MIA SHEARD r e p t i l i a n

The Railway Club

The Railway club is one of my favourite places to play at, and I'm still not sure why. The sound man's surly personality would test Christ himself, the door person won't let you leave flyers anywhere in the vicinity of his domain, and the band has to pay for its beer . This night we were charged, gorilla-style, by a large, stoned man on E. Hastings on our way to the gig. Within a split second I determined that my tea was less important than my life, and let it fly into the night air with abandon. Luckily, like the gorilla he resembled, the stoned man stopped within a foot from us and veered off in a new direction. Somewhat shaken, we arrived at the Railway club only to find the sound man had decided there would be no soundcheck because the other band (sharing the evening with us) had shown up later than expected.

It was time to buy a beer and calm the nerves. There was no point worrying, even though Reptilian had received a favourable review in the Georgia Straight that week, and we were expecting a turnout of millions for the band's Vancouver debut.

The beer worked, and so did the residue nerves. We played a great gig, maybe not to millions, but to a full house. The sound guy showed up 15 minutes prior to the show to mic the drums and do a line check. Even when he insisited the reason we couldn't hear the vocals through the moniters was because we had surreptitiously switched microphones on him, we smiled obsequiously and quietly maintained our place in line to Heaven.

And we actually had fun. I guess the Railway is one of those places that tests your mettle. If you pass, you're only stronger. I left that night feeling reborn. I could feel a bundle of proverbial pebbles in my hand. It was time to be branded.

On my way out the door, a heavily tattooed arm reached out, signalling for money. As I dropped a looney into its palm, I re-thought the branding idea and settled for the stick-on tattoo Michael Keith bought me in Wawa.