The not-so-glamourous amateur music scene
Performing in a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band is more than just ear-splitting guitar riffs
Monday, 5:55 p.m. It’s a curious scene to outsiders.
Cherry St. near the docks. In my car I watch middle-aged men materialize from SUVs and sedans down the deserted, industrial streetscape. All are drawn to a yellow bunker with a single metal door. They earnestly clutch long, rectangular cases and heavy black bags. Others emerge. Nods are exchanged.
I step into the night and yank open the heavy door. Subsonic bass notes float into the chilly night air. Inside, rooms rent by the hour. This is not a scene out of a Fassbinder film. It’s a rehearsal hall and the rooms are studios. The men, musicians. Middle-aged, amateur musicians. “You oooooh … my … brown … eyed … girl!” A muffled, off-key voice wails away.
Welcome to Toronto’s semi-amateur music scene.
Down the long, dim, paint-flaked hall, I pass a series of closed doors each with a band inside locked down in heavy group concentration. Through soundproofed insulation, the strains of the Tragically Hip and AC/DC seep.
Of the eight rooms, only one has occupants under 45. I know because I too am a musician, and a leader in Symply Skynyrd — a six-piece, part-time tribute to the legendary rock band Lynyrd Skynyrd.
My fellow bandmates and I are here to practise for our final show of 2018.
As I enter the last studio a familiar scene unfolds. Voices raised. “It’s too damn loud!” Then: “It’s Skynyrd! It’s gonna be loud!” So, it unfolds, a love-hate thing. Two electric guitars, keys, bass and a huge drum kit means it’s (almost) always too loud. The practice proceeds, uninterrupted for the next three hours. Our next show is less than a week away. Tuesday, 9:38 p.m. I sift through our YouTube video playlists to create the perfect set list.
Name a band and there’s probably a tribute or cover band for it. Classic Albums Live, international touring acts like Brit Floyd. We are one of them. Me, I’m your average, dedicated, cubicle-dwelling worker — by day. By the weekend, hell, I’m ripping ear-splitting
guitar solos and belting out “Call Me the Breeze” or “Sweet Home Alabama.”
In my 20-plus years of experience, I found many tribute and cover performers are the same: mid-life men and women with day jobs who happily trade the grind for spandex, faux-mullets and heavy makeup. Our band is made up of two shift workers, a contractor, two semi-retired guys and a marketer. It’s a passion to most of us. For me it’s a need, one that sustains me.
“Anyone can put a wig on and think they’re Robert Plant,” says Toronto’s Drums N Flats bar owner Dan Ferracuti, “but if they can’t hit the notes, the wig just ends up looking silly.” Yes, we wear wigs, but they’re props — part of an effort to deliver the feel of the real thing — a band that has been gone since 1977’s plane crash in a Mississippi swamp.
We’re all-in, dedicated to getting it right. Every show our singer and frontman Matt goes barefoot — because that’s how Skynyrd’s legendary singer Ronnie Van Zant did it. Our drummer Don religiously studies every drum roll from studio takes. It drives us nuts.
No Skynyrd detail is too small; the fans just adore it. Wednesday 12:35 p.m. En route to Long and McQuade to pick up gear, my phone buzzes madly with numerous texts from our drummer about gig logistics. I’m chief booker and planner driving the machine, but this is a group effort. Wives and girlfriends come out and volunteer to carry mic stands and guitar cases. In the last year we’ve become an extended musical family.
Timing couldn’t be better. With the Showtime documentary If I Leave Here Tomorrow and recent farewell tour, Skynyrd’s legacy has never been stronger. It’s our first year as a unit and we’ve played shows all over Ontario. And man, did we play. Thirty-two shows in all.
From skanky roadhouses to sweltering festival stages to biker clubs — some of the best show moments include barefoot audience singalongs in the Kawarthas and riding a school bus into Port Dover’s epic Friday the 13th festival compound.
The reality? Back-breaking amplifiers, treacherously slippery kitchens. Dodgy back alleys and parking lots. Frustrat- ingly absent bar owners. Heinous Dracula hours. All part of the game. Yes, gigs pay, but after it’s all added up — gas, equipment, accommodation and food — sometimes we barely break even. In this world you don’t do it for money: most everyone needs that day gig — the players, booking agents — even some bar owners. Few can do it fulltime. Thursday 7:30 p.m. Downtime is devoted to updating the band website. Our 1,300 Facebook and Instagram fans crave content. The average Symply Skynyrd fan? Not the redneck you might think (yes, they are out there). Our audience is most often IPA-lovin’ social media-savvy hipsters. Once in awhile it’s the odd twentysomething. Most are diehard Skynyrd fans who know the lyrics word-for-word.
And the fans are key — we take requests and patiently listen to them speak reverently about their favourite song without any pretense of star swagger.
Friday’s show will cap off months of calls, scheduling and practices. Every show I am reminded even the most basic club gig takes work to pull off. Unforeseen obstacles — cancellations, equipment failures, dead vans, thunderstorms, etc. — always loom. Moments before hitting the stage at our second last show in Hamilton, I’m cornered with “hey, we are not paying for the sound guy” by the bar manager. I leverage expert mediator skills daily.
Friday: 5:35 p.m. Gig day and sound check for the final 2018 show.
The Linsmore Tavern. Not our usual venue, but it’s a musical institution for cover bands on the Danforth. Hollow-eyed bar flies stare as the band argues over how to best squeeze six men, four amps, keys and other gear onto the impossibly tiny “stage.” It’s the logistic equivalent of a Rubik’s Cube.
To alleviate angst, our singer proclaims the stage is so small, he feels (shall we say) like he’s been “intimate” with all of us. The levity works. The regulars don’t get it.
At 10 p.m., the appreciative crowd is liquored up and ready to go — it’s stage time. We wigup, don cowboy hats and grab Fender and Gibson tools of the trade. We slip into our rock and roll personas.
Somebody hollers out “Freebird!”
In the utility closet our singer waits for his cue. He doubles as MC. Then, his tongue-in-cheek voice booms over the PA:
“Ladies and gentlemen, from the deep south of … Toronto, Canada … Symply … Skynyrd!”
We count in, 1-2-3-4. The guitars sound raw but real. This is what it’s all about.
This is the magic we live for.