“Hey it’s good to see you!” Exclaims a coquette-of-a-stranger behind black bars.

“Hello. Do I know you?” I reply with confused diffidence.

“Nope, not at all,” she finalizes our conversation by chuckling amongst her friends. Thus causing me to role my eyes and walk away to my own reflections.

The tattooed, chain-smoking, hard-liquor drinking spinster is indeed behind black bars; however, these aren’t the kind of bars that prohibit spinsters from participating in society. They’re the ones that separate the outdoor smoking section from the smoke-free establishment I’m attempting to enter.

It’s late. I can tell the intoxication levels of tonight’s patrons are elevated to an amusement of drunken lunacy. This should be interesting. I think to myself.

“Wild night so far huh?” I relate to the bouncer.

“We got some fucked up people in the crowd tonight.   There aren’t too many here, but they’re making some noise!” The bouncer replies.

“Must be something in the air,” I suggest.

“Too much alcohol,” the bouncer concludes.

Under the influence of excessive indulgence, it seems most women turn from the most worthy of faithful partners into spinsters: women eternally unwed due to their crimes against fidelity. The zeitgeist of female aptitudes tonight is low-spirited. Any feminists in attendance tonight might be persuaded to hold up their white flags in defeat. As I look towards the dance floor, spinsters pop their hips with fortitude, like a mating call of adultery; their waiting to be picked up as mistress to whomever will take them home for a fun night of strange fornication. I’m disinclined to pursue.

“You can go your own way,” lead singer of the band Comin Up Empty (Nicki) does her best Stevie Nick’s impression. Wow, this group can sing! I think to myself as the background vocals fill in behind Nicki’s lead vocal. You can always tell the difference between a good cover band and a lesser group by the weight of their harmony vocals.

However, this group is somewhere in-between. The bass player has a good tone, and fills in the space with some tasty fills; however, the drummer—despite his ability to singer with pitch accuracy—plays drums like a horse running full speed down hill towards the site of fresh apples; he can’t seem to slow down enough to let the other musicians catch their breath. The poor guitar player has to pluck out his solos in half the amount of time because the tempos of every tune are ratcheted up to an unconscionable speed. Imagine your treadmill going from 6mph to 12mph, then back to 8mph, then to 10mph, and altering in an unpredictable state that has you exhausted after the first 30 seconds. For fuck sake pick a tempo and stick with it! I scream to myself. This drummer is the horse descending a hill of obstacles with a mirage of apples in sight at the bottom of a never-ending descent. Worst of all, the band has to saddle up and ride at the beast’s tempo—oh what fun a ride it is.

Metronomes are a necessity in such situations. They are the training wheels that drummers need to harness before saddling up on to their own tempo of autonomy. Poor Greg. I think to myself as I look up to see him attempting to solo; he can hardly line up a single not with the varying beats of the drummers rhythms.

“The usual?” The barkeep asks me as I reach the bar.

“You got it,” I reply as she grabs a domestic from the cooler and slides it into my hand. “Funny night huh?”

“So many drunk women!” She exclaims with indignation.

For me—a single guy with a penchant for weekends of live music and beer—one might think I’d take to the swimming pool of single coquettes parading around the dance floor. Contrarily, the sight of drunkenness is the biggest turn off for me. Not to mention, the entire female side of the LGBT movement seem to have bussed their congregation here tonight. I’ve never seen so many straight-billed caps run into each other—the sight of failed kisses. Regardless, I always make the music a top priority in such events. It’s a necessity for two reasons: one, I need material for my weekly music blog; two, drunken spinsters repulse me.

“I love rock n’ roll,” Nicki sings; but no, I won’t be putting another dime in the jukebox, at least, not ever to pick this tune. I could go several eternities without hearing this song again. Some cover bands play a litany of over-played tunes. So over-played that only drunken people with cognitive functions so depleted that the most cliché of sonorities sound novel in this setting of a spinster paradise. It’s hell for me. If I smoked cigarettes, I’d step outside to save my soul from the bereavement caused by hearing such a ridiculous line up tunes; Comin Up Empty is lambasting us with their final set. Not enough alcohol could wash the mire of repugnance from my ears. Please stop. Please… stop. I send an internal request to the band to stop what they’re doing. You’re making me detest rock n’ roll.

Tonight I beg for transport to an earlier time. I’m begging for 52nd street in the New York’s entertainment district of 1940’s bliss. I’m begging for spinsters to be supplanted by chanteuses, such as, Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughn, and Ella Fitzgerald. I’m begging for elegance, the elegance of good music, chic attire, and fancy martinis to replace the slutty outfits and overpriced rotgut. I need bebop tunes and jazz ballads to replace the ostentatious covers of musical boredom. Tonight will be chalked up as a loss. The spinsters and sordid drunkenness have tarnished the evening. Stay tuned to next week’s article, I promise it doesn’t get any worse. Can it? If so, put me behind prison bars.


-Layton (07/10/16)

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