I'm listening to Gabel's newly-released solo effort, "Heart Burns" right now as I copy and paste the below text. The enthusiasm and optimism heard on the record really doesn't suit what I'm pasting. Nevertheless, it's a new style I'm working with. Hope yer feelin' downright optimistic about it, 'cos it's way shorter, yo.
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We killed last night in Toledo. Everything was cookin’ from the get-go. The crew had found their way into a few ample, drunken sluts in Cleveland and wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it for the rest of the day. But a sexually satisfied worker is a diligent one and they whistled tunes of debauchery while they worked. It was their quickest set-up of the tour.
The crowd hit us early and often. We didn’t miss a note, even after knocking back a few Jaggerbombs during the encore break. Saturday nights usually have that effect on a young crowd.
Guitarist Pete’s brother lives in Toledo and insisted on taking us to “El Baterista Solitario,” the best Mexican joint Toledo had to offer. He’s some hot fucker of a lawyer and had three limos waiting for us after the gig.
Sympathetic bassist Luke felt compelled to wait for the crew. We all twisted mighty ropes with frontman Jack’s finest homegrown dope and watched in awe at how uptight the dope rendered Pete’s brother. What a wank!
Rolled in sweaty and starved at the Mexican joint. The wank ordered 10 buckets of Corona which disappeared sometime during the appetizer. He looked out of place in his Armani suit. He still flirted his way into getting the “No Smoking” rule bent. Kept talking up the salsa verde piquante too. Apparently it’s sent even the hardest men home in tears. I didn’t want the shits onstage tonight. Stuck with my quesadillas.
But roadie Don, fearless bastard that he is dived right in and promptly chugged two Coronas to calm the fire. The overzealous owner had a good chuckle at that one. Everyone else did too, actually. The conversation remained giddy with possibility; what had three journalists and countless bloggers in attendance thought of the gig? I couldn’t be fucked with that horsepiss talk. Smoked a pack of Winstons while the quesadillas reminded me of nothing at all.
-
Played like shit all night in Coumbus. Soundman Barrett had me mixed way too fuckin’ low. I was playing in my grave. Couldn’t find a groove with bassist Luke. No rhythm sect-o, no reason to live. He stopped coming by the office after “The Wreck Of The Divine Grease War,” our eighth tune. Watched the bar all night. Watched the crowd dwindle. Took my anger out on my snare during our tepid encore.
Backstage, lead guitarist Angelo thought it was a fine time to bust open a bottle of 12 year old Scotch he’d been saving. He started chugging like a guitarist possessed. Give it up you prick; Jimmy Page is an old boy now, you heard?
Retreated alone to the van for a joint in some kind of quiet. Maybe a walk to mingle with the kings of underworld Columbus. Didn’t make it though. Fuckin’ dude fans. 3 of ‘em lined up, without a lighter between ‘em.
“Hey Johnny. Great show tonight. Real rock.”
“Yeah. Sorry guys, I think Jack won’t be out for awhile.”
(Or, don’t any of you have a sister I could talk to?)
“Oh that’s alright man. It’s you I wanted to talk to anyway. We came out from Bloomington to see this gig and tomorrow’s in Cincinnati.”
“Oh.”
(Real killer choice for a vacation destination pal)
“He’s a drummer too. The Deplorable Bears. That’s their band.”
(The drummer didn’t even look up. At least he acts the part)
Dude continued. “But I was wondering…”
(Fuckin’ God and Brian Wilson mixed together in a terrible drink! Put a lightning bolt together and end this shit! Unless he’s gonna offer me a solo deal and maybe some green olives, keep your trap sewn shut! You just know what’s coming. These rock goofs analyze our shitty tunes to the point of no return. I don’t even lose a quarter of the sleep that they do about it. I clenched my fists…)
“…how much the road effects what you guys do, who you are as a band?”
(Fuck dude! What motivates you to wipe your ass in a specific manner every morning? Ah, of course. Goof’s not finished)
“I mean, your tunes seem crafted for the road. I found your latest one, “Passport Stamps and Suppositions” at a hole in the wall in Prague and couldn’t peel myself away from it for my next six train trips.”
(Inspiring shit. He was on a roll now)
“The whole album stretched man. No limitations in your sound. No aesthetic stone left unturned. The rhythm sounded infinite.”
(We’re a goddamned bar band, weirdo! Oh, but he still had something else to say)
“So do you find the road influences you guys? Is it a palpable, tangible influence?”
(Dude masturbated into his thesaurus last night. I breathed hard. I looked down. But dude’s eyes were wide-open with anticipation. His stubble, his rock and roll look, his scars of the road made me smile)
“The road? It’s the only life I know. I don’t write any of the tunes but I know it ain’t always pretty.”
(That got their damn attention. Goof stood there, jaw in the dirt)
“Must be tough. But it breeds authenticity, don’t ya think?”
(Don’t you?)
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Hey thanks for the set tonight too. Nice to hear “Pale Boots” back in the set after these past few tours. Always enjoyed that one. The entire first EP in fact. You know, that one served as a soundtrack for my first year at school.”
(We’ve all but dropped that entire embarrassing pile of dog shit from the set, by the way)
“I was miles away from home and that record helped me out, a lot. I really appreciate it.”
(Someone dropped a bottle in the distance and had a damn good laugh about it)
“So we’ll be there tomorrow. D’you think you could play something else from the EP? Maybe “Dogs On Grandview Avenue?” What a groove on that one, eh?”
(I was nursing a deathly vodka hangover when we laid that one down. Bassist Luke had to pick up the slack. I couldn’t hum along to it now if I tried)
“Yeah, maybe man.”
“So what are you upto now? Could we buy you a drink?”
“Look, I gotta get some rest.”
“Oh yeah, no sweat. Thanks a lot for chatting. Really appreciate it. I’m Jason by the way. “The Road.” It ain’t all glory eh?”
“Sure thing Jamie.”
Curled up in a ball on the back seat. That damn conversation left me exhausted. Lit a smoke and woke two minutes later when it’d burned a hole in my jeans. My last Winston.
-
Harsh winds took us to Cincinnati. Not a bad gig either. I was rested and mixed perfectly. Might have even felt good to be up there. Spotted a few crowd surfers. Blue moon type shit. That really elevated our game.
Devoured a few hundred green olives from the spread after the gig. If I could eat nothing else but quality green olives for the rest of my life, I’d never quit the rock game.
The surfers were one hell of a prophecy, or so our manager said. Some industry type was waiting for us backstage. Said he wanted to fly us to Australia and Japan and make stars out of us. They serve green olives in Japan?
He fed us some coke, which frontman Jack deemed “A lot grade insult. Fuck Japan!” If anyone would know, it’d be that maniac.
Ducked out of that industry talk. Left that to the pros. Swiped the bag of coke and chugged a vodka and red bull. That left be feelin’ alright. Sympathetic. Light hearted, maybe. Thought I’d treat Jimmy (Or Jeff, was it?) to a bump of the coke. Maybe we’d share the first bump of the night.
Outside, I started tingling. Maybe from the red bull or maybe from the cold. Wandered out to the van. Caught a look at myself in the rearview mirror and quickly looked away.
Smoked 3 Winstons and got a raging hard-on without a girl in sight. Hadn’t had any road ass in awhile; doubtful that Cinncinati could remedy the situation at all.
I suppose some of this oughta be going on our blog, website, what-fucking-ever. But bassist Mark takes care of that. And if I were given that duty, I’m sure our crowds would be even smaller than they are.
Fuck. I’m freezing. What am I doing out here?
Fuck. I put the wrong shoes on. I’m wearing fucking slippers.
Bent over to brush the snow and mud off ‘em. Finally heard a voice. The murmur whacked me over the head.
Jimmy, Jason, Johnny, James, James Joyce, Jim, Jim Morrison, whoever the fuck he was, he was cutting through the cold with three other rock goofs in female form. They weren’t even talking the set but they were talking a good time. Anticipation galore. Couldn’t wait to get out into the night, find a bar, find the road he’d dreamt of. Didn’t even throw a glance in my direction. My ass grew numb.
Back into the club for warmth and maybe some conversation. Everyone was moving at the speed of sound. The sound of another song.
Picked up pieces of news. Just pieces.
Despite not recognizing our alleged penchant for high quality narcotics, we’re going to work with the industry slut from Best Of Luck Records. Manager Paul made the decision while the band were engaged in a game of ping-pong.
They’re gonna press “Dogs Of Grandview Avenue” as a 7’’ re-issue to test the market.
I shove my hands into a bucket of ice (Yesterday’s furious encore just kicking in) and felt like screaming at the top of my lungs. Next stop, Louisville.
---
---
We killed last night in Toledo. Everything was cookin’ from the get-go. The crew had found their way into a few ample, drunken sluts in Cleveland and wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it for the rest of the day. But a sexually satisfied worker is a diligent one and they whistled tunes of debauchery while they worked. It was their quickest set-up of the tour.
The crowd hit us early and often. We didn’t miss a note, even after knocking back a few Jaggerbombs during the encore break. Saturday nights usually have that effect on a young crowd.
Guitarist Pete’s brother lives in Toledo and insisted on taking us to “El Baterista Solitario,” the best Mexican joint Toledo had to offer. He’s some hot fucker of a lawyer and had three limos waiting for us after the gig.
Sympathetic bassist Luke felt compelled to wait for the crew. We all twisted mighty ropes with frontman Jack’s finest homegrown dope and watched in awe at how uptight the dope rendered Pete’s brother. What a wank!
Rolled in sweaty and starved at the Mexican joint. The wank ordered 10 buckets of Corona which disappeared sometime during the appetizer. He looked out of place in his Armani suit. He still flirted his way into getting the “No Smoking” rule bent. Kept talking up the salsa verde piquante too. Apparently it’s sent even the hardest men home in tears. I didn’t want the shits onstage tonight. Stuck with my quesadillas.
But roadie Don, fearless bastard that he is dived right in and promptly chugged two Coronas to calm the fire. The overzealous owner had a good chuckle at that one. Everyone else did too, actually. The conversation remained giddy with possibility; what had three journalists and countless bloggers in attendance thought of the gig? I couldn’t be fucked with that horsepiss talk. Smoked a pack of Winstons while the quesadillas reminded me of nothing at all.
-
Played like shit all night in Coumbus. Soundman Barrett had me mixed way too fuckin’ low. I was playing in my grave. Couldn’t find a groove with bassist Luke. No rhythm sect-o, no reason to live. He stopped coming by the office after “The Wreck Of The Divine Grease War,” our eighth tune. Watched the bar all night. Watched the crowd dwindle. Took my anger out on my snare during our tepid encore.
Backstage, lead guitarist Angelo thought it was a fine time to bust open a bottle of 12 year old Scotch he’d been saving. He started chugging like a guitarist possessed. Give it up you prick; Jimmy Page is an old boy now, you heard?
Retreated alone to the van for a joint in some kind of quiet. Maybe a walk to mingle with the kings of underworld Columbus. Didn’t make it though. Fuckin’ dude fans. 3 of ‘em lined up, without a lighter between ‘em.
“Hey Johnny. Great show tonight. Real rock.”
“Yeah. Sorry guys, I think Jack won’t be out for awhile.”
(Or, don’t any of you have a sister I could talk to?)
“Oh that’s alright man. It’s you I wanted to talk to anyway. We came out from Bloomington to see this gig and tomorrow’s in Cincinnati.”
“Oh.”
(Real killer choice for a vacation destination pal)
“He’s a drummer too. The Deplorable Bears. That’s their band.”
(The drummer didn’t even look up. At least he acts the part)
Dude continued. “But I was wondering…”
(Fuckin’ God and Brian Wilson mixed together in a terrible drink! Put a lightning bolt together and end this shit! Unless he’s gonna offer me a solo deal and maybe some green olives, keep your trap sewn shut! You just know what’s coming. These rock goofs analyze our shitty tunes to the point of no return. I don’t even lose a quarter of the sleep that they do about it. I clenched my fists…)
“…how much the road effects what you guys do, who you are as a band?”
(Fuck dude! What motivates you to wipe your ass in a specific manner every morning? Ah, of course. Goof’s not finished)
“I mean, your tunes seem crafted for the road. I found your latest one, “Passport Stamps and Suppositions” at a hole in the wall in Prague and couldn’t peel myself away from it for my next six train trips.”
(Inspiring shit. He was on a roll now)
“The whole album stretched man. No limitations in your sound. No aesthetic stone left unturned. The rhythm sounded infinite.”
(We’re a goddamned bar band, weirdo! Oh, but he still had something else to say)
“So do you find the road influences you guys? Is it a palpable, tangible influence?”
(Dude masturbated into his thesaurus last night. I breathed hard. I looked down. But dude’s eyes were wide-open with anticipation. His stubble, his rock and roll look, his scars of the road made me smile)
“The road? It’s the only life I know. I don’t write any of the tunes but I know it ain’t always pretty.”
(That got their damn attention. Goof stood there, jaw in the dirt)
“Must be tough. But it breeds authenticity, don’t ya think?”
(Don’t you?)
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Hey thanks for the set tonight too. Nice to hear “Pale Boots” back in the set after these past few tours. Always enjoyed that one. The entire first EP in fact. You know, that one served as a soundtrack for my first year at school.”
(We’ve all but dropped that entire embarrassing pile of dog shit from the set, by the way)
“I was miles away from home and that record helped me out, a lot. I really appreciate it.”
(Someone dropped a bottle in the distance and had a damn good laugh about it)
“So we’ll be there tomorrow. D’you think you could play something else from the EP? Maybe “Dogs On Grandview Avenue?” What a groove on that one, eh?”
(I was nursing a deathly vodka hangover when we laid that one down. Bassist Luke had to pick up the slack. I couldn’t hum along to it now if I tried)
“Yeah, maybe man.”
“So what are you upto now? Could we buy you a drink?”
“Look, I gotta get some rest.”
“Oh yeah, no sweat. Thanks a lot for chatting. Really appreciate it. I’m Jason by the way. “The Road.” It ain’t all glory eh?”
“Sure thing Jamie.”
Curled up in a ball on the back seat. That damn conversation left me exhausted. Lit a smoke and woke two minutes later when it’d burned a hole in my jeans. My last Winston.
-
Harsh winds took us to Cincinnati. Not a bad gig either. I was rested and mixed perfectly. Might have even felt good to be up there. Spotted a few crowd surfers. Blue moon type shit. That really elevated our game.
Devoured a few hundred green olives from the spread after the gig. If I could eat nothing else but quality green olives for the rest of my life, I’d never quit the rock game.
The surfers were one hell of a prophecy, or so our manager said. Some industry type was waiting for us backstage. Said he wanted to fly us to Australia and Japan and make stars out of us. They serve green olives in Japan?
He fed us some coke, which frontman Jack deemed “A lot grade insult. Fuck Japan!” If anyone would know, it’d be that maniac.
Ducked out of that industry talk. Left that to the pros. Swiped the bag of coke and chugged a vodka and red bull. That left be feelin’ alright. Sympathetic. Light hearted, maybe. Thought I’d treat Jimmy (Or Jeff, was it?) to a bump of the coke. Maybe we’d share the first bump of the night.
Outside, I started tingling. Maybe from the red bull or maybe from the cold. Wandered out to the van. Caught a look at myself in the rearview mirror and quickly looked away.
Smoked 3 Winstons and got a raging hard-on without a girl in sight. Hadn’t had any road ass in awhile; doubtful that Cinncinati could remedy the situation at all.
I suppose some of this oughta be going on our blog, website, what-fucking-ever. But bassist Mark takes care of that. And if I were given that duty, I’m sure our crowds would be even smaller than they are.
Fuck. I’m freezing. What am I doing out here?
Fuck. I put the wrong shoes on. I’m wearing fucking slippers.
Bent over to brush the snow and mud off ‘em. Finally heard a voice. The murmur whacked me over the head.
Jimmy, Jason, Johnny, James, James Joyce, Jim, Jim Morrison, whoever the fuck he was, he was cutting through the cold with three other rock goofs in female form. They weren’t even talking the set but they were talking a good time. Anticipation galore. Couldn’t wait to get out into the night, find a bar, find the road he’d dreamt of. Didn’t even throw a glance in my direction. My ass grew numb.
Back into the club for warmth and maybe some conversation. Everyone was moving at the speed of sound. The sound of another song.
Picked up pieces of news. Just pieces.
Despite not recognizing our alleged penchant for high quality narcotics, we’re going to work with the industry slut from Best Of Luck Records. Manager Paul made the decision while the band were engaged in a game of ping-pong.
They’re gonna press “Dogs Of Grandview Avenue” as a 7’’ re-issue to test the market.
I shove my hands into a bucket of ice (Yesterday’s furious encore just kicking in) and felt like screaming at the top of my lungs. Next stop, Louisville.
---
