seattle, cutting faces and forgetting nirvana

It's a lazy dog-dangling afternoon. Not a care in the world. I don't know how it happened, but I really have absolutely no plans today. None. It is the greatest feeling in the world.

Seattle

AG had a show up in Seattle and, graciously, invited me along to be her roadie. All I had to do was lug a heavy ass cello around. Hell yeah.

I'd been to Seattle four or five times and I always thought it was kind of bullshit, but I'd never really given the place a chance. I mean I've never really checked out downtown or anything.

Here's the thing: I was recently in a grunge band. Well, we called ourselves grunge, but it was kind of a joke. Our songs were what we imagined grunge sounded like had any of us actually listened to it. I think we sounded like grunge, but how would I really know? I wrote the songs, but I would be hard pressed to tell the difference between Sound Garden and… well I don't know any other grunge bands. See? People often told me we sounded nothing like grunge music. I needed some vindication. So in my grand tradition of doing everything backwards it was time to discover my roots.

We flew into Seattle and rented a car. Here's the thing: I'm a sucker for up sells. I mean I love upgrading things. Salesmen love me and I love them. GPS? Hell yeah. Upgrade to a nicer car? Hell yeah. I bring this up because the GPS ended up being the bane of AG's existence. I had never really gotten to use one of those things before and I loved it. I gave it all my trust. We were a team. Me and the GPS.

A GPS sucks the spontaneity and heart out of driving around in a strange city. This comforts me, but freaks out anyone with any kind of heart or sense of adventure. I would follow the GPS's computer voice to the end of the Earth.

"In 40 yards turn left"

"In 40 yards turn left"

"In 40 yards turn left"

AG and I would end up driving in circles. She would be pointing in the direction we need to go and still I would repeat my mantra of "Trust the GPS". This would have gone on for three days, but AG, wisely, unplugged the thing and took over driving.

We had a chance to hang out downtown for a while before AG's show started. Here's the thing about downtown Seattle: It's white. I mean WHITE. And it's clean. Where was all the litter? Everyone we passed seemed happy. The natives were practically skipping down the street. It was unreal.

Where were the homeless people to step over every few feet? Why was no one asking me for money? How do all these Starbucks stay in business? There were no poor, angry, black youth menacing the corners. Shouldn't there, at least, be poor, angry white youth menacing the corners? I was not in Oakland anymore.

At first I was elated. It was pretty nice to walk around a city and feel no real or imagined tension, but I very quickly became creeped the fuck out. I complain about the East Bay a lot, but when you take away all the sketchiness and character you end up with a stepford wife metropolis. White, middle-class happy people – in great numbers – are absolutely terrifying.

AG plays "experimental sound art" and, because I want to be near her, I keep finding myself at "experimental sound art" shows. Now, I haven't listened to a new band in, like, ten years and my itunes artists are firmly split into "rock" and "hard rock" so - despite AG being hella fine – these shows are a bit trying.

I'm sarcastic to a fault and my cynicism is unwavering, but who among you could keep a straight face while listening to a guy hold a power drill up to a microphone for half an hour - as I did a few weeks prior to this trip? The performance ended to thunderous applause.

"He's a genius!"

"He's exploring the boundaries of what sound is!"

Really? Maybe. I understand that to really appreciate any new art form you may need a foundation in the medium. The first time someone hears rap or sees a Picasso they will, no doubt, have reservations at the barking rhymes and grotesque figures. I suppose that could be me. I hated Jawbreaker and Operation Ivy for years before I became, unhealthily, obsessed with them.

Fuck it. My hat is off to you Mr. Power Drill Guy. May your power drilling fill the hearts and, uhg, ears of people for years and years. May you reach the highest echelons of power-drill-sound-art and become a legend and inspiration for young aspiring power-drill-sound-artists around the world.

Anyways. Back to Seattle. AG played a great set. She rocked the cello. I tend to lurk around the back of the club when I go to shows and I overheard some guys talking about how rad she sounded. I had kind of a glowy moment of proudness and appreciation. Hearing these strangers talk fondly about AG and her music made me all gushy.

Then I got all jealous and cut their faces up. I'm kidding. I wasn't jealous. I just love cutting up faces. LOVE IT. Who doesn't?

The show ended with a quartet of balding, middle aged men plucking these little plucky instruments and fucking with various peddles creating a cornucopia of haunting, echoing plucky sounds. The music was whatever (see last sentence/everything I have ever written), but the thing I really dug was the little fantasy about these guys and their lives that brewed in my head while I watched them.

I imagined one of these guys at home or at work. Maybe at some shitty job that morning - just counting down the hours to his show. Maybe he's been counting down the hours for weeks. I do that.

Maybe it's the only time these four, all life, friends ever get together. His wife doesn't get the plucky sounds, but she humors him. She knows that one night a month he's going to disappear for a couple of hours to a shitty little club downtown and do the thing he loves more than anything.

He's going to stand on stage, oblivious to the crowd, and play trippy plucky sounds with his three best friends in the whole world.

And I got to sit - hunched in a dark corner sipping a bud light - and watch.