Stuck inside the harmonica break in a folk song, enjoying and yet wondering at the clarity in which I can hear it now, as opposed to any other time of the year when it's just notes and noise, disjointed memories of trying to balance green bullet microphones plugged into little combo guitar amps with the rest of the group.
The scene was always the same, there would be a blues band playing a midday set on some beach bar deck. There'd be three, maybe four guys. Well-tread from nights at local bars, and yet somehow always presenting the facade of being little more than an after-work hobby. Even on weekend gigs in flip-flop sandals and Corona t-shirts they gave the impression of guys who had driven to the gig straight from their desk at the bank. Submit the last report, remind the boss that it's Thursday, and then haul ass across town for the soundcheck at four.
It reads like a condemnation, some sort of marginalization. Like pointing out the guy with the nicest motorcycle as a weekend warrior (from the safety of your driver's side car seat) just so you can feel like you've somehow knocked him down a peg. The same way you're always the one that says the book is better than the movie, that the club used to be better before all the white people found it, that if kids these days had a chance to hear real punk rock instead of all this corporate-backed wardrobe-motivated drivel that's on the radio all day long (How can something be punk if you can hear it at the mall? How can you be anti-establishment and have a clothing endorsement deal?) Never mind the fact that you yourself were only like what, ..9 years old when The Clash, Pistols, Iggy, and the rest were unleashing themselves on the world. That's not really the point, is it? The point is that guy clearly isn't a biker in the purest stab-a-hippie-at-Altamont-while-the-Stones-were-playing-Under-My-Thumb sense. You might be able to fool the people down at the Harley shop, but not me pal.
The bands would come set up at the places you used to work. First Street Grill. The Crab Pot. Bukkets. There wasn't so much a stage as there was an area without tables. They'd do a set or two - cover the bases. The crowd wants to hear AC/DC and Thorogood, the regulars want to hear The Ballad of Curtis Loew. Instead they get endless approximations of Whipping Post and Cold Shot. But the beer is cold and it's better than being at work - so nobody really complains that much. Still, you can't shake the sense that there's something plastic and cellophane about it. A feeling like it's wrapped up in the right color paper, but that it's still somehow not right.
You're too hung up on authenticity. You're too in love with wielding the word soul. From surfers to fried chicken, the lack of 'the S' is an affront. A Han Solo shot first travesty of the first order.
Maybe it's a question of culture. I mean, did "The Blues Brothers" celebrate the best parts of R&B music, or forever condemn it to frat party camp? How come everyone who works in a corporate office loves the movie "Office Space?" -- isn't there something basically wrong with that? You don't hear highschool gym teachers continually quoting lines from "Porky's," do ya?
It's not really atrraction unless your heart flutters. It's not really a date if you don't end up paying the check, getting out of there and then ripping each others clothes off as soon as the doors close behind you. It's not really passion if you're both not gasping for breath on the floor beside the bed as the sun is coming up. It's not really love unless that happens every time you go out on the town, out to see a movie, or to the grocery store to pick up milk and bread...
Where did these expectations come from? How did I ever get myself into this circle? How could anybody in their right mind be dumb enough to continually want authenticity while living and breathing in a real world that actually exists all around you every single waking moment of your life?
About an hour into things, he appears. Dressed in tatters, with a dirty panama hat and a backpack or a briefcase by his side. Maybe he showed up on a bicycle, or walked by every bar on the strip until he heard something he liked. He stands in the front. Bobs his head to the sound of the band. Talks to the drummer between sets. Then he's up on stage with them. He's wearing a vest with pockets overflowing, or he's got his cadre of harps spread out in his free hand like playing cards. He brings his own microphone. He stomps his foot with the downbeats, watches the singer like a hawk; scanning for breaks, hunting for cues. He steals all the solos from the guitarist, but after two straight sets of Stevie Ray covers the crowd is thankful for the variety. He looks like a bum, but he plays like an angel. This guy that everyone wanted to avoid before they realized he was a player. The guy who tried to beg a cigarette off of you in the parking lot. The guy who very well may spend his days standing in the median by an off-ramp with a cardboard sign that says "God Bless."
And all of the sudden the moment is special. The crowd is lucky. The beer tastes colder, and everyone wants to buy one for everyone else. It might as well be a commercial or an Adam Sandler movie. Like the circle is completed, like coveted authenticity can only be verified by the very cliche that's robbed it of it's own relevance.
I need to appreciate it more. Stop looking at it from a distance like the guest stars on SNL who aren't used to working live TV and continually stare offstage to the guys holding cue cards. I need to use it more. Live it more. Not flip out every time I dance and it doesn't rain.
Because it's not every day that you get to dance.
The scene was always the same, there would be a blues band playing a midday set on some beach bar deck. There'd be three, maybe four guys. Well-tread from nights at local bars, and yet somehow always presenting the facade of being little more than an after-work hobby. Even on weekend gigs in flip-flop sandals and Corona t-shirts they gave the impression of guys who had driven to the gig straight from their desk at the bank. Submit the last report, remind the boss that it's Thursday, and then haul ass across town for the soundcheck at four.
It reads like a condemnation, some sort of marginalization. Like pointing out the guy with the nicest motorcycle as a weekend warrior (from the safety of your driver's side car seat) just so you can feel like you've somehow knocked him down a peg. The same way you're always the one that says the book is better than the movie, that the club used to be better before all the white people found it, that if kids these days had a chance to hear real punk rock instead of all this corporate-backed wardrobe-motivated drivel that's on the radio all day long (How can something be punk if you can hear it at the mall? How can you be anti-establishment and have a clothing endorsement deal?) Never mind the fact that you yourself were only like what, ..9 years old when The Clash, Pistols, Iggy, and the rest were unleashing themselves on the world. That's not really the point, is it? The point is that guy clearly isn't a biker in the purest stab-a-hippie-at-Altamont-while-the-Stones-were-playing-Under-My-Thumb sense. You might be able to fool the people down at the Harley shop, but not me pal.
The bands would come set up at the places you used to work. First Street Grill. The Crab Pot. Bukkets. There wasn't so much a stage as there was an area without tables. They'd do a set or two - cover the bases. The crowd wants to hear AC/DC and Thorogood, the regulars want to hear The Ballad of Curtis Loew. Instead they get endless approximations of Whipping Post and Cold Shot. But the beer is cold and it's better than being at work - so nobody really complains that much. Still, you can't shake the sense that there's something plastic and cellophane about it. A feeling like it's wrapped up in the right color paper, but that it's still somehow not right.
You're too hung up on authenticity. You're too in love with wielding the word soul. From surfers to fried chicken, the lack of 'the S' is an affront. A Han Solo shot first travesty of the first order.
Maybe it's a question of culture. I mean, did "The Blues Brothers" celebrate the best parts of R&B music, or forever condemn it to frat party camp? How come everyone who works in a corporate office loves the movie "Office Space?" -- isn't there something basically wrong with that? You don't hear highschool gym teachers continually quoting lines from "Porky's," do ya?
I read something recently where an art critic said "The first painting Jackson Pollock did was a revolution. The second was just repetition."..How can you ever win against odds like that?
It's not really atrraction unless your heart flutters. It's not really a date if you don't end up paying the check, getting out of there and then ripping each others clothes off as soon as the doors close behind you. It's not really passion if you're both not gasping for breath on the floor beside the bed as the sun is coming up. It's not really love unless that happens every time you go out on the town, out to see a movie, or to the grocery store to pick up milk and bread...
Where did these expectations come from? How did I ever get myself into this circle? How could anybody in their right mind be dumb enough to continually want authenticity while living and breathing in a real world that actually exists all around you every single waking moment of your life?
About an hour into things, he appears. Dressed in tatters, with a dirty panama hat and a backpack or a briefcase by his side. Maybe he showed up on a bicycle, or walked by every bar on the strip until he heard something he liked. He stands in the front. Bobs his head to the sound of the band. Talks to the drummer between sets. Then he's up on stage with them. He's wearing a vest with pockets overflowing, or he's got his cadre of harps spread out in his free hand like playing cards. He brings his own microphone. He stomps his foot with the downbeats, watches the singer like a hawk; scanning for breaks, hunting for cues. He steals all the solos from the guitarist, but after two straight sets of Stevie Ray covers the crowd is thankful for the variety. He looks like a bum, but he plays like an angel. This guy that everyone wanted to avoid before they realized he was a player. The guy who tried to beg a cigarette off of you in the parking lot. The guy who very well may spend his days standing in the median by an off-ramp with a cardboard sign that says "God Bless."
And all of the sudden the moment is special. The crowd is lucky. The beer tastes colder, and everyone wants to buy one for everyone else. It might as well be a commercial or an Adam Sandler movie. Like the circle is completed, like coveted authenticity can only be verified by the very cliche that's robbed it of it's own relevance.
Funny how that works out.I don't know what it's like to be a writer. It's just that I spend a lot of my time doing this. I'm not wearing a beret. I'm not using a typewriter. I won't be reading unfinished parts of this to Ferlinghetti at City Lights later on tonight. I'm just listening to a really great song on infinite repeat and hacking away at this laptop while I'm supposed to be working.
I need to appreciate it more. Stop looking at it from a distance like the guest stars on SNL who aren't used to working live TV and continually stare offstage to the guys holding cue cards. I need to use it more. Live it more. Not flip out every time I dance and it doesn't rain.
Because it's not every day that you get to dance.
That's what this is really all about.
That's what I need to learn how to do.All that being said -- You're still not a fucking biker.
[Listening to: Dead Kennedys, "California Uber Alles"]
Comments