Last Night: a day in the life of the beast.

 "They say that I have no hits and that I'm difficult to work with. And they say that like it's a bad thing." - Tom Waits.

      It's only six, but it has already been a long day, the dirty streets and bad air let me know I'm in Knoxville, they let me know that I am home. I'm squatting down outside the entrance to the Pilot Light (a darling little club owned by a man named Jason Boardman, who runs the place out of his own pocket, a darling little man who won't hesitate to say he loses money every year just too keep the doors open. The pilot light is a Charity, the doors are open for no other reason then some strange desire too share a wealth of music with a few people, who may appreciate for a moment there is more to life then shit jobs and bills.) I'm smoking a cigarette I just rolled, while some middle class bohemian is walking by, he is walking his dog and the dog does not like me. His two daughters are wandering the streets just in sight, one of them is mumbling and pouting, the guy in a moment of frustration yells out "I don't care what your talking about!" I mumble out something about how that dog better not bight me, he doesn't seem to hear me, but pushes the button on the retractable leash, reigning in the viscous beast. "why do you blow the smoke threw your nose?" I didn't see her till I heard the question but it's the youngest of the two rugrats, staring at my fedora and my two tone shirt, making me feel like a animal at the zoo. Mustering as much politeness as I am capable of I respond "because I can." she starts talking about how her bike is in the next store over, while munching on the last of her pop tart. I tell her that's a vintage record store and is very unlikely, no she says in the next one over. She wanders off before coming back and tells me something I can't hear over the traffic, after a few tries she gets out "that's what I hate about pop tarts, your stomach hurts after you eat them." "no they don't." I say, but she looks at me with her hand on her belly, holding only a profound since of sadness I still can't shake, only saying "yes they do." in a moment the streets are empty except the occasional car, I finish my smoke and go back inside.

     Back inside, the Paul Newman classic "slap shot" is projecting on a screen that's set up on the stage, the place is empty except for a red hared bartender who's name I can't remember and the guitarist of White Gregg who in spite of his pretentious air, I will have to admit is a funny son of a bitch. I'm obviously the outsider even if most of these people know who I am, and that's how I want it to stay. Their watching a movie I don't have all that much interest in, while I'm thinking to myself how did I get down here? It was earlier at the Preservation Pub that I met a excitable young man with a Mohawk named Wes, who introduced himself as "weed god." Evidently threw one of my more ranting conversations on Zen Buddhism I somehow effected the guy. The plan as I understood it was for me to meet up with him down here where his friend Andy (aka, Snail face.), who was performing some avant-garde piece of music with looping tapes and hi-hop beats, then we would go back to Andy's house to record one of my songs, with them tweaking the fuck out of it. This sounded kinda fun. I mean even if it was a long shot it's not like I had anything better going on. Here I am though drinking my fifth beer, chasing something stupid and not feeling all that pretty. The child like cliquish nature of indie rock has always been my biggest turn off of the music I love. The dick swinging contest that is name dropping bands is the only thing that brings me a similar level of disgust. They both have the same root of trying to distinguish yourself from another human being by having a external commodity that makes you special. To begin, they are both two very bad habits of mine. To finish, being around  these people bring out the worst in me.

     It's later now, it's always later. I'm coming down and it's hurts, my brain is always at it's worst ounce I have a chance to not deal with myself, for awhile. I've got that feeling the one I hate the most, the one that I'm a pawn in whatever game I'm playing on the rest of the world and this girl is beautiful. I've seen her before but I don't know her that well and I'm not in the mood for this, I'm not fucked up enough to be the animal the world needs me to be. Every time I try to have a good time that Jiminy cricket on my shoulder lets me know that my inner Charlie Sheen undermines every value I think I believe in. So we talk about music, about the forgotten and the great. I say it's hard to find empowered female musicians in the rock n' roll tradition, she says what about Stevie Nicks and I can't help but laugh. It goes on for what seems like a hour, when Will the lead singer of three man band and the bartender for the night interrupts us, asking us to be quiet since the band has started playing, a little amazed since there is no music, I tell him I didn't notice. "I thought
you didn't that's why I let you know." fair enough I think, it gives me a out, I turn my back on the girl and start rolling a cigarette. The music is shit, and later I will find out this is one of the guys I'm supposed to work with.

     White Gregg is fucking wonderful, I'm nodding in the booth, I'm trying to smile, I'm trying to enjoy this, it's to late though, whatever feeling of happiness I was after, ain't happening tonight. No matter how much noise, feedback or illusion of cathartic release I cram down my throat, this moment, for me, is gone. I listen but it's because I exist and I wouldn't be happier anywhere else. Not because I'm happy. After the noise and the illusion of freedom is gone, I find myself outside, rolling cigarettes for a couple of homeless guys. "most the guys down here seems to roll there own." I look at the scensters around me and I respond "I think it makes them feel cool." One of the kids I'm talking to has a slipknot tattoo, we talk about how Paul Grays death effected us. when I'm tired of rolling smokes I shake his hand and leave to find Jason, the drummer of White Greg. I tell him his band is great, the tightest live band I have ever seen and I mean that. On the pure competence of the players, there as nasty as they are pretty and they are very pretty. After I say my peace, and turn to leave, I hear Jason say to some girl "I'm glad you came down" and for a minute I thought he was talking to me. Forgetting right now my value is under radar and I'm not the big deal, that I am, because those forces are not external of the scene and they can't invest in something that isn't bringing them something. So like a chump I say "me too."