When Megan asked me to hear her friends play at open mic night at Colonial Tavern my heart did not skip a beat. In fact, the very thought of it sent me soaring into the panic attack mode. On the music chain, open mic nights are only one step out of the Karaoke basement. Rarely, and I do mean rarely, do you hear anything good. In fact, if a terrorist decides to bomb Freddytown (wishful thinking) I pray he picks his target as the Colonial Tavern on a Monday night.
Megan, savvy babe she is, sensed my lack of enthusiasm and followed up with, “Hey, the guys aren’t going to be there until later, why we don’t hit Ihop first.” Now that sounded reasonable. I love breakfast for dinner. And off we went.
She devoured a plate of pumpkin pancakes, and I went for the country fried steak with mashed potatoes and corn. Can’t say it was the best steak I’ve ever had, kind of like a piece of rubber covered in grease. Since dating Megan, the vegetarian, I’ve pretty much refrained from red meat; but every now and then I’m overwhelmed with a craving for cow blood. Megan doesn’t seem to mind, yet trying to steal a kiss—post meat—without first showering, brushing your teeth ten times and downing a bottle mouth wash is an effort in futility.
We arrived at Colonial Tavern just in time to catch a young stud strumming the guitar and droning out what I assume was an original tune. He was ok. Next in line was a skinny, young girl (early twenties) who sounded out several two chord originals—all monotonous, all pathetic and all ear crushing. I decided a strong beer might desensitize my ears which were already experiencing pain. There are no servers in the main music room; so buying a drink necessitates a trip to the bar, ordinarily a negative, but in this instance a blessing because the further from the music the better!
A fat, older, blond girl followed the skinny, young girl. At least she could carry a tune, though she should not have sung a cappella. Two of her lame friends swayed to and fro, lapping up the vibes and offering a resounding ovation at the conclusion of each song. Her final tune, Summer Time, was accompanied by a heavy handed guitarist who at least helped drown out the bitch. We’re not talking Janis Joplin here fans.
Megan’s friends, Michael, Joe and Sam, finally arrived fashionably lean and fashionably late. Michael is the Department Secretary of the Music Department and Orchestra Manager for the UMW Philharmonic. He also plays oboe in the UMW Philharmonic Orchestra. His partner, Joe, transports dead bodies for a funeral home. Sam transports pizza.
After settling in for drinks, we all congregated at a table near the stage. Joe sings and Sam plays the keyboard. I was encouraged by a piano/vocalist duo; the singer/guitar acts, especially on open mic night, are tiring. I play the guitar myself, but over the years I’ve pretty much lost interest in the medium. I find the guitar, especially the electric version, ridiculously overrated as a lead in instrument and has served to destroy more ears than Neil Diamond.
The Sam and Joe duo played nicely (I’d love hear Joe do some Johnny Cash) and were a vast improvement over their predecessors. Joe has deep, soothing voice, but keyboardist (Sam) was too loud (the speakers were distorting) and too busy. If the stupid ass sound man had been paying attention he could have easily fixed the problem. But instead, he was engaged in a love fest with some girl who appeared to be giving him a hand job under the table.
Following the Joe/Sam act, we said our goodbyes and headed out—none too soon I might add! This will be my last open mic for awhile. They really do suck. Upon arriving home I showered, brushed my teeth ten times and drank a gallon of mouth wash. By the time I finished Megan had fallen asleep. The next morning playing the piano was high on the priority list for I needed to cleanse myself of the musical stench from the night before.
Ah yes, another night in Freddytown.
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