True Tale About "Ugly" the Gun -- A Music Road Adventure

Whether entertainer, roadie or management; one learns the music business by trial and error. I leaned a bit toward error my first few years on the management end of the business BUT sure did learn a lot!

Back when I was running down the road with my brother and a band; getting paid was a biggy. I’m sure that’s true for neophyte musicians today as well but it’s one lesson one better pick up on in a hurry and never, ever forget. First of all, back then, we only accepted cash for performances and when on the road only paid cash for expenses we incurred while on the road.

Consequently, as manager, I always had a lot of cash in my big, leather road purse. I was also always armed with a long nose .38 named “Ugly.” Ugly’s home was right on top of everything else in the big leather, shoulder strap purse. This tale is about the first time Ugly came into play.

First of all a little explanation about music contracts. My brother, Steven Fromholz, is an ASCAP writer and a union musician. That means I use standard union contracts when booking his gigs and those contracts set out exactly how he’ll be paid. Basically it’s half up front and the other half just before the performer goes on stage or just after the performance – whichever the entertainer prefers. I’ve always leaned to “just before the performer goes on stage” as you can’t repossess a performance if the club owner, concert, festival, etc. doesn’t have the cash to complete the contract.

I’d booked a gig for Steven and the band, at a club in Little Rock, Arkansas, had my up-front money before we hit the road and would collect the balance before the performance…NOT! I found out, upon our arrival the afternoon before the gig that night, this club owner ranked right up there with abscess teeth as far as being easy to work with. First of all he was a typical drugstore cowboy. In Texas the first thing a cowboy’s judged on is his boots and hat. This dude had on a cheap, black, felt cowboy hat with an awful, big hatband and insignificant boots that didn’t fit right. He also had on enough very expensive Navajo jewelry to stock a silver store.

He made several off-color, rude remarks to me about women managers while we were setting up. I snapped back at him pretty quick so he sorta shrugged and walked off. My hackles were up and I watched him like a hawk thereafter. Steven picked up on the guy as I saw him watching us but he didn’t interfere. We left the club and went back to the motel to rest and get ready for the performance at 9:00 that night.

As was my habit I returned to the club an hour before the gig to check out the crowd, get a feel for the place and make sure all the equipment was still in place and ready. The opening act was on stage, we had a good crowd, no noticeable drunks and all was well. The club owner had recently remodeled the club and it was way above ordinary. He’d installed a very expensive back bar that probably ran 20-30 feet long. He'd imported it from England and it was absolutely exquisite. It had -- what seemed to me -- a mile of mirrors set in dark, antique looking wood trim. His lighting was good, he had a superb seating arrangement and I began to ease up on him in my mind…WRONG!

The guy was still nowhere to be found when the band took the stage. Scratch getting the other half of my money in front of the performance. It was my call as to whether Steven would take the stage without the rest of the money – a judgment call – and I decided let’s do it. The show kicked off well, the audience was more than enthusiastic and all was well except that nagging thing about the money in the back of my mind. I took a seat where I could not only watch the sound guy but the door as I was waiting on Mr. Club Owner.

He blustered in around 10:00 o’clock with a ditzy dumbo on each arm and obviously had been drinking all afternoon. I sat at the bar on my stool (drinking Coke – one doesn’t drink on the job) and that son-of-a-gun nearly ran flat over me several times but never once acknowledged my presence. I knew right then trouble was on the horizon. I didn’t approach him or mention anything to Steven when the band took a break but just took a wait-and-see attitude.

The show was a huge success, two standing ovations and Steven signed autographs for an hour while I sold Cds. Steven and the musicians took their instruments and headed for the motel while I tore down the sound system, loaded it and got paid. I finished all but my last chore of the evening and went back inside. The club owner had rid himself of the two dumbos and his staff and it was just he and I left in the place.

It’s now 2:30 a.m. and I’m tired, ready to go to the motel and just wanta get my money and run. I waited while he cleared the cash register, I waited while he restacked glasses, I waited and waited and waited. I was sitting at a table facing him and the bar with my briefcase (wherein resided Ugly as I hadn’t brought my purse). When no money was forthcoming I finally decided to take the situation in hand.

“Would you mind paying me now as I’m tired and need to get back to the motel as we leave very early in the morning?” The pseudo Roy Rogers came around from behind the bar, thumbs hooked in his belt, and approached my table. He put both hands on the table, leaned over so he was right in my face and asked “Well, Chickee, what’d you say if I said I wasn’t going to pay you?”

I’ve never had “instant mad” go all over me as it did at that moment. Without answering him I quickly unsnapped the briefcase, popped the lid up, grabbed Ugly out of the briefcase and holding the gun with both hands propped it on the briefcase lid. “Then I’ll just shoot your f*%#@+* back bar out,” says I. This guy jumps to the side so Ugly isn’t pointed at him and begins literally exploding cash in every direction – from his pockets, his hat, and would probably have regurgitated a hundred or two if he’d been capable.

“Pick all that up and count out what you owe me,” I said and in an instant he was on his hands and knees gathering up money like crazy. I’m still pointing Ugly at the back bar and madder’n blue blazes. When he had counted out my part he gently laid it in front of me and dear hearts this guy was scared witless – too scared to say a fragglin’ word.

Kind of like a town dog who’s figured out he has the upper hand and is showing off a bit I told this jerk “I’m gonna put this money in my briefcase, close it and walk out of here. This gun’s gonna still be in my hand and available if I need it – so, would you like to unlock the front door so I can leave?” I thought he was gonna run over himself getting to the front door. He stood there, holding it open while I got gathered up so the gun was still handy and walked out the door.

As I got in the van I looked back and he was still standing there watching me in the dim porch light of the bar. “Anything else on your mind?” I yelled back at him as I was still mad as hell.

By then he was kinda smiling – not a smirk – a real smile. “Yeah – all you Texas women carry guns?” I started the van and pulled up to where he was standing on my way out of the parking lot. “No, just the ones called ‘Chickee’,” and threw gravel all over him as I burned out.

I’ve since wondered what would have happened if I couldn’t have bluffed him – probably wet my pants and cried all the way home!

One of a series of articles entitled "In the Music Business You Dance Alone"

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