Mistakes Were Made – Miss Q’s 1st Bragg Jam
WARNING: A little bit of language and a lot of liquor.
Ellen Banas’ disclaimer: “[Bragg Jam] is not a drinking contest, it is a music festival. Although this year, I was impressed, I only saw a handful of super drunk folks, and I am pretty sure they were all under the age of 23. The 2:00am walk home was pretty quiet and most folks in passing were sober, sweaty, and tired, much like us”.
I was one of those drunk folks, I’m over 23, and I was responsible all night — I always had people around me who knew me and I can walk home. Please drink responsibly, ladies and gentlemen. Now on to the fun.
Kris painted faces. I got kids throwing things at my face. Good morning.
His face is painted like Iron Man and he is slinging a beanbag so hard I am dodging coffee cans left and right. I am outside the Sports Hall of Fame, standing in front of stacked coffee cans and a few hundred kids. I thought I’d start my first Bragg Jam out the right way – volunteering for the kids’ festival. I got put on the beanbag toss game but it seems like I wasn’t getting the point across that it was a toss and not a fast pitch. I don’t have kids. I didn’t realize those little guys are stronger than they look. I thought for a brief moment Angel Collins was playing a cruel joke on me. But we figured it out and I got a lot of tiny high-fives that made the four hours baking in the sun completely worth it. I strongly recommend volunteering, especially if you’re on a tight budget. Do a good thing and get a pass.
Now, adult Bragg Jam. We meet for the first time. I live downtown. I’ve been around the bars there for a while, this isn’t a secret. However, I’ve never gotten to do Bragg Jam. I ran a pizza place for a while and restaurant work has you pretty tied up on week-ends. But this time, I had every reason to go. Things fell into place and I was standing with a press pass at 4:30 on Cherry and Third. I got my wristband, a pat on the shoulder and a “have a good time”. First things first, I get stopped by some friends outside Parish who buy me a beer.
Oh, I so know how to have a good time in downtown Macon, I think as I chug said beer.
Last sober though of the night, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
Then comes the series of mistakes that led to a Bragg Jam list of do not do this if you want to make it through the night.
Because I’ll be honest: I didn’t, ya’ll.
Despite Amanda Merritt Iron’s wonderful article on how to Bragg Jam, I did everything wrong.
MISS Q’S SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE BRAGG MISTAKES
MISTAKE 1: Not listening to a seasoned Bragg Jammers advice. Specifically, a sober bartender who has been on the outside watching all of our crazy come out. I HEEDED NONE OF IT. I should have eaten a burger at the Rookery or a shrimp Po’ Boy from Kudzu.
STAGE ONE: Grant’s // Robert Lee Coleman & The Night Owls
I decide to hit up Grant’s first, because, this is my usual barhop routine. Grant’s is the best place to go early on to have a few beers. The bartender, Nomad, is always ready to cue up some great music and have a good conversation over a cigarette. Today, however, is Bragg Jam and Robert Lee Coleman and The Night Owls are playing. Nomad gives me the usual shot of vodka and PBR. As is my habit, I take it, not considering my dinner was at 4pm and I need to make it another 7 hours.
Mm, that peach vodka, though.
I turn around to survey the crowd and am please to find that Grant’s still holds its reputation for diversity. The place is packed and Coleman is already mingling in the crowd. He stops next to me, asks me for the salt shaker, pours some salt on his hand and licks it.
“Just like the taste, y’know?” He is a grizzled old man with a voice turned that delicious rough growl of blues singers. He winks at me and walks back onto the stage. ‘Cause that is Robert Lee, ladies and gentlemen. Coleman has been playing the blues since before I was born. He, as many Maconites know, played with greats like Percy Sledge and James Brown. His gnarled hands are permanently curled in the shape of cradling a guitar.
The band opens, letting Coleman play one of his smooth blues licks that has us all swaying. I push my way to the front and began to notice a dynamic between Coleman and Benjamin Cummings, the other guitar/vocalist. Cummings is cuing Robert with his eyes, watching him carefully. I can see Cummings’ talent at taking control coming through. Coleman at one point looks up a little lost and Cummings brings him back with a nod and a smile. The dynamic between the two made for an electric show. Where Cummings had the fast, almost metal guitar breakdowns, Coleman kept us grooving with the smooth blues.
Coleman at one point tilts his head back and gives out his scratchy cackle, “These young bucks about to work me to death.”
A woman with a mass of curly black hair has soaked a towel in ice water and is trying her best to get Coleman’s attention. She goes wild. She keeps swinging it around, until I kind of elbow her gently to remind her we are all here and some of us are not quite as drunk as she.
Yet.
Oh, soon, lady, shall I know your fervor.
I have to leave soon, as Good Night Alive starts at Cassidy’s Garage and I have this pressing (slightly buzzed) need to stop at the Bird and grab a tall boy PBR before hoofing it to Mulberry street.
Alcohol Count: Draft Miller Lite. Two bottle PBRs. One shot of Vodka.
MISTAKE 2: My pre-game is about to turn all the way up. I decided to do this Bragg Jam solo, thinking I would just float around instead of trying to stick to a group. Pre-gaming by yourself is not a good idea, ladies and gentlemen, even if you know the bartenders.
The Parish Interlude:
Wayne Temple, who later served me a frozen Jack n’ Coke that I don’t remember.
As I am making my way to the Bird, I notice Wayne Temple behind the bar at Parish. He’s been known to make me a delicious shot when I pop in. The bar is usually not crowded and is a great place to catch your breath. I stop in, order my second shot of the night. Dean Brown is setting up on the patio. Strains of his great music will carry down Cherry street all night. Wayne makes me a raspberry something vodka and I down it in one gulp while two men to my right cheer me on, because it is Bragg Jam and for one night, everyone in Macon knows each other completely and we are all one big happy pulsing crowd of music and alcohol. Feeling that pep in my step from the cheer and the alcohol, I make my way down Cherry, giggling a little and snapping pictures of girls who I thought were fashionably responsible.
Thanks, ladies.
‘Cause I was not.
The Hummingbird Prologue: Why Did I Wear This Shirt?
MISTAKE 3: My clothing. Like I said, I’ve been downtown quite a bit. I live, work, and play there. I walk to work every day. I did not take into consideration that the normal routine is to walk from point a to point b, sit down in the A/C and be pretty reserved. I looked cute in my Bragg Jam outfit, I’m sure. But by the end of the night my shirt was limp and disgusting and my hair was a hot shitty mess. It led to some great discomfort and was one of the main reasons why I tapped out early.
By the time I get to the Bird, I am pouring sweat. I am sunburned from my beanbag dodging at Kids’ Fest and my shirt is starting to feel like this other entity that only wishes to suck all the moisture from my body.
It is 6:15. I’m supposed to make it until 2AM.
I go to the back patio bartender, Ellen, who looks rather bored. I ask her to do a shot with me to put some pep in her step. I grab my tallboy PBR and in my slightly intoxicated state, get super excited to see a group of tattooed women all sitting together with that calm look of disengagement on their faces. I love this look and I love even more to crack this look. I immediately bounce over and introduce myself, begging for a picture because, beautiful women, who doesn’t love them?
See? Look at me in a long sleeve button down. And my lovely new friends. Thanks, Bragg Jam.
Normally I would get the “You can’t sit with us look.” But Bragg Jam and my goofy smiling face break down most hard exteriors. Soon we’re laughing and showing each other our tattoos and smoking cigarettes. It is with my third cigarette I start feeling that soft lisp in my mouth that is the warning that you might be a little tipsy, Miss Q. I have to grab another beer – my PBR was downed amidst the laughter. My shirt has become glued to my body and I decide I better walk to Cassidy’s Garage for Good Night Alive or I will never make it out of this bar. The disdainful sirens have become a rowdy group of shot-taking, shit-talking women and that is a scene hard to leave.
Alcohol Count: Draft Miller Lite. 2 bottle PBRs. 1 shot of vodka. 1 raspberry shot. 1 shot of vodka. 2 Tallboy PBRs.
STAGE TWO: Cassidy’s Garage // Good Night Alive
Stolen from their FB.
I have wanted to see Good Night Alive for a while. I know Marla Horton fairly well from college. I admire her writing and her style. She is married to one of the band members (Zack Horton) and I owed it to both of them to attend the show (their marriage is so adorable it makes you want to squeeze them both to death). Plus, Bobby McCullough from Dynes Media is in the band and I adore his work. Period.
The only picture I got, sadly.
Cassidy’s was fucking boiling hot. The space is amazing – picture a 1950s garage with everything stripped out, just one big concrete area of acoustics and space to dance. I stood outside the door and watched the first few songs. I knew what to expect because they have some great videos of live shows on their website. But man, I was not prepared for the sheer hysteria they generate in their crowd. It made you want to get over the sweaty bodies and cram as close to the stage as possible to become part of the roiling mass. After I disengaged due to faintness, I decided to make my way out to a cool breeze.
I leave before GNA does a stunning version of the Cranberries “Dreams.”
But, here is one of their videos.
The Flashfoods Interlude: What A Stupid Walk
MISTAKE 4: Not being prepared. If you smoke, make sure you have a pack of fresh cigarettes. Have a bottle of water. Don’t carry unnecessarily large purses (I am known for my Mary Poppins bags). Park your car far away and get a cab. I got lucky I could walk home.
After escaping Cassidy’s, I had the sinking realization that I was out of cigarettes. Luckily, for this leg of the journey, my best friend and her boyfriend find me. They escort me to the gas station. Once again – had a chance for water and snack but turned it down. Listen to your friends. Stop being a stubborn independent drunk and let someone feed you crackers and water.
Some time at this point we pop into the Mill. (That part is a little fuzzy. I only know it happened because the wristband was on me the next morning.)
STAGE THREE: The Hummingbird // Madre Padre
Despite having seen MP several times, I was fucking excited for this show. I had sobered up a wee bit and was ready to go. I like to call myself the band’s first groupie, although they would probably disagree with me. I was there before every one but Ryan Bohannon and Jonathan Davis. It doesn’t matter. I am a savage Madre Padre supporter and that is all that matters. I make a beeline back to Ellen and then place myself right at the stage with two more tall boys while the band begins to set up. I catcall them a few times because why not? They’re pretty decent at ignoring me. They converse with each other on the small stage, plugging in amps. Jonathan Davis (guitarist/vocalist) adjusts a microphone stand right above me, darts his eyes away from the mess that is Miss Q.
The boys are exactly what you want out of a rock band. A few heavily bearded guys, the thin, whip-cord cute drummer, then the sensitive vocalist. Each of them adds a dynamic to the band that I think makes it such a success. They have just enough in common but just enough different about them that the music is a montage of sound. Ryan Bohannon (bassist/vocalist) has said to me on several occasions they get compared to Queens of the Stone Age quite often. With hard guitar break downs and fast drums, I could see the influence. Their shows are always an explosion of sound and bodies. I went to one in their basement where they record and ended up gasping in their yard.
Remember the woman at Grant’s being rowdy with a towel?
Well, if you were at Madre Padre’s show and saw a tiny blonde girl drenched in sweat in the white button down up front dancing for EVERY SECOND. . . that was not me. I do not know every word to their songs and all the breakdowns.
Future Hubs to the Left
Fine. It might have been me up there. It was Bragg Jam, we’re supposed to dance like tomorrow will never come, right? (Ryan won’t admit it but he’s my future husband. No, really.)
Speaking of talented husbands, remember sweet Zack & Marla Horton? Zack Horton from Good Night Alive is also in Madre. Marla was right there with me, looking fierce in a little cotton jumpsuit that looked comfortable and cool (not her first rodeo). I was drenched in sweat and still going while yelling at Ryan that I loved him and to have a happy birthday while (I think) he patiently avoided looking at me too long so I wouldn’t be encouraged in my wild behavior.
More appropriately dressed women. Marla is to the left. Gorgeous.
MISTAKE 6: I did not stop drinking at this point. I kept going and got sweaty and loud and jumped around and the next day my body felt like a Mac truck hit it and then reversed and rolled over it again. I should have dialed it down at that point to coast through till midnight.
I mean, really, look at these guys.
MISTAKE 7: Losing track of time. Is there ever enough time?
By the time they were finishing their set, we realized Moon Taxi was going on soon. Kris explained the next day that she kept turning around to check on her boyfriend and the formerly intense crowd that left me a sweaty mess dwindled down to nothing as Moon Taxi drew closer.
But first, a sweaty selfie. Thanks Madre!
Watch Madre Padre’s official music video “Bump“.
Alcohol Count: Draft Miller Lite. Two bottle PBRs. One shot of Vodka. One Raspberry Shot. One shot of vodka. 2 Tallboy PBRs. 2 more PBR tallboys.
STAGE FOUR: The Cox // Moon Taxi
This is where the night starts to get rough for Miss Q. The line to get into Moon Taxi is a snake leading down Second street. I bounce up to the door and slur that I have a press pass and they all look at me like I’m nuts. I’m unrecognizable with what little hair I have in a sloppy samurai bun on my head and a half-tied button down. The fire marshal shakes his head and explains they are at capacity. I spit something out about a bartender I know inside. I get even sterner looks from the marshal and now a few volunteers who are nervously fluttering about the doors, faces washed in panic at the huge crowd working themselves up outside, are giving me hard stares.
Alright, guys, I get it. I decide to get out of their way. Even inebriated, I can still be a lady.
MISTAKE 8: No back up plan for another band if the venue fills for the first.
STAGE THREE POINT FIVE : The Bird // ??
I walk away slightly dejected and return to the Bird. Explain to the rest of my friends who are milling about after Madre’s show that ain’t no one getting in the Cox. We plan on going into Floco Torres show but this is the tipping point for me. One more shot with Ellen and I am standing amidst people in the back of the Bird before I realize that perhaps I have failed this Bragg Jam and I hadn’t picked up on the Earth’s subtle spin: I was just hammered. The back of the Bird is a blur of faces and my name keeps getting called and I can’t quite pinpoint who it is. I watched the next band and danced – but this I know only because some friends told me the next day.
These guys took care of me for a little while. I do get by with a little help from my friends.
You need to go home. We all know that interior voice that makes your chest get tight and you have that feeling that soon you’ll be crashing and a lolling mess if you don’t get your ass safely in bed.
So I hoof it again while my girls are distracted. I’m good at the Irish good bye.
Alcohol Content: Who the fuck knows now? Wayne says I had a frozen jack n’ coke from Parish somewhere in there and thought it was delicious.
FINAL MISTAKE: I should have sat down and sobered the fuck up and kept rolling.
STAGE SIX: 7 // African Americana
yeah, I took this.
As I’m trying to bumble my way home, I remember 7 is throwing a free concert and decide to stop by one more place to try and make it all worth it. African Americana is on.
African Americana has won my heart just as hard as Madre Padre. The guys in the band always wave at me when I walk by their place. We’ve had some good conversations and they have a pretty good sense of taste. Their music is what I like to think of new age psychedelic rock. With funky beats on keyboard and solid guitar riffs, it was just the thing this drunk girl needed to bring her back down.
Were there kiddie pools out front of Seven? Yes.
Was I the girl in one of them?
What happens at Bragg Jam should stay at Bragg Jam, ladies and gentlemen. Everyone needs one night where they can let loose a little. That is why Bragg Jam is what it is.
I’ll never tell if you don’t.
But this bad ass seven piece brass band did go parading down Second street while I was lounging politely on a bench (Ahem. That is my story and I’m sticking to it).
So by midnight, I’m done. I have successfully seen four bands but the night will keep rolling on without me and I will feel silly and a little shame from the previous night’s shenanigans when I wake up the next day with a hundred texts from people trying to find me and watch more shows. My hang over is like the world on Atlas’ back and I have a porch party to attend at noon where the alcohol pours out of me in more sweat.
So kids, the moral of the story?
Listen to Amanda. Here is firsthand experience. Did I get in a fight? No. Did I vomit shamefully all over Cherry? Not that night. Did I end up in an embarrassing hook up situation? Hell no.
But I was exhausted, drunk, and lacking in a full experience. I was that girl, stumbling quietly up Cherry to her apartment while everyone was going the other way. I was the one foot in front of the other when I should have been dancing to Floco Torres at the Mill. I was the one passed out in bed, dreaming, when reality would have been far better.
Stay classy, Bragg Jammers. Now you know what not to do. Listen to Amanda and do it right.
See you next year, Bragg Jam. Game on.
<3 – Miss Q
