I Will Work Harder
Last night, I left the library and meandered onto Royal Street.
I had been thinking very hard about all the experiences of the past week, and the ones that stood out the most were the ones like running into Nervous Duane.
His songs were tight and the riffs that he played in between verses were consistently the same...leaving no doubt that he knew what he was doing.
The lyrics were all compelling; I guess as blues songs are supposed to be. Who isn't amused by a story of a guy who is packing his "leaving trunk" because he ain't seen no whiskey but his woman is sloppy drunk?!?
So, I walked down Canal Street and saw the newspaper showing all the dead children who were casualties of the chemical attack in Syria.
I thought that, if I want to go to the next level, then I need to write songs about things like that...
I decided to set up a "stage," (below)and went to work looking for a milk crate to sit on (10 points) and I found some cardboard and went to work with a sharpie, recreating some of my best signs from the past (5 points each).
I managed to make about 16 dollars on a night when other musicians were skeptical when I told them of it, because they had made a lot less.
One guy explicitly put 5 bucks on the "tiposaurus" sign, harkening me back to the days when people would tip my signs as well as (or instead of?) my music.
The Chicken Bag
Every night at 12:50 a.m. Rouses Market puts out the bag of all the chicken etc. off the hot rack that didn't sell. It is often a little dry and stringy or singed black in the case of pork ribs.
Last night, I had to compete with the guys below for the chicken in the bag.
Tiffany (a friend of mine by now) had told the cop who works there that I was there waiting for the chicken bag to come out. She had expressed concerns about me getting any at all.
I only take enough chicken and corn and black eyed peas to fill myself up and I leave the rest of the bag for all the guys in Jackson Square.
Tiffany has actually handed me the bag, saying "Are you hungry, Daniel?" on the occasions that I had been there.
My food card is almost out now, and I have 12 days left in the month...
But, last night, these guys (below) basically grabbed the bag and headed toward the square with it. They had been joined by another black guy by then.
As they raced towards the square with it; I followed.
I knew that they had heard the cop yell "Daniel!" and motion me to the door, from whence Tiffany emerged with the chicken bag and placed it down a mere few seconds before I arrived, and handed to to me.
The musicians shown had played all night where the Hokum High Rollers rather would have liked to play; and these guys were playing very badly, especially by the time the chicken bag was to be put out.
But "Superman" had held his ground with the High Rollers; and staked a claim for the spot.
The High Rollers acquiesced, but I am sure the man of steel didn't curry any favor with them, but...back to the story.
They expected to have to fight over the chicken when they got to the square.
"Did you get some?" asked Tiffany.
"Yeah".
Yesterday, I left the library and did the usual.
I got to Rouses, after walking the length of Royal Street and saw Brian Hudson setting up his amp and stuff.
He had been away for at least a month.
His hair had grown out a bit and he looked a bit haggard, commensurate with having just toured all over the country and into Canada.
He was as down to earth as ever, though.
He bought me a beer in Rouses (a Busch, not one with a deadly sounding name, which I thought was thoughtful of him, as he has read some of the "Hand Grenade horror tales" from previous posts and was helping me out in that way).
He did one of my favorites of his, "The Shield", as his second song after probably having used the first as a warm up.
The Rut
I have decided that what is hindering me is a sort of rut which I have put myself in.
I normally wake up in the morning; sit up and consume caffeine in some form.
This makes me crave a cigarette; and if I don't have one, I walk down Canal Street and other places where the street sweepers haven't gotten to yet; and find tobacco.
Then, it is off to this very library; where I arrive between 10 a.m. and noon.
Then, if I have to wait for a computer, I will transfer music and lyrics and practice studies out of the pile of loose sheets; many of which are moldy and stained; into the composition book, which is one of the things that I bought after getting the 175 dollar tip.
What happens next is, I write my blog post and this consumes all the energy from the caffeine; and as I write, I focus (some would say dissociate) so much on the writing that everything else gets pushed out of my mind.
Then, when I leave the library and start walking towards the Quarter, my focus changes to music and I suddenly am remiss over the practicing that I didn't do; the new songs that I didn't learn; and I feel stagnant; as if I am bringing nothing new to the table, and I am going to bore people by playing "the same old stuff" again that night.
Having exercised my mind and then come down off of caffeine; the natural progression is towards alcohol.
This is partly because I am hoping that it will motivate me to play and partly due to "triggers" (I think the AA people call them) which are below the level of my consciousness; but which probably have to do with the conditioning which I have undergone after; on so many occasions, I've drank myself "insensitive" and then woke up in the morning and, after looking around to ascertain where I was, found a bunch of money in my case and had to struggle to recall where it came from.
It appeared like magic.
And, so...
I am seriously thinking about going out to busk, first thing in the morning; fueled only by coffee.
This would make it easier to work on fresh material, and give me a break from playing for drunks.
Then I would come to this library to blog in the late afternoon after having played for a few hours, and hopefully put some money in my pocket.
This would reduce the stress over money which might be one of my "triggers."
Last night, I left the library and meandered onto Royal Street.
 |
| There is irony in the fact that this is where I place my backpack at my playing spot... |
I had been thinking very hard about all the experiences of the past week, and the ones that stood out the most were the ones like running into Nervous Duane.
His songs were tight and the riffs that he played in between verses were consistently the same...leaving no doubt that he knew what he was doing.
The lyrics were all compelling; I guess as blues songs are supposed to be. Who isn't amused by a story of a guy who is packing his "leaving trunk" because he ain't seen no whiskey but his woman is sloppy drunk?!?
So, I walked down Canal Street and saw the newspaper showing all the dead children who were casualties of the chemical attack in Syria.
I thought that, if I want to go to the next level, then I need to write songs about things like that...
I decided to set up a "stage," (below)and went to work looking for a milk crate to sit on (10 points) and I found some cardboard and went to work with a sharpie, recreating some of my best signs from the past (5 points each).
I managed to make about 16 dollars on a night when other musicians were skeptical when I told them of it, because they had made a lot less.
One guy explicitly put 5 bucks on the "tiposaurus" sign, harkening me back to the days when people would tip my signs as well as (or instead of?) my music.
The Chicken Bag
Every night at 12:50 a.m. Rouses Market puts out the bag of all the chicken etc. off the hot rack that didn't sell. It is often a little dry and stringy or singed black in the case of pork ribs.
Last night, I had to compete with the guys below for the chicken in the bag.
Tiffany (a friend of mine by now) had told the cop who works there that I was there waiting for the chicken bag to come out. She had expressed concerns about me getting any at all.
I only take enough chicken and corn and black eyed peas to fill myself up and I leave the rest of the bag for all the guys in Jackson Square.
Tiffany has actually handed me the bag, saying "Are you hungry, Daniel?" on the occasions that I had been there.
My food card is almost out now, and I have 12 days left in the month...
But, last night, these guys (below) basically grabbed the bag and headed toward the square with it. They had been joined by another black guy by then.
As they raced towards the square with it; I followed.
I knew that they had heard the cop yell "Daniel!" and motion me to the door, from whence Tiffany emerged with the chicken bag and placed it down a mere few seconds before I arrived, and handed to to me.
The musicians shown had played all night where the Hokum High Rollers rather would have liked to play; and these guys were playing very badly, especially by the time the chicken bag was to be put out.
But "Superman" had held his ground with the High Rollers; and staked a claim for the spot.
The High Rollers acquiesced, but I am sure the man of steel didn't curry any favor with them, but...back to the story.
They expected to have to fight over the chicken when they got to the square.
One of the black guys kept saying "We're gonna get ours first right off the top; ain't gonna be none o' that booshit!"
Superman kept saying "I'm ready to fight them if they rush us"
And I kept thinking that, if I didn't get any food at all, I would report back to Tiffany, who would probably say "I'll deal with them; they ain't gonna see another chicken bag for a while.."
Well, the chicken bag was placed by a bench in the square; a few individuals converged upon it; but, basically there was so much food per person that it was meted out civilly."Did you get some?" asked Tiffany.
"Yeah".
Yesterday, I left the library and did the usual.
I got to Rouses, after walking the length of Royal Street and saw Brian Hudson setting up his amp and stuff.
He had been away for at least a month.
His hair had grown out a bit and he looked a bit haggard, commensurate with having just toured all over the country and into Canada.
He bought me a beer in Rouses (a Busch, not one with a deadly sounding name, which I thought was thoughtful of him, as he has read some of the "Hand Grenade horror tales" from previous posts and was helping me out in that way).
He did one of my favorites of his, "The Shield", as his second song after probably having used the first as a warm up.
The Rut
I have decided that what is hindering me is a sort of rut which I have put myself in.
I normally wake up in the morning; sit up and consume caffeine in some form.
This makes me crave a cigarette; and if I don't have one, I walk down Canal Street and other places where the street sweepers haven't gotten to yet; and find tobacco.
Then, it is off to this very library; where I arrive between 10 a.m. and noon.
Then, if I have to wait for a computer, I will transfer music and lyrics and practice studies out of the pile of loose sheets; many of which are moldy and stained; into the composition book, which is one of the things that I bought after getting the 175 dollar tip.
What happens next is, I write my blog post and this consumes all the energy from the caffeine; and as I write, I focus (some would say dissociate) so much on the writing that everything else gets pushed out of my mind.
Then, when I leave the library and start walking towards the Quarter, my focus changes to music and I suddenly am remiss over the practicing that I didn't do; the new songs that I didn't learn; and I feel stagnant; as if I am bringing nothing new to the table, and I am going to bore people by playing "the same old stuff" again that night.
Having exercised my mind and then come down off of caffeine; the natural progression is towards alcohol.
This is partly because I am hoping that it will motivate me to play and partly due to "triggers" (I think the AA people call them) which are below the level of my consciousness; but which probably have to do with the conditioning which I have undergone after; on so many occasions, I've drank myself "insensitive" and then woke up in the morning and, after looking around to ascertain where I was, found a bunch of money in my case and had to struggle to recall where it came from.
It appeared like magic.
And, so...
I am seriously thinking about going out to busk, first thing in the morning; fueled only by coffee.
This would make it easier to work on fresh material, and give me a break from playing for drunks.
Then I would come to this library to blog in the late afternoon after having played for a few hours, and hopefully put some money in my pocket.
This would reduce the stress over money which might be one of my "triggers."
Food stamps, cigarette butts, endless beers, and fightin' skeezers for leftover chicken, you're livin' The Life, my friend.
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