Hey, remember that time not long ago when you spent two consecutive evenings at pehrspace? And the first night, Friday, you took it kind of easy, tried to be disciplined, sipped your canteen of wine at a moderate pace? But then, because you're really quite foolish--some might say an idiot--you solicited some weed from that dude--you won't say who, but he may or may not play in a band called Death to Anders--and, as usual with you and weed, chaos ensued, darkness encroached, the wickedness latent underneath every parking lot debauch clawed at your throat? And next thing you knew you were at a friend's apartment in Eagle Rock at three in the morning, listening to Blood on the Tracks and drinking Modelo, a beer you only ever buy when you're already severely intoxicated, something about the blandness of the can meshing with the blandness of your mind? And you woke up the next morning on the couch and, even though breakfast beers aren't generally your style, you polished off the remaining Modelo while waiting for your friends to finish sleeping or boning or whatever it was they were doing in the other room? And then you all went out for breakfast, which was lovely, but as you were walking down Colorado, smoking your cigarette and digesting your corned beef hash, an old man--unsteady on his feet like he was unaccustomed to this planet's gravitational pull--made his crooked way toward you, and as he narrowly evaded ramming into you, he looked up to mumble an apology, and you noticed that he had no nose? No sign of any nose? On his face? Like the letter-writer in the first chapter of Miss Lonelyhearts, or Philip J. Fry in the "Spanish Fry" episode of Futurama? No nose? And, in your weakened and cockeyed condition, this was a particularly distressing sight, this reminder that blameless humans, sweet and decent people who want nothing more than a normal life, are forced to spend every second of their existences stumbling around Eagle Rock without noses? What kind of world is this? So--taking any excuse you could get--you hit the 7-Eleven and started drinking wine again? And, a couple bottles later, you and your friends took the bus to Hollywood, where you watched Seasons play an afternoon set at Space 15 Twenty, and you drank more wine and ate hamburgers and drank beer until it was time to go back to your other friend's place there in Hollywood to take a nap? And the nap--with your head on the kitchen floor of a studio apartment--was necessary, but not exactly refreshing, waking up as you did all headachey and nauseated with your mouth tasting like literal shit? But you were happy to see that you all still had plenty of time to make it to pehrspace and catch that night's set by Pisces, Sarah Negahdari's new solo project? So you took the bus there? And while walking down Glendale your friends were chugging Rolling Rocks, based on the theory that--if recent American history has taught us anything--if you break the law brazenly enough you won't get in trouble for it? But you yourself weren't drinking beer? Because, from your perspective, these friends of yours were apparently some kind of superhuman or cyborg alcoholics? Because you knew that there was no way that your abused, deranged tummy would allow even one more drop of alcohol to settle in unmolested? And, upon arriving at pehr, you discovered that all you wanted to do was sit on the roachy steps and smoke cigarettes and pretend to nurse a cup of the box-wine that was so prevalent that evening? And, it became clear as the minutes ticked past, you were so deep in the throes of breathless, vibrato-teethed nausea that there was no way you were going to be able to drag yourself into the venue and stand up unaided without retching all over packed house? So you sat outside for Pisces' entire set, loathing yourself and what remains of your shoddy decision-making capacities, straining to hear whatever sweet bits of sound poured out of the rarely-opened door?
Remember that?
Well, here's a taste of what you missed....
....except next to the sea instead of inside pehrspace.
I am excited about Pisces. There's a wafty ambiance to it that's far removed from Negahdari's beloved Happy Hollows, but it maintains that quivering intensity throughout that's very much in keeping with what we've grown to expect from her work, ensuring that a song like "Paint a Rocket" won't be something anyone just puts on in the background.
You have a chance to atone for past sins by catching Pisces--along with the enchanting Little Red Lung--at the Hotel Cafe on Tuesday. Details here. Try to keep it together this time.
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