
We kept getting calls to book a gig from the owners at Viva, and we kept politely declining and booking gigs only at Casa. (Strange sense of loyalty I guess…) Well- we soon found out that the owners of Viva- BOUGHT Casa Grande. It seems that the owners of Casa had to sell their place. SOOOO- we ended up booking a job at Viva. We were all prepared to have a similar experience to Casa, but the job was actually much cooler. The venue is set up to better accommodate a dancing crowd (which danced maniacally from song one) and the management and staff could not have been nicer. There was a security guard who just could not stop talking about how great we were. At the end of the night he approached us and said that he’d been working at the club since September, and that he’s seen EVERY band, EVERY weekend, and that we just BLEW THEM ALL AWAY. Very cool. He was saying that the local heroes are a band called Bunchafunk, and that we did stuff that they’d never be able to pull off. “No contest, man- NO contest” he kept saying. We actually played a festival with Bunchafunk YEARS ago, and they were all VERY nice guys. One of their members was at Viva on Friday (checking us out I guess…) and was very cool to talk to. I don’t remember TOO much about his band, but I remember not being blown away by ANYBODY at that festival.
While we were packing up, and the security guy was espousing our funk competence, I asked if we could load OUT through the front entrance, seeing as the club was now empty. (Viva has a strict policy that

During the gig something transpired that prompted an interesting discussion betwixt Larry (PFA’s sax player) and me. While everyone was dancing, there was an individual that stood out. It was a single guy, somewhere between 30 – 40, dressed in a black t-shirt, black cycling shorts, and a black skull cap. He looked JUST like a reed player I know from NY.

So this guy was by himself, and all he did was happily dance to his divine contentment. He would jump up and down and run across the dance floor, all with decent rhythm. He did this ALL NIGHT LONG. Now- it was very easy to make fun of this guy, but on a certain level I was COMPLETELY jealous of him. That was what Larry and I started talking about. Here was someone who either
A: Thought he was THE SHIT
or
B: didn’t care a royal stream of bat’s piss what ANYONE thought of him;
or
C: some combination of both.
He was going to the club, and he was going to dance by himself and he was going to put on his BEST bike shorts and shirt and FUCK EVER’BODY- I’m DANCIN’! Yeah!
Now- I am so stupefyingly SELF CONSCIOUS, that to be crazy enough, or clueless enough, or BRAVE enough to NOT GIVE A SHIT would be so REFRESHING. Larry talked about how this guy’s reality, is (to the guy) REALITY. Who were we to comment? I also brought up the idea that yeah- a guy dancing alone, in biker shorts, to US looks funny, but to the VAST majority of people on the planet (or throughout history for that matter), his little sartorial and behavioral peccadilloes would be no weirder than ANYTHING else going on at VIVA. Interesting.
That being said- there was another guy, tall, built like a linebacker from 1965, with a barrel chest AND gut. He was wearing a silver shirt that looked like chain mail, hoop earrings, black jeans and cowboy boots, AND he was sporting an impressively HUGE curly mullet. It was as if a band leader/sidekick of an Australian Late Night talk show somehow teleported into the club from 1985.
That guy was just WEIRD.
Fun.
One more thing. I just spell checked this post (because I spell worse than a thalidomide baby trying to text message), and here were my computer’s suggestions for the word YUTZ:
Yurts
Yet
Futz
Yurt
Juts
Huts
Yeti
Puts
I believe that a yurt is a type of permanent tent/shelter. Nice.
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