small brush shouldn't fuck with big timber

Death's Door, the view from the Spanish announcers table: hippy jam

Monday, March 27

hippy jam


It was just a touch past three in the afternoon when I parked in front of the Hurricane in Westport. As I shut the car off I thought back to what brought me here at such an odd hour of the day. My many inside sources were telling me about rumors on the street that the Cane was hosting a three day jam band festival and I figured it just might be the thing to check out. And since I wasn’t hip to what a fuckin jam band was I sought out one of my many inside sources the day before as to what the fuck a jam band was.

After slapping him around a bit and laying a five spot on em, he started squealing like a badly tuned violin. The term jam band describes bands, often psychedelic hippy rock bands in nature, whose shit largely consist of improvisational music, hence the term jam band. These consist largely of bands that I’ve never had much to deal with such as the Grateful Dead, Phish, String Cheese Incident and many others. Although usually associated with psychedelic rock, jam bands often draw on various musical traditions, including funk, progressive bluegrass, blues, country music, rock and progressive rock, folk music and jazz.

Hmmm, whatever, guess I’ll go inside and see for myself. I gave the doorman the nod and slid past the line like I do only to go into full retch mode due to the fact that the bar was reeking of patchouli. Goddamn, what’s the fuckin deal with the damn dirty hippies and the fuckin patchouli? The smell was all over the place. I found a spot at the bar as the bartender passed me a glass of water along with a blank look that showed nothing but said volumes. I looked around the bar and was impressed with the size of the crowd for such an early hour in the day. On the stage was some cat beating on his folk guitar and scattered around the bar were folks selling what looked to be various hippy wares. You know the usual hippy shit, beads, incense, crystals, and handmade jewelry.

There were also bands playing outside on the back deck but all the shit going on inside was enough sensory overload for me. I was soon joined at the bar by a friend of mine who also felt the urge to check the hippy jam out. So we sat there in mute silence checking out the scene. Here’s a few things of note. With the exception of yours truly, the black cats there all looked like Lenny Kravitz. Most folks were drinking beer and I didn’t see a single chick swinging loose and free. Maybe it was too cold for halter tops and braless tee shirts and sun dresses and shit.

And like I said earlier the insidious stink of patchouli was everywhere. We watched a guy who was so high that he ordered a beer from the bar then forget what he did. Just goes to show you that drugs and memory don’t mix. I stuck around till this cat decided that he wanted to hug on me. After watching me get hugged twice the bartender handed me my tab, telling me that she figured I’d be leaving. Yeah, she was right on that one, once my two hug limit is reached it’s time for me to go. But I guess it was a good time for all involved, just not my cup of tea.


"and the monkey flipped the switch"

2 Comments:

Blogger Assrot said...

I love a good jam fest but I have found over the years that they are best held outdoors. That way you can enjoy the music without the stench. Also, if a motherfucker tries hugging on you and shit, you can just put him facedown in the nearest mudhole. Believe me, he will smell better after a nice mudbath and he will no longer be in a touchy, feely mod.

6:04 PM  
Blogger Big Daddy 2x4 said...

I have a moral aversion to paying some jack-o to wank on his guitar. Not to mention the neverending rants about how many things hemp can be made into.

Me, I woulda screamed "black rage" and started dropping the double axe handle ala Captain Kirk on white boy hippy dreads... I'm just sayin'...

11:12 PM  

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