(no subject)
Wednesday is the new Thursday is the new Friday
Having classes on only the first three days of the week could be considered a luxury by some. At this point, I'm so well used to the idea that I rarely spend my free days doing much aside from studying, recording, cleaning, or running errands. Last night, however, I got to play bass for my friend Ignatius’s band at a gig in his house. You see, Ignatius and six of his roommates all split rent on a house in Logan Square, and have arranged their basement to be used as a concert venue. (Dubbed The French Club, to be specific.) All kinds of bands have performed there of various genres and acclaim, which is funny because on one hand, it really is just a dirty, dark, cramped basement. On the other hand, it could be considered the most intimate, DIY, unpretentious environment an artist could ever hope to perform in. After last night’s show, once all the bands had broken down their equipment and driven off to their respective corners of the city, the remaining members of The French Club all decided to take some acoustic guitars, a clarinet, a tambourine, and a soccer/football to the park. Midnight found us under a full moon, winding through the streets of Logan Square while haphazardly strumming Belle and Sebastian songs and playing soccer between members. At the park, we kicked the ball around for a bit, but expended most of our energy running after it. While we rested in the warm breeze under the budding branches of the towering oak trees we talked about ghosts and music, and serenaded a well-dressed boy and a girl in a skirt with my song about Lindsay Lohan. When I finally started home around two, the temperature was still pleasant for short sleeves, and above me the migratory birds had arrived from afar and were chirping in the trees. I took the train into The Loop, but didn't feel like waiting to transfer to the one that would take me to my neighbourhood. I walked home from the city centre with the bass guitar that felt more like a dead body with a handle after each passing block. Taxi drivers, wasting gas on a desolate shift were stalking me the entire way, wondering why I was wandering around downtown at 2:30 on a Thursday morning. "Why doesn't he want a ride? I shall drive very slow and follow him until he changes his mind." Not that I would. By the time I arrived home, it was three. I washed my face and went to bed, and had the best night’s sleep in weeks.
Having classes on only the first three days of the week could be considered a luxury by some. At this point, I'm so well used to the idea that I rarely spend my free days doing much aside from studying, recording, cleaning, or running errands. Last night, however, I got to play bass for my friend Ignatius’s band at a gig in his house. You see, Ignatius and six of his roommates all split rent on a house in Logan Square, and have arranged their basement to be used as a concert venue. (Dubbed The French Club, to be specific.) All kinds of bands have performed there of various genres and acclaim, which is funny because on one hand, it really is just a dirty, dark, cramped basement. On the other hand, it could be considered the most intimate, DIY, unpretentious environment an artist could ever hope to perform in. After last night’s show, once all the bands had broken down their equipment and driven off to their respective corners of the city, the remaining members of The French Club all decided to take some acoustic guitars, a clarinet, a tambourine, and a soccer/football to the park. Midnight found us under a full moon, winding through the streets of Logan Square while haphazardly strumming Belle and Sebastian songs and playing soccer between members. At the park, we kicked the ball around for a bit, but expended most of our energy running after it. While we rested in the warm breeze under the budding branches of the towering oak trees we talked about ghosts and music, and serenaded a well-dressed boy and a girl in a skirt with my song about Lindsay Lohan. When I finally started home around two, the temperature was still pleasant for short sleeves, and above me the migratory birds had arrived from afar and were chirping in the trees. I took the train into The Loop, but didn't feel like waiting to transfer to the one that would take me to my neighbourhood. I walked home from the city centre with the bass guitar that felt more like a dead body with a handle after each passing block. Taxi drivers, wasting gas on a desolate shift were stalking me the entire way, wondering why I was wandering around downtown at 2:30 on a Thursday morning. "Why doesn't he want a ride? I shall drive very slow and follow him until he changes his mind." Not that I would. By the time I arrived home, it was three. I washed my face and went to bed, and had the best night’s sleep in weeks.