Daron's Guitar Chronicles: Vol 4

213 GET DOWN TONIGHT

GET DOWN TONIGHT

Playing as an instrumental threesome felt distinctly weird. Like missing a limb, or something. We often played without Ziggy in rehearsal for a minute or two at a time, but to go a whole hour without him? It just felt strange. On the other hand I could hear things I normally couldn’t. Maybe because we were each trying to fill that missing space. Maybe because we were a little rusty. By the end of the hour it felt good, but it had sent my brain spinning in a way I hadn’t expected.

I didn’t expect to keep discovering new things in songs we’d written years ago and had played a million times. But somehow I did. We only played for an hour–didn’t want to overdo it. We headed back to town in the van and I hardly said a word the whole time.

Ziggy being absent worked out in an odd sort of way, then. For more than one reason. You see, after we got home I went straight back out again. I took Green Line into downtown Boston to meet Jonathan, who was coming in for the weekend on the train.

He was looking very Ivy League as he crossed the atrium at South Station, in pencil-thin corduroys and a blazer, carrying a brown overnight case. I saw him first. I was leaning against a column near the escalator down to the Red Line. The moment he saw me, he changed trajectory.

There was an awkward moment when he stepped close, where I think neither of us knew whether we should shake hands or hug or what. We settled for one of those stiff, one-armed hugs that was more a mutual pat on the back than a hug.

“You hungry? Want something to eat?” I asked.

“Nah, I ate on the train. What about you?”

“It’s early yet.” It was about 10 pm at that point. “Next question. You want to go back to the house, or head straight for Lansdowne Street?”

“Well, actually, there’s this band I’d love to check out tonight at the Middle East.” Jonathan looked a little sheepish and I didn’t know why.

“The Middle East it is, then. We can hop the Red Line right here.” I wondered if I should offer to carry his bag. “You can totally just check that there. They won’t care.”

“Sounds good.”

He followed me down the escalator. I’d gotten tokens for both of us earlier and handed him one before I went through the turnstile myself.

It was noisy down on the platform with a big fan blowing air around, and then it was noisy on the train. He sat and I stood, holding onto the pole, not saying anything until we got to Central Square. I gestured we should get off.

Out on the street a light rain had started but it wasn’t far to the club. As we walked I asked, “So who are we seeing?”

“Have you heard of Garmarna?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“They’re on Omnium, you know, the Boiled-in-Lead label? They’re sort of hurdy-gurdy black metal specializing in kind of Arctic Circle metal versions of Swedish murder ballads.”

“Really? I only understood half of what you just said and it sounds terrific.”

At the door, I got recognized. The bouncer checking IDs shuffled us out of line and inside. I felt guilty for not paying the cover so I bought the CDs of both bands from the merch table.

The opening band, as it turned out, was a duo from New York City called Basque. A woman with long blond hair singing ethereal lyrics–sometimes non-words in a sort of Cocteau Twins vein–while her partner played bass. I liked it a lot and was glad I’d bought the CD.