PIMPING THE BAND

Promoting a rock show can turn into a catch-22-type situation. You have to get the word out so people show up and drop dough on drinks while you make noise on stage, but shop owners, random smart-asses and the weather aren’t always as cooperative as you need them to be. Just try telling that to the booking guy at the club your band is going to play next month. It doesn’t fly too well.

After tacking up and dropping off extra flyers along the humid East Village streets this week, I lit up a Marlboro light and headed in the direction of the L train. It was probably going to rain soon and ruin whatever I had posted on public property anyway. However, passing by a few promo-friendly stores, I decided to put in a little more legwork before calling it a day. After stubbing out my cigarette, I walked into a small dry cleaner with flyers posted near its door, and courteously asked the two Korean men there if I could add my flyer to their burgeoning but neatly compiled collection.

“Let me see,” said the man nearest me, regarding me with dull, untrusting eyes.

“It’s for a rock show,” I politely explained and handed one to him. “I see you have other flyers here, so I figured I’d ask.”

The proprietor of the establishment stood there, carefully clutching the small, black and white piece of paper on each end with his thick, vice-like fingers while staring hard enough to burn a hole through it. After watching him concentrate on the defenseless six inch by three-inch piece of paper for several very long and uncomfortable seconds, like it was some dangerous bit of propaganda, I felt impatience and irritation bubbling up through my chest. How dare I dishonor his business with my stupid pieces of paper?

Taking one big step toward him, I leaned in and rudely seized the flyer from his hands, making a loud SNAP. “NEVERMIND,” I blurted, and walked out without looking back.

Trendy clothing spot Metropolis was right next door, complete with friendly hipster working at the counter. I added my rock propaganda to their promo rack and stepped out of the store with headphones on. “HEH YOO!” I heard from behind me, my dry cleaner’s echoing, frog-like croak penetrating my headphones from about twenty paces down the street.

Turning around for a second, I pretended to not hear him or that I didn’t know he was addressing me, and I continued walking. The corner was right there, so I figured what the hell, cross the street just to be safe. Dry Cleaner also crossed the street. I ducked into a deli for a minute and pretended to peruse the pasta section. When I came back out, my foe was nowhere to be seen and I didn’t waste any time looking for him. Lucky for me, he must have finally decided to let the whole thing go.

Deliberation over tiny, insignificant social exchanges literally bends me out of shape. I actually feel my insides twist up. When you live in a city, you get used to people handing shit out, whether it’s advertising live music, comedy or the corner “V.I.P.” club. Yes, it can get annoying. Sometimes I accept the sticker or flyer or CD-R, sometimes I don’t. Please don’t stand there, mulling over a tiny piece of paper with information on it, wasting everyone’s time while you decide if you want to accept something that will eventually wind up in the garbage anyway. If you take it and don’t want it, for Pete’s sake, just throw it in the fucking garbage. Didn’t your mama teach you anything?

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- posted by Hal Miller @ 1:54 PM |