Ain’t That Life?

Ain’t That Life?


Starvin’ Vol. 2, No. 1

Lord, bless us with the butter for both sides of our bread. That very thin
bread that you slice so that it looks like onion skin. And no butter, no
sir. Times are tough and the vast wasteland that is your refrigerator is a
loose convention of condiments (who bought all that mustard anyway?) Seems
to be affecting everybody these days, from blue collar grunt to corporate
drone–the more you make, the much more you have to make in order to stay out
of debt. It’s a sickening treadmill of a lifestyle, this rat-race,
merry-go-round from Hell that we were born into. It’s all you can do just to
get by, let alone manage to see your friends more than once a week and then
have the audacity to attempt squeezing a band project in as well. Where do
you find the time to get inspired? If only there was breathing room, a
chance to be alone with the muse once in awhile. Obviously, you make time
for rehearsals and gigs, but that’s when the boss starts getting pissed at
you for calling out sick on Saturday nights and you start getting vicious
little notes from your other half on the pillow every morning, can I get an
Amen? Little vicious notes! And the only phat moments of your life involve
stepping into a cocoon of music every so often and shattering all that
extraneous crap into microscopic bits. It’s good, that Jacuzzi of Sound.
Good for what ails ya. Some people get up at ungodly hours in the morning
before the sun rises, work all day on their feet, humming ideas into the
answering machine back home and then arriving at the Portastudio feeling like
a shower and a nap are first priority. Ever have a day off and wake up early
in the morning to work on music? There’s something about that period of time
after the brain’s re-charged. It’s even better if you get to wake up early
every morning on a beach in Jamaica and jog down to the beachhouse for a jam
with the boys. That would certainly stir the creative spirit in expansive
ways. But in reality, it was a 52 hour week and you’re now single,
everything on your car just went bad at once and you haven’t seen a movie in
the theaters since “The Phantom Menace.” Your friends think you’re dead and
what’s even worse is, your roommate polished off the last of the beer. You
know what I’m saying? “Hey now, this check is bigger than I thought, I can
really go out and,” (brain proceeds to screw it up with logic,) “pay the gas
bill from last month now, and half of the car payment. Krystal’s again
tonight.” But you’ve gotta drive through on the way to rehearsal, where
you’ll be for the next seven and a half hours. That one jam always seems to
go a little out of control, doesn’t it? Ah, but it’s glorious to go away for
awhile, to that Musical Planet of Love and Intense Vibrational Fusion.

Looking for some pasta in the Historical Society that is your cupboard, you
discover that there is no sauce–it’s typical of life, like being stuck in
traffic on the highway one exit before yours. Little “almost’s” that happen
every day, and they’re such the bummer. Why does equipment break down right
before gigs? You’ve never broken strings before, why are they snapping like
spaghetti strands tonight? Was that the LAST drum stick? Where the hell did
the pick go? Tell me this–is there some incredibly complex type of gravity
involving toothpaste caps and guitar picks? Because the two of them have an
amazing knack for taking leaps and bounces that defy gravity before
disappearing into fucking nowhere. I believe in elves, do you? You do
believe in Dreams, don’t you? Call me corny, but that stuff about wishing
and stars is right on the money. It’s the only thing you can bank on when
everything else goes to Hell, the music that you make and share with
others–fellow musicians, audiences, the trees the sky the rocks the water.
When it all turns to dust as the Big Flaming Fireball hits and we’re left to
re-build it all from square one, we’ve got the music forever. We are the
music. (cue Bics)

There’s cereal and no milk, damn it. If it was Captain Crunch, it’d be
alright, but it’s Grape Nuts. Ain’t that life?

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked with *

Cancel reply

Recently on Ink 19...

From the Archives