Other bands: Smile Empty Soul
A cold front blew in a blast of cold rain when we hit Mokena. Load in was soggy and we reeked of the smell that happens when moisture touches sweat-stained thrift store clothes that have been slept in for days.
The Pearl Club was a giant room with steel girders and pylons and an enormous stage and sound system that could probably hold almost a thousand people on nights better than this. It was the kind of place where bands like Sevendust and Kittie found receptive audiences and ultra-hospitable dressing rooms.
When we weren't playing, we spent most of the time in the private lounge upstairs, being served by the moderately attractive bartendress. It was a pizza and booze night, another night of shaving days off our lives with jager shots and artery clogging grease. The Pearl Room had showers and some of us took one just because we could.
The audience didn't hate us, but were predictably bored, though sometimes inquisitive. I saw a girl take out her cell phone to try to talk over the music, then walk toward the exit. I jumped off the stage and ran after her, ushering her back in by the elbows like the queen of the cotillion ball. Her nervous laughter and abject fear of leaving her spot ever again for the rest of the set was all the reward I needed.
I was a clown. I didn't care. Not caring wasn't always the nihilistic endeavor it was made out to be. I had learned not to step all over Eric's pedals and not to smash Nic's keys with the mic stand. I didn't hang from the rafters anymore, but I moved in drunken Cab Calloway sashays and made hammish Iggy Pop faces.
Our next two drives were two hours apart. We drove to the next town and ordered up a hotel.
Mokena McMansion.
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