Señor Grumblecakes (jervo) wrote,
Señor Grumblecakes

"nobody asks the birds what their songs mean, we just let them be beautiful."

At the woman's house today. We watched "Jacob's Ladder", and now she's kicking some Zelda ass while I type away in here. It looks to have been a busy weekend for my LJ buddies, and if I had a computer at my house I'd have been LJing away, too. This is getting pretty addictive.

What a shitty, crazy weekend. I got hit by a cold Thursday afternoon and I've been pretty much laid up ever since. Friday night was rehearsal, which the less said the better, although since this is a diary, I might as well talk about what happened. As I may have mentioned, rehearsal got postponed until 10pm on Friday instead of the normal time of 9. I was sick and grumpy, and to trudge all the way back into Manhattan that late - I was not really in the mood to play, to put it bluntly. And of course I get there at 10, and nobody's there. Finally, at around 10:15, they show up - Jake, the guy who made us play at 10 in the first place, starts eating dinner. I ask him what the hold up was. He says, kinda sheepishly, "I was watching the Celtics game." I nearly kicked his ass right then and there, but in my weakened and slightly delerious state I just coughed in his direction.

Rehearsal itself was the usual - we worked out the kinks in the new tunes, argued about when to improvise, talked about the gig the next night; they smoked pot while I sat on my amp, sniffling meekly and wishing I was asleep. At least Jake could've learned his fucking parts. He has to relearn his parts every week. I got home close to 2 in the morning.

Saturday I was pretty much a basket case all day - when I wasn't sleeping, I was sort of watching VH1's "Top 40 Hair Band Countdown", hosted by Dee Snider. Let me just say, for the record, that I was a music snob even in my innocent youth and I hated those bands even then. Anyway... I eventually get to Josh's house and we drive over to the gig, which is in deep Bushwick (for those of you unfamiliar with NYC, Bushwick doesn't even qualify as ghetto, because there's literally nothing out there). The gig itself is a fundraiser for this thing called the Jump Arts Festival, an organization that puts on avant-garde jazz, poetry, and dance concerts, and which our drummer happens to be the VP for. And the show itself, at least until we get on, is actually quite cool. The first act is this 8-piece free jazz outfit, and they're really quite good. We (the Ferns guys) are already giving each other uneasy looks, as if to say, "How the hell are we supposed to go over with this crowd?"

The second act is this duo called Transmitting - it's this insane upright bass player and this insane poet (who uttered the subject line of this entry), and they're really awesome. The third act is another duo, both with guitars and/or mandolins and banjos, and they describe themselves as "Coney Island Delta Blues". Which it turns out they are. We're all floored.

By the time we get on, I'm totally woozy and I have no voice. The rest of the band is really stoned. We're already incredibly self-conscious about being too loud and sounding appropriate for the audience, who by this time aren't really paying attention - there's maybe 20 people there anyway. And for some sick reason, most of the songs we play are songs that I sing lead on, and so I suck, badly. We finish our set to mild indifference, and as soon as I put my guitar down the DJ that goes on after us starts getting his shit set up, which happens to be right around me.

Josh, the other singer and essentially the leader of the band, is miserable, as always. He's totally freaking out about the band and what we're trying to do and how people perceive us and that it's all going to hell. I don't really set his mind at ease.

Eventually I go home.

So today, I'm at the woman's, and we're just chilling out and doing nothing, which is awesome and is all I really wanted to do this weekend in the first place. She's playing Zelda and I'm gonna take a nap after this.

I think there's more that I want to get off of my chest, but that can wait until tomorrow, when I'm at work and I can tap into my bitterness a lot easier.

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