missing you
One of those days where, for no good reason, I just want to listen to the Strange Attractors all day. Where I feel like I'm just going to suffocate if I don't listen to "49th Street".
Don't know what it is. I've written about this before, but I always immediately feel like I'm back in the club when I listen to them. It just takes me back to that feeling, that smell of a rock club and the tubes burning and stale beer and wood and latent cigarette smoke and a beer in your hand and there's nothing better in the entire fucking universe. I'd rather live in a rock club than a million dollar mansion. I'd rather live in a rock club than a penthouse apartment. It's just how I'm wired.
OK, maybe not live. I could certainly live above, and spend all of my free time downstairs. I like my apartment and our enormous palm tree in the bedroom.
But, goddammit. When I go to heaven it's going to be a rock club, and all of my friends will be there. It's simple, but it's Everything.
So I like listening to Strange Attractors on mornings like these, moreso than listening to my own bands, because I don't get to enjoy myself the same way when I'm playing. It's fun in a totally different way. But for my money absolutely nothing beats that feeling of finishing a great show, getting offstage to grab a couple of free drinks, and then turning right around and cheering on the next band because they're your friends and you love them and they sound great tonight. A feeling of accomplishment, of movement. All of us are here now and we're here for each other. All smiles.
I saw Ken a few weeks ago. I was coming home from my big huge long night of loading up the PA and band equipment for Drummer Caleb's wedding. It paid well, but it was an enormous pain in the ass. Took an hour to load each time (I loaded/unloaded four time in one day). It took me forever to get back to Brooklyn, where I was gonna meet Sleazy, who was going to help me unload the truck for good and send me on my way.
I popped in very late, having taken a lot longer than expected to pack the band back up and drive all the way down from Washington Heights to Williamsburg. It had been hours since anyone had heard from me. Sleazy was worried, until I popped up out of nowhere behind him around three in the morning. The relief in his face was the absolute sweetest.
We thought we'd grab another hand, so we tracked down Florian at a house party down the street. Everybody was on the roof.
I popped up and there he was, right in the doorway. Same bald head, same long goatee, just two years removed from the last time I saw him. We both almost broke down in tears.
He fell off the grid after his divorce, after the breakup of his band. He re-emerged briefly for a surprise party Spring threw me last year, but quickly disappeared again.
We spent much of the rest of the night arm in arm, hands on heads. "This guy...I'm telling you, this is the guy!" "I love this guy! This guy is one of my favorite people in the world!"
But it was late and I hadn't seen my home in a very long time. We left to unload the van, returned, drank some booze and stayed up just a little bit longer, and then it was time to go. The sun was coming up.
All of which is to say that Ken (and, presumably, Betsy) wrote one of my favorite songs in the world, and if I didn't listen to it today I was going to die. So I'm listening to it today, and I hope you do too.
Ghost Runner has another show on the calendar, by the way. It's about twelve years away, but its on there. Actually, it's the first Saturday in November, so we can all get together and celebrate the election of President Barack Obama, and raise a few glasses to old friends while we're at it.
Don't know what it is. I've written about this before, but I always immediately feel like I'm back in the club when I listen to them. It just takes me back to that feeling, that smell of a rock club and the tubes burning and stale beer and wood and latent cigarette smoke and a beer in your hand and there's nothing better in the entire fucking universe. I'd rather live in a rock club than a million dollar mansion. I'd rather live in a rock club than a penthouse apartment. It's just how I'm wired.
OK, maybe not live. I could certainly live above, and spend all of my free time downstairs. I like my apartment and our enormous palm tree in the bedroom.
But, goddammit. When I go to heaven it's going to be a rock club, and all of my friends will be there. It's simple, but it's Everything.
So I like listening to Strange Attractors on mornings like these, moreso than listening to my own bands, because I don't get to enjoy myself the same way when I'm playing. It's fun in a totally different way. But for my money absolutely nothing beats that feeling of finishing a great show, getting offstage to grab a couple of free drinks, and then turning right around and cheering on the next band because they're your friends and you love them and they sound great tonight. A feeling of accomplishment, of movement. All of us are here now and we're here for each other. All smiles.
I saw Ken a few weeks ago. I was coming home from my big huge long night of loading up the PA and band equipment for Drummer Caleb's wedding. It paid well, but it was an enormous pain in the ass. Took an hour to load each time (I loaded/unloaded four time in one day). It took me forever to get back to Brooklyn, where I was gonna meet Sleazy, who was going to help me unload the truck for good and send me on my way.
I popped in very late, having taken a lot longer than expected to pack the band back up and drive all the way down from Washington Heights to Williamsburg. It had been hours since anyone had heard from me. Sleazy was worried, until I popped up out of nowhere behind him around three in the morning. The relief in his face was the absolute sweetest.
We thought we'd grab another hand, so we tracked down Florian at a house party down the street. Everybody was on the roof.
I popped up and there he was, right in the doorway. Same bald head, same long goatee, just two years removed from the last time I saw him. We both almost broke down in tears.
He fell off the grid after his divorce, after the breakup of his band. He re-emerged briefly for a surprise party Spring threw me last year, but quickly disappeared again.
We spent much of the rest of the night arm in arm, hands on heads. "This guy...I'm telling you, this is the guy!" "I love this guy! This guy is one of my favorite people in the world!"
But it was late and I hadn't seen my home in a very long time. We left to unload the van, returned, drank some booze and stayed up just a little bit longer, and then it was time to go. The sun was coming up.
All of which is to say that Ken (and, presumably, Betsy) wrote one of my favorite songs in the world, and if I didn't listen to it today I was going to die. So I'm listening to it today, and I hope you do too.
Ghost Runner has another show on the calendar, by the way. It's about twelve years away, but its on there. Actually, it's the first Saturday in November, so we can all get together and celebrate the election of President Barack Obama, and raise a few glasses to old friends while we're at it.