Page 8 —.Over The Edge -- February 17, 1997

Rude Noises Shatter Mid-winter Blues...The Devil Ret
Hall...Plug yer ears, Bubba,

by John W. McFetrick

My entourage and I arrived
shortly before nine. Equipped
with a camera, 154 possible
exposures of film, a hand-held
voice recorder and note-pad,
my gang and I slid into the
packed parking lot of Vanier
Hall. A well behaved line of
ticket holders snaked around
the building, © eagerly
anticipating the return of rock
music’s premier blues act, Big
Sugar.

Security was strict, but not for
us; flashing the impressive
credentials supplied by The
Boss, we waltzed passed six or
seven hundred people who had
been standing in the February
winter for hours. The people at
the head of the line stepped
aside as my photographer
friend, body guard/chauffeur
and I smiled and entered the
building. I stood by the door
watching as big men patted
down potential trouble makers,
admonishing some for trying to
sneak booze into the all ages
event.

As we headed to our seats, I ran
into Mike “Rocketfish”
Callewaert, promoter
extraordinair and mastermind
behind some of Prince
George’s biggest musical
events. He seemed calm,
poised. “This looks like a good

crowd,” he said. “Did you get
in all right?”

“No problem what-so-ever.
The Media Passes you gave us
worked like magic. Your
people do a fine job.”

He shrugged. “They have to.
This is serious business. I don’t

tolerate bullshit.”

I nodded. “Who does?” I
glanced around the hall, at the
All Access pass holders
milling around the sound-
board, the VIP pass holders
fumbling with last minute
adjustments to equipment and
at the 600 fans jostling for
prime seats.

I overheard one kid saying that

the streets

he had seen Big Sugar last
October at the Generator. “I
don’t know how this venue will
compare,” he said. “Blues are
meant to be played in a bar
surrounded by drunks.”

Indeed, there were no drunks

on this night. If anything, it
was a family affair. Parents
ushered children down the
isles, avoiding when possible
ugly looking characters who
might pose problems once the
show began. A mean looking
biker type took a seat beside
me and muttered about not
having enough ‘something’ in
his blood.

I paid close attention to the

Photo (Left) Members of BRJ take to

sound techs behind me. Ong! a
middle-aged hippie with a
head-set and microphone,
chatted with invisible friends
backstage. He picked up a
flashlight, aimed a beam at the
stage area, then dimmed the
lights.

The fans went wild.

Five hipsters in oversized zoot
suits strapped on their various
instruments and lit into a set of
what Big Rude Jake singer
Michael Johnson called “swing
punk. =

There was a problem with a
spot light. I glanced over my
shoulder and caught the
lighting engineer flailing
about. His task of managing
the giant apparatus seemed. if

only briefly, to have been
overwhelmed by this bazaar
strain of music. He regained
control. quickly, his .soul
having adjusted to the jittery
vibes blasting from the stage.
After a couple of numbers, I
understood what the kid had
said earlier about the venue.
Vanier Hall, adjacent to a high
school, might well be suited for
small productions, but it is
clearly not the place for loud,
super-charged concerts. While
the music was clear, the vocals
were not. My bodyguard

mentioned that he was unable
to “hear a godamned thing.”

I asked him to behave. “We
don’t need one of your
outrages here. Sit down and act

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Photo (Right) Big Rude Jakes Micheal (R)
Johnson and Kelly Hoppe (L) play to a
packed Vanier Hall