“Hey, I got a great idea,” the singer from our band says, “Let’s throw ground meat at the audience.”
The rest of the band looks at each other and the rhythm guitarist is the first to speak.
“Yea, I dunno about that. Meat is expensive.”
“Right,” my singer pauses, “How about potatoes?”
We all look at each other and smile.
Back in the early 1990s, I played bass guitar in multiple punk rock bands. Those were glorious but hazy times of my life.
“You mean our music isn’t enough?” I asked.
We played in and around New York City, recorded original songs, pressed a 7” record, and had a ball.
All the punk bands I played in lasted typically a few months. Egos, violence, and a host of other problems always doomed them. For this particular band, we managed to survive long enough to get some stage time.
The band consisted of a drummer, two guitarists (one rhythm and one lead), me the bass player, and our uber punk rocker singer.
We wrote a few catchy tunes and my singer said he got us a gig, at a bar just outside New York City. It wasn’t a typical punk rock bar but more of a regular neighborhood bar.
At first, the rest of us were concerned about this since the “locals” don’t really like punk rock music. He assured us that he was going to set up a punk rock festival and invite more punk bands from the area to play too.
We started practicing harder to make our debut on stage a success when my singer says, “we need a hook, something they’ll remember us by!”
“You mean our music isn’t enough?” I asked.
“No, we gotta do something like what Gigi Allen does!”
One guitarist says, “I’m not shitting on stage if that’s what you mean!”
“No! Something different, how about throwing ground meat at the audience?”
My rhythm guitarists chimes in, “Yea, I dunno about that. Meat is expensive.”
My singer pauses and says, “Right, what about potatoes?”
I could see my singer holding up a giant russet potato in one hand and the microphone in his other hand.
We hatched a plan to shove a large potato down our pants, play the gig, and then when we hit a break in one of our songs, reach down into our pants, pull out the potato, and throw it into the audience.
We all agreed.
The night of the show the bar was filled with two kinds of people. The locals and a sea of punk rockers with colored hair and mohawks, and the shaved heads of skinheads.
Things were getting rowdy as the bar was overwhelmed and the staff was shooting each other glances that translated to “WTF is going on here?”
We take the stage and start playing loud. I don’t remember how we remained in time but there was a wall of noise directed from the stage into the bar and outside onto the sidewalk.
This was NOT the impact we wanted to make…
The punk rockers and skinheads started to form a pit and slam dance. The locals had a look of fear on their faces because this was like nothing they’d ever seen before!
Then the moment came, we hit the break in the song. Everyone reached down into their pants and pulled out the potato.
In the glow of the blue and yellow stage light, I could see my singer holding up a giant russet potato in one hand and the microphone in his other hand.
A light shone on the audience closest to the stage, they had this look of “WTF is this” across their faces. With the flick of his wrist he threw the potato into the audience, we followed seconds later and tossed our potatoes as well.
We then launched into the remainder of the song, smiling at the impact we made until I felt a potato come whizzing inches from my head.
Another potato hit the drum kit, knocking over a cymbal stand. Then I saw my singer drop the microphone when a potato hit him squarely in the face. The rest of the band looked at each other as we dodged the rest of the potatoes.
This was NOT the impact we wanted to make, be the target of impact!
We lifted our guitars in the air and yelled “thanks” to the audience indicating our set was done and for the next band to come. We rushed over to our signer who was clutching his eye, it was swollen and he’d get a black eye for sure.
“Ground meat doesn’t hurt as much as potatoes,” he muttered as we helped him off stage.
Thomas Ott dot IO 