regularity for a short period. During the summer of 1996, the Refreshments sold at least 10,000 copies per week of our first album for five weeks in a row. It was the album sales pinnacle of the band’s career.

We even managed to appear live on NBC’s Late Night with Conan O’Brien. This was a huge deal. Late night TV was something I’d watched for decades. I’d spent the latter half of my high school years staying up way too late to watch Late Night with David Letterman and sleeping in the next morning to the point I often had to skip taking a shower before going to class. About a year before our first album came out, Letterman and NBC had had a breakup, leading to Dave’s departure from the station. That left a gaping hole in the host seat of Late Night, and the network filled it with Conan O’Brien.

At the time, I was not a watcher of Conan’s show. This had something to do with my loyalty to Letterman, but I liked that Conan was publicly trying to take over for this giant of late night TV—to the point that his struggles filling Letterman’s shoes became part of his schtick. Importantly, Conan and not Letterman wanted the Refreshments to play on his show, so I thought Conan was all right.

For the show, we would play “Banditos” live for a studio audience. The performance had me focused on one thing: Don’t screw up. As I understood it, there was no such thing as an instance in which a band would be allowed to re-record its segment. Get it right the first time or prepare to live with your mistake(s) forever. The Refreshments of course had been playing “Banditos” every day for years, so I was optimistic. Even my backing vocals on the song—which were more of a whisper than full-throated singing—should be fine. As I saw it, we were ready for our close-up.

Playing on late night TV feels like the big time. You get a soundcheck, where you run through your song exactly once, then you play the same song exactly once for the studio audience while tape is rolling. This was an environment the Refreshments were built for. Everyone in the band was focused on nailing “Banditos” for the show. The Gin Blossoms already had an impressive late night TV performance history. Lead singer Robin Wilson once wore a Dead Hot Workshop t-shirt while performing with the band on Letterman. That was the coolest gesture I could’ve imagined. We wanted to continue that Tempe tradition and join the ranks of our local heroes—and maybe get some attention beyond.

At soundcheck, Conan sat at his desk and went through the motions of introducing us, and we played “Banditos” for no one but the cameras. Conan came over after we finished. He shook my hand, looked me in the eye, and said, “Sorry you couldn’t be on Letterman.” I liked him even more.

Playing “Banditos” for the live audience went by fast. There was the moment we were waiting backstage to play, the moment we were summoned to the stage and my nerves started doing their thing, the moment I was standing there onstage with my bass, impatiently waiting for what I guess was the time set aside for the commercial break to expire and for the Go light to come on, and the moment the Go light came on. Conan introduced us, and I felt my bass strings under my fingers, which reminded me that I was no longer a vessel of impatient waiting but a guy who knew how to do this.

I’m sure playing the song actually happened—there’s a YouTube video to prove it—but the performance felt like it lasted about fifteen seconds. Still, during that fifteen seconds, I felt something of the Refreshments vibe come through—especially during the solo out—and the four of us rejoiced a bit backstage before heading to the hotel to watch our performance as it came on “live” later that night.

I managed not to beat myself up too much over the performance. Watching it in my hotel room, my bass playing was spot on, and my backing vocals—where I was most vulnerable to gaffs—made me flinch only once. Still, for me, there’s one element of my performance that stands out.

Somewhere around the two-minute mark, during the second pre-chorus, the camera focuses on Roger, and I come out of nowhere from his right and do this shuck-and-jive move that, shall we say, isn’t quite TV ready. The moment jumped out at me. What the hell was I doing? From the point of view of the camera, it comes across looking like I’m trying to do some kind of Chuck Berry move, but in a normal concert setting—where I was used to performing—its effect is more front-of-the-stage-to-back—or at least that what I’d assumed. It looked strange.

No one in the band mentioned the move the next day, but I don’t doubt they noticed. Nothing dire ever happened because of the move, save for it punctuating my 15 minutes of TV fame. If anyone remembers me from my very, very few moments on TV, it’s probably what they remember.

Today, I have mixed feelings about the moment. On the one hand, it embarrasses me. I see myself as others might see me, and let’s just say there’s not much Elvis there. On the other hand, I kind of like that the guy on TV comes off like he doesn’t much give much of a damn what others think—even though he did. He’s not quite ready for TV, and that has its value.

Perhaps most damning, I recognize myself in the move, something about who I am—the way I look, the way I act—that I wouldn’t have had access to otherwise. In short, I’m a bit nonplussed by the guy, but I can’t help but like him a little bit. There are definitely worse people on the planet. Anyway, the clip is out there if you want to see it.

Hence, 1996 brought the fulfillment of the rock and roll dream, and even a live TV appearance. We also played live all over the country and made a decent living. Our biggest success, however, was still coming.

Tune in next month for Part VI.

My first memoir My Iliad Odyssey is available now. Order here.