This Is What Happens

When I spend too much time alone, I start talking to sad emo songs. About halfway through, I realized that it was sort of weird to be doing the dishes and having a loud conversation with Jets To Brazil. So I transcribed it.

Sea Anemone

The curtain's a sea anemone
Whoa, whoa. What?
in the way it sways
Nice. Nice.
to the slow breeze

I lie spread out on the floor
Oh, poor Blake.
looking at these things
Things are nice, though.
and most of them are yours
That's too bad, geez, I'm sorry.

and it's so nice
What's nice?
sitting very still
Yeah, sitting still's pretty cool.
without those old shoes
Whose old shoes?
I could never fill
Oh...yours.
starfish with its arms out in a daze
Whoa! A starfish? Where did that come from?
staring at the stars
Is it you? I get it. You're the starfish.
through an ocean haze
Yeah, yeah. like your tears. They're both salt water and all that. You're a star.

was I one you wished upon?
burned out like a lightbulb
A lightbulb?
when you turned me on
Good one, good one.
and it's so nice
What's nice?
sleeping here
Yeah, sleeping.
all alone
Ohhh...alone? I'm sorry, Blake.
with my ashtray
(smoker)
and white courtesy telephone
That's actually a nice little phrase. White courtesy telephone.
now I'm making out the shapes
Making out! Awesome! Who are you making out with?
like the shower rod - can it take my weight?
No one. You're going to kill yourself. Don't kill yourself!
I will tell you I am fine
I thought you were going to kill yourself?
I got some news, friend, feels like I'm dying
sounds like it, too.

turtle on its back in the desert sea
Wait, the desert? We were just in the ocean. And your living room.
and you look like a cool drink
Yeah you do.
just slightly out of reach
draw myself into the shell
Oh, you're the turtle.
waiting on a sign from god
The religious turtle.
or a nod from hell

and it's so nice
sitting very still
without those old shoes
I could never fill

now we're turning on the lights
Yay, the lightbulb didn't burn out after all.
it's the first day
Of the rest of your life!
of my second life
take my name off of the lease
Oooohhh...
you can even keep the name it never suited me
Burn!

Fondly, Of Course

It seems my appetite for nostalgia is outpacing itself. I find myself sitting in back rooms, listening to shitty bands play, reminescing about sitting in other back rooms and listening to other shitty bands play. "Shitty" is not the word I'm looking for. I'm sorry. It's whatever that intangible element of novice is, when a kid steps up to the poorly amped mike and says..

"I made up this song yesterday. It doesn't really have any words yet. I thought I'd try and just try some sort of free association."

And then he takes a quick step back and checks the chord he's fingering, and then taps his toe one two three, one two three and begins. Or when the band has finished setting up and they all look at each other, holding a conversation we can all hear because, I mean, we're standing about three feet away, and they're arguing over keys but then it all gets resolved and one two three, one two three and they burst out with drums and anxious strumming. When they step up to the mike it's with their mouths wide open and eyes squeezed firmly shut, barking out each word until they forget a few and then get back on track.

The kids in this venue are almost all underage, and they almost all know the string of performers. In between sets they help wind up cords, they move around equipment, they congratulate. All hyped up on Red Bulls, they bounce around to the danceable songs and adjust their sweaters when the last beats die out.

I remember the old Meow Meow, the venue we loved to hate. Filing in behind kids younger than we were, scraping the insides of our wallets and behind the sofa cushions (no, really), to find the five bucks that was going to get us into the show. The girls were all wearing carefully tattered clothing, the boys were growing their first facial hair and all of them were clumping in carefully delineated groups around the room, sending emissaries back and forth when gossip required it. Low ceilings, concrete floor, a leopard print curtain I always hated. But the bands! Holey Moley! I saw Pedro the Lion, I saw the Gossip, the All Girl Summer Fun Band (who I tentatively approached afterwards), the Dismemberment Plan on their last tour, Alien Ant Farm (I was on the guest list, no paying money for that one), Mates Of State, Calvin Johnson (lots of K Records bands, if I remember right), Casket Lottery, Delorean ( I think. Either them or Crosstide), and then just an endless string of local and national small small bands that were opening for whomever I had heard of that headlined. I know this list is woefully short. I remember going once or twice a week, making the drive in from my apartment in the suburbs, waiting to turn twenty-one so I wouldn't have to hang out with fourteen year olds anymore.

And yet... I'm still sort of nostalgic. Everyone was young and fun. Not mid-twenties and drinking heavily, nodding at the saddest lyric they could hear. These kids were rabid and erratic, twitching and happy in the music, and I was still nervous and wierd leaning up against a wall. Now, I find myself lost in a crowd that's standing still, wanting to move and not understanding why everybody's feet are still sticking to the floor.

It's Too Late Now

The week is pushing against itself in a frustration of hours rubbing up to hours too quickly. It is constrained, tied tight in a corset of minutes that it can't wiggle out of. I could let it out, take the last few steps running and then stumble to a walk, but instead there's the possibility of lacing more and more in. So I make some calls. A stamp on the hand, ushering me in, disaffected but thrilled. I want to name drop, event drop, time and place drop all over the floor and let you see, we'll see. I can tell you things that sew flaring skirts around it without ever naming names. There was my wrist, held out and flashing a stripe of blue bracelet that disagreed and said no, I am really with the band, I swear. Wandering up stairs to stand awe and star struck by the men with guitars, standing out being outstanding, holding tight and lofty court with the people all playing at being people who are playing. Musicfest, once more, I have entered your pricy chambers unscathed. And then the band, oh, the darling band. Coming home early morning to the french boy asking if I'd like some herbal tea. Who would say no, really? They were only briefly here, sleeping on our floor and sofas, filling the living rooom with the warm stink of tired boy. In the small checkered cafe, yellow sweatered minors stomping at invisible spiders in a caffeinated dance to the sweet small percussion and recorder accompanied beats. The band was good, so good. In the morning I made them thick carrot raisin pancakes that we spread with light cream cheese and ate, standing around the absence of a table in the dining room. Walking home after shows in parts of town that would kick my ass if I didn't have my donut held high and a paper carton of milk square in my hand as I walk bold booted through too many blocks on my way past doorways and winos, gutterpunks crumpled black leather in shadows. Week of September 4-10th. Bands Seen: Crooked Fingers, Careen, Robyn Hitchcock, Train Go Sorry, Colin Meloy, Dolorean, Kid Francois, Chad Bault, Arctic Circle, Reclinerland, Laura Gibson. Actual Performances Seen, Thus Eliminating From the List Bands and Members Merely Glimpsed While Hanging Around Other Band's Shows:Crooked Fingers, Robyn Hitchcock, Colin Meloy, Kid Francois, Chad Bault, Arctic Circle. Groups Accidentally Missed: Hot Air Balloon Ride, Jean Grae. Bands Shaken Hands With: Crooked Fingers, Kid Francois, Arctic Circle, Chad Bault, Laura Gibson, Hot Air Balloon Ride. Performers Briefly Lived With: Kid Francois, Arctic Circle. Singer/Songwriters Trapped In Stalled Cars With Until The Tow Truck Came: Laura Gibson