W. Chatham, MA – “The Hecklers” – The Sou’Wester – July 21, 2001

It’s morning at the Executive Suites Marriott – off I-95. Sun pokes through a slit in the brown, flammable curtains.  Soucy and I are fumbling through icy green bathroom lighting. Chris is in the mirror brushing his teeth and I’m beside him towel-drying my hair. Our reflection is less on ourselves than on our night before, in Chatham – the one that led to us to check into this hotel at 3 am — the one that seemed so surreal, we had to compare notes and pinch ourselves to ensure we hadn’t just dreamt it.

The Sou’Wester is a restaurant/bar with canary yellow Denny’s-esque booths, begonia pink lights, and a tiny stage. The band slouched around a sticky, highly lacquered bar table, waiting for a sound check, which never came. We ordered beers from a cute as-pie Bulgarian waitress, “Lily” who had such a seductive accent, Soucy literally fell off his chair, batting his eyelashes at her. After the beer, we changed in the parking lot, timing our nudity in the dark between oncoming headlights.

Our first set was uneventful. The place was packed with friendly enough faces wearing pastel cashmere cardigans, khakis, Laura Ashley summer prints, and ears pressed up against my lyrics — rare attendance for a restaurant/bar. But that was before our second set.

Somewhere between set one and two, a pair of 40-something oddballs appeared in the crowd.  They made their way to stage right, and heckled us from our 1^st song straight through our 3^rd encore.

The guy with an eye patch had red Brillo hair and a harmonica he insisted on played along to every song as though he’d joined the band.  The other one, the one in the Kiss T-shirt, with the black perm that glowed with soul gel, stood directly in front of Soucy.  He headbanged as though he were at a heavy metal concert.  He yelled out his favorite guitar hero’s names through each guitar solo: “Lee Rittenour!” “Larry Carlton!” “Steve Vai!” “Skunk Baxter!” and “Play guitar man!! Teach me! Teach me!” Needless to say, this Bevis and Butthead duo managed to clear the right side of the audience which unfortunately gave me a direct view of their truly insane antics. How could I NOT laugh hysterically? How could Soucy be expected to keep his game face? Their behavior was hilarious but also unnerving and at times, felt dangerous.  Frankly, there were moments I wondered if we were about to be killed.

I don’t know how I managed to finish Tomboy Bride, what with the red Brillo-haired man dancing like a bat on speed, playing his harp while his pal thrashed at his side. But that’s not where the harassment ended. While I was signing CDs and talking to a nice couple wearing pearls and loafers, the man with the Kiss hair approached.

“You’re mom is Carly Simon and James Taylor? That makes you SOOO lame! I rock you guys! I rock you guys so hard!” he yelled at me. “I’d rock you guys over so hard you wouldn’t even know what hit ya.” He and his buddy with the one eye, drunkenly followed us around, heckling us. Then, in between harassments, he’d tell Chris what a great F-in’ guitar player he was.  Any attempt to ignore the pair was fruitless. We were relieved (the way one is to escape a mosquito-infested picnic) when we got back on the highway.

that couldn’t’uv really happened. “Could it?” we wondered aloud.

We compared notes as we drove off The Cape, each of us embellishing the story with our own bazar recollections.  There were one hundred miles between The Cape and New York, and at least fifty of them we spent rehashing the surreal, motley twins behavior and wondering at their motives.  Somewhere near the New York boarder we all fell asleep (all but Delucchi of course). Once we arrived at the Marriott, we woke only long enough to transfer our zzzzzzs from the van to hotel beds.

Spend enough time on the road and you learn how to float between car and bed without waking up.  It’s a talent and as much a trained band skill as playing an instrument.  You stay in your semi-reclined position — head on bandmate’s shoulder, knee propped against the seat in front of you, aware but not awake, until Delucchi shouts out room numbers and hands out plastic keys to pairs of you.  Leaving bags in boot, you grab dop kits, nighttime retainers, ear plugs, and eye masks.  You open your lids enough to press the correct floor on the elevator and check the key folio for your room number.  There is no laughing, touching or talking between van and room.  The only sounds heard are five pairs of flip flopped feet against carpeted hallways, the mechanical ribbit, and clatch of doors, the thrump of dop kits tossed on nightstands, the fumbp of bodies hitting matrices and the click click of lights extinguished. 

Good night band, good night moon, good night motley twins with the harmonica and the perm.