Yesterday’s audition was a bust. The guitar player and the bassist never showed up so it was just me and the keyboard player. He didn’t feel we could jam just with keys and drums so I spent an hour at this dude’s house listening to the type of music he wants the band to emulate. When we’d talked on the phone he’d been pretty vague about what he wanted to play. This is probably because like most musicians he wants his music to defy classification, even though I think it’s very clearly labeled as European Goth Metal. Now that I understand what he wants, I’ll probably not audition for the band if for no other reason than that I only have one black t-shirt and no black jeans. Nor do I want to dye my hair black and anyway my hair is too far gone to be able to sport any type of long, emoish do.
So it’s back to square one.
Nor even called. Nor answered their cellphones when the dude called them repeatedly. This whole thing had me all kinds of concerned that this was an elaborate set-up for a Craigslist-murder. Every time he got up from his chair to call I would ever so subtly move my chair and look at some new part of the home’s décor, which I can very easily describe as black-light oriented
, so that I could always keep him in my peripheral vision. He had black cloth draping the entrance to the stairway that led upstairs, which helped not at all to assuage my concerns of ending up as yet another bloody Craigslist fatality or a Criminal Minds
-type victim. When the possible unsub offered me a beverage, I declined, even despite being terribly thirsty from breathing in this guy’s second-hand marijuana smoke, because Roofies are too small to see from my peripheral vision. When he put in a CD of his own recording and turned the volume way up I was seriously concerned that there was someone else in the house – an accomplice, obviously, maybe his ‘old lady’ to whom he often referred but I never saw or saw evidence of and so of course then though ‘old lady’ might mean ‘mom’ and then Norman Bates-type visions went through my head so that, as I was about to leave, when he invited me to the basement to check out his gear, I mentally warned myself not to turn around any chair that appeared to have a very elderly woman sitting in it – and that this accomplice was right at that moment approaching my chair from behind with something like a piano wire ready to slip over the my throat and robbing me precious escape-enabling oxygen. My fears of general Craigslist-murder were not at all relaxed by seemingly quotidian things like his backyard grill and the camper parked beside the drive. Anything, after all, can be used for nefarious means.
Anyone who tells you that there music defies classification is full of shit. Unless you’re talking to Tom Waits. In which case: call me ASAP.