That was the name of our band, until we realized someone was doing bad covers better than us under a different name, so it’s been canned. But, fear not listeners (and users of earplugs, strategically placed pillows, and the timely consumption of too much alcohol) because we are back-ish. Renee and I decided together that we should be a band many a Monday ago, during some female vocalist night at Grumpy’s (the name of which eludes me). I, however, decided we should be in a band together after Renee passed out on night on stage at the Pound, after singing far too much Amy Winehouse and drinking far too much vodka cran (far too much for Renee amounting to approximately three “big boy” sips). After prying the microphone from her surprisingly strong grip, lifting her off the floor, and, since I’m so smart, bringing her back to the bar, I knew she was the one… music-wise, that is.
When did Renee know that she wanted to be in a band with me? Well, I’m not her, obviously, but if she were here, I’m sure she would say the first time she saw how stunning I look in person…
Anyways. Our band kind-of, sort-of got off the ground, but it’s not exactly in the air. Band practice (formerly known as) One Trick Ponies style is practice for ponies who have yet to learn any tricks, really. Essentially we just get drunk, chain smoke (I wish I took pictures of my ashtray, seriously), and talk about everything except for music. Renee and I had “band practice” last night after Jesse and Brian left; we realized my guitar was a hopeless case, my tuner is broken, my ear is not as good as it used to be, and there was much to talk about. In our defense, there were two sing-alongs.
Bands are so frustrating. Don’t do it.