Today, Nick’s birthday, no one gets up until 5 PM. Nick informs me that we’re now officially on Motley Crue time.
I keep getting phone calls, giving me fever dreams about being a loser who stays in bed all day. Finally, feeling like a degenerate, I hit redial for the last number, which is local. The person who picks up identifies himself as Michael. We talk for fifteen minutes and then I ask if he’s bringing his wife to our show. “Who?” he says. “I don’t have a wife.” At that moment I realize I am talking to another Michael, one I haven’t spoken to in about seven years. I’m on a roll.
Our show is sloppy. Sloppy, but really fun. The audience is raucous, bordering on harassing. We love it.
Still Flyin is truly incredible. The idea—a fifteen person, indie rock reggae band–sounds intriguing, and comes off brilliantly, mostly due to the fact that they are complete party animals. On stage, some of them can barely stand up, yet the music sounds terrific. The entire audience is smiling and dancing. After the show, we see a girl from the band puking in the alley. Yoshi seems unfazed and tells me blandly that at least one person pukes at every show.
This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.