More from the underbelly of the Portland music scene. Meet Cranky Sound Guy. As an aspiring young musician trying to make your way in the big city, you might ask yourself: Why is Cranky Sound Guy always scowling like that? He’s pretty quiet, it’s kind of intimidating. It sure would be nice to make friends with him. If Cranky Sound Guy likes us, he could get us weekend shows here!!!

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Cranky Sound Guy thinks: Another lame Tuesday night shift running the sound board at the same old Portland dive bar. I can’t believe I’ve worked here for three years already. If they don’t start paying me more I’m gonna quit. Under the table drinks, a greasy burger, and 50 bucks a night are not enough to cover the pain in my ears. Sigh. Time to do the sound check for the first band. I can tell they blow already. The singer is warming up her tambourine hand. She’s actually doing wrist stretches. Does she think she’s freakin Linda McCartney or something?

Cranky Sound Guy says: “Are you guys ready to do a sound check? How many vocal mikes do you need?”

Cranky Sound Guy thinks: The singer is asking questions about her mix in the monitors and we haven’t even started setting her up yet. Look around. There are no monitors. All the equipment inside this bar is broken down. I can’t work with this garbage. This whole place should be recycled but there is no redemption value so not even the Fred Meyer Can Do would take it. Two mikes got stolen last week by that metal band. There’s dried beer on everything and the air in here smells like stale cigarettes and beer burps. I want to make records for a living. Gold records, like *The* Bruce Dickinson. The problem is that all of the bands with a dynamite sound have been signed already. And the rest of them suck. What’s the point?

Cranky Sound Guy says: “Kick drum.”

Thinks: This drummer is broken. He lopes along on the kit like a three legged mule. Why does he have a double bass pedal? His right foot sucks enough already, now I have to hear him bang on my ear hole even more with his sucky left foot?

Says: “Snare . . . Toms . . . Now everything.”

Thinks: Wrong. Don’t touch that snare mike.

Says: “OK, good. Now let’s hear the vocals.”

Thinks: Oh god, who told her she can sing? Her voice is flatter than a pancake. She sounds like a scared vibrato goat bleating around inside a helium balloon. Or a tone deaf Joan Baez freaking out on acid. My ears are so nauseated right now that I want to rip out my ear plugs and jam in Dramamine tablets. My ears canals are starting to dry heave. Get me off this ship. I can’t take this. I’m just going to turn her down in the mix right now.

Says: “Sounds great. OK, bass.”

Thinks: The bass player is passable, but he’s got to turn down the volume on his amp head. I hate guys who play bass with a pick. Is he gonna do some hot licks and riffs? Some blazing bass solos with his blaze orange bass pick? I’ll roll down the EQ on his channel and compress it just in case he gets frisky up there.

Says: “Bass, I need you to turn down a bit . . . OK, better. Now, Mr. Guitar Player.”

Thinks: Tune that piece of junk. It’s some sort of blue light special guitar from the dust bin of a Gresham pawn shop. The intonation is messed up or something. Look at that ridiculous guitar strap. I cannot believe this. And turn the volume on your disto pedal down, it’s killing me. Who booked these clowns?

Says: “Turn down the gain on your distortion. Good. OK, you guys wanna run through part of a song?”

Thinks: Now altogether, you dorks. Somebody count it off. Let’s hear a sound check so you can play your 10pm Tuesday night set for your three friends. Oh, that’s just beautiful. These guys should call themselves Blowhard Jones and the Blowhards. No, I’ve got it: William Shatner Pants Overdrive. If this was the Gong Show I would be banging the hell out of it right now. Listen to this mish mash. Casiotone nation. I’m going to short set you guys. You get eight songs tops. Maybe seven.

Says: “Sounds good out here. You guys can go get a drink if you want. You start in 20 minutes.”