funk you
The dude welding in the parking lot should have been a portent, probably.
(Sentences I never thought I'd write, No. 247)
Just returned from Bostock's where tonight several insufferable funk bands played. Well, the first was funk - they had a bongo player to supplement their drummer - but I've seen (ie listened to while I sat at the bar) to so many terrible bands since I've lived here (6 months? Jesus) that it almost has no impact. I'm still, as I type, trying to shed the sneer I seem to wear when I walk into that damn place - at least when a band is playing. Because I disapprove, and somehow, I think it's a good idea to show that disapproval on my own personal visage.
It should perhaps be noted, now, that I am somewhat buzzed. I would not say drunk, because I just drove home, and arrived safely, as always.
Just before I left, someone mussed my hair, from behind. I did not see who it was, but I assume it was a bartender (female) who was off tonight. This makes me sad, because the whole thing seems terribly patronizing - ie 'here barfly, some contact with the female sex you spend the whole night lusting after to no end.' 'Tis a stage I'd rather I never really wind up at - that of the dude in the Mavericks shirt to my left, middleaged (50s, likely), and still frequenting a "college" bar (Bostocks is in essence right across the street from the campus of a Division II university, and the majority of its patrons are coeds looking to get drunk enough to find one another attractive enough to sleep with). That was an especially long parenthetical digression.
Anyway, I'm back home, the Winamp is still on random. Cam'ron, "Purple Haze," a record I have to say I don't think I really "get." Beloved by Pitchfork... eh -
And so it bears repeating that the first band had what I think was a jazz flute player. It's possible I imagined the whole thing, but why would I do so? I definitely heard flute from my seat on the bar. And it sounded fucking terrible. Somehow these kids were buying into this awful funk-rock shit, but honestly, it was one of the worst things I've suffered through, aurally. I was expecting (fully expecting) a crap Texas country band - maybe I was inured to it, maybe I was ready and OK about ignoring the same trite Texas references and the lame country twang. But instead I was assailed by full-on funk bullshit. Absolutely terrible. If I had the name, I'd include it to warn others.
I drank Killian's all night, and now I'm home listening to Girl Talk, the club mix of modern hiphop, indie classics, etc. Pretty terrific, even if it has already passed from the favor of hipsters the nation over. Oh, and I tried to ask out a cute blond in a white and blue striped shirt. Apparently she's an education major and is about to graduate soon. (Or, as self-aware as I of course am, she simply didn't find me attractive enough to give the time of day to, and then invented a simple excuse to ignore the dude in t-shirt (TRAIL OF DEAD, yo) and flip flops who was posted up at the bar like a straight-up alkie. Which, honestly, is a frightening image. Let me down gently -and she did.
Tonight was a debacle, basically. If your band has a horn in it, you're terrible. AMEN.
(Sentences I never thought I'd write, No. 247)
Just returned from Bostock's where tonight several insufferable funk bands played. Well, the first was funk - they had a bongo player to supplement their drummer - but I've seen (ie listened to while I sat at the bar) to so many terrible bands since I've lived here (6 months? Jesus) that it almost has no impact. I'm still, as I type, trying to shed the sneer I seem to wear when I walk into that damn place - at least when a band is playing. Because I disapprove, and somehow, I think it's a good idea to show that disapproval on my own personal visage.
It should perhaps be noted, now, that I am somewhat buzzed. I would not say drunk, because I just drove home, and arrived safely, as always.
Just before I left, someone mussed my hair, from behind. I did not see who it was, but I assume it was a bartender (female) who was off tonight. This makes me sad, because the whole thing seems terribly patronizing - ie 'here barfly, some contact with the female sex you spend the whole night lusting after to no end.' 'Tis a stage I'd rather I never really wind up at - that of the dude in the Mavericks shirt to my left, middleaged (50s, likely), and still frequenting a "college" bar (Bostocks is in essence right across the street from the campus of a Division II university, and the majority of its patrons are coeds looking to get drunk enough to find one another attractive enough to sleep with). That was an especially long parenthetical digression.
Anyway, I'm back home, the Winamp is still on random. Cam'ron, "Purple Haze," a record I have to say I don't think I really "get." Beloved by Pitchfork... eh -
And so it bears repeating that the first band had what I think was a jazz flute player. It's possible I imagined the whole thing, but why would I do so? I definitely heard flute from my seat on the bar. And it sounded fucking terrible. Somehow these kids were buying into this awful funk-rock shit, but honestly, it was one of the worst things I've suffered through, aurally. I was expecting (fully expecting) a crap Texas country band - maybe I was inured to it, maybe I was ready and OK about ignoring the same trite Texas references and the lame country twang. But instead I was assailed by full-on funk bullshit. Absolutely terrible. If I had the name, I'd include it to warn others.
I drank Killian's all night, and now I'm home listening to Girl Talk, the club mix of modern hiphop, indie classics, etc. Pretty terrific, even if it has already passed from the favor of hipsters the nation over. Oh, and I tried to ask out a cute blond in a white and blue striped shirt. Apparently she's an education major and is about to graduate soon. (Or, as self-aware as I of course am, she simply didn't find me attractive enough to give the time of day to, and then invented a simple excuse to ignore the dude in t-shirt (TRAIL OF DEAD, yo) and flip flops who was posted up at the bar like a straight-up alkie. Which, honestly, is a frightening image. Let me down gently -and she did.
Tonight was a debacle, basically. If your band has a horn in it, you're terrible. AMEN.
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