Monday, March 29, 2010

The Mmmm Tissss of Youth, a Migraine For Me

I'm 32 years old, give or take. According to my girlfriend I have one gray hair, but I haven't seen it and therefor, like Santa Claus or Satan, I'm skeptical of its existence. Though if Satan does exist, I'm sure he is an electronica DJ, but I'll return to that sentiment in a little (I just lost all the Heavy Guilt's techno fans in one fell swoop, don't worry, we'll win you back with a Paul Oakenfold remix cd in a few years). Anyway, 32 isn't exactly old, I see people with more than one grain of salt in their pepper, running, biking, playing basketball and doing a variety of strenuous activities slightly beyond my reach, but my 32, for whatever reason, feels doubled. I'd like to blame Lymes Disease, but that's just one piece of my young elderly puzzle.
Last night we played at a trendy Club in North Park and every 10-minutes I spent within its walls, I felt about one year older. I had a very brief love affair with techno in the late nineties, I dated a woman who was really into it and happened to be pretty awesome. In fact, she was awesome enough that I even went to a rave or two. I was there and I still can't picture myself at a rave, so I'm hoping you cats have a more active imagination than I. I can fault her epic hotness and my lack of sobriety for my presence in some New York City warehouse at 4 a.m., immense speakers pulsing, glow-sticks trailing figure eights, shady street pharmacist in bathroom stalls and me trying my hardest not to look too foolish (thank God that was the nineties, before everyone was filming everything at all times, otherwise there'd be some version of me on youtube gyrating awkwardly like Elaine Benes on speed in a wind tunnel, little brother is watching). Fortunately she dumped me one sad Christmas eve and I burned all my techno cds (old school burning, in a fire, not on a laptop) and I was officially and bitterly, yet blissfully, divorced from electronica. When we loaded into the club last night, the mmmm tissss of techno was thoroughly present, its loudness eclipsed all the whispered complaints I tried to share with my guilty cohorts. We tucked ourselves discretely into the welcome silence of the Green Room and bided our time til our set. Every once in a while I would creep out to check the vibe of the audience. the Techno was bumping, young people danced and I prepared for the worst. In my mind I had the scenario all laid out. The Saturday night club filled with youthful party goers, dressed in their weekend finest would have their current and fully functioning electro-dance-party interrupted by the slow dark balladry of the Heavy Guilt. When we launched into our stark funeral procession of sound, a young and sexy asian girl would throw a tomato at us. I would contemplate on stage "where did she get that tomato" as more fruits and vegetables pelted the band from a Benetton add of races. I knew we were doomed when the cdj (that's my term for djs who use cds instead of vinyl, I could also use the term Lazy, but cdj will suffice) played a 50 Cent cut and the crowd got hyped. In my closed and naive mind you can't like fitty cent and the Heavy Guilt, there's just not enough room on the mental playground for both and 50 Cent is tough. Back to the sanctity of the greenroom, laughing and enjoying the presence of the band and the long journey from load in til downbeat. 10:30 rolled around and we stepped to the stage. We were missing our singer who's appendix exploded on wednesday and knocked him out of commission (moment of silence for Erik's fallen appendix). The techno faded into nothing, the crowd, hungry for sound, beat with the pulse of dialogue as we eased into our set of quiet loud quiet post rock. And though we were as far from House Music as I am from 1997 the Guilt instrumental set went over pretty well, no tomatoes at all, only applause. The Guilt even got a little funky and lit a live spark to the Club (not unlike Great White, except fro the lack of casualties). The set was short and sweet and upon its end we made haste so the next band could get set up.
As I was facing the stage, placing my equipment away, something strange happened. I felt a hand on my buttocks, it went past a congratulatory ass-tap when the hand closed. I thought / hoped / prayed / assumed it was my girlfriend messing with me, or at least some member of the band playing a joke that would need to be addressed at the next band meeting. Before I turned around (I was really trying to focus on putting all my stuff away and getting it off stage), I noticed that someone was quite literally dry humping my leg. I'm known for hyperbole and this is not it. Just like when a dog is feeling that instinctual motivation towards release and bear hugs the neighbor's unexpecting leg, someone latched on to my back at started to "freak" me (I believe that's what the children call it). I turned around cause as certain as I wanted to be that it was my lady, the hand on my hip felt considerably larger with a more powerful grip than hers. When I turned around there was a young bald man standing there, looking at me with an expression that seemed to say "WTF, why did you interrupt me while I was making sweet inappropriate love to your back side." What is the correct action in said situation? Seriously, if you have any suggestions please email us at info@theheavyguilt.com, we'll post the best suggestions on our website. I was so thunderstruck with befuddlement I just slunked away like a mopey tenderfoot, carrying my shame like an 80 pound collar. Apparently there is something in the hypnotic rhythms of a trance track that send a pulse to the brain which says "dry hump the man in front of you", it was like a real life Axe Body Spray commercial and equally annoying. When I made it to the safety of techo-less outside, one of the cats from the crowd took the reward for drunk fool of the night. It was an upset of grand proportions, it was like a 16 seed coming from nowhere to beat Duke (I love that I could skip NCAA hoops for a solid decade and I just assume that Duke is a #1 seed and be correct) because by this point of the night, I was absolutely certain that the drunk fool of the night award would go to the young man who gave me a new vivid memory to repress. And then, as sudden as a buzzer beating three point half court shot for victory, this dude walks up to Josh's electric piano (as he breaks it down outside) and asks not only if a) it was a grill, but b) if he could get a couple of fish tacos. "No kind sir, this isn't a grill, it is a fender rhodes electric piano, in fact you just watched us, from the very front row, play our set a mere 3 minutes ago." Although, in hindsight, I wish Josh had said "Sure, that will be $5" and we just took the guys money and ran. I probably could have sold him a piece of newspaper with some authentic urban refuse wrapped in it and called it rolled tacos, just don't ask me for a Mountain Dew. Josh and I missed missed a golden opportunity to make some extra cash. Just call it a toll for stupidity, I've paid plenty in my 32 years.

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