One year ago today: April 27, 2017, WIP
Five years ago today: April 27, 2013, WIP
Nine years ago today: April 27, 2009, WIP
Random years ago today: April 27, xxxx, WIP
Now here’s one for the books. Last night I hear two cats fighting, but not for long. During the paint job on the scooter, I left a roll of paper towels on the porch. Instead of cat fur, I find they attacked the paper towels, shown here clawed to shreds. It’s the unexplained. The explanation I offer is a cop out, but it does make the situation less murky. I say whenever you get these senseless, impenetrable acts of motiveless destruction from cats and Canadian women, it is something lacking in their diet. But this one has to be near the top of the list.
I hope I’m wrong, but whatever it is, it’s enough to overshadow the accomplishment of being out there. All we know is it is powerful enough to overturn three or four months of hard work. I’m sure I’ll hear more later, so if music scandal and tittle-tattle is your bag, keep reading.
It’s not like I can underplay my role to make somebody else stand out. In my group anybody is welcome to be the best they can. At the same time, the spotlight is not automatic and what rewards there are never get passed around for free. There could be alternative explanations, like what if somebody found out about this blog and decided they didn’t like it? I don’t tell anyone, since I’m not the sole contributor, and the rule is nobody can be positively identified in this blog unless you already know them, in which case it wasn’t the blog. The ergo thing.
We were scheduled to have an extra rehearsal right now, but I left the message saying I won’t leave here without confirmation. The last time I drove out, we had only 45 minutes because she had to be somewhere. That somewhere, turns out, was to meet with another musician off Facebook, which makes me wonder if my guitarist is being recruited. For her sake, I hope not, because nobody is going to have the patience I have. The airwaves this morning are so full of suspicions and assumptions this morning you may at first think you’ve landed on a regular blog.
So what’s this, Cosby is going to get ten years. And it could be up to 30. The bloodsuckers will move in for the kill now. The tabloids say he is worth $80 million. (Is that all?) Not no more. He’ll be lucky to get into a retirement home. To my overseas readers, this is why Americans won’t talk about how much they make or how much they own—unless they are bragging about already-public knowledge. When people find out you have money, they are more likely to slip and fall on the ice in front of your house. Poof, another celebrity bust.
I never side with women who come forward years after the fact, especially women whose careers are mediocre or on the decline. It smacks of predatory litigation. I see no evidence that anybody forced these women into those hotel rooms. If they entered willingly, I don’t care what song and dance the guy gave them. And I don’t care about the consequences. Actually, neither do most people. I’ll tell you who cares: the American media. Lowest form of life on the planet.
Yes, they can swim.
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Here’s the scooter, near the final sanding stage. You can see slight patches of the grey undercoat peeking through. There’s an $18 paint job for you, most of it automotive grade primer. Four coats. There are due to be four more light coats, making for a total of seven. It’s baking for the afternoon on the south side of the house. Seriously, this heap is on its last legs. But each time I use it the payoff gets greater so I’ll keep it until it craters.
Hmmmm, 5:00PM and all is not well. Somebody got through to my guitar player. She was not by the phone to confirm our 3:00 rehearsal, but left a message saying she had a broken arm. In a manner that suggested she had said something before. Nope, this is right out of the blue. That means the Sunday gig is out, as well as next Wednesday.
This doesn’t fool me, I knew two gigs ago something was in the woodpile. I’ve got ten bucks says it is that “friend” of hers on Facebook, feeding her what she wants to hear. That a lowly bass player could not possibly know what it takes to put a real band together and she could be doing so much better yadda-yadda. Funny thing, because if she blows this opportunity, she will liably never play in this town again. Nobody is going to take a chance on a grandmother who cannot memorize chords. I had to drag her through most of the material we did on stage and now she is wobbling just before things take off? Broken arm, my eye. I should phone her daughter and ask which arm.
What raised doubt is how we don’t usually divvy up the tip money until it is over [a certain amount]. Then a week ago she asked for her half because she needed new guitar strings. What? Well, here, get fifty dollars worth of picks, too. Then you won’t run out, nomsayn? Naw, she wanted her money because she’s planning on quitting. When I showed up for last rehearsal, as soon as she was paid, she had somewhere else to be and cut the session short. To hell with the fact I had driven all the way there, a day late for her convenience. After all, I’m just a lowly bass player.
Am I wrong? A glance back at the history of loyalty and perseverance of Florida guitar players says even if I am, get a backup plan in place as in now, now, now. I kept the phone number of that guy Samm, who said he was interested, but then didn’t answer his phone. Ah, here it is, right where I keep such things on my J: drive. He gets the call tomorrow morning. This blog is a journal, so let me write down what I remember.
He’s 26 miles away, works shift in a plant, has a music room. He was excellent at rhythm, but still had a few annoying guitar habits, which he spotted himself when we ran through the material. He liked the concept and was not disappointed that some of what he had spent years learning would have to be tossed. I recall we did some dynamite versions of Folsom and Six Days. I don’t recall him singing, but I remember he didn’t, which was a factor that led me (falsely it turned out) to keep on with my current guitarist. Samm was also better connected with the music scene in the north end, and has the proper profit motive. Part of the reason these other guitarists fail en masse is chiefly because they don’t have the hunger.
As usual, I have all the lists, music copies, chord charts, tabs, and set lists ready to go. Updated to last Sunday morning, all I need do is push the buttons. What’s changed is this time I am ready to sing full sets (as opposed to the roughly 15 songs I could manage in December 2017, and I have places to play. Most importantly, I have the confidence of knowing I correctly identified the demand for such a group and that my acoustic-bass system works better than perfectly.
ADDENDUM
I took the (newly painted) scooter up to the coffee shop on Main, not my favorite. I hand wrote a lengthy summation of the band this time around. While she has not quit yet, this situation doesn’t quiet my nerves. Not counting my opportunity costs (the amount I lost by not doing something else—a very difficult concept for the uneducated) I lost $383 with this band so far. She made a profit since her only costs were really the 18 mile round trip to the club four times. What I can’t fathom is her motive. Does she think she’ll find another band? That’s got to be part of it, but if she is planning to solo, she has no concept of how solo she’ll be.
Samm, the guy who never answered his phone for two weeks or was it three? He did say he did shift work. The point is, he instantly clutched the concept of playing drum rhythm and was avid about playing. That was four months ago. What’s change is this time I’m ready. I have 41 songs, a willing club, an almost trained audience, and no chance of interference from the peanut gallery. If you read back to December, this is the guy I kind of had to put on hold while deciding to take a chance on the lady. No mystery, it’s all documented here.
I initially balk at the fifty mile round trip, but thinking ahead, it would be half that if we play the most likely venues, which is central Polk. It being Friday, I stopped in at the old club on Hwy 60. Full of blonde women, but no keepers. Once you eliminate the sleaze-boxes, the dweebs and dodos, there’s three blondes left and the entire room is hitting on them. If I was on stage, I’d just pick the sexist one, but thanks to my granny guitar player, I’m in the audience tonight.
What I did do instead is pick this lady from the far corner. Plump, bit of a personality, and got her on the empty dance floor. Ooooh, opportunity. An empty dance floor. I pushed her through the West Coast, by halfway, the crowd was applauding, and the cameras were rolling. The band announced we were the best dancers in the house. (Whaddaya mean “we”?) Like my old days at Arthur Murray’s, I thanked her and promptly left. Out the door, home here. Alone. The gal I really wanted was with three of the toughest rednecks in the building.
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