Oven Mitts ...

Oh, I am in suuuuuch a foul mood.

Around 615 this evening, I got a text from Beth Ann, asking me if I wanted to come out and play a kirtan gig. In 45 minutes. To make a long story short, this was Friday night's gig rescheduled, which I was originally not going to be able to do because we had a Saturday gig, but the Saturday one was the one canceled under dubious circumstances.

Got all that?

Anyway, I had decided that since the weekend got all fucked up, I was just going to stay in my pajamas and take some time to myself. We had made fresh bread & biscuits in the afternoon. I was still right brained after finishing Spirited Away. But her call swayed me, and my need to get out and played took over, so after a quick shower, I put on the jazz hands and drove over.

Sweet christ, what a fucking mistake.

Apparently, since I wasn't originally going to be able to do the gig, the facilitator called up someone else, who after some confusion showed up a few minutes before I did. Now, though I admit to being a diva, I am more than capable of playing with another drummer. If they have any ability whatsoever. And ears. And taste.

This, however, was like trying to do open heart surgery with oven mitts on.

If there is no contrast possible in the music (fast/slow, loud/soft, contemplative/rocketsauce) then I find it very difficult to contribute anything. It's the tension and release that makes music interesting, and allows my particular talents to come through. When I've got someone clomping away like a rhinoceros, who I then have to keep in line, there is no subtlety, no suppleness, no beauty.

And it really got me down.

It's a lonely feeling, being on stage. When it's all going well, when that circular vibe gets going between performer and listener, it's possible to transcend the loneliness. But when it goes poorly, like tonight, all I want to do is crawl back to the hole I came out of and be done with the whole thing. So I bowed out of dinner with BA and Mark, and came back up here, where I should've stayed in the first place.

Thank god I wrote a poem this afternoon, right after posting that last entry, actually. It was inspired by a piece of music played on baritone guitar, and eventually made its way to a street corner in East Berlin. It was actually fueled by still more new music, by a group called the Portico Quartet. (I never write to music.)  Ahhhh ... it was house's money after I finished it. Too bad I wasn't bright enough not to squander it.