Oh, crap. Another Olympic Smoker gig missed. I'm surprised they're still talking to me, after all the broken "Yeah, I'm going to be there!" promises. I once paid P300 to go see them at a gig, which remains the highest entrance fee anyone's ever paid to go see OS, and I've been coasting along on that distinction for a long time, and my groupie rights have run out.
In any of the imaginary bands I've been in, I've always been either the enigmatic lead guitarist or the quiet drummer who holds everyone together. At best, I sang back-up, if at all. I'd melt under the limelight; it's the sidelines I'm cut out for. (This is, of course, ignoring the whole question of Well, what can you really do?)
I don't think many people know of my mysterious musical past. I mean, why do you suppose I know nearly all the lyrics to The Sound of Music by heart to this day? For one thing, my mom loved the movie, and so as children we learned to like it, too, by osmosis, along with the entire ABBA discography. But there was also those few months were I'd been named to the role of little Gretl Von Trapp in a school production that, mercifully, did not materialize. I can still sing most of the songs, though. Scary.
In real life, though, I'm pretty satisfied with my antiheroic role as music critic. You hear that, people? I'm a music critic. Hala! I'll come to your gigs, drink beer, think bad thoughts about every single aspect of your performance, and write about it. Then I'll eat your children.
Can you tell I'm trying to avoid finishing writing my reviews today? Sigh. Not too excited about anything I'm writing, except perhaps for the just-locally-released Liz Phair and Grandaddy's Sumday. Also got the new Morrissey, which is pretty good. Just not finding it easy to write about any of it.
6 hours ago