x-x-x-x-x. Jersey City

Seventeen/March/Seven

| | | — | | Sometimes writing for ego, sometimes for love, usually for excorcism. Last nights show was fucking dismal, at least at pay time. Headliner had cancelled last minute. Then this kid was goona put us up, but only after we “hung” with him and his friends, at which point we were invited to blow up the air mattress on the dingy brown carpet in the living room… and no, we don’t wanna make a track with you at two in the morning. We wanna take our fuckin’ clothes off and go to sleep. Best intentions, maybe, but motherfuckers just don’t know what it’s like. The sound girl went to school for music production, so of course she was terrible. At one point I jumped up on the stage, we were performing in front of the stage ‘cause the monitors sounded like they had bullet-proof vests over them, and turned off our bad-ass speaker ‘cause i fucking knew she had fucked up the levels since sound-check; and the fucking beat was almost completely missing from the house. “Maybe we should turn the beat on”, on the microphone. Only by sheer force of will did we create a danceable situation and get shit going. Jesus fucking christ. And this bitch made more than we did.

So we got a motel for ten hours. Tried to fuck. Too much exaustion and drunkeness. Bought some new tires and we’ll spend today, till the gig, at Cafe Coco, where we’ve spent a few sessions, doing office work. Bob Dylan and Steely Dan in the background. Months worth of shit to plan out, hustle, negotiate, promote and follow-up on. It’s gettin’ better, but still so damn short of our hopes. If insecurity was food and shortcomings were beer we’d be Henry the 14th or some shit. Ha.

Peace, Mike |

17/03/2007