M Bar Music, Acting, and a New York Flavored Flashback

So, my friend started an event on Facebook advertising that he and his band were playing a gig on Friday. Great. So, last night, I walked up to the M Bar in Hollywood, on Vine and Fountain. I got there a little early (my friend's set started at midnight and I was there at 11:40), so I sat down at an empty table and watched the band play. Finding an empty table wasn't hard; there were maybe eight people in the bar, which could have seated 70. However, it didn't take me long to realize that these guys were pretty cool.

The X-Chemicals, ladies and gentlemen.

See, The X-Chemicals rocked. I began to realize this when I heard the drummer, this hardcore chick with blonde hair and purple highlights, count in a song with five beats. Add a punky, singing bassist, and a noodly guitarist who looks like he'd be at home wearing a turtle neck and straight-facedly calling his parties "soirees," and you have a pretty interesting combination. I liked them, though it took a couple songs for me to figure that out. The drummer played really hard and looked intense all the time. I kind of loved her. Anyway, here's a recording.

Turns out it was the singer/bassist's birthday, so everyone sang for her, and then they stopped playing at midnight. I got he distinct feeling like they were closing down, though, so after telling the band, "I don't know you, but you rocked," I looked at my phone to double check the event. Turns out, it's next Friday that my friend is playing. Okay. I saw a cool band, anyway.

After I left, though, I got a distinct feeling like I had missed out on something. I wanted to talk with the band. They seemed cool, they were nice. I'm making the impulse sound somewhat logical in hindsight, but at the time, it was just this feeling. A feeling like I had missed something important.

Ah well. I had already left and walked too far to turn back. Right? I mean, that'd be weird. I said "hi," I said, "bye," I was gone. Too late. It still really bugged me. It's really weird, even now, I'm getting this strange nagging feeling. All about some silly band called The X-Chemicals. I mean, they even knew they were silly. That's part of what I liked about them, I think.

After I got home, I went to bed. This morning, I had an audition for a comedic web series. It was fun, went smoothly. On an impulse, I smacked my acting partner (a stranger) on the ass while doing the scene. It made sense at the time, in the context of the audition.

Let's see... Then I did yard work, ate lunch, saw Jennifer Aniston be really boring on the movie screen... Actually, she wasn't that boring in Wanderlust, so... I guess that's almost a positive review?

Oh, you guys might like this; last night, before hitting the M Bar (where I saw The X-Chemicals (in H Wood)), I went to a thing called a "table read." That's where actors get together and read a script out loud. Typically, it's done either when a troupe is becoming acquainted with new material or when the writer wants feedback. In this case, it was the latter. I read stage directions, which is great, if you want to practice enunciation and being dull while saying lots of words. In all seriousness, those are valuable skills, because actors need to know how to give and take focus. Typically, it's safe to assume that the audience can only look at one part of the stage at a time, so a big part of acting is making it clear to the audience where that part of the stage is; it's the director's job to figure out where to make the actors make the audience look. Sounds Machiavellian, no? But I digress.

Table read. Tasty snacks (meatballs, peppers, and hummus (YES)), and great conversation. One guy there apparently had a job working the door at a sports bar and told me about how he ripped his jacket bouncing some drunk guy out. I thought that was pretty cool. The group also discussed good hamburger joints, and, after the reading, we spent a good deal of time discussing the technicalities of the script we'd just read. It was about zombies, but I really shouldn't say more.

This is the part where I transition into talking about what happened in New York after Rachel and I left The Russian Samovar, but this post is already pretty long. I think you'll have to wait 'till next time. Peace.

New York, New York and Open Mics

Well, I flew into JFK Airport just before Valentine's Day ended and met my girlfriend at the train station just after. Ah well. She still loved the chocolates I got her. The next day, we went to an open mic at a very cool place called The Vagabond Cafe in West Village, where she accompanied Griffin, an organist friend of hers, on violin. Griffin, of course, was on piano. They played Roxanne in D minor. It was actually really good. I got it on video.

After that, we... Went to another bar or something? I don't know. That was, like, two weeks ago. Time keeps moving, man. Memories can be insubstantial things. I don't even drink, and I can't remember.

For those of you who haven't figured it out yet, Rachel, my girlfriend, is a violin major at Juilliard. She's pretty impressive to me. So dedicated to her craft, and so talented in its execution. I have to say, aside form all of the obvious things, like her stunning beauty, razor-sharp intellect, and enchanting natural charms, one of the great things about dating her that one wouldn't immediately think of is that I hang out with all these Juilliard kids and get the inside dirt on how they carry on over there. Some moments are especially great, like when I'm hanging out in my friend Josh's dorm room with a bunch of drunk classical musicians, and he puts on one of his favorite composers, telling everyone in the room, "Shut up, shut up! All of you, shut up! The first movement of Mahler 9 is fucking epic!" Then he gets out his conductor's baton as the music fills his room. Around guys like these, low-brow moments feel positively enlightening. I hardly know the first

"This movement makes me jizz every-
where, man." --A drunken classical pianist in
Josh's room.

thing about classical music, but I'm learning, one Juilliard visit at a time.

Later, Rachel took me to a ballet showing of Romeo and Juliet at the Lincoln Center. She had to go for some class of hers, but I must say, I really enjoyed it. Even though no one said any dialogue, I was pretty much immediately able to tell who was playing what character by their dancing alone. Whoever played Mercutio was brilliant. Do you know how difficult that must be? A grown man wearing purple tights and prancing around stage managed to come off as tough, clever, and masculine, without a single line of dialogue. He made me laugh continuously throughout the show. I was very impressed.

Let's see... Then it was the weekend, we probably hung out around campus... Josh and I played a lot of Smash Bros Melee. He's very good at that game, always beats me. In fact, he's impressively good at most games. I have a theory that, due to his early introduction to violin, he has trained himself from a young age to be good at making precise, rapid movements with his fingers, and that early training has enhanced his ability to kick the crap out of me most of the time. The one game in which we're evenly matched is Soul Calibur, and those rounds can be intense.

Wait, why am I talking about video games?

Now I remember what happened: Friday, Rachel and I had dinner with a friend of hers named Michael; another organist. He told us the story of how he almost accidentally fed weed cookies to the pastor of the church for which he plays. Michael's a really nice guy, really likable. He and I hit it off pretty quickly and got to chatting while Rachel took a phone call from her dad. It turns out that you can make a lot of money playing organ for churches. Who knew?

After that, Rachel and I went to a bar called Russian Samovar. Sadly, there was no live music, which, apparently, there usually is. Rachel ordered in Russian, then introduced me to this older woman whose name I forget. She asked if I was athletic, if I played sports, and Rachel said, "Yes." That isn't really true. Apparently, she was going to make some sex joke, but then balked at the punchline. However, I used to do a bit of climbing, so I backed her up by saying, "I'm a rock climber." Then the woman held out her hand and asked to test my grip. She must've been 50, so I thought it'd be cute to humor her. I figured I'd go light. Instead, she clamped her death grip around my hand. I guessed she could take it, so I upped my pressure a little, and she did the same in turn. We kept doing this until I was squeezing as hard as I could, my face was probably beet red, and I realized that she was still squeezing harder than me. The slight, disappointed grin on her face told me that I'd been found out, that she knew I wasn't a rock climber. Not really.

Eventually, we stopped. My knuckles were sore. I asked her if her hand was alright. She laughed. "My hand? No, no dear, my hand is fine. How is your hand?" "'Sfine," I mumbled. She raised one eyebrow and nodded, then turned back to her companion at the bar. I was a little embarrassed. I massaged my knuckles, deciding I didn't care if she noticed. She did. It bugged me anyway. It's fine. I was starting to get bored of The Russian Samovar. None of our friends were able to meet us like we thought they might. "Hey, Rachel, let's get out of here," I said. She'd been texting as the drama unfolded, trying to find a place for us to go next, and apparently had found something. "Okay, yeah, there's a party on the upper west side, in the low 80s. Let's go!" As we left, I waved bye to the mysterious death grip woman, and then we were gone.

To be continued!