random confession #608

dear indie band bass player.

you know who you are, writhing on the stage in your acid wash denim vest. how i long to clasp the zipper tab and slowly slowly ease it away from its nesting place right under your chin, silkily revealing your complimentary tshirt from the etobicoke corporate challenge memorial ball tournament (circa 1987).

i see you there, flipping your straw yellow mowhawk with youthful arrogance and know you sense the connection between us. sure you've been drinking stella sort of constantly since you hit the stage, and, in actual fact, had to play several songs lying on your back with your bass cradled against your belly because you were weaving too dramatically to keep up with the rest of the rhythm section. sure your proclivity for absent-mindedly spitting on the guy standing directly in front of is a little off-putting. sure you quit school to go on the road at 16 and haven't looked back, counting on your older, wiser lead vocalist mentor to come up with the deep and brooding lyrics that make the chicks wild. i'm ok with all of that. i'm really ok.

you can tell that i'm not like the other girls. i decided to leave my cardigan at home, tonight, and opted for a plain tshirt that doesn't advertise a band - yours or any other. i don't buy into the usual hipster scene, and i can tell that you yearn to be free of it as well.

together we'll make our own scene. we'll rent a studio loft-esque basement suite just off main street and cruise the thrift shops looking for vintage vinyl and eclectic furnishings. we'll host festive social gatherings at which the cream of the cutting edge urban underground music scene gather to inspire us and each other. we'll get a dog which we'll take with us everywhere, and eventually have a baby to clothe in ironicaly captioned tshirts which proclaim our coolness as parents. eventually, you'll quit the band and go on to manage a record store, or a used book store, or maybe even a coffee shop. you won't mind that i make 20 or 30 thousand a year more than you do, and neither do i 'cause really, really, our love for each other is what it's all about.

so, mr. indie band bass player, when you leave the stage tonight and wander through the crowd checking out the girls in their cardigans and weezer tshirts, look back - back here by the sound booth. i'll be waiting.

love, raspberry sundae.