My voice is FUCK ALL today. Three gigs later, it's a chunky goo. Yesterday, we went to dinner with my Uncle Rick and Aunt Carol and family. Then we had to race home so I could take the usual five hours to get ready for the evening's programme. O'Hara's. I was told ahead of time that some Art Festival was happening downtown so some of the streets were blocked off. Somehow, my lack of parking luck was all cashed in 'cause I got a great spot. Musically, we were pretty good. There were mostly tourists in the joint so they laughed heartily at all our 10 year-old jokes. Nothing like a new polish on an old turd.
I met some people from Scotland (pronounced scoot-land...go ahead...say it.). Glasgow (pronounced glazz-goo... go ahead...say it.) to be precise. They seemed to like us and one gentleman kept saying we were very tight (pronounced tait...go ahead...say it.)(i hope he meant musically!). I think they might have had a pint (pronounced paint...go ahead...ah, for fuck's sake...forget it) too many. Nice folks. I saw Pete in there somewhere but he was off like a shot and was gone when I was searching for him a little later. The evening wound up with five very tired Funkabillies grasping for something to play for the few stragglers left. Both mine and Chuck's voices were gone so I thought to end with The Train Song which is an instrumental. At the end, Chuck and I tried to dissonantly out-skronk each other. Easily the best musical moment of the night.
6 comments:
Sorry I bailed before your break, mate...but after smoking two packs of cigarettes in five minutes, I'd had more than my fill of tar and nicotine. I'm such a lightweight.
Understood. All the white parts of my guitar are dark yellow from stinky old smoke. I can't believe I used to smoke. Blech!
We need to start a "family member who belongs in a home" album because that first one is my contribution.
No, you just look stoned. Like your licence picture.
Oh. Um.
Thanks.
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