The Surreal McCoys present…The Day The Music Died

Flashback: NYC. Lower East Side.

Our heroes booked at an underground stage with an East Coast fetish convention holding court on the upper floors. McCoys fans filing through a maze of leather-clad drag queens and topless, ether-crazed Walter Cronkite look-a-likes to reach the cavern. A rockshow with a legit Warriors vibe.

Turnbull AC’s. Punks. Orphans.

Baseball Furies? Natch.

Lizzies?

You bet your ass.

“Surreal McCooyoyysssss…come out and plaaaaayyyyyyyy”

“My dehydration…”

The boys tore into Brown Demon; the crowd pulsed. Elvis bathed in shadows, working the frets – or where the frets should be – too dark – Billy Saul and Clint pounding the (what else?) solid 4’s with a kickhammer thrust and a kickhammer isn’t even a thing but for that moment it was. Goats with a boot on the monitor, guitar slung low just like in the posters.

Not an axe; a guitar, you poseurs.

Cletus growling the chorus. Whiskey-voiced.

Literally.

Enough adrenaline to punch a hole in the sky. Oh, wait. That was a ceiling pipe.

“Oh God, I broke my finger!”

“Powderfinger?”

“NO, I THINK I BROKE MY FINGER!”

“OKAY – POWDERFINGER….1…2…3…4…”

The road crew – Penny Lane and Johnny – realize something’s up.

Cletus needs more booze.

Flash forward: Rock music is dead.

No radio play. No record industry. Pop and hip hop rule the day.

Rock is dead. Punk is dead. Ghettoized along with jazz, network TV, and model railroading.

One final show. Let’s put it to bed, citizens.

Of course: Simeri’s. 1505 West Indiana Ave in South Bend. 8:30 PM Friday September 27, night before the Irish play Oprahoma in tackle football.

You’ve heard the riff. Johnny Cash meets The Clash. Originals. A few covers. You’ll sing along and you’ll break the code. This isn’t a band. It’s actors playing a band. And you’re auditioning.

Pro sound. Fog. Kickhammers. This is the big time; the final time.

It’ll be the Surreal McCoys and it’ll be The Day The Music Died.

And you can say you were there.