The First Morning
I am underslept and lying on the couch of my Atlantan contact. I woke up just fifteen or so minutes ago from a combination of the dozen bottles of cheap beer I consumed last night draining from my bloodstream into the surrounding tissues and boiling into the open air, and the absurdly loud and repeated farts of my traveling companion, who is defiling the sleeping blanket that it will be my turn to sleep in next on the floor across this living room from me. I would have liked to sleep more.
Last night as a fitting prelude to today's rock fest was a house show in a suburb of Atlanta. It went all night; long enough for me to meet a dozen of the different characters that amy local urban/suburban house show scene requires. Mice In Cars were brutal, and Myke ended the show dramatically enough, discarding his guitar and sprawling across the floor, screaming. After their final climax I popped a balloon with my foot, for emphasis, which seemed appropriate. 'Headlining' - scare quotes Myke's - were The Humboldt Trio, a math rock group whose material suffered some of the deficiencies that nearly all math rock does, but whose chops were so unearthly that they made me never want to pick up an instrument again. When I told as much to their drummer he said, 'That's fucked up! But cool, man.'
I smoked too many cigarettes, had dinner at Waffle House, and went to sleep at 3:31. Curse the day. But the metal comes.
Sent from my tiny software keyboard.
