Thursday, February 9, 2017
NEW BAND, NIGHT ONE
Night before last, Muddy and I met up at his place. It being standard procedure to weed out alien replicants with our secret handshake and coded dialogue, we assured one another of our identities, and then got down to business. "Quick," said Muddy, removing the sconce from the wall which opens the hidden door, simultaneously handing me a coldie, "pound this beer."
"Okey dokey," I said, and we headed down the steps. This is a good beer, I thought. Rich, robust, chock full of alcohol. Heh heh, life of Riley. The fools! They'll never catch me. Everything going according to plan. I wonder if there's snacks? For I do so love the snacks. Hmm, these stone steps leading downward, ever downward, sure are encrusted with nitre. So damp, so chilly, that flambeaux casts a paltry glow in this Stygian, all-too-Stygian gloom. Ah yes, the secret chamber. Here we are then.
"Come on into the secret chamber," said Muddy. "I have our giant stone thrones dusted and everything."
"You came down here and dusted?"
"Well, not me personally. Remember that sexy live-in maid? When I told her you'd be here she ran down right away. There she is, in the corner, holding more beer."
"Hi!" she said, demurely curtsying in her little French maid outfit.
Putting a couple of fingers to the bridge of my nose with an exasperated sigh I shook my head, then told her to sit down. "No no, not the floor. Up here, on my lap."
The sound of my beefy workin' man's hands tapping the iron thews that are my thighs perked up the gloom.
"Whatever. Look, you know I like you. I appreciate what you've done here. Hey, don't start crying tears of joy just yet. That's for later. The point is--lean over and hand me that beer would you?--the point is--thanks--Muddy and I, we have to rock. We have to. Do you understand?"
"Then say it."
"Speak up. What is it you understand?"
"I understand you have to rock."
"You're damn right. I'll see you when I'm done jammin'. Now run along, that's it! And keep the outfit on. We'll want that later."
Sharing a shrug with Muddy which clearly said, "French maids, what are ya gonna do?" we then got down to the business of making rock and roll music. This means Muddy made a call. Muddy called a buddy at a bar.
"Dude, I'm here with my friend, the legendary Howlin' Stew. You wanna jam at your place?"
"Yeah, cool! Haha! I'm down with that." Muddy had it on speaker phone. "Just gimme a call when you're ready and I'll head over."
"Right on, man. Haha!"
"We'll be ready in about fifteen minutes. We just need to go over to Howlin' Stew's place to pick up his lyrics."
"Yeah, right on! Haha! Cool!"
So we went over to my place. Muddy kept the motor running while I popped upstairs to grab the sacred parchments. What in the name of the gods was I thinking? I thought. I should've just gotten Selena to do this. We could still be enjoying delicious alcoholic beverages, but no, I have to go running around conducting menial errands. Well if it's any consolation--and it is--at least my readers--ahh, my readers--will get to know exactly what is happening right at this moment, and, as though they had to be trapped inside my mind with me--hi there--they will also get to know exactly what I think.
Moments later, having dashed back inside the motor vehicle--the Rockmobile, actually--Muddy and I tore off down the slush-strewn streets of the naked rural city. "To the bar," we simultaneously said, filled with dread purpose, for we knew what we had to do. The only way to make this jam dream happen would be to physically drag Muddy's buddy out of the bar and take him back to his place. Anything less and nothing. Had to be done.
When we got to the bar we found not too many people. Except for the pinball machine, it was pretty quiet. One guy I recognized from the record store. The rest seemed to have stepped directly out of Moe's Tavern and into this animated but non-televised reality.
"All right, that's it," I said, heading to the back, sensors having detected my new band mate, "you're coming with us."
"Whoa, you guys came to get me. Haha! Right on."
"Pound this," Muddy said. It was the rest of the new guy's drink. No point wasting it.
And then: "To the Rockmobile!"
Another time, another place, swords were our lot. Although swordplay was our game, strangely they called us Musketeers. Whatever. Anyway, it explains my penchant for French maids.
When we entered the digs of Muddy's buddy, a celestial choir blasted us with high notes. Drums, guitars, amps. Everything we needed waved and shouted a hearty hello. Upon a golden pillow my microphone awaited me. "Hello, lover," it said.
Then by the gods we three did rock. Sadly, we had way too much power for my phone. Take after take proved totally unintelligible. Too much distortion. There was just no way. Mostly we played our namesake song. Plus a couple others I wrote. There's no point wasting time with covers. The experience was valuable for breaking the ice. What we need to do is develop cohesion. It can't just be three dudes doin' their own thing. There needs to be structure, form of song specifically met. Plus we need to work other shit out so I don't have to scream into the mike. And if I do scream into the mike, "Come on!" or "Huuhhh!" then there needs to be some immediate oomph in direct response. I dunno, probably we had too many beers. But we're gettin' there. Sounded good enough that the neighbors complained, "Hey, could you keep your music down? It's pretty late."
"Did you hear that?" Muddy said when the door was shut. "They didn't say noise. They called it music." High five!
Mothers Without Masters.
More to come...