There was a Riot in Tahoe, Tell Me, Where Were You?

The names and identities of the characters in this story have not been changed for their protection, truthfully they really don't give a shit.

Being friends with bands definitely has its perks, one of them being transportation to out of town shows. On this hot, sticky, Sacramento summer day Rob, the bass player for The Left Hand picked me up from my apartment. Our destination was Tahoe.

It was the weekend before school started and seemed the perfect opportunity for an end of the summer blow out. Crammed in the back seat was my wheelchair, part of the drum kit and eventually this guy Doc, whom we picked up in Placerville on the ride up the hill.

We had made this trek before and already knew the drill. We met up with the rest of the band and other friends at the hotel room across the street from the Whiskey Dicks Saloon were the band would be playing later in the evening. Vic (lead singer) and his lady Vanessa were taking a nap and were trying to shake the pre-show jitters after getting into a confrontation with other hotel patrons.




An unsavory Irish man asked Vic if it was OK if Vanessa came and took a nap with him. Of course Vic said no, that was definitely not OK. This set the stage for events which would unfold later on in the night and into the wee hours of the morning.

The show went off with out a hitch, it was great. Pruno, rockabily punk rock band kicked off the festivities with style and high energy. Next we were graced with the musical talents of Pintlifter who traveled all the way from Chico, California. Pintlifter played songs that got the audience involved; they had a captivating way of performing stories. They even sang a song about Pabst Blue Ribbon; fitting because Pabst was the beer of choice that night, enjoyed by all. Then The Left Hand rocked the house, friends, new and old dance the night away. Vic still is undefeated in his notorious on stage beer drinking contest; I pizza cutted peoples toes with my wheelchair in the mosh pit; the floor was sticky with beer and sweat.

In summary the night went just as most nights go in a life of musical misfits, that is until we returned to the hotel rooms with all the bands and all the fans and totally Motley Crue'd that place.

Remember that unsavory Irish man from earlier? Well, he had friends. Six loud, obnoxious, drunken Irish men with heavy accents joined our party filled with tattoo'd punk rockers from Sacramento. Lets just say there was a bit of a cultural gap.

Interesting piece of information: people in Ireland don't burp, at least not in public. One obnoxious Irishman was disgusted, appalled, even astounded when a girl at the party left out a satisfying belch. He explained to us that in his culture people, especially women, wait until they are in private to release the after effects of over carbonation. He was no doubt calling us drunken obnoxious Americans in his head.

Personally, I spent much of the night trying to get as far away from Irishmen as I could. There was something about them that just didn't sit right. Every time I attempted to carry on a conversation with one of them they got two inches from my face. Even when they were at a comfortable speaking distance, their accent was so deep it was hard making out what they were trying to say.

Sure, things went well for a while. Irish guy #1 even shook Vic's hand and apologized for his rude comment about his girlfriend, an attempt to settle the air. Twenty five people hung out, talked music and were generally having fun...that is until someone dared someone else to round house kick the lamp in the hotel room. A little advice, don't ever dare someone who has been drinking to do something, because chances are they are going to do it.

Needless to say we got kicked out of that hotel room, and somehow ended up back at the Irish guys hotel room. That lasted for about a whole five minutes until they got mad because someone put a beer in the microwave. Not a smart idea.

I left the room as soon as the yelling started and the testosterone started seeping, I went around the corner, as I did I heard glass shattering. Soon after it was a free for all. All of the sudden the hotel just started spewing out people. Some were fighting, others were just running to get out of there. It is certain not one person knew exactly what was going on. A friend even said they were just trying to make sure none of our friends were getting beat up, he was just going around pulling obnoxious drunk Irish guys off people.





From this point on it was hard to calculate a direct sequence of events. There was so much going on from so many different angles. A couple of fights broke out right in front of the hotel room. Another mob of people took off across Highway 50 back towards The Whiskey Dicks. That guy Doc called the police and a cab; he went home to Placerville that night, well by this point morning.

The police must have already been notified because upon inspection the back of the hotel a couple of people were being questioned by the cops. I hid behind a mini van for a while until my friends wife called and I had to explain to her why her husband was being questioned and possibly arrested.

By this time it was 4 a.m. and in front of the hotel were six cop cars, two ambulances and a fire truck.

No one got to sleep until after 6 a.m. Of course everyone had to recount the event over and over again, in detail. Everyone had their side of the story and what they saw.

As I lie there laughing to myself about the randomness that I witnessed that night, trying to figure out how I could recap the event on paper, I could still hear six obnoxious drunken Irishmen with heavy accents downstairs partying. But I couldn't understand a word they were saying.

Then I let out a little good night burp.