Sometimes You Just Gotta Rock

Every now and then, there comes a moment that you just need to find a way to get it all out. You know the moment: it's when you realize that you'd rather superglue your butt cheeks to a lit charcoal grill than go through one more day of drudgery. Tonight was that moment for me.

It's been a crazy week. For one thing, I have had a difficult time at work. It's not that I'm doing badly or anything, it's just that it's... well... work. I'm still learning a lot of things and trying to find my niche there. For another thing, I'm balancing out the nuances of a new relationship. Again, it's not that it's bad (mwah, Kelli, it helps that you're hot, y'know...) it's just that it's different and takes some getting used to. And with a combination of many things, I didn't get my show produced this week, which is not only a letdown to those of you who listen, but also to me, because I enjoy doing it more than most things that I do during the week.

And, of all things, I missed this site's birthday. Which, by the way HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY, MUSICAL RAMBLINGS! There, I said it. Now my blog can quit pouting in the corner and acting abused.

So it's Tuesday night, and what are ya gonna do to just let it all out and get the stress where it needs to be?

That's right, you play basketball. And Tuesday nights just happen to be the night me and my guys get together and hoop it up. Or rather they hoop it up, and I just sort of throw the ball up and hope it lands somewhere in the same zip code as the hoop. So I put on my shorts and laced up my Chuck Taylors and got ready to pound the hardwoods and sweat like a ...um... thing that sweats a lot.

But alas, only three of us showed up. And there's just no way to play a good game of b-ball in a full-sized gym (with a beautiful hardwood floor) with just three players. Particularly players that are leaps and bounds better than me. So after horsing around a bit, shooting a few threes, and gabbing, we split for Dairy Queen. Stress not solved. On the other hand--those of you have had any sort of sandwich from Dairy Queen will know what I'm talking about--I ought to be fully cleansed by morning.

So what was left? Well, my sister called and said that she was in town and that they were going to watch this band that a friend of hers plays bass in. And yes, I know I ended that sentence with a preposition. And there was my answer. Stress? Not anymore. It's time for J.D. to rock out.

I wasn't sure what kind of club I was going to. I had never been to the Rally Point in Memphis, but I kinda knew where it was, so I thought I'd chance it. I wasn't exactly inspired with confidence when I rolled up and saw three or four police cars congregated outside the main entrance. I took some comfort in the fact that there wasn't active gunfire.

As clubs go, I've seen worse dives in my time, but this wasn't exactly what I had in mind. There was some different species of human in here. Not hating on anybody, but these weren't exactly the kind of people that were aspiring to run Fortune 500 companies. These were the type of people whose grand achievement of the night would be to hold their heads up while finishing off their blunts. Probably the weirdest site in the club was this one huge wall-sized bald guy who was wearing, of all things, a boy scout master uniform. And just when I thought that was weird, an actual boy scout emerged from behind him. I kid you not. Twelve if he was a day. I mean, I know I didn't get carded when I went in, but one would think it would be fairly obvious that the person in question had not technically developed hair elsewhere than his head and possibly his eyebrows. And speaking of hair, I was quite amazed at the lengths that stoners and rockers will go to with their hair to make it look like they absolutely have no hair style. It's like all they really have to do is not comb it for a week or two.

Not that I'm hating. I went in with my heavily spiked hair. I'm just sayin'.

The acoustics were crap, and the band that was playing as I paid my five dollar cover charge was worse. If they had been playing in the toilet, the crap would've booed them. It's not that I don't enjoy hardcore music. I do. But even the most hardcore music has to have some sort of technique other than just taking a 900 dollar guitar and beating on it like it was a twelve dollar ironing board.

But I wasn't here to see them.

Unfortunately, though, I had to. The band's name was The Avenue, though I'd venture a guess that their first name wasn't Madison, because these guys were anything but marketable. It's hard to listen to a band that doesn't do much more than Silverstein knock-offs and scream too much. Again, I don't mind screaming, don't get me wrong. It's good when it's done by Silverstein, who don't technically suck.

Anyway, after The Avenue got done spanking their guitars and pretending to be a band, it was time for the band I did come to see.

They were a different story. Check them out. Their name is Hey Heidi Rae. The aforementioned venue wasn't great for acoustics, again, but these guys played with energy and vigor. You could feel the vibes going through you. The lead singer knew how to work a crowd. And they had the motley crowd of oddities rockin'. I bought their EP, but you can check it out on their Myspace. It's worth a listen. They'll be opening soon for The Afters, which are a favorite band of mine, so they've definitely got something about them, and I'm not just saying that because my sister hangs out with the bass guy. Jack, I think. Who, by the way, can make a bass sound VERY very good.

I feel a lot better now, and I feel a bit more focused. And who knew all it would take is listening to a good band and rocking out on a Tuesday night. Try it sometime.

I hear The Avenue is playing at an empty mall next week.