Work all day, rock all night

Day jobs highlight the not-so-glamorous side of being a musician

By Andrew Kiraly

Chances are you've had someone like Joe Cycenas for a teacher--he's the buttoned-up, serious-minded prof ready to shush students at the drop of a dry-erase marker, the confiscator of notes, cell phones and gum, the guy who won't hesitate to dole out generous servings of English homework.

"I'm pretty square when it comes to school," says the sixth grade teacher at Garside Middle School. "I've got my long sleeve button-up shirt, my slacks, very square. It's not hard. I'm a nerd at heart, anyway."

But after the final bell rings, Cycenas is a wild man, yeowling and leaping like a sugar-addled grade-schooler himself as the lead singer for local punk band 1/2 AST ("half-assed"). Beneath the long sleeves of that inoffensive Mervyn's collared shirt, his arms are laced with tattoos; beneath those Dockers is a bladder most likely filled with beer. A teacher for five years now at Garside, Cycenas leads a Jekyll and Hyde existence that has him playing it straight all day and rocking all night.

He's just one of countless local musicians who has a day gig to pay the bills--and fund his pastime and true passion, music. A survey of local musicians sees them doing nine-to-fives that range from conventional to kooky. Gabe Stiff, lead maniac for the Black Jetts, is a cable guy. The Vermin's Rob Ruckus services fire extinguishers. Brookelyn Latham of the Sin City Ghouls dons overalls to paint backdrops for dance clubs and theater companies; Thee Swank Bastards bassist Shaun Coleman delivers grease filters to restaurants. Still others work at the front lines of food service: Mike Stratton, Stereo Quattro guitarist, is a waiter at P.F. Chang's; Dylan Perv of the Pervz does the same at Joe's Crab Shack.

Some endure their jobs, others embrace them, but in every case the bread-and-butter work of local musicians bears a fascinating relationship to their music--whether it hurts, helps or is a good source of lyrics about, say, a jerk boss.

A blessed few get to make music for a living. Take Matt Gucu, lead singer of Stereo Quatro. His "day" job has him donning his trademark Devo flowerpot hat to vamp it up as frontman for '80s tribute band Loveshack, going for seven years strong now at Texas Station. For Chernoff, it's the next best thing to making it big time with his original pop band.

"It does toy with the same desires of having your own music be a source of income and success for you," he says. "Otherwise, I really can't complain. It doesn't take up that much of my time. I have whole days to myself and I make a comparable amount of money to working a nine to five job. And it keeps my body in good shape, bouncing around a lot." The generous allotment of free time allowed by his gig not only allows him time to work on band stuff, but to dabble in other money-making ventures as well. His latest: Rubber Love, a business he plans to launch next month in which Chernoff rents out highly realistic sex dolls to clients. "I definitely know I have a market for this," he says. "I'm starting out with one doll to test. But my long-term goal is have a whole rubber brothel."

Meanwhile, Dylan Perv of the Pervz works at Joe's Crab Shack, taking orders. It's not back-breaking labor, but it does sap the spirit a little, like the way you feel after too much popcorn shrimp. "I had a guy the other day, some cocktail sauce got on his fries, so he decided to call me an idiot and scream and yell," Dylan says. "I'm supposed to just call the manager and stay away from the dude."

But the flexible hours do allow him to jaunt with the band--most recently to Chicago. "Being in the band gives me a little bit of release. If I was just working at Joe's Crab Shack, I'd be bummed out. I guess being in a band gives me something to do to keep my mind off my job." Indeed, in a world where major label dreams are as common as eyebrow piercings, Dylan's attitude is refreshingly realistic. "I'm not looking to be rich off making music. I'd like it if we could live in a van and just tour around, that'd be cool. As long as I wouldn't have to wake up and wait on tables. I can live off five bucks a day."

Brookelyn Latham, singer and guitarist for the Sin City Ghouls, paints scenic backdrops for clubs, gala events and theater groups. Latham says take this job and love it.

"I love my job for sure," she says. And her skills with a brush come in handy for her band, known for its theatricality and penchant for fake blood. "We're very theatrical, we got fake blood coming out of our noses, all that. We wouldn't have half as many gigs if we didn't dress up and were so theatrical."

Others enforce a strict separation between work and play life like a thick cubicle wall. Garside teacher Cycenas, for instance, refuses to let the slightest crack form in his Clark Kent daytime persona. "Rumors have gotten out at school [about me playing in a band], and I usually deny everything, 'cause I don't want kids knowing I'm in a band called 1/2 AST. When worlds collide, bad things happen, so I try and keep it separate. I just pretend like I don't know what they're talking about."

In his first year teaching at Garside, one day in class the kids caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out of Cycenas' sleeve. His secret rock 'n' roll identity was almost revealed. "The kids just went crazy over it," he recalls. "Since they're only 12 years old, they're fixated, just pondering what the tattoo was."

But the teacher prevailed over the punk.

"I just told them this wasn't the proper time to talk about this, that we have other things to be concentrating on." Or it was more homework for the kids.