Album Notes

REVEALING INTERVIEW WITH BUTANE MACLANE By John Garabedian Sunday Times Gazette Note: This interview was conducted early Sunday morning after a blazing show at the downtown Metropolitan Club performed by MacLane and his band. The guitar player later held court at the nearby Denny’s, signing autographs and chatting with fans. J.G.: I feel like James Lipton with my questions written on these little white cards. B.M.: The cards aren’t so little, John. It’s the size of the questions that worries me. By the way, I think my last two interviews were done by Armenian Americans. I hope I phrased that properly. Is this some kind of media take-over, Mr. Garabedian? J.G.: I don’t think so. No one on the inside has told me anything. B.M.: Yet. J.G.: Correct. B.M.: The last reporter was, ah, Hagopian, actually Der Hagopian. What’s Der mean? J.G.: It’s a religious thing. It means priest, like there was a priest in the family. B.M.: Are there any Der Garabedians? J.G.: Nope, no priests in my family. B.M.: Heathens, eh? I sensed that already, you hanging out at night in Denny’s and all. You know, I’ve never noticed a Der in front of Kardashian, either. More like a Duh. A couple months ago I saw what’s her face, Kim, at a club in Los Angeles. Man, that chick is stop-the-traffic gorgeous. Lustrous black hair and almond Euphrates eyes. Breathtaking. Her hind-end is so wide I bet has its’ own heart and lung system. Fantastic, man. She must keep Oleg Cassini on full-time working on the moustache camouflage. It looks like one of those Errol Flynn pencil-line jobs, you know what I’m sayin’? J.G.: You’re kidding. B.M.: Would I kid an Armenian media mongol, I mean mogul? J.G.: I’m not sure, Mr. MacLane, not sure. B.M.: I prefer Mr. MacLane, sir. J.G.: Yes, sir. B.M.: And add the comma, please. And say it loud if you can. MISTER MACLANE COMMA SIR. Like that. J.G.: Are you serious? B.M.: I’m foolin’ witcha. Please call me Butane. J.G.: Do you mind if I shuffle the deck, Mr. Butane? B.M.: (as W.C. Fields) Pick a card, any card. Life’s short. Take a chance. J.G.: Okay, who was your best boss in the music business? I mean the best, say, manager, promoter, club owner, you know. B.M.: Hands down, don’t even have to think about it - the Hell’s Angels. J.G.: Now you’re kidding me! B.M.: Any man that would kid about the Angels would probably make that mistake once. Believe me. I’m absolutely serious. The best to work for, bar none. Nowadays, everyone and their sister rides a shiny new Harley. I ain’t talkin’ about that, my friend. I’m talking the real thing, John. I’ve played Angel clubs, picnics, and never found more honest businessmen, fair, respectful of the band and gentlemen around our womens. God’s honest truth. Plus, a very appreciative audience because they’ve lived the stuff I sing about. But, you know, I had to be on my toes. I wasn’t walkin’ into Sunday church services. I admit I had to step it up a couple notches in that environment. Except once. J.G.: Tell me about it? B.M.: Must I? J.G.: You must. B.M.: (Deep sigh) Oh, Lordy, Lordy, hep’ me now. Years ago I showed up half-cooked at one of their big picnics. They’d invited a rival gang and I understood beforehand there might be some, ah, inconvenience. So, my crazy drummer and I went to this joint before the gig, you know, the kind of dump you enter to forget, so you have to pay in advance. J.G.: Uh, huh. B.M.: Well, I show up, ah, how should I say this, bombed, yeah, that’s the word, bombed, out of my skull shitfaced. I had a few thousand one-percenters that didn’t want to talk to each other staring at ME for the first couple songs. That sobered me up quick. Eventually, my legs stopped shaking and I finally hit a groove, but my mind was playin’ tricks on me that day. Anyhow, in the end it all went well. I got to talk with a lot of the guys and, apparently, they hadn’t even n