Everyone's Hits...But Their Own

We're another rock and roll band,

Singing and playing and doing our thing for the crowd.

If you like us, then give us a hand,

And if not, we'll known we're much too loud.

--song by Kent Bancroft of The Sweat Band

THE SWEAT Band works hard. Seven nights a week, the five-man rock group plays the better Cambridge and Boston bars until 1 a.m., pounding out Rolling Stones, Eagles and old Beatles. Everyone's hits but their own. Bar-owners pay $150 a night for catchy tunes, heavy beats, but not too much volume--music is for dancing, for building more-than-one-beer thirsts, for drinking and seducing. Their material is good and they perform it well. Two months after leaving home, The Sweat Band is surviving.

Life wasn't as hopeful back in Philadelphia, where the entire band went to high school together. They played separately in their own groups and sometimes together under the name "Dried Fish." But all their bands broke up upon their high school graduations in 1970, 1971 and 1972. Most of them gave college a few semesters, but only a few. By last January, Dried Fish was resurrected and began playing Philadelphia bars.

The Philly bar scene is a brutal circuit that can pay as high as $1,000 a week a man during peak season. "But you have to break in," says Joe Healy, the good-natured, balding bass player. "We never really did. Down there, they go for flashy outfits. Sequins. And they want big equipment. We're not into that. Here in Boston they look at the equipment we've got, and they're overwhelmed."

When a high school friend now at Bentley promised them frequent bookings in Boston, they made their break. Saying goodbye to family and friends, they loaded their van with their equipment and their lone "groupie"--a heartbreakingly beautiful brunette engaged to the drummer--and headed for the Hub.

They spent several days and most of their money fixing up their rented home, a run-down two-story poverty pocket like those where some bands languished before making it, and where countless other bands have died out. Dogs wander in threes and fours through the garbage-strewn neighborhood which contains other struggling groups. "This is an old blue collar area rapidly being overrun by Puerto Ricans and hippies," explains Kent Bancroft, the lead singer and rhythm guitarist. "Somewhere along the line, they decided they would rather have us hippies."

"We're not starving anymore," Joe says, now that they are playing regularly. The five split about $900 at the end of a busy week, most of which is gobbled up by food expenses. They eat separately, since their early effort at communal cooking failed, partly because Buzz Quarles, the lead guitar, is a vegetarian. For equipment, they usually all give evenly, though keyboard artist Glen Bickle borrowed heavily to buy his new moog synthesizer.

When the band plays the Oxford Ale House--about one weekend a month--they jam the moog and the rest of their equipment onto the tiny stage for the whole booking. The group simply comes with their guitars at about 9 each night for the first of four 40 minute sets. Carrying their own cases, they joke about the burdens of stardom.

"OK. Everyone bunch together," Kent orders before his entourage unloads. "If we run in quickly, maybe they won't recognize us." No one is there to greet his band, of course, save a few early drunks leaving the Ale House. "Damn," he says. "They spotted us. I hate it when they rip off my clothes." The Sweat Band gets only passing attention as they push their way to the stage.

The excitement does not begin with their first song, either. Engrossed patrons barely look up from conversations and beers. But some familiar tune--often an old Beatles song like "She Loves You"--hits with a comfortable thud of recognition and reminiscence. Drinkers smile and begin tapping their feet while their dates silently mouth the words, and quickly, the aisles of the bar are filled with shuffling, twisting dancers bumping against each other.

IN CASE You didn't see any sign, we're the Sweat Band," Kent says, once the band is the center of attention. "We're from Philadelphia. Now, we're from Jamaica Plain."

Spreading their name and getting exposure are the band's plans while awaiting some break that could lead to records and concert tours. "Of course we'd love to play concerts. One night, 6000 dollars!" Healy says. "It would sure beat playing everynight in front of a bunch of drunks."

"Musically, we're fine," says Buzz. "But in other ways, we need a lot more before we go anywhere. You need some image to hype. We haven't developed that yet. And you need original material. We don't really have that yet either." The stage at the Oxford Ale House is so cramped with equipment that there is not enough room for a two-step, let alone spectacular leaps, but the band feels that playing constantly will let a more natural personal style emerge. "We're getting a good feel for the music we like best," Glenn says. "Country rock, like Eagles, Jackson Browne and Gram Parsons have been working out well."

A record deal fell through in August when the producer who was backing them had a serious auto accident and left the business, and now, the Sweat Band is doing some recording of original songs by Bancroft and his brother Gordon. Kent is taking a producing course at the Orson Welles Cinema that includes use of a studio, but the group has to pay for each record they press.

They plan to send as many as possible out to local FM radio stations, rock reviewers, record companies--anyone who will listen. "If I can afford 20 copies, I'll send out 20 copies," Gordon says. "You get as many logs into the fire as you can, and then see what happens."

In the meantime, they keep playing. Thoughts of what to do if the group goes nowhere plague all, but they rarely discuss it. No one has set a time commitment of, say, two years before moving on. "If I quit, I guess I could do carpentry, or build speakers," Glenn says, "But I'm not planning on it."

"You've just got to keep playing," Joe says. "It is frightening to think about what could happen. What if the other guys all knocked up girls and had to get married? Where would I be? I guess I'd just go play with someone else."

The threat of instability was eased some when Rudy Cecelak, the drummer, decided that his marriage would not make him leave the group. "I enjoy this more than any kind of work I might do," he says. "I could play for the rest of my life."

But middle-aged rock drummers are an endangered species, and there is an undertone of urgency that permeates discussion of their work--time could run out on them, after all. So they play the bars and they play them well. They bring in their own fans but they bring in enough drinkers to make them a good investment. And they wait for the right song, the right time, the right listener.

Walking through Harvard, shortly before Thanksgiving, members of the Sweat Band accidentally wandered through a touch football game in front of Winthrop House. Their apologies were interrupted when a few of the football players recognized them. "Hey, you guys are from the Sweat Band, aren't you?" one said. "You're pretty good."

It made their day.