Crankin' It Up Down at McCune

When you're in the rehearsal space, things don't have to go just so. They go with the wholly in-the-moment flow. Beer breaks between songs, four walls and most of a sound system. Drinks and smokes are the most pressing logistics. It's Wednesday night, and SFO3 at Slim's is coming fast over the horizon. But fuck that, this is no dress rehearsal.



The unexamined band is worth hearing. The band unencumbered by audience and management is beholden solely to self, and the sounds reflect the clientele. Rehearsal is escape, interstellar travel before the next bar stage beam-down. Indulging the muse is required behavior.



You kick around a Pantera intro.
You make Nick play the song he hates.
You do the music-video-drumstick-twirling shit you could never get away with live.
Power chords are cheap, you use them, you play Cheap Trick.
You pay unholy tribute to the Ramones.
And of course, you pound out the Porcelain originals.

"She grows her hair long. Thin mascara on her. ...She Turns"

	Hammer the hoarse chords. Fatten up the bottom end because nobody's below. Take a chance on an outro, or leave it hanging till whenever. Audience? This about how it feels tonight without a price on the barrelhead. Nothing not nailed down stays still right about now.
Empty beer bottles look a lot like spent fuel rods when they're stacked neatly by the door just so. The ash tray as catalytic converter? Maybe. Smog and atmosphere are synonymous here, not in conflict. "RATTLE RATTLE SHAKE"
	A countra-ee funk slang jive twang slides groovily by as the segue to the next moment. Frozen only because it's unique, tasty more for the sloppy than the recipe. Play distended to innovate, court the twisted between-time.
Clapton never performed "Wonderful Tonight" quite this way. And the Beach Boys thank God they're here only in lyric and chord. You toss around some Joy Division and you're on your way out the door.

Next rehearsal, Friday at 8:30.