The Gainesville End, Day 3

I started playing music in Gainesville. So when I return, many of my music making friends are still there. This time I got a chance to collaborate with Christine and Alan, both taking a bit of time away from school, with a few rehearsals. Sort of a band that didn’t quite happen. When I told Brent I’d begun practicing with them, he expressed his shock with, “But aren’t they both waaaaay better than you in music?” Oh, I can always count on my brothers for moral support. Quite fortunately for me, he’s entirely correct. They majored/are majoring in music, while I gave up classical training for many years. I attempted to make up for my lack of skill with enthusiasm, though. We never ended up playing an Open Mic, but at our first memorable rehearsal we began to write a very amusing song: One Red Crayon I hope we finish it.

Since schedules didn’t work out, I performed solo once again at the Tom Miller show. One show many months prior adopted a recurring “Is this the show?” gag. This show’s tagline? “This is not a gay show.”

Ashley and Albert came once again, with Julianne returned Northwards for school. Thanks to Ashley’s smiling and encouragement I didn’t have the nerves I had the previous outing. Oh, and I didn’t go second. That helped too. Reverend Angel Dust returned from his hiatus to open things up, and the show returned with him to its own version of normalcy. I don’t quite remember the details of his benediction save that it featured the same homages to marijuana and the Goddess as always. In an early flip up of schedule, Tom put Chase up next to once again sing along to what seems to be his song, Sister Golden Hair.

Along with not being a gay show, the most entertaining portion of the night came courtesy of a rather amorous couple who decided to deal with the strangeness of their first show by focusing entirely on each other. Throughout the night many performers made loud suggestions of local hotels. I suppose with their hormones already primed for anything suggestive, they wildly enjoyed Eric’s trumpet and substituted lyric oldie. Cinnamike’s connection of actors to Kevin Bacon didn’t amuse them in the slightest, however, so they proceeded to find amusement from each others lips.

Poet Dave, of The Word is Spoken surprised me next with a truly beautiful first poem, before satisfying the crowd (and the couple) with two increasingly raunchy sets of verse. At some point “This is not a gay show” became relevant. Tom decided on a comedy transition, and invited Pablo up to the stage. He sang amusing comedic songs which I can’t at all remember. Except that they definitely weren’t gay. Then an absolutely terrible comedian (who from hearsay the following show actually can be funny if he’s not at the Laboratory – I admit it’s a unique audience) failed wonderfully and lashed out with epithets and profanity against us (oh and threats which Tom, Chase, and Dave wonderfully twisted to not be gay). I believe Otto exited the stage with “Fuck you guys” and Tom responded, “Meet you in five minutes in the alley?”

Not a gay show.

To capitalize on the complete straightness of the show, Tom started the musical portion with Jesse’s new band Deconstructed – a twelve string guitarist and middle aged “hot biker girl” singer taking the place of his mostly ex boyfriend, yet another Dave. I must say I enjoyed their performance thoroughly. My expectations of constant re-starts, fumbled chords, and accented quarreling appeared unwarranted. So entertainment value around the same. A diminutive actor shared his extremely heterosexual specific love of acting with Iago’s monologue from Othello. When I took the stagette after, Chase loudly accompanied Tom’s introduction with a “and he gets mistaken for a girl when he’s hitchhiking.” By this point nearly everyone figured out the refrain.

This is not a gay show.

I decided to go with a setlist geared to push the physical release of my Foreign Skies EP: From Dawn to Busk, The Mario Kart Love Song, and A Thousand Post-Its. I couldn’t remember the last time I performed that last one. So nervous I restarted three times, I felt very gracious for a supportive audience – people who I’ve come to know and care for, in my own judgmental way. They even let me play an extra song, Kids per Ashely’s request.

And then back to “comedy”. Otto’s table mates apparently all meant to procure laughs. In my opinion they mostly failed. The first of these left such a large impression on me I haven’t the foggiest idea of his name, face, or voice. I did jot down “Another Comedian” in my notebook. I know he existed. I’m mixing up Justin with next week’s Eric. I think it’s because I’m racist and I remember them mostly as being the only black people at their respective shows. (On another outing to the Lab for Trivia Night, Alan noticed out of the one hundred and five people present, 103 were White and 2 Asian). According to my notes Bill O’Conner did something. I don’t know what.

In the middle of Justin’s act, Gainesville’s unique brand of despicable hipsters descended. Maybe six of them? Men in flannel, facial hair, perma-high expressions, big eyes, unwashed hair, earplugs, tats, bracelets, holes and patches; women sporting generally loose clothing tight in strategic places, seductively parted lips, muted forest colors, large black framed glasses magnifying eyes filled with disdain, boots (remember, Florida)… just in time for one Sean McDonnell to grace the stage as “Cunt Tree Star.”

Now I think I’ve been consistent and clear with my thoughts on the Tom Miller Show. One of my favourite shows filled with warmth, respect, and no surfeit of talent. Ample ribbing occurs. Loving jeers. Supportive insults. I’ve never felt so disrespected (as one of the regulars, I suppose) as by this gaggle of hipsters. Sean took fifteen minutes to change dress into torn white jeans and other such apparently stereotypical hick clothing, wrapped himself in the back projection cloth halfway through, and essentially screamed and banged a guitar through his own amplifier turned up to ear-piercing levels. He drove everyone out. His hipster buds ate it up. Laughing and wooping with those slack jawed, glazed eyes panting grins. Everything about them spoke of disrespect for the venue, the other performers, other kinds of music or people – anything beyond their own fuck the man uniqueness. I think many people associate me as one of these hipstery anti-norm types, but even I thought mostly, “Take a bloody bath.”

One of the hipster supporters – the prettiest least offensive one (or perhaps I forgive her for her prettiness) read an incredibly explicit piece of poetry/prose about sex before leaving a town while one of the males played electronic music from a korg mini keyboard. It was all very artsy in that masturbatory way. In that way that I disliked many of my co-majors at school. Luckily, Wesson arrived to close us out.

Earnings: $0.00, 20 minutes
Song of the Day: A Thousand Post-Its – Terrence Ho

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