Last night we played in the Boston area. It was a show we didn't set up, and we soon found out we were playing last, which is bad-bad-bad for an out-of-town band with little local draw. (Our bread and butter on this kind of show is playing somewhere in the middle, sandwiched between the local acts, which forces people to hear us, love us, and buy CDs. This gives us gas money, getting us to the next gig, where the virtuous circle of tour economics makes another go 'round.)
To top it off, I was supposed to get dinner with a friend whom I hadn't seen in a couple years, but we got delayed, because we had to find a music store after the band from the night before totally thrashed my snare-drum head. So, I missed dinner, and Boston Friend couldn't come out to the show because it was inaccessible by train and she is sans car.
We also got to the show really early (like 7:10pm; show start time was around 9:30pm). So I paced around out front, grinding my teeth and smoking cigarettes like it was my job. The club owner was being kind of a dick, and I felt sort of unwanted there. I really just wanted to play a short set and get the fuck out of Boston forever.
We agreed to play only four songs, assuming the room would empty out after the first two bands (who catered to an older-ish crowd, the kind that normally walks out when we play). I trudged up to the stage when the time came, ready to just slog through it and be done already.
But, as it turned out, a fair number of people stuck around and bobbed their heads throughout. The other bands really
liked us, and one dude kept asking why we hadn't played more (we did add a fifth song; about 30 minutes total). I told him that frankly we felt sort of unwelcome by the club owner, and said [Boston accent], "Ah, dat's bullshit. You play da room datcha play to," which really made sense at that particular moment and made me feel better about the whole thing.
After the gig we agreed to hightail it out of Boston, rather than trying to find a place to stay. We had nice cushy couches a mere three hours away in Bennington, VT. (Well, I slept on two cushy chairs pushed together in a sort of open-coffin fashion.) Bennington's gorgeous and great contrast to my shitty, shitty mood before last night's gig.
The point of this rambling and poorly written missive is: (a) I don't know why Ryan is not blogging; he mustn't feel like blogging, that's all; (b) I get the most frustrated when a situation is completely out of my control, as in the gig last night and missing out on dinner with Boston Friend. There was really nothing I could do to improve either situation, and I just had to sit and stew in it, and I hate
that. It's much worse than a situation where I fucked something up, because at least then I have someone to blame.
Anyway, I'm alive and in Vermont. I might take a shower today, too.