a good drink is hard to find

There's this thing about the future that I'm bad about believing. In my head, it always seems like there'll be a moment "in the future" when you'll cross a finish line with your arms raised in victory, bright yellow tape clinging to your chest as you barrel through it, conquering that final obstacle.

As if every goal has a definitive moment, a time to pause then celebrate.

Despite the long, drawn out process of believing and acting in the faith that Macon not only can be cool but one day will be cool, I continue to think of it like crossing a threshold. Like today Macon sucked but then tomorrow we've reached our goals, defeated our demons and now Macon is totally rad. "Whew! Glad that's done now!"

No, it'll happen subtly, without our having really noticed it until we're taking stock and collecting knick-knacks for the Way Back When Museum.

Roger Riddle has stepped down from public displays of rocking the ones and twos. He went out with a bang and there was no way I could miss what might be the last time I ever get to one of my favorite people perform. Favorite and among the most influential in my little life here.

The problem with going in like that, with that mindset, was that I was primed for nostalgia and its way-bad misdirection. Though I don't go out to the bars expecting to write about it later, I did choose to sit on the sidelines like before, watching and taking notes, mostly mental.

(Not that I'd have to write down something as easy to remember as "There are a lot of frat guys here" or "Why is everyone dressed like they just came from a meeting with their banker?" or "That guy must've come from a post-grad clam bake in Cape Cod.")

The Hummingbird ain't what she used to be, which might be good if you squint your eyes and tilt your head. It isn't the place you'll find me getting drunk, dancing badly and behaving worse, but way back when, there weren't as many people present either. A bar could go broke like that. Not a concern of theirs anymore, apparently. I hear it's pretty full every weekend now.

This weekend, my group was completely outnumbered, the best of them out where Nigel's hand-painted hummingbird picture used to be, waving their metaphorical freak flags, doing their little dances, making plans to make a little love. Meanwhile, a steady stream of pastel-clad college kids trickled in from the back patio, past Riddle and his dancing minions, to the bar and back, sometimes as they engaged in a scrum or two.

Isn't this what we asked for? Didn't we indiscriminately say we wanted the "college crowd", which in this case seems to be constituted of dudes who keep golf visor companies in business and the chicks who settle for them.

This is what a college town looks like, right?

Not that there's anything wrong with the kids that were there (I used to absolutely LOVE polo shirts, braided leather belts, tucking my shirttails in and wearing socks with my sandals... seriously, I did) but what became apparent to me is that there's got to be more than just coaxing the college crowd out to get plastered.

I mean, get plastered but realize there's an art to that sort of thing. My friends and I perfected it.

Sitting there with a table full of people once considered most likely to cause troublel, walk out on their tabs and somehow still be likeable, I suddenly felt an overwhelming amount of empathy for Hank Williams, Jr. He'd grown used to a life where all his rowdy friends were coming over (because they were ready for some football) but now, as he famously sang, these same rowdy friends have settled down.

Except I am settled down now too. (Mostly.)

There and then, I wanted my youth back, but just for a second, and only because I didn't trust those college kids with it. There was no rage in them, no restlessness. Yeah, they get mad and get in fights but that's all ego. We had a bunch of hurt feelings and weren't those more interesting? We got drunk and went exploring, using alcohol as anesthesia so we could pull back the layers without feeling it too much. We were curious and pissed off, and ignored, crying out in the wilderness like John the Baptist, making wishes we weren't careful about only aware of the mistake now that the headman's plate has been passed around.

Bah.

I shouldn't be so negative about it. I should be more open-minded. I'm just getting old. And I'm tired. It's after 1am. Past my bed time.

Besides, some of my best friends were in a frat.

Mesmerized by the Dressy Weiner

Mesmerized by the Dressy Weiner
(or, The Heart of Rock n Soul is Still Beating)

Today, after a homemade dinner of beef curry and rice, my Mammaw said, "You look like you feel like dog squeeze." I mention it because my answer was affirmative, and because I'm now trying to better incorporate "dog squeeze" into my vocabulary. I'd appreciate it if you did the same.

Despite a history of late nights and binge drinking, I'm actually just a little sick right now. Coughing, fever, achy muscles and such. Perhaps shouting for six hours in a smoky bar wasn't the best way to get over my cold. But it was the most fun way to ignore it.

The second gathering of the Associated Creatives and Eclectic Malcontents for Productive Deviance, Local 478 (sponsored and supported by The 11th Hour) was fan-damn-tastic.

I'll just start at the end and work my way back. Perry Valentyne and Jubee—collectively called City Council—got together with some of the members of Citizen Insane—namely Jesse, my new favorite guitarist, and Shawn, my new favorite funky drummer—as well as special guest bassist, Travis Something Shirt-n-Tie, and Matt (bka – One Bad Catholic) on the ones (no twos), and they made beautiful party music together. In a week's time, they learned four songs together. It was, as Stephanie "Freakshow" Furst (of Under the Gazebo) awkwardly said, "Off the chain." On the last song—the already awesome "Thru the Blinds"—Willie D of Nomenclature hopped on stage. It was live. I don't think I was alone in hoping it'd keep going.

And maybe they're psychic because after I said thanks and y'all be safe getting home, I noticed Shawn, Travis, Jesse and Matt were still going. They hadn't stopped. And if Vic hadn't kicked us out, they might still be playing now. Jubee and Perry took turns freestyling. Then Floco Torres and Al King took their shot. Then Jubee again.

That was just the end of the night, like from 12:45am until close. The whole night had been crazy, a constant crowd that easily doubled the turnout for the first Local 478. Word's getting out, and the early reviews are all positive.

I'll be honest. I thought I'd over-reached with this one. I thought I was pushing it because I had the Freedom Jazz Trio starting things off, and nothing about jazz seems like the Hummingbirdon a Saturday night. But that big 9 o'clock crowd didn't flee. They dug it. The reincarnation of the cool, y'all.

But then panic struck when Freedom Jazz was almost done and I couldn't find 9fh Gutta. In a pinch, I turned to Floco and Al who agreed to rock out without any rehearsal. Despite being on the spot, they didn't disappoint. They never do. In fact, I had some folks asking why I didn't let them go longer. They're each stars in the making. No joke.

One of their new fans is Interscope/Myspace recording artist Meiko, a Roberta-native and former Macon resident who has been making waves all over the country, touring with Katy Perry, Sara Barelles, Mat Kearney, and several others. She's had her music popping up on TV shows like Grey's Anatomy, was an iTunes featured performer, a former 1 download on iTunes, and her self-titled album just cracked the Billboard Hot 200, a pretty impressive feat considering she peddled it herself for about a year when she was just an indie. Anyway… I'm a fan, yes.

(The Local 478 is doing a very special Christmas show with Meiko at the Cox Capitol Theatre on Tuesday, December 23. She's hooking up with Sonia Leigh, and we're working on a surprise local act to put in the mix, so stay tuned. {It'll be a good way to get worked up for the next Local 478 show on Saturday, December 27—the perfect way to blow off steam after Christmas.})

So, with Guttz still nowhere in sight, Floco and Al introduced Roxy Love for her Hummingbird debut. She only did one song, but she's already building a fan base. Her voice is hard to describe. You really have to hear it yourself.

One of my favorite things about last night was that we had some hardcore punk rockers in attendance, mixing easily with our hipsters and hip-hoppers, the oddballs and the squares alike. I've known some of the guys (and fans) of The Intoxicated for a while, and I loved having them side-by-side with folks like Gutta, who finally showed the fuck up. (He says he had car trouble so I'll give him a pass.)

With some help from Synister Sounds and Hymajesty Ace, Gutta brought his enlightened Dirty South sound to the stage. As hard and heavy as he was, it was the perfect set-up for The Intoxicated, who came screaming straight out of the slums of Crap Country. Wouldn't mind seeing them work on something together...

As this thing goes forward, I want to hear more from folks about what they like and don't like, about what they want to see and what they've seen enough of. It's always going to be a work in progress and I've learned some lessons already. But I'm always open to new suggestions (that doesn't mean I'll use them all, or immediately). So far, the consensus is that Macon has done this homegrown music thing before and we're close to seeing it jump off again. Regardless of the outcome, we're having fun trying.

Thanks to everyone who was a part of it. See you real soon.

(When you get the chance, peep this soul-affirming blog by the one and only Lady A-1 Sauce!)

Chris Horne will do anything for $200

Within reason, and the vast majority of the time, I enjoy it so I just feel guilty for getting paid. Like the Arts on the Riverdale. I'd heard about it ever since I moved back to Macon, but somewhere along the line I'd decided that it wasn't something I'd be interested in experiencing. Like how I've totally written off cocaine. After this Arts on the Riverdale experience, I might start rethinking that whole narcotic drug use thing.

So I'd been asked to emcee and they agreed to pay me handsomely. I agreed handsomely, and went not knowing what to expect. Thing is, stuff like this never crosses my mind. I'd gotten up a little late because I'd spent the night working on a flyer for the Local 478 showcase deal I'm helping put on at the Hummingbird, starting this Saturday, October 25, and I got some coffee and chatted through the grogginess until the caffeine kicked in. Then I got dressed and went. My only regret was that I'd miss the Georgia game. Actually, I figured someone would have the game on somewhere and would invite me to enjoy it between stints on stage.

But what I'd failed to consider--and this is what I mean about stuff never crossing my mind--is that this whole event is sponsored by the Jazz Association of Macon, that these people like jazz so much that on a Saturday in October, they intentionally closed off a street so they could have a big festival celebrating jazz. These aren't college football fans. If I had to compare it to anything, it'd be like Freaknik on jazz. A lot of people loitering in the street and in people's yards, having a good time--not givin' a fuck--but in this really calm, relaxed way.

I saw some neat art (like someone's 6" x 8" rendition of Heath Ledger as The Joker, which they were selling for $75), and a lot of familiar faces (like Jared Wright who was there with the Ga Music Hall of Fame crew and who I later took a picture of as he stood with a guy who looks like Santa Claus). I'm now at a point where I'm more shocked when I go somewhere in town and don't see anyone know, though that's pretty nice because it reminds me how much bigger Macon is than I think.

Plus, I got to listen to some Dixieland jazz, which I wish there was more of in this world. That's coming from a guy who is dying to be in a jug band, so take it for what it's worth. Just know that if I get a chance to put on a concert with Earle Bennett and the Dixieland Drifters, by god I'm going to do it. The clarinet player was of an "advanced age" and required help up the stairs, but he killed it on the clarinet. Gentleman Jim the photographer leaned over and told me that the clarinet player had been THE bandleader for hot jazz groups when he was in high school, which he graduated from over 55 years ago.

Unfortunately, I didn't win anything in the raffle, which is okay because I was only aiming for two prizes: the $100 gift certificate to Natalia's and the $20 men's haircut coupon. Attaining neither, I remain slightly wounded but not terribly depressed. I'll just go hungry and let my hair grow.

The Jazz Association of Macon, which is made of people I can honestly say are super cool, provided a "VIP lounge" in Dr. Clark's garage with various libations, snacks and treats (including some good Indian food). Well, I downed about six whiskey drinks in no time but then was scared straight when a guy invaded my personal space in a drunken stupor, pushing his expired JAM membership card in my face, repeatedly breathing his hours-old gin into the raspy words "Where to do I get my renewal?"

"Dude, I have no idea." Other people throughout the day asked me where stuff was and I was without an answer in almost every circumstance. I'd been given a very thorough script to work from, but it basically only told me where the bathrooms were, that people should buy more raffle tickets and that the sidewalks should be kept clear in case of emergency. As emcee, I knew surprisingly little. In general, I know surprisingly little.

Like announcing the headliner. It was my last real responsibility as emcee, besides thanking everyone at the very end, and I thought, "I'll really do it up big... lots of energy!" So I did. I was screaming into the mic while the band set up, doing a lot of call and response stuff, getting the crowd so worked up that some of them tore at their clothes and were throwing articles of undergarments on stage. They were in a frenzy, all 2000 of them. Having done my part, I stepped aside to let the band, Bill Prince and the Paupers, ride the wave of emotion that I helped bring to its rabidly foaming crescent. Dr. Prince thanked the audience and they went wild, then he counted down and his band produced the softest, sweetest, prettiest elevator musak jazz you've ever heard. That's when I realized just how dumb I am. You don't work the crowd at a jazz festival.

And that brings me to the water. Once I'd decided not to pass out before sundown, I started rehydrating as much as I could. The only bottled water I could find was in the VIP lounge and it was all marked with--I shit you not--a label from Hart's Mortuary and Crematory.