This weekend, I had a self-imposed gig-free weekend. Detox, if you will. Cold turkey. Cut off.
No kicking off the night with a 151 shot.
No stumbling into the cold, dark night, beer jacket firmly in place.
No sloshing half a pot of beer over myself while negotiating crowds at the bar.
No sore back (anyone else struggling with standing still for long sets these days? Or am I aging way too rapidly?).
No embarrassing myself squawking to complete strangers about the importance of Element Of Sonic Defiance in establishing meaningful punk with metal infusion in the post 90s skate scene and how Jason Cruz is totally one of the greatest lyricists, like, ever but his voice is distinctly overproduced in their latest release… etc etc.
No enjoying the music so much I risk being ‘that chick’ at front of stage screaming lyrics to friends and air punching (ie elbowing fellow patrons in head).
No retreating to a bathroom, catching my reflection and being reminded yet again that smoky, sweatbox venues and carefully manicured hair and makeup don’t really mix.
No waking up the next morning with zero idea how I managed to blow a week’s rent in one night.
No ears ringing so loud, I have that one fleeting moment of panic that I may be doing serious damage to my hearing before returning to not caring.
No relying on photographs to inform me who was there and how many ways I can contort my face, and remind me how live photography is often most effective when you fit the guitarists head in the frame….
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