Melodic Menace

Going big with big sounds. That's what takes it over 'cuz the sounds are so big.
-Jay Z

The technology behind sound production has increased a billion fold since its inception. The talent that wields it? Not nearly as much. But no matter how loud or how fast or how enthusiastic the effort, the only thing that makes this high-tech noise work are the talent and charisma of the performers.

Over a week ago I got to see Hollow Drive at a house party. I arrived late having come straight from some work-related responsibility so I'd missed their set. Upon my arrival Markus, the band member who'd invited me down, proceeded to thank me for coming down and bust my chops for being late. I am a radio pseudo-celebrity. It was a risky maneuver for someone who has a band he's trying to promote as things like that can be interpreted as either "bad juju" or "charisma." I chose the latter.

From there, the boys and I got along swimmingly. A little while ago prior to the house party I'd heard them on stage at Hog's Palace opening for Sponge. I was too busy handling several work-related tasks to actually watch them perform, but I was impressed by what I heard. I took the invite based on that judgment. I did not expect to like them too.

Markus, ever the marketing mind, offered to play another set so I could see them do their thing. I did not want them to do it as it was their party and they'd already played. Plus, well, we were at a house party in the sticks. The speakers were earnest efforts, but they were pointing out into the acres of tall grass that surrounded the rather large backyard. Acoustically, it was a nightmare. Rick Rubin would have pulled his last few hairs out just thinking about it.

Undaunted, he gathered the guys together and took the stage...or back porch. Al looked tired, Jerr's voice was blown, Mike was a little off, and Markus was all over the place. With no bassist, the four of them showed me performance without polish. Just some guys that know their instruments coming together to use them in someone's backyard in the boondocks. Their performance was nothing special. The talent behind it damn sure was.

Last night I got to see them once again, but back at Hog's Palace. Jim Brown, Sound Guy slash Booker slash Promoter EXTRAORDINARE, has put together a magical array of sound and light with equal parts high-tech wizardry, wit, and chicken wire. What you see and hear is the very essence of what every band has to offer. In a situation like that you can either excel or be exposed.

When Hollow Drive performs you can be sure of a few things. Drums will be kicked and beaten. Necks will be snapped out of joint. Guitars will be pulled hither and thither, wrought out of tune. And microphones will bleed their electric blood from exhaustion after having been run roughshod like a beleaguered bronco at an old time rodeo show. The boys from Hollow Drive may play their instruments, but they do not play at performing.

Mike is their drummer. The sound check was done. The lights were set. His arms went up...held. And when they came down everything happened at once. Guitars screamed. Drums boomed. Voices screamed off the walls. And all five heads on all five necks (Sam was their replacement bassist) banged up and down in worship to the rhythm. Ladies and gentlemen! Al, Jerr, Markus, Mike, and Sam were in the building.

They jumped and slammed. They yelled and clapped. They flipped and dove. But at every point they rocked. And rocked. And rocked some more. I am not one to lavish compliments as it is simply not worth my time (unless va-jay-jay is on the line), but I had fun watching Hollow Drive. I didn't know their songs that well. I didn't recognize their melodies much either. But when talent and charisma come together in a performance none of that matters. Some of the best shows I ever saw were of bands whose music I'd never heard. And Hollow Drive is among them, in most elite company. I also happen to dig their music though so that's a bonus.

I've gotten to know the fellows and their act decently thus far. And, fortunately for me, I look forward to many more. These guys know what they want and are working towards it. It's nice to see that in a down economy in a state with the highest unemployment in The Union there's still someone out there with balls big enough to keep chasing their dreams.

I wish the boys from Hollow Drive well and I look forward to their next show. And if they keep working at it, and striving for it, and putting out 110% day in and day out these guys might even be half as good as Pop Evil. And the congregation said, Amen.



*********
Before performing, Mike approached me to ask if I would come up on stage and introduce him. Aesthetically, this was impossible. Death Valley Dragline was the headliner.

I wanted to see all the bands perform, but work had taken longer than expected and I hadn't been as diligent as I would have liked so I couldn't get there at the start or stay 'til the finish. Had I been staying for the headliner and gotten Jim's permission I would have loved to have introduced them. As it was, I was taking off immediately after Hollow Drive's set so I had to refuse.

I was crazy ridiculously flattered that the guys bothered to ask. Perhaps there will be another opportunity that will be extended later on, but I ain't lookin' for it. They are an amazing group of performers and I can't wait to see what they can pull off in the future.

The Long Muh-WAH-Shee: Part 3

The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was my set up kick. American Karate prided itself on kick combos. The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was supposed to finish off a kick combo that made your opponent back up and respect your leg power. If he/she didn't, they'd be eating the mat through their nostrils. However, when combined with my scream I could quickly take my opponent off guard.

The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was way too easy to telegraph for a guy as weighted down with muscle as I was (220 lbs). But I was quick enough such that my opponent didn't have time to dodge. All they could do was stand there and absorb it in a block. By then I was already coming with the backfist over their guard. My sensei would actually tell my opponents about it and they'd still get caught. Especially if they screamed.

When I went to throw it against The Cop, I didn't even try to disguise it. I even telegraphed it a little extra by quickly spreading my feet a little before I went for it. However, instead of using my uber-deadly right leg, I used my left. Clearly I wanted this fight over since I didn't even use my ace technique to finish him off.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!!!!!!!!!

My left foot was always more accurate, but not as powerful. But The Cop was prepared. Both arms up on his right side he absorbed the blow. I wanted to come in for the backfist anyway just to see what he would do, but The Cop had his own trick up his sleeve.

The Cop knew I couldn't throw punches for contact. He also knew that I couldn't throw any hand techniques whatsoever unless they were obvious. But what I didn't see coming is the overhand ridgehand blow. Once I planted my left foot forward I was out of position for my right-handed backfist. The Cop never gave me a chance. I saw it coming like a screwball pitch from Willie Hernandez. Legs to chest to shoulder to elbow to wrist to my face. It was coming. Hard.

Inside, quietly, I laughed. We both knew he was using a technique I wasn't allowed to use. We both also knew he was using this technique to beat me. So not only was he beating me, he was bullying me; using the merits of his rank to trump a young upstart. As the hand came down directly on the ridge of my nose I did the only thing I could do. Flinch, yet again.

The blow came down on my face and it did connect. But the fact that I was moving so fast towards the floor saved me a broken nose. Instead, I just hit the mat hard. The Cop had his cheap victory and kept his bitchass gaggle of groupies and I lost. However, Rick pulled me aside afterwards and shook my hand. He knew what was up. Thankfully, so did I.

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A month later, I threw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee again. I was a freshly christened blue belt. He was a green belt. It was clear from the start that I had him beat. I was harder, better, faster, and stronger than he was. Average Mike was probably your proto-typical accountant-type with a wife, a couple kids, and a hard on for chop-socky flicks. Instead of learning what martial arts was about, he signed up at the closest place he could find where they did a lot of kicking and screaming like in that one Karate Kid movie 'cuz his doctor'd told him he needed to get in shape or have a heart attack and he was too lazy to take up jogging.

Mike and me were the only two guys that ever showed up to the gym in the afternoon. So instead of running a full class with just two guys, Rick decided to point-fight us. Since my last go around with The Cop I was not too eager to take out anymore black belts. For a bunch of macho dudes, they got to be some SERIOUS bitchasses when they lost. All the whining and complaining got to be a bit much so I just avoided it altogether. Rick usually let me go ahead and do what I wanted. Not so much with Mike.

Unlike me, Mike had more profit potential. If he jumped belts fast enough he could probably tell his friends. His friends would come in and start training. In between weight training and workout sessions they'd shoot the sh*t and go out for beers afterwards. With Mike they could create another little hamlet of American Karate culture, the kind that keeps membership fees coming in the door. I was too young to understand this then. So while I wanted to train with Rick, I was instead being made to work with this soft lump of male.

Mike was at least 6'2" and we probably weighed about the same. But where I was refined in the fires of white hot youth he was lingering in the donut aisle. Point-fighting was made for situations like this.

I resented Mike for being soft. I resented Mike for interrupting my training. Most of all, I resented Mike for being average. So...why not just go ahead and make him better.

Trial by fire anyone?

Rick: HAJIME!!!
Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!

The boxer Roberto Duran once described hitting a man so hard it's as if he could feel the man break.

Rick told me several times that when the body is properly conditioned and positioned, the strike doesn't come as an extension of the body as must as you become an extension of the ground.

All I know is...

It wasn't supposed to connect.

When I throw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee, I throw it directly into the man's guard. If he's got a proper side stance it should go right into his blocking left arm. If he's smart and read the telegraphed notice of the oncoming slaughter he brings up both arms to absorb the blow. That's when my backfist is going to be the next thing he sees.

Unfortunately for Mike he was too tall and his block too high. It was a monster of a kick, even by my standards, but I was totally expecting to test his block. Instead, I tested his ribs. I even pulled back on it some towards the end when I realized what was about to happen, but to no avail. The kick connected as if the heavens themselves had come for him. So perfect was the kick I didn't even feel it. I followed through his body like it was so much air.

The response was immediate. Mike couldn't shout or cry out 'cuz he had no breath to give. Instead, he crumbled to the floor. By the looks of his writhing it was as if I'd kicked a black hole into his guts as his entire body seemed determined to fold right into the place of injury.

Laughing, Rick helped Mike to the locker room. His day was done. I went back to kicking the devil out of the heavy bag. Mike and Rick sat up front by the lobby's main office talking for a great while. Realizing I wasn't gonna get anymore training with Rick I skulked into the locker room and changed clothes.

I came out to muffled laughter between Rick and Mike.

"Show him!" Rick bade Mike. Chuckling, Mike lifted his shirt. What appeared to be the front four inches of my foot was painted on the bottom of his rib cage, down perhaps even to the veins.

Back at college that fall I let my membership lapse. I paid off the year, but I barely went back. I don't know why as I'd had a good time learning there. But the campus gym had a heavybag that I used to spend at least an hour a week kicking. At one point I do believe I'd kicked the bag enough times to deaden the nerves that I could kick a tree trunk at full strength and feel no pain. But I never used The Long Muh-WAH-Shee on another human being. It's probably just as well.

The Long Muh-WAH-Shee: Part 2

The cop was Italian. I know this because he said it a lot. He also, apparently, banged a lot of "broads." Again, I know this because he told us a lot. The Cop was 5'4" tall. At the time, I didn't know what a Napoleon Complex was. In retrospect, the guy was textbook.

The Cop was an ex-cop, but good luck convincing him of that. He talked about all his experiences like they were present-day activities; nothing like the boring security details he'd picked up after accepting early retirement. The perps he'd collared. The chases he'd run, or driven. The broads he'd banged. While I was kicking, punching, and sweating, he and the black belts spent general workout times talking about how awesome he'd been as a cop.

I beat two of his groupies in straight points. It went so quick I thought they were joking with me. I'd been good at a lot of things in life, but the ease with which I'd beaten them was embarrassing. One was a brown belt, the other, black. The Cop himself was a second degree black which meant he could teach. He was my next opponent. In the final match. One of us would win this mini-tournament. I was not hopeful. Not because I didn't believe in my abilities, but because it was too easy, so far, to be believable. I felt like I was being set up.

The Cop was going to be going for his third degree soon. His ego and reputation were on the line. I was 20 years old. But I didn't have to be thirty years my senior like he was in order to know this was gonna go poorly. In my world the teacher losing to the student would be a sign that the teacher had encountered a wonderful opportunity to grow his skill sets. In The Cop's world, it was victory of humiliation.

All this over lame-ass point fighting. Laughable now. But not then.

We lined up on opposite sides of our portion of mat. I faced him. He faced me. Bow. Face teacher. Bow. Face each other. Take stance.

HAJIME!!!

I stood straight up and didn't move. He hopped left and right. Then he hopped towards me a little. I took one soft step back and didn't move.

Most of the fighters liked to hop around like Muhammed Ali or somethin'. In boxing that makes sense. You're throwing punches. In between hops it takes less time to plant your feet and throw the punch. In Karate, not so much. We threw a lot of kicks. Legs are long and heavy. You need time to plant them before you can throw them. His hopping up and down was a show of preparedness, but it would get him caught. One sidekick and one backfist later I was up 2-0.

In high school I played goalkeeper. Then one day I realized I could defensive instructions all the way downfield. It was a ridiculous advantage since it helped my team maintain defensive composure in situations when other teams fell apart. It also meant that I had a pair of big, healthy lungs.

One time in class I yelled the loudest Bruce Lee-styled scream I could manage. The whole room paused. Both of my sensei's came out from the office and every guy in the locker room came out looking for "that loud motherf*ucker." I thought I'd done something wrong. The older sensei just shook his head and walked away. The younger one, Rick, put his hand on my shoulder and gave me advice I still use to this day.

"Use your advantages to your advantage."

The Cop had never heard me scream before. I used it to great advantage both times I scored. In the first point, I waited until he was jumping and jiving close to me.

Quick breath.

AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAAA!!!!!!

Mid-jump he lost his footing I'd startled him so. Sidekick to the gut. First blood.

The second time he knew it was coming so I went ahead and used it straight away after the match was re-started. He didn't fall for it, but he was too busy looking for it to pay attention to the fact that I was dodging everything he did. Kick? Block. Punch? Dodge.

BIG Quick Breath.

He braced. I jumped at him, backfist without contact. Second point.

At this point I knew I wasn't going to win this fight. Not because I doubted my skill. This guy needed this fight. His dignity was all wound up in it. The way he pounded his forehead in preparation for the next round I knew he absolutely had to win this fight. I like to teach people lessons and win and stuff, but I didn't like this guy enough to prove it. Besides, I'd demonstrated what I was capable of. Let him have it. Well...not really. I'm not gonna say I threw the fight, but I definitely throttled down.

The Cop came out like the Tasmanian Devil. Limbs and spins were everywhere. I tried to make it look good, but I'm sure Rick knew. Maneuvers I should have worked around I didn't. Blows I could have dodged, I blocked instead. To the inattentive it could have looked like I was gassed. To Rick and a few others, I was just not trying. And within minutes we were tied up.

He wanted the fight. Frankly, I wanted him to win. But I was not gonna just give it up to him. When the call to fight began though, I did not scream. I hadn't in the previous two rounds I'd lost either so he'd either forgotten about it or gotten over it. Either way, I wanted to make his ass earn that last point. I dodged everything, threw kicks, everything. Neither of us was connecting meaningfully. And with the match so close Rick was not gonna call the match on a pitty-pat connect.

Time for clarification. I was a green belt at this time. The Cop was a black belt. I was not allowed to punch. So how could I backfist? Because he was so wide open when I did it, it would have been ludicrous for me not to and not get credit for it. However, according to the rules of the dojo whites, yellows, and greens (me) were not allowed to throw punches until they hit blue (my next belt to test for). Even when point-fighting higher ranks.

I danced around The Cop as he threw everything he had. Sweat poured down his face. And at some point I decided I'd had enough. I screamed and threw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee.

The Long Muh-WAH-shee is a kick designed to be your most powerful. Most recognizable in Muy Thai, it's when you bring your back leg, presuming you have one shoulder pounted towards your opponent in a side-stance, up and try to connect it upside the head of your opponent. If you do it right it could cause a concussion. If you do it wrong you've just told your opponent you want to be blocked and punished for your insolence.

The Long Muh-WAH-Shee: Part 1

It's never supposed to connect.

It was quite the commitment for my first year of college, but he payment plan was reasonable and I was working a lot so my Dad let me do it. Twelve hundred dollars total. A hundred a month. Working one summer I could pay it all off without having to work my sophomore year of college. My dad, frowning, co-signed the agreement and it was done.

I was going to take one year's training at American Karate.

I don't know how Un-American Karate went, but the guy I was training under was a world champion several times over and had developed a system of kicks and punches that made any fight consisting of kicks and punches more likely to run in your favor. Unfortunately, it required a shedload of conditioning and a lot of point fighting.

Point-fighting is the martial arts equivalent of eating cake without sugar, pie without filling, steak without...steak. Unlike all other fight sports, point-fighting was more about demonstrating your mastery of circumstances than actually being skilled. To score a point while point-fighting, all you really had to do was demonstrate that you COULD hit your opponent if you wanted to. So if you make like you're going to hit an opponents wide open abdomen after he/she over extended a punch or kick, the point was yours. Three of them bad boys and you either moved on to the next round or collected a nice, tall, fakeass gold trophy.

The problem with point-fighting is that the strikes were totally up to interpretation by the judges. If you were lucky you had three of them positioned at various vantage points and two of them had to agree for a point to be scored. But that's at Nationals. Mostly I point-fought at my local gym or at some university's gym while going for a promotion (raising the color of your belt to the next level).

I took to point-fighting quickly, mostly because I'm very gullible. If a guy tried to fake me, I reacted. And in point-fighting it don't matter if you fake. It matters if it LOOKS like you connect. And it looked like I was connecting a lot. Especially with black belts. They were none too pleased.

Black belts think that they run the show. Technically they do, but most of them just memorized the proper forms and went to every test available. Whether they could apply the skills necessary was immaterial. They'd paid their money and showed up enough, but God they were gonna get their black belt.

One night we had a point-fighting mini-tournament to see where everyone was. It was mostly a test of the white/green belts (me) to see how they faired against more experienced fighters. In a real fight, flinching allows for enough reaction time to bite on someone's feint and recover since they're not really supposed to hid you. So in this mini-tournament I dominated. I was athletic, quick, and talented of course. But mostly I bit on every fake maneuver. They tried to counter with someone else 'cuz they didn't expect me to be so easily faked, but by then I'd figured it out and had my fist next to their face. Demonstration of dominance was as good as gold, so I scored point after point after point.

Three black belts later, I met up with The Cop.