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August, 2000
Greetings and Salutations: So there I was. It was day two of a mysterious hell-bent-for-leather summer Nor'easter that was dumping untold millions of gallons of rain on the Hudson River Valley. My soccer-mom mini-van was in the shop, so instead of that, I'm driving this white, rented, outsized behemoth of an extendo-van. I used to own a truck like this…and I hated it! I'm driving this monster north on the N.Y. State Thruway on my way from New York to Albany to open for Average White Band. With about one foot of visibility before me, and the wind whipping the truck from lane to lane, I feel more like the captain of the Andrea Gail than a musician on the way to his gig. With the steering wheel in a white-knuckle death-grip, I drive the 150 miles from the Upper West Side to the Downtown Albany exit at a mind-numbing 45 miles an hour. When I finally get to the gig, I see that it's not actually in the club I was given the name and address of, but in a large open tent on the street in front of the club. The club itself is more or less serving as our dressing room. Normally this would be a good thing, but today rain is whipping into the tent while the already soaked crew gamely tries to set up the band equipment. I make a run for the bar and exchange hellos with the AWB guys (we've worked together before). After a monster scotch in the hospitality room to soothe my frayed and waterlogged nerves, I venture back out into the monsoon to get my keyboard out of the truck. I should mention that throughout all of this, I am walking around with a rather large hole in my right boot. My sock, by this time, has swollen to twice its normal size, and it's making this very disconcerting squishing sound as I walk. I haven't been this thoroughly waterlogged since that Boy Scout canoe trip down the Delaware River when I was 11.I'm supposed to stay at my good friend Sonny Ochs' house tonight out in the country about a half hour from Albany, but it's beginning to rain even harder, and I'm beginning to think that this is not a particularly good night to try and drive up the dirt road to Sonny's house. Soundcheck is being delayed by the weather, so I head down the street to the nearest hotel. As I'm about to pay way too much for a room, I hear the unmistakable sound of Allan Gorrie's voice behind me, saying "Malone! Don't get that room!" After a warm greeting, Alan informs me that the speaker stacks back at the gig have about a foot of water swirling around them, the stage is soaking wet, and Average White Band is about to cancel a show for the first time since the band got together back in 1968. Alan and the rest of the band are getting back on the bus and getting the hell out – would I like his hotel room for the night? A free hotel room! Well, finally at least one thing has gone right. Back at the club, the owner of the joint asked me if I'd like to triple my money and play a set in the bar. Having nothing better to do than sit in the hotel room with a bottle of Jack Daniels and watch the Discovery Channel all night, and needing some extra dough to take care of the hole in my boot, I told him I'd do it. After fortifying myself with a Guinness and a shot of Jameson, I set up my stuff and got down to it. The gig was the kind of Irish-bar nightmare that I thought I'd left way in my past. As I gamely played my set on the tiny one-man stage, the crowd did their level best to drown me out. They didn't applaud or look at me, but I could tell they knew I was there by the occasional napkin that would appear on the piano with a drunkenly scrawled request for "Brown Eyed Girl" or "Desperado"…neither of which I played. Nonetheless, the club owner was very kind and handed over the appropriate amount of dead presidents when the set was over. And that is how, on account of a very unusual low-pressure system, what was supposed to be a show opening for one of my favorite bands in front of a few thousand people suddenly and unexpectedly turned into the kind of gig where one gets a request for "Margaritaville" on a cocktail napkin. Like Chuck Berry said: “It just goes to show you never can tell.” Love, Bob
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