Why? Have I discovered a hot new band that I'm eager to define and advertise and ingratiate myself with so that some day, when they become massive, they'll remember the humble blogger who championed their cause when no one else would, and as a gesture of gratitude they'll invite me to their orgies where I'll snort mountains of cocaine and make love to their less desirable groupies? Or am I merely inspired, eager to write, electrified by the touch of whichever Muse is responsible for local music blogging (Melpomene, probably)? Or do I have a story about something funny that happened to me when I was drunk? Or have I been betrayed by a former friend whom I'm eager to sell out in a somewhat public forum?
No, it's none of the usual reasons that lead me to write. You see, the thing is, The 704 is presenting Seasons' show at the Echo next Monday. And it's not one of those "presenting" deals where the band just lets me put the blog's name on the flyer and asks me to do a promotional post and, in the end, the venue probably never knows that they have been affiliated with a shoddy operation like this one and the unsavory character who occasionally runs it when he's not too hungover. But, in this case, the Echo is very much aware of The 704's capacity as presenter. It's on the website and everything. And last time I presented a show at the Echo, The 704 was even listed in the venue's ad in the LA Weekly, which lent this venture a glow of newsprint respectability that would probably impress my grandparents, were I deranged enough to notify my grandparents that I maintain a blog that's theoretically about local music but is primarily about my drinking habits.
Anyway. So. For the time being, lest Seasons' and the Echo's reputations be tarnished by their mutual association with a sad, generally inactive blog that never even worked up the energy to buy its own domain name or switch to Tumblr, I'm going to try to be respectable and review the hell out of some shows this week. I'm going to write and write and write until I throw up. And I will not be deterred by the fact that I have nothing to say about anything. You'd have to be an amateur to let that sort of thing trip you up. I mean, come on, I've already written almost 500 words here, and I haven't said a thing. It's what I'm good at. Let's keep it going.
For Seasons! For the Echo! For all of our reputations! Excelsior!
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Um.
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Hm.
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Let's see here.
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Oh, okay, slightly off-topic (LOL), but can anyone tell me why this post is fast becoming the most popular post, page-view-wise, in 704 history? I really don't get it. It doesn't appear to be happening through some inadvertent SEO situation. And, yeah, whatever, it's a fine post, okay, but it's not anything special. It seems to follow a fairly standard 704 trajectory: narrator starts out anxious and depressed and alone, then through the power of music and alcohol he feels slightly less anxious and less depressed and less alone for like a couple hours before the cycle begins again. Nothing new there. So why are several people still reading it every day?
As far as I can tell, the one aspect that sets that review apart from any other is that it's the only one I've ever posted that I wrote while completely bug-eyed on Adderall. This is a troubling realization.
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A quick poll:
If I were to do a poll where I asked if you think I should take Adderall before writing any and all future 704 posts, would you consider participating in such a poll?
Please submit your answer to me in person, since I'm pretty sure everyone who's reading this knows me personally. (Just kidding, the Echo! Everyone in Los Angeles reads The 704! I have been featured in both the LA Weekly's L.A. People issue and on the Jewish Journal's Mensch List. Take it from me. You don't have to look it up or anything. I wouldn't lie.)
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Would you like to hear about how each band sounded last night, how their sets compared to the thousands of other times I saw them, which songs they played, and which notorious internet prankster was in attendance?
I didn't think so.
Would you like to hear what your evening would be like if you were to take a time machine back to last night in order to attend this show?
The answer to that is probably no as well, but I'm going to tell you anyway since, frankly--while I respect your opinion and I don't wish to cause you any trouble and when you get right down to it I just hope that we can be friends forever--you're not the boss of me.
If you do go back in time and attend this show, you'll get there a little before nine, and you'll hit the bar because, unlike most forms of gratification, an eight dollar somewhat off-tasting gin and tonic should not be delayed. You'll think about trying to track down some friends but, realizing that you're a couple drinks away from having the energy to form words with your vocal cords and mouth--time travel is exhausting--you'll decide to hit the patio for a solitary smoke. A couple of guys will promptly walk out and sit unnecessarily close to where you will be standing. One will make a comment to you about the sparse turnout, even though the place will be fairly crowded for nine p.m. on a Monday night, but you'll be pretty sure he doesn't know that. "Oh, they'll come around," you'll say, or something equally not-quite-but-almost apropos. He and his friend will proceed to discuss the ins and outs of Middle English, a conversation to which you will have nothing to contribute, given that even your relationship with Modern English is in an ongoing state of decay, but they'll still be sitting very close to you, even though the patio will be otherwise empty, and since you'll have already exchanged words with them, you won't be too sure if you're supposed to be a willing participant in their conversation, and clearly you won't want to be, but it will be weird and rude if you move away from them and let them continue with their linguistic discussion, so instead you'll just turn your head slightly and stare at a metal pole while you finish your cigarette, which won't be weird or rude at all.
You will return inside and, feeling a bit steadier, you will venture to speak with some of your fellow humans. You will watch George Glass play their set, and you will enjoy it, because the set will be very much in the mold of previous George Glass sets, which you also enjoyed. Except shorter, maybe? You won't be sure.
A friend will ask you why you look so sad.
You'll go back outside. Your blog's biggest fan will tell you that you should write a novel. Little will he know that you're already hard at work on an epic love story set against the backdrop of the St. Francis Dam Disaster, and that the only thing that's keeping you from getting to page two of this long-gestating project is that you don't know anything about love or the St. Francis Dam Disaster.
While you will already be several drinks in, someone will challenge you to take your drinking to "the next level." You will very much want to take your drinking to "the next level," but the fact that you are being challenged to do so makes you less inclined to oblige, since you are perfectly capable of getting famously wasted without challenges to your masculinity. But you will proceed to drink a bunch of whiskey anyway, because of course you will. Once you have reached the next level (which no longer requires scare quotes after you've achieved it), you will discuss one of your favorite topics: what it must have been like to get drunk with Buzz Aldrin before he quit drinking. ("Yeah, man, cool story, you've led a real interesting life. Guess what? I've been to the fucking moon.")
The Lonely Wild will play. At this point you will start to lose the evening's plot.
Next thing you know Seasons will be playing their Spring EP, and they will do so beautifully, making you wonder why you don't listen to that album all the time and, more pertinently, why they don't play those songs at every show. Then you'll remember that they've written dozens of songs since then--gem after gem of bold, gritty psychedelia--so, yeah, it makes sense. They will close the set with a couple of these newer songs. You'll resist the urge to fist-pump and make a scene until the band's final song, "Monday Night," at which point you will begin fist-pumping and making a scene.
You will drink more and talk more until Death to Anders begins their midnight set. Whatever threads kept the night together will have frayed long ago. People will rush the stage at some point during the band's set, but you will resist, not quite uninhibited enough to participate in that sort of spectacle. That is until someone will reach down to pull you up on the stage and, not wanting to be an enemy of fun, you accept your fate. Not knowing what to do, you will start to dance--that dance you do that's free-spirited enough to be fun but knowingly goofy enough that anyone who wishes to see irony in it will. Three seconds later, the security guard will tap you on the shoulder and silently instruct you to get the fuck off the stage. This will be unpleasant but merciful. Dignity will be restored
Your friend will drive you home. You will smoke cigarettes and listen to Nirvana. You will stop at 7-Eleven where a surly gentleman buying a three-tall-boy pack of Budweiser will try to pick a fight with your friend, for reasons that will become immediately obscure.
Arriving home--violence having been averted--you will lie in bed and drink beer and listen to Jawbreaker. You will then turn off the music, turn out the light, roll over and, as you fall asleep, you will think about how you started out anxious and depressed and alone, and through the power of music and alcohol, you now feel slightly less anxious and less depressed and less alone, and how this is a very familiar feeling, and so is the vivid sense that, upon waking up the next day, it will be gone.
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