Somewhere during the
mid to late 1980’s I began toying with the idea of performing in an acoustic
duo.
I was originally
a bass player, but became a singer by default. No one else would take the job.
I played bass and sang in a band in high school, then in a band in college, and
then with 1/2 of the band from high school after graduation from college. Distressed
by the nodules I was convinced were growing on my vocal chords from over singing
songs that weren’t in my range, nor any humans not equipped with the larynx of
a porpoise, I planned to return to my home town of Phoenix, Arizona and become
a writer.
Instead, I was
shanghaied into a popular local band whose new lead singer, Sean Contres could
assimilate the screaming porpoise style so prevalent during that era. Originally
the band’s bass player, Sean now supplanted their former singer. I in turn took
over Sean’s duties on the bass. All I had to do was jump around and froth at the mouth like a rabid
dog and every once in a while use both hands to play. Oh…and sing maybe four or
five songs that Sean felt were beneath him.
Not long after we
began to gig at least three times a week, the inevitable happened. Sean shredded
his vocal chords. As he was already a gifted bassist, I was shoved into the
spotlight without my blankie. For someone who has had a shield for all of these
years, this is tantamount to being stripped naked. I became a “lead singer”.
True to
rock’n’roll cliché, various members were replaced or deported, and tragedy
befell us. Soon, Sean was the only original member left standing. It was time
for a name change. We settled on “Back Talk” as it was the one name no one
really cared about. Suddenly, we began writing songs! Lots and lots of songs. Before
we knew it we were a 99% original act. This was a godsend for me. Now, I could
sing in my own unwashed, untrained voice and not have to attempt to be an
impersonator. Yippee!
After I was (rightfully)
evicted by the girlfriend I was mooching off of at the time, I finagled residence
above the local nightclub, Swizzles.
If you were of
legal age during the ‘80’s you will understand that if you live above a bar;
particularly a bar that hosts live bands (and strippers), there will be a party
in your room EVERY night. This is the law, and I do not enjoy breaking the law.
In short time I became Swizzle’s doorman, then d.j., and ultimately bar
manager, radio spokesman and owner of the smallest colony of brain cells on the
planet.
I’d been noodling
with the acoustic guitar for a few years, and used it as a tool for writing
songs. Notice, I don’t claim to have learned how to play it. Still don’t. Mostly,
it is propped in my lap or substitutes as a table for drinks. When the inevitable
party began, someone might ask me to play. A slew of dirty, slurry, random
songs coalesced and became staples of my late night set list.
During this
period, it took about four hours for our road crew (and me) to set up for a Back
Talk show. This does not include the painful hours of tearing it all down again.
As lead singer you would think I would NOT be involved. Have I mentioned that I
owned our $10,000 light show? I can’t say that I didn’t wander off from time to
time after a gig, but I’m pretty damn sure I was always there for the hated
setup.
That’s when a
seed germinated in my soggy mind. “What if” I wondered, “I was to start playing
acoustic shows on the side to augment my income?”
This was
pre-MTV-Unplugged and there weren’t many people in this region doing the “stripped
down” thing. As I’ve always enjoyed hearing solo performers or duos hammering
away on acoustic guitars, I counted myself “in”.
As someone who
prefers a good “B-side” to a hit single, I mused to myself “What if we play a variety
of rock songs, that people may not be familiar with?”
You'll notice that I didn’t
say acoustic songs. Nope. We left poor James Taylor, Jim Croce, Jimmy Buffet
and all of the other James, Jim’s and Jimmy’s alone! I’m positive that if they had
known, they would have been eternally grateful!
I enlisted our sound man, Mike Couch as my partner
in crime. Mike is an incredible, versatile guitar player who at the time owned
and operated a studio where we recorded.
He had just recently joined “Once Fish”, an original jam band who still
perform locally under the name “Hexbelt”. I figured that if we kept our gigs to
off nights, neither one of us would have to worry about butting heads with the
schedules of our respective bands.
My goal was to
keep the show as simple as possible. Since Back Talk had a light show of 100+
par cans and rain lights, and fog machines and a drum riser with a strobe light
built into it, I decided to use a tree lamp of mine that had three bulbs as our
lighting. Depending on the tone and “weight” of the song, I would
refer to it as “One”, “Two” or “Three bulb” and turn the knob for the desired
effect. I know: Genius. And just like that I had our name: Two Idiots and a
Lamp.
Mike is much younger
than I, and at that time suffered from “stress”. Is it necessary for me to stress
how often my antics “stressed him out”? I remember one fateful evening where he
got so pissed off at me that he smashed his guitar on the wall of the bar where
we were playing. To add insult to injury, I laughed at him and told him that if
he wanted to get my attention, he should have smashed my guitar! (Disclaimer: I wasn’t being mean, just making a point.
If you want to hurt someone, don’t bust your own stuff. That’s like punching a
wall, when you really want to send someone’s teeth down their throat. Now,
you’ve got a broken hand, dummy!!!!! You’re welcome.)
For “Two Idiots
and a Lamp” inaugural gig we opened for Back Talk in my downstairs living room,
Swizzles. Scroll back up a few paragraphs. Remember when I said I wanted to
keep the show “simple”? Temporary amnesia must have set in. At the time,
comedic songwriter Martin Mull was touring the country with living room
furniture. I thought that sounded like a great way to debut the “Idiots”. We
drug a couch, coffee table complete with magazines, end table furnished with a
black and white television that was on, with the sound turned off, and “the lamp” from my
upstairs “apartment” onto the stage in front of the drum riser.
Showtime! Mike
and I ambled onto the stage with our guitars, propped our feet up on the end
table and basically said “Whassup?” to the packed room full of puzzled faces. We then careened shakily into our set. Uncle Igor from
Starview 92.7 taped the gig and aired pieces of it over the years. Somewhere, languishing
amid cobwebs I believe I have a cassette copy. I’m scared to search, on the
chance that I may find it.
Before long, Back
Talk and Once Fish were playing more and more week day shows, and it was
difficult for me to schedule “Idiot” gigs without double-booking. Or… maybe Mike
grew tired of pulling his hair out. Either way, the torch was passed.
My songwriting
partner, Back Talk guitarist Eric “Todd” Wisniewski seemed like the obvious
replacement. We certainly weren’t going to interfere with the other’s schedule.
This way we also incorporated unplugged Back Talk material into the mix along
with many of my original acoustic songs which we didn’t play with the band.
We started
playing a gig every Sunday night at 55 West in downtown York . Hot wings had just become the big
thing, and 55 West served five cent wings every Sunday. Read that again: five
cent wings! Prior to the Wing Craze you couldn’t give those things away! Now,
you can’t buy them for much less than a dollar a piece.
The Sunday night
gig took off and a new phenomenon began to develop. People began to gift us
lamps. Not Granny’s sixty year old gummed up lamp with a frilly shade, but
vintage lamps, Disney character lamps and crazy decorator lamps. The pinnacle
was finally reached when a young lady bequeathed us a giant ceramic bust of Elvis
lamp. The damn thing had to have weighed fifty pounds. A new stage of evolution
began: people began to accessorize Elvis. On a good night, Elvis might be
wearing purple sunglasses with a lit cigarette taped to his mouth, while
sporting a fright wig and bow tie that lit up with blinking red lights. Just
like in real life!
One fateful
Sunday, a good friend of ours who may have been drinking (wasted)
bum rushed the “stage” in an effort to
tell us some sort of vital information that couldn’t wait for the song to end.
You can see where this is going. He knocked poor Elvis right off of his perch.
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Heartbreak Hotel. Elvis wasn’t just all shook
up. He was spread across the floor in a million shards of ceramic sequins and scarves.
I made an
executive decision. From now on: No LAMPS. We became “Two Idiots”, or more
commonly “the” Two Idiots.
It was also at
this juncture where I decided to test my mettle and perform every Thursday at
First Capital Dispensing Co. as a solo performer. I was the day bartender at
First Cap, and Terry, the owner wanted to try something new on Thursdays. I volunteered
to pop my “solo” cherry and give it a shot.
This also continued
the serendipitous connection between yours truly and hot wings. Terry decided to
make the Thursday night special a dozen (!) wings for a dollar. The reason that
this special deserves an exclamation point is because most places cut their
wings in half; severing wing from drumstick. This way they charge you for one
wing, when in reality it is only half of a wing. Terry gave you the whole wing
and he bought the largest damn chicken wings I’ve ever seen in my life. They
had to have been raised on steroids, or incorrectly labelled “chicken” when they
were actually turkeys. Wingzillas! He marinated and breaded them overnight and
they were the best damn wings I’ve ever had! They weren’t “hot”, but they were tasty, and you could add as much
sauce as you wanted to them for no extra charge.
One of the original
caveats to me performing on Thursdays, was that I would also deep fry the wings
to order. Picture this for a moment. I am playing for an audience, and you
decide you want wings. I now interrupt the song, put the guitar down, go
upstairs, cook your wings, then deliver them to your table piping hot. Hmmmm.
That lasted one week.
This new gig presented
a new quandary. What name would I go by? I wanted to remind people who had
heard of, or followed “Two Idiots” that I was indeed one of the two, and yet
stand alone. My dear friend and drinking buddy, Gina London from Starview 92.7
had given me an ugly framed black velvet portrait of Elvis. I don’t know why,
other than it was so splendidly tacky that she knew I would love it. Hello,
Inspiration! I billed myself as “One Idiot and a Bad Black Velvet Elvis”. Once
again, I was forced to carry around a prop, and once again that didn’t last
long before I rechristened myself “Kirk the Idiot”.
People seem to
forget that I willingly labelled myself an idiot. I gave MYSELF that name! It
wasn’t a childhood nickname that stuck or a misprint on my birth certificate.
Flash Forward: I
became a father. Around the time my son, Skylar was five, a good friend of mine
and her son spent the day with us at the the York Fair. We were wandering along
the thoroughfare, when a voice over the loudspeaker said “There have been a lot
of idiots here today, but now we have the biggest idiot of them all: Please
give a round of applause for “Kirk the Idiot”!”
My son wanted to
know why the man with the microphone was calling me a mean name. Lucy- you got
some ‘splainin’ to do! For quite sometime after this revelation, Skylar would
respond to a scolding with “Well, at least I’m NOT an idiot!” Touche’ and
well-played, sir. I worried that fights during recess would become part of Skylar’s daily routine. "But Dad! His dad said that YOU are an idiot!!" I’m happy to report that as of this moment, they have not.
Another bullet dodged…and enough digression. Back to the story in progress:
Another unforeseen wrinkle of the every Thursday, First Cap gig was that people would respond
to my heckling by whipping masticated wing bones at me. On Friday mornings, with
a searing, cross eyed hangover, I would often run into Terry when I opened the
bar. He would be grumpily mopping the floor from the night before.
“Why the f*** are
there chicken bones everywhere?” he would ask in an agitated bar owner tone.
“Huh! I don’t know, that’s weird...isn't it?” I would mumble while stealthily
plucking bones from the top shelf liquor bottles and the light above the bar. It
wasn’t long before he showed up on a Thursday to see what the hell was going
on. I’m pretty sure he pelted me with more than his share of wing carcasses.
In the meantime, Eric
married another d.j. friend from Starview 92.7 and followed her to her new job
in Toronto , Canada
During this
interim, my buddy, Don Carn volunteered to be Eric’s replacement. Don is a high school music teacher and jazz musician. He’s been a
staple on the local music scene since before fire was discovered and was known for his
fantastic bass playing with the band “Extremity”. But Don had other ideas. He
began to carry a violin around like a third arm and sit in with anyone who
would let him. I was one of the anyone's, and it wasn’t unusual to find Don
killing cats with his violin with one or both Idiots on a Thursday or Sunday
night. With bowstrings snapping and fraying, Chile Don Carne' became an Idiot...until Eric returned from the Great White North. I thought there might be
a duel between pick and bow, but I reminded Don that he knew his reign as an Idiot was only
temporary, and he would always be welcome to sit in and wow the crowd with his
frenetic guitfiddle. And he has, and continues to do so on a whim to this day.
Time travel ahead a few
years: Back Talk dissolved. Right before the implosion, Johnny “Star” Stauffer
had begun playing bass with us. A longtime friend, and gifted musician, Johnny
sidled right into the Idiot lead guitar slot without a stutter. This was by far
the most gratifying and prolific period for me as an Idiot. We gigged an
average of seven nights a week (often with two gigs a day on Fridays, Saturdays
and Sundays) and learned a ton of “new” cover material while writing originals.
During Johnny’s tenure, I watched him transform from a good guitarist to an exceptional one and his melodic playing and choice of notes elevated every one of my original songs and made them complete. We formed, disbanded and put out CD’s with both “Duck Butter”
and “Cotton” and were together so much we were like an old vaudeville team bouncing
off of each other’s wit and providing a foil to the other’s warped sense of
humor, tics and pecadilloes. Even during our worst moments, I had a
perma-smile.
With “Cotton”, we
were fortunate enough to have our world class bassist and inspirational friend,
Ralph Weyant Jr. frequently join us as the third Idiot. After Ralph’s tragic, devastating
death from cancer, Johnny and I parted company, and I didn’t have the heart,
desire nor ability to replace either of them.
I continued
playing solo gigs for years, until I reunited with Back Talk drummer Alan
White, and connived Linda Kopp into anchoring the “Rhythm Junkies” with her
sassy bass playing. As a woman, and for fear of bodily harm, I knew better than
to ask her to be an “idiot”. We perform as a duo under the wildly imaginative
moniker “Kirk and Linda”.
Over the years
“Two Idiots” have opened for classic rock legends “Blue Oyster Cult”, “Robin
Trower”, “Molly Hatchet”, “The Romantics”, “Blackfoot”, “New Riders of the
Purple Sage”, “Pat Travers Band”, “Foghat”, and “Black Oak Arkansas” to name a
few.
In hindsight,
dubbing oneself an idiot provides it’s own set of complications. To this day,
it is extremely rare that I don’t hear “Hyuk, yuk, there’s an idiot!” when I
walk into a room. These are the same people who ask me (while I’m lugging in my
guitar, speakers and amplifier) “Are you playing tonight?” I often answer with
“No; just practicing setting up”. This is usually met with a dull, blank stare
before a dust mote captures their attention and leaves me free to continue
prepping for my gig. Who be the Idot now, eh?
