x-x-x-x-x. Katherine the Terrible

Thirty/September/Five

At the end of it all, it’s easy to imagine discovering that life’s main achievements were using up cars, and killing bugs with the windshield.

As promised: Anatomy of a Crap Performance.

Arrive late, stressed-out, jealous, insecure and tired. Be rude and arrogant to the bartender, who is also the owner of the establishment, and whos friends fill the place. After arguing through the end of the first acts performance (the only part you were present for), carry your gear onto the stage, while they’re still on it, and grunt at them, throwing dirty looks at any audience members you make eye contact with. They look like stuck-up assholes who won’t understand your art, anyway.

Then try to say something disrespectful to the sound person, while they’re on stage, loud enough for anyone near by to hear, and begin testing your equipment really loudly, with your back to the room. When you get on the microphone, yell across everyone’s head to the sound board, exclaiming, “Excuse me, Misses Soundman, can you please fix this? One Two, Hello Hello, One Two”, and look really annoyed as they scurry around trying to deal.

After you’re completely satisfied that the sound is “As good as it’s gonna get, I guess”, begin your first song, way too loud, and ignoring the wincing faces of any audience members too nieve to have left yet. If you have any co-performers, be sure not to make eye contact, and cut them off if they’re speaking between songs. The audience should feel like not only they and the venue, but also the music itself, are an intrusion on your otherwise miserable life. If rhythm, dynamics or intonation are an aspect of what you do, try not to give them too much importance and whatever you do, make all of it half-assed.

At the end of the last song, remembering arrogantly that everyone thinks you suck, unplug your shit loudly and begin packing up while the last note is still ringing, if possible. As for goodbye’s and fighting over payment, well, you can figure at least THAT much out, fucking idiot.

Now go on to your next stupid web page and don’t ask about when we stayed at our homegirl’s bro’s house in Carolina ‘cause the coke-snorting fool and his sweaty friends nearly got one of us arrested for smoking herb, and at four in the morning, decided it was time to watch a fucking Grateful Dead video in the room we were gonna sleep in. “Sounds like Hell, dude”. We slept in his kids room.

Hey - no hard feelings, man. Been there. You guys are alright. Your kid is the bomb, and your sister is the out-and-out SHIT. Props to Rob Macabre too.

X’z an’ Oh’z. Mike iLL |

30/09/2005