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Dark's Corner
Ain't That Life?
"Starving"
Starvin' Vol. 2, No. 1
Lord, bless us with the butter for both sides of our bread. That very thin bread that you slice so that it looks like onion skin. And no butter, no sir. Times are tough and the vast wasteland that is your refrigerator is a loose convention of condiments (who bought all that mustard anyway?) Seems to be affecting everybody these days, from blue collar grunt to corporate drone--the more you make, the much more you have to make in order to stay out of debt. It's a sickening treadmill of a lifestyle, this rat-race, merry-go-round from Hell that we were born into. It's all you can do just to get by, let alone manage to see your friends more than once a week and then have the audacity to attempt squeezing a band project in as well. Where do you find the time to get inspired? If only there was breathing room, a chance to be alone with the muse once in awhile. Obviously, you make time for rehearsals and gigs, but that's when the boss starts getting pissed at you for calling out sick on Saturday nights and you start getting vicious little notes from your other half on the pillow every morning, can I get an Amen? Little vicious notes! And the only phat moments of your life involve stepping into a cocoon of music every so often and shattering all that extraneous crap into microscopic bits. It's good, that Jacuzzi of Sound. Good for what ails ya. Some people get up at ungodly hours in the morning before the sun rises, work all day on their feet, humming ideas into the answering machine back home and then arriving at the Portastudio feeling like a shower and a nap are first priority. Ever have a day off and wake up early in the morning to work on music? There's something about that period of time after the brain's re-charged. It's even better if you get to wake up early every morning on a beach in Jamaica and jog down to the beachhouse for a jam with the boys. That would certainly stir the creative spirit in expansive ways. But in reality, it was a 52 hour week and you're now single, everything on your car just went bad at once and you haven't seen a movie in the theaters since "The Phantom Menace." Your friends think you're dead and what's even worse is, your roommate polished off the last of the beer. You know what I'm saying? "Hey now, this check is bigger than I thought, I can really go out and," (brain proceeds to screw it up with logic,) "pay the gas bill from last month now, and half of the car payment. Krystal's again tonight." But you've gotta drive through on the way to rehearsal, where you'll be for the next seven and a half hours. That one jam always seems to go a little out of control, doesn't it? Ah, but it's glorious to go away for awhile, to that Musical Planet of Love and Intense Vibrational Fusion.
Looking for some pasta in the Historical Society that is your cupboard, you discover that there is no sauce--it's typical of life, like being stuck in traffic on the highway one exit before yours. Little "almost's" that happen every day, and they're such the bummer. Why does equipment break down right before gigs? You've never broken strings before, why are they snapping like spaghetti strands tonight? Was that the LAST drum stick? Where the hell did the pick go? Tell me this--is there some incredibly complex type of gravity involving toothpaste caps and guitar picks? Because the two of them have an amazing knack for taking leaps and bounces that defy gravity before disappearing into fucking nowhere. I believe in elves, do you? You do believe in Dreams, don't you? Call me corny, but that stuff about wishing and stars is right on the money. It's the only thing you can bank on when everything else goes to Hell, the music that you make and share with others--fellow musicians, audiences, the trees the sky the rocks the water. When it all turns to dust as the Big Flaming Fireball hits and we're left to re-build it all from square one, we've got the music forever. We are the music. (cue Bics)
There's cereal and no milk, damn it. If it was Captain Crunch, it'd be alright, but it's Grape Nuts. Ain't that life?
A native of Los Angeles, Bing Futch moved to central Florida in 1993 and immediately began performing. Since then, he's been actively involved in the local scene both as an artist and as a member of the media. Currently, he can be seen and heard playing Appalachian mountain dulcimer around the state with the band Mohave. Send flames and fondles to www.darkstudios.com or bing@ink19.com and you can also subscribe to The Dark's Corner Mailing List which is the official mailing list for this column. Send press kits, music and legal drugs to: J.O.B. Entertainment Inc. P.O. Box 560727 Orlando, Florida 32856
