Wherein reality slaps me across the face.

We had a great show last Wednesday night at the 8X10. Sam Friedman took some fabulous pictures. Some video is here, proving that I do not know how to back AWAY from the mic when screaming, and that all the exercise is doing nothing.



We played the middle set. The other two bands were a bit more of the jam band variety and oh my god were they young. Like, not even fully grown. Their heads were even small. Kelly, who is petite and short and cute and at 27, the youngest member of the band, towered over them.



I don’t often feel, well, OLD, but last night, between the teeny tiny opening band wearing the exact same fluorescent shirts, white pleated pants, and members only jackets I sported in the sixth grade, and the audience making boxes to the closing band’s 25 minute jam-o-ramas, I earned every one of my gray hairs. I thought they were going to ask if we needed walkers.

The keyboard player from the first band did not know what a Wurlitzer was. I will repeat that. The keyboard player from the first band did not know what a Wurlitzer was. That is how young and uninformed he was. I’m sorry, if you’re going to call yourself a musician, more so a keyboard player, you should KNOW that the Wurlitzer is the granddaddy of all electric keyboards, the warmest sound of all sounds, the juiciest, prettiest notes you can hear. And yes, young un, technically, Sean’s 1964 Wurlitzer could have actually been played by Ray Charles. But I doubt it.

(This is Wurlitzer, son. Back in my day we had to carry it back and forth to school. Barefoot. In the snow.)

I am not poking fun. It’s just that they are too young to know any better. You know, I fancy myself aware of culture, Ryan and I get out frequently, we go to lots of different clubs and bars in the city, and that is the first time I felt so... oh you know. I’m not going to belabor it any longer. I sound like the old fart I am.