For about two weeks now I’ve been considering not going to see a live music show in 2003. Instantaneously I realized that in so doing
- I would turn into just about Everyone Else
except Everyone Else
- actually goes to the show and talks through the whole fucking thing while I impotently glare at the backs of their heads
But you know what I mean.
I Said No to plenty of shows in 2002, about half of the one’s The Mysterious MZ attended (or was paid to attend). I regret it, now that I’m looking at the list. But had I gone, I would have doubled my aggravation.
Especially as I squished in the aisles for the Tenacious D instore at Amoeba. I hovered over my answer when MZ axed me to go, moving quickly, requiem for a dream stylee over the progression of from innocent pleasure-seeker to eviscerated vacant pawn of addiction. Instead of heroin, my Tenacious D Instore At Amoeba Drug is a cocktail of
- bridge traffic
- the inadequacy of parking in shan franshisky
- the very real (and no less disturbing) fact that I identify with a band that yet again only appeals to men I really don’t want to get to know
- the transaction, the transaction, the transaction, the transaction, the transaction
I don’t really know what I mean by the transaction except to say that we’re creating and consuming culture according to restricted norms. They rise, admittedly, from practicalities, but the whole stupid business chafes.
So if I stop going, and turn my ear to all the things that I’ve collected, documented, alphabetized, and not listened to since, or, in some cases, ever, I may sidestep that feeling of falling endlessly into a
Pool of Almost Understood What You Meant By That Sound But For All These Distractions Which Admit It You’re Suffering From Too
In other parts of my day, this desire to retreat is characterized by the wish to contract a terminal illness (one more terminal than life itself) and become a Buddhist nun.
But if I quit going to shows, my last show will be some New Year’s Eve unriveting thing (three years of the Melvins — why am I so sick?). According to the inside of the box, the game is over in a final flourish of excellence on someone’s part, not in the mixed drink line at the Arena during Phil & Friends…
…or with Les Claypool attempting to ejikate his listeners
…or with the random playablahblah of Anon Salon
…or with the scene-gone-badsters at the Cow Palace