Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Shut Down by The Man
Now and then over the past few months Muso has practiced in Josh and Parker's small room thingy that's detached from their apartment. All the neighbors have been cool except for the upstairs next-door folk. A garrulous and grating couple, they sit on their deck at all hours yell-speaking. The conversations alternate between their slavic-ish native tongue and English.
Two months ago, our practice was cut short by pounding and some indecipherable hollering which I imagine meant, "stop the racket, you damn kids!". So we went to talk to them to apologize and work out a compromise. The woman, who stood from her deck with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, would robotically say, "I am sick. You no play". Didn't matter if it was a question, statement, or the middle of a sentence spoken between other people. "I am sick. You no play".
The man proved easier to deal with. He finally agreed to let us play once a week at night, which we've done. Last week, however, he came a-poundin' again. And earlier this week, he didn't even need to, 'cause he let the cops do it. Fifteen minutes into practice, we opened the door to the po-po.
They were pretty nice, I guess. They did play the "We could go by the book and fine you $500 and confiscate your equipment... BUT, we'll let it slide this time" card, and also said something about how it's a person's right to call the cops if he perceives any kind of threat to his home. I'm not sure how we constitute a threat. I mean, have you seen us? We're dorks. And our music ain't exactly a call to arms. I mean, go on and televise the revolution. We just wannna rock.
Anyway, now we're on the lookout for one of those communal, pay-to-play places that's sure to be mutually inhabited by the dregs of the LA rock scene. So if our songs start featuring epic squealy guitar solos, you'll know why.
Now and then over the past few months Muso has practiced in Josh and Parker's small room thingy that's detached from their apartment. All the neighbors have been cool except for the upstairs next-door folk. A garrulous and grating couple, they sit on their deck at all hours yell-speaking. The conversations alternate between their slavic-ish native tongue and English.
Two months ago, our practice was cut short by pounding and some indecipherable hollering which I imagine meant, "stop the racket, you damn kids!". So we went to talk to them to apologize and work out a compromise. The woman, who stood from her deck with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, would robotically say, "I am sick. You no play". Didn't matter if it was a question, statement, or the middle of a sentence spoken between other people. "I am sick. You no play".
The man proved easier to deal with. He finally agreed to let us play once a week at night, which we've done. Last week, however, he came a-poundin' again. And earlier this week, he didn't even need to, 'cause he let the cops do it. Fifteen minutes into practice, we opened the door to the po-po.
They were pretty nice, I guess. They did play the "We could go by the book and fine you $500 and confiscate your equipment... BUT, we'll let it slide this time" card, and also said something about how it's a person's right to call the cops if he perceives any kind of threat to his home. I'm not sure how we constitute a threat. I mean, have you seen us? We're dorks. And our music ain't exactly a call to arms. I mean, go on and televise the revolution. We just wannna rock.
Anyway, now we're on the lookout for one of those communal, pay-to-play places that's sure to be mutually inhabited by the dregs of the LA rock scene. So if our songs start featuring epic squealy guitar solos, you'll know why.
