Last Night We Played @ THE CASTLE: red-headed whore

Monday evening me and my sister, FunKruze, played at The Castle in Ybor on the back outdoor patio.

The Castle is a visually ornate joint, so the storage areas backstage are inevitably full of props: giant skeletons, swaths of different colored velvets, rugs, couches of all personalities and lights. Lots and lots and LOTS of lights.

We had the run of the place for the evening, so we took advantage. By the time we were done decorating, the patio was our living room. Only, fire hazard style: more lights and candles then seemed necessary.

The weather was just fucking...it was just perfect. And you can't argue with perfect.

When all the tiny lights were blinking and the equipment was set up, I went in to cash in one of two free drinks I was promised.

I told the cute little blonde bartender, who lives to advertise her lesbianism, that I wasn’t picky, it all tastes like shit, I just wanted something strong, since I was only getting two for free.

The rest of the night I would probably be partaking in The Castle trademark: $1 Mickey's Malt Liquor Bigmouth bottles. I can't even tell you how many day-afters at work I've spent with Mickey's on my mind.

She made me something called “Red Death,” which is also, I heard, called a "Red Headed Whore."

Earlier in the day MY DOWNSTAIRS neighbor, who also works at a print shop, had helped me make some nice booklets that contained five stories from this journal.

After I got my drink, I went back out to the patio and set the booklets around The Castle, for people to stumble upon.

As I drank Red Death, and sat on my couch in front of the equipment, people filtered out into the courtyard. I observed people reading the books.

There were three separate instances where I overheard people reading the stories out loud to each other and laughing.

I heard one girl say to her friend, “this guy’s an asshole.”

I got to hear critiques of the shit without anyone knowing. No patronizing, no buffering, no pep talks. Rare

One group of drunk and giddy lasses dwelled on the list of “Things You Shouldn’t Do If You Don’t Want Him To Love You.” In particular, the part about, “don’t take off your pants.” They pointed and squealed and fell on each other laughing that line out loud several times like it was their inside joke.

That’s what I wanted. All of it. Reaction. I was proud. If I had already got my two free drinks, I could have been satisfied with the evening. It was already worth the effort.

Playing shows becomes a drag: packing and hauling all the equipment by myself (my sister can't even help because she has no idea what goes where and even if she did it's too heavy for her to carry any of it. Thus, it's all me. I take most of the money when we get paid though). And, for the most part, people don’t appreciate us around here anyway.

I can't say I blame them though: standing and watching a band is most often pretty boring. Especially when it's too loud to talk. A traditional rock band creates such a separation between performer and observer. That's why dance music (and ska music for that matter) is more popular now than rock bands. That's why there are 500 people at those crappy techno clubs: with dance music, people are involved. Sure, the music may suck, but the audience has something to do. And that's just as important as good music.

At a rock show, most times (unless you're already into the band and know the words and whatnot) you're just a set of eyes.

Ian from The MakeUp talks about that a lot: the tradition of, as an entertainer, just putting yourself on display and expecting the audience to be content just staring at you. It's even worse that so many bands expect people to STAND UP and stare at them. At least, if you're gonna just stand there, provide some cots or something. Take the audience into consideration. Accommodate them.

Ian's theories on audience interaction (and the way The MakeUp follows through on those theories by bringing people in, making them part of the show) have influenced me a lot. Not that I can put these theories into practice very well, if at all (it's hard), but I keep conscious of it. Or, at the very least, don't begrudge people for not being interested in standing and staring at me. I am trying.

But the booklets we handed out, and seeing people’s reactions third person, gave the whole thing a secondary purpose. Today there were mad hits to this website. ‘Hello’ to all of you. Especially the laughing girls. Thanks for laughing. That was awesome.

So, I drank the first Red Death and damned if it weren't working very well. It would be some time before we would play, so I decided to take a walk. I was buzzing as I walked down to a show going on at The New World Brewery, with a stack of booklets under my arm.

On the way out, I saw the overdone EMO kids standing around the corner from The Castle. They hang out there every week and I don't think they EVER go inside. They do that at every show too.

I call them 'overdone' with a degree of respect: those dorks seem to be the only ones in Tampa willing to go out on a fashion limb (even if they do all ape the flaring sideburned hairstyle and tight mod dress of Ian from The MakeUp) .

Halfway down the street I realized I should have given the EMO kids some books. But I think I was actually intimidated by them because they were dressed better than me.

They couldn't have been but 20 years-old. I can't believe I was intimidated. "Maybe I'll pick a fight with one of them on the way back to overcompensate," I thought as I walked down 8th Ave in the perfect, perfect Florida night.

The band playing at New World were good, but way too loud. That's inconsiderate. I don't go out to be harmed. And loud shit is harmful.

The lead guy/bassist also played flute though. That was dope. I love me some flute. But I had to get out before I left with less than I came in with, hearing wise.

I drank a beer and passed out some books to the smart looking kids in attendance at the show. Note that there were three or four cool things going on on ONE MONDAY night, and quit your complaining about Tampa.

On the way out of New World, I saw, THE YBOR TRAMP. You know the guy: The homeless dude who sings and writes poetry. The only homeless dude welcome in the bars, where the bartenders will often slide him a free beer. He's on the level, though I think he refrains from telling anyone his real name because he doesn't want to get caught for something.

I have had some great conversations with that guy. He has sang to me, and we have sung together, many a night (he likes Queen). At first his singing made me uncomfortable (which is good): him just throwing himself outward, singing, sans accompaniment. The ability to be that vulnerable, singing out loud (pretty good at it too) to strangers, is to be admired.

Plus, he's got PR skills, he's smart, he doesn't beg, he doesn't seem to be attached to drinking anymore than I am. So I figure: EITHER whatever he did that makes him withhold his name is so bad, that he can't get a job (though i know he toughes it out in the labor pools), or else he's just happier living the jobless street life.

The way the world is structured around the economy, jobs and whatnot, is fucked. And I can't knock a guy for trying to avoid it, as long as he's not depending on people who DO choose to give in to the system, to support them. I have a lot of respect for anyone who'd rather sleep under bushes than report for work to some prick. I don't have the guts.

I hope I don't find out he was a child molester or something.

I gave him one of the journal-entry books to read. He would get the most out of it. Appreciate it. He told me about how hard it is to read by candlelight after a quart of beer and half a joint. Endearing.

I walked back to The Castle, handed the EMO kids a book instead of beating them up, and walked inside.

There were people out on the patio, so we decided to start playing.

We tag-teamed with Mark McManus: he played a song, then we played a song etc…That really helped as far as programming the samplers and sequencers and drum machines. It takes time, which often equals dead air when we play by ourselves. I usually refrain from drinking when we play, so I don't forget the steps. There's a lot of buttons to push, in particular orders. But having three or four minutes, while Mark belts out confrontational songs about camping trips, let a lot of the air out of my situation. It was nice to drink while we played.

I had already drank my second Red Death and was perfectly fucked up.

At least fucked up enough to lose inhibitions.

I remember singing and dancing with Maureen, I remember screaming while Mark was singing because I wanted everyone to like it as much as I did. I remember thinking Mark was going to scare everyone off by being such a freak. I remember thinking Mark was going to scare everyone off by wanking out on the guitar. I remember not caring about any of it.

Some big drunk kid ("from Gainesville," he told me later after I had apologized to him for making him the butt of the joke, "We just came down for the night, drank a bottle of Tequila.") got really close up in our faces as we were playing.

This turned out to be the highlight of the show.

We were playing something, an Usher song maybe, and when it broke down to the quiet part he yelled at us,

"Don't! Fuck that! Keep Rockin!"

I kept playing quietly, asking him, out loud on the microphone, how old he was. He wouldn't tell me, but I knew he was young. I told him that when he got older he would learn about taking his time.

Especially with women.

He could have easily killed me with his big bare hands but I was wasted and Maureen was laughing and I cannot help but constantly try and make her laugh. I love hearing her laughing. So I kept on talking to him into the microphone, "Do you please your women?" I asked him.

Maureen punched me and told me to start singing again.

He tried to get on the microphone while we were still playing the song. Maureen, in an uncommon move of quick thinking showmanship, coaxed him into dancing with her, to get him away from the stage. Everyone seemed to enjoy the whole ordeal.

I whispered in his ear, "Here's your chance, go dance with her, prove that you can please a woman, go ahead, and go dance with her." I don't remember what happened after that. Whatever it was it was fun and I didn't get beat up.

Four or five people I didn't know came up to me after the show accusing us of planting that guy. They thought it was all scripted. That was validating.

The rest is a blur. I just remember everyone smiling and laughing. I remember lots of people I don't know telling me how much fun they had. I remember flirting with some girls.

Upstairs, after another beer and some dancing to eighties crap, a tattooed guy, who I wish I remembered his name, tapped me on the shoulder, shook my hand and gave nice praise.

He told me about how he and his sister used to sit in their rooms when they were 9 and make up songs about cornbread. "I always feel like I should take those songs and re-do them even though we were just fucking around," he said, "But that's what you guys reminded me of. It was really fun."

That meant a lot to me too.

I thought the sound was bad. I had a drum machine crap out. Lots of shit. But we somehow prevailed by having fun.

And you can't argue with fun.