HIS WORLD TOUR IS FORCED TO GO UNDERGROUND!
The lights dim in “Florida Man’s Cave” in Daytona, Florida. This reporter is sitting next to concert promoter Dick Hyman. “You’re going to love this,” he enthuses.
This is Bat Boy’s All Stars’ first American concert on its first world tour. Yet, the gig is being advertised only as B-Boi’s Bunch.
“The FBI is on our tails,” Dick says. “Why? I have no friggin’ idea. They raided Bat Boy’s cave a couple of weeks ago. There’s a lot of ‘weird,’ out there, my friend. There are rumors that Bat Boy is a Russian agent, that he manipulated the last election through mind control and Jewish laser beams, that’s he’s the cause of the pandemic.”
He adds. “We’ve also heard that an addled FBI agent has a fear of bats.”
“You know that there are a half-dozen black town cars parked down the street.”
“Let’s just watch the show.”
The room goes black.
Then, a spotlight at the top of the stage – an alabaster-skinned alien guitarist in a flowing white gown starts playing Jimi Hendrix’s “Star Spangled Banner” while floating high above the stage floor. The sound seems to swirl all around the small concert hall.
This reporter is impressed. “I can’t even see the wires!”
“There aren’t any. That’s P’Lod, an alien. You really want your mind blown? His guitar isn’t plugged into anything. He doesn’t use an amp.”
This reporter is very impressed.
Then, the band is onstage, each one playing a little intro.
THE ALL STARS TAKE THE STAGE
Behind the biggest drum kit ever, is Bigfoot; not only twirling his drumsticks but eating them, too.
On bass is Big Fingers, who resembles a great ape after a run-in with a trash compactor. Only three feet tall, he could even be your Eastern European grandfather.
On Hammond B3 organ equipped with Leslie speakers, is the very versatile Manigator. He manages to tickle the keys using not only his boney fingers but also his undulating, muscular alligator tail! The sound is the Deepest of Purple.
A very jovial Ass-Backwards man, who is, well, ass backwards, leaps on the stage playing an intro tune on both alto and tenor sax simultaneously. The tenor, he plays using his lips. The alto he plays using your imagination.
Everyone’s favorite ankle-biter, Little Monkey Man, is on percussion and, man, his intro is sort of Cirque de Soleil on steroids, with the little guy bouncing from conga drum to conga drum before jumping on a monkey bar that include a cow-bell, a triangle and various chimes.
With a Janis Joplin howl, Bigfoot Hooker appears, scat singing and bouncing a tambourine off bodily parts never considered targets before.
THE BIG STAR ARRIVES
And last, but not least, Bat Boy is center stage with his phenomenal shriek, pounding out deafening power chords on his guitar that sound like thunder.
The band expertly tears into song after song, classic power rock but more. They cover other bands’ songs (Although “The Stairway To Heaven” polka is kind of odd until you get into it.) as well as originals, the latter consisting of songs of alienation, plus a couple about poop and deer ticks.
At a certain point, this reporter notices two gigantic swine in the stage wings flanking the band. Dick Hyman seems to read my mind. “That’s Frankenswine and Hogzilla. They’re our security team. Please note their long, sharp, oww-y tusks and their tonnage.”
THE BIG FINALE
By now, Bigfoot Hooker is doing an exotic dance, emulating the old stripper balloon dances but using large boulders, accompanied by Ass-Backwards Man on reeds. There’s a disturbance in the audience. A guy in swim trunks and wearing the kind of laminated hairstyle known only to Gumby and mannequins tries to get to the stage. “Hey, baby! It’s Matty, baby,” he yells at Bigfoot Hooker.
“He seems familiar,” this scribe says in passing.
“Some local political hack,” Dick replies. “Gantz? Gapes?”
The guy makes it to the stage and he’s met by Hogzilla on the right and Frankenswine on the left. After a brief game of human Ping-Pong the porcine pals launch Matty into the mosh pit, which backs off instinctively and lets him hit the concrete floor.
“Don’t worry,” says Dick. “His hair broke the fall.”
The band launches into its own heaviest of heavy version of the classic psychedelic hit, “Fire,” as a finale. Everyone is in top form. In the latter part of the song, Bat Boy lets out a shriek that lasts for a solid minute. He makes Freddie Mercury sound like Johnny Cash. Then, Bat Boy goes even higher for another ninety seconds!
The sound of the applause is so off-the-charts, it drowns out the sounds of eyeglasses shattering in the audience and six thousand dogs howling around town. Then, just when you think it can’t get any better, a rear curtain opens and reveals The Jersey Devil, wings flapping, and breathing fire.
Dick leans in. “That costs us a fortune. This guy has major B.O. We have to hose him down with Glade before each show.”
BAND ON THE RUN
The crowd is in ecstasy. Then, police sirens blare. “This is the FBI!” announces a bullhorn. “Bite meeeeeeee” Bat Boy screeches as all the lights in the venue go out.”
A dozen men in dark suits and sunglasses charge into the pitch-black concert hall and immediately fall over, still dashing forward.
Dick chuckles. “Yeah, it pays to wear sunglasses while charging into a dark room.”
The FBI agents tumble forward, now entangled, yelling while heading for the mosh pit. The moshers give the government agents space. The FBI men land in a heap, resembling a mound of slithering, sock-wearing, worms.
Their voices echo through the hall. The audience is now entertained.
“Put on your flashlight!”
“Somebody’s hitting me with a rock.”
“No! It’s that guy’s hair! Can I club him?”
“Well, maybe a little.”
Dick leads this WWN reporter out of the venue. “Eventually, the janitor will turn out the lights. He’s been paid to be slow. And the agents will find that all of their cars have been made roasty-toasty by The Jersey Devil. You don’t mess with Jersey.”
Dick smiles. “We’re going underground with this tour. That’s a first. All the Bat Boy fans know where to go to get information. Several top notch, headliner bands have pledged to have Bat Boy as their opening act on a moment’s notice. For civilians, just look for B-Boi’s All Stars or something weird.
“I have great ideas for this tour. We have an offer out to the Loch Ness Monster to join us on our West Coast leg. Nessie just nails it on bagpipes. And have I got ideas for merchandising.”
He holds up a napkin. “Imagine this on a t-shirt?”
The napkin reads: Bat Boy ’21 Tour – Banned in the U.S.A.
This reporter laughs as he walks down the road with the promoter. It’s like witnessing history being made. I have seen the future of rock and roll and his name is Bat Boy.