Jersey Mike

“We opened up three buttons, but all we saw was desert trash”

It’s funny, Harrisburg.

It’s funny how many talented and gifted and passionate and unique and driven and intelligent and creative people live and work in Harrisburg.

But we all get caught up.

Caught up in the bullshit. Caught up in the politics. Caught up in the fucking drama. So caught up, in fact, that we wind up blinded by just how tiny…how small and seemingly insignificant we really are in the big scheme of things.

If, because of some unfathomable incident, all forty-seven-thousand of us who live in Harrisburg were to be wiped off the map, the world would, indeed, keep spinning. Bands would break and shows would sell out and creatives would create and politicians would keep politicking. But you’d never know it by the way most of us act.

Oh, I’m not excluding myself from those accusations. Shit, just last week I had a stupid blowout with Traynor over some stupid comment that I made on this site that probably didn’t need to be said. But I said it anyway and things got out of hand and insults were exchanged and then we had a sit down and kissed and made up. (Metaphorically speaking, of course).

But what led me to this post was a three thousand mile journey by plane and I’m sitting here on a deck in the outskirts of Palm Springs, California. What led me to this post was a yearning…a hankering…a hunger to do more. Bigger. Better.

I’ve written about how I wound up in Harrisburg before, so I’ll spare you the boring details. But the punctuation of the story is that, like it or not, I ain’t leaving. I’ve got a daughter and an ex wife and a mortgage and an established business and big dreams for our little city.

So after nearly five years of schlepping the streets slinging show flyers and celebrating successes and mourning the dud-shows, I was finally able to afford a ticket to Pollstar Live (FKA Concert Industry Consortium), a gathering of the who’s-who of the music industry.

The best promoters, agents, talent buyers and venue management firms will gather for a couple of days next week. And I’m looking forward to being in that mix. Hanging with the big-dogs. See, it’s odd…I have a profound respect for the business side of this industry. Sure, we wouldn’t have an industry if The Hackensaw Boys and The Avett Brothers and The Hold Steady and Toubab Krewe and The Decemberists and Michael Franti didn’t write great songs and put on mesmerizing live-shows. But if we didn’t have absolutely dedicated and passionate and smart agents and promoters and management firms, all of the Hold Steadys and Michael Franti’s and Hackensaw’s of the world wouldn’t have places to play and venues to pay them lucratively enough to make it worth it.

And that’s why I’m here.

Because I know that it’s easy to get caught up in the day-to-day bullshit of life in Harrisburg. Linda Thompson’s a kook who will never reform the Amusement Tax. Cronies exist only to line their pockets. Cover bands still play on Second Street and somebody was up doing blow til the sun came up this morning. And they probably have kids.

So here I am, enjoying the warm February desert sun and sipping some sort of local microbrew before I go an decompress by soaking in a hot spring down the road. And I’ll celebrate my birthday at Pappy and Harriets in Pioneertown on Sunday night.

But next week, when we get back to L.A., I’m on a mission. I’m here to meet and greet and booze and schmooze with as many of these guys as I possibly can. Because when I’m sitting in my cold, dark corner of the warehouse on the third floor at ABC sending emails to the major agencies trying to convince them that a play of some up and coming band in our little city is worth it and I try to convince these guys to come here, they have no reason to listen.

But here we are, face to face…and it changes everything.