Last week the band made one of it's biannual appearances at smalls in Greenwich Village. We'd love to do it more often, but apparently they have to work their way through everyone who's ever looked at a musical instrument. In alphabetical order. Still, mustn't complain. At least they don't take offense at my constant slandering of their club in mass mail-outs. Brilliant night to be out- spring made it's most concentrated assault to date, and in the village one couldn't move for Yuppies and Transvestites. I'd like to take some of the credit, but the weather was probably the reason for a very healthy turnout. The band put on a good show, my tired patter was justly ignored, the audience listened, we got paid- what more do you want?
Beer with Aussies- that's what! Australian guitar ace JM was in town, and playing around the corner at the 55Bar. Didn't manage to hear him play, but did manage to get around a number of beers with him after our respective shows. Good times.
A few days prior to the gig, the band got together for a rehearsal at the Cooker's apartment (or the home of the Range). The Cooker lives in relative opulence on Prospect Park in Brooklyn, and after two hours of struggling to remember my own compositions, I was convinced by the Attorney to pass some time in the out-of-doors. Glad I did, of course. It's a singularly ambiguous name for a park, promising the likelihood of neither good nor poor fortune, but presumably one or the other. Or maybe it explains all the panhandlers, and luck to them. Although much smaller than Manhattan's Central Park, Prospect park is no less glorious. It's always a shock to find yourself confronted by such an exuberant display of springtime greenery, when only metres away some old bloke's pissing on the subway tracks. We also couldn't help but notice an apparent trend of attractive girls with astonishingly well-trained dogs. Every time we caught a peek at a sunbathing beauty, her massive Doberman would position itself in optimum view-obstructing position. Considered distracting the beasts by smearing the Attorney with Liverwurst and rolling him down the nearest hill, but it did seem like quite an effort.
In about ten days, the Voice of Reason (bartender at the Manor, great friend) will be leaving the Apple and returning, after 17 years, to the frigid and windswept land of her birth. Sad days indeed, and had I started this fairly pointless endeavour earlier, I would certainly have devoted considerable post space to this most estimable individual. However, this week we're having a going-away bash, the band's playing, I'll be getting stuck in, so next week I should have a story or two. That's it for now. Righto.
