I used to wanna be rock star. I put reality on hold and went to Grunge University. Nothing, Billy Pilgrim, Agatha, and so many others, yes, these were the names of my bands that played everywhere in Chicago, a few places in the midwest, and even once at CBGBs in New York City. No one remembers these bands except those of us who played in them and now it's a new millennium.
One of the first gigs I ever played was at a dive called Phyllis' Musical Inn on Division St. It was a polka place in the '50s and Phyllis was the owner; her son, Clem, owns it now.
I was a kid. And I played there a million times.
I've played nowhere for the last five years, not since you know what came back, not since chemo entered my life, soon to be followed by radiation. Yeah, I've been playing, yeah, I've been recording, but playing in front of people? For some reason, I feel my anti-seizure meds don't allow such a thing.
Well, Miki, the guy who married Karla and me in our backyard has a gig with his band It's a Girl at Phyllis' tonight. He asked me the other day if I wanted to play a couple oldies with him before his show. My initial reaction was I doubt it, but I said yes. And I've been practicing my ass off.
I'll carry my Telecaster to my Saturn in about an hour and a half down to the place I've drunk dozens of gallons of all kinds of things over the last two decades. And I haven't been there in years. And all I have to do is play two songs.
I better not drink anything until the songs are over. And then I hope to celebrate.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment