Another California winter and the sun is burning through the window. The sky is a cool almost fluorescent blue–like a piece of low grade stationary you would use for posting band flyers and lost pets. I’m sitting with a laptop and a small orange cat named Inspector Hobbes...slowly drifting into the vortex.
My father’s house is getting a face lift. Nothing drastic–just a little rouge to hide the cracks. It’s the first paint job in years and when it’s done he’ll belong to an exclusive group of red house dwellers. So far I’ve seen about two red houses in this town, the others being a church and a fire department. Could it mean that people in red houses are caught between heaven and hell? Who knows. Anyway I kind of dig it and it beats the rainbow of beige and suede that make this town look like a Pottery Barn catalog.
On the band front things are continuing in their perpetual state of transition. Slade is out of the band which is one reason I’ve put off writing for awhile. I think we took things as far as they could go with our mix of insane personalities. I wish him well and no matter the drama I feel lucky for the time we spent working and writing together. Had some great memories and I’ll never open a Pacifico without thinking of ‘Ol Slade Dawg. Happy trails to a great player and cool compadre. Hopefully no bridges were burned in the process.
Since we lost our low end we’ve been debating as to add a replacement but somehow it just doesn’t feel right. I have a hankering we’re a trio for good which is fine considering we’re edging towards a new sound. The tone is creeping into spooky jazz territory and that’s a nice fit for the material. It’s also a nice fit for me personally since now I have an excuse to wear bow-ties and use words like hankering.
On a doomsday note–being that this is now 2012 and we’re facing either an apocalypse or an enlightenment–I’ve come to terms with the fact that this could be my last band experience. The way I see it even if we don’t all die and simply become re-born my songs may seem a bit too existentially outdated for all the enlightened ears. I’ll probably end up on a beach somewhere with a banjo writing songs about transcendence and using too many major-seventh chords. So I really have to enjoy this dream while I can.
Since I’m talking about my last band I should mention my first band, the legendary Tastes Just Like Chicken, just so future aliens have all the historical facts.
Curtain rises....a muffled cough echoes through the auditorium as the spotlight falls upon the storyteller, his hands gripping a generous pint of thick black ale and a package of Red Vines.
It all started in the hallowed halls of Santa Cruz high when my head was filled with dreams and covered with just as many zits. It was my junior year and I had yet to find my one moment of high school glory, though hurling a square of processed cheese on the side of the science building had come close. What I really needed was to do something big–to shake the very foundations of high school existence and to find my place of glory among my fellow freaks. It wasn’t until I saw a poster for the SCHS Talent Showcase that I knew how I was going to make it happen.
The next day I was sitting in Mr. Levy’s video class, doodling ideas and trying to get the attention of my friend Nate, half asleep in the row next to me. “Yo Nate,” I whispered to him, tapping the side of his desk with my red Reebox sneaker. “What’s up bro?” he asked, twisting his hand towards his head in his signature white man Rasta-Wave. “I’m getting a band together for the big show,” I said.
“What big show?”
“The big talent showcase in two months.”
“You call that a big show?”
“Well the posters are everywhere...it seems like it’s going to be sort of a big deal.” Nate turned towards the front of the classroom and put his head in his hands and whispered through his fingers. “Woodstock....Lollapalooza.... The Concert for Bangladesh. Those are big shows.”
“It doesn’t matter Nate–just listen for a sec–”
“There is a MONUMENTAL difference between watching Zeppelin at Madison Square Garden and some chick in the auditorium doing an interpretive dance to the Cranberries. Not trying to burn your bong here but–”
“Alright dude. I get it–no one is going to get rich off the t-shirt rights. Would you just listen?”
“Fine, bro...tell me the dream.”
“Alright so it’s like this–”
A piece of chalk shot against the metal lip of the board, jolting our heads towards the front of the class. Mr. Levy’s freckled arms crossed against an orange Memorex t-shirt as he leaned his head on his right shoulder. “Alright–do you guys have something to add about clock wipes?” he asked. A deafening silence filled the class as I sat and waited to see how Nate was going to save us.
“No sir Mr. Levy” Nate finally said. “I did have some concerns– about the compatibility of Beta formats when splicing–but my neighbor here put me on the right track. No pun intended sir.” With that Mr. Levy gave a constipated glance, sighed and returned to storyboarding the chalkboard.
As Mr. Levy commenced mumbling in the background of my reality I quietly ripped a sheet of binder paper and tried to make my message as clear as I could: STARTING A BITCHIN’ BAND. NEED YOUR GUTAR TO COMPLETE THE LINE-UP!!! After I had added the right amount of exclamation points and devil horns I folded the paper and tossed it on Nate’s binder. He took out what looked like a library pencil and shot me back: YOU WANT TO BORROW MY GUITAR? I laughed and ripped off another shred of my Mead and sent the clarification: NO DUDE! WE NEED YOU TO COME PLAY AND LAY DOWN SOME KICKIN’ GROOVES AND GNARLY SOLOS.
The next installment took a little more time, but since it was a weighty decision I understood completely. A minute later a paper triangle slid against my desk with the words: LOOK DUDE––I ONLY PLAY TWO CHORDS. I shook my head but knew this was only a minor setback. “It’s cool Nate...don’t stress,” I whispered.
“My amp is like 15 volts too...that’s less then a vacuum, man.”
“We might have to go acoustic...it’s okay,” I said.
“We might have to go acoustic...it’s okay,” I said.
“Who else is in this band?”
“A few other guys...sort of.”
“What do you mean sort of?”
“Well I haven’t really asked them yet. I thought maybe you could. Anyway I’ve got some great lyrics and a few grooves that really– ”
Mr. Levy’s chalk went on it’s second voyage, this time nearly shattering.
“Alright that’s it jokers,” yelled Mr. Levy. “I want to see you guys front and center.” About a second later the bell rang and the class filed out, chanting “busted” as we made our way to the little man with the ponytail staring us down.
“So what’s so important that you feel a need to interrupt my class?”
“Well sir” began Nate, only to be cut off by another warning.
“And don’t give me lines about editing.”
“Well okay...in that case Shi-Guy over here is starting a band and he wants me to be his Santana.” With that Mr. Levy chuckled. “You two forming a band huh? Some how I’m not thinking Santana. More like the Chipmunks Christmas Special.”
I smiled, quietly envisioning the T-Square lying up against the chalkboard impaling his scrawny frame and roasting it over a fire of his smoldering VHS tapes. “Okay jokers–get out of here. But if I catch any more band talk you’ll find yourself in the office.”
We left and walked down the narrow concrete walkway that led to the gym. “God I hate that freaking Leprechaun bastard. So are you in?” I asked. Nate choked up on his backpack embroidered with Ziggy Marley and Pavement patches. “Sounds like you’ve got a dream and I’ve got nothing to loose. Yeah I’m in.”
“Excellent dude...excellent.”
“I might even be able to learn a few chords. But the wailing solos will have to wait. If you want I can ask Jordan from art class. He’s been playing for like seven months.”
“Seven months? That would be great,” I said. “We need a veteran in this band.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
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