Two hand drummers sat down on the train home yesterday and started slapping their congas, praising Jesus and making their instruments sing. I couldn't help but hate them for celebrating life and having the means to do so.
The guitarist for my band, Kill the Huxter, had just informed me that a family vacation had popped up and the comeback show we'd slated for August 27th (see flyers below) was off. I suppose we could find a replacement guitarist and teach him or her the licks, but I try to recognize and deal with underlying problems and not put an adhesive bandage on the symptom. Since I had been in talking to the venue, I get to inform them of our flakiness and find a replacement band. After that, I'm going to focus solely on the drums for the band and nothing else.
The last three shows where our singer ended each set early (replete with self-disparaging, self-fulfilling comments throughout), an upcoming show nobody was asked about until after it had been booked, and now an unforeseen family vacation. I'm washing my hands. Flanked by musicians who seem to actively work against our interests while trying to keep my sanity and convince promoters and venues that we're reliable is a bigger battle than I can fight alone, so I'm not going to try.
My goal of joining a musical theater pit orchestra seems farther away than it did a year ago and I'm not sure how to bring it closer.
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