It started like any other day - waking up on a couch in a rural Ohio basement owned by some kind folks we had met the day before.  The hour was early considering how late we were awake the previous night.  But we had a decent drive ahead of us.  Our next stop was an afternoon gig in Painesville, Ohio (a stone’s throw from Lake Erie), so we could not enjoy the luxury of sleeping in.

After some quick coffee and donuts we were out the door.  We’ve been bringing along a large container of Maxwell House and a percolator wherever we go.  Otherwise we’d clean our hosts out of coffee.  I don’t know when we all became coffee fiends (somewhere between Jersey and Philly?), but now we drink it like our lives depend on it.  And maybe they do.  The way I look at it is that drinking all that coffee is much better than the Red Bull we once consumed at an alarming rate.  For last year’s tour we picked up a super mega case of Red Bull for $60.  This year it’s a jug of Maxwell House for $7.  Better for body, mind, and balance sheets.

In Painesville we were playing at the Party in the Park, Ohio’s largest free festival.  It was a slightly bigger version of our hometown East Haven Fall Festival, complete with local food and merchandise vendors, small rides, and a stage in the middle for music.  Two local radio stations had booths set up for contests.  Station 102 point whatever had a lone slot machine with a jackpot prize of $102,000.  Being a man who could sure use that kind of money (I kid you not), I gave it a go, but only came away with a free round of mini-golf that I would never be able to play.

My luck was better at the other radio booth.  It was a spinning wheel - think Wheel of Fortune, but with classic rock album covers where the different sums of money would be.  One slot was a jackpot.  The prize for anything but the jackpot was a lousy bumper sticker.  Now, I already won one thing I’m not gonna use, I don’t want no stinkin bumper sticker too.  I took a deep breath and with one well-timed spin I had hit the elusive jackpot.  “Choose anything from the table!”  There weren’t many enticing prizes - posters, keychains, more stickers.  I chose the most useful thing on the table - a blue and white Cleveland Indians baseball cap with a small Miller Lite emblem on the side.

We hung out at the festival for a small while after our set with Trevor, Amanda, and Dees from the night before.  They had made the trek for the show, though only caught the very end due to a series of unfortunate circumstances.  We had told them our set started at 2, when it in fact started at 1.  On top of that, they got lost on the way.  Their Bad Apples doubleheader was not to be.

From Painesville we headed west to Morral.  Now, I said we woke up in rural Ohio earlier, in retrospect I realized that 99% of Ohio is rural.  But Morral is really as middle of nowhere as it gets in the Buckeye State.  Corn and soy fields stretch across the horizon and enclose the often deserted roads.  Only one or two neighbors are within eyeshot at any given moment.  The nearest grocery store is ten miles away.

We were in this lonesome place to visit Glenn, fellow East Haven native and former guitarist in BJ’s band Fuzebox.  He moved to Morral with his wife, Morgan (originally an Ohioan), and sons Logan and Hayden nearly two years ago, and live on farmland owned by Morgan’s family.  This was our second time visiting - they put us up during last year’s tour as well.

We arrived at the farm to a greeting from Matt, the landowner.  “Haven’t seen you boys around these parts in a while!” he said, suprised to see us.  I wasn’t expecting him to remember us, but I’m certain he did because of the tractor-pushing display Dave put on last year, which prompted Matt to offer him a job.

“Glenn’s not here right now, was he expecting you?”  Of course he was.  We talked to him earlier in the day!  Why wouldn’t he have told us he was going out?  They even had a babysitter for the kids.  We tried calling again, but he wasn’t picking up his phone.  Matt found out from the sitter that Glenn was playing a benefit show tonight with his cover band at Trotters in Marion, about 8 miles away.  One thing I’ve noticed about people in this particular area is that they always refer to miles instead of minutes when talking about the length of a drive.  In the places where I’ve put some time in, I have almost always heard drives referred to in minutes.  In more urban areas, a 10 mile drive could be less than 15 minutes, or it could be well over half an hour.  But among the cornfields traffic does not exist, and rarely will you see a stoplight.  Mileage can be used with more certainty in time.

Excited to be able to see Glenn’s band we went over to Trotters.  The venue appeared to be a community building that was made to be rented out for various functions.  It had a patio in back where this particular event was stationed.  Pulling into the parking lot we could not see into the patio - it was boarded up on all sides, save an entrance on the far side just big enough for one person to go through at a time.  Glenn met us as we approached the entrance.

“I could have sworn you guys were coming tomorrow!” was the first thing I heard out of his mouth.  To be fair, we did initially tell him that we would probably be coming through on the 19th, but plans had changed since then and we were there a day early.  We had certainly told him this, but he had the 19th stuck in his mind.  No worries, we told him.  It worked out fine.  And as a bonus we get to see his band.

“Nice hat,” Glenn said to me with a smile.  In honor of being in Ohio I was sporting the Indians cap I had procured earlier.  Glenn was a fan of all things Cleveland sports, complete with a tattoo of a Browns helmet on the top of his right arm.  The event tonight, he explained, was a benefit for a local woman who had cancer and did not have much longer to live.  She was in such bad shape that she was not able to attend.  But there were two bands alternating sets, and there was plenty of booze.  “I’ve been drinking since noon,” Glenn smirked, can of Busch in hand.

Glenn’s band had recently been practicing some Pink Floyd tunes with the ultimate goal of being a Pink Floyd cover band.  They were to play a whole Floyd set later in the night.  “You guys gonna play ‘Shine On’?” I inquired.  According to Glenn, that song was out of reach for the band.  “How about ‘Money’?”  Jackpot.  “Mind if I lend my saxophone services for that song?”  He was all about it.  I wonder when he had last heard live saxophone.

We finally went in to investigate the scene, but could not possibly have been able to brace ourselves for the culture shock that was about to hit us.  The instant we walked in we were out of place.  The stares hit us hard.  Sets of eyes pointed at us like shotgun barrels as we weaved through the crowd.  Glenn introduced us to his bandmates and told them I’d be playing sax on “Money.”  They seemed to perk up a little when they heard that.  Good sign, I thought.

The three of us sat and chatted with Glenn and Morgan for a bit.  Glenn was saying how there is no original music in the area - only cover bands.  Even then, the musicians are generally lacking in skill.  When he first moved to the Ohio farmland a couple years ago, Glenn blew everyone away with his guitar proficiency.  Morgan claimed he’s the best guitarist in the state.  “Oh come on, you know I’d never agree to something like that.  I’m probably top five though.”

The other cover band took the stage, playing songs by Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, Foo Fighters, and a bunch of other bands that I did not recognize nor did I care to recognize.  As seasoned musicians and live performers, we tend to listen very critically and often notice mistakes made during live shows.  Usually it’s something subtle - a transition that was slightly gaffed or a missing part.  This stuff happens all the time.  We would be lying if we said we never make mistakes on stage.  But good musicians can recover quickly and cover their tracks.  This band, however, was in no position to do so.  Tempos were volatile, rhythms were guessed, and wrong notes were abundant.  It didn’t sound like any of them were listening to the other guys in the band (an essential part of the process).  It was also clear that these guys did not care to practice the endings of songs.  The end of literally every number was a free-for-all, with no cues and no rules.  Sometimes the drummer would be done with the song and the guitarist would be playing for another 30 seconds.  It was mayhem.  No one knew when to applaud.

We were still being reticent, feeling completely out of place.  I couldn’t muster up the courage to start conversations with many people.  Glenn had bought us a round of Bud Lights.  While on normal occassions we would rather be caught dead than drinking Bud Light, for these we were gracious.  “You won’t find any fancy beer here,” said Glenn.  “It’s all Bud and Busch.  They love it.”

The stares were still piercing my skin.  Despite being on the road many miles from home and unable to be as, well, meticulous in terms of keeping ourselves groomed, our beards were the most well-kept of anyone’s there.  We have a joke about a grocery store that we used to frequent in Philly.  For some reason, there are hoards of below-average looking people in this store at all times.  Now, we are well aware that we are not the most handsomest set of gentlemen walking this earth, but going to this grocery store made us feel like supermodels, and we would kid that we went there to feel better about ourselves.  There was a similar sensation at Trotters, though I wasn’t feeling good about it.  Our city accents were not helping the matter - they did not match well with the gravely, near-Southern drawl of the natives of the region.  The Indians cap that I intended as a salute to Ohio was undoubtedly not winning me any points.  If anything it made me look like a poser to these people.  And on this night, I suppose I was.

Looking around in calculated silence, it was clear to see that the main objective of this so-called benefit was to get everyone completely plastered.  Tables had round after round of empty beer bottles and cans.  Jell-O shots were passed around family style, in buckets.  Everyone was imbibing to the max.  I saw 50-year-olds sucking down Jell-O, and a number of people double-fisting beers.  For the first time I took notice of the protruding beer guts of every man and most of the women in attendence.  Morgan approached us, bearing gifts.  “Want some Jell-O shots?”  Well, we’re here, so we’d might as well join the fun.

There were a couple women going around selling raffle tickets.  One of them asked BJ if he’d like to buy a ticket for $5.  “Sorry, I don’t have $5.”  She asked me the same thing, and I gave her the same truthful answer.  Then she asked if we were twins.  “No, we’re just in a band together.”  The significance was lost on her.  “We’re really poor,” BJ clarified.  I wonder what she thought of us, how these three snakes from the east slithered their way into this party and refused to donate.

I was starting to regret bringing up the possibility of playing saxophone.  Would the rough-around-the-edges rural Ohio be able to appreciate the jazzy riffs coming out of my alto?  Or would I further the rift already visible between us?

Before I knew it I was several Jell-O shots deep.  Glenn’s band was getting on stage, though I wouldn’t be going up until later on in the set.  I just noticed a banner hanging on one of the walls.  “Welcome to the Trotters Patty O.”  Was this a joke?  If so, I didn’t get it.  The night was getting colder.  I wouldn’t even consider putting on a sweatshirt.  I didn’t want to show even the slightest sign of weakness.

The crowd was thinning out a little.  Glenn’s band opened with “Another Brick in the Wall” (part one I think) and the people that were still there were starting to get rowdy.  Morgan, who claimed she was cutting herself off shortly after we arrived hours earlier (she didn’t), was now in rare form.  She came over to us with a case of beer.  It was regular Budweiser instead of Bud Light.  A slight upgrade.  Nevertheless, we were ecstatic.  “We’re going heavy tonight!” BJ spurted as he quickly grabbed a can for each of us.  Was he talking about the beer or the whole scene we had become a part of?  I wasn’t sure.

Glenn’s band was pretty on.  You could tell he pushed the other members of his band to play some of these songs, but they were making it work.  And Glenn himself was ripping every Gilmour solo to a tee.  We cheered loudly for him.  Morgan bought us delicious pulled pork sandwiches with barbeque sauce, and more Jell-O shots.  During a jam on stage, the rhythm guitar player went off on an impromtu monologue about the government.  Through the mumbling I could make out him saying that “anyone is better than who we have in there now.”  Even though Ohio went to Obama in the 2008 election, I am fairly certain that wasn’t because of this crowd.

The band started playing songs from Dark Side, my cue to set up my horn.  With the crowd dieing down I felt a little more comfortable, though in the back of my head I knew that they still probably wouldn’t understand the sounds coming out of this city boy’s saxophone.

I nervously got on stage next to the guitar player who had bad-mouthed the president.  As the riff to “Money” began, I went over my mental notes, reminding myself to keep it simple.  The more notes I play, the higher the chances of offending someone in the audience, I figured.  When Glenn gave me the go-ahead to start playing, I closed my eyes to forget about the surroundings.  I did a trick that all musicians know, but in this case could make or break me.  I started my solo the same way it starts on the original recording.  From there it’s okay to veer off, but sometimes you need to get peoples’ attention right away.  It was really quite necessary.  After the initial riff or two I pushed myself to be restrained.  I heard hooting and hollering from the audience.  I kept milking the high notes, and they kept eating it up.

Glenn gave me a thanks at the end of the song and I waved to the crowd.  The drummer was beaming.  The guitar player next to me gave me a big, friendly handshake and smile, and, if just for that moment, two men from opposite worlds met in the middle and saw eye to eye.

I got off stage and packed up as the band’s set continued.  A woman came up to me.  She may have been in her 30s, maybe her 40s.  Like most people in attendence, it was kind of difficult to tell.  She mumbled something, motioned to the table I was sitting at and crushed the empty beer can in her hand, and put it down in the spot she had pointed to.  Not knowing how to respond, nor wanting to try to converse with her over the loud music that was directly in front of us, I just smiled.  She winked back at me.  I don’t ever want to know what she actually said.

Once the band was finished they came to me with very kind words.  “They’ve never seen anything like that in person,” Glenn mused later that night.  “They’ll be talking about that for weeks!”  From social outcast to local legend, you know that’s how the Apples roll.

-Albis