On the good side, we sold a shitload of t-shirts and cd's, and the right people dug the music. On the bad side, my racist feelings towards Mexicans just got worse. And I sit and wonder how I can be so closed-minded toward one particular group of people and at the same time be so open-minded with others...

And I won't go any further down that road, because I hate the racist part of myself, and I'd rather not indulge it.

We pulled into a dirt driveway and parked. A tent was set up containing some people cooking really tasty (and greasy) smelling food. At the back of the lot was a building with a lot of people dancing to Mexican music. I remember liking the groove.

My first bad feeling came when I walked into the room. Flanking the entrance were two security guards armed with automatic pistols. They seemed friendly enough. We started unloading the equipment and carrying it in amid very strange looks from the people in attendance. Soon it was my job to stand outside and watch the trucks. Two woman were staring at me and laughing, saying something in Spanish. I smiled. One of them said "Habla Espanol?"

"No," I replied with an apologetic smile. And I immediately saw something horrible appear in their eyes, and it quickly wiped the smile off my face. They continued to laugh at me, pointing, and making it very clear they were making jokes at my expense. I simply stood there and watched the trucks.

We were almost done setting up when an announcer got up and started speaking in Spanish. I heard "Americano" and "Espanol." I asked Mojo to translate for me. The guy was apologizing in advance for our set, saying people shouldn't be angry that the normal DJ wasn't going to be performing and that it would be a good show.

Fucking great.

I retreated to the bathroom to change. Two men came in, dressed like cowboys, and just started staring at me with evil frowns. I smiled, said "Hola." They just kept staring. I could swear one guy actually cracked his knuckles. I put my jacket on and headed for the door. I heard malicious laughter behind me as I walked out.

By the time we finally went on, the mood in the band was cautious at best. If my bandmates were thinking like me, they would have been saying to themselves "let's get this over with and get out of here as soon as possible."

I made a brief comment to IceDog, staring at the crowd right before we went on: "Rawhide in A?" I quipped. A stupid Blues Brothers movie joke. He laughed. I'm glad he got it. At least they weren't throwing bottles at us yet.

We launched into the opener, "Tight Blue Jeans" (MP3 here), and we rushed the shit out of it. Everyone was uncomfortable and nervous. Yet still we smiled, pretended to be having a good time, and acted as professional as possible.

Thirty seconds later people were up and dancing. They were digging it. By the next song, "Funk Tu Cuerpo," we settled into a groove, and almost the entire place was dancing. I started to relax a bit. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

And the show went on. I watched the security guys haul a couple of drunk people out. The "normal" sunday night house band was standing behind me, and everytime I turned around they smiled, non-maliciously, and gave me the thumbs up.

Three songs from the end of the set, an older man approached me while I was playing and said "I am the owner of the club, and this is your last song."

I just mouthed back "OK" and turned back to IceDog, and slashed my hand across my neck as if to tell him we were finished. He didn't understand. After the song, the said "owner" grabbed my microphone and started talking. One of the roadies came up with the intention of kicking his ass, but I waved him off. The man announced that we were finished and that the DJ would play for the final half hour. A few fights broke out in the room, and our host Dante mouthed off to the owner of the club for cutting us off, and the owner responded that he would kick Dante's ass. Spirits were not good in band-ville.

I later found out why they cut us off...

Two women did not want rock-and-roll in their sunday-night hang-out. They were large (in more ways than one) contributors to the social club, and pressured the owner into cutting our set short. At any other venue, it would have been a bummer. At this one, I was just happy to be done.

One of the "house band" members approached me as I was shutting down. "We've played here every sunday night for a long time," he said. "Tonight we quit. We don't want to play in a place like this anymore. I'm sorry this happened." And he shook my hand.

We broke down very quickly and exited. In the parking lot, I was once again assigned the task of "watching the trucks." I stood there, arms crossed in a 'don't approach me' vibe, and watched the whole scene from a distance. T-shirts being bought, cd's being sold, autographs being signed. Yes. Autographs.

Then it sunk in. This rather hostile crowd actually _liked_ the music.

The owner came up and apologized to me. He talked about booking us in a "better-suited place." I told him to talk to Angel.

One of the armed security guards approached me and said "You guys were really good. I just had to tell you that." And then he ran off to subdue and subsequently handcuff a rather rambunctious man. As they literally carried him past me, screaming, I recognized him as one of the hate-infested cowboys from the mens' room. I couldn't even force a smile in retribution. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

Back at the studio, we were all kind of numb. No-one wanted to say a thing. We unloaded the equipment, sucked down a few beers, and headed home. Whatever needed to be said will be said in about 18 hours at our next practice.

I have a feeling we'll be getting a bit more picky about where we play from here on out.