Confessions of a Scapgoat pt 5
2001-08-15 - 12:06 p.m.

before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

I went over to my brother's feeling irritated and pent up. Largely the confluence of my work situation and not getting laid in forever.

Plus the fact that I can't smoke when I want to do so. I don't smoke around my 'rents, and they don't smoke around theirs.

Dad found out I smoked, although I thought he and mom knew waaaay before hand through many, many, many close calls over the past couple of years, last year in Turkey. I went to my hotel room and laid down to sleep, tired and hating Turkey after wandering aimlessly through the hordes of backward motherfuckers that populate Istanbul and their Grand Bazaar. Backward. Mother. Fuckers. I had a ciggarette, and laid in my bed, leaving my smokes on the nightstand. I figured I could take a nap and not worry, not expecting anyone to come in, let alone Dad, as he's a swarthy dealmaker and the Grand Bazaar seemed right up his alley. There was a knock on the door, half awake, and sweating in the Turkish summer heat, I called whomever was there to come in. Dad entered in high spirits, and the first thing he said, upon spotting the smokes was, "WHO'S are THOSE?!" I paused a minute, thinking about the obvious lies I could spill, being caught dead to rites in a backward Muslim country with the Call to Prayer about to wail away any minute like two cats fucking on your lawn, considering the irony that he didn't know through some veil of denial who's ciggarrettes's they were having smoked for twenty years himself, and my general overall annoyance in being in Turkey, the Mexico of Europe, and just said, "Those are mine." "Oooo-kaaaay." Dad said, "You're mother wants to go eat in a little while."

I tuned my guitar after having fixed the input last night, and that took a long time. Real sensitive tuner. And all the noise around didn't help.

We went in separate cars and had dinner at the Soiled Dove, or more precisely Above the Dove, next to Coors Feild, where Bush the Junior was busy courting public sentiment in Colorado, and my Dad declared he had failed, as neither my Brother nor I have anything kind to say about Bush.

We bantered a little bit. Dad focused his ball breaking on other people. Seems like a concious decision, and he as much said so.

My brother knows a lot of the staff at the Soiled Dove, and they came by and talked. gave us 25% comp on the bill. Brother claims he usually gets it all comped, as his fiance's sister's boyfriend was a DJ and bartender for the place.

I get the feeling they ride her social coattails a bit, and the act is starting to wear thin with all these people. They arranged a camping rondezvous over the 4th of July in Steamboat Springs, going as far as to reserve several campsites for the former employees of my brother's finace's sisters, only to have them flake out, not call, nor show up.

Hey its not my life, nor how I choose to run my life. I have no illusions, whereas it'd probably help me if I did.

After we left the Dove, we went to Tin Lizzie's, a bar downtown where we had a slot to play an open mic night.

Tin Lizzie's-on Market, just off of Spear Blvd. Place has a large picture of Gordie Howe, and Joe Sakic in a Nordique's sweater, as well as a Michigan State University flag. Two things I love: the Red Wings and MSU. Open mic every tuesday. I will return.

There was no one in the bar. Practically no one. I'd say there was a surging crowd of maybe eight people. A jazz quartet was finishing up.

The open mic guy came up and introduced himself. He said they were the last guys, and we'd have an hour on stage.

An hour!

Right on.

So we got up and played. I was a little rough at first, and it took awhile for the sound guy to get the various levels right.

It was me, my brother, his fiance' (who really has no talent), and Brian, a kooky friend of my brother's.

We played a few songs. I didn't get into the groove until we played "Jody Girl" by Bob Seger, a song we put on the album we made for Dad for his birthday this year.

When I play, and am playing well, it flows. Much like channelling something, a spirit or a creative flow or something.

Sometimes I don't make an effort to remember how I recorded something. On a certain level, I think its the changeablitlity, the flow an nuance of the growth of a song that is great.

When we recorded "Jody Girl" with me playing slide on my acoustic steel guitar, it was a one shot recording. Sometimes I sit down and do take after take after take. And sometimes, you just know. That's the one.

On that album, it was some of my best recorded playing to date. I never have played it since.

I played my riffs and fills note for note. My parents faces lit up.

(remember, we recorded this when I came up with the inspired idea while tripping, and Dad was just beginning treatment for his MS. It was in the back of my head that this might be the last year he walks. The album came to this song, and he and mom danced to it in the kitchen. Dad never dances.)

My playing got better as the night progressed. I switched guitars to my acoustic in open tuning, and my brother's fiance' and Brian took a break.

I started playing the blues. Specifically a blues I wrote.

My brother picked it up, and that left me to roam a bit more in the style I liked. It felt so free, so pure. It was my cathartic release of this pent up week of bullshit. It all slid away from me, while I played mad, mad licks. Fast and slow, up down and all around, I played with style. There were times when the sound of my guitar and the crush and flow of the notes reminded me of my guitar hero Stevie Ray. It was so pure. I played my soul.

And we finished.

I had lost track of the bar. I most of the "crowd" went home awhile ago.

Nobody around to appreciate it

Best playing no one ever heard.

Brian played "Salisbury Hill" next, I think, with my brother backing him with vocals. Brian always plays "Salisbury Hill". To be fair, its not the easiest song, but man...nothing like beating a dead horse. Especially when its the only horse you have. Might as well beat it.

Then some guy who was really into what we were doing requested some Dire Straights song that the Indigo Girls covered. Some girls wwalked into the bar giving me the casual once over. They watched me slouch over to the stage, likely thinking I was that one obnoxious guy who bothers the musicians, or wants to seem cool by association.

And then I got on stage, grabbed my chrome bodied steel acoustic guitar and we played quite well, my brother and I.

I picked up a riff that resonated with the rythym he played, building for a solo in the right place. It sounded sweet and good. I didn't burst out, or dominate. It fit, like giving a daisy to a girl you like, who likes you back. It sounded really good. Sweet. It felt good to let life's foibles slip away, if only for an hour or so.

Even as bad as life gets sometimes, at least I can find a little peace.

Trapped in the anxiety and irritation of everyday life, finding a little beauty always helps my soul.

Sometimes its my only saving grace.