This is a formal yet informal post. It’s a long and laborious road to work away from using “I” in a good, formal piece. I got so used to writing in a first person intimate voice in fiction that the “I” of a character – in this case, myself – comes very naturally when talking about events.
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The band Tetrarch canceled out 'cause their tires were too bald. How rock and roll is that?
Browzer was an excellent act to catch again and they never fail to make me so goddam happy that the choir of angels sing in my mind to the sound.
Stop blushing, Dave. You guys are awesome.
Wildo (of Fahrenheit 514) said of them “Man, it doesn’t even sound like someone imitating James Hetfield. He sounds like James Hetfield.” Browzer is so damn deceptive that you’d think there was a Metallica CD being played between sets…except then everyone would be out front and not inside. Wildo and I were in a ghost town. I think we went back to talking about Russian after that...
Breaking Shadows is a comedy troupe, even though they call themselves a band. Steve and Luke are the two funniest mofos I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, straight down to the fake snow on Luke’s Dad’s van. ”Did you go to band camp today?” asked Steve to Luke. “Nope, I didn’t,” Luke replied. “Me either.” For shame, for shame.
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I completely missed Capone’s set (SORRY) ‘cause ship was abandoned to Et Cetera for a momentary lapse of responsibility – even though that club in Bobby Inkslingers had been waiting for twenty minutes on him. There was a limerick to be read and I needed to have one moment of switching teams from observer to participant.
However, there was some pretty groovy art going on on the walls. Someone is apparently into the Hippie Shit of art…and to my delight there was an original poster from a discussion panel involving Hunter. There’s something magic about Steadman’s art that just captures that essence of mayhem with a cause and I never fail to be amazed when catching a random relic from passed ghosts.
Etc Coffeehouse posters - I am also amused at the push pin and staple marks in the corners of the Alice In Blunderland poster. At what point does a poster turn into something worth framing? At what point does a piece of art go from pop culture trash to a piece of art? At what point did it go from getting oogled at while fucked out of your skull on drugs to something to look at while sober, quietly, checking out the lines to see how the printer put the ink on the paper just a little bit off?
The third poster worth taking a picture of didn’t make the cut, sadly. The yellow portion of the picture didn’t show up in the photograph, much to my non-delight.
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