I hate gitarists

Before reading this, please let it be known that I have met 2 very nice guitarists. Their names are Rob and Michael.

There is one sure way of identifying any guitarist - whether it be at a party, a public toilet or anywhere else the sneaky bastard might be lurking. It has nothing to do with the way he talks, or the way he walks. There is no musical "aura" that surrounds him, giving it away. It is as simple as this, my friend - he will tell you that he is a guitarist.

But he won't tell you at first. It's like his secret weapon.

It goes like this -

The conversation will begin pleasantly and politely. Details about future inhibitions and current loves are passed like a simple game of toss the ball in a lovely green field by the happy tree. The odd pun is respected; there is a wit in this conversation that is being parried back and forth; it's sport like swordplay.
You open yourself a little revealing your tender side, a story of a once lost love - in reflection he replies with his own little drama - though not quite as serious as yours, he relates completely.

What a guy.

Then you discuss that you like to rattle out the 'ol blog just for expressing every once in a while. You're not an accomplished writer or anything, its just a little fun. "I guess you could call it my art art art art art art art"

You didnt repeat the word or even say it any different from any other word, but it echoes in his mind like a falling stone in the Grand Canyon.

You're onto the next subject already, talking about the strange pedalled fans on the merchant coffee ceiling when he blinks and looks at you like you have a gold nugget wedget up your n"You know I'm a guitarist", he proclaims, cutting off your perceptual imagery. You're mouth is frozen on the last vowel you were trying to get out. You're stuck speechless and dumbfounded. He thinks it's because you have a sense of idolisation on musicians. You think he's a twat all of a sudden.

Like what he accomplishes is some amazing artform that is only possible to select few of the human race.
Like sitting down with any instrument for a few hours a day for a few years on end because nobody wants to play GI Joe with you won't get you reasonably good at playing it.

This is where you nod and smile and churn a couple of 'wow's and 'oh really?'s.
And he goes on

about the bands he's played with

and on

about the places he has toured

and on

about every little aspect of his dull boke-arse art student life

and on


until I can't just fucking stand it anymore.

This is where I must reveal that I too have a secret weapon of my own...

Finding dramas

All musical jokes aside - drummers are needlessly complicated bitches.

A promise from a percussionist is like a message written in the sand at the beach; the slightest whisper of a breeze could change a letter deeming the entire sentence invaluable.
If it isn't the wind there are a billion other factors in play - like a dog crap and a billion cubic tons of ocean to add to the ingredients for a righteous self justified case of 'you didn't say jam on friday, you said... something else'.

Something else like 'jam on friday you stupid bastard'.

A good drummer is possibly the hardest member to find when starting a band. Its like catching a fish. My big brother will tell you how easy that is.

Living the dream

Imagine my amazement when I found myself rocking out the other night in my orderly fashion to a mediocre crowd, when suddenly someone in the crowd snapped.
He must have been possessed by the rock beast.
As his eyes widened and dilated he seemed to shake a little as though a rage was contained within him and was just about to explode. He raised the enclosed fist of his right arm, and slowly like a releasing mechanism uncurled his index and pinky finger as he turned his head and from pursed lips screamed an almighty 'this guy FUCKING ROCKS!' and proceeded to shake his head like it was on fucking FIRE.

Like a badly contagious disease or something out of Dawn of the Dead, other people started raising their rock horns and making like woodpeckers, headbanging like it was 1999 until the entire room was filled with an ocean of bopping heads like a crowd of pigeons near their daily crumb feed.

It was then I felt a new stagelight burn on top of me, creating a brilliant glow around me of reds, whites and blues, and each person I pointed and nodded my head to in the rock manner cowered and was reduced to a sobbing form on his knees.

Each yeh baby! was a sentence in itself which incited in the people a passion of healthy rage. Each windmill revived in them a reason to be alive, which was here and now to strain some serious neck muscles.

I stopped a windmill halfway and looked to the Gods, pointing heavenwards my plectrum of mercy, my legs like fallen pillars on the ground I fell to my knees.

This was the moment to truly breathe meaning.

Anticipation grew thick. Screams of intensity almost shattered glass.

My mind was racing with possibilities. Let them wait.
Puffing and sweating I looked down into the eyes of the pigeons. Let them beg for more.

It felt like a dream come true.

It was only when I stood up to the microphone and screamed something inaudible that the vision was ripped from my sight. In place of the adoring fans was a Four Seasons plastic floor fan. In place of the moshing jackhammer like people were construction people ripping apart my apartment.

This was my bedroom.

Sometimes life is good, but other times it really sucks serious arsehole.

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