Friday, September 24, 2004
It's all About the Back-Up Guitar
Tuesday night we played The Good Hurt again. We filled a last-minute opening slot for some bands on tour. Prior to the show, as I unloaded my drums, a guy stomped out a cigarette and offered to help. He played drums in another band. (He reminded me of Chachi if Chachi had a more cave man-y eybrow hairline). His band, whose name I unfortunately can't remember, had trecked across the U.S. from Jacksonville, and had played empty shitty show after empty shitty show. Then he told me how just before he left one of the hurricans had collapsed a bathroom in the house he just bought, how there was no time to see Big Sur, and how he had to miss his daughter's first birthday in order to hit the road on schedule.
Then we went on and it was fine, if not frought with technical difficulties, which makes for some awkward, song-less stage time. For better or worse, Parker's not one for banter, and I have access to nary a microphone (unfortunate, since I've got an arsenal of killer Monica Lewinski jokes), and "jamming" gets really old really quickly. So there's not much for us to do while Josh changes a string, except look like 12-year-olds hugging the wall at their first school dance.
Then again, we only traveled 20 minutes to get there. In that sense, we fared better than Band From Florida, specifically Caveman Drummer in Band From Florida, who came up after we finished and asked if he could buy drum sticks off me; he left his in Arizona. So I just gave them up, 'cause the least he should get out of the this tour was free sticks.
...I'm realizing as I write that this ended up way more Chicken Soup for the Soul than I ever wanted. So here are some possible substitute endings:
-I bludgeoned him to death with the sticks
That's all I got. It's Friday, man.
Tuesday night we played The Good Hurt again. We filled a last-minute opening slot for some bands on tour. Prior to the show, as I unloaded my drums, a guy stomped out a cigarette and offered to help. He played drums in another band. (He reminded me of Chachi if Chachi had a more cave man-y eybrow hairline). His band, whose name I unfortunately can't remember, had trecked across the U.S. from Jacksonville, and had played empty shitty show after empty shitty show. Then he told me how just before he left one of the hurricans had collapsed a bathroom in the house he just bought, how there was no time to see Big Sur, and how he had to miss his daughter's first birthday in order to hit the road on schedule.
Then we went on and it was fine, if not frought with technical difficulties, which makes for some awkward, song-less stage time. For better or worse, Parker's not one for banter, and I have access to nary a microphone (unfortunate, since I've got an arsenal of killer Monica Lewinski jokes), and "jamming" gets really old really quickly. So there's not much for us to do while Josh changes a string, except look like 12-year-olds hugging the wall at their first school dance.
Then again, we only traveled 20 minutes to get there. In that sense, we fared better than Band From Florida, specifically Caveman Drummer in Band From Florida, who came up after we finished and asked if he could buy drum sticks off me; he left his in Arizona. So I just gave them up, 'cause the least he should get out of the this tour was free sticks.
...I'm realizing as I write that this ended up way more Chicken Soup for the Soul than I ever wanted. So here are some possible substitute endings:
-I bludgeoned him to death with the sticks
That's all I got. It's Friday, man.
