Standing immersed inside a growing line, outside, and below a glowing venue sign. Under a concrete-yellow roaring highway, dreaming up adventures in my heavy sighs – mingling with the steam from a nearby street vent; reminder of the cold that dirties everyone near.
We’re waiting in the Baltimore nighttime.
While just above the dyed heads and juveniles, are floating ideas for coming hours; hours wasting time before a blinding, misty dawn. So clear the feeling, I can almost catch someone else’s floating by with an ungloved hand.
And it’s like a routine of racing tires. Between the interrupted sense of volume; with ringing ears and dark makeup. Between the calm collaborated days of work, are dives into a local scene.
I know a few of the faces, a few of the back doors, and a few of the show-night traditions. Everyone knows someone here. Everyone watches.
While I listen inside a "time machine" van to warm-ups and chords. And listen for the words to describe the weekends that I find.
We’re waiting in the Baltimore nighttime.
While just above the dyed heads and juveniles, are floating ideas for coming hours; hours wasting time before a blinding, misty dawn. So clear the feeling, I can almost catch someone else’s floating by with an ungloved hand.
And it’s like a routine of racing tires. Between the interrupted sense of volume; with ringing ears and dark makeup. Between the calm collaborated days of work, are dives into a local scene.
I know a few of the faces, a few of the back doors, and a few of the show-night traditions. Everyone knows someone here. Everyone watches.
While I listen inside a "time machine" van to warm-ups and chords. And listen for the words to describe the weekends that I find.
The comings-together of inspired, hungry artists.
The invites and penciled in reminders; that long for themselves to happen, that long with increasing passion for solidified follow-ups.
Exclusions from the norm; the elite within an outside circle. Losers of high-class, rock stars of the underground.
But time passes in-between the homecoming/tour-leaving/CD releasing/reunion events. The bands tour and morph, the music changes, the faces wrinkle. With too few photographs to notice the differences.
With crumpled stacks of small show flyers, free demos, screentshirts, and ticket stubs-- weighted down with three bottle caps and a leave-behind guitar pic.
Weighted with the hazy memories of great sets, great line-ups, and great after-parties.
So we wait. We wait at the desks of our bosses, the desks of our draining lecture rooms, and the desks of our own offices for creativity. Remembering the papered doors of favorite venues. The bands that play them, the people that promote them, and all the anticipation on the nights we live within them.
Meanwhile there’s articles being written about these Baltimore ways, away from the heads that know a few of the real stories, the real lingo, and the real price for it all.
Someone out there is about to document it.
And you’ll find me there, waiting in line. Waiting with heavy sighs of steam vents and cigarettes, for the plot lines and lost descriptions of dreamt-up adventures. Held in an ungloved hand the friends up there onstage; horrific jolly jokes of all-night chases, and fashionable people.
The invites and penciled in reminders; that long for themselves to happen, that long with increasing passion for solidified follow-ups.
Exclusions from the norm; the elite within an outside circle. Losers of high-class, rock stars of the underground.
But time passes in-between the homecoming/tour-leaving/CD releasing/reunion events. The bands tour and morph, the music changes, the faces wrinkle. With too few photographs to notice the differences.
With crumpled stacks of small show flyers, free demos, screentshirts, and ticket stubs-- weighted down with three bottle caps and a leave-behind guitar pic.
Weighted with the hazy memories of great sets, great line-ups, and great after-parties.
So we wait. We wait at the desks of our bosses, the desks of our draining lecture rooms, and the desks of our own offices for creativity. Remembering the papered doors of favorite venues. The bands that play them, the people that promote them, and all the anticipation on the nights we live within them.
Meanwhile there’s articles being written about these Baltimore ways, away from the heads that know a few of the real stories, the real lingo, and the real price for it all.
Someone out there is about to document it.
And you’ll find me there, waiting in line. Waiting with heavy sighs of steam vents and cigarettes, for the plot lines and lost descriptions of dreamt-up adventures. Held in an ungloved hand the friends up there onstage; horrific jolly jokes of all-night chases, and fashionable people.
Daily headphones: Silent Film's last CD "The Scene is Dead" (best of luck in future endeavors to this local band).
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