It took a phone call to get straightened out.
You see, where I thought the street ended, it extended. I was so naìve.
I must hurry! Before the moment is over! Before the fire burns out! Urgency was back and was pushing me to a near run to get to where I was going. I mustn't waste precious moments.
I enter and there they are, doing exactly what their molecules demand: Drinking beer, listening to records, talking about some sort of computer technology and trying to get all of the apartment's canines into one room. There was one canine that didn't listen to any form of human encouragement. When the dog ran, it was like how it was in the cartoons -- its legs were moving, but its claws found no easy traction on the hardwood floors. Motionless running. Such a statement. Shit was deep in more ways than one.
But when the dogs were cleared, the band settled down and offered me a chair that I knew I would break if I sat in it, along with a beer and we began talking about ...
Subjects were fast to rise and even faster to change. I felt like we were racing against time. One of the first things I made them do was promise me that their soon-to-be CD This Wont Hurt A Bit won't be their first and last effort. In White Girls, I want a band that is going to last. Endure.
I made them promise me. I wanted plans of world domination. Tours. T-shirts. Agents. Festivals. SXSW appearances. Gigs played in jackets and plain white panel vans that smelled like sex and burning leaves.
All I got was Stuart (bass) talking about how cold he is and how he has played shows in a jacket before, but it was for warmth, not coolness.
Brian (drums) talks in length about his need to move beyond speech and warnings. If the plate is hot, and you tell him it's hot, he is going to find out exactly how hot it is for himself.
Ross talks about his love of snap-together models, the kind you buy at Wal-Mart, of military vehicles or cars or space satellites. He is now the sole guitarist after the departure of Jim Covert, who moved to Kansas to follow his dreams of opening up a Wizard of Oz memorabilia store. This shoved Ross to the front with his Stooges/AC/DC-like riffs taking the White Girls sound far beyond whatever witty thing the kids are calling it these days.
Matt "the Junglecat" is the singer. He drags around with him a reputation from past bands and their accolades, but laughs it all off while he splits the last beer from the fridge with me. I take the first drink, then he swigs and hands it back to me when I look to him and do a grabbing motion toward the beer like a baby would a bottle. It's Matt who tells me of the electric cobras and it's Matt's witty, turn-of-the-millennium, consumer-conscious-dirty-bomb lyrics that make the band drive headfirst, smiling, into a brick-wall with "Taco-Bell" spray-painted on the side.
All these guys have done their time in other local bands and some even split their time with those bands currently. But that shit is all noses-up-asses and means little in the long run.
These are White Girls. No, not actual "White Girls." Just the band called White Girls. The difference is substantial. It's not just a random name on a list of prospects. Well, actually it is. Believe it or not, some of those earlier potential band names really were worse than White Girls. They made even me cringe in discomfort.
There are many things I want from a band I like. From The White Girls, I want a promise. That the band will survive. That there is a plan! But with this band, I got no promises.
The White Girls took everything I want, threw it all out a window and said I will get what I get. They are having fun doing what they are doing. Writing creative music. Playing it loud in various venues that will let them. Recording that music. Releasing that music.
My expectations, plans, dreams, anxiety, urgency and worry are my baggage, not theirs, and that's that! We must take small steps. Electric cobras are everywhere. Now there is a CD with six songs chronicling a time of times called This Wont Hurt A Bit.
What's next is next.
Watch out for electric cobras -- they're everywhere.
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