Mardi Gras Money

When an unknown band plays at a record store it is with few exceptions, a humbling and sparsly attended event. This evening at Euclid Records in New Oreans was no exception. Surrounded by images of the famous, infamous, well-known and little-known of you peers and predecessors, you perform for the propietors and shoppers, if there are any, trying not to question your place in the universe.

The rest of the evening, thus far (it’s only nine o’clock) has been one of those full moon, lonely-one-small-bad-decision-after-another affairs, who’s centerpiece consisted of carrying the gear along the route of the Krewe de Veaux parade - it’s Mardi Gras - only to find the venue still closed, walk back to the car and, parade over, drive everything to the club. A very not-rock-star night so far, but often the sinking heart is only rearing back for an extra high bounce. The streets are packed and tonights show with MC Trachiotomy may turn out to be really rewarding, even beyond the music.

Yes, it was a busy, long show. We played for about three hours. It’s close to 5am now. Wanted to not drink, but by 3am it was the only thing could enable further socializing. Is it fucked up to care more about the money than the party?

Maybe it’s just misguided to care more about party than money. End up living on the train tracks… Or is that healthy? The parades sometimes (apparently) have these offshoots, and after writing the beginning of this entry, what was descibed as one of these offshoots came marching/riding out of the quarter, which turned to have none other than Otter being pulled along, seated in some kind of crazy rickshaw they had supposedly gone up to South Carolina to get back a couple of weeks ago. This might be the Venus parade she’s usually in, although that’s not quite the correct name.

Most of the few “floats” this parade featured looked like shopping carts on steroids. One of them was called the Drum Cart or something and had a six foot tall pedastal with someone on top dressed in a business suit, wearing a pig mask, surrounded by people beating out a good version of the tribal-punk rhythms that might be described as Burningman beats.

The main Krewe de Veaux parade contained about 7 marching bands and it was hard not to play the “guess without looking if they’re black or white” game, which seems really pathetic.

It’s eight-thirty in the morning on Sunday. Hundred eighty miles to home.