A mild, splendid summer day is seldom the setting for a local rock band, more often in the confines of a dimly lit and smokey bar. The setting was a welcome change and presented a rare opportunity for young family members to listen to their parents' mysterious hobby, though their attention waned toward the end of the first song.
A sound system and drums were provided so setup was minimal. I was thrilled to not have to sit through the seemingly endless stream of, "Check one, two" and boom-boom-boom as each microphone and drum was worked into the sound mix. I know it's not much fun to set up, but being in the audience through several extended sound checks has worn my tolerance to a bare, frayed nerve. Just a few short tweaks, and they were ready to play this time. Our group of band family had barely managed to shovel a few handfuls of kettle korn in our mouths before the first song began.
Over the past month or so, I have heard the band's original music enough times to wonder if it hasn't fused in my very cells. They are working on recording for a CD, and our home is the site of the necessary equipment. When actual recording is not taking place, John is mixing, meaning playback after playback of the same song or part of a song. I've caught myself waking up in the morning with a song already in my head--one of theirs. I've told John, even as a teenage, I never listened to any song in repetition as many times as I've heard theirs. In fact, I would challenge any member of the band other than the perpetrator of this cycle to claim hearing any of their songs more than I have. I like their music, don't mistake me, but it has become worn for me.
Then I hear them live.
There is something about the performance, being there as it happens, feeling the vibration in my very hair, that breathes life into these songs I thought I knew. Even when they later claim they were awful or rusty or full of mistakes, they always perform with a subtle, effusive presence--honest, infectious, genuine. They just do what they do, without desperation. So even when they have a "bad" show, it isn't. It helps that they are all much better musicians than any of them will admit.
The show went quickly--about 45 minutes. Long enough for a man who demonstrated his air guitar skills with abandon during a couple of songs, much to the amusement of the kids. I heard some favorable comments from some in the small crowd at the stage, which always makes me feel more satisfied than I think a non-member should. Even the black-clad teenagers wandering all over the field stopped to listen for a while. Catching any teen's attention is nothing short of miraculous, so they did something right.
Then it was over, and we were off in search of the restroom. Byt the time we returned, they were all packed--another big advantage to having so much set up by the coordinator. Everyone went their different ways, and John and I let Booie finish off the rest of her attraction tickets. A quiet bluegrass band followed echobox. I didn't even realize they started until we were leaving.
It is so nice to get home on the same date we left. No hangover. No waking up close to noon still feeling like I just went to bed. No worries about the kids at home. I could get used to gigs like this. Except I would miss the beer sometimes. And there is some aura to the nightlife, especially since I missed it when I was younger (and less prone to wretched hangovers). I really like that my ears aren't ringing today though. Age brings an appreciation to things like that.
Anyway, I liked this show. They played well. If not their best, it was still very good. The weather was super for this time of year. And who can complain with a band of kettle korn as tall as her youngest niece?
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One Year Ago Today:
