"What a Day That Was" by Dave Migliore

For me, it began at 5:45 am, after three hours of sleep. It always happens to me before a long road trip to a new venue -- No sleep, no way, no how. I've got adrenaline flowing, but mostly I'm nervous. Not about playing the tunes, mind you - it's the traffic. I envisioned being stuck in a long line of cars trying to get into Mountain Jam. Especially when they had requested we be there four hours before set time.

Of course, my fears turned out to be unfounded. Our good friend Greg Merritt (http://www.myspace.com/gregmerrittmusic) met me in Summit, NJ, I packed my kit into his car, and we set off on 287 North and thence to the Thruway. The sun was shining and the traffic was cooperating. Every now and again, we'd pass a car covered with Phish or Dead stickers.

We continued on past the exit specified on the Mountain Jam website. The production company had thoughtfully sent us a route better suited for trucks, busses, and not meeting with members of New York's law enforcement community. This "back way" displayed some truly stunning scenery and Mr. Merritt and I did the oohing and ahhing the mountains called for.

Pulling into the town of Hunter, we were relieved to see there were no long lines of cars. Here we are, Hunter Mountain!We were directed up to the artist parking area and were immediately greeted by a crewman who loaded my kit onto a truck. There was to be no schlepping of personal vehicles to this stage – this is how the big boys do it. Greg and I noticed a huge green bus off to the side, large enough to qualify for its own zip code. It was Umphrey's McGee's.

Christine the credentials director came zipping up in her golf cart and whisked us off to show us the artists' part of the lodge, our dressing room/tent, and most importantly, the stages. We ambled off into the field to see them. Now, I could feel butterflies again. That stage -- it was so huge.

Dark Meat, an anarchic, avant-garde troupe of fifteen people was already up there soundchecking. I counted two full drumsets, three 50's era console organs taken from grandma's house and one painted plastic sousaphone. Mr. Merritt and I went back to the artist's lot to meet the rest of Buzz and show them around. Gathered in our dressing room, a runner whose sole function was to bring food, drink and other goodies greeted us and returned with beer, organic soda and various munchies. We quickly grokked that everyone involved with Mountain Jam was going to treat us just as well as Warren Haynes.

Inside the lodge, we sat down to an impressive buffet lunch and met with Mountain Jam blogger Rich Lieberman and our friend Jon Allen. Upon finishing, Bob Ramos and I were called backstage to assemble our rigs. Ratboy was already playing on the side stage as we climbed the stairs. Some stagehands got our stuff out of the cases as others started to assemble risers.

Uh Oh.—Turns out Dark Meat's two drummers have risers on stage with built-on carpeting. The riser they're building has a smooth slippery surface. Frack! I quickly call Greg M, and he brings my carpet from the car. Tragedy averted, I build my kit while Dark Meat conjures a wall of insanity on stage in front of me.

Now, the entire band has gathered in the dressing room, changing into our stage clothes. It's starting to get really warm in the sun. We check our watches. It's time to go. Backstage, Dark Meat is packing their gear into a waiting truck. I walk out onto the stage itself for the first time. I can hear Phonograph's set coming from the other stage as I look around. It's cluttered!

Gov't Mule and Umphrees already have their drumkits and percussion rigs set. It looks like a well-stocked drum store back here. The drumkits all have brand new heads, and all the stands gleam with care. It must be nice, having roadies. And Money.

Now, the extra mic stands are being cleared, and my kit is rolled up next to Bob's percussion. For the first time in our career, Bob Ramos now has his own monitor. And his own monitor mix! We accost the monitor engineer: Bob requests plenty of percussion in his, while I ask for a blend of all the vocals. (For some reason, half the soundmen in the world blast my own voice in my monitor, so I can't hear anyone else's singing -- what's up with that?)

OK. The extra mics have been cleared, Stefanie and Brian have their horns together and I am spraying my hands with StikUm. (Sweaty hands, you know). Phonograph finishes their set on the side stage and the emcee barks an introduction. Here we go…

As we crash into The Hour, I share a smile with Bob. We hit the chorus, and I start singing. I can hear myself sing. I can hear Greg & Alex singing. I can hear the horns -- I can hear EVERYTHING. (Perfectly mixed and compressed) This is what the PA system in heaven must sound like. Hallelujah! Now we hit the coda – bash – we're "cleaning up" at the very end. What's that I hear? Applause? Screaming, even? To quote Sally Field, "They like us, they really like us." At this point, I relaxed a bit, realizing that this was gonna be a good show.

We start our version of "This Ole Cowboy" and despite being a good ten to fifteen yards away from Brian & Stef, I can hear the flutes loud and clear. We are not an easy band to do sound for, but the Mountain Jam folks make it seem so easy. Alex, as is his custom, puts our current location into the song lyrics: "Well I'm sittin' here at Mountain Jam, waiting for an eight o'clock train." Beautiful.

As the set proceeds, I am doing my best to keep looking up. We have only 45 minutes to play, so we have to cut down on some improvisation and shorten some sections. We all maintain eye contact and hit all our cues.

Being a drummer, I usually don't get a great sense of the audience. Now that I am recessed on this cavernous stage, it's even harder. We end a song, and as Alex says a brief hello, I scan the crowd. I can see a bunch of our friends. I am deeply moved that they are here cheering us on. Thanks Sara & Tom. Thanks Greg. Thanks Andy. Thanks Kat & Taraleigh. Thanks Rich. Thanks Jenny. We love that you're here to share this with us.

Now it's getting near the end. We're cruising though "In the Sun". I can feel my kick drum shake the stage and wallop the chests of the audience. Alex sings, "It never stops!" We stop. We freeze in place. The crowd ROARS. We've just been roared at by a crowd at a national-level festival. Holy shit. Alex sings, "It's never over!" We crash back in and end the song in its middle.

And now comes the time on Mountain Jam when we sweat. "Going Up the Mountain" How could we NOT play this song here? "Up the Mountain's" tempo usually hovers around 175 to 180 beats per minute and now is no exception. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the production manager make some kind of gesture. Are we already out of time? Will they cut off the sound? Will I get a big vaudeville hook around my neck?

No time to worry about that now, we're off and running. My three hours of sleep are taunting me now. I'm breathing through my mouth as sweat begins to pool on my forehead. Here comes the first a'capella, thank God. In between vocal phrases I shout "Everybody!", to get some participation. We crash back into the tune and I do my best to relax and let the sticks rebound and do the work for me. We end. One last vocal phrase and we're done. Forty-four minutes and some odd seconds, biotches! How's that for timing? I rise from my seat and see that some of the audience has risen up too. Wow. Triumph – this is what it feels like. I open a new bottle of Gatorade and down it in one gulp. Time to break down.

After casing up my drums, Kat and Taraleigh (the Healthy Hippie) ascend the stairs. They have been working the crowd, and bring us double-digit pages of e-mail addresses for our mailing list. Awesome. Later on they will hand out flyers and more to scare up some business for us. But now Taraleigh is worried. She shuffles through her handbag, looking for the all-important wristbands that gain you admission here. They are lost. After reassuring Tara we'll take care of it, we walk off to the lodge. We proceed to be pulled in different directions: Greg & Alex go off to do an on air interview for radio station and festival producer WDST. Brian & I go to artist's parking to unload our gear from the truck, stopping to explain Tara's situation to the credentials coordinator who gave us our laminates.

Gear stashed. Now we're being kicked out of dressing area – we had been told this would happen long before, so we don't mind. Especially when it's Galactic we have to vacate for. I head for the lodge's hospitality bar, sit down and have the best-earned freebie of my life. Stella Artois never tasted better. Next to me, the Ratboy frontmen sit down and we introduce ourselves. One of them knows us from playing New Paltz, and we are scheduled to do a gig together in July. I get some compliments on my Miles Davis t-shirt, and tell them about the Miles show I saw back in'89. Being young whippersnappers in their 20's, they seem impressed and then someone from Phonograph asks me who was in Miles' band at that time. Alex and Bob are now on the other side of the bar talking with other musicians and Jon Allen. The Stella Artois is flowing freely and the barmaid is taking lots of singles.

Suddenly, in the midst of all this free beer and merriment, bassist Greg McLoughlin enters with an opened copy of birdfishtree. "Hey guys", he says, "Grace Potter wants us to sign our cd." WHO wants us to do WHAT now? That's right, our head raconteur and networker-in-chief popped his head in the Nocturnal's tent and introduced himself with his usual aplomb and innocence.

(If Greg didn't have facial hair, he'd be carded every place we played. If Greg were evil, we'd all be in trouble – he can sell the Brooklyn Bridge to Rudy Giuliani with that boyish appeal of his.)

So now we were faced with meeting this human dynamo, this supernova of energy that had rocked all our socks off at Jammy awards last month. Grace, Nocturnals drummer Matthew Burr, and two of their friends were just chilling before their set. We talked about life on the road, the deficiencies of soundmen and music in general. Pictures were taken; goodwill was exchanged.

Now, I don't want to be dropping a bunch of names. This is a BuzzUniverse blog posting, not a damn issue of Vogue. But let me say this: we all met musicians who were much higher up the food chain than we are. (Just wait 'till you hear about Alex and Greg's day) To a person, they all treated us like peers and comrades in this venture. The respect we felt from them and all of Mountain Jam made us feel so damn good.

After wishing the Nocturnals a good set, Greg Merritt and I went off in search of dinner. We had used a meal ticket for a free lunch at the lodge, so we ventured off into the concert field. Jim Weider and Project Percolator were laying it down as we made our way up the field. I normally don't care for the sound of Fender Telecaster guitars, but this was the best guitar sound I had ever heard through a PA system. I took several moments on our climb to just stop and just listen to the music with all of my attention. Drummer Rodney Holmes is so amazing - he has metronomic nanosecond accuracy, but sounds groovin', not at all stiff. Not an easy thing to accomplish, folks.

Towards the top of the hill, we find a VIP section with more free food. Bonus! We filled our plates and had ourselves a really kickin dinner – best shrimp I've ever tasted. Exiting the tent, we sat on the field as The Nocturnals played. My beer and my lack of sleep were really affecting me now. As Grace wailed like a rock banshee, I turned to Greg Merritt and asked, "Were we really just talking to her? Was I really just playing on that stage?" Greg asked me if I was OK. I had been going so fast through this day, there was no time for reflection. Now, I was in shock, I guess.

I had never expected to be playing music at this stage of my life. I had never expected that I'd be playing for more than a handful of people. Now, I was on this huge damn mountain looking down at a stage fit for legends, that I had just played on. Grace was playing some unaccompanied Hammond at this point – sad, wistful sounds. I started breathing heavily in a slow rhythm, to prevent tears from falling.

My moment having passed, we made our way downhill, and we came across the McLoughlins. Jill informed us that baby Katie had slept soundly all through our set. She's not even two years old, and a teenager already:

"Look, Katie, Daddy's playing on the big stage!"

"WHATEVER MOM, I'm tired!"

Thank you Jill, for being the rock of Greg's life.

We miss seeing you at the shows.

Love,

BuzzUniverse

When Grace's set was over my body threw in the towel. Mr. Merritt and I headed over to the lodge and had some coffee (fair trade, free range organic non-genetically engineered coffee, of course). We filled our cups for the road and headed out. On my way out, I poked my head into Grace's tent and complimented her on an awesome set. Before we reached the car, I ran into Christy one last time.

"You guys really know how to run a railroad!"

And we were off.

(below are some pictures... thanks to Greg Merritt, Jill McLoughlin, Sara & Tom Driscoll & Jon Allen for taking these great shots)

Our personal dressing room: