It was one of those nights that you’ve heard about. One of those unforgettable road stories, the kind that every gigging band has at least one of. Where did it all start? Was it when we loaded up that evening? Was it on the road to the club? Was it when we grabbed that rustic handle forged with the twisted face of a howling gargoyle and entered the club? Perhaps. But I think it all started when we found IT. IT was just lying there like IT had been waiting a thousand years for us, and this night, to wreak IT's havoc.

  Loading up we couldn’t have foreseen the events of the night. All went smooth though it was a cramped ride up the parkway to our destination as we discussed the need for a van with a trailer and a hitch! Load-in was a piece of cake. We proceeded to set up around 8:00. There always something you wish you had brought. Batteries. Well, just one for my pedal, its a real power sucker. Not crucial, I had brought the adapter, but the cord was kind of short.

  We had plenty of time to kill so Jim and I decided to take a stroll across the street to the Radio Shack that was recommended by one of the locals. We walked out into the warm humid summer air and started our trek.

  Hmm. The Radio Shack had mysteriously vanished like a desert mirage. Little did we know it was all part of the magic and IT’s insidious plan…Well we were in the middle of town so there had to be a store around close by. Then we spied a strip mall several blocks away. The longer we walked the farther the Holy Grail of batterydom seemed to retreat into the distance. When there IT was, in our path. IT lay there like some Egyptian relic carelessly discarded by temple looters. Jim pointed IT out to me, "Look a mummified hand!" Well IT wasn’t REALY a mummified hand (was it?). IT was a stick; dry and withered with the appearance of a small 3 fingered hand of an alien. "Oooo! I must have it!" I squealed with glee. But Jim warned me "Better not touch it! You better leave it where it is!" Woe to we who heed not the Curse of the Mummified Hand!
 

So with batteries and my new wooden toy in hand, Jim and I headed back to Harry’s. I make sure and wave the twisted stick at the car pulling out in front of us, "Behold the power of the Mummified Hand!" Oh woe to we! If we had only known the price for eliciting IT's magic! The night wears on as only nights like this do. We sit through the barrage of various acoustic performers, enjoying ourselves at the bar, chatting with the patrons and our gracious bartender, as I play with my toy putting a curse on anyone and everyone I can. We’re due to go on at 10:00 but there are a lot

of people there and because we are a heavy act they ask to have the lighter stuff go on first. Hey that’s cool, we’re easy going. So 10:00 turns into 11:00, and 11:00 into 11:30. We listen to the drone of poet after poet. After poet. After poet. Entertaining at first, but after a couple hours of this our brains turn to Jell-O and I wave IT vigorously chanting "Please make it stop! Please make it stop!" Then it finally worked; it was our turn to go on! Behold the power of the Mummified Hand!

  Jim warned me. Oh he warned me! He told me not to touch him with IT. That IT would curse him and mess up his performance. He told me to leave IT where IT was. We get on stage and with a righteous introduction by our host we break into ‘Breaking the Law’. Half way into the first verse, its Jim’s speakers that are breaking. He blew his 15". Well that totally sucks but he still has the upper speaker. We try again. Half way into the verse the top speaker blows. Coincidence? I think not. So the sound guy, being the quick thinking guy that he is, has Jim run direct. We give it one last shot. Made it through Breaking the Law. Into ‘War Pigs’ with a guest singer. In the middle of the song I glance back at Tim and he’s dripping wet holding a half-empty cup of Myers and Coke, looking rather bewildered. Apparently his highhat stand just fell over, landed on his cup, and flipped it all over him. "My highhat stand has never done anything like that before!" he tells us on the ride home. Of course I had waved IT at him too. Our next song is ‘The Trooper’ by Maiden. Great song and we are good at it. Well except for tonight. I draw a total blank and forget the opening verse. The FAMOUS opening verse. Not that it matters because we can’t really hear Jim anyway.

  The one saving grace of the night was the good response from members of the audience. (well there's one other. I’ll get to that). While this is happening on stage, the club is in an uproar, people chanting "Sonicide", screaming various whoops of enthusiasm, and repeatedly coming up to the stage to high five us. Sonicide fans are the best and I guess we made a few new ones. Big thanks to Harry’s security guy for the compliments and support and to all the great people there who cheered us on.
Well we made it through the show and began to pack up our gear as an acoustic trio boards the stage. "Can I help you with your stuff" the mandolin player asks. "Gee that’s nice of him,” I think to myself. "Sure you can wrap these cords or something if you want." As he was nice enough to offer to help I figured I wouldn’t ask him to tote my heavy amps. "I’m not wrapping your cords I just want to get your stuff out of my way." Well I guess we are a tough act to follow. I shouldn’t blame the guys for being rude and bitter because of having to play their wimpy crap after we just had the whole place in a raucous frenzy. Tim bumped into one of them as he was leaving the stage and was given some very dirty looks. Everyone else there was really cool. Acoustic, electric, we are all musicians and should respect each other. I made sure I sent a few extra waves with IT toward the stage before leaving.

  Oh but our tale ends not! No my weary reader! I exit the club and join the guys at the van as they discuss the suspicious sounds of gunshots they just heard. I check the van for holes. Off we go, happy the night is over. But we as musicians know the night isn’t over until the equipment’s unloaded and you’re in your own bed (Or someone else’s). Up the street and around the bend, past the place where we first found IT, we stop at the railroad tracks as a small line of cars go by. We cross the tracks. Flashing light. Shit, we are being pulled over. The Curse of the Mummified Hand strikes again! So I’m crammed in between the guys trying to rifle through the compartment under the seat. The registration! Where the fuck is it? Where’s the insurance card?? Hey where’s my bag and guitar stands??? Damn. So I’m digging around, bitchin, moanin, found the registration, whew, found an old insurance card and plead with them, "run a check we have insurance, really we do!" Luckily Jim was driving and had his ID. "Was that gun shots we heard earlier?" he asks the officers. Tim kicks back, laughs, and shakes his head.

  On the upside this is actually the second saving grace that I told you about, because if those cops didn’t stop us we would have made the whole trip back home before we discovered that bag of stuff was missing! A big thank you to the Neptune/Asbury police for helping us out and taking pity on a van of poor musicians, because they didn’t even give us a ticket.

  We run back to the club, grabbed our stuff, and head out of town. By now I’m having an attack of low blood sugar and we search for anything open, only finding a little all-night mini mart. So it’s cold chicken and sandwiches for the ride home. While perusing the selection of cold drinks, some sort of odd seismic wave shakes all the coolers opening all their doors for an instant. We don’t even ask "What the hell was that?!" At this point we don’t want to know. We pay for our stuff, get our asses back on the road, and hope and pray we make it home as we travel into the surreal mist of the New Jersey night, dreaming of other gigs and greater fortune. And I swear to my bandmates, the next time we see something that looks suspiciously like an old relic from a bygone era, I'll leave it where it lies and not tamper with forces unknown.

Unless, of course, things get boring.
Alice