And they call that justice

A New York Times article today summarizes a newly released report "prepared by the Justice Department's inspector general and its internal ethics office." The headline gives away the gist: "Report Faults Aides in Hiring at Justice Dept." Here's the lede graf:

Senior aides to former Attorney General Alberto R. Gonzales broke Civil Service laws by using politics to guide their hiring decisions, picking less-qualified applicants for important nonpolitical positions, slowing the hiring process at critical times and damaging the department's credibility, an internal report concluded on Monday.

And here's a key paragraph, in my estimation:

The pattern appeared most damaging in the hiring of immigration judges, as vacancies were allowed to go unfilled — and a backlog of deportation cases grew — while Mr. Gonzales's aides looked for conservative lawyers to fill what were supposed to be apolitical jobs.

Oh, that's great. Let's put all this essential justice work on hold so that we can get some good ol' "god, guns + gays" Republicans in these positions, regardless of their qualifications. Because, obviously, Democrats, by virtue of their party affiliation, are incapable of demonstrating loyalty to a Republican president.

But this kind of vetting process wasn't exclusive to a circle of White House officials and aides to Alberto Gonzalez. It was contagious among Washington right-wingers during this administration.

When it came to filling the ultimate apolitical position in government, and the decision was twice left up to the president and Congress, it was Republicans who strove to make sure Bush's Supreme Court nominee was sufficiently conservative.

Come on, weren't they aware of the extent to which the White House's Supreme Court appointees had been vetted on that particular issue? They wouldn't think of letting anyone less than conservative slip through the cracks.

How dare the Congressional Republicans second-guess the nomination of White House counsel Harriet Miers, an ultimate conservative whose loyalty to the president could never once be questioned, even if her qualifications for sitting on the high court were lacking a bit? Boy, talk about disloyalty to your president. It's called trust, people!

We all wanna be big, big stars

I wanna be a lion
Eh! Everybody wants to pass as cats
We all wanna be big, big stars
Yeah, but we got different reasons for that

... I wanna be Bob Dylan
Mr. Jones wishes he was someone just a little more funky

I just spent a few hours thinking aloud in front of my parents and answering questions about where I'd like to live and what I'd like to do, and never once in that time did I invoke the wisdom of the Counting Crows. But then I sit down to blog about my psyche, and a few lines from "Mr. Jones" are the first things on my fingertips. Congratulations for seeping in, Adam Duritz.

Actually, I've just also sifted through a voicemail message and a few e-mails regarding the G Tones' membership. Karlin quit Sunday afternoon for his valid reasons. Shortty is naturally concerned about the short term, because he booked us some studio time for this Thursday and a gig next Friday. He doesn't want to have to go through the embarrassment of canceling either or both because our lineup is in turmoil. So, since I expressed the same frustrations with the band that made Karlin quit the band and may ultimately make me decide the same, Shortty called me to see if at least I'm still in for those dates. I will probably tell him I'm in. I did agree to the studio time (although I somehow wound up with a conflicting appointment with a personal friend), and I did agree to the gig. Of course, so did Karlin, but he's now un-committing himself for those.

He has been talking to me for a few years about the ticking clock that represents whatever time left he has to make it big in the music scene, if something is ever going to happen.

He said it to me last night before the gig, too. We were on the half of the bar designated as the "stage" because it's simply a bunch of open floor between a jukebox against one wall and a pool table near the opposite wall. Karlin sat down next to a monitor and behind a speaker, hiding from the view of the other half of the bar so he could wolf down a turkey sandwich that was his for full price at the bar, along with a regular Red Bull because the bar doesn't stock the sugarfree kind he prefers. (The bartender hadn't heard of a sugarfree Red Bull and even scoffed at such an idea: "What's the point of having an energy drink with no sugar?")

It's a far cry from what I would consider "backstage."

My concept of backstage mostly comes from the dressing room depicted in "This Is Spinal Tap," with the finger food that annoys the guitarist. I think of cushy rooms with hearty spreads of complimentary food, beverage and other assorted amenities. I think of security making sure we won't be mobbed by fans.

And other things we just don't have when we play in bars and are out there with the common folk. The kind who drop us a request, inscribed on a napkin, for "Time in a Bottle" by "Jim Chroce" [sic]. Totally not up our alley.

The luxuries and facilities we lack are what was on my brain last night before the gig when I said to Karlin, "When are we gonna play a gig with an actual backstage?"

"I don't know," he answered, "but it's gotta be soon, if I'm gonna make anything happen for me musically."

There he was again, emphasizing that ticking clock concept.

He and I look back often on the fact that we remained faithful to a classic rock cover band called World Peace Party for more than three years, based on a perceived likelihood that someday we would be more than a garage band with a grueling rehearsal schedule.

That someday we would emerge from our pit of basements and start opening for national touring acts whenever they played our big local venues.

That somehow we would be perceived as better than a typical bar band.

(Although it never added up in either of our minds about how we get to that position if we weren't ever performing out, because don't we have to have something to show in order to be compared to typical bar bands? Then why the hell weren't we ever playing out?)

We gave that dead-end group three years of our life and got back nothing in return by the time we quit this year. Karlin and I had two other notable side projects through that time, of which neither came to fruition. We have been disappointed with the next project for which we gave more than half a year. While my patience is running out, Karlin's has already depleted.

He wrote me today, after he quit the G Tones, elaborating yet again on that ticking clock. "I don't have the time to waste anymore; if something's going to happen for me musically, it's gotta happen NOW. I can't wait or waste my time."

Nearly word for word what he'd said to me with a $6.95 turkey sandwich in his hand and a sugary $3 Red Bull on his bass amp next to him.

I have to figure out what my future is too. Like, where am I going to live, what jobs should I shoot for, do I need to go back to school and learn some new skills or fine-tune the ones I have? The parents reiterated to me tonight that I am welcome to move in with them "indefinitely" while I figure all that out. I want to be more independent than that, but I wouldn't turn down a free room while I was looking for an apartment and making other arrangements. I really don't want to be one of those guys who lives at home when he's 30.

As for what I want to do for a living next, I was explaining to my parents a few specific musical occupations that would satisfy me. And I also spoke of a particular writing opportunity that would also satisfy me. My dad asked how either would do the trick as the two are so divergent: Being a touring musician, he said, requires only a few hours a day of playing music, which is having fun and sounds carefree, whereas writing requires more time, different assignments, with pressing deadlines. How could one person whose dream job seems so stress-free possibly be just as happy taking a high-stress job? I feebly responded that they satisfy different parts of the brain, I don't know. Something.

One point about being a musician I kept revisiting while I was talking with my parents is the idea that I'm sick of playing to rooms with more empty chairs in them than people when I'm perfectly capable of playing to hundreds and thousands at a time. That, to me, would be really fun. I love traveling and seeing new places (as long as it's not by bus). I love playing with other excellent musicians. I love making audiences happy. And I don't care if I make tons of money or become a household name. I just want to make enough money to get by and to be the keyboard player for someone who might just be a household name.

But I have no idea how to make that happen. And until I figure that out, I'll be playing gigs where my bar tab exceeds my pay, where we don't have a backstage, where the number of empty chairs exceeds the number of asses in seats, and where the performance sounds like a rehearsal. And I'll be looking for employment at some writing job that I hope keeps me happy, at least until the itch once again becomes so unbearable that I have to scratch one more time.

Summer band resignations, and what lies up the road

Think I'm gonna spend a few days with my family to step outside of my own problems for a few days. My last few live experiences have not been as pleasing as I'd hoped, and now the G Tones are about to take a hit with the resignation of our bass player, Karlin, and possibly me too.

And I don't know what's going on with the Usual Suspects as I was told on the phone earlier this morning not to come to practice today because they have another keyboard player who's rehearsing today to fill in for me on a gig I can't make while I'm up in Massachusetts. And they already have a new drummer I haven't met, somebody stepping into the shoes of the guy who quit shortly after our last gig and then fired off a bunch of grouchy e-mails.

But I can put all this behind for a few days and go visit, among others, my mom and dad. My mom is fresh off her birthday yesterday, and they have kindly offered, as they always do, to let me stay over at their place for a couple days. My parents have been eager to double-team me on the phone the past few days, in anticipation of my visit, to talk to me about how I'm doing since I've been unemployed.

Then also up there in PA is my aunt with cancer, whom I would like to see again and again in what are probably her last few weeks or months. And I'm also supposed to meet up with my high school-educated niece who has just moved out of her parents' place and into her first apartment. I'd like to try talking her back into college. She had planned on going a while back, but life got in the way, and now I don't know if she's been thinking of it at all. Oh, and her uncle is one to talk. Look at all of the wonderful things he is doing with his college degree right now.

Why do I even do this?

Sometimes after a gig, it's difficult to think of the good points. That's when there were enough bad points alone to generate a story for friends. I can't help but come from this gig, my second night in a row playing out, with a bad taste in my mouth.

This gig had its moments. I ought not forget that we did so well on so many parts of so many numbers, that we had a decent crowd there, that I feel like I personally played some of the best keyboard solos I have in maybe a year. I really had some good control in "Breakdown" and "L.A. Woman."

But the flip side of that is that other parts of the same songs did not go as well as perhaps they should, and that only one person -- my buddy Rob -- came as a result of my talking up the gig among friends beforehand. Sure didn't reel 'em in tonight.

Definitely the biggest disapointment of the night was the sound. It sucked for the first set. And all we played were two sets. So for half the show, we sounded horrible! My levels were inconsistent. Karlin said his bass tone sounded like crap to him in the monitor but was trusting it sounded better to the crowd. Tony said he couldn't hear himself on guitar all night. And Shortty, our drummer, said he couldn't hear anything because he didn't have a monitor. I don't know if Spills had any complaints, but more so than any individual complaints we had was what was obvious to the crowd there. The mics were going in and out, and there was awful feedback all throughout everything.

And that's what we got for booking a sound guy. We never had such problems when we went without booking a sound guy at the same place the last time we played there. We had hoped that by hiring a sound guy and by paying him half of our take, we would get an improvement in sound over when we did the sound ourselves there the last time. Well, that's not what we got, and so we told the sound guy we didn't feel it would be worth it to pay him in full. He didn't want to give us a discount and in fact told us to keep the money. He walked out on getting paid at all.

As a result, I went from making $25 to making double that. Twenty-five was also my bar tab, plus I tipped on that. So, I mean, if we had paid the sound guy, I would have ended up losing money on the gig (but yeah, because I "needed" a few drinks and some bar food). Heh. As it is, between the two gigs this weekend, I pocketed almost enough cash to pay the Usual Suspects the $40 each I owe them from our last gig in Manassas earlier this month. Well, no, scratch that. I need to pay them $160. I have $106 in cash. Guess I need another $60.

Oh, and I owe something like $50-60 to the bartender at Okra's in Manassas. Accidentally walked out on my bar tab there on July 4.

So, remind me why I'm in this business again?

I'm practically on tour now

If it's a tour, it's an unconventional one. It encompasses two metropolitan areas with only one venue in the second one (and it's far from the hub), several different bands I'll be playing with, and most of the dates are limited to weekends.

But it still kind of feels like a tour because between yesterday nd th end of next month, I will have played 12 shows. That's, like, an average of one gig every two or three days for a month. I don't think I've ever gotten so much use out of myself before.

Well, if yesterday was opening night, it wasn't a marvelous opening night. Barely anybody was in the audience, and I could seldom hear the guitar. Some of the on-the-fly song arrangements (particularly endings) could have used some tweaking.

Not the biggest surprise in the world given that this band is a revolving door of musicians who never rehearse together but consider themselves professionals capable of performing classic rock standards onstage.

Last night was probably my fourth or fifth show with that band, and I have never once played with exactly the same lineup. Go see that band, and you never know what you're gonna get.

But I found it funny that on almost every song, a common routine emerged: After two verses, they're looking to me to solo. Thank goodness I was feeling confident about my own performance. And after the first set, I adjusted to adapt to some constructive criticism: I needed to turn myself down during verses and the guitar solos. So I did that, but I was still unable to hear the guitar solos. The ax was drowned out by the bass amp next to me, and I think the guitar level should have been turned up more anyway.

Tonight's another show, but a different group. One that doesn't hide behind the pretense of not needing to practice collectively. Yeah, we actually rehearse! And when we did two days ago, it sounded pretty good. Fine enough to go out and do better than last night's band did.

The one thing that we can't directly control, though, is how many people show up to hear us play. I did tell people about the tour, but nobody has told me they will or won't make it to any particular show.

My gracious host, and my precarious situation (part three)

Continued from part two...

Day three in Nashville, cohabitating with my attractive new roommate, Karyn. Morning. After using the shower, Karyn dressed in the bathroom. Just like the previous morning, she again kept quiet and resisted turning on the lights near the beds.

Because I had enjoyed better rest, I was coherent enough to bid her good morning. We talked about how well we slept, and I commented that she hadn't laughed. She said that must have been because she passed out right away, which I verified.

She told me there was a free continental breakfast downstairs in the lobby until 10, and I said I would probably "rock that out." She asked if that meant I would be going downstairs with her. She was already fully dressed. I was in a T-shirt and a pair of shorts I really wouldn't want to be seen wearing in public. I shrugged, donned the pants I had on the night before, and said I was ready whenever she was.

From this moment on, I felt strangely as though we were a married couple. And she was my hot wife. She looked hot in that little dress she had put on for work. But I didn't tell her so. I tend not to, following the advice of some aloof guy I used to work with. Girls like mystery, he says. If you don't pay them the compliments they expect, they wonder what's wrong with them that they haven't earned your compliment! It drives them nuts, he says, and then the next thing you know, you have them eating out of your hand!

Not that this technique has ever worked for me, mind you. Ever since this guy started training me in his ways, I haven't gotten far along enough into any relationship to deny compliments. Nevertheless, I thought Karyn looked hot. Better than she had in D.C. when we met up four days earlier. But I wasn't telling her that. Also didn't want to rock the boat.

But because I felt like there we were, in some hotel lobby, cinnamon toast and the morning paper, cups of coffee and tea, and time to see her off to work, we were married. In an out-of-person experience, I could see myself as the disaffected husband giving her a peck on the cheek before she left. That would have been so fitting! So right. But for another couple at another time and at another place. Not us, not now, not here.

I did more of a wave as she took off to go about her day. And I watched in awe as Karyn and her hot little ass trotted toward the front door.

I'm back in bed two hours later when I get a text message from Karyn. She named a time and place for lunch and said she would pick me up at the hotel. Fine with me. As usual, I had no plans of my own. My doubts about moving to Nashville were keeping me from getting up and out there, experiencing Nashville and finding my destiny. But I liked her idea instead: Blow a lunch hour together.

This was my day for hopping back on a Greyhound, so our time together was limited. And it would be good to talk about the night before. And now that I didn't have any more chance of being deprived of an overnight stay, I could speak with her more candidly about whether or not I should have been more proactive with her at any time during our stay.

She pulled up in her rental car at the front door of the hotel right on cue. I hadn't been waiting outside for even 20 seconds when I saw Karyn behind the wheel of her Cobalt with Illinois plates. And it wasn't all that hot out for a change, just nice.

Karyn and I headed off by car to Sonic, more fast food that was new to me. I let her order her own lunch, and I just duplicated whatever she got. I was in a copycat mood. It ended up being a chicken salad with huge portions. She also ordered some mini bites -- three fried apple bites with cinnamon dipping sauce (labelled "drizzle") and three fried macaroni bites. She knew what she was talking about!

We also each ordered specially made caramel mocha something-somethings with tons of sugar, tons of sweets, tons of whipped cream, tons of calories, and an extra shot of espresso. These came in a cardboard container she put up front, right behind the gear shift. There's no indoor dining at a Sonic; you eat inside your car in their parking lot or drive off and eat it elsewhere. Like, for locals, at home. Or in our case, some other parking lot. Well, as she put the gear in reverse to back out of our space at Sonic, she crushed both of the caramel mocha something-somethings, and off came both lids as both sugary concoctions spilled down the sides of the cups and out into the box, and eventually down onto the Budget car's plastic interior.

We laughed hysterically about this repeatedly for the remainder of Karyn's lunch hour. Between bouts of laughter, I took a moment to tell her I wanted to hook up with her the previous night but kept myself from doing it because I didn't want to jeopardize my housing situation. She said that was a good enough reason not to. We even laughed about the stupidity, or simplicity, of my reasoning and the whole precarious situation I had been in for the last couple of days.

We did get some more alone time together in the hotel room in the afternoon before she got me to the Nashville bus station. In fact, I considered it a slightly encouraging sign when I received her text message, saying, "c u soon. fluff the pillows." Very interesting!

With nothing else to lose, I pressed my luck with her quite a bit more than I had before. Sorry to disappoint, but I must leave the rest to your imagination. I will, however, say this: The only restraints were the ones two consenting adults put on themselves. We emerged happy and unscathed, and I believe we will see each other again soon.

My gracious host, and my precarious situation (part two)

Continued from part one...

Day two in Nashville, cohabitating with my attractive new roommate, Karyn. Morning. Karyn showered and dressed and left in the morning without barely making a sound and without blinding me with any lights inside the room. I didn't hear any alarm go off either. Her movements wouldn't have disturbed me at all if I had been asleep in the first place. But as it was, I was having a hard time falling asleep, and whenever I did, I was waking up from some stupid dream and finding it difficult to go back to sleep. It wasn't a good night for me, but I made up for it after she left. I slept like a baby.

She called once in the morning, but I was in bed and by now sleeping soundly so I didn't know it. After two missed calls I didn't know about, there was a tap at the door. The loud rings of my phone didn't make me stir, but somehow, this gentle knock did the trick. It always does in hotels. And since I knew I had put the "do not disturb" sign up after Karyn left in the early morning, I figured it must not be housekeeping at the door. I'd better check it. Especially in case it was my breadwinning roommate, who would be locked out because I had latched the door shut.

I answered the door, and yep, it was Karyn. She had forgotten her laptop in the room and needed it for work later in the day. She had called twice to let me know she would be coming back for it. She asked what I was up to for the rest of the day. I said my plans were up in the air but that I would probably be checking out some music downtown. She told me when she was getting off work, and that's when I took notice: She didn't have plans either and thought we might get together. Hey, no protest here! Sounds fine to me!

She said someone once told her, "If you're ever downtown in Nashville, you HAVE to go to Tootsie's and order a Pabst Blue Ribbon!" I pointed out that Tootsie's is just one of several honkytonks on a one-block stretch of Broadway with near-identical layouts and near-identical beer selections, but if she wanted that place in particular, it would be fine with me! If I wasn't going to end up there, it would be one of the other half-a-dozen places with the same scene.

Karyn went back to work and left me to my beauty sleep. It was more of the same: heavy sleep. That felt good. It took me several more hours to get up, shower, and embark on a walking journey down Broadway, past the Interstate, to the White Castle. I knew it was there, and I knew I had always heard great things about the franchise's food, but I had never experienced it for myself and wanted to give it a try. So I ate four sliders and a six-piece chicken rings -- half BBQ, half ranch. Honestly, for all the hype surrounding White Castle, the food didn't do much for me. Just tasted like McDonald's hamburgers, only smaller. If anything, I thought there was more pepper on these.

Karyn caught me on the phone just as I was leaving White Castle with a slightly bad taste in my mouth, so she laughed and pointed out that all the general public's fondness for White Castle was based on states of being other than sobriety. Yeah, that makes sense.

That out of the way, Karyn asked what was next on my itinerary. I said possibly downtown, if she was interested in meeting up at some point. She didn't realize there would be music in the afternoon. I informed her that indeed there's music all the time on Broadway. She said she could drive downtown and offered to pick me up. I countered that I was close enough downtown just to walk the whole rest of the way and meet her wherever she parked. First, she tantalyzed me by mentioning a bar called the Beer Sellar that advertised "99 flavors of beer." Sounded fine -- and eerily familiar. Next, she ended up getting a ride into town from Pam. Great! No worries about driving intoxicated later on!

So we tried several of the 99 flavors, and I fed the jukebox, and Karyn helped balance my picks of "No Rain" and "Idioteque" with some "Material Girl" and -- hmmm, "Welcome to the Jungle," not bad! Coincidentally, she and I converged on Bob Marley & the Wailers as our individual jukebox picks. Through several rounds and several more free "tastes" of others we wanted to try, we stayed entertained for quite a while. Oh, and when you're there, be sure to try the mini nachos! Tasty! We got out of the Beer Sellar with an extraordinarily cheap bar tab for all we drank -- and also six tall Paulaner beer glasses to take home, thanks to a Tuesdays-only promotion. Seemed like we were ahead of the game!

Then we carted off by foot to Tootsie's, where I said the upstairs band was probably more our speed. Karyn said I was right. We nursed our 16 oz. Pabst Blue Ribbons; she insisted on calling the beer by its full name rather than the initials, because that's the way it was recommended to her. I didn't quite understand that, but I went with it. Don't rock the boat.

We didn't spend much time there, but next on the agenda was a meal. So we wandered around, with our box of beer glasses in tow, and looked at the restaurants -- some we'd heard good and bad recommendations of, and some that were complete mysteries to both of us. Surprisingly, we were pretty well in the know for a couple of tourists. We did walk into one spaghetti place but both commented that it smelled a little too much like vomit inside. On to the next place!

In spite of having heard a colleague of hers report that the dishes another spaghetti place we saw were no better than at Shoney's, that's the place we settled down in. We had a bottle of Blue Nun with our meal, and we spent most of the time at our table laughing. When I brought up her tendency to laugh in her sleep, she burst out laughing. She hadn't been told that in almost a decade, when a college roommate asked about her strange habit. Karyn didn't know she was still doing it. And because she was, it was a riot! Glad I mentioned it. I told her it bodes well for her natural temperament; it's a sign that she is relaxed when she laughs. She couldn't argue against that point.

Despite our drinking, the ambience inside Demo's also allowed for some serious conversation. I relayed my doubts about my impending (yet tentative plans to) move to Nashville, which I had confided in few at that point. My doubts were only about 24 hours in the making. I didn't come to any vast realizations over my plate of alfredo sauce over spaghetti and tomato base over Italian sausage, but it was no less good for the soul that I confided in Karyn. It probably helped her to get to know the real me. But I'm not one to let a conversation grow too serious, so I made sure the lighthearted mood returned. We were laughing again quickly. Thanks for the assist, alcohol!

If it had been a date, I would have rated it fairly high. It was a success in terms of so many things! And we picked up glasses for dirt cheap! But back at the room, two things struck me. 1.) She was drunk, and it's probably not a good idea to take advantage of her. 2.) Oh yeah. Right. She's my gracious hostess, and I mustn't rock the boat. If I misinterpret a signal, the penalty is probably being homeless! Don't want that to happen.

She changed clothes and got under her covers. I did the same with mine. Lights out, TV off. She asked me to light the candle she had on top of the TV. I tried; damn thing wouldn't light. Candle? If that was a signal, I still didn't want to risk misinterpreting it. Bedtime! Alone, again. And before I could even reconsider, I heard what sounded like sleeping. I said, "Don't tell me you're already sleeping." She didn't tell me. She couldn't, and she didn't have to. She was passed out cold.

I heard no laughing that night. She was just that dead tired. I fell asleep rather quickly too and stayed that way for most of the night. But I had occasional dreams about complimenting a brunette female on her cute face and her being amused. The mystery dream girl didn't really remind me much of Karyn except for her trademark smirk.

To be concluded...

My gracious host, and my precarious situation (part one)

In the '80s, there were David Addison and Maddie Hayes. In the '90s (and again in their second feature film opening this Friday), there were Fox Mulder and Dana Scully (I received no compensation for plugging the movie).

The will-they-or-won't-they complex existed once more this week: in a hotel room I shared with an attractive woman my age and whom I barely knew.

Karyn and I met at my favorite Capitol Hill bar on April 3. We have chatted on the phone a few times, and e-mailed and texted a few more times. She invited me out to meet up at some social events, but my own scheduling conflicts dictated that I could not attend. Out of a stroke of luck, I caught up with her when she was about to travel to somewhere she'd never been before and was looking for something fun to do. It was Chattanooga, and I had just been there and knew of a downtown diner that makes exquisite cakes. I suggested it, and she thanked me a few days later and said it was delicious.

But by the time I saw her in person again, she had forgotten most of what I had told her about myelf. So, essentially, I was a stranger -- although we did keep in touch infrequently, talking about our travels (hers for business) and how closely our schedules overlapped. She was spending a lot of time working in Manassas but not any of the nights I was playing a gig there. She was spending some time in Nashville, but not when I was planning on being there. And then that's all we talked about, just the fact that we hadn't seen each other in a growing amount of time.

Last week when I called Karyn again, she immediately told me she was at an airport about to fly from home in D.C. to Nashville. Cool, I said, informing her that I was planning on taking a trip there shortly myself and possibly moving there. After I mentioned I was trying to line up some places to stay while in town, mainly couches to crash on, Karyn made an offhanded remark that she didn't even mean: "I could switch my room reservation to two king-size beds, and you could crash in my hotel room."

She didn't exactly expect me to take her up on the offer, but when it seemed increasingly unlikely I could count on a friend's couch for any of my four nights in town, I turned to her in desperation: "Which hotel did you say you will be staying at? OK, then I'll see you Monday and stay there Monday and Tuesday. Thanks!"

She suggested that it would be nice to see me once more in D.C. before I shared such close quarters with her overnight. It sounded like a good idea to me as well. So we got together Friday night before my bus departure for Nashville (by way of God's country). She had picked a popular outdoor summer jazz series in the District, and it was convenient to the Greyhound station, so I went there and found her.

Karyn looked good. Damn good. She was dressed to impress, and that wasn't all she did that impressed. She had nabbed chairs for us and supplied wine. Me? I looked shabby, with four or five days' of not shaving, in need of a haircut too, plus dripping with sweat from the heat, wearing the T-shirt-and-jeans combo that I find relaxing but makes me stick out like a sore thumb in downtown D.C. Other than my overstuffed tote bag with four days' worth of clothes and toiletries, I had come pretty much empty-handed.

Luckily, I had a little bit of personality to salvage my otherwise unimpressive presentation. That, and a little dab of body spray that even I liked when I put it on, although I'm not sure how well it held up against my sweat from carrying my burdensome tote in Washington's sweltering mid-July sun.

We made our greetings and some small talk, listened to the modern jazz band performing, sipped on her wine, and got to know each other a little better as we people-watched and eavesdropped on the typical drunken political conversations nearby. Karyn said she'd gotten me onto an invitation list for her upcoming birthday party. We firmed up plans for meeting up in Nashville a few days later, said good-bye, and that was that. Great! I'm sure if she had any reservations about letting me share her hotel room for a couple of nights, she would have said something. So I passed the audition and was guaranteed a place to stay for the second half of my trip -- as long as I could refrain from sabotaging it through any idiotic actions while I was there!

Damn, there's always a catch. I have to behave.

So, she landed in Nashville and called me right away. Only problem: I was at the wrong hotel. Same name, wrong location. I had gotten it mixed up in my mind and wound up eight miles away from her. Not knowing just how out of the way I was, she offered to drive her rental car and pick me up
. She thought I was at the one a few blocks from her hotel -- no dice. I told her I would hop in a cab and get to the right place and see her there. She said she had a hankering for some sushi near the hotel, and I said I would join her. That's what we did: Karyn and I -- oh, and Pam, her workmate who had also just flown in for the week. Just the three of us: How romantic!

Remember, don't be creepy. I'm not here to date Karyn. I need this hotel room and don't want to blow it!

We came back to the room, and she got changed and ready for bed. So I did the same. She turned on the TV, and once we had made fun of Headline News for long enough, she settled on a reality dating show for single moms and their male suitors. I was only partly interested, as I was preoccupied with whatever was happening on my BlackBerry. Just as I was getting interested in the fate of these single moms as they had their first on-screen encounter with the guys, Karyn said she had seen the rest of that episode from that point on. She changed the channel and handed me the remote, saying she wouldn't make me suffer through it.

Well, I thought I might come off as girly if I switched it back to the chicks' dating show, or uncaring since she obviously wasn't interested in viewing the rest of it again, so I turned it to "The Colbert Report" for the few minutes before the next commercial break. By then, her head was stuffed facedown in her pillows, and although she told me I could continue to watch TV without disturbing her, but she had to get out of bed and start work very early the next morning, so I thought I would just turn in myself -- all the way over here on my separate bed. I turned the TV off altogether, and the lights too, and set my BlackBerry to vibrate. I avoided conversation with her because even a quick good-night might have disturbed her if she was already asleep. So that was that. Another encounter of not offending her, just playing everything safe, and not rocking the boat, so as not to get kicked out of my free room!

That first night, making a move on Karyn would have been the least appropriate thing in the world. I mean, I guess I made her laugh a few times while we were out for sushi, but I was also having the same effect on Pam, a 40-year-old wife and mother. Karyn and I hadn't connected uniquely, and so there was no way I was going to attempt anything.

But while she was sleeping only a few feet away, I could hear her breathing. I could hear her laugh a few times. Karyn laughs in her sleep? That was new to me. Never known anybody to do that before. That's not a bad trait! She did it three times of which I was aware: twice late at night, before I myself fell asleep, and once in the morning, before the sun rose and before she was up. If nothing else, I merely took notice.

To be continued...

Having second thoughts

A friend of mine sent me a message this morning asking when I have decided I will move to Nashville. It was only a few days ago, just before embarking on my latest trip to the city, that I charted out a timeline on paper and arrived at the second week of October as the week for moving.

But I'm not so sure that's still my plan. My doubts lie deeper than just the calendar I sketched out a week ago.

If I move, it really can't be sooner than the last date for which I have committed a D.C.-area gig, or some other kind of obligation. A while back, I arbitrarily set a date of Sept. 15 as the cut-off date after which I would not let myself commit to a gig in the event that I would later decide to be in Nashville, either permanently or temporarily. And for a long time, I lucked out in that I had only one gig scheduled in all of September and it was five days before that arbitrary deadline.

But then I remembered that my presence would be appropriate at an American University event on Oct. 5, the gala for the installation of the fraternity chapter for which I spent some years volunteering. No biggie, I decided; I would just stay in D.C. through that weekend and move the following week. Hence moving the second week of October.

And then, just a few days ago, I accepted a paying gig with the Usual Suspects at the University of Maryland's homecoming. The band played the show last year, before I joined the group, and I expect the gig would be my largest audience yet. Even though the date is about a full month after my cut-off, I accepted it. It pays well and is in front of a large audience. Never mind that my musical equipment and I would likely be 850 miles from the gig! Now I'm in a bind because I said yes to it. And I have to start thinking.

That brings me to the doubts I'm having in regaining full-time employment. With the way the economy is right now, it's not safe to predict I would get a job right away upon moving. That being said, surviving three or four months without a full-time paying job is a lot easier to do in Nashville than it is in D.C., and I've already gone longer than one month in D.C. without a full-time paying job.

That savings account I had accrued over the last few years is good to have in this situation, and while I haven't been saving for anything in particular (no aspirations for a car or a house), I never really envisioned I would be saving up just to be jobless for half a year.

At any rate, back to my friend's question this morning. Over the past few days, I started having second thoughts about moving to Nashville. Maybe it's not the right move at this point. Maybe it's not the move I need. Maybe I wouldn't be as successful as I thought. So I mentioned this to my friend today when he asked when I am moving, and he found my proclamation of doubts peculiar. He said that in the mass e-mail I had just sent out to my friends informing them of my intentions, I seemed so "confident" about the move. In that mass e-mail, I speak of finally being able to pursue my passion in a location that was built for it. I guess I do come off as confident in it. And yes, just a few days ago, I was.

But that changed when I started taking a closer look at the keyboard players down here. First of all, and I'd known this to be true already, there aren't many keyboard players. What's that mean:

(a) that the supply is low and the demand is high and therefore I would get work in a second? Or

(b) that keyboards are extraneous because most bands are complete without them in the mix?

Just answer that question with logic. Most of the bands I heard were in-freaking-credible, but they didn't have keyboards. They also didn't have trumpets and sitars and jugs and accordions and spoons, but that's as irrelevant to their sound as is the fact that they had no keyboards. I think any band that is already in-freaking-credible doesn't need to add another instrument to buff up its sound -- or, by extension, another member to take another piece of the financial pie.

But there are groups in Nashville that have keyboardists. The good news is that I'm just as good a musician as the guys I've seen on keys. I mean, seriously, they have chops, but nothing in the area of playing that I don't.

I have a great musical memory. Name a song. If I've heard it, I can probably play it off the top of my head -- assuming I can dig it out of the cobwebs. I can play it for you, even if I've never played it before, because I have a great ear. And I can usually remember it because I have a great memory for it.

Put me in a group of musicians who know things about dynamics, performance, and stuff, and I will blend in. Musical conversations are easy to have, and they're a lot of fun too. I can blend in easily; I'm quiet when necessary and no-holds-barred rockin' whenever that's called for. And I consider keyboard a part of the rhythm section for most if not all of a lot of music, so I lock in with the bass and drums often, following them whenever necessary. Same thing I said about musical conversations! When it's my turn to improvise and take a solo, I can do that well; a lot of times, I'm channeling things based off of recordings I have heard, or making up something original.

While I'm lousy reading conventional musical notation (i.e., "sheet music"), I don't think that matters for the style(s) of music I would be playing. It's more relevant, I think, that I'm perfectly capable of reading chord charts and even a single-note melody line.

And onto this, let me add that I can sing great harmonies -- when I know the words, that is. Knowing the words isn't a skill I profess to have. In fact, just the opposite; I have readily admitted on here three months ago -- not once but twice!!! -- just how crappy I am with knowing song lyrics because I generally don't pay attention to them in the first place! My musical memory is for orchestrations, keys of songs, chords, song structures, melody lines, even sometimes a memorable guitar solo or something like that. Ask me what a song's about? Couldn't even tell you that, some of the time, much less sing you something other than the chorus. So there, I'm lacking in at least one department.

The guys in Nashville all sing and do it well. I can carry a tune and sound halfway decent. They do more than just carry a tune. They nail it. They're great singers, and they conjure up the lyrics. That's two extra skills Nashville keyboardists have that I don't.

Tack on that these keyboard players are adjusting the PA while they're playing. Me? I don't even know how to turn the knob to avoid burning my toast! But they know all about the PA system because it's probably theirs, or it's a brand they've been using for years, or it's just second nature to them. And seriously, music just sounds good to me, no matter where the levels are. You don't want me to be in charge of the sound. Hell, I couldn't even operate the fog machine right when the Usual Suspects put me in charge of it at our Feb. 16 gig at the Fish Head Cantina! My track record with equipment speaks for itself.

Which leads me to one more thing that separates the men from the boys: the sophistication of their musical instruments. Anywhere there's a professional musician, there's some understanding of what makes his or her brand of that instrument superior to another. I don't have that. I don't care. I never have. I also don't pay attention to equipment and know anything about it: keyboard technology, sound equipment, etc. And apparently it is evident in my choice of a Yamaha Digital Grand as my primary keyboard. Even I think it's a glorified child's toy!

So, it's the factors above that are leading me to wonder about my tentative decision to move to Nashville and to pursue this dream of fitting in with the cream of the crop when I still haven't proven myself completely in the D.C. area, or anywhere else for that matter. Maybe that's what I need to do first -- to myself at least -- and work on the areas in which I know I'm lacking.

Ran into my favorite musicians in Nashville

So I'm chatting with my Zeppelin-world friend Tracy outside the Sommet Center after I saw Robert Plant and Alison Krauss perform for the fifth time this year.

And we are about to cross 5th Avenue South when I spotted two other people I know: Kenny and Zach of the Wooly Mamas were crossing Broadway with some friends of theirs, and they recognized me when I called out to them.

I introduced my friend Tracy, who had to split because of an early shift starting in only a few hours.

I, on the other hand, had a whole city calling out to me to drink some beer and chill out -- with some folks I knew! My favorite musicians!

(Outside of Robert Plant, who was in town, and his fellow members of Led Zeppelin, that is.)

So anyway, I'm now back at the hotel after spending my post-concert Saturday night first at Decades (DJ-driven dance music from NKOTB and Paula Abdul to Billy Idol and Michael Jackson) and then at Layla's Bluegrass Inn (a band covering the Who, the Animals, T Rex, but not Led Zeppelin when I requested "The Lemon Song" for a $10 tip).

When I bring my keyboard to town, I'll really fit in well!

In the meantime, PBR and Miller High Life are my favorite beers. Very affordable and very tasty!

Eddie Cochran - Nervous Breakdown

Great new addition to the set list! Robert on vocals doing his best Eddie Cochran imitation ever!

Wildwood Flower - song being debuted in concert right now

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wildwood_Flower



T Bone Burnett suggested the band do the song only yesterday. Alison Krauss sang, no Robert Plant. Stuart Duncan on mandolin.

Close call

OK, this is hilarious. Only because I ended up not having to face the repercussions. But another Greyhound passenger and I just had a really close call.

This guy Sean and I had a taste for something other than the microwavable enchiladas they had at the Knoxville bus station. And I also wanted to get a flavor of the town. I'd stayed in Knoxville three months ago, too, and thought differently of it compared to the backward towns I was badmouthing earlier.

So we ditched the bus and walked a couple blocks away to Urban Bar, a place some local recommended. Sounds good enough to me. Well, I had a couple of Shiner Bocks, and Sean (age 49) couldn't get served because he didn't have his ID (he blamed Greyhound for losing it for him yesterday). And we both had chicken wraps with Cajun hot sauce. And it was fun.

But as we walked back to the station we spotted our bus in motion, backing up out of its spot and ready to take off! All our stuff was on board. Of course, we were able to flag the bus down, and all's well that ends well. No, no lesson learned at all. It was just a lot of fun. The thing surprised me by taking off on time, maybe a tad ahead of schedule. We played it just right.

Just right.

Nashville or bust!

Next stop? Something thrilling, I'm sure

At some point overnight at the Richmond Greyhound terminal, I overheard part of a conversation in which a young woman tell a stranger this was her first Greyhound bus trip. I could relate, as my first time was a few weeks ago.

But, you know? It's nothing to sing and dance about. It warrants no big fanfare, no celebration. It's not worthy of photographs or remembering in friendly conversation weeks or years later. I don't think I'll find myself starting a letter, "Dear Mom and Dad, The bus rules!" It's not like your first steps, or your first time flying, or your first car. It's just sitting. For a long time. A long, long, damn time. And making witless empathetic conversation about the agonizing delays. And getting up to stretch your legs every once in a while. That's all the hell it is.

And in the case of the long road trips I booked myself on to get back and forth between the hustle-and-bustle nation's capital and thriving Music City USA, it's a pointless waste of a day passing through bland, godforsaken places with names like Lynchburg, and Junction City. Each town has a bridal shop and an insurance agency and a couple law offices and an antiques shop and discount tobacco and a run-down gas station and a get-cash-instantly place and three (count 'em, three!) McDonald's billboards in a row reminding us about the "classic" Big Mac -- nothing more conservative than that, is there? Oh, I guess the two billboards for the regional gun show that ended five days ago could be construed as more conservative.

This all is what the elite consider fly-over territory. And not that I'm elite by any stretch of the imagination. I'm just temporarily unemployed, and the difference in price between methods of transportation was my sole factor in choosing the bus over a plane. Have you seen how much the airlines are charging these days? It's a no-brainer to me; the bus is the Payless Shoes of public transportation.

But honestly, and I'm counting on somebody to remind me I said this in case I forget, the only no-brainer is the fact that I must not have a brain when I pick this ghetto-fabulous mode of transit over flying the friendly skies. It doesn't matter how much it costs. I can get to Nashville from D.C. in what, 90 minutes? 60 minutes? I can make myself afford a flight if I really need to go. I just can't spend one more day trapsing through Rogersville or whatever. Another stupid day of this? I can't do it.

But I'll have to next Thursday because I forked over the dough already for a round-trip ticket. Damn the $10 discount for a two-way reservation!

Should I eat that return trip ticket?

Hell, for that matter, could I get off this bus at the next exit and see if there's an airport near the Exxon, Stuckey's and Dairy Queen that can get me the rest of the way to Nashville in 10 minutes?

(What in the hell is Stuckey's?)

That didn't last long

Wow, I just re-read my post from early June introducing Dina to the blogosphere, and it now seems strange to me that I was so seemingly enthralled in her and she in me. Well, it didn't last long.

Since she wasn't over her last boyfriend, she didn't want to do any dating. Since that was the case, whenever we went out and whenever we kissed, we weren't dating although it felt like it to me and probably to her too. But by her request, we were never really together and therefore never had anything to break up. And I guess it's because of this, it just wasn't a monumentous occasion when we stopped speaking to each other just after Independence Day.

I was on a tremendous high because I had just spent the better part of a week in Nashville, hanging out with my friends down there while I was checking out the town I was deciding to call home within a few months, riding back to within an hour of DC with my favorite band down there, watching them play in their old stomping grounds where they now sounded better than I had ever heard them before, and then sitting in with them myself the following night in Bethesda.

Well, I took Dina to that second gig because she'd never heard me play before and I thought she would enjoy it. After all, I'm a rock star! Who can resist a rock star? Yep, and apparently I found the one who could. I may have taken her to the show, but she didn't stick around long. She didn't show any sign of enjoyment, and I had no idea why. The music was great, the band was hot, the room was hoppin', and the only person there she knew was droppin' 'em dead. No signs of enjoyment.

And she left. And came back an hour later for half a song and then left again. I had to drive her home, and apart from the first two minutes in which she said some hurtfully negative things, it was a 45-minute ride full of silence. Nothing. I was offended or pissed or something, and I just couldn't talk. I dropped her off at her building, and she walked out of the car and out of my life.

A year ago, I was the type of guy who would have overanalyzed it and been back on the phone to her the very next day asking what was wrong and how we could repair it. Not anymore. I'm not an unconcerned individual. It's just that sometimes two people ain't never gonna work it out and it's just best they admit that right away and move on. I think she and I both did that. We haven't called each other, and when the car door closed, so did that chapter. Just glad it was a short chapter and not something painful and excruciating.

Painful and excruciating. A lot like taking a Greyhound bus, come to think of it.

I hate Lynchburg

I don't hate Richmond. I hate Lynchburg. Just the dreadful, hateful, history-drenched name for this awful, dogshit town. I hate that we have to stop here, listen to that ugly name be utterred, and sit and wait for the nicotine addicts to do their thing, which usually involves carelessly flicking their cigarettes high off the Lynchburg platform where they land on a walkway below where, who knows, maybe somebody's kids may be walking, before they re-board the bus now that their clothes reek of smoke and are just as capable of spreading that horrible smell inside the bus as if they hadn't even bothered to step out into the Lynchburg air. I hate Lynchburg.

I hate Richmond

My second bus trip down to Nashville isn't going as well as planned so far. I'm writing this from a roach-infested depot I have gotten to know all too well over the course of several hours just now and several more hours a few weeks ago. It's in Richmond. I am really beginning to despise this damn city.

But I can't blame my troubles on Richmond, and I shouldn't, given it was from this city that an unexpected package was sent to my doorstep around noon yesterday. It was a mug sent by my fraternity's headquarters, in Richmond, to all the volunteers who are currently active in any capacity. I was happy to receive this pleasant surprise.

So that alone should make me feel less tense about Richmond than I do. But I can't help it. The fact that within a few miles lies my fraternity's national headquarters, with all its well-intentioned people and its focus on core principles to develop balance in life, provides no solace to me at this sleepless moment when the sun will soon rise.

I just looked. The dark blue night sky is already dissipating, giving way to a lighter hue of cyan. And behind this bus I can faintly see shades of yellow and orange. That isn't going to help me sleep. I've been up since the chiming of yesterday morning's "The Price is Right" theme song, which has become a ritual for me since I found myself unemployed. Just like in the summers between levels of grade school and high school, and even throughout much of college.

But now I'm off track. And so was the first bus I boarded on this trip that is already taking several more hours than I had anticipated. We first got off track when the driver couldn't find his way to an impromptu drop-off point in Springfield, VA, for one passenger. A passenger who drives a truck in the area for a living went up front and helped guide the driver to the one woman's destination. Then the bus driver couldn't find his way back onto I-95 South. The same helpful passenger returned up front to guide us back onto the East Coast's main north-south highway. Thank goodness for this guy, but he responded both times hesitantly, so it was only after we had been going for several minutes in the wrong direction that he leapt to our collective rescue.

But the worst was yet to come. It was at mile marker 89.4 that our bus was forced to pull over. And every one of us on board knew immediately the reason why. We could all feel it when we blew a tire. It was my first public-transportation flat, my first bus breakdown. Good lord, I hope it was my last.

I've heard horror stories about bus trips gone terribly wrong. While my new experience certainly wasn't the worst possible scenario, it was because this bus went out of service, and because it took another two hours for another bus to come to our aid, that I missed the 1 a.m. departure from Richmond that would have imprisoned me with the roaches for only one hour instead of four and a half. Further, the 1 a.m. departure would have gotten me into Nashville around noon; this later bus won't get me there until after 8 p.m., for a total of about 23 hours of travel time.

And there's nothing plush or relaxing about this style of transportation either. Even without the breakdowns and delays, taking the Greyhound bus has so many built-in inconveniences. Mostly, it's the layovers. I can sleep through a stop, one of those stops where all they do is drop off a couple of people and pick up a few others and leave within a couple of minutes. Those stops don't bother me. The ones that do are the lengthy and frequent layovers. The ones where you know there will be noise, there will be movement, and they may even make you get off the bus for an hour or so -- for "cleaning," they tell you. When I come back on, the place still looks like my messy apartment: They didn't clean a damn thing.

Now that sun is up. Wait, what's it doing to the right? If we're heading south, shouldn't it be on my left? Don't tell me this bus driver is lost too!

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld

What to do, what to do

In case it isn't clear by now, I have recently decided I will be moving from Washington to Nashville. I am planning on moving there around late September or early October. That means I have a little while to figure out what I will be doing down there and where I will be living.

It also gives me a few more months in the D.C. area, whether I'm working or not, or wherever else I choose to be in the meantime. The world is quite open to me at this point, although I do have a lot of weekend gigs occupying my time over the next month and obligating me to be in the D.C. area.

However, there is still a certain draw to Nashville before I start making arrangements to live and work there. The next few days would be a perfect time for me to spend a while down there, particularly as Robert Plant and Alison Krauss will be in town. They perform at the Sommet Center this Saturday night, finishing the second leg of their U.S. tour before they rest up for the third leg two months from now. Nashville is home to Alison and several of the musicians in that touring band, and it is more of a possibility to run into them there than in any other locale. At the moment, I don't have anything I absolutely have to do this weekend, which is the only time that will happen until sometime in September when my current onslaught of weekend gigs and other weekend obligations end.

As far back as a month ago, I looked ahead in my calendar and realized the weekend of July 19 might be my only time during the month to go visit my family in Pennsylvania, particularly that sweet old aunt of mine who has terminal cancer that will be ending her life one of these months. So while I had been planning on a visit there this weekend, I did take the chance to visit on a weekday late last month. I don't think I will be up there again this weekend. Maybe some weekdays sometime soon, though.

But now I have another draw, and that is staying in the D.C. area this weekend to attend a conference for pay, and to participate in some band practices that otherwise would have taken place without me. I could use the money I would make going to the conference, particularly as I would be making more money at that "gig" than I do at many of my music gigs!

So, do I spend money and get to Nashville, where I am not sure where I would be staying and not sure if I would run into the musicians whose company I am seeking, or do I stay in the capital area and get paid to do one thing while fulfilling some other obligations? What to do, what to do?

Nashville's piano bar scene

Oh my lord. I just walked into the Big Bang, a beautiful second-floor dueling pianos bar on Broadway across the street from all the honky tonk action. I've been in here for less than 10 minutes, and I've already heard two of the biggest clichés.

Oh crap, make that three!

First, Elton John. Somebody requested "Tiny Dancer," and the pianist on the left said he had played it already. But he indulged whoever it was who gave him the tip and played a little bit and segued into "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues" and back. And yeah, he made it "Tony Danza."

Second, the piano player on the right played "Gin and Juice" by Snoop Doggy Dogg. And he knew every word of it and let the audience sing parts by themselves.

And third, just as I was starting this post, the piano player who had just played something by Elton John had just received a request for some Billy Joel. I guess things don't change. Anyway, he played all of "We Didn't Start the Fire" and knew every word of it. And he sped up the last verse, impressively.

And if there is a fourth cliché for piano players, it's Ben Folds. Now the piano player on the right is playing one of those Ben Folds Five songs, I couldn't tell you which.

Anyway, good stuff is going on. I walked in to the tune of "Sweet Home Alabama." Now they're doing some Sublime. Yeah, I might not enjoy every minute of work here, but I would definitely fit in and hold my own.

Chat with Burning Las Vegas keyboardist

Thank goodness I recognized Andrew, the keyboard player, when he went up to the bar two armlengths away from me between sets, and that I had the guts to go up and introduce myself (and buy his 16 oz. PBR Tall Boy for $3.25).

Because this British keyboardist who's played in San Diego and Australia previously offered some advice for my situation -- and also knew of a keyboard player I ought to look up in D.C., who plays with Swedish-born blues guitarist Robert Lighthouse, whom I've seen a number of times including most recently on a corner a few blocks from my home on Capitol Hill.

So the keyboard player who'd just brought the house down with a Dr. Feelgood blues tune a few minutes earlier was now talking to me about a guy we both know! How cool is that?

Andrew's advice about relocating to Nashville was simple. If you can spare the cash to make it work, do it. It doesn't have to be a permanent commitment. But get a day job and avail yourself of every opportunity. There are plenty of ways to make it work, he said.

And being able to tell that he was a well-adjusted, friendly and smart dude helped a lot.

So glad I met him. He said if I do move down here, he'll probably still be in the same place with the same band on Wednesday nights!

Burning Las Vegas set list @ B.B. King's Blues Club, 7/2/08 (set one)

Papa was a rolling stone

Signed sealed delivered

I can't get next to you/Heard it through the grapevine

Say that you will (?)

Midnight train to Georgia

Chain of fools

I second that emotion

Something

(You make me feel like a) natural woman (At this point this made me feel like a Nashville musician. And I think I want to write a song parody to that effect. I mean, I would totally fit in with this band, playing keyboards for them.)

Soul man/Hold on I'm coming

Slow blues in G (Stormy Monday style -- this really brought the house down... every soloist took a solo, and the place was rockin' right through the very last blessed note)

Proud Mary (slow first, then fast)

(Tim and Shannon wedding announcement, then fast number by request) Get up offa that thing



Break, and a well-deserved one



That's all for now

A good mix

"Two Tickets to Paradise," by Eddie Money, is a great song. The verses vacillate between two chords -- G and A -- but it is not until the chorus that the key of the song establishes itself as D. When it does, it uses a very Townshend-esque riff to go from I to IV to V. Ain't very complicated at all, but the vocal melody makes the song.

At song's end are several repetitions of that three-chord riff, with the final V chord ringing out and leaving the song unresolved. Something else needs to happen there. It's begging for something.

I'm a Radiohead fan. Lots of people credit their album OK Computer as being one of the very finest albums of the 1990s, and I agree. But that being said, I never did like the tune "Let Down." Whenever I heard it in its place in the album, it was completely overshadowed by the song that preceded it. At four minutes and 25 seconds in length, "Exit Music (for a Film)" contains so much passion. It's mellow at first and then grows in intensity. Like a good storyline, the song has the buildup, the climax and then a solid dénouement. Great song structure, expertly executed by Radiohead both instrumentally and vocally. It's such a great moment in their career.

Any song following "Exit Music" is necessarily going to be a big letdown to me, hence "Let Down" is such an appropriate title for the song in that place. By itself, it's not a bad song.

Back to the Eddie Money tune. Last night, I heard a wonderful accidental juxtapositioning of "Two Tickets to Paradise" and "Let Down," thanks to a random choice made by iTunes. The resounding A chord at the end of the first song was unexpectedly resolved by the strumming guitar at the beginning of "Let Down." Because chords are only implied in Jonny Greenwood's opening riff, it's not clear what key the song might be in until the rest of the band enters and establishes it as A. It's actually the perfect continuation of "Two Tickets to Paradise."

Good stuff.

Two lessons learned

Today watching some people perform, I learned two lessons.



One is how similar the human voice is to the pedal steel guitar. The guy who showed me this is Pork McElhinny. He did pedal steel solos with only his voice during an afternoon stint today during versions of "Stand By Your Man" and "Folsom Prison Blues."



The other is how much a mandolin can sound like a Hammond organ. I love the sound of a Hammond B-3. Have for a long time. I own a compilation of great tracks "made" by that instrument. Love it. Paul Shaffer, Steve Winwood: my favorite musicians of all time. I hope I can play like them someday. Maybe I already do, who knows? Anyway, there's a similarity between the way you play a mandolin and the way you play a Hammond B-3, which I never realized before, until just now.



One lesson I had today but didn't learn for the first time is how clever you can be in country music. I learned that a couple years ago when I was in Houston. That time, I bought a CD from a guy by the name of Russel Ray. This time, bought a CD in Nashville from a guy by the name of Dave Cox. Great musician. Just wish I were his keyboardist, and that I didn't have to cost him half the profits when he plays out.