Live Show, WHAMMY!

By Rob Conery

Live Show, WHAMMY is a funny collection of concert disaster stories written by musicians and journalists of their worst/funniest live show adventure. Grammy nominated produced Joel Hamilton on fear of death, Chandler Travis on bombing with George Carlin; Rose Parkington on keyboard betrayal, Myq Kaplan on the risks of performing comedy during t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Surface Popper Publications
• Release date: Feb 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9780999039052

Book preview

Table of Contents

Introduction by Rob Conery. P 3

Pat Healy.    P 8

Troy Smith.    P 33

Myq Kaplan.    P 40

Johnny Spampinato.  P  55

Peter McCormack.  P  59

Rose Parkington  P  71

Chandler Travis.  P  76

Renee Levesque.  P  84

Andy Dennehy.    P  88

Tim Miller.  P  95

Joel Hamilton.  P  100

INTRODUCTION

I was wrong.  I thought this was a book about gatecrashing.

But as I sought out musicians and writers and the submissions began to tumble in, the scope grew. 

This book is about how live shows makes you feel.  When it works—and especially!—when it doesn’t. 

l learned gatecrashing from my dad.  An otherwise upstanding guy—Knights of Columbus, union contract negotiator, enthusiastic voter, strict Irish Catholic—he got an unexplained thrill from sneaking into events. 

This was not an everyday thing with him.  It was always situational and opportunistic. 

In the 1980s he had a window washing business.  I was the only employee.  $5/hr and even then he’d try to chisel me!  He didn’t think he needed to pay me as we drove between jobs.  I objected.  But as we drove around his small commercial accounts—hair salons, auto dealers, stereo stores—in the busy Cape Cod summer, you’d just see….things happening.  Chowder Fest?  Let's hit it!  Political speaking = free BBQ.  Slowly rolling down the exit road to the Hyannis Drive-In with the headlights off.  When you can stroll into a big Wianno Yacht Club summer celebration and get in the buffet line dressed like you’re there to check the boiler, that’s confidence!

I like to think I carried his slipstreaming ideals forward. 

In my neighborhood pool hopping was considered a sport.  Ironic, since we lived among Cape Cod’s incomparable beaches, which most of the actual (read:paying) motel guests drove many congested bridge radiator hissing miles to even witness, but illicit pool dips in the handful of motor-court motels that lined Rt. 28 up and down Yarmouth’s main drag was considered the epitome of teen bravado.   

Since it was held at my natal church, St. Francis Xavier on South Street in Hyannis, where from birth through sacraments and catechism, I knew every inch of the grounds, Arnold Schwartzenager’s marriage to Maria Shriver was an easy infiltrate.  Up close I saw them and Andy Warhol, Grace Slick, Allie from Kate & Allie, even Magnum P.I.  I followed the party on my bike to the Kennedy Compound. 

But music, man! 

Between my gatecrashing background, love of live music, and general poverty, I have seen few things. 

I saw the Wailers in Colorado by pretending to be a taxi driver. 

Me and Kenny Barr were accosted—borderline mugged—by a guy who pretended to be armed on our way to buy tickets to see the band O Positive at the Living Room in Providence, Rhode Island, only to end up seeing Pantera for $7.

I saw the Dickey Betts Band at the Melody Tent by joining the tail end of his entourage when it left the bus for the stage. 

I saw a sold-out show at Great Woods after my friend Ann (literally!) kicked holes through the perimeter fencing. 

I saw a Yankees game at sold-out Fenway Park by seizing a momentary opportunity to use the unmarked player’s entrance—you could tell by the nice cars parked there—and literally(!) bumped into second baseball Mike Lansing in the Sox clubhouse on my way to my seat. 

Oh, I also attended the wrong wedding once, going so far as to have a drink with the wedding party!  This was a decade before Wedding Crashers and it was an honest mistake; I only realized my mistake when I saw the bride.  The wrong bride!

Barging and ignoring threats, I once ended up on stage at a Jimmy Buffett show at Mountain View, California.  RIP. 

I saw Beck twice.  Once on stage at the University of Denver (the opening act rapped in Spanish, dressed in fencing—or possibly beekeeper—uniforms that hid their faces) and once on the street during a workaday weekday in Boston’s financial district where we made eye contact and his non-verbal language said, I can see that you recognize me.  Please be cool. 

I awkwardly interviewed De La Soul.  I was thrown off a tour bus by Pop Will Eat Itself.  I was insulted backstage by members of Air Supply.  KRS-ONE saw me singing along to his show at the Umass spring concert and pointed at me.  I shook hands with Adam Horowitz from Beastie Boys.  We got pulled over twice by the cops on the way to see EMF—Unbelievable!—one heavy ticket, the second confiscated our booze.  Miles Hunt from The Wonder Stuff stepped on my hand when I tried to grab his set list off the stage.  Jaimoe from the Allman Brothers Band gladly handed me his set list from the stage. 

So, this was gonna be a gatecrashing book.  (Indeed, Andy Dennehy’s essay is a studious masterpiece in the dark