I grab the bass in the section for oversized luggage in LAX baggage claim and walk outside feeling like a rock star. I've never played in this city before and just standing in the warmth of California gives me shivers of excitement. LA. Los. Fucking. Angeles. Nice. My girlfriend and I hail a cab and head to our hotel in Hollywood. We hold hands in the back seat feeling a bit of youth return to be in this city for a whirlwind day of both sightseeing and Sightseering. The band has a gig at a place called Amplify at 8:00 so until then we're set for a walk up and down Hollywood Blvd, dinner and drinks at an outside cafe, marveling at the sunset and that we were in the Grayness that is Seattle only a few hours ago.

She offers to buy dinner at a Mexican place, and I wonder at my luck to be in this city for a show, to play in a most excellent band, to have a woman who puts up with all my writing time and band time and shows and this little tour we have going on. I must have done something right as the gods are being kind to me now. While we eat we don't talk much. We just enjoy the moment and watch the other people. There's a Mexican family at the next table and beyond them a tourist couple that must be in their sixties at least. They're wearing matching blue and white tee shirts that say, "I stepped on the stars in Hollywood" and holding hands across the table. The waitress drops off shots of tequila for them which they drain in one fell swoop, not a drop left, suck on the limes. Impressive. When I'm their age, I'll probably be drooling down my shirt and drinking my beer through a straw. The man motions to the waitress for another round, and we decide to do one too, Don Julio Reposado. Getting those, we make a toast.

"Cheers."

"To the band."

"To us."

"To life."



After dinner, we stroll up a crowded Hollywood Boulevard and walk over Englebert Humperdink, Harrison Ford, Kermit the Frog ("Eh, Kermit the Frog here…"), and some we've never heard of, and others that make us question the merit of the star. Some of these people were truly talented (Duke Ellington) and others just popular (Britney Spears). It makes us question the decision process, and we joke about the imagined meeting of the nominating committee when someone spoke up to say, "We should have a star in honor of that great actor of our times, Wesley Snipes." Somehow it goes through, and there he is under our feet. And yet, in an odd way it's exciting. For good or bad, we've all been affected by the Hollywood hoopla machine, by the talented folks it churns out, and by the rich but pretty fools who have somehow tricked us.

"Dave!" We look up, and there are Welling and David. Hugs and handshakes.

"David."

"Jason."

"Allison."

"Dave."

"Jason."

"Allison."

"David."

It feels like the doctor introduction scene in Spies Like Us so I add one for good measure. "Doctor," and they pick up right away.

"Doctor."

"Doctor."

"And Doctor." Laughs.

"I'm having a blast here. I went over to High Voltage Tattoo from LA Ink," David says, "and thought about getting a tattoo, but wound up just buying a little trinket for my daughter." He pulls the chain hanging around his neck out of his shirt. Black beads, a cross. "She'll dig that I got it there. I need to find Michael Jackson's star and take a picture of it for my other kid."

"I think you can find the locations online."

"We'll look it up for you when we get back to the hotel."

"Thanks."

They head off for a little more people watching before the show. We head to the hotel to sip few beers and look up the location of Michael Jackson's star which is something I never thought I'd be excited to do. We find it, make note, and then have a few more beers while staring out the window at the Hollywood sign whereupon Elvis' "Jailhouse Rock" pops into my head, and I decide to find his star since he was my mom's favorite.

"Let's find Elvis tomorrow."

"OK."

Later at the club, we down a couple mini bottles of Jack Daniels in the parking lot and then go inside where we find a single room with a stage at the far end and one unisex bathroom to the left of the door. There's no bar since it's an all ages venue (thus the Jack outside), but the stage is a decent size so at least the band won't be crowded up there like we were in Portland at the Red Room where I had to stand in a wedge of space between Welling, PA, and David's drums. It's a good thing I don't much feel the need to jump up and down while playing, although lately I do feel such during the heavier parts of a new song called "Snake". The groove, though heavy, lends itself to bouncing, to shaking stages which we did in Portland, and it has become our closer as it gets people moving, pumped up, wanting more but being satisfied in the big finish of it all. It gets applause. It makes evenings.

And so we close tonight with that one, and the ten people in the place do move about during it, and they clap, and there are a couple shouts, "One more!" But we don't play one more. We pack up, and head back toward Hollywood Boulevard in search of the MJ star that is supposed to be in front of the Chinese Theater. We find it and all feel a little giddy. Not that we're given to such contrived things as these Hollywood stars are, but then, what artist wouldn't like such? It means success of some sort, not necessarily artistic achievement, but some level of recognition, and getting one means that at least for a while there weren't day jobs to go back to, that there was freedom and time to create, and not just after work, but all day, all week, maybe even a lifetime.

There are more handshakes and hugs. "See you in Austin." after which Welling takes off for the drive to Texas in his own car following or leading Lightfoot and PA and Furniture Girls in the RV. Lightfoot and I shake hands, "You guys don't miss your flight tomorrow," he says with a smile. A guy walking by drops a hot dog. He picks up the bun and the dog, rejoins them, takes a bite and goes on his way. We all laugh a little, and then they leave. David heads to his hotel. Allison and I head to ours.



The next morning, we find Elvis and take not a few pictures of me sitting next to the star. It saddens me to think of my mother who passed away in 2004, but then it makes me happy too. Elvis gave her a lot of joy. He meant something to her, maybe in one way of thinking, he meant everything to her. I begin to wonder then when his light first began to fade, when the magic slipped away, when Elvis lost the joy to be had playing for ten people in a small Hollywood club. And I wonder if my mom noticed. If she lost some of that same joy over the years as Elvis faded and finally died. My guess is that she did not. Few can produce for a lifetime, or if they do, the quality often varies or the content repeats, and often the last person to admit such will be the artist. Many of the people honored on this street had but fleeting fame, but even fleeting fame can resound years later, that one song, that one album, that one tour. Magic in the moment can last a lifetime. The way the stage and crowd bounce during the last song of a set can last a lifetime. The band will remember. Others will too, like the guy in the opening band last night who said, "That was fucking awesome!" as he bought a CD.

And I think only now that my mother's love of Elvis got me into music and writing and the idea of creating, expressing, of leaving a mark upon the world, upon people, upon lives. I saw how it made her feel and thought, "I want to do that." And so I've tried. I play music. I write. I step on stages. What else can one do?

I stand up careful not to step on Elvis, and we walk away hand in hand. She starts singing what I'd told her before was my mom's favorite, and I join in, "Warden threw a party in the county jail…"

Welling, David, and I drive down after work to catch up with the RV. Lightfoot and PA left earlier in the afternoon with Furniture Girls for the combined tour, the ultimate destination of which is SXSW in Austin, but will also include stops in the likes of Portland, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Denver, and, my personal favorite, Wichita, Kansas for a Saturday night show at Kirby's Beer Store. Yes, at least in name, a beer store. Somewhat appropriate given the lyrical content of the last CD, but then, I suppose a whiskey store would be even more appropriate. Anyway, the three of us leave Seattle to battle the rush-hour traffic and manage to get to the Red Room in Portland with thirty minutes to spare.

I've done some touring before, and there's always that tinge of excitement when loading the bass in the car, climbing in, checking maps and smart phones, taking a swig of the vitamin water, and it is so this time, but I remember back in the day, in my early twenties with a band called The Generals in Detroit, it was cracking open a cooler in back of the van and grabbing a beer, something cheap like Bud Light, and something even the driver of the van did, but these days, we're older and a little wiser and boozing in the car on the way to a show is a thing of the past. Tonight, we sip our vitamin waters, and though we're excited, we sit rather quietly and stare out the windows and can't help but contemplate what it means to hit the road not simply for the purpose of fun or sightseeing but to play music, to live the dream as so few people ever do, for what we sometimes jokingly refer to as Sightseering. We have jobs and spouses and kids and mortgages and all manner of such things adults have, but we have a love of music too that keeps us driven, that keeps us searching for this kind of thing, one more opportunity to hit the road, to drive to a strange city and sling the bass over shoulder, and the guitars, to pick up the drum sticks, to grab the microphone and shout, "Hello, St. Louis!" before kicking into an F# and opening with what used to be our closer, "Red Eye Haze."

The guy working the door at the Red Room sees me carrying my Music Man bass and says, "You must be in the band." He's an observant one. We enter and the room is indeed very red, a little dive, a punk bar, but we'll make due. We see everyone and there are handshakes and hugs, and then we're quiet for a moment as the opening band is a group of young kids, early twenties, playing loud and unpolished covers. In my youth, I would have thought them terrible, but now I see they're just young, babies still finding their way, so I can forgive them that the music isn't just so. They go into Foo Fighters' "Everlong" and I've had enough of covers, Time to get a beer and tune the bass.

At the bar in back of the room, I raise a Blue Moon in a silent toast to the young kids on stage and wonder if any of them will still be at it when they reach my age, our ages, when they're in the middle of their lives with beer guts and kids and starting to bald and living out the aging rocker dream. I hope so. It's been a long life of music, but one well worth it, even to think that we'll get back to Seattle at 3:30 in the morning after which I have to get up at 6:00 for work for an 8:00 meeting of computer programmers, but it's the only life I can conceive, music and writing and writing and music, stepping on stage whenever I can and casting some sort of voice out into the wide and wild world.

We go on around 10:45 with about thirty people in attendance. We start "Red Eye Haze." We play a smoking hot set of nine songs, then we leave as Furniture Girls are starting their first tune. In the odd way we've scheduled this tour, Welling will leave Seattle again tomorrow and catch up with the RV in San Francisco, David and I will catch up with them in LA for another there and back episode. Lots of traveling time it might seem, but it'll be forgotten. It'll blur together, those open stretches of road, the gas station bathrooms, the waiting in the airports, the indirect flights that charge $7.00 for a can of Heineken at 35,000 feet, and the only thing that will remain in the coming years is the music. The music and the odd surviving CD or two and the few words we scribble here.

The Bite of Seattle. It's my first time here for what their website describes as the Northwest's premier food festival and being at the Seattle Center, it seems every bit the mini-Bumbershoot. No admission fees, smaller crowds, fewer stages and bands, no pay for the artists. Yes, that's how it works sometimes. The "pay" is in the privilege to play. And sometimes that's OK. We play for the love of music. We play because we can't not play. We'll play most any stage in most any venue because there's no better way to spend an evening, or in this case, a Sunday afternoon.

But only to a point.

Every musician who has done any amount of playing live and touring has had those gigs that might better have been passed up, the gigs of playing for three people--all of them bar employees--in a bar in Muskegon, Michigan after driving for three or four or more hours to get there, the gigs where the pairing of bands is so completely off that the fans of one are openly hostile to the other, where insults are shouted, "Get off the fucking stage, assholes. You suck!" and lives and equipment are feared for, the gigs where the manager of the bar says, "We like familiar tunes here so keep the original stuff to a minimum. What covers do you play? You guys know 'Freebird'? We like that one. And maybe a slow tune for the ladies," the gigs in which the band ends up owing the bar money after food and bar tabs are figured into the equation, the gigs after which the band must face the question, "If a band plays and no one shows up, do they make any sound?"

I'm hanging in the beer garden across from the Fisher Green stage. A friend told me a few days ago, that when he's been to the Bite of Seattle in the past that he played a drinking game of sorts. See a Rottweiler, drink. See a baby in a stroller, drink, rottweilers and babies being popular at the Bite. See them all together --Mommy, Daddy, Stroller Baby, Rottweiler-- finish your drink. There are plenty of babies around this afternoon, of course. It's a good family outing, moms and dads able to get out and catch some live music and some fair food, and that's a good thing, and for this show, I specifically invited one such person, Stephen, the editor of my book. He's recently a first-time daddy so this is the first chance he for him to get out of the house and see the band with the wife and the little one in tow.

The band on the stage at the moment is a gospel funk band called Network. Musically, they're talented, but I'm just not a fan of preaching. "We bring the Lord to you, here, now, hope you guys are okay with that! You gotta find the love. You gotta believe," the singer says as they launch into a song about all the hope and love they find in the church or God or Jesus or a loaf of bread or some such. They're believers in the power and the light. For Sightseer, the light is in the shimmer of whiskey in a shot glass, Makers usually, the love in the beers, the Blue Moons that decorate my refrigerator and my recycling bin, the power in the F# chords, say in 'Read It & Weep' or 'Red Eye Haze', that are played just so, sustained and then let go or transitioned into Ds and Es and other things.

I start to wonder if this is one of those gigs, the bad pairing kind. Sightseer following a gospel act? Maybe it'll work. Maybe not. Only one way to find out.

"Dave!"

It's Stephen, his wife, Lisa, and his kid, six-month-old Jack. There's a fence between us as I'm in the beer garden where Jack cannot come. Stephen appreciates a good beer like me, but he's being the good husband and father today and not abandoning wife and child to escape to where the booze is so I chug my beer and speak.

"Hey, man. Thanks for coming. I'll be right over." I walk out to them. Stephen and I shake hands. I hug Lisa.

"Take it easy now," Stephen jokes. Lisa laughs, and I bend down to see a smiling Jack. "Hey there, little guy. How you doing? His eyes are wide as he takes it all in, the people, the music, the odors of all the food, the Space Needle looking so very orange. I shake his hand too, then turn back to Stephen. "Thanks for coming."

"We're looking forward to hearing the band. Sorry we couldn't come to Neumos last week, but little Jack here keeps us pretty tied up." Jack's still smiling, looks oddly sly like he knows what we're talking about.

"Yeah," his Lisa says, "I tell you it feels so good to get out of the house for a show. Sightseer will be Jack's first concert."

"Nice."

'Thank you. Be strong. Be brave. Feel the love. We'll see you next time." It's the singer for Network. He makes the sign of the cross before walking off the stage. They're done.  "Shit. I need to get ready for the show. Let's meet up afterward."

"We'll be here."

So I go backstage, and there's Welling, "Greetings, sir," and P.A., "There you are," and Dave, "Hey Dave."

"Dave."

And Lightfoot, "Decided to join this afternoon, I see," he says laughing. We all tune and get amps and drums and guitars ready, and then we play. We rock. There are claps and cheers, and at one point a couple friends from the George and Dragon shout my name, "Dave!" I wave at them, and they wave back before one of them falls while trying to be graceful, or perhaps it's the power of the music that blew her over. It's a good gig. No worries about following a gospel band. We all have those things we believe in, that move and shake us, so we share something in common with Network. Faith, faith in the power of music.

After the set, we pack up, and I head back to the beer garden looking for Stephen, but he's nowhere to be found. I check my phone. There's a text from him.

"Sorry, but we had to leave during the last song. Jack had seemed to be enjoying the music, but then he had a shit-escaping-diaper episode."

Shit-escaping-diaper episode? Shit. Escaping. Diaper. My butt cheeks tighten briefly as sounds awful, but there it is, and an idea comes to mind, the perfect line for the band.

Sightseer. We'll rock the shit out of you … literally.

I text Stephen.

"No worries, man. Let's catch up soon."

I wait, but Stephen does not reply. I guess he has his hands full, and likely dirty. Poor Jack. I guess he gave himself up to the love, the light, the power, and then really let go.

--Dave

I was mentioned in a book, not by name mind you, but it was there; it was me. And here it is:

"Shortly after the ink dried on their Flip tattoos, The Generals plugged in a new bass player and…" (from Hitless Wonder by Joe Oestreich, page 103)

That's me. The new bass player for The Generals, a minor occurrence in the book, but a big one in my own life.

I met Joe in high school but had much more opportunity to hang out with him those first few years after graduation when we were both doing the band thing at Ohio State. His band was Watershed. In fact, it still is Watershed all these years later which is part of the reason for writing his book, the longevity of the band, what it means to play with the same guys under the same moniker for twenty-some years, to get so close to making it with the major label deal that provided access for a brief time to the world of rock stardom.

It's a worthy read for musician and non-musician alike, and as a musician, I have indeed struggled myself with some of the issues in the book. When does one give up the rock and roll life? When does one turn into the archetype that Joe mentions, the Used-to-be-in-a-band-guy? And if one does turn into such, did it mean anything? Did the practices, the recordings, the drives to Milwaukee on a Sunday night for a useless important gig, the possibly career-making shows opening for national acts or at things like SXSW matter if they can be given up, if they can be relegated to the past with a shrug of the shoulders and a sigh of an expression, "Well, I tried. What more can I do?"

I won't tell you Joe's answer to such questions. For that, buy the book. Read the book. It'll help a friend, but it's a good read too, even made me reconsider my own answers to those questions. A good book will do that. It will get the noodle churning.

The Generals was a Detroit band. Watershed, like Joe and I, was from Columbus, Ohio, but they'd met The Generals on the road, and as things would go, Flip died. He was the bass player and one of those universally loved guys, tough looking but big of heart, do anything for a friend. The Generals didn't call it quits though so when Watershed found out they were looking for a new bass player, Joe and the rest of the guys recommended me, and I auditioned, got the gig, moved to Detroit.

And I quit my Columbus band to do such. Did I betray that band by quitting, by choosing The Generals over them? Where do such loyalties go? How deep should they run? By leaving Columbus and my band to head to Michigan, I began what became a kind of process for all of my bands. We'd get together, have a couple good years at it, sometimes even three years. We'd record and play some spectacular shows, mind bending shows when music reached life-altering levels, where perceptions were heightened, fears, doubts, lives let go for a few moments of an improvised jam in E or the cover of a Traffic song.

It makes me smile that The Generals, a band that never had a record deal but that, as Joe said, wrecked places (in a good, melt-your face-off kind of way) and "got even better" after Flip's death, have now been mentioned in two books, mine and Joe's, and it makes me think each of my bands has been to me much like my book, a two or three year marriage of sorts, a complete embodiment of my entire being for the period but when done, when published, or when recordings and tours have run their course, their pages are closed, touring vans sold, epilogues written.

It's hard for me now to read Horse Bite, but not because I find fault with it. I've rather moved on. I'm in the next book which oddly enough is a book about music, playing music, writing music, writing about music in becoming the dreaded critic, the meaning in placing fingers just so on the neck of a Fender Jazz bass ... and that of a woman to elicit the desired response, to open a new world, but even as I have a hard time reading some of my past writing, I do take those nights now and again to listen to the old bands of mine. The Generals for sure. There was Third Stone, Mrs. Elkhead. Going South. There were others.

Tonight, though, I listened to something not my own, Watershed. I'm glad Joe and the guys are still at it. Some stories end, bands too, of course. There's a death, a goodbye, a girlfriend, a job, a marriage, a trip westward into the sun. But some things go on, and rightly or wrongly, there is no end but rather belief in the self and endurance and words and truths and hard truths and 100 watt Marshall amps cranked to 11 that lead to $37 paychecks.

Keep at it guys.

Meanwhile, I'm in the next book writing, writing, writing, but there is the bass, and even the next band, which is, oc fourse, this band, Sightseer. Maybe this is the one, my one, my twenty-year mass of something musical.

--Dave

At forty-two, I'd thought these days were over.

But tonight, we're in Richland, Washington, the Tri-Cities, on the road. A week ago, I was filling in on bass for Sightseer at the Hi-Fidelity Lounge in Bremerten. I'd been the substitute bass player for a few shows over the past few months as the band was going through some line-up changes, but then in Bremerten, we finished "Resting Place", and when the applause died down, P.A. turned back and looked back at me, smiled the smile of one who knows something. Then she turned back and spoke to the audience.

"You know, Dave here," she pointed to me and half turned back, "has been good enough to help us out for a few shows here and there, and being that this whole band thing is like a relationship, a marriage, so to speak … with five people…"

"Group sex!" came a shout from the audience. There was some laughter, and I began to sense what was going to happen, and then I smiled like one who knows something, or rather one who sees something wanted coming.

P.A. cocked her head a little, "Exactly … but with instruments rather than body parts." Some more laughter. "Anyway, we wanted to extend a hand to Dave, ask him to be number five, to be the guy, well, one of four anyway." There were some claps and shouts in the audience from those we knew and those who'd seen us a few times. P.A. turned back to me, "What do you say?"

I'd never been proposed to before, and now it was in public, on stage, three songs into a set in which I'd gone into thinking I was filling in, a sub, a temporary member, an honorary member for the evening, but there was P.A. asking me to commit to the band, to publicly avow my dedication to Sightseer. We all had a few drinks in us, and a few songs into the set, were feeling the combined buzz of alcohol and live music and all was good in the world. Things always look good from up on stage with a bass in hand, a beer or two on the amp. So I said the only thing I could.

"I do."

There were some more cheers, glasses raised and emptied. Lightfoot my hand, bumped my shoulder, "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into."

And he was right. I was agreeing to join a band, to enter into a five-person marriage. I didn't know at all what I was getting into. I still don't, but the best things are like that. The future is dull only when it's certain, and now, here I am a week later in the band, promoted from substitute to full member. We finished our set fifteen minutes ago and are waiting for Furniture Girls to go on. In the lull between bands, a middle-aged guy approaches P.A. and Lightfoot and shakes hand with both of them, offers P.A. a hug, "That was stellar!"

"Thanks, man."

"Glad you liked it."

"How much are CDs?"

I always thought that the creative process, art, should be done primarily for the artist's own sake, to save his own ass, to make some kind of meaning in his life regardless of all else in the world, but then, if said creations can move others, can give meaning to the lives of others, can illuminate something for someone, can raise one head, can elicit one, "Fuck yeah!" or "That was stellar!" even from just one person, there's a success that cannot be measured, a meaning that can lift and cause hearts to soar, that can elicit that internal, "Fuck yeah!" from the artist.

"$10."

"I'll take two."

Fuck yeah!

The guy bought two Sightseer CDs and went back to his seat at the bar. He sat next to an overly thin woman in a purple tank top, gave her a CD, put his arm around her, and then they drank of their drinks, Miller Lite tall boys. I drank of my own, a Blue Moon.

I was wrong. These days are never over, or rather, they're only over when you die, and if I ever stop doing this, this typing thing, this thing of stepping on stage with bass and beer, I will, in a significant way, stop breathing.
 
--Dave

On the long, crowded flight back to Seattle, I pull out the tray table, cross my arms and lay my head down on them. Close my eyes to tune out snippets of conversation, raucous laughter, the tapping coming from Thane’s keyboard. Not to mention Welling’s wailing, rum enhanced, Mr. Tambourine Man-esque serenade from the row behind us once we landed, imprisoned and marooned on the tarmac: (“Heyyyyy, Mr. TSA Man, please let us off the plane…. my bladder’s full, it feels like I’m explooooooodin’……).

I laugh. Everything is changing, but thank God some things remain constant.

I try two different keys to unlock the front door (no lights), walk in, and set my bag and guitars down. Jen gives me a hug and goes to bed. Ah, there’s the whirring of the fridge, the cats giving me their perfunctory “I-could-care-less-you’re-home-just-feed-me” rub against my leg, the dog bounding down the stairs giving me her “you’re-home-I-thought-you’d-never-come-back” dance. A stack of dirty dishes waiting in the sink, matched by a stack of dirty laundry piled high on the washing machine. Paintings in progress on the easel by the kitchen, chemistry and calculus textbooks stacked on the stairs. I run a Peaceful Patchouli bath and slide under the bubbles with an outdated, crumpled copy of Seattle Weekly. At 1:45 I finally collapse in bed, with my impossibly great pillow. I have missed this. Home again.

David leaves me a voicemail on the second day back: “Hi. It’s David. I’m having.… band withdrawal. I really need to play some music.” But I know exactly what he means. I’m waiting for Thursday as well. I can’t explain why this music and this band are so important to me. Yeah it’s fun, but it runs much deeper than that. I can’t explain why when the chips are down, or even when everything is going right, seeing the guys and playing music with them makes everything better. It just does. Finally, it’s Thursday, and I pull my teeny car up in front of Lightfoot’s place. I let out a long sigh, because it’s been a long week.

As always, there is the incessant barking of the dogs as I approach the door. Malakye and Mango still don’t remember who any of us are, even after all this time. Someone once told me that goldfish have three second memories. I guess they see the little plastic castle in their little goldfish bowl and say, “Whoa…a castle!” Swim around, and then three seconds later say, “Whoa…a castle!” I’m very skeptical, but it does seem to apply to these dogs and would probably explain a few things. More barking. Lightfoot yells: “Knock it OFF!” Mutters “Every damn time….” under his breath. And then proceeds to scoop up Mango (actually more of a barrel-shaped Chihuahua than his name would imply), and cradles him like a baby. “Is that scary? Huh? Is that scary, Mango?” This coming from a 6’4, bearded, mountain-man kinda guy.

I say hello, make a beeline into the kitchen for a cup of tea. That’s the first thing. It’s always ready to go because one of those hot water thingys resides on the counter. It’s been nothing but rain and gray and cold here since…forever. So tea is very necessary. And every variety of tea is represented here from Peppermint to Green Tea Super Anti-Oxidant to Detox to Throat Coat to Smooth Move. I don’t think anyone drinks the Smooth Move. I’m not gonna try it, anyway.

On top of the fridge: spirits in various shapes and sizes; Maker’s, no thank you to the Fireball. On the fridge door: magnets, pictures, a flyer/souvenir of a nasty looking, blind in one eye, gassy, balding, stray dog that spent a rehearsal with us. He was a cool dog. We named him Victor, but his actual name turned out to be Tyrone. Inside the fridge: stuff like chocolate hemp milk and leftover miso, soba, or maybe homemade hummus. Not today, though. This week some kind of massive internal cleanse is going on, so it’s all about Dr. Herman’s Mysterious Colon Evacuator Elixir, or whatever it’s called.

Descend the stairs, and into the studio. Before the music starts, when it’s still and quiet and dimly lit, it looks like one of those museum dioramas. I pause and take it all in, every time. I swear this space almost feels sacred. I feel pretty qualified to say this, because I get the exact calm/meditative/almost spiritual feeling from the studio as I did when I was an altar girl back in the sacristy of St. Lawrence, preparing the wine and water for communion. Isn’t that weird?

Here, in Lightfoot’s sacristy, we have:

- Jason Welling, resplendent in his UPS uniform, strumming an acoustic, sitting directly under.…-a glowing Hannah Montana clock, the numbers and hands obscured (and thereby rendered useless) by the fluff of a pink boa surrounding it -Various strings of lights: blue/white/ glowing miniature skulls, etc.-Gig flyers, including the one from the very first show we ever played 
-$3.50 diamond tiara
-Pokey. No Gumby that I’ve seen
-A shepherd’s staff from the Hooker Farm days
-A black sweater I dropped in the driveway at some point, made stiff and crunchy by a combination of matted Mango hair, rain, dirt, and drying up in a heap. Amazingly it smells delightful; like springtime
-A whiteboard with doodles, made-up band names (Tiny Giants Eating Jumbo Shrimp) and “COURAGE” written in caps across it (which I take note of these days, every time I pass the board)
-A Picasso inspired portrait that one of my 8 year old students couldn’t take home to his parents because it looks like a gigantic, lopsided pair of fleshy pink boobs instead of eyeballs
-Lyrics for Red Eye Haze’s chorus, taped to a ledge
-Guitars: Bitter Blue, Betty, Martin, and many others without names
-lukafresh standing in the corner, looking cool and with exceedingly good posture to boot, tuning his bass
-David waving hello in the studio doorway: white goatee, black glasses, stick bag in hand, wearing a rad porkpie hat
-Hockey stick with a gigantic pencil duct-taped to it ( one of my most favorite things ever), black whip, two empty beer cans, empty root beer bottle, two empty Vitamin Water bottles, set lists, cables, drum kit, mug with a dried up tea bag stuck to the inside (mine, sorry). Pedal boards, keyboard, violin, amps. A fake rat named Darryl lurks somewhere, he gets moved around. Josh, if you’re reading this, your drum throne is still down here.

Guitars are tuned while we talk about our days, what went right in Austin, and what still needs work. Welling starts the keyboard intro to “Resting Place", which sort of sounds like a drone. The haze of incense starts to curl and twist its way through the room. Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. I start picking the intro, something that I can do in my sleep. Of course I completely and utterly fuck it up. I yell, “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrggghhhhh!” Laughter. I feel the stress of the week start peeling away, like a snake shedding its skin. All is right in the world…at least for 2 ½ hours.

I have missed this. Home again.

PA

I guess it’s actually a pretty good time for me to start writing this, since a new chapter in my life has begun. Scratch that. It’s more like a damned new book altogether. More details later…but it all started with a brilliantly timed text, then a bunch of us waiting for the bazillion bats under the Congress Avenue bridge in Austin to take flight at dusk (they never did), and ended with a flash of silver disappearing over the bridge, settling forever to the bottom of Lady Bird Lake.



Sightseer and the other Critical Sun bands have been home from our SxSW adventure for several weeks now. The long layovers, camaraderie, hotel rooms stacked floor to ceiling with people and equipment, load-ins and load-outs, eight people in a van (and one left behind at the Chevron station), awesome and average gigs, the amazing sights and sounds of 6th Street, Southern hospitality, midnight jam sessions and streaking by the pool (not ME, Mom), fried everything, and a very unfortunate gallon of Gallo are becoming a faded but fond memory.