So, I beat up a man for—what? Being rude?—feeling I had every right to do so, and now I was in handcuffs and en route to the Hoosegow. The Big House. The Pen. The Cooler. The Belly of the Beast. Tuscaloosa County Jail.
And, I must say, it was everything you look for in a jail, assuming you love jail: ugly and harsh, filled with the sounds of buzzers and heavy sliding iron gates and a large, cold room with several dozen incarcerated men coughing and grumbling and absent-mindedly adjusting their private parts. On one half of the room there were two dozen thin white cots arranged in top and bottom metal racks. These were cots which I intended to avoid for one million, trillion years, if necessary.
There was a toilet, too. More than one, if I remember correctly. The exact number of them is irrelevant, since—like the cots—they would not be used by me at any point in this lifetime. I imagined some colossal, brick-jawed indignant fellow inmate asking me, “Why aren’t you using the bathroom like the rest of us?” I decided that I would lie and say: “I have dyschezia,” leaving him in the kind of impotent stupor that comes from being unable to define words like “dyschezia,” and within hours the word would get around that the new guy had some kind of unpronounceable infectious condition. This was the best plan I could come up with at the time.
I found a reasonably unoccupied niche towards the back of the holding cell. I leaned against the wall trying to look both imperturbably relaxed and violently dangerous at the same time, secretly on maximum red alert in case anybody attempted to make me use the bathroom.
In time I began to realize that the other prisoners were actually fairly benign. This wasn’t The Green Mile, after all—my room was just a big temporary holding tank and most everybody there was in for some minor offense and they knew that one way or the other they would be released in a relatively short amount of time, be it 24 hours or a couple of weeks. I had no clue how long I was going to be there.
I should probably just cut to the chase here and let you know now: this isn’t one of those “scared straight” stories. I don’t in any way end up so rattled by my experiences On The Inside that I declare gravely, “Boy, oh, boy, I’ll never beat up anybody again! It’s the straight and narrow for me from now on!” As uncomfortable as I surely was, I remained basically confident that Pose was at that very moment doing everything possible to spring me, at which point I would continue my impulsive wackiness as the frontman for a super rad rock ‘n’ roll band and Woody got just what he deserved, anyway, didn’t he?
But there was something bothering me, nonetheless. I couldn’t put my finger on it yet, but I knew it had something to do with God. I’m not talking “theophany” here, but theo-something, definitely. I stayed in my niche, watching my jail mates, and let my theo-something quietly develop in the back of my mind.
By about sundown Adam Guthrie, Pain’s guitarist, showed up to deliver me from, if not the Belly, then at least the Esophagus of the Beast. He had been to a bail bondsman and paid to get me out. That, dear readers, is a true friend.
Now, six years later, beneath the multi-colored lights of City Stages, that same wonderful, hairy guy was hoping I would lead a West Side Story-style gang war with Train’s road crew. Smiling uncomfortably I shook my head and wandered off, knowing what a disappointment that must have been for all my pals. The whole initiative fizzled out and we trundled back to the van.
I never told any of them exactly why I decided to stand down that night. I never told them that after I got home from my day in jail in 1993 I made a secret promise to God to never get in a fight ever again.
I’m no pacifist—I’m a Just War theory guy, for one, and to this day I applaud the justice of whipping up on anybody who menaces old ladies, kids, mothers, the defenseless, or kittens. No, my promise was to avoid the endless, meaningless scraps with other guys which could otherwise continue under virtually any flimsy pretext: he looked at me funny, he tried to cheat me, he’s a butthole, et cetera. I didn’t want to fight for those kinds of things anymore.
The reason was not because I was in the process of developing a code of ethics. It was because I perceived that God was disappointed, and that was far worse to me than the sting of backing down from any conflict. So, I told God I wouldn’t do that again.
A seed was thereby plopped into a fresh furrow in my heart and swaddled with soil. Slowly, it began to send out tendrils meant to envelope the proud city I had made of my life and reduce it to crumbled ruins: the ne plus ultra of a life in Christ. My simple pledge was one tiny victorious step in that direction.
It wasn’t the content of the pledge that was the catalyst, though it is tempting to assume that. The catalyst was that I referred to God at all, that I took a part of my life and said without reserve: “This is yours—you can have it back. Sorry I broke it. I won’t screw with it again, I promise.”
So, Woody, wherever you are, if you’re reading this: I am truly sorry for attacking you that day. That was a lousy thing to do. Forgive me. And thanks for not pressing charges.
If you missed Part 1, go here. If you missed Part 2, go here.
“secretly on maximum red alert in case anybody attempted to make me use the bathroom” hahahahaha!!! Keep on writing those trilogies!
Very entertaining sir, well done!
So…when do I get to read the book? Don’t make us wait long! It was hard enough to wait for each of these posts.
Dan– I’m a huge fan of Pain and am also a pretty devout Christian, so I absolutely dug this story and love the site; I’m most definitely looking forward to reading Frontman sometime in the near future! Please keep up the good work, these trilogies of yours are wonderful.
Thanks to everybody for the comments, the emails, the tweets, and so on…it’s really awesome to have your support. Thanks for reading!
Thank you for letting God into your heart that day and thank you for not breaking your promise!
Dan, I’ve been a fan of your music for years & years. I was one of the guys who bought your first solo ep “That’s It!” from Satori Sound in Mobile before it lost the record store (words can’t describe my surprise and happiness upon finding out that you fleshed those ideas out to a full length record!). Every so often, I’ll bump into somebody with a great Pain story– and a few years ago, I heard this exact story of the Train incident from a guy who (if my memory serves me correctly) worked road crew for ya’ll, and was later in Stu McNair’s band ‘Red Label Revolver’ (if that gives you a time-frame for when I was told the story, RLR was still booking shows). He told the story only SLIGHTLY differently– first, he drew comparisons to the scene in “Forrest Gump” at the Abby Hoffman rally by the Washington Monument reflecting pool, minus the “JENNY!”
Second, quite contrary to your assertion that your pals were disappointed, he said that you won his respect forever for keeping everyone’s tempers cool. I remember how even he seemed surprised by the story’s twist– that you DIDN’T beat up Train! He said that was what a real frontman does, he keeps the punk rock mob from happening when the temptation to do otherwise is nearly insurmountable. He did mention KIND OF regretting not stomping Train because “then they might not’ve written that stupid ‘Drops of Jupiter’ song,” and he also referred to them as “a bunch of heroin addict dickheads,” but otherwise represented you fairly.
Anyway, just thought I’d share the version of this story I’ve known for years now, and always loved and repeated to other fans. Before reading this, I always had to preface it with, “Now this is just something I heard…” You know, Pain has created so many great conversations for me. I dunno if you know what it feels like, to meet somebody who also loves your favorite band that the world never got a proper chance to hear. It’s really cool. So thank you (and the rest of the band) for that. Not only has your music highlighted moments of my life aesthetically, your band has served as a springboard for friendships, well over a decade after “Full Speed Ahead”.
Jonathan, that is a truly great bunch of thoughts. Thank you for passing that along–I probably dwell too much on ways that I let my bandmates down…I’m glad to hear the Stuart McNair version! And thank you for being a Pain fan–it’s probably kind of cliche to say it, but I’m deeply honored that our stuff gets to be a part of your life. No kiddin.’ Keep in touch!
Hey Dan,
Im really glad I found this site. It is rather strange I was at work the other day talking to a mate about music and some how we started chatting about your band and ” how they dont make music like they used to.” I know pain was never a popular mainstream band ( the good ones never are ) but do know Dan you had many fans here in Australia you guys would have nailed it had you ever made it over.
I am extra excited you gave your life to Christ and kept your promise. God honours those who honour Him mate, well done.
Bye the way I just purchased midgets with guns on itunes, I hope you are still getting royalties after all these years. Ya know they are charging 17 bucks now.
God bless mate, and all the best. ciao
Hey Dan. I’m a gigantic Pain fan. The Jabberjaw music video I believe was made a month before I was born. I’ve seen it at least 200 times I’m sure. But I never listened to anything else from that mystery punk band until I looked up old Cartoon Network stuff. Out of curiosity I listened to the rest of the EP. And from there, I’ve been obsessed with the band. I’m exactly like the nerdy versions of you and Pose you mention so often in the lyrics. Last.fm says I’ve listened to you guys 600 times since May. In a time where dark depressing lyrics are what’s in (I mean, there’s a Swedish death metal band named Pain that always pops up before you guys,) it’s nice to see a campy and fun-loving band I was just short of experiencing on time. I’m not a Christian, and I don’t plan on becoming one, but I wish you and anyone else involved with Pain good fortune in your future.