Hello Again-Dream Baby

It's been a long long time since I've last posted something here within my blog-lots of changes from within and without; not that it's been a bad thing. Rather, it's been a good thing. To catch up, I'll be posting papers I have written for grad school, where I've been hanging out for the last 3 years or at least since September 2012. And very soon, I'll be posting regular blogs once more, but in the meantime, this is once of those papers.

Recently, for my Drama: Theory/Practice class in grad school, which I've been taking this spring semester, we were assigned to write a dream paper. And dream in this case, was to perform and/or play with anyone we desire, the premise being that money wasn't a problem.

And so, here is my dream paper.

If I were to have a dream performance, I think my biggest dream performance would be an international performance, at Royal Albert Hall, in London, England, with the Candy Store Henchmen at the helm of it, but with a bit of a twist.

For a band that never rehearses and just plays when we come together and perform on a regular basis, even a single performance like this would change the realm of everything for us. Not that we haven’t played/performed at big venues before; we have sparingly, it’s just that this one with money being no object, that this would be an even bigger place for us.

After securing plane tickets, passports, lodging for all 20 band members, including extended family and a couple of agents and roadies, loading up the jet with all of our gear securely and safely, we’d charter a private jet that would take us directly to Heathrow Airport in London from O’Hare Field in Chicago.

After we arrive and manage to get through customs rather quickly and unusually easy, we wait for the four station wagon-looking limousines to take us to our hotel, so we could unload our luggage, unpack our instruments and head back out to the rehearsal hall, where we would be joined by several guests of honor.

On average, it’s about a 30-minute drive out to the rehearsal hall, so our driver tells us, but due to traffic on the parkway, it takes us nearly an hour to reach the hall.

Once we arrive, we pile out of the four limousines and get to the trunks, loaded up with all of our gear, grab our stuff and head inside. When we reach the doors, we are greeted by a large brass band, fronted by members of the London Symphony Orchestra.

Once we settle in and exchange pleasantries, the work begins. In times past generally, when we have rehearsed as a band, it normally takes about 10 minutes to explain all 75 gestures. After that, we begin rehearsals; from a slow jam point of view and eventually morph into several compositions, with specific instructions added in along the way.

But before we began, the men and women in the shadows step forward and become men and women becoming musicians and dancers. Adding into the mix, the Henchmen welcome Sir Paul McCartney on bass and electronics; Ringo Starr on percussion; John Zorn on electronics, the entire London Symphony Orchestra minus their conductor and the entire dance troupe of the Joffrey Ballet.

Together, we rehearse two compositions, “Flight Of The Satanic Danish Squirrel” and “90 Minute Delay on The Eisenhower. Compositions that everyone present knows, including our guests who know, having the opportunity to have experienced it themselves many years ago.

The dancers twirl about on the floor, while McCartney twangles his bass in places that a bass shouldn’t go and Ringo drops a few weird percussive beats. Zorn falls into the Henchmen mode instantaneously and the conducting seems a lot smoother, as all of these folks, including the dancers. 

Meantime, the LSO is fitting in nicely like a knitted quilt.

But then a question comes, from McCartney. “What if,” he slowly asks, “if a beat is slower than it should be? Or what if the beat doesn’t sound raw or pure enough?”

“Go with the flow,” I tell Sir Paul. “Go with the flow and if you don’t get it, just interpret the gestures as you see fit. If there’s something during the performance that I don’t hear that’s flowing properly, I’ll come over and show you on the spot. I do that with all my Henchmen. Nothing to worry about,” I say.

The rest of the Henchmen nod their heads. They’ve all been there before. They know exactly what I mean, especially 13 and Chipped Nipple. Dennis The Menace has to be woken up, as he’s fallen asleep from jet lag.

I am ready to go. Everyone else is too, even after one rehearsal, but then again, it is the Henchmen we are talking about. We can be ready for anything and everything all in the same fell swoop.

Everyone shakes everyone’s hands and we all take selfies of each other. We know we’ll need at least a good night’s sleep before the night of the big show. Most rock stars despite them being mega rock stars realize that too, as they are slightly dragging while waiting for their limousines. A good night’s sleep should do it for us.

That and a good meal will fix us up right away. Jet lag can literally kill a person if they don’t know how to handle it. Most of the Henchmen haven’t ever experienced that before with the exception being myself, Dr. Nothing and Viking Dentist.

The rest of them have stayed stateside. But now, it’s all changed, but it can make a person disorientated if they don’t know what they are doing.

And sometimes they just don’t know.

After a good night’s sleep, a walk around the hotel; we’re staying in an undisclosed place; can’t have the press and the fans climbing all over the furniture, now can we? No, we can’t. Anyway, after a fitful night of sleep and a good breakfast consisting of cereal, eggs and blueberry yogurt and a cup of English breakfast tea, the group is raring to go!

No rehearsals this morning; just veg out and get to the gig. I look at everyone else; most of them are tired, but fairly happy to be in London. We haven’t had much time for sightseeing and I don’t think we will until after the gig itself.

The hours carry themselves well. Then it’s that time. Getting to the gig. We all wait for our four limousines and head over to the great hall. When we arrive, we all as if in one great thought process run toward the stage.

It’s the biggest stage we’ve ever performed on besides the Rosemont Theater in Rosemont, Illinois during Season 8 auditions for America’s Got Talent. It’s safe to say that we’re all pretty excited to be there. Everyone stakes his or her spot out carefully, while I inspect the stand I’ll be working off of. 

Seems to be in good sturdy order.

McCartney, Starr, Zorn and the dancers all join us. I tell them simply; “It’s do or do night and tonight,” I say, “we’re going to rock the joint!” They all nod, along with my band in agreement. What could possibly wreck our chances?

We break and go out for dinner and come back. By then we can see the line for the show forming. There are crowds and crowds and crowds of people. Pushing and shoving and snaking their way to get to their seats. Excitedly reading Playbill, imagine that! Seeing Sid Yiddish And His Candy Store 

Henchmen, with special surprise guests.

Seeing our names in lights is a wonderful thing too, but not so wonderful that it hasn’t happened before because it has. I’m just being modest. Really. Honest.

One of our roadies takes a peek behind the curtain and sees that every seat in the hall has a butt sitting in it. We are psyched and ready to roll.

Chipped Nipple shouts, “Let’s roll Henchmen!”

We grab our instruments and head toward the stage. The place goes dark and we follow the glow-in-the-dark strips and head forward. We are instructed to stay silent until the lights go up.

The moment they do, there’s a deafening roar from the crowd; sometimes I think it’s not always me they are cheering for, rather the men in the band and of course our guests, who also jump up on the stage. The Joffrey Ballet makes circles and figure 8s around us. Ringo Starr is lifted through an opening in the floor, rising up above behind his drum kit, that screams “Henchmen” on it.

John Zorn is with us too. The London Symphony Orchestra is seated in the pit.

Just as I raise my hands to begin the downbeat, who should appear from nowhere, but Yoko Ono, who starts wailing.

“Oh-no!” I scream.

She stops for a second and answers, “Yes?”

“Nothing,” I say back.

She goes back to wailing.

The crowd doesn’t know what to think. And then, someone starts to boo. It’s followed by a bunch of hisses, which only causes Ono to moan louder. The chorus of boos gets worse and people start throwing rotten fruit at us. Hurling insults worse than both seasons of America’s Got Talent combined.

The curtain falls down upon us.

“Success,” I say to everyone.

Was it just a dream?

Maybe. Just maybe.