I'm of course talking about the "poseur". The Connecticut Cowboy, the Jewish Nazi, the drummer that you've never seen near a drum kit, Snookie, the Kiss Army, the "Actor" that never goes to any auditions, this list can go on forever and we've all met literally hundreds if not thousands of these people. Let's talk about a few of the ones that were the motivation for this topic, shall we?
One of my personal favorites, for obvious reasons, is the writer/poseur. Yes, the fabulous intellectual that dresses like a college professor, even sometimes going as far as to wear a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, the proper eye wear, a scarf, the unkempt tousled hair, and the proverbial "last straw" is when they concoct some kind of language affectation, the fake accent. They carry tattered copies of "The Catcher in The Rye" and unused writing tablets, drive small British sports cars they can't afford, and the antithesis of writer/poseur recognition is they've never written a fucking word.
They will go on forever about literature, writers, and the ground breaking creation they are currently working on, whether it be a novel, poetry (Avoid conversations with poetry/poeser at all costs!) or the ubiquitous screenplay. The writer/poseur can be identified quite accurately by suggesting that any of their "work" could easily be made into a movie. They will agree with this so fervently you'll have to cover your drink to keep their excited spittle away. But the writer/poseur pales in comparison to the rock-star/poseur.
I started working for Rock-n-Roll bands when I was fifteen. As soon as my father died I was able to do pretty much whatever I wanted to do, so I attached myself to some local rock bands as a faithful roadie. I always planned on forming my own band, and being on the road was a great education. I was from an actual "Smalltown, America", a boring little whitebread hamlet in the northeastern United States. When I finally got up the balls to try and start up my own band, being from a small town didn't offer much in the way of talent when it came to the local musicians.
I finally met two brothers that could play well and being a drums/bass rhythm section really helped. Keeping a proper beat is key for a young band with young musicians. None of us knew how to sing. I say "knew" instead of "couldn't" because it turned out in later years that a couple of us had pretty decent voices, we just didn't know it. A vocalist was sorely needed to complete our young band, a lead singer, a front-man. As long as he could really perform I couldn't give two shits in a windstorm if the guy was a complete dick, I just wanted to finally get out and play.
After asking around the local nightspots and music store we finally had to break down and place an ad in the local Pennysaver Classified newspaper. This started a parade of poseurs that lasted the entire summer of 1981. We were literally a garage band, playing in the garage of a house I was renting on a quiet suburban street filled with quiet small-minded suburban assholes for the most part.
The young people on the street would ride their bikes to the end of the driveway and gather there to listen to us practice on those days when it was way too hot to keep the garage door closed. This made our prospective vocalists nervous and I couldn't have been happier about it. I would drill these prospects about their previous experience and for some reason they had absolutely no qualms about lying their asses off to us.
I didn't want to waste time with poseurs - we needed to get our shit together and take it on the road. The poseurs would always reveal themselves as soon as the vocals were supposed to kick in. How could they not - they couldn't fucking sing! The situation looked grim as the list of losers, poseurs, and wannabees grew to pathetic proportions. But they sure did have the "look" down. If you're going to dress like Slash you might want to learn a chord or two.
This really started to get to me. who the fuck did these jerk-offs think they were? They had a lot of damn gall to waltz into my practice hole on the pretense of being a experienced, professional-level vocalist. The other three members of the band, myself included, had been practicing our instruments, at a great expense of time and money, for over a decade at this point. We practiced - every day - for years. These people think they can just walk up to a microphone and perform on the same level as real, hard working, practiced musicians. I found this to be extremely insulting, more and more so as the poseur parade seemed endless.
We had some real winners. One of my favorites was this idiot we nicknamed "Steven Tyler". He was anointed as such because as soon as we told him he could try out for the L.V. spot (Lead Vocalist) he started to dress like Steven Tyler from Aerosmith. He looked ridiculous, so we encouraged his look by complimenting him whenever we could keep a straight face long enough to form a sentence. He strung us along for weeks, always coming up with some excuse as to why he could not make the audition. He actually thought we were buying this crock of horseshit which made it all the more infuriating.
When I found out he was telling people he was already a member of our (my) band I decided right there and then that Englebert needed to be put in his place with extreme prejudice.
It was time for a house-part anyways, so I figured that having his audition in front of everybody in town, unbeknown to him, was just a swell idea! I almost blew the whole plan when one night our boy Steven Tyler introduced me to some girls he knew. His exact words were "This is the lead guitar player in my band."! He has no idea how close he was to having those be his last fucking words. He had not even touched a microphone at that point.
So, at the party, he was quite unaware that the band would be playing in full swing. The three of us, guitar, bass and drums, had gotten quite tight musically. We could even croak out a few of the old tunes that don't really require any quality when it comes to vocals. Songs like "Louie, Louie" and "Wild Thing" we could muddle through as long as the beat was tight and the guitar was screaming. All we needed was a Lead Vocalist and we were on our way! And what better time to introduce our new SuperStar than a house party?
Steven Tyler was shocked when we opened up the garage door. Some friends had decorated the garage with streamers, balloons, ribbons and a large sign welcoming our new L.V. to the family. All our gear was set up, the P.A. system was tested, equalized and turned up nice and loud. The power indicator lights glowed and the amp stacks hummed. We were ready to rock. The lyrics to Steven Tyler's "Song I do the best." were prominently presented on a music stand. I had tried to think of everything to make his first song an excuse-free nightmare.
Before the party we went out of our way assure him that his audition would be the following day. He let us know he and his voice were in fine shape and he was looking forward to his big debut. This way when the small crowd at the party started to harangue him mercilessly to get on the fucking stage and sing he had no way out. Suicide would have been an acceptable exit (HIS fucking band!) but nothing less.
Our plan kicked-off when I pulled him aside and told him that one of the microphones wasn't working right and he'd have to use the left-handed one. I told him this literally seconds before he noticed the two exact same mics set up for vocals. Of course I had to direct (yell at) him when he went over to the wrong microphone "No! Your other left!" I directed him. He was looking more and more panicked and confused. I just looked at him as to say "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why the hell don't you know which mic to use?".
He was so poseur nervous it almost wasn't funny. He was in front of dozens of people that knew at least one band member well, and in most cases everyone knew everyone. His face was almost as red as his boa, (that's right boa...). Every time he looked to me for guidance I directed him (yelled) to face the fucking audience. That's what a L.V. does.
The band launched into our version of Bobby Fuller's hit "I Fought the Law", supposedly "Steven's" best tune. As he grabbed the other mic, the one with the on/off switch on the bottom, he quickly realized that someone (me) had turned the switch to the "off" position.
Now just remember folks, if this asswipe had been honest and upfront with us not only would we have tried to help him in his pursuit we might not have tried to traumatize him so thoroughly.
I was having fun calmly telling him to simply turn the mic on. I've seen this before, even with very experienced musicians. Microphones with on/off switches are rarely used because they're usually pretty crappy. However, if you are a real vocalist and someone tells you to turn your microphone on you should know right away that there is an on/off switch.
The reasoning behind this is: If there's no output from the microphone when you speak into it either the volume is turned all the way down at the sound/mixing board or the mic itself is turned off. If the person operating the sound/mixing board tells you to turn the mic on he obviously has already turned the volume for that mic up and still isn't getting any sound. So whether you followed any of that or not that fact still remains that a person that has experience using microphones would have known at least where the fucking switch was!
I let him squirm just long enough for the band to stop playing, again, because of a rookie vocalist mishap. The crowd was getting ugly so we played a couple of tunes that we could "sing" ourselves. We told Steven Tyler to stay onstage, try to relax, and sing some harmonies or back-up, whatever he wanted, as the mood hit him.
The king-poseur at this point was finally onstage! He grabbed a tambourine that our drummer used to put on his high-hat cymbal set-up and started to really "jam out". This pissed our drummer off, of course. What do-wah-dickhead here didn't get was the tambourine was on the drummer's high-hat for a fucking reason! It pleased me to no end when the drummer told him to "Put that fuckin' thing back!" through gritted teeth. No Laurie Partridge moment for you tonight, poseur.
This certainly didn't stop him from trying to steal the show as he took to the front-center of the stage. He grabbed the microphone this time with confidence - he knew where the switch was! As an old pro at this point in his music career he had everything under control as he led his band through a hard-rockin' set. You could almost see the words in his swelled head. He decided to have a go at the real deal right then! He gave me the nod that he was going to sing away at the next verse. I couldn't have been happier. He might have seen the tear in my eye.
What he didn't see was me turning the volume to the microphone up all the way at the mixing board. The mixing board is usually out in front of the stage, run by an engineer or "sound man", but we didn't have that luxury. We put the board back by me so I could run it onstage. Remember, there weren't any real vocals anyways so the sound board didn't need much adjusting.
Turning on a "hot" microphone causes loud, intense, high-pitched feedback (When you do it right!). A hot searing pain through their eardrums was the last fucking thing the crowd wanted from this guy. Especially when the place just started rocking again after his last fuck-up practiclly drained the life out of the room.
I, of course, came to his rescue once again. I directed him (yelled real loud) to turn his fucking mic down - "What the Hell, man?". As he tried valiantly to find the non-existent volume control on the microphone the band stopped playing once again. This really started to piss-off the crowd and good old Steven Tyler finally put down his boa and sheepishly walked off the stage through a barrage of boos and cat-calls, never to be seen again.
Wouldn't it be great to have a T.V. show like that? One that showed all kinds of shit-headed poseurs trying to sing like they were already professionals?
It would never last. Fucking poseurs.
Selah.
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