Le Divorce vs. God
Listen, I don’t know why god is out to get me.
In all honesty there are a myriad of likely reasons: all that underage drinking I did in my youth, the swearing, the nude photos on my phone (I won’t say of who), my continued disavowal of his existence, blah blah blah. That guy is so sensitive.
So, what, he just sits up there listening to a harp rendition of “Stairway” played by some half-naked angel thinking: You spent (*cough cough*) thousand dollars, and months recording, mixing, and mastering. You lost half your band (followed by several weeks in a ball on the couch with whisky and Oreos). You spent hours upon hours rehearsing the new band members in time for the show. You postered the entire city. Looks like you’re ready for an awesome debut. Here’s a blizzard. Go fuck yourself.
That sneaky bastard.
Not that I actually think I’m so special god would cover an entire city, with its 2.5 million inhabitants, in 2 feet of snow just to fuck with me. But then again…(everyone knows singers are megalomaniacs)
Thursday night, two days before the CD release: We played a secret show at Lost Lake, needing a dress rehearsal before debuting a new line-up in a headlining show for potentially 300 people. I began to get anxious as we hauled amps, cables, and drum hardware though an onslaught of falling snow; like ants sliding across Scarface’s coffee table. Shaking snow off ourselves like St. Bernards in front of the bar, it began to dawn on us that we might be seriously screwed.
Friday morning, one day before the CD release: Set to appear on radio 1190 that
afternoon, we awoke to a scene straight out of a Tolstoy novel. That’s to say, it was snowy. Really fucking snowy.
With the brilliant 1190 staff willing to unlock the closed CU campus, we commenced an email debate over the likelihood of getting stranded on 36 and needing to slaughter a taun-taun for food and warmth. The verdict: Fuck it. Rock-stardom awaits. We’re going.
The next five hours were a freezing white blur that went something like this: Ice. Wind. Snow. Is that a Yeti out the window? Haul equipment. Ice ice ice. Surprise! Every door on campus is locked, feel free to pee in the alley. Run to The Hill for food. Get stuck in an embankment. Vow to kill stupid snow-ball-fighting college kids. Snow snow. Radio interview. Haul equipment, freeze nipples off. Jesus Christ HWY 36 is dark, where the hell is the pavement? Don’t die, don’t die. Jam out to Hall and Oats. Home. Phew.
Saturday, night of CD release: Two feet of snow and sub-zero temperatures would not stop Le D from bringing it. However, they did stop almost all facebook maybes, anyone without a car, everyone who realized Big was playing On Demand, nearly all of the local press, and most of my closest friends. Sure everyone has a reason: they couldn’t find a babysitter, they drank too much the night before, they accidentally sold their coat on Craig’s List last week. It’s cool. I went out of my way to make it to your dj night, fashion show, synchronized interpretive knitting performance, whatever. I mean for Christ sake, we hired an Asian-chick drummer—what more could you people want?
Sound like sour grapes? Perhaps, but everyone knows musicians are whiney and fragile and impossible to be around. I’ve never claimed to be emotionally stable, people.
Maybe indie-rock isn’t god’s preferred genre. Perhaps he’d rather some bluegrass?
Death metal? Watered down yacht rock? (seemed to work for Tennis). Maybe we need
Send me a sign dude! And if you won’t, why stop at a blizzard? Next time we spend
months writing a record in the futile hopes of artistic recognition, feel free to send an earthquake. A flood. A hurricane. Why not? Lets get biblical up in this bitch. Hey, maybe that’s the title of our next record…
Actually, I was grateful for the turnout we did have, and those who made it are in my debt forever. The room was in good spirits despite the weather. Hipsters in leather jackets and snow beanies bobbed their heads and even sang along. A few actually bought t-shirts (happy sigh). But it wasn’t exactly the launch into the Denver rock elite the little voice in my head said it would be. Yes, that’s the same voice that tells me I’m just one quick-pick away from lottery riches and that chocolate cake couldn’t possibly make me fat.