Flaskaland
Monday, September 09, 2013
  (I Drank So Much That Night, I Felt Like THIS The Next Morning)


I suffered severe stage fright, anyway.  For a simple little coffee house audition at The Meeting Place one that I'd had to muster every single fiber of nerve in my being to merely step on stage, much less actually PERFORM something in public (where I bombed and was humiliated by people I knew who seemed to be walking out on my act because it was, afterall, so very, very bad).  I wasn't ready, I just wasn't ready.  And I had swilled copious amounts of alcohol just to get myself onstage, and then, after my crash and burn onstage and in public, the guy wouldn't pay me the $15 he promised, and my friends wouldn't even help me collect it from him, they said that I had to figure out how to get it from him.  Shit!  I swilled some more while resting my back against the wall of whatever this place was, like a converted pool house or dining commons or something .... and all I remembered was the swimming pool.  I couldn't even tell you now what songs I had in the repertoire.  Probably "Ella Speed", as I played that fairly well on a 12-string and I could belt that one out. And I picked 12-string ok then, and could do some fun runs up and down the bass strings with my thumbpick and such while I picked high notes out with metal fingerpicks, but all that technical prowess I was trying to muster was utterly lost on those philistines in the audience.   


("I remember (toot toot) I remember (toot toot) I remember (toot toot) there was a swimming pool!"  That was probably MY line first, and I probably even said it just like that in describing the experience later to friends, but by then Frank had borrowed my guitar once to play folk tunes there and he had bombed, too, so he, too, had been humiliated onstage in that little faux-beatnik coffee house for the children of rich people who played guitars and sang "folk" music, and we'd finally shared that same experience, you see.) 

(So I really didn't mind too much when the guy who ran the place absconded with some "fine art pieces" those folkies had loaned him for the walls, to help lend the appearance it was a cool beatnik coffee house.  You know, I can hold a grudge.  Anyway, I much preferred his collages.)


 




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