I tailed my way into the gig this evening at Brightside and found my self knee deep in a Buffy Trivia night. Being an ardent trivia fan, I sequestered a seat in the smoking area and listened intently, quickly realising I’ve never actually seen an episode of Buffy. The pungent stench of week old deep fryer oil coated my throat in a sickly sarcoma as I wondered if its powers would reduce the self inflicted effects of my commitment to the dying art of smoking.
Where is my bar tab…. where is this mythical beast that possesses my ticket to ride?
No time for that now, $8.50 is exchanged for a cold refreshing ale. The music has started.
Ahhh yes a beer and some live original music, there’s nothing quite like it.
Sludgy blues is delivered and I’m eating it up like a 12 year old at his first Sizzler visit, cheesy bread and all.
Punters alternate between slugging drinks, tapping toes and brandishing smart phones high above their heads capturing the proceedings.
The room becomes warm.
Are they treading the fine line between human comfort and minimised overheads by not firing up the air-conditioning? This will take a few moments to fully assess.
My band mates have not yet arrived as I find my self being that guy standing in the corner alone – face slightly illuminated by my hand held device attempting to keep myself busy and occupied.
Socialise? Dear lord, ‘tis my first beer and I already have enough friends. The books are currently closed. All positions are filled.
Brilliant, I have spied the drink card Barron. This will be the cumulative effort of my social interaction thus far tonight. Obtain ticket. Obtain beer.
The beer Barron happens to be the sound engineer. Luckily he is not mixing Pink Floyd tonight, it’s more of a case of set and forget.
I make small talk about soundcheck, and casually inquire as to the existence of the golden tickets.
“How many people in your band?” Cue moral dilemma…
Do I insist we are a P Funk cover band and insist we have 15 members but only 12 drink?
“Three man… three piece.”
Six tickets are granted. Bless.
I watch the next band soundcheck.
Echo’s of groundhog day ensue.
“You’re going to have to turn down that guitar mate.”
Don’t get me wrong, there’s not much else I’d rather be doing…. Well, my lady of course but that’s another story entirely.
As the sonic buffet continues we find, well, I find myself soaked in what preppy chefs with a nest egg at their disposal would refer to as modern contemporary Australian metal fusion.
And with that my brethren arrive. They don’t drink.
This in itself, along with a myriad of other reasons is why we yin and yang so well. Designated drivers are hard to come by and good friends are even harder.
But I digress.The crux lay herewith.
Financially it is far more viable for me to purchase lemonades for the boys rather than “wasting” a ticket to Valhalla.
Time to brass tac this conundrum and plead my case.