By now I was playing periodically in some other bars around the region, like "The County Seat" on Whiskey Row in Prescott; "Los Caballeros", a luxury resort in Wickenburg where Dan Quayle would golf; "The Drifter" in Peeples Valley, owned by a crotchety old SOB named Bernie who still owes me three hundred dollars to this day; and one of my favorite bars on the planet, "Pike's Place", located a few miles outside of Bagdad on a dirt road just off the highway.

Pikes Place was a unique establishment. It was surrounded by cattle, and there was an old gas pump in front and some trailers in the back. The whole place ran off an old generator, and every few minutes the power would lull. The lights would dim and whatever country song was playing on the jukebox would momentarily slow down before the generator would finally kick back in.

One evening I showed up to sing at Pikes, but when I opened the door the interior was pitch black, except for a flashlight behind the bar. I couldn't see a thing and felt my way through the crowd until the manager grabbed my arm and said "Mark, it's Carl….hope you don't need electricity 'cause the generator finally went out." So I played that night for four hours on a barstool in the dark. I swear we had this "unplugged" thing down before MTV ever heard of the concept.

One day, some guy named Junior…who I had heard was the richest man in town, walked into Pikes Place drunk off his butt and offered me a hundred bucks to go over to his own bar, "Junior's Uptown', set up my equipment and sing just one song. I finished my gig at Pikes and needless to say made my way into town to Junior's place as quickly as I could, fearing his buzz might wear off and kill the deal. No chance of that with Junior. He was a man who liked to party and have fun no matter what the cost. I set up all my equipment, sang a tune, he paid me a hundred bucks, and I was on my way. I doubt if he even remembers I was there. One of the stranger gigs I've played. And I have played some strange ones.

1994…"Bill's Place", Aguila, Arizona….I had lined up this gig on a cocktail napkin with a guy named Fast Eddie, who ran the bar, restaurant, and quite possibly the state of Arizona's largest laundromat, all under one roof. Eddie was hammered when we made the deal, so when I showed up to town a week later to sing, I thought he didn't remember me when he looked confused as to why I was there and why I was setting up my equipment in his bar. Little did I know that he had omitted the most important detail of our "contract" on our soggy napkin. I wasn't to sing in his bar. No, I was to sing in his laundromat.

I have my principles.

"We just shove all the washing machines and dryers aside, plug in a light bulb, play some music and this place fills up with Mexicans", he told me.

Ah, one more thing. Another important detail had been omitted. I was to sing the entire night in Spanish. That's right, espanol. Four hours of it.

Fast Eddie and I discussed the matter and he we each used what he could in terms of bargaining power. I was miles from nowhere and needed cash. He had cash.

So much for my principles.

An hour later, I was "on stage" in the laundromat, sandwiched between a washer and a dryer, explaining to a roomful of Mexican farm workers that I only sang about a dozen or so tunes in Spanish…would they mind if I did the same songs over and over and occasionally threw in something in English? I don't know, maybe it was out of sheer morbid curiousity they stuck around, but they did... And I have to admit we had a great time. Thank God for my old Tigres del Norte cassettes. I knew those tunes would come in handy one day. And Fast Eddie was right, we packed 'em in at the laundromat. I still wonder if when someone put a buck in my jar I was supposed to give them four quarters in change or a little box of detergent….

1992…"The Saloon"…Cave Creek Road and Bell in Phoenix, AZ My first weekly booking in a major metropolitan city other than Kirkland Junction. A filthy gang infested biker bar full of smelly sub-human beings who resented my mere presence. I have no idea why the owner invited me back week after week. These "people" never once applauded me, and instead of requesting tunes they basically threatened me into playing them. Lots of Skyrnd, Marshall Tucker Band, Creedence…and don't even think of playing an original song. And exactly zero Jimmy Buffett tunes. I would actually talk my friends OUT of coming to my gigs whenever I played at the Saloon. It's the only place where I ever lost money in tips while performing. (Some biker-clad bag of filth ripped off my customary first dollar while I was playing) And one night, some tattoed woman with about a .25 blood alcohol level got dizzy on the "dance floor', spun around and fell…body, slumped back on the stage, face up with her head between my boots …in the middle of a song. Any other place I would have stopped and called for help, but after the way I had been treated week after week I just kept on singing. After I finished my tune somebody came and dragged her away. I imagaine she's probably off somewhere right now spending your hard earned tax dollars on booze.

Countless stories like these fill my memories of my first years as a "solo artist". But you gotta start somewhere. I learned more playing in hellholes, laundromats, former brothels, biker joints and cowboy bars then I ever would have playing in country clubs and luxury resorts. It forced me to learn how to deal with every situation you can fathom….hecklers, people spilling beer on you, college imbeciles heaving billiard balls, drunks insisting on singing as if you were merely a karaoke machine, people getting in your face and trying to converse with you WHILE you're singing (God, that still happens to this day)….

But enough is enough. One day when I arrived early to set up equipment at The Saloon, some biker gal fell down on her way to the restroom. The only two guys in the place who weren't bikers, both Mexican ranch hands who didn't speak English, got up from their table and helped her up like gentlemen. Once she was on her feet, she turned around and screamed at her white trash boyfriend seated at the bar that these two Mexicans were trying to rape her. Then she picked up their two bottles of beer and smashed them on the floor. The Mexicans didn't know what was going on and asked me in Spanish why suddenly everyone wanted to fight them when they were just helping her up. I told them not to worry about it and asked the bartender to bring them one more round, and put it on the biker chick's tab. The bartender refused, so I told the Mexicans that this place didn't deserve their money and to drink somewhere else in peace. They walked out the door, and so did I. And I never walked back in. Life is way too short to waste time tolerating that kind of crap. Bigger gigs and better places were yet to come, and with the lessons I had learned I was confident enough in my music that good things were gonna happen. Speaking of my music…