When I walked around the corner of Brick By Brick and saw that the big doors were open for the bands to load their gear, I was pretty certain that I’d be walking into a room full of band members, roadies, club security, and groupies. To see one somewhat disheveled guy rooting around through road cases overflowing with gear was a bit of a surprise. And, when I ultimately recognized this guy as none other than Aron Mardo from Heavy Young Heathens, I knew that the heavens were looking down on me with favor. Not that I wouldn’t have been okay slithering through a crowded room to find my mark, it’s just easier when that person is the only one standing in front of me.
After some witty greeting, I handed over the bottle of whiskey that I’d been holding for the band, thankful to get the liquid temptation off of my desk and into the hands of one the original friends of The Ripple Effect. At the sound of the commotion brought on by the fabled bottle of booze, brother Robert peered out from behind a mountain of gear with blinking lights, in an attempt to make sense of the madness. We greeted each other, shook hands, and rapped for a lengthy amount of time. They answered all of my questions about their new gig as Heavy Young Heathens, and I tried to answer all of their questions about The Ripple Effect. I soon realized that these cats were as approachable as any Joe on the street. Actually, more so. They didn’t once come across as pompous musicians, but as very forthcoming and open people who just so happen to play music for a living.
I had expected the night to be like any other night of me catching a live band or three. Mentally capturing the moods, the emotions, the energies of the live music as only live music can give, and turning around to report my experiences to you, the loyal reader. But something different happened this night. Something that I least expected. I witnessed firsthand the day to day struggles of two musicians who have nothing but their God given talents. That, and a drive to ensure that they create good music that satisfies their inner muse, while enticing their listeners to put enough money in their pockets so they can feed their families. This is a night where I realized that I was in the presence of two truly dedicated musicians who consider what they do as more than a job, but a lifestyle. There’s no day job, this is it. There’s no safety net . . . cross the tight rope or plummet to a crushing defeat. This is Aron and Robert Mardo taking their latest project, Heavy Young Heathens on the road for the first time.
As the Heathens grabbed a quick bite to eat prior to the gig, they were kind enough to ask me to join them. How could I say no? Sure, I had already filled my stomach with more food than I could possibly digest, but this would prove to be a glorious opportunity to sit down and have a quiet chat. I followed the men to the adjacent restaurant and achieved a greater understanding as to why the brothers pulled the plug on their last project and stripped this current one down to the bare minimum. Rather than get pulled down by those who weren’t pulling their own weight, yet getting paid nonetheless, the brothers Mardo decided to trim the fat from their musical adventures and go at it on their own. Just the two of them. Loaded in a van filled with a ton of vintage gear, heading across these great United States. No roadies. No tour manager. No baggage. This got my noodle cramped, for I am one who loves accommodations. Sure, I could travel with a change of clothes in a back pack . . . for maybe a week, week and a half. But travelling in a van across the country, sharing cramped hotel rooms with my brother, and eating only if I packed enough food or had a good gig? It’s a mettle that I am not made of, my friends. That’s where that job versus lifestyle comes into play. For the brothers Mardo, it’s all about the music. They eat, breathe, and shit the stuff. You want to know about great music? Just ask the Heathens. They can regale you with stories of where they’ve been, who they’ve seen, who they’ve known, and what they’ve done. I only sat with them for a half hour and, knowing that I only scratched the surface, feel like I walked away with a lifetime of rock ‘n roll history.
Once the meal was over, we continued our conversations to the back alley of the joint. The low rumblings from the opening band, The Shamey Jays, vibrated the walls with a bluesy surf vibe. I missed the opening set, totally enraptured by the tales from Aron. I noticed that Robert parted our company for a few minutes to make a call to his wife and ten month old back home in L.A. That moment will forever be engrained in my mind. The wandering minstrel, silhouetted by the city lights, one hand to his ear, the other tucked in his front pocket. Torn by his love for music and his love for the solidity of family. It was a touching moment as I heard him whisper, “I love you,” and returned his attention to the events of the night.
Some twenty minutes before Heavy Young Heathens were set take the stage, one of the sound guys for the venue brought some ill news that the normal sound guy was nowhere to be found and that he had a prior engagement to take care of, so . . . Heathens, you’re on your own. My heart stopped in mid beat and I began going through all of my past history with working sound. Yeah . . . right. There was none. I wasn’t sure which side of a guitar cable goes to the instrument and which one goes to the amp. (Guess what Waveriders . . . they’re the same. I could have actually passed that portion of the test.) And, without a moment’s hesitation, Aron chimed in with, “No problem. I can do it.” Just the attitude I’ve been writing about from the beginning of this piece. The Heathens take care of themselves. We don’t need no steenkin’ sound man!
After a bit of delay in trying to figure out which channels did what, Heavy Young Heathens took the stage and hammered out the wrinkles for the tour that would take them from Dallas along the major cities of the east coast and then cross country for a few gigs in the southwest, before wrapping it all up at the House of Blues in Hollywood. Despite being plagued by the iffy sound, mics not working when they should, and general rust from not being on stage in quite some time, I was impressed with the high energy and professional approach to the set. In particular, I was moved by the performance of “Drawn from Memory” as Robert picked up the acoustic guitar, strummed the passages, and sang as heartfelt as one would expect from someone who lives what they write.
The gig ended and the lads moved their gear from one side of the stage to the other, methodically breaking down gear to more easily transport it to the rear of the venue. The rear of the venue, of course, being an alley way inhabited by a rank smelling dumpster and a cavalcade of homeless. Ah yes . . . the glamorous life of the travelling musician. I kept company with Robert as he further broke down the gear and Aron conducted business with the clubs management. It was at this point that I saw the stark reality of what these young men face in their lives. Hard work. And lots of it. As kids, we’re all fascinated with the sparkle of the lights and amazed by rock stars and their feats of wonder. Most of us know by now that the glamorous reality is for a select few that made some pact with some unknown deity. For the majority of the musicians out there, the reality of the music business is hard physical, mental, and emotional work. This reality came screaming at me as I helped the brothers load Aron’s bass rig into the van. Dear God! New found respect, my friends. The doors on the van were slammed shut and it was time for me to head home. I shook hands and exchanged hugs with the brothers Mardo, and wished them a safe journey home and then across the nation. And as I waved good-bye, I realized a friendship was born. The friendship wasn’t born with that infamous bottle of whiskey. It was born in spite of that. It was born from a mutual respect for the work that the other does. Get on board or get left behind. Grab an oar and paddle or get the hell out of the boat. The same mantra that Heavy Young Heathens chant, Racer and I ping back and forth to each other on an almost daily basis. Gents, I’ll see you in a month or so. - Pope JTE
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