I dreamt it was October. A cold, wet October – not like the June Octobers we normally get – more like a November October.
Maybe it’s the weather – cold and grey again – jealous of friends that I saw just a couple of days ago with THEIR weather : Heather navigating the snowy mountains of Utah, Divinity Rose somewhere in New England exhuming her car from the snow that fell last night. A grey day. Even the cat seems slow-moving in the clutches of all this grey.
Rain pouring down steadily, wailing sirens off in the middle distance, half-heard phone conversations and half-remembered dreams. I dreamt that our friends Amy and Nate had won a prize for their pickle costumes at the local Aboretum Halloween Soiree – and I dreamt that we felt their pickle costumes deserved first place, not mere honourable mentions. They were the best damned pickles in the place, but as the mists clear and I remember other bits and pieces of the dream, it’s entirely possible that the rules of the contest required them to show up as herbs, and that’s why that half-assed parsley costume took first place even though it was ne’r as nicely-designed.
Last night I drove out to Fairfax, VA to play for Juels Bland’s birthday show at Earp’s Ordinary. It was my first time at the venue, and since we’ve got a show there in May and there are definitely some idiosyncracies to the venue, I’m very glad I went if ONLY to get the lay of the land – but beyond that, it was a joyous show. Jillian Matundan and new-to-me artist Ari Voxx also performing. We had a good time, Ari’s knowledge of the Last Unicorn is admirable, Jillian ruined Donald Duck and Juels and I enjoyed jamming together.
The owner of Earp’s was eager to get my opinion on a bunch of things, including streaming setups, cameras, sightlines and sound gear. Earp’s has been a long, long time coming and I think the wait may need to be a little longer before the wait’s actually justified, but I had a good sandwich, a good drink and a good time. Earp’s reminds me a LOT of basement-aesthetic venues I’ve played in my youth, but classed up. Like a grown-up, cleaned-up Paloma’s or something. I was disappointed that taking my boots off and scooting around in my socks wasn’t as smooth as I was expecting, but it was a clean enough venue that I felt like I could take my boots off and scoot around in my socks.
Or maybe I was just pretending to be young and playful.
Nice bathrooms. Plenty of backstage space. The drive was horrendous, but it generally is. Parking was easy. Tis a fair trade.
Long drive home in the rain, mulling the show, backing away from the mull, listening to podcasts instead. Memories of Chris Cornell posters in Kristin’s bedroom in high school (note spelling), memories of the deaths of Kurt Cobain, Shannon Hoon and Layne Staley. Sometimes I’m amazed that Perry Farrell is still alive. Every photograph of my dead heros look like children because I outlived them all but Cornell. The sense of communities coming together to mourn their own. Worrying about my own community and feeling my age edging me out of it further and further. I came home and watched Friends to unwind and Chandler’s dead too. Maybe the pickle dream was in response to all this morbidity.
The sirens have died. Birds are calling. The grey’s a little less V and maybe a little more VII. Might-even see a little VIII mixed with blue, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Happy birthday Juels Bland.
