Average Jane Considers Straying

I’ve been singing with my current band since last June.  Lately, it’s started to feel like the musical equivalent of a booty call:  we get together, play a bit, then move on without ever really talking. 

So far, we’ve played one party (mine) and one public jam.  I know it’s time I initiated the "where is this relationship going" talk with the band.  I can see that nobody else is going to do so.

In the meantime, I’ve been casting an eye toward the "Musicians Wanted" classifieds online.  Last week I saw an ad, "Lead Singer and Drummer Wanted."  My husband (a drummer) and I have been talking lately about playing together again and we agreed it would be worth checking out.

I e-mailed the guy (a guitarist) and asked when he and the bass player were practicing next.  He e-mailed back, "Tonight at 6:30!  Call me a.s.a.p."

Hmm, kind of short notice, but potentially do-able.  I checked with the hubby and we decided that we could make it if we hurried.  I called the guy and got his wife, who said he’d stepped out.  However, she knew the details of where and when they practiced, so she gave me directions and I followed up with an e-mail to the guy to make sure no signals got crossed.

Practice wasn’t at the guitarist’s place, but we were to meet him at his apartment and follow him to the bass player’s house.  We raced to make it to the meeting place, which was a challenge since it was a good 30+ minutes from our house, at rush hour.  We made it there only a few minutes late and called to get the guy to meet us up the street.  He, uh, wasn’t home.

By then, my husband and I could see the writing on the wall.  We were in a part of town best known for meth labs, and I really regretted never having spoken to the flake who placed the ad, because I was pretty sure that would have saved us the trip.

We got directions to the bass player’s house since we were already all the way out there anyway.  One look at the tiny PA speakers in the non-soundproofed basement room where practice was held pretty much quashed any remaining hopes that we might be dealing with professionals who could, as their ad read, "Play two nights a week in clubs."

The bass player also played "some guitar" so we thrashed most of the way through AC/DC’s "You Shook Me All Night Long" before running out of common musical ground.  The bass player seemed oddly nervous, the guitar player still hadn’t showed up, and my patience was reaching its end.

At 7:30, I said, "Well, I need to get home and do some work…since I had to leave the office early for this and all."

My husband took the hint and started rapidly packing up the snare drum and pedal he’d brought.

The bass player apologized profusely for his friend, and we resisted the urge to advise him to find a new band situation for himself, too.  The moment we set foot outside the door, the phone rang and the bass player said, "It’s Flaky McFlakerson* – he’s on his way over right now."

"Uh, yeah, that ship has sailed," I said.  You might think I’m making that up, but that’s actually exactly what I said.  I’d had enough.

We got in my car, found our way back to the highway, stopped off at a chain barbecue place in the area that no longer exists in our neighborhood, and made it home before 9.

On the way back, my husband and I swapped bad audition stories and agreed that this wasn’t the worst we’d experienced. 

I told him I really appreciated my band a great deal more now.  At least they’re punctual.  We still need to talk about why we’ve developed a list of almost 30 songs that almost no one else has ever heard us play, but that seems like a minor quibble compared to the prospect of dealing with musicians who can’t be bothered to show up for an audition that they’ve advertised and scheduled.

*Not that I really want to protect the guy’s identity, but I don’t remember what his name was and this is funnier.