I’ve been having too much fun lately.
No, it has nothing to do with anybody named Kardashian, either.
Yesterday (Tuesday) I was in Davie with a guitarist and a drummer at Stage 84. It was open mic night — sign up and perform for up to 15 minutes. We played one original number and two retreads. Because one of the retreads was a British number (the Kinks’ Where Have All the Good Times Gone?), we were awarded a free shot of some hideous apple-flavored liquor I wouldn’t wash my tools with, the guitarist drank both. That on top of half a dozen Anchor Steam drafts. I haven’t heard from him today. He’s probably dead, or wishing he was.
New tee shirt: Will Play for Bad Liquor.
I’m trying to remember the last time I performed music on stage. Guido and I have been together since the mid-80s, and I’d already quit — yesterday was only the second time she’s ever seen me play. I think the other time was when I sat in on a session at a picnic somewhere in the late 90’s. That time we played for free beer and barbecued meat.
The long-term tendencies here don’t describe an arc of wealth or success.
But just the prospect of performing again has been an incredible testosterone-producing energy boost, and whole buckets of fun. Which continues on Friday, when the guitarist and I perform for an hour at PRL EuroCafe in downtown Hollywood. It’s also an art show: the guitarist (whom I won’t name for fear of associating him with this blog of wretched repute) will have a selection of his visual work on exhibition. A talented soul, he created the poster pictured here as well.
We are psyched, if not polished. He’s a relative novice, I’m rusty. We’re several months into this and our sound needs many more hours to gel properly, but there’s music here that a forgiving audience will recognize and enjoy. We also need a human drummer: the canned variety we’re stuck with doesn’t have a good sense of dynamics and nil originality.
Anyway, come see us! No scorecard necessary: there’s only room for two on the so-called stage, and I’ll be the one playing left-handed. The place is tiny, so come at 8 when we start if you want to wedge in.
If you Google PRL you’ll get a decent idea of the place: 50 oddity European beers (lots of Polish and Russian brands, some deadly). No food, but Mauro’s Pizza is next door, and not only is it excellent pizza, you can buy it by the gigantic single slice and bring it into PRL. The owners of both establishment are related, and, I discovered recently, ex-Philadelphians which explains (a) the good pizza, and (2) the attitude, pronounced, “atty-tood.”