My brother fills in from NYC while I'm on the road in Chihuahua, Mexico. Here's his report-

I'm sitting here in a generic Kinkos in "Soho" sweating my bells off. It is incredibly humid today and rainy and after walking about 50 blocks already today I'm due for a break. My T-shirt is completely soaked through and you don't even want to hear about it's southern neighbors. I should not be sweating in NY in November.

Got into town yesterday at around 4. Had the drummer, Mike, in tow so we had to go the club to drop the drums off before I could check in to my hotel. We get to the joint (in Brooklyn) and it is about what we thought: a dank, smelly, s-hole with concrete floors (apparently easier to spray off the blood, puke and whatnot with a hose). "Eddie" is assigned by the bartender to show us where to stow the drums. He goes outside on the sidewalk and unlocks what looks to be an entrance to the sewer and grunts to Mike to open the doors because they are too heavy for him. He does and we stick the drums in the cellar.

We manage to find our way to the hotel through about an hour's worth of traffic snarls and check in. It's about 4pm and I decide it's time for some of the JB I brought in from the car. The drummer is not imbibing, so I run this one solo. After a few belts, it's time for some chow and we select an outrageously overpriced "Coffee shop". Although overpriced, it did offer some excellent people watching opportunities, which should be called by it's real name, Chick Ogling.

Boots. Plenty of boots for this fall season (Homer to Marge: "No no...leave them on") several going all the way to the knee. Quite a look, this and frankly one I need to see more often. I've known the women in NY are beautiful, but it is really amazing how many you see who just have these perfect faces. Faces like really cute babies (Waylon Jennings: "You look just like a baby in a cradle to me") but all growed up. It's impossible to estimate how much easier life must be for these women, probably in ways they don't even realize. To paraphrase Full Metal Jacket, "The ugly know only one thing--it is better to be pretty".

We hook up with our leader and proceed to the gig. Decent amount of people mulling about. Several members of the tattooed Life Is Hard set are striking poses with Pabsts and Marlboros. Three bands are set to play. We will go second so the drummer and bass player can drive home after the gig (?). First band is getting ready to play and are actually smoking grass right on stage. I say stage but it is really a cubby hole where the musicians are stuck.

They stumble into "Swinging Doors" by Merle and everyone can instantly tell that this band sucks in ways that have not even been invented yet. Flat singing, limp grooves, flabby bass playing--this is painful, yet they are projecting an attitude of Complete Coolness that does not match their ability. I suck down several beers and put in my earplugs.

As the hacks finish (with Six Days On the Road, a trucker classic they completely butcher. Allow me to take this space to point out a pet peeve I have with bands doing covers: f'ing up the lyrics. It's not "I'm takin' little white pills BUT my eyes are open wide" it's "I'm takin' little white pills AND my eyes are open wide". You see, the latter actually makes sense, the former does not. Details people! details! repeat in fairy choreographer voice.)

We begin to play and there is a look on the hacks faces of "Uhhh? what's this?" and when our leader starts to make his tele quack and stutter and sing they are nodding appreciatively. About four songs in I realize that I am on the edge of being too drunk to play. What is the next change? What key am I even playing in? Where'd I put that beer? I manage to keep my head and we cook pretty good.

We finish to polite applause and I notice that some talent has entered the building. Smiley hipster chicks--yeah! I was standing near the cubbyhole guarding the gear when I overheard two of them discussing the Simpsons. I wait for my set (as Keanu might put it in Point Break) and when they stump each other on the name of the Simpsons cat I enter the conversation to provide the answer. "Yes, that's it!" one of them intones enthusiasically all smiles. They then ask me if Popeye's nemesis was named Bluto or Brutus and I explain to the best of my recollection that he started out as Bluto and then became Brutus later when the cartoon went color. They are duly impressed once again, but I know I have peaked already. A little more small talk and it's time to go. Especially considering that several East Village residents have just taken the stage and are about to start playing.

I dreamt I fell in love last night. I had a literal dream girl. We all worked in some kind of bizarre tree house doing God Knows What and I liked her and I thought she liked me but I wasn't sure so I didn't do anything at first and then we came together. This was some serious post-dawn dreaming, the deep REM kind and I know it happened then because I woke up at about 6 and then fell back asleep. In the dream she had given me this really cute little piece of paper she had made that her drarings on it, poetry, romantic sayings and her phone number. She made it especially for me. It was great, until I woke up because I was actually feeling this feelings since my brain doesn't know if it's actually happening or not, so I woke up in love with a figment of my imagination. It took several minutes to shake this off and I'm still feeling disapointment that this wasn't real.

Labels: Hipster doofuses

Posted by Chad--Link