Hitchhiking my way across the Nevada desert, the end of the day found me at small bar in the middle of nowhere. A quick wash in the bathroom sink had revived my spirits as I made my way to a stool. In the corner of the room was a band setting up on what was called the stage, in actuality it was more a piece of old Ferber on the floor. Sound check completed, it was time to give the weary traveler a bit of night life.
“Anything ‘Cept The Truth” was the opener and it gave that classic rock junky in my soul a good fix. Throw in cowboy boots and a denim vest and I’m off the indie wagon again. These jokers were going for the throat right away. However the next cut, “Wannabe In LA”, left me with no desire to go there. It was like the pit-bull they opened with was neutered in front of me and had its collar bedazzled. “Tight Pants” was scrawled on the set-list and I was having doubts about this evening of machismo. The sounds pouring out of the instruments had me in a haze of truckers, bikers, and long days capped with a cool Budweiser. The lyrics had me in trapped in a cheap nightclub with polyester gyrations. “High Voltage” pulsed out of the speakers and I was sure I was at an Electric Six cover night. My rowdy meter had just taken a dive into the shitter. “Secret Plans” and “Now I’m a Fool” had me dozing off in my stool. I threw a few dollars on the bar and put on my hat. Then “Heart On” squeaked into my ears. It caught me just enough to give these guys until the end of their set. The constant echo and wispy sounds of “Cheap Thrills” wasn’t doing it for me, the same goes for “How Can A Man With So Many Friends Feel So Alone”.
I was hoping for a song to get stuck in my head for the next day of road-tripping. “Solo Flights” fit the bill perfectly. I could see myself staring at the sun until I was on the verge of blindness only to pull down my hat and drift into a state of peace. Then like a summons to court for unpaid child support, the mood was shattered. Back to the dance club with “Prissy Prancin’”. Never been comfortable there and probably won’t ever be. Grabbing my pack sack and heading out the door my exit music had been perfectly cued. “I’m Your Torpedo” blew the dirt when I opened the door. In all honesty it summed the entire experience up with the words ’scratch like a cat and fuck like a bitch’. These guys had a some thunder in their clouds, but when it came time to storm, they just had an estrogen induced dry-heave.
I walked out into the desert to unroll my sleeping bag and listen to coyotes killing other living creatures just to feel like a man again.
I can’t say it will be this way for you, but that’s how it happened for me.
Eagles Of Death Metal
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Written by Matt Owens
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