The Soulfinger Diaries #1: Airport Road Cafe, Hartford CT. 12.8 .05

Soulfinger, y'all.

Lula couldn't make this one so it was all me at the mic with "What Is Hip" and "Let's Get It On" and "Shotgun". "You're Still A Young Man". "Back In Love Again". "Will It Go Round". Barry White's immortal ode "The First, The Last, My Everything". The Temptations medley. The Wonder Medley: "I Wish", "Superstition", "Signed, Sealed, Delivered", "Uptight".

I'll be inventing some names now so feel free to be amused. Like "Lula" for example.

So, anyway, Soulfinger is running about a good 10 to 8 ration of great gigs to bassfinger gigs. Tonight is tight and any jamming that occurs is concise and rhythmically happening. They auditioned a couple of drummers who were both pretty good. A brother and a white guy who had it going on with the percolating thing that I like so much.

The guy who runs this band is auditioning players for a bigger show band and the brother's girlfriend does some Stax and she's fine but a little stiff. Mostly I think he's laying a "you can be replaced vibe" on recalcitrant players.

I'm getting a lot more breath support and hence stamina from not having to wear a bass. It's still a long god damn night though vocally. It's really good because there's no way I can be a smoker and do this shit. You have to be a six stroke god damn machine to pull this off ten nights in a row. Even split two ways.

A fear of mine is starting to fade: that I won't be able to drive a band without an instrument. This unit sounds a lot snappier when they come up to tempo and it's easy to push them there. I think Lula pulls them back because she's a blues belter and she likes to lean into her notes real good. So later the bass player Ace McClintock (heh heh) gives me his bass. Thing is- he's a lefty. So I dress left like I always do but I play righty basses and that big E string is staring at me from the top of the neck like some completely alien thing.

Then I borrow a pick from th' guitarist and rock the living crap out of it.

Starting to think about getting to work with the straight stand. Get a nice one with a boat anchor of a base that'll let it snap back real good. Also experimenting with occasional Marvin Gaye three-fingered mic grip. The three fingered mic-grip is good because it makes you sing soft. So instead of traditional mic technique you let go with a couple of fingers and it makes you sing quieter.

Bobby Lightfoot's Real-Life Non-Celebrity Asshole Fights #1: April 1999

Yes, my friends and Romans, it shames and amuses me to confess I worked a fucker pretty good back in the good ol' 20th century. I reckon by the end of this little saga you'll see why it was inevitable. I can walk away from a confrontation as well as th' next polesmoker, especially when cars and freeways are involved, but this one had to go down.

This was when Sal th' Feist was just a little grunter of about 8 months, just starting to feel her oats. I used to take her up to Feist Hill in Pacific Beach where dogs could run free until th' Law would show up and hand out tickets. She would race around like a little dickens and meet other feists and regular dogs and there was never any static. People generally have enough sense to keep the more vicious of the dogs on their leads or preferably in little veal pens where they fucking belong.

One day this shit heel pitbull breeder shows up in a van with pit bulls painted on the side. No, I'm not lying. I see this shit and figure it's time to throw Sal the Feist in the car and head home. Before I can scoop her up this asshole gets out with three pitbulls on leashes and sure enough, one busts its leash and comes snarling after Sal. Poor Sal is crying and running circles around my car and I'm tryin' to grab her but this fucking pit bull catches her sure enough and I was sure it was curtains for Th' Feist.

Fucking dog has Sal in its jaws, trying to get a good grip on her neck and I have no choice but to pick up the whole god damn bundle and try to separate them before it's too late. I grab the fucking pit bull by the scruff of the neck and a handful of skin in the genital vicinity and just shake as hard as I can. I get lucky and the fucking thing lets go. I have it by the scruff until I get poor Sal safely into my car.

Can you imagine what an asshole this fucking pitbull breeder is? He looks sort of like that idiot Danny Bonaduce but with less hair and when he gets his fucking dog in th' chest from three feet he almost goes over. Fucking bastard. I'm completely livid. He corrals his filthy, murdering beasts back in his shitty van and comes over to smooth things over with me. I've got Sal and I'm looking her over. A couple of cuts but she's O.K. She's really pissed now, just like a terrier, squirming and barking like she wants a second chance. He takes a look at her and tells me he's a vet and he can fix her up which you can imagine goes down real good with me.

Quite a crowd has gathered by now, of course. They're not sympathetic to him. He gives me his card and gets in his van. I look at his card. He's a fucking plastic surgeon! A plastic surgeon!

I'm sure very few of you will think less of me when I tell you that I walked over to his van, opened his driver's side door and hauled him out by his collar. He was real surprised and that worked in my favor as I chucked him up against the side of his van and popped a hard left right in his ugly face.

Real fights aren't like you think. Never are. The adrenalin lasts about five seconds and then you start realizing what a drag it is to pop someone in the face. It takes some real fury to work up to that. Hurts your hand too. The fact that he actually started to come at me gave me all the fuel I needed and the next one was a right to his cocksuckin' eye. Then I just went three more good ones, two lefts to the nose and eye and one last right to th' teeth. Pop pop pop. Fucking asshole. Fucking bleeding his shitty plastic surgeon pitbull-breeding blood on me. Bleugh.

Um, he was down after that. Huffing against his van. And boy, were my fists all fucked up and bleeding. His pulse was fine. Fast but fine. The crowd was shocked but firmly on my side. No one was writing down plate numbers.

I took Sal The Feist to the vet and they hooked her up. I cleaned up my hands and did a recording session.

Fuck with people's children you can pretty much expect this sort of thing. Anybody can understand that. My regrets have been few.

Um, there's only #1. I haven't ever hit anyone else besides bandmates since I was 16. I consider bandmate fisticuffs just part of the writing process. Karate doesn't count either. Mostly I just got hit much to the joy of dentists down th' line.



We'll call them Soulfinger.

What are we going to do with Soulfinger? Perfect name. I never tell musicians I work with about my blog any more. It would suck if I couldn't speak candidly about them and our world.

But Soulfinger? Decked out in velour in front of a 2000 strong casino crowd? You have to realize I'm co-fronting the band with this 300-pound black female belter who sings like Aretha channeling Big Mama Thornton. Bobby Lightfoot and Big Queen Asskicker. Picture it, man. It's like something out of a dream. After eating a large pizza in a hemp frenzy.

And when they switch it on and tight it up and play it without the Jagermeister on th' rocks it's like a god damn Stax/Volt/Motown package tour. "Let's Stay Together", "Will It Go 'Round", "I Wish", "What's Going On", "I Got You (I Feel Good)", "Sex Machine".

God damn "Shotgun" and "Can't Turn You Loose".

It's insane. It's insane. It's a crazy ride. It's like that girl you knew and she was a cold fish and then she was a rotary wankel sex engine with a nitrous boost on full god damn bore.

Maybe it's that these guys need to learn how to play the same good show if it's in front of 2000 people or 10.

The saying in my band fiction was "we put on the same show for 4 people that we do for 12".

That's funny. And kind of sad. But it's spared true existential bleakness by being funny.

What's going to happen to Soulfinger? All that work staring me down and it really is a blast to be just scrugging at the mic and doing Temptations routines. Beat that crap.

Don't spend 15 bucks on a gram today, homes.


Here Comes Your Old Pal Monday!

Boy, I was just tossing pearls of wit beack 'n' firt h with Mssr. Le Visconte
about this and that and I was struck with a sudden burst of obtimisme about what the week to come holds for all of us.

And I have to say, I see great, great things. All types of doors opening and possibilities presenting themselves. You will be the only obstacle to your own career advancement and accrual of things. That can't possibly be spelled right.

But you know what? I don't fuckin' GIVE a slice of Processed Cheese Product! I'm all about tomorrow! Manana, cocksmokers. Morgen. The wonders we'll see! And when you walk into that office or construction site or recording studio boy aren't you gonna walk in there with a skip in your fuckin' step and a song in your heart? Huh? Just the tinyest bit glad to be moving th' Great Ship Of Industry Forward? I mean forward?

I'm going to pick a fight. That always makes me feel alive. You know I like that action. I'm going to just come up to some fucking guy at the gas pump or the AM PM and just knock his hat off or something. Or a cop. That's what I'll do. They're always around directing traffic past places where people are working on the road.

Here's what I'll do- I'll come up really slow and then I'll drive slowly towards the cop and just keep going until he's having to move out of the way. Then I'll keep going towards him and he'll be all pissed and blowin' his whistle or whatever th' crap they do. Then I'll get out with my hands up but when he goes to arrest me and cufff me I'll crack him one in the shin with my boot and insult his calling.

That'll ROCK!

So, even if I have to go to the Big House for a month I'll always be able to tell the story about kicking Johnny Law in th' shint. I mean, wouldn't that be great?

That could happen tomorrow! I could just make it happen!

People, we have to learn to LIVE OUR DREAMS. They're out there right now, for you, for me. Girls, if doe-eyed Enrique from Accounts Payable has been floating your boat, I'm telling you- now's the time for getting him into the Xerox room and wrappin' that leg around him. You know? LOL? IMHO?

The promise! The promise and th' possibility that we squonker? slonder. Squadron. Spaulding.


Why, one day not so long ago I was a young and saucy man who wrapped his jaws around th' world like a boa with a small child. And tomorrrow could be like that! Put on some U2!!

Promise me you'll put on some U2 tonight and in th' stereo on the hour long drive through a world you never could have imagined as a child. U2 can save you! Only U2! Doing good!

And promise me that you'll take that extra step towards greatnesss! It's the least you can do for yourself. If you want it, take it for God's sake. I see fantastic things for you.

And the sex! The sex you'll have this week! Naughty, playful, intimate and deeply, deeply satisfying. And nasty. Oh, it's the week of your dreams. Of your dreams. Here it comes. I see the light down the god damn tunnel. The train of tomorrow is racing towards the tunnel of potential.

Did I say that.

Every Monday is like a new pack of cigarettes. Pleasure and death. Pleasure and death. Like a bungee jump with nine ply nylon rope. Every monday is a whole new chance to suck in new and unforeseeable ways. How many ways can there possibly be? many. Many.

But don't listen to me. Don't listen to Leon Footsky. Don't listen to th' Footcrates. Don't pay any attention to crazy ol' Thomas Jefferfoot. When that shit comes down and that motherfucking alarm goes offf, man, don't just dip your toe into it. Don't dip your toe into Monday.

You have to jump all the way in to Monday, fuckface. I swear this to you. I've had them by the thousands. Mondays and Mondays and Mondays. Leaping in a pretty pace from day to day, that's for god damn sure. But like I said, don't take it from Footspeare, you know?

DO IT. Dare I say, JUST DO IT registered cocksmokin' trademark.

DO it and FEEL it and FEEL ALL OF IT. Right in that old Sacroiliac. Right in that bad fucking knee. Feel it in that scar and in that god damn wisdom tooth.

I'm going to attack a cop. You're going to start that band. It'll be huge. You'll be like Th' Gorillaz, I'm TELLING YOU. WRITE that romance novel with the highwayman and the lady in waiting. Heaving bosoms and leathery tallywackers. Send IN that application to be on The Apprentice.

It's all up to you, fucker.

Oh, and buy some fine products from Johnson & Johnson.






Disappointment Number 6,345,985

Doomed. Doomed to bad decisions. Doomed to relying on humankind. Doomed to playing second fiddle to drunken oafs. Doomed to frustration, irritation and failure.


Fuck these people:

1. People who piss away opportunities.
2. People who can't recognize and capitalize on a good thing.
3. Spoiled wanking powertripping tossers with instruments. Or worse, microphones.
4. People who drink too much.
5. People who don't drink enough.
6. People who think they are playing a show for themselves as opposed to the audience.
7. See posts #35, 44, 22, 56, 78, 54, 45, 612, 4, 56, 678, 43, 34, 76, 12, 23, 43, 90, and also 100 through 456. Fuck all of these people.

I've realized that when you interact with a delusional person you have to decide whether to participate in the delusion or not participate. Gotta be a pretty HEFTY FUCKING PAYCHECK TO BE SISSY MCPHUCK FROM 11TH GRADE IN SOMEONE ELSE'S WANK FANTASY.

Yeah, this band I was so up about singing for? You guessed it. They're about as pro as an American Idol contestant on junk. Last night I had to be privy to NOT ONE, but TWO 40 minute bad drunken jams. Second one I walked out. This guy who leads this band is NOT used to being called on his wank. What a shock to his system. Yeah, 20 minute BASS SOLO anyone? There are JOKES about this. yeah, I can't wait to hear another 20 minute BASS SOLO. SWEET. I just can't GET ENOUGH BAD BASS.

The bass guitar is NOT A LEAD INSTRUMENT. The bass guitar is a SUPPORT instrument. You don't SERENADE YOUR TRUE LOVE WITH A FUCKING BASS.

Boy, you'd have to be a pretty amazing bass player to make a 20 MOTHERFUCKING MINUTE BASS SOLO GOOD.

All you tossoffs who play "solo bass"? Actually put out CDs of it and shit?

Wow. Fuck you. Fuck you good.

See, I'm going to be wishin' I had that 20 minutes to JACK OFF WITH when I'm on my FUCKING DEATHBED. Someone steals a chunk of your time on earth like that it's called A MORTAL SIN. Let's not DO THAT TO ONE ANOTHER. Oh, the HUBRIS. NOW OFFICIALLY MY MOST HATED WORD IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

Oh- love the 40 minute breaks between sets, too. Yeah, that's pro stuff right fucking there. God damn it. When I played with those other jackoffs in Springfield at least I trained myself to BRING A FUCKING BOOK after a few of those. "Hey, who wants to KILL A PARTY? That's our job, right? KILL A FUCKING PARTY".

Oh, boy. Life is truly shit. Shit. Poison lurks deep in th' sweetest bud indeed.

Sometimes the decision is: 30 more years of this shit or no?

And then I have to retrieve accusations of being a sad sack. Fuck that. I step up bright-eyed and bushy-fucking tailed every time I get what looks like a break. Like a fucking IDIOT.

Depression. Depression. Look, find a pill that cures the fact that everything is a crummy laugh. I'll fork over for THAT shit. THAT and some fucking talk therapy.

Some fucking talk therapy.

There are things you can't talk away, people. There are some stuff. Several. Stuffs.

Lame. Double, triple lame.

Did I say that.

I keep forgetting to say did I say that.