Treble: A Docuwebtary

(And, for the record, our lead singer of only one month just quit via e-mail)

I gave her [our music], she gave me a pen.

A digital one.

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK.

SQUARE ONE

HAS NEVER

FELT SO

GOOD.

Lie, Cheat, Steal for This Guitarist

Not because he can play some sick soul, but also because he can do metal, and I like off-time jamming where we go from a stupid melody like the chorus from the Power Rangers to a samba to a rock samba to progressive 7/8 shit that inevitably ends with The Tony saying, “Okay, we’re ready now; shut the fuck up and let’s play for real now.”

This guitar player’s pretty good.  Not AMAZINGOMFGLOLZZROFL, but full of range.  Range helps.  A lot.  Range saves your sanity.  Range is also great for a person like me, who is often easily bored.

——

And, yeah, we’re thriving or whatever.

There is no excuse to not play music.

I work at an office from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m., Monday through Friday.

5 days out of the week, I also teach piano to brilliant kids.  They’re all early evening sessions.

I also work daily for slim pickings for a magazine I have faith in.  It’s an outlet that lets me connect to the music community, all while allowing me to practice my writing skills.

I play at least once a week with my band, often writing and producing for some 7 hours straight.

As of three weeks ago, I bowl every Monday night at 10 p.m.  It’s an excuse to get together with some friends.  This is after my 5-hour piano sessions that begin at 4 p.m. (which are after my office 9-5’er).

I also have a girlfriend, and a family I love to spend time with.

There is no excuse to not play music.  I hear it too much: “Life.  So busy.  Can’t do music.”

If it’s 3 a.m. and you still don’t want to play, then quit.

She came

She sang She virtually conquered in the taking-direction-ridiculously-well department —— 17 months in the making. Most people would have left a LONG time ago. The Tony and The Drew aren’t just dedicated bandmates. They’re also my friends. Screw not realizing your fortunes only when they’re gone. I realize them NOW. And they’re MINE. ALL MINE. MUAHAHHAHAHAAHHAHA. No, but seriously, it’s time to shop for a lockout. Baby steps. Baby steps. Bob in “What About Bob?” would be sufficiently proud. —— Post-grad blues are just a copout for people who’ve got nothing to say, see or do. Complain elsewhere. I’m too busy helping write a pop song, no matter how shitty it may sound to you.

Let us.

The Tony said we should call it “Songs for Us.”

You have no idea how much I love that kind of irony.

——

The musical vision this project initially had isn’t turning out exactly how I thought it would.  This is the result of collaboration.  Consider me on the fence.

And if it all fails, at least [relatively] no one will ever know.  It would have been more stupid to never try in the first place.  I can live with that.  Or something.