Here’s this afternoon first. I attended the kid’s nuttinbuttasandwich show over at Dekka, the only non-parent in the audience. The admission was ten bucks, so I am again a major patron of the Arts. Hey, that’s ten more than most people in this town cough up in a year. The actor in the green outfit is the husband of the lady who makes excellent coffee. I had a cup and borrowed a James Rolland thriller “Map of Bones” from their shelves. I had to see the auditorium and hear the audio, didn't I?
In this instance, the PA system was not set, there was no sound check and it was too loud for the space. I’d almost say it could have been an acoustic show. Unexpectedly, the floor and stage are hollow and footsteps make a booming sound. Billed for capacity 85, that would be standing room only. Including mingle room, the comfortable attendance would be half that. This AM I spent the longest stretch on Facebook of my life, a good solid eleven minutes. There were some great pictures, so I took my time. I’m still one of the majority of people who don’t really get that site. It seems to be a hodgepodge of people’s random brain burps. Or does that mean I actually do understand it? These, and other equally important items to follow.
Let’s talk music. Feeling frisky this morning, I rewrote the bass lines to “I Got Stripes”, “Love Me Tonight” and “That’s What I Like About You.” When I say rewrote, I never do the amateurish Zydeco thing, rather I punch the bass line up to what people expect to hear. Long ago I notice all bassists who switched from guitar leave out notes at certain points and passages. It seems to be a result of ingrained lesson patterns.
When I learned to play those fills, possible if one can unlearn guitar fingering, you quickly grab the sharper people in the audience. Think of it as intentionally making the crowd assume you’ve backed yourself into a musical corner and then bombshell them. The result is those sparkling moments when the listener really does hear the piano or horn part—then realizes it was played on the bass. You gotta love it.
Next I devoted two hours to my specialty. It was never good enough to play well; I also spotlight my work. Um, like guitarists like to imagine they can, but they don't have my subtle, imitable, humble manner, do they now? It contributes to the “howdy-do-that” effect [because I appear to not be paying attendion, another whammy]. My bag of tricks includes phantom notes (placing my hand in a position off the end of the neck where the note would be if the neck was that long), doubling or half-timing mediants (dominant parallels) to insert a short swing beat behind feeble lyrics and playing fifth fret/open couplets (not octaves, I’m actually playing the same note on both strings). Listen to my cover of “Spiders & Snakes” for this tonal effect.
Yes, I took music theory. When I was eleven years old. Another tactic I employ is to begin a bass run five or six measures in advance, rather than the customary half-measure. This requires real thinking, one of the few things I can manage on my own. Not, not the old rock-blues walk-ups, but intricate melodic groupings. In fact, I’ve lately been employing a few twelve-measure patterns that land on “impossible” spots because now I know I’ll never throw the singer off beat, right? If that’s unclear, think of it as beginning a pattern so far in advance that not many see it coming.
But, I sometimes seriously wonder why I even try to do anything except music on a Friday night. That’s my own private vicious circle. There I was in Barnes & Noble on ugly ladies night, unable to find any book on any topic that interests me that I have not read. It’s my own doing but I have not had a fun Friday night since I cancelled my own house gig. Here I am, alone at home. Me. Let me recap the situation.
It goes something like this. I first played in a band the month before my 14th birthday. Since that time, I never spent a quiet Friday at home until I was 37, at which point I stayed in to see what it was like. Boring. It’s like the whole world is having a sex party except you. But I also recognized without getting on stage, I had no provision to break that boredom. It was music or nothing.
So the circle goes like this. Without a band, I don’t go out on Friday because I don’t have anywhere to go and I don’t know anybody else who doesn’t play in a band, so I also don’t have the extra cash to go to a non-band place and chase women, because I’m broke because I’m not playing. So I have no girlfriend either, and unless I go out to places expensive enough to filter out the riff-raff, you don’t meet anybody. The only thing I can afford to do is the one thing I have no experience at—going to a bar to pick up chicks. I would not even know where such a bar exists. I’m sinking fast.
To make matters worse, I have not met a decent woman in over eight years. A decent gal would never bore me, and the last few batches have all managed to bore me within a matter of weeks. Boredom is number one relationship-killer for me. I haven’t even met one that could sing or dance. Florida women don’t read, write, bicycle, act, travel, or walk on the beach (though they heap like to claim that last one). I’ve practiced all my music today twice. Soon.
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