A few weeks ago, I decided take up bass again. I was practicing in the garage a few days ago, just minding my own business (and lowering my neighbors' property values) when the wife shot a few photos.
Now boys and girls, I am not an Emo Rocker. I play metal, blues, and hardcore punk. Get me in front of a camera while I'm practicing, and I revert to type: a cocky, "showboat" motherf**** whom you want to kill after observing for five or fewer minutes. Maggie thought the photos were cute, so I posted them on Facebook. My mother thinks they're anything but cute, which is all the more reason to post them here. Mwahahahaha!
We also posted them because they're amusing. I was having fun, and my sense of humor often runs to self-parody. The wife and I both grew up attending concerts, and at one point my room was completely wallpapered with centerfolds and full-page shots clipped from Circus, Hit Parader, Creem, and Kerrang. And I don't think I was alone in that respect. Ever notice how all rock musicians assume the same set of macho poses? Monkey see, monkey do -- and never mind that they're downright silly-looking. Naturally, I struck damn-near all of 'em whilst entertaining the wife. The only ones I missed were the Foot On Monitor Posture (try translating that one into Mandarin, Kung Fu types), and the Tandem Headbang. (I'll get to that one when next my cousin comes to visit.)
All-in-all, it was just one of those fun afternoons. And we've needed a bit of fun for a while, now. This hasn't been a very humorous year thus far. The weather has been especially unsuited to gardening (too muddy to plough from March to May, followed by a heatwave that killed much of what we managed to plant, scalded fruit, and caused blossoms to drop). We follwed the Andrew Wordes saga from January to March, only to be present when he killed himself. Then my friend Walt died, and another bro called to tell me that he had a heart condition that required surgery. To reiterate: I've had precious little to laugh about this year.
The bass is my brother's old ('84 or '85) Peavey fury. One pickup, one volume pot, one tone pot, no frills. I changed the strings out some time ago, and then left it in the case for ages. (That's a long story. I'll tell it some other time.) Despite the lack of bells and whistles, it's a good-sounding instrument, especially with the D'Addario Pro Steels I'm using. When I first plugged in and cranked up, I was amazed at the bright, punchy sound. For some applications, it's actually too metallic, so I might shop around for something else.
Anyway, here are the shots. (And yes, dear; I know. Black Sabbath, Hawkwind, and Motorhead aren't the only bands on earth. Thanks for reminding me...)
This one's Maggie's favorite --probably because I hate it. I look like a constipated baboon enduring delirium tremens.
This one is the wife's least favorite. She was rolling her eyes and groaning when I struck this pose, as a matter of fact. And yes, it's 80's swagger at its worst -- I admit it. Happy now? Best comment so far is from my bro John (a.k.a. "He Who Sprains Drunkards' Ankles" -- and I can hear him now: "Well? You need to learn to tap out, you knuckle-draggin' Ulster gobshite..."). The comment: "Looks like the kind of dude Hawkwind would fire."
She had fun with this one, too.
I'll cop to being a tad insulting at times. There's no sense in denying it. We live in an uncivil age, an age of toe-tromping, nose-picking savages who eat with the wrong fork break in line, and discuss their children's potty-training in public. Of course I'm insulting and abusive: proper etiquette is lost on the savages, and usually interpreted as weakness. My three favorite insults are "unlettered," "unwashed," and "unshod." Leave it to the wife to point out that I wasn't wearing shoes that day...
This one's my favorite. I was playing the intro to Black Sabbath's "N.I.B" when the sun got in my eyes. As I'm prone to stage fright when I haven't played in a while, I tend to look at a spot between the spectators' hairlines and the tops of their heads. This creates the illusion of eye-contact -- and keeps my trousers urine-free until I'm comfortable playing for an audience once more. The only time this trick fails is when the sun is shining directly into one's face, effectively blinding him. When this happens, the shamster appears to be scowling at the very people he's ostensibly entertaining.
Well, that's all for now.