Band practice is an integral part of any musician's development. This is the first proper "band" as such I've played in - jamming with others and writing music on my own is the sum of my previous experience. Somehow I have gained the part to play of "musical genius" as opposed to "drummer" or "the one who actually LOOKS like a musician". Let me describe the average band practice, to give you a picture.
Practice is in a town basement, parked in an alley a hundred metres from the seafront and the tourist shops. It is badly lit, always cold and dingy and owned by the strongest caricature of a Stoner ever to walk on the earth. In the back will be the drummer, shirtless and cloaked in cigarette smoke. Our drumer Glen is a habitual drug user and also the only one who can actually drive - thankfully these two do not occur together. Glen has broken a pair of sticks at EVERY band practice we've held so far.
The guitarist Josh stands within about a metre of his pedal chain all the time, usually drinking Foster's or some godawful cider. Josh looks the part of a musician in that he looks exactly like Kurt Cobain, while being slightly more irritating. Very good on guitar, though.
I tend to walk about practice, blessed with a long lead for my bass. I tend to write most of our songs and pout, while wearing an assortment of collared shirts - or, more often, no shirt. Thankfully the stick-thin, emaciated look is a good one for a musician.
Often also in the room will be a few guests and friends. A collection of girls with skimpy clothes and dilated pupil sit in the comfy chair, while Military stoners play cards with other musicians in the sofas.
Tonight ended in a hazy conversation with the room owner. After a night drive filled with music and a car crammed full with gear and people, I am deposited at my doorstep smelling of alcohol, cigarettes, sweat and cheap perfume. I take a last swig from our guest's bottle, I fist-bump my drummer and stagger inside to collapse into bed, finding tome to grab a bite to eat.
Practice is in a town basement, parked in an alley a hundred metres from the seafront and the tourist shops. It is badly lit, always cold and dingy and owned by the strongest caricature of a Stoner ever to walk on the earth. In the back will be the drummer, shirtless and cloaked in cigarette smoke. Our drumer Glen is a habitual drug user and also the only one who can actually drive - thankfully these two do not occur together. Glen has broken a pair of sticks at EVERY band practice we've held so far.
The guitarist Josh stands within about a metre of his pedal chain all the time, usually drinking Foster's or some godawful cider. Josh looks the part of a musician in that he looks exactly like Kurt Cobain, while being slightly more irritating. Very good on guitar, though.
I tend to walk about practice, blessed with a long lead for my bass. I tend to write most of our songs and pout, while wearing an assortment of collared shirts - or, more often, no shirt. Thankfully the stick-thin, emaciated look is a good one for a musician.
Often also in the room will be a few guests and friends. A collection of girls with skimpy clothes and dilated pupil sit in the comfy chair, while Military stoners play cards with other musicians in the sofas.
Tonight ended in a hazy conversation with the room owner. After a night drive filled with music and a car crammed full with gear and people, I am deposited at my doorstep smelling of alcohol, cigarettes, sweat and cheap perfume. I take a last swig from our guest's bottle, I fist-bump my drummer and stagger inside to collapse into bed, finding tome to grab a bite to eat.
