The whole sorry thing ending with a whimper. After virtually selling my soul trying to hustle everyone out for an early show on a Saturday night, attendance was pretty thin (but seriously, thanks a whole hell of a lot to the people who made the trek, without you guys, it would've been only painful). In fact, attendance was so thin that Danny, my noble and long-suffering drummer, my comrade, my brother-in-arms only made it to the club halfway through the set. This after I stalled the soundgirl for as long as I could, despite the protestations of the cunty bartender (all snotty NY bartenders, eat a fucking dick. I bartended for years and never even treated the yuppies the way you treat the musicians that bring in the people that buy the drinks and give the tips that pay your fucking rent. Move back to Connecticut, i.e. rot in Hell.) I got a warm reception anyway, from my kick-ass friends that dragged their hungover asses out early to pay eight bucks to see me, and I have to admit it was pretty awesome when Danny climbed on stage in the middle of the third song and out of nowhere, the drums kicked in. Jay Braun said it sounded great and that I didn't need a drummer, and Jesse said that my guitar tone was totally piercing, which is only funny if you've ever heard his guitar tone… Right after the gig, Danny had to go back to the wedding he'd just come from, so I thanked him for his patience, forbearance and swell drumming and told him that he was fired. I mean, God bless you, Danny, but fuck-up that I am, I've never been late to a gig, ever. But God bless you, Danny. I managed to get a slight buzz on off the four beers we got for "the band" and then had to ditch out on all my best pals (Fuck! I'm sorry, gang, I didn't want to go!) to go and do this interview for the Strokes documentary, the less said about which the better. I got fucked up at Don Hill's with the old crew, then went to Mars and bummed drinks and drugs off my old pal Zack. Less is more when it comes to talking about Zack, but let it suffice to say that if he looked out for himself as much as he looked out for me, he wouldn't still be barbacking at Mars Bar after X number of years there. I ended the night talking with Greg Altman about the bizarre move of my girlfriend joining his band (my ex-band) and getting a little sloppy with old pals Tim Murry, Jon Wright, Jonny fr. BCR and a couple of drunken beauties. One of 'em was our old pal Anne, who I overheard saying something about the Giraffes pissing on two vans outside of the club after their show. Well, fuck. I didn't remember it so well, though, that when I left Mars Bar too fucked up to take the train home and too broke to take a cab, I didn't use a napkin to open the door of my van, just climbed in to the bunk, locked the door and slept in front of the club that had just that same night paid me $32. Rocking is my business, and business is good.
Posted by Mishka at September 23, 2003 12:59 AM