November 05, 2006

Just down the block from where I live there is a building of some sort, one formerly commercial, I believe, the second story of which is being rented by a bunch of local hipsters, five or six guys who show up a few evenings each week and on most weekends, in order to "make some music," as they say.

They are a reasonably pleasant bunch, with comparatively few piercings and tattoos; and they're nice to the dog and all. Apparently they have a no-smoking rule enforced in their "space," so I see them outside quite a bit, which is fine, except it means I have to overhear their conversations.

And their conversations are always all about the band.

You see, these guys are in a band. They are a band. They're band guys. They're a bunch of guys who make up a band.

I don't know enough about contemporary music to know if they're any good, despite how many hours of their music-making I've been subjected to.

I only know this: If you guys were half as good as your sidewalk chats make you out to be, what the hell are you doing "practicing" and "rehearsing" in your "space" every single Friday and Saturday night, week after week, month after month?


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