Sometimes Time Forgives
the lottery of future success, or why bedhead and ween were dicks
Back in the early ‘90s, there was a band that came out of Dallas called Bedhead. These guys were the darlings of the indie rock set, making a name for themselves based on the Kadane brothers’ propensity for understated shoegazey downbeat indie rock that struck a chord with a specific niche of the rock underground. Their work came out on the small label Direct Hit, and right as they were taking off, my band, The Mike Gunn, got called to headline a gig in Dallas with Bedhead opening. As per yewsh, we took the gig with little deliberation, just happy to have an excuse to play out of town.
The show took place at a spot right across the street from the State Fair fairgrounds in a half laundromat, half nightclub called the Bar of Soap. Cute name. The nightclub portion of the enterprise had a small entry area and an equally small bar, and then you had to turn a corner into the performance area. The room held maybe a couple hundred people, tops. The sound man had a booth of sorts up above the floor, overlooking the room.
We arrived in town early, dropped off our bags at a friend’s place and then headed out to the club. As we entered the main room, the Bedhead boys were just finishing setting up their gear. It was obvious right away that they were not going to talk to us. Most of time bands will at least say hello, but occasionally you get guys like these who are either crushingly shy (possible), or just total dickheads (also possible). Either way, with their gear setup, they split the scene.
They didn’t return until showtime, taking the stage to a room with exactly four people watching them: my band. Well, okay, five: and the soundman. They were okay. I liked their record, but live they were kind of underwhelming. In the ensuing years, I became a fan of Bedhead and their other project The For Carnation, though I almost never listen to them today.
As soon as Bedhead finished their set, they broke their gear down, loaded out, and left. That meant that when the Mike Gunn started our set we played to one person: the soundman.
And once he was happy with the levels, he headed to the bar, which means we literally played the bulk of our set to absolutely no one.
That’s why I find it funny when people, and it still happens on occasion, tell me that they wished they’d been able to see us back then, I just laugh and say, “Well, you might have been the only one,” because sometimes that was entirely possible.
I don’t know why no one came out to see Bedhead, because over the years they have grown to be seen as some sort of seminal band, when the truth is, they couldn’t pull a single fan in their hometown the night we played with them. People are funny that way.
Acid Bath played to 4,000 people here in Houston last month, and their guitarist Sammy Pierre Duet took a moment at the show to point out that the last time they played in Houston, prior to their original breakup, they played to about 20 people. ‘Where the fuck were you?” he asked, fairly.
Now, as Scott Grimm, bassist from the Mike Gunn, likes to point out, those guys are headlining shows all over the damn place, raking it in, and growing in popularity. And they haven’t written a song in at least thirty years.
I’m pretty sure I won’t live long enough to see that sort of renaissance for the Mike Gunn, but if it happens, I’ll be happy to fuck off all over the world and play Mesa Is Burning and Bliss Blood to thousands of adoring fans who swear by our music like they had a clue who we were more than two months ago. I would be more than happy to “Play the horsey song!” for thousands, if it means I can quit my shitty job and pretend to be a rockstar instead.
And you know what’s funny about the Mike Gunn? We were making music that easily falls into the aegis of stoner and heavy psych at a time when Kyuss and Sleep were nowhere to be found. Did we invent that stuff? Fuck no. But were we Sabbath-heavy and trippy as early as 1990? We sure the fuck were.
Make us famous.
And here’s a bonus, we aren’t dickish like Bedhead or those assholes in Ween. Those fucking two were royal assholes. Worse than Blind Melon. 2.5 hour soundcheck, they didn’t allow us to enter the backstage room when they were in it, they wouldn’t talk to our drummer Ricky, and their manager kicked us out of the side stage area because “Their set is ending soon and they need their privacy.”
From what? The opening band who hated them? Fuck those guys. Of course we stole all their rider food before we left. It was the best hummus I’ve ever had. That’s because it was spruced up with the sweet, sweet flavor of hatred, which was, after all, the Mike Gunn’s stock in trade.
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