The Alcoholic Musican & The Automatic Pilot
July 18th 2007 17:08
When I am drinking, I much prefer to call my black-outs something else. Going on ‘automatic pilot’ sounds nice. Benign. When I first discovered that a few beers made me feel like superman, I took it to another level. And at that level, I was able to create an outgoing persona while at the same time remembering nothing the next day.
What could be better?
I remember one day, in the heat of mid-summer, when some of the guys and I were drinking beer. Starting at 11:00 in the morning seemed suitable. Even though informal custom had it that drinking should not start until noon, we had modified it to anytime within an hour of the accepted norm.
We started with a couple of six packs, cold and refreshing. Just a few of the boys, lounging and drinking and smoothing the ruffles we may have incurred from the debauchery of the previous evening. Laughing and addressing nothing of lasting import, we could pass through several hours this way. Several hours, though, would absolutely require more than a couple of six packs of beer.
Invariably, one of us would go on a run to the liquor store, purchase more beer and likely a bottle of the hootch, and return like a successful hunter who has gone out into the wild to find sustenance for his clan. Hoots, haws, and hand-slapping would ensue, for the fist hero of the day had come though with flying colors!
More beer, a passing of the bottle, and a steady lowering of the proverbial inhibitions. We were becoming outgoing, effusive, pumped up, and ready to take it to the next level. The next level meant taking the show out into the community.
Summertime in our town offered many options, and we decided to find an outside café that provided live music, beer, wine, and college girls galore. I decided while en route to pick up a pint of more liquor, opting for vodka at this juncture. “Less detectable on the breath”, I would affirm to myself. A couple of vodka blasts before settling in to the afternoon would give me a bump that may carry me through should we have to wait too long for the pitchers of beer.
The boys and I have a bit of a musical history, having played in various bands and having for the most part even had our own eclectic ensemble. We’d all performed in one venue or another, and most of us had experienced the glory that comes with such a fete. Most also had experienced getting so twisted on stage that we became an embarrassment to the band.
That was then, and this is now.
So we settle in, fill up our icy mugs with beer, and listen intently to the music being provided by the folkish duet on stage. “Not bad”, proclaimed one of my buddies, “though HIS vocal is a bit flat.” “I could show her what it’s like to play with a REAL singer.” The sexual innuendo was thick, and the hoots and guffaws became a brief distraction amongst the crowd of listeners.
I was enjoying the music, and I was enjoying my buzz. To myself, I agreed that the guy was a mediocre singer at best. I began to plot how I could get up there and play a few songs. Or, at least, sing a song with the fine young lady accompanying the mediocre-voiced fellow.
Given the glances and stares that our bunch was beginning to attract, I decided to slip away to the water closet and take a few more slams of my vodka. A few more slams finished the bottle, and this concerned me a bit. I would make sure that I had plenty of beer. Rather than go back to our table, I bought a bottle of beer, and then went straight to where the musicians were performing. Standing there, in front of the stage, I could hear my buddies hollering “Get up there and play you fool. Go, go, go!”
I shook them off and tried to dis-associate myself from my increasingly rowdy brethren. I was not rowdy. I was just drunk. So it is no real wonder that I started talking to the musical duo while they were in the middle of a song. They looked at each other, smiled at me, and kept on playing. I found this to be a bit irritating and disrespectful, so I tried again, louder. “YOU TWO BEEN PLAYING LONG?”
Innocent enough. Trying to be kind, and make friends. “I PLAY. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO COME UP AND HELP YOU OUT?”
By now, I had become disruptive to what they were doing. They finished up their song, put their instruments down, and told me they were taking a break. “Thanks anyway, but we got it covered.”
I stared blankly at them as they walked away. Then I looked up at the stage, with guitars and microphones and amplifiers. I went back to my buddies, got another beer mug, and headed back toward the stage. The guys knew exactly what was going to happen, and they were laughing and slapping high-fives. I spilled half of my beer trying to get on stage, but made it and set my mug down.
I picked up one of the guitars, banging it into the mic-stand and created a screeching feedback. This proved alarming to many people, who put their hands over their ears. I was able to get the guitar situated, found a pick in my pocket, and approached the microphone. Rather than introduce myself, I just started playing. One of my songs, and in my mood and state of mind, I found myself to be particularly creative on parts of it.
I was feeling very much in the zone, and did not understand why people in the audience were leaving. I stopped playing, and asked them. “Hey, where you going? I won’t be here long. You don’t want to miss this!”
I started playing again, and the musicians approached. With the manager of the establishment. They were so rude. Trying to talk to me while I was playing. Had they no couth?!?
Well, they weren’t really talking to me. More like at me. And they were demanding that I stop playing and leave not only the stage but the entire business. I could hear my buddies, across the scant remaining crowd, laughing it up over this.
I was in no condition to debate this issue, so I stopped playing my song, put the guitar down, stumbled off the stage, and staggered off into the remaining day.
When I woke the next day, I was told that I met up with my friends and drank until about eleven in the evening. They continued on until the bars closed. I thought to myself that I did not feel particularly bad, so I must not have had too much to drink.
I was grateful for my automatic pilot, for how else was I able to perform and then continue on into the night?
deorre
What could be better?
I remember one day, in the heat of mid-summer, when some of the guys and I were drinking beer. Starting at 11:00 in the morning seemed suitable. Even though informal custom had it that drinking should not start until noon, we had modified it to anytime within an hour of the accepted norm.
We started with a couple of six packs, cold and refreshing. Just a few of the boys, lounging and drinking and smoothing the ruffles we may have incurred from the debauchery of the previous evening. Laughing and addressing nothing of lasting import, we could pass through several hours this way. Several hours, though, would absolutely require more than a couple of six packs of beer.
Invariably, one of us would go on a run to the liquor store, purchase more beer and likely a bottle of the hootch, and return like a successful hunter who has gone out into the wild to find sustenance for his clan. Hoots, haws, and hand-slapping would ensue, for the fist hero of the day had come though with flying colors!
More beer, a passing of the bottle, and a steady lowering of the proverbial inhibitions. We were becoming outgoing, effusive, pumped up, and ready to take it to the next level. The next level meant taking the show out into the community.
Summertime in our town offered many options, and we decided to find an outside café that provided live music, beer, wine, and college girls galore. I decided while en route to pick up a pint of more liquor, opting for vodka at this juncture. “Less detectable on the breath”, I would affirm to myself. A couple of vodka blasts before settling in to the afternoon would give me a bump that may carry me through should we have to wait too long for the pitchers of beer.
The boys and I have a bit of a musical history, having played in various bands and having for the most part even had our own eclectic ensemble. We’d all performed in one venue or another, and most of us had experienced the glory that comes with such a fete. Most also had experienced getting so twisted on stage that we became an embarrassment to the band.
That was then, and this is now.
So we settle in, fill up our icy mugs with beer, and listen intently to the music being provided by the folkish duet on stage. “Not bad”, proclaimed one of my buddies, “though HIS vocal is a bit flat.” “I could show her what it’s like to play with a REAL singer.” The sexual innuendo was thick, and the hoots and guffaws became a brief distraction amongst the crowd of listeners.
I was enjoying the music, and I was enjoying my buzz. To myself, I agreed that the guy was a mediocre singer at best. I began to plot how I could get up there and play a few songs. Or, at least, sing a song with the fine young lady accompanying the mediocre-voiced fellow.
Given the glances and stares that our bunch was beginning to attract, I decided to slip away to the water closet and take a few more slams of my vodka. A few more slams finished the bottle, and this concerned me a bit. I would make sure that I had plenty of beer. Rather than go back to our table, I bought a bottle of beer, and then went straight to where the musicians were performing. Standing there, in front of the stage, I could hear my buddies hollering “Get up there and play you fool. Go, go, go!”
I shook them off and tried to dis-associate myself from my increasingly rowdy brethren. I was not rowdy. I was just drunk. So it is no real wonder that I started talking to the musical duo while they were in the middle of a song. They looked at each other, smiled at me, and kept on playing. I found this to be a bit irritating and disrespectful, so I tried again, louder. “YOU TWO BEEN PLAYING LONG?”
Innocent enough. Trying to be kind, and make friends. “I PLAY. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO COME UP AND HELP YOU OUT?”
By now, I had become disruptive to what they were doing. They finished up their song, put their instruments down, and told me they were taking a break. “Thanks anyway, but we got it covered.”
I stared blankly at them as they walked away. Then I looked up at the stage, with guitars and microphones and amplifiers. I went back to my buddies, got another beer mug, and headed back toward the stage. The guys knew exactly what was going to happen, and they were laughing and slapping high-fives. I spilled half of my beer trying to get on stage, but made it and set my mug down.
I picked up one of the guitars, banging it into the mic-stand and created a screeching feedback. This proved alarming to many people, who put their hands over their ears. I was able to get the guitar situated, found a pick in my pocket, and approached the microphone. Rather than introduce myself, I just started playing. One of my songs, and in my mood and state of mind, I found myself to be particularly creative on parts of it.
I was feeling very much in the zone, and did not understand why people in the audience were leaving. I stopped playing, and asked them. “Hey, where you going? I won’t be here long. You don’t want to miss this!”
I started playing again, and the musicians approached. With the manager of the establishment. They were so rude. Trying to talk to me while I was playing. Had they no couth?!?
Well, they weren’t really talking to me. More like at me. And they were demanding that I stop playing and leave not only the stage but the entire business. I could hear my buddies, across the scant remaining crowd, laughing it up over this.
I was in no condition to debate this issue, so I stopped playing my song, put the guitar down, stumbled off the stage, and staggered off into the remaining day.
When I woke the next day, I was told that I met up with my friends and drank until about eleven in the evening. They continued on until the bars closed. I thought to myself that I did not feel particularly bad, so I must not have had too much to drink.
I was grateful for my automatic pilot, for how else was I able to perform and then continue on into the night?
deorre
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